Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Also do not own references to Snoop Dogg's song "Gin and Juice"; the TV show Crazy Like A Fox or the TV movie Still Crazy Like A Fox.
Author's Note: WOW! Many thanks for the awesome reviews and feedback for the prologue, as well as the follows! :D So happy to have you here! Happy reading. :)
Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Advanced thanks.
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Chapter One: I'm Just An Animal And Cannot Explain A Life
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X X X
The pair walked down the SBPD hallways, Shawn keeping an eye out for mischief he could get into in lieu of getting lunch while Gus kept his mind on getting their money. This led him to repeat the chorus of "Gin and Juice" under his breath: "Got my mind on my money and my money on my mind" and nod his head in time with the beat—until Shawn caught a glimpse of Juliet's new darkened hair and rushed towards her. Now was as good a time as any to collect on that raincheck hug.
Unfortunately, Juliet turned before he could get to her for a sneak attack. "Shawn!" she called out, looking all business and in charge handing out file folders to waiting officers. Dobson got the last one and went off down the hall in the opposite direction. "Have you seen Lassiter? Gus, how about you?"
"Damned if I know," Gus grumped. "He missed a tap class."
Juliet paused, raising an eyebrow. She was unable to properly mask the smirk at the corner of her mouth at the mention of "tap class"—nothing against Gus, of course. It was just a funny notion to her that her perpetually uptight partner could give himself, even partway, into an art (that did not involve shooting at a target, paper or otherwise). To be fair, she had seen him do a little shuffle dance when he got the better of Shawn on a case and had heard him sing Happy Birthday to McNab once, but those weren't the same.
Shawn chuckled, reading the look quick as a blink on her face easily.
Before he could clue in Gus, Juliet recovered. "Sorry to hear that, Gus. Something must have come up."
"The man has a phone, Juliet. He could have called," Gus informed her with a sniff.
Juliet patted Gus on the shoulder and gave him a meaningful look. Since when would Lassiter extend common curtesy to, well, anyone? Gus nodded and sighed. "He missed a good one. He might have been able to solve three cold cases, it was that good."
Shawn rolled his eyes. "Gus, p-leeaze, you're giving both Lassie and tap dancing way too much credit."
"Hey!" Gus and Juliet admonished.
Shawn raised both hands, but in a mock gesture of surrender; he was smirking. It felt surprisingly awesome to insult both Lassie and Gus's stupid dancing in the same sentence. He made a note to do it again, as soon as Lassie was there to overhear it.
"Did the chief call you in?" Juliet asked, continuing her brisk pace down the hall. Shawn stepped on Gus's foot in order to be just two steps behind Jules; Gus grumbled, caught up and elbowed Shawn in the ribs. "Too hard!" Shawn whisper-griped.
"No, we're here to pick up the check from the last case," Gus answered, glaring at Shawn. "Because someone else couldn't be bothered to do it by himself."
Juliet smiled in spite of herself; she had little time at the moment for shenanigans and tomfoolery, but she couldn't help that she often enjoyed seeing Shawn and Gus. Sometimes, their childish bickering and obscure movie references distracted her and lightened her mood—on cases when she couldn't focus, and other times brought her balance and peace—as if there would ever be doubts she was in the right line of work.
"Gus, I came across the Crazy Like A Fox reunion movie, Still Crazy Like A Fox!" Shawn protested, surpassing Gus to briskly walk side by side with Juliet. "Jules, I also sensed there's new case the chief will be calling us for," Shawn stated, touching a hand to his temple, "so it's good that we're already here. Unless you have some vibrations you'd like to share with me about it." He winked at her and grinned.
Without missing a beat Juliet countered, "Unless you're going to read my mind, maybe you should ask your father about it."
Behind them, Gus chuckled, and nodded knowingly when Shawn looked back to glare. He added, to change the subject, "I can't believe you could even watch Crazy Like A Fox without drawing comparisons to you and your dad."
"Gus, that would only work if we were both named Henry. Or Shawn. Or Spencer and Spencie."
"Oh, not because one of you isn't a lawyer?" Gus threw back.
Shawn huffed. "Gus, could you really see me and my dad involved in somewhat humorous adventures together? Week after week? Year after year? Plus a reunion movie?"
Juliet cleared her throat and pointed to the payroll office. "This is your stop."
"Jules, we didn't need the armed escort, but you know I appreciate it." Shawn grinned, gently draping his arm across Juliet's shoulders. "Gus, not so much."
Gus made an "uh" sound at the back of his throat, one that Juliet interpreted as gratitude. Just as gently, she removed Shawn's arm. "You're welcome, Gus," Juliet said over her shoulder, smiling. "Don't worry, I will make sure Carlton calls you when I see him. He told me there's a performance coming up."
"That's right." Gus flicked his nose. "I'll be doing a duet with the instructor."
Shawn clicked his tongue. "After you begged him."
"No!" Gus shot back. "He asked me."
Facing them and smiling, Juliet said, "I'm looking forward to going. Carlton already bought me a ticket, can you believe that?" She laughed, seeing both Shawn's and Gus's incredulous looks. Turning to Gus briefly, Juliet added, "I'm sure there was a solid reason he missed your class today. But can you guys do me a favor? If you happen to see him before I do, tell him to call me." She smiled again, nodding at Shawn before heading off.
X X X
Carlton was late. He didn't much care about it, but he found himself hurrying anyway, and admonishing himself for it. The truth was, he couldn't help that enjoyed Guster's sissy dancing; something about it was freeing and helped clear his head—and he didn't even have to buy extra rounds of ammo. He found himself surprised that, even after being caught dancing next to Guster in the station by his real partner and Spencer, he didn't want to quit. Good thing too, as his clumsy steps had helped bring him clarity in time to solve the case.
Carlton smiled briefly, thinking about that arrest. It was just as he had told Guster earlier in the investigation—people had sex and killed each other.
He rounded the corner, stepping onto the sidewalk that would take him to the front doors of the dance studio. He checked his watch, looking down for half a second. Ahead of him, a pedestrian appeared, walking towards him. Something cool about his manner was disarming enough for Lassiter to barely notice the fairly nondescript man; even when face to face, out in the open, Lassiter suspected no edge, no angle. Barely sparing the thought, he figured the man was heading towards the parking lot on the side of the studio.
Not even suspecting when the man grinned—a sight Lassiter caught out of the corner of his eye as he raised an arm to remove the sunglasses from his eyes—close enough for only the two of them to see. Then he was stung; sure of it, Lassiter jerked his left arm across his body to knock away the bee, only to find his hand wrapped around a syringe. He yanked it out and felt the man grip his arm.
"Gerrtoff," Lassiter slurred, indecently attempting to pull away. He clamped his teeth together as if to trap in a flow of words that wanted to get out—a flow that would surely be as incoherent as the attempted singular two. Even within his head he couldn't think the words "Get off" without feeling a tilt. The sidewalk was moving. Far away, he heard his own shoe scuffle on the pavement as his foot turned sideways.
Still, a hand gripped his forearm, guiding him in a direction he knew he didn't want to go in. "Whaz—" Lassiter's eyes watered and his lids drooped. It was a mistake to try out speech again, but he only wanted to make sense of what might be happening.
Distantly, he thought of trying to get to his car, tucked in a lot behind the dance studio. But his car was a blur, a blue smear of paint or light across concrete, and it was getting very dark.
X X X
For what could have been a great length of time, Carlton's head and eyes throbbed viciously as he fought his way back to the surface, resisting his body's demands that he go back into the unconscious—or that he go there fully to begin with. Gradually, he regained awareness of thirst, but even then, his vision remained uncooperative; he blinked without tearing up and could make out only muted browns and blacks, then faded yellows. He was also denied the simply ability to keep his chin off his chest—as if he were in a tug of war for his soul. The effects, he surmised, should only be temporary—partial paralysis, seasickness, disorientation; not all of the words that came to mind might be the exact description of what was careening through him, keeping him alienated from full consciousness, but at the very least he could wrap his mind around effects. As in, side effects—which could mean an explanation for his current state: drugs. Tranquilizer was too slippery to hold onto, but the drug could have been something else, something he couldn't pronounce. Carlton supposed he should be grateful for not getting bashed over the head, but he wasn't in the least.
A voice was speaking close by, but Lassiter couldn't figure out what was being said. It would take three times as long to realize he had been abducted, that this wasn't just a horrible practical joke, the kind that got the perpetrators laughs at first but also got them arrested later. His coherency of thinking, earlier 5 million miles away in space, returned at a speed of Mach 3, eons before his tongue untied itself enough to move around in his mouth in an effort to erase the dryness there. When he finally—maybe after days or weeks of all this—understood the voice's words, he was bewildered enough by them not to speak for the time when they had ran the course of his body via his blood stream and made their way back to his brain unchanged.
"Welcome, Mr. Shawn Spencer."
A very damp smell, musty and moldy, permeated the air, pressed itself against Lassiter's skin and into his nostrils. He couldn't place it, though he suspected it to be old wet towels or a fabric as equally soggy, blackened by spores and water damage, materials beyond repair. He could also smell grime—layers and layers of dust, untouched for years and years—and grease, tricklings of pig fat or motor oil. All of it thick and overpowering.
He felt sick to take in breath, compromising to filter air in through his teeth, rather than his nose, until he could beat the urge to throw up. Carlton leaned back, for the first time aware he was seated on a floor, a hard, solid wall against his back. The floor was equally hard. And when he went to move his limbs he nearly succumbed to the fear he hadn't had the luxury to experience while he was struggling to get out of the grip of the drug.
Thick, silver chains with fat solid links restrained his arms, encircled his waist—held him tight. He tested them as much as he dared. He had a limited range of motion, however, able to raise his arms halfway to his chest and out to his side a foot from his thighs. His legs were free, but he wasn't ready or steady to get to his feet. If he could.
His gun . . . in bits and pieces he recalled storing his holster and Glock .17 in the trunk of his Crown Vic, recalled some snit one of the dance instructors had been in about having guns on the premises. In favor of Guster—which sounded wrong; he must be more out of his mind than he originally thought—he'd compromised, keeping his ankle holster and Glock 9mm in their rightful places, only out of view under the cuff of his pants. Where was his badge? Carlton stared blearily at his torso and waist, realizing even more slowly that his suit jacket was gone—he'd stowed his badge within the left jacket pocket opposite his shoulder holster before getting out of his car.
His jacket . . . Carlton recalled being viciously yanked from the fabric when he jerked out of the grasp of his attacker; a second skin that peeled from his body as the man fought to hold on. Carlton didn't know what could have happened to it. He had almost fallen but his attacker grabbed his elbows and pulled him back in close.
X X X
Emil planned for the extraction to be smooth, and had come to understand that the man rendered a vessel by otherworldly correspondence was often not as observant of the living as he should be. This would work in his favor, he knew, as the factor that he was not the least known here. No one had seen his eyes, not in the way that they would remember, for none of these here had watched as those eyes were branded to memory with hot pokers and irons.
None here until he had Mr. Spencer, awake, focused only on him.
Emil was still partially existing in the suspended measurements of prison time; in Moscow he knew it was eleven hours later, but it hardly made a difference, especially in this cellar with its mere sliver of a window. He still marveled it was nearly double the size of his old cell. While he waited for his friend to awaken, the sun went down. Emil made himself a simple meal, taking it in the same room, seated directly across from him.
X X X
The man before him had no odor that Lassiter could discern, not one of sweat or other natural body odor or of cologne. He didn't even smell of food or drink. And though they sat seeped in shadows cast only by low watt bulbs, Lassiter guessed this man would have a limited profile, if one at all. His nose and chin, his whole face and person were small, compact.
Lassiter blinked, feeling suddenly stupid. This man before him had gotten the best of him, had somehow managed to spirit him off; a tricky memory reminded him that, for the brief seconds they had stood side by side, Lassiter had well towered over him.
And yet, he recalled painfully the grip on his upper arm, pulling him in a direction his staggering feet and sagging knees weren't keen to go in by themselves. The grip had been strong enough and the body capable enough to steer him with just the right volume of force. It may have looked, if there had been any witnesses that time of day, not like an abduction at all but just a man steadying another who might had too much to drink.
Lassiter strained against the chains holding him to the wall; the leash was short.
He had seen the man before he'd registered the voice speaking to him, but Lassiter hadn't been able to believe right away what he was seeing. Following the colors, the basement grew in shape, then the figure took on edges and curves, enough for Carlton to finally understand that it was not part of the wall but was leaning up against it.
The two of them couldn't be more than seven feet apart, if that; he could close the distance if he stretched his legs out all the way, but Lassiter kept his knees drawn in. The figure had been staring at him without looking away as long as Lassiter had been aware he was there.
"I was surprised to find you to carry firearms, Mr. Spencer," his attacker told him quietly after a long stretch of silence. Lassiter felt his heart sink; he couldn't reach his arm that far to check if his 9mm was in its place without the intention being obvious, but now he had to be almost certain it wasn't still secured to him. And with the same confusion he'd felt before, Lassiter tried to wrap his head around why this man was using that name when talking to him.
He had already looked around; this basement was a small area, almost claustrophobic; there wasn't a single place to hide, and nothing to hide behind, or under. There were only two occupants here.
"But it is of no matter," the man continued, still calm and quiet. "For now that you have recovered, you have a duty to me. What I have lost, you will find."