Less than 2 percent (1.57 percent, to be exact) of readers reviewed my first chapter. I'm bummed.
Do not fret, readers. If you need reassurance, the last line of the author notes at the end of this chapter should help you.
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Shawn stepped nonchalantly out of the office, clicking the door shut behind him and locking it one-handed, not taking his eyes off the two men heading down the sidewalk.
His cell phone, switched to silent mode now, buzzed in his pocket as Gus tried again and again to call him. Ignoring it, Shawn crept along about twenty metres behind the couple, thankful for the lack of light in the dusk, treading on the balls of his feet just as he'd had drilled into him for years.
Voices drifted back to him, "Why are you… your father… I never…"
"… years… my life…"
Shawn was momentarily confused as he reached an open space with no sign of the pair, then the voices caught his attention again and he swung towards the beach.
In the cooling evening, the only people around were at the far end of the beach, a group of maybe fifteen, playing loud music. Shawn would never be able to get help from them before it was too late.
Pulling his cell from his pocket – the gunman was getting angrier now, pushing at his victim with the gun, and the psychic decided that police backup would be a good idea.
Dialling 911, he spoke to the operator in a whisper; the gunman hadn't seen him yet and he had no wish to draw his attention. "My name's Shawn Spencer, I'm the Santa Barbara PD's head psychic, and I'm following a man with a gun." Bet she didn't hear that every day. Mind you, he'd called often enough.
Shawn gave her the place, and as she told him to stay well back and inside, he cut her off. "Uh-huh. Yeah, look, I gotta go, something's gonna happen. Bad vibes." He shoved the cell in his jacket pocket with the line still open; he figured it could only help. The squeaking voice was muffled now, and he was concentrating on the pair again.
They were face to face now, the gun clearly held between them pointing at the shorter man's chest. They were shouting; Shawn didn't need the psychic abilities he professed to having to realise there wasn't much time left.
No choice, then. "Hey, guys! How you doing?" He started to jog towards them, grinning playfully, and then froze as the gun suddenly swung round to aim at him. The gunman took a few rapid steps backward, keeping away from the two of them.
"Back off, kid."
Kid? Ok, that was unfair.
"I'm not here to cause any trouble. My name's Shawn Spencer, I'm head psychic at the Santa Barbara Police Department. Just give me the gun, and you can leave, and we'll all be fine." He had his hands up in a placating gesture, as he slowly walked towards the gunman.
Shawn could feel the sand spilling into his shoes; he trod carefully, aware of every shift beneath his feet as he tried not to make any sudden moves.
"What's going on? What's your name?" Keep him talking, distract him, maybe he'll give you the gun, maybe you can take it by force. A name would be good. Shawn could work with that.
"I'm not giving you the damn gun," he snarled.
The other man, older than Shawn by at least a decade, shook his head. "He's Kevin. I'm Paul. He thinks I killed his dad. I didn't, it was an accident, he just fell-"
Kevin was angry now, his face going red. "Liar! You pushed him and now he's dead!"
"Ok, Kevin." Shawn pulled his attention from the other man. "See, that's better already." He was close now, almost within leaping distance, at least if it hadn't been for the shifting ground beneath his feet.
Shawn closed his eyes for a brief second, running what he could see of the man through his mind. "You're a builder, right?" He glanced at Paul, then back to Kevin. "Both of you are. Your dad was too. And your brothers are, but they're younger than you. They look up to you, like you looked up to your dad."
Kevin was shocked now, but he resettled his grip on the gun. "Yeah, so what? I looked up to him, and this bastard killed him."
Shawn spoke faster, trying to get the words out before the man started firing.
"How would you feel if your father had killed someone, Kevin? Would you still look up to him? How would your brothers feel if they knew you had killed someone?"
"They'd be proud I killed the murderous bastard!" His mind made up, Kevin pulled the trigger once, twice and again, then a fourth time.
There was a shout of pain behind him, and then silence as the pain roared through him, blocking out the world. He should never have tried to reach the gun, he should never have left the office, he should never have pissed off Lassy, maybe then the police would have been quicker and his chest wouldn't be on fire now and the world wouldn't be going dark…
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One body. A gun. Second body.
Don't look at the second body.
Too late.
Paramedics are pushing me aside, and I feel my legs collapse. A puff of sand rises around me as I sit down, hard.
There's a sob, almost a shriek, from O'Hara as she sees what I did only seconds before. "No!" She's beside me now, grabbing blindly for my hand as I put my head between my knees for a moment before collecting the strength to stand.
I look at her face; she's already crying. Then I can't see her anymore as Buzz pulls her into his arms, holding her tight.
He's a good man. He'll be a good detective.
A sudden shout from one of the paramedics – "He's alive! Get that stretcher here, now!"
Which one? There're so many people crowding round, I can't tell who it is.
Please, please God. I don't believe in God, but I'm still praying as I stagger towards the group. O'Hara's right behind me, Buzz alongside her. He's steadying her; I'm glad he's doing that because I'm not sure I'm going to be able to stand up myself if…
The paramedics are around Shawn's body, the officers – at least, those few that aren't staring at him in shock – are crowded around the other one. That's good. It means he's alive. For now.
Psychic, my ass. He should have seen this coming. Why the hell didn't he see this coming?
Where's Guster? The other body isn't his; surely he'd never let Shawn go after an armed man on his own.
Wait, he's at a conference. Shawn was whinging about it a couple of days ago. He's not here.
Shawn can't die, because I refuse to tell Guster I failed him.
They're carrying him past us now – can't use the wheels on the beach. He's pale, bloody and if they weren't in such a damn rush I'd say he was dead. O'Hara's eyes are so wide as she looks at him, and her cheeks are so pale, I'm once again glad that Buzz is holding her up.
Somehow, the Chief's holding it together. That's why they pay her the big bucks. "Detective Lassiter, supervise the scene. O'Hara, get statements from the group down that way. See if they saw anything."
I can feel myself nodding. I'm not sure if I mean to though, it just seems like the appropriate thing to do.
"Go!" She shoves me along with a palm on my back. I stumble, then look back in despair. What do I do? This is Spencer, damnit, the stupid, cowardly, faking son of a cop who annoys me every single day, the arrogant man I hit and scared and who I never got to apologise to, and without whom, the world would never be as bright, and the darkness that's settled over the beach will never, ever lift.
She sees something of that in my eyes, I'm sure. Her face softens, and I see quite how hard she has to try to keep herself calm. "Go, Carlton. He's one of ours. The least we can do is find the person who did this."
I'll get the bastard, if it's the last thing I do.
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Author's note – No character deaths, at least in this fic (I can't bring myself to do it).