Chapter 2: A Glimpse of the Future

It was happening again. Shawn quickly found a place to sit, before his legs gave out underneath him. Last time, he had made the mistake of trying to power through the vision and had wound up with two scraped palms and a sore elbow from nearly falling on his face. He settled down onto the curb and closed his eyes, trying to fight a sudden wave of nausea. Everything spun for a moment, and then, even though his eyes were still shut tight, he saw it. There was a fire, a great fire, raging inside a building. His feet were glued to the pavement, even though he knew he had to brave the flames. A hand reached out from behind him, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around. He stared into the shadowed face of a man with dark hair and the kind of face that normally would have sparked a hint of jealousy in him. However, instead a sudden sense of relief washed through him.

"I thought you were inside," he heard himself say.

The man shook his head. "We got out. We're still no closer to finding them, though." He turned to stare into the gathering night. "We should get back to the camp. He'll be worried sick."

"I didn't think sociopaths got worried."

The man looked back at him, opening his mouth. However, whatever he was about to say was drowned out by a sudden rushing noise, like the tide coming in.

Shawn opened his eyes. His hands were clenched into fists, so tightly that his fingers hurt when he straightened them. He checked his watch. Less than a minute. That was good. As horrible as some of the things that he saw were, the worst part about the visions was that he was completely defenseless while he was seeing them. The first time he had had one, Jules had been there to watch him, but now he was on his own. Of course, if this vision played out like the others had, he wouldn't be alone for much longer.

The man had said that "we're still no closer to finding them". Who did he mean by "them"? Did "them" include Juliet? Would this man end up helping him in his search? After weeks of hunting without any progress, it was almost too much to hope for.

Shawn rose to his feet, staggering for a moment before his sense of balance fully returned. For years, he had pretended to be a psychic. He had faked having premonitions, visions, even communicating with the dead. He had relished the reactions of those around him. As the one and only psychic consultant for the Santa Barbara Police Department, he had had the freedom to act however he wanted, while still helping people. There had been a few close calls when his secret had nearly been discovered, but thanks to Gus and Jules, he had always managed to keep his cover. He had never imagined that one day it might not be pretend.

Juliet's closest guess towards why he was becoming psychic was that the radiation from the bombs had affected his perception of the world. Most people had died from the radiation; he had somehow gained some kind of second sight. He was used to being observant, that was the way he had been raised, but this was much more. Now he was seeing more than what was in front of him; he could see things before they happened. Of course, it hadn't helped him when Juliet was taken.

Gus and his family had headed north in search of a safer place to live. Gus had wanted to come with him, but Shawn refused to let him leave his wife and son. They needed him more right now. Still, it was difficult traveling alone, especially when a vision could incapacitate him at a moment's notice. Most of them didn't even make any sense. They were nothing more than scattered flurries of images. Sometimes he would go days without seeing anything, and then he would have five in the same day. He found himself wishing that they would at least come at a set time, so that he would be able to prepare for them. Right now, he was completely at the mercy of fate.

Juliet had thought that he was going crazy when he first told her what he had seen. She had been convinced that the radiation had given him a brain tumor or that the stress was driving him mad. Then what he saw started coming true. After a month, he accepted it. Somehow, he had become psychic. Whoop-de-doo. Of course it would happen when there was no longer a Santa Barbara Police Department to work for. Once again, he found himself wishing that the police department had been able to hold out a little longer, at least long enough for him to show off a bit. This new addition to Shawn's repertoire would have annoyed Lassiter to no end. Lassie had always doubted his abilities, with good reason. Back then, being psychic had been nothing but an act, a way for him to do police work without having to act like a police officer. Now, when it no longer mattered, he was finally an actual, honest-to-God psychic. If only his father could see him now.

Shawn closed his eyes, trying to remember every detail of what he had seen. So few of his visions were this coherent; this one had to be important. One of the unfortunate aspects of his visions was that they faded quickly, like dreams after waking. Juliet had recommended that he write them down in a journal as soon as they were over. However, true to form, he had lost the journal. He had had a hard enough time keeping track of the cordless phone in his office; how could he be expected to keep track of a pocket-sized journal in the middle of an apocalypse? He had always prided himself with his ability to remember details; it was what had allowed him to play the psychic all those years. Unfortunately, his visions seemed immune to any of the memory tricks that his father had taught him.

As he concentrated, he absentmindedly rubbed the scar on his collarbone. It was just another reminder of the day he lost Jules. At least he was still alive. The knife that had left that scar had been aimed at his throat. If it had cut even an inch higher, he would be dead right now and Jules would be completely on her own. He hoped that she hadn't given up on him. After she had discovered his secret, their relationship had very nearly ended, and even though she had eventually forgiven him, he sensed that her trust in him had never completely recovered. Did she know that he was coming for her, or had she given him up for dead?

The worst part was that he had known Juliet was going to be taken. He had seen it the night before, but he hadn't understood the meaning of the vision until it was already happening. By then, there was nothing he could do to stop them. Now, every time he had a vision he hoped that she would be in it, and that she would be safe. However, this latest vision was the first one to hint anything about her, and the hint had been implied at best.

He remembered watching a movie with Juliet where a man who could see the future was looking for a woman who kept showing up in his visions. No matter what he did, she always seemed just out of reach, and when at last he found her, they were only together for a few days before fate pulled them apart again. It was supposed to be tragic, but Jules had laughed at the absurdity of it.

"As if something like that could happen in real life," Juliet had said, her head resting on his chest.

He had wrapped his arms around her. "You never know; something like that could actually happen. After all, I'm a psychic."

She had looked up at him. "You're only a fake psychic. It's not the same."

"But if I was a real psychic, would you be my Jessica Biel?"

Juliet pretended to think about it, and shifted in his arms to kiss him. "No. I like our story."

Standing alone in an abandoned street, surrounded by empty cars and broken windows, Shawn almost laughed at the memory. Their story had certainly changed. A sudden realization made him groan. "Great. Now I'm Nicholas Cage. As if the end of the world wasn't bad enough."

A voice spoke up from behind him. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Cage."

Shawn spun around, wishing for the hundredth time that he had some sort of weapon.

The man held up his hands. "Easy! I'm not going to hurt you. I was just wondering if you knew what time it is. I'm supposed to be meeting somebody and my watch finally broke."

"Dear God, where did you come from?" Shawn exclaimed.

The man turned and pointed down an alley that connected to the street on the left. "Most immediately, over there. Previously, New York City."

"Really? Then why aren't you…" said Shawn.

"…a pile of ash? Peter and I were on an assignment chasing an art forger in Buffalo. Never did catch her." The man cocked his head slightly, concern slightly wrinkling his brow. "I saw you sitting on the curb. You looked like you were in pain."

Shawn rubbed his temples with one hand. "Just a headache. I'm fine. Sorry, but I don't have a watch. I didn't think people made appointments to meet other people anymore."

"Well, my friend is an advocate for precision. He likes setting timetables, even if keeping track of the time is nearly impossible nowadays."

Shawn had no reply to that. He was too focused on staring at the man's face. There was something about the man that was infuriatingly familiar. He was slender, dressed in a dark suit that automatically put him at odds with his surroundings, with bright blue eyes and brown hair that was so dark it was almost black. In one hand he held a slightly battered black hat. His overall bearing was one of refinement. When he smiled, his smile was self-assured, almost cocky, yet honest. All in all, there was a sense of openness and trustworthiness that emanated from him. Shawn could feel himself relaxing just by being in this man's presence.

Suddenly, the connection clicked into place. This man seemed familiar because Shawn had seen his face only minutes earlier. This was the man from his vision. As the realization settled in, he felt his gift spark into life again, throwing up a few random pictures into his mind. An amber music box. A woman with long, dark hair. An FBI badge bearing the man's picture, and next to it, his name.

"Neal." Shawn blurted out.

The man stared at him, confused. "Have we met?"

Shawn was surprised to find himself hesitating about revealing his gift. Why? He had said he was a psychic hundreds of times before. Why was he hesitating now, when it was actually true? "I'm psychic."

Neal did not look overly impressed, although he was courteous enough not to openly call him out on it. "Is that so?"

"I work for, I mean, I used to work for the Santa Barbara Police Department. You're with the FBI, right?"

Neal smiled. "Did the suit give me away?"

"No." For some reason, it felt important for Neal to believe him. "I can see a badge with your name on it." Out of force of habit, his one hand rose to touch his temple. The gesture did nothing to focus his gift, but he found it comforting.

"Uh-huh." Neal didn't look any more convinced.

Shawn decided to take a risk. "I also see a woman with dark hair." Another picture formed in his head. "Something about a music box. And a plane."

Neal's face hardened, every hint of his smile gone. "How do you know about Kate?"

"Like I said, I'm psychic. I know about her, just like I know that you're supposed to help me." Actually, that wasn't strictly the truth, but it sounded impressive.

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

Shawn pulled a crumpled photograph from his pocket and held it up for Neal to see. "This is Juliet. She's my girlfriend. She was abducted almost a month ago. I need to find her."

Neal glanced at the photograph briefly before returning his attention to Shawn. "The men who took her. Were they wearing dark green uniforms, almost like the ones you see on soldiers?"

Shawn felt his heart begin to race. He had been right. Somehow, Neal was going to help lead him to Juliet. "Yes."

Neal looked up at the sun. "Come with me. You need to meet my partner."

As Neal led the way to his as of yet nameless partner, Shawn brought to bear another one of his special gifts. This was one that he was much more familiar with. Before he had become psychic, whether by radiation or just years of wishful thinking, he had relied on his memory and his heightened skills of observation to solve crimes which left the police completely baffled. Not as flashy as a sixth sense, but significantly more reliable, as it turned out. He stared at Neal's back and waited for something to pop out at him. It didn't take long. The first thing that stuck out was Neal's suit. Shawn didn't know much about suits, being more of a jeans and t-shirt kind of guy, except for when he was dressing up in a costume to infiltrate a hospital or a circus, but even he could tell that Neal's suit had to have been expensive. It was tailored perfectly to fit him, which meant that he cared about his appearance and he had enough resources to afford a tailor, unless he had tailored it himself, which was unlikely. Neal's hat, which now sat proudly atop his smooth, dark hair, was slightly worse for wear. A sentimental keepsake, perhaps?

Neal had openly admitted to working for the FBI. However, Shawn couldn't quite picture him storming crime scenes and strong-arming terrorists. He hadn't noticed any sign of a gun. Of course, it was possible that the gun was simply well-hidden. Going by his build, his manner, and his manicured appearance, Shawn would have guessed it was more likely that Neal was more of an office-type. And yet…something in those blue eyes said differently. There was a hunger for action, to leap into the thick of the fray, regardless of the consequences. Neal had reacted strongly at the mention of the girl named Kate. In Shawn's experience, that kind of reaction only came with history, usually of a romantic sort. They couldn't still be together, otherwise his face would have lighted up, instead of darkening like the sea before a storm. A former lover, then.

According to Neal, he and someone named Peter had been chasing an art forger when the nuclear attack occurred. That would make him white collar. Diamond heists and bank robberies and probably mountains of paperwork. Peter was most likely his partner. Unbidden, Shawn's psychic gift offered some input. Not just a partner. The word "handler" popped into his head. From what his father had told him, in the police, handlers usually worked with C.I.'s, or Confidential Informants. These informants were often former criminals, or at the very least, people with some connection to the underworld.

Is Neal a criminal? Shawn wondered. Once again, the answer came back a second later. Not exactly. Somehow, Neal fell into the category of neither guilty nor innocent. Nice to know.

With new eyes, Shawn looked at Neal. Now, properly armed with this knowledge, he noticed how Neal moved, as if gliding along the street. He looked completely at ease, but something told Shawn that there actually was very little which escaped Neal's attention. At least they had that much in common.

Of course, it would have been easier to just ask Neal who he was, but if he was truly a criminal, Shawn couldn't be certain whether Neal would tell him the truth. Instead, he tried to prepare himself for the other half of Neal's operation. "What's your friend's name?"

"Why don't you ask him?" Neal said, leading the way around a corner. Standing under the mildewed awning of a decrepit corner store, was a man whom Shawn could only assume was Neal's partner. He was only an average height, maybe an inch taller than Shawn. However, he looked considerably fitter. His hair was short, dark blonde, almost ginger. Unlike Neal's eyes, which were bright and blue as an ocean, this man's eyes were hazel and uncomfortably flat as he stared back at Shawn. His eyes reminded Shawn of the eyes of a hunter, patiently waiting for the right moment to strike. There was no doubt; this man was the one in charge of the operation.

"Peter?" he guessed.

The man shook his head once, slowly. "Dexter Morgan, Miami Police Department." He held out a hand.

Shawn took it. Dexter's grip was strong enough to make his fingers hurt. "Shawn Spencer."

Neal stepped forward to stand beside Dexter. "Shawn here says he's a psychic."

Although Neal might have tried to hide his disbelief, Dexter made no effort at all. A sarcastic smile pulled up one corner of his mouth. "Really?"

"Well, he knew about Kate and the music box. Also guessed that I'm with the FBI."

"The operating term being 'guessed'," Dexter retorted. He noticed Shawn's expression. "No offense. I'm just not a big believer in all that mystical, spiritual stuff."

If life was fair, this would be where Shawn's gift kicked in, revealing every aspect of Dexter's life and allowing him to break down Dexter to the bone until that smug smirk had been wiped off of his face for good. Of course, if life was fair, he also would still be with Juliet and all of the nukes would have turned into daisies, instead of destroying his life. Inside of him, it remained completely silent, as if he had never been psychic at all.

In desperation to have at least something to throw out, Shawn turned to good old observation. That yielded about as much. Dexter was dressed like any normal Joe. He was annoying, but then anyone could have noticed that. There was only one thing…

Shawn focused on the strange chill that Dexter's eyes gave him. As he concentrated, it was as if he could actually feel whatever this psychic gift was shrinking away, beaten back like dust by the wings of a…

"Shadow." Shawn didn't realize he had said the word out loud until he saw the reaction on Dexter's face. The word meant absolutely nothing to Shawn, but it apparently meant something to Dexter. The man took a step back as if slapped.

"Okay, then." Dexter said. "Where did this 'psychic' come from, and why did you bring him back with you?"

"Only four blocks away. He was sitting on the curb, curled over like he was having the world's worst headache. As to why I decided to bring him back, well Shawn, why don't you tell Dex what you told me?"

About being psychic? Oh, right, about Juliet. Shawn hesitated a moment. Asking Neal to help him was one thing; asking Dexter was another. This guy looked like the king of skepticism. Still, he couldn't rescue Juliet alone. "My girlfriend Juliet was abducted twenty-six days ago by a group of men wearing old military uniforms, like the ones they wore before General Casey changed everything." He reached up and unconsciously ran a hand over the scar on his chest. "I tried to stop them, but I failed."

Dexter held up a hand to stop him. He looked up and down the street. "You'd better come inside. It isn't wise to talk out in the open like this."

The inside of the store was in shambles, the shelves stripped by someone who had obviously been in a hurry. There was a faint odor of spoiled fruit from where a few cans of peaches had fallen to the floor and broken open, exposing their contents to the contaminating air. A blanket was crumpled in one corner by the checkout desk. Shawn guessed that either Dexter or Neal had been using this store as a place to sleep. Next to the blanket were a backpack and a rolled-up bundle of leather. Dexter followed Shawn's gaze to the bundle. "A few tools of my trade," he explained.

Neal came in behind them, shutting the door firmly. "All right, Dexter. I think you should tell Shawn about your own quest."

Dexter leaned back against the counter. "I'm looking for someone, just like you. My sister, Deborah. She was taken over two months ago, under circumstances similar to the way you lost Juliet. I've...we've," he said, amending himself with an apologetic nod towards Neal, "been tracking down the men who took her. We got as far as this town when the trail went cold." He cocked an eyebrow at Shawn. "You say you're a psychic. Do you know where they're headed?"

Shawn shook his head, frustration welling up inside of him. "I haven't been able to sense anything. This whole 'psychic' thing is kind of new to me, and I don't really know how to control it. It seems to come and go on its own."

"I see." Dexter was silent for a moment. When he resumed speaking, it was directed towards Neal. "Did you find out anything today?"

"No, not a thing." Neal sighed. "Maybe we've lost them."

Dexter's eyes blazed with a new light. "We have not lost them. I don't care how long it takes; I am going to find my sister."

Neal raised his hands and took a step back. "Easy. I didn't mean it. It's just frustrating staying in one place without one shred of progress."

Dexter didn't reply. Instead, he pushed off from the counter and stalked past them to the back of the store.

Neal ran a hand through his hair and smiled wanly at Shawn. "Sorry about that. Dexter's an okay guy, really. He's just worried about his sister."

Shawn pointed a thumb in the direction Dexter had vanished. "How did you end up with him?"

Neal picked up the backpack on the floor and unzipped it. "It's a long story, and you must be famished. The perk of scouring every inch of this town for clues is that we have managed to stockpile plenty of food." He placed two cans of green beans on the counter, followed by two plastic forks and a manual can opener. "Make yourself comfortable and have some dinner. When Dexter gets like this, it's better to leave him alone."

"Where did he go?"

Neal shrugged and began to open the cans. "Probably out back to blow off some steam. Don't worry; he can take care of himself." He handed one of the cans to Shawn, along with a fork, and then hopped nimbly up onto the counter. After settling onto his perch, he began to talk.

"Before I joined the FBI, I used to dabble in bond forgery and art theft, along with a dozen other variations of white collar crime. I was quite the protégé. Then I was arrested by Agent Peter Burke of the FBI. After a few incredibly boring years in prison, I convinced Peter Burke to let me out and take me on as a consultant in the white collar division of the FBI. That's what I was doing when the bombs hit. As I mentioned previously, Peter and I were both in Boston when it happened. Luckily, Peter's wife was out of the city, supervising a wedding reception in Westfield. Once the dust settled, Peter and I headed for Westfield to find his wife. Until three weeks ago, Peter and I worked together to reunite families that had been separated. It felt good, doing something, however small, to patch the world back together.

Then one day, we got separated. We were looking for the two sons of a poor widow whose husband was murdered during the chaos following the attack. It was quite the noble quest. Unfortunately, the two sons were in different cities. Peter wanted to look for the younger first and then leave together in search of the elder. However, I convinced him that we didn't have any time to waste. I was concerned that we would not be able to find the elder son if we waited. Peter was against it, but in the end, we split up."

Neal shook his head wearily. "Even after all that, I was still too late. The elder son died of radiation poisoning before I could find him. All I could do was help identify the body. I had planned to rejoin with Peter, but it seems that fate has something else in mind for me." Neal removed his suit coat and unbuttoned a single pristine, white sleeve. He rolled it up to his elbow, revealing a dark, jagged scar that was still only partially healed. "They were on me before I knew what had happened. They wanted to kill me. I could see it in their faces. I never found out if they wanted my money or just my life. Then, out of nowhere, Dexter appeared." For a moment Neal was caught up in the memory, his expression saying more about that moment than spoken words ever could. With some effort, he shook himself free and quickly finished the story. "He stopped them. I owe him my life for that, so in return I am helping him find his sister. It appears that the same people who took his sister may have been the ones who took your girlfriend."

Shawn cut in. "I never told you she was my girlfriend."

Neal smiled. "You didn't have to. I can see the fire in your eyes when you talk about her. If you want to travel with us, you are welcome. It might be useful to have a psychic on our side and when you track them down, you may need a hand defeating them. I may not be much of a fighter, but Dexter is worth a dozen men in a fight. So what do you say?" He held out a hand. "Do we have a deal?"

Shawn looked at Neal's outstretched hand. It was risky, joining up with two men he hardly knew, especially these two. He didn't have to be a psychic to know that they were hiding something from him. Neal had openly confessed to being a conman, and Shawn had learned from Juliet's father that conmen did not change their stripes easily. As for Dexter, there was something dangerous hidden beneath that polished exterior. Shawn had seen it in his eyes, if only for a second, and that one glimpse had scared him more than anything he had seen before. However, if his vision was to be believed, than these two men might be his best chance at finding Juliet. If they turn out to be too dangerous, I can always leave.

Neal was still waiting, that flawless smile begging him to accept. Shawn took his hand. "Deal."

What the hell have I gotten myself into?