Extraordinary
Prologue
Oct. 15, 1995
Shawn had been in Vegas for three months when they tracked him down. Or, rather, he was in the outskirts of Vegas, working as a line cook for a roadside diner, serving greasy food to burly truck drivers and tired, vacationing families.
"Spencer!" a voice bellowed, and Shawn turned to see his boss leaning out of his office, cordless phone in hand.
"Phone call!" the man continued, and Shawn quickly served the plates on the tray he was holding before he headed back to the back office.
"Who is it?" he asked, reaching for the phone, but his boss held it out of reach.
"I don't like my employees taking personal calls during their shift," the man said, nastily, and Shawn resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"Would you be willing to make an exception?" he asked, fighting for patience.
His boss was a real piece of work, and normally Shawn would have taken off and found something new to do, rather than stick around in a place that bored him. But, Sophie, who worked on the night shift with him, was in an abusive relationship with her boyfriend, and he was trying to convince her to get out of it. And to do that, he couldn't leave his job, and he couldn't do anything to get himself fired, either.
Problem was, she was resisting his help out of fear of being hurt, and he was running out of options. He couldn't go to the local police when she wouldn't even press charges, and he really didn't want to confront the guy, personally, until there were no other choices. He was almost at the point of calling his dad and asking him for his advice on the situation.
"Can I take my phone call?" he asked, when his boss didn't say anything.
"You get five minutes," the other man snapped, handing him the phone with a huff.
Shawn swallowed the sarcastic retort that sprang to his lips and took the phone.
"Hello?" he said, into the receiver.
"Spencer?" a man's voice asked.
"Speaking," Shawn replied, wondering why the voice sounded familiar.
"Shawn, it's John Fenich," the man said.
"Hey, Chief," Shawn greeted the older man. "How've you been?"
"Shawn, I hate to be the one to have to tell you this," Fenich began, and Shawn felt his insides clench up in fear.
This was it. The knock on the door that he had spent most of his life dreading came in the form of a phone call while he wasn't even in the state. It wasn't supposed to happen like this; his dad was supposed to be invincible. He was Henry Spencer, for crying out loud.
"What happened to my dad?" he asked, quietly, struggling to maintain his composure.
"He's been shot, Shawn, I'm sorry," Fenich told him.
"No," Shawn said, in automatic denial, even though he knew the Chief wouldn't lie to him like that. "You're wrong. He can't be-"
"I'm sorry, Shawn," Fenich repeated, interrupted him, gently. "It was a routine traffic stop, and the guy pulled a gun on your father."
"Where is he?" Shawn asked, his mouth dry and his voice hoarse, like he'd been screaming. "What hospital did they take him to?"
"St. Mary's," Fenich said, and Shawn clicked off the phone without another word.
"I quit," he told his boss, who'd been shamelessly eavesdropping on his conversation.
"You can't quit," the man blustered, his face going red with anger. "We're in the middle of a morning rush."
Shawn looked out at the dining area, where there were two truckers at the bar nursing cups of coffee and a family of three sitting near the window, tucking into the diner's Early Bird Special.
"I can, and I am," he retorted, pulling his apron over his neck and tossing it on the cluttered desk that filled the small space. "See ya."
He headed out the back, snagging Sophie away the oven as he went by.
"I'm working," Sophie protested, as Shawn pulled her out into the back parking lot.
"Come back to Santa Barbara with me," he said, straddling his bike and kick-starting the motor. "I'll help you find a job, and you can sleep in my guest room until we find you a place to live."
"I can't just leave my job, my life," Sophie protested, weakly. "And I can't leave Roger."
"If you don't leave Roger, he's going to kill you," Shawn said, bluntly, not having time to be gentle. "Then what kind of life will you have?"
"My stuff," Sophie said, pleadingly.
"It's just stuff," Shawn argued. "Your life is worth more than just stuff."
Sophie hesitated for just a second, and then ripped off her own apron and got on the back of his bike, wrapping her arms around his waist. Shawn passed her a spare helmet, jamming his own onto his head, and when she was settled, he roared out of the parking lot.
They drove for nearly six hours, stopping only for gas, and once for lunch, a stale sandwich that Shawn bolted down without tasting. Every bite felt like glue on his tongue. Then they were off again, with Shawn pushing the bike to its limits, Sophie clinging to him tightly.
Shawn didn't know what angel was looking out for him on that trip, but he sped through at least half a dozen speed traps without being stopped, and a couple of times he was sure his speedometer hit the triple digit mark. They finally reached Santa Barbara in the early evening, and Shawn dropped Sophie off at his dad's house, showing her the neatly-kept guest room and the fully-stocked fridge.
"I've got something I need to take care of," he told her, dragging a hand over his face, feeling the adrenaline of the morning disappear as exhaustion hit him full force. "I don't know when I'll be able to be back."
"I'll be okay," Sophie promised him. "Shawn," she added, as he headed for the door, "thank you for everything. If you hadn't gotten me out of there-"
"You were the one who left," Shawn said, quietly. "I just gave you a ride. I'll be back later," he repeated, and then he shut the door behind him.
The drive to the hospital was another manic dash through the streets, one that he barely remembered, later. He threw the bike into park in the first empty spot he saw, sprinting across the parking lot to the doors of the emergency room.
"I'm looking for Henry Spencer," he demanded of the nurse at the front desk, unable to force himself to say the word 'morgue'.
She held up a single finger, signaling for him to wait, and Shawn huffed out a frustrated breath, drumming his fingers anxiously on the desk until she looked up at him.
"Spencer," she repeated, typing the name into her computer. "Are you family?"
"I'm his son," Shawn ground out, trying to resist the urge to reach across the desk and shake the woman until she told him what he needed to know.
"Right, Mr. Spencer," the woman went on, "it looks like Sergeant Spencer is still in surgery."
"Right, thanks," Shawn said, automatically, and then her words caught up with him. "Wait, surgery?"
"I know, he's been in there a while," the nurse told him, "but he took three bullets to the chest. That sort of operation takes time."
"It's not that," Shawn said, trying to explain. "It's just, I didn't get a lot details with the phone call, and I've been on the road for six hours – I was expecting to have to go to the morgue," he finished, numbly.
The nurse gave him a sympathetic look, full of understanding.
"Your father is in surgery," she said, her voice gentle. "I'll have the doctor come talk to you as soon as he gets out. There's some chairs over there in the waiting room," she added, gesturing.
"Thanks," Shawn said, still stunned by the revelation. "Do you-"
His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, starting over.
"Do you have a phone I could use?" he asked, quietly. "I need to make a quick phone call."
After a moment, the nurse passed him the phone, stretching the cord to the limit.
"Make it fast," she warned him.
"Thanks," Shawn said, again, and then he dialed a familiar number.
"Burton Guster," came the crisp, professional greeting, and Shawn felt the knot that had been tensed up in his stomach all morning relax a little bit at his best friend's voice.
"Gus, it's me," he said, and then he couldn't get anything more out over the outburst over the other end of the line.
"Shawn, where have you been? Do you know how long it's been since anyone's heard from you? Can't you even bother to send a simple postcard-"
"Gus," Shawn repeated, cutting him off, abruptly. "Gus, I'm back in Santa Barbara."
"Oh," Gus said, shocked into silence. "Well, where are you? Your dad's place?"
"St. Mary's Hospital," Shawn told him. "My dad got shot; he's in surgery."
His voice came out as a sob on the last word, and he clenched his jaw, breathing deeply to keep from losing control in the middle of the crowded waiting area.
"It's my dad, Gus," he said, shakily, and he heard papers rustling on the other end of the line.
"I'll be there as soon as I can," Gus said, and Shawn let out a breath he hadn't even known he was holding.
Hanging up the phone, Shawn went over to the waiting area and sank down into one of the hard, plastic chairs, dropping his head into his hands. He managed to sit still for nearly half an hour, with impatient glances at his watch as his only movement before the nervous energy took over and he jumped to his feet, stalking out of the waiting area.
He paced down the hallway, at a speed slightly slower than a run, weaving in and around people that were too slow to get out of his way. Reaching the far end of the hospital, he spun on his heel and started back the way he'd come, his footsteps echoing slightly on the hard floor.
He was nearly back to the emergency waiting area when he was brought up short by a guy standing in an alcove, talking quietly on his cell phone. Shawn wouldn't have given the man a second thought except that he recognized the outline of a shoulder gun holster under the man's jacket, saw the glint of a badge at his waist. Shawn lingered until the cop had finished with his phone call, and then cornered him before he could leave the alcove.
"Can I help you?" the man asked, a bored tone in his voice.
"Are you on the Henry Spencer case?" Shawn asked.
"Who are you?" the cop asked, suspiciously.
"Shawn Spencer," Shawn told him, shortly.
"The son," the cop said, identifying him. "Pleasure to meet you."
He went to shove past Shawn, but Shawn stepped back into his path, stubbornly blocking him.
"How's the investigation going?" Shawn demanded, before the cop could leave.
"Ongoing," came the curt answer.
"Don't give me the party line you use to placate distraught families," Shawn snapped, angrily. "What kind of leads do you have on the guy that shot my dad?"
"Our investigation is ongoing," the cop repeated, with an infuriating smirk. "You want anything else, come find me when you've graduated from the police academy."
"Listen-"
"No, you listen," the cop retorted, stabbing a finger at Shawn's chest. "I'm not going to give important information on a criminal investigation to a civilian, only to watch you get yourself shot on some vendetta mission."
"Lassiter!" a voice called from down the hallway, and the cop turned to face the speaker.
"Be right there," he replied, and then he turned back to Shawn.
"Listen, kid," he said, his gruff voice softening in an obvious attempt to be placating. "You want to do something for your dad, go sit with him until he wakes up. Don't make him worry about you going off and getting yourself killed. Leave the police work to the police. "
He brushed past Shawn, leaving him standing, stunned, in the middle of the hallway. That was where the surgeon found him five minutes later, when he came to track him down after the surgery.
"Your dad's got a rough road ahead of him, son," the surgeon said, gently, as he led Shawn to the recovery room where his father was resting. "Two of those bullets were within millimeters of his heart; that's why the operation took such a long time. He'll spend a long time recovering from this, and he's not likely to ever go back to police work after this."
"That won't be a problem," Shawn told the doctor, who snorted in disbelief.
"I have yet to meet a cop who's happy about giving up the badge," he replied.
"I'll convince him," Shawn said, resolutely. "Somehow."
They arrived at the recovery room, then, and the doctor pulled away the curtain separating his dad's bed from the rest of the area. Shawn stopped short at the sight of his dad, needing a moment to process what he was seeing. He and his mom had weathered a lot of bad moments over the years, and then he'd had his share of solo scares when it had just been the two of them after the divorce, but nothing as bad as this. Nothing that had ever left his dad lying in a hospital bed with tubes and wires coming out of him, leaving him looking small and helpless.
He pulled the curtain shut after the doctor had left, sinking down into the chair beside the bed. Reaching out, he grabbed his dad's hand from where it was resting on top of the sheets, his fingers curling around his wrist to feel the steady heartbeat under his fingers.
"You know," he said to the unconscious man, trying to keep his tone light, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say you did this just to get me to come home. Well, it worked. Now you're going to have to work to get rid of me."
His voice trailed off, and he stared down at his dad, listening to the slow beep of the machines hooked up to him, watched the jagged lines move across the screen.
"I'll make you a deal," Shawn said, his voice hoarse from the effort of holding back the tears that threatened to spill at any minute. "I'll go to the Academy. I'll become a cop, just like you've always wanted. And in return, all you have to do is wake up. Do you hear me? Wake up!"
His father's eyes remained stubbornly closed, and Shawn let out a slow breath.
"This is a one-time offer, Dad," he said, his voice shakier than he liked. "You just have to wake up by sunrise, okay?"
His second wind finally spent, Shawn slumped over in the chair, resting his head beside Henry's hand. He closed his eyes, only intending to rest for a minute, but the next thing he knew, there was sunlight streaming through the window, and something lightly brushed his cheek.
Jerking upright, Shawn stared down into Henry's tired blue eyes, breathing a sigh of relief.
"You been sitting there all night?" Henry whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse.
"Would I be anywhere else?" Shawn asked, giving his dad's hand a reassuring squeeze. "How are you feeling, Dad?"
"Like I got run over by a Mack truck," came the quiet reply. "What are you thinking about?" he prompted, when Shawn remained quiet, staring into the distance.
"How long it'll take to make detective so I don't have to wear the uniform for the rest of my career," Shawn admitted.
"Don't knock the uniform," Henry grumbled, automatically, and then Shawn's words brought him up short. "You're gonna go to the Academy?"
"Just consider it your waking-up present," Shawn told him, giving him a weary smile.