Chapter Two: Take Me Down, Six Underground, The Ground Beneath Your Feet

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Disclaimer: I don't own minor references to Season One's Spellingg Bee, Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast or Nine Lives.

Author's Note: As I was writing on this, I found the action taking a more graphic and slightly disturbing turn, so I've added a warning for "graphic violence". Let me know if I should up the rating. Thanks. As always, I welcome and appreciate your reviews and feedback.

Thanks for your patience in my delay of updating. A job, life's general stress and my computer crashing last week have added all these distractions and made it a little hard to focus. As I mentioned above, I so value any time and words you might be inclined to share; encouragement and motivation are so key. I also welcome constructive criticism and enjoy opinions on characters and their reactions to any given situation. Now, please to enjoy. :)

Special thanks to EgorStandish for all the helpful Lassiter tidbits! :)

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Lassiter turned the corner, the briefest edge he had seen to his left before the stranger had appeared and just as quickly, disappeared, up ahead. He caught sight of something blue— no, getting closer, quickening his pace, he saw it was more green— teal— lying upside-down on the path maybe twenty feet in front of him. The man was not in sight, but Lassiter continued along, stopping only when he got to the elongated oval shape. He tapped it with the toe of his black shoe and it tipped over, the rubber sole slurping against some puddled rain water on the paved path. It was a shoe, a thong, with the five neat circles of toe impressions around its top. It was hard to tell with all this rain if he was imaging seeing redness around the thong's base . . . or red being washed off the shoe onto the path. Lassiter straightened, his heart thudding in his chest. Was that—? Was that blood?

Where could this have come from?

It was obviously a woman's shoe, size 7 and 1/2 or 8, a simple flip flop, but what was it doing here without its mate? Let alone the wearer, whose bare feet may be burning up on the hot summer blacktop? Lassiter gazed in front of him; the entrance to at least one of the buildings seemed close, or maybe it was another trick of light and heat— a mirage that might take him another twenty minutes— sans "near death experiences"— to conquer. He glanced down, wondering for the first time if this shoe was being carried under someone's arm, and had been dropped— was it a startled drop, or was it on purpose?

It looks like a creepy place, O'Hara had transcribed from the tip. Eerie, cuts to your bone, you know? It looks like a place a killer might frequent. The words came back to him, unbidden. Again, Lassiter paused, now while staring down at the shoe. The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably, amid his soaked state. There was still a chance to turn around. He was still on the path outside— and the sun was just coming back out. Lassiter looked over his shoulder, in the direction he had come. He was sure he could pick his way back to his car, and not leave it until he was certain words had left his lips and dispatch responded with an "A-okay, we'll send O'Hara out."

"Carlton, you are an idiot," Vick's voice repeated in his mind, the trace of a smile on her lips. But her sentence was like a frustrated sigh, a pressure valve release. He knew she wanted to take him down a few more pegs, but for some reason had chosen to spare his— what? His feelings? Could she pick up how bruised his ego had become? Lassiter's top lip curled, a eyebrow dipping towards the bridge of his nose as he gritted his teeth. Did he forget who he was? Carlton Lassiter, Santa Barbara's Head Detective? He scrubbed a hand— the burned one, he realized with a minor wince— across the back of his neck, hoping the sensation would banish his unplacable worry, or awe. He was not going to be cowed into going back.

I can handle this, he thought. I don't always need O'Hara to be around. I managed without her before— his thoughts lingered briefly on a cold space, the outer edges warmed by the memory of Lucinda, but a cold space nonetheless. This emptiness was just as strange as the hairs on the back of his arms standing up now. Lassiter retrieved his gun from its holster, checking the safety which he was an expert at snapping off in a second's notice, and held it firmly at his side, its muzzle facing the ground, like a child who has been taught the correct way to carry scissors, blade down, when walking.

This had never stopped him from running with his gun up, safety off, if the situation called for haste. If the IA agents could see him now, he'd likely get more than his wrist slapped, but the weight of his gun in hand helped him chase away past and present thoughts that were making him fret, just a little. Part of him was glad he was alone, with his thoughts, of course, but on this chore. If he found anything— he would take complete credit for it.

Something hissed in the back of his mind, making him falter, an internal wincing, for a few seconds. Lassiter tightened the grip on his weapon, ignoring, this time, the pull of his burned skin in the grip. He set his face after taking one more glance at the shoe. He'd retrieve that on his way out, he decided. Unless the phantom Cinderella or her unnamed prince returned first.

This was not the place of fairy tales, but nightmares, of blood stained keys, demon loves. He couldn't hear it anymore, the pulsing alarm that he turn back, turn back now; this was the very last chance, but he did wonder over why it had gone missing from his urgency. Again, Lassiter was struck by the dizzying depths of his own thoughts, almost as if there were something in the air invading his senses; still, he was drawn forward. He turned the corner where the man had disappeared around, and was disparaged to see more pathways— but there, ahead not too far, finally, another, closer door.

* * *

"Mr. Spencer, why am I not surprised?" Chief Vick sighed when she saw Shawn and Gus approaching the crime scene. It almost as surprising that they were braving the rain. Well, it was only sprinkling, but CSU had still taken precautions by draping clear plastic tarps held above the body with wooden marker stakes pushed into the sand. As soon as they stepped of the sidewalk and started across the sand, Gus got too good a glimpse at the sliced up corpse; he managed to wrinkle his nose once at the coppery, stale odor of the blood of the dead before he, himself, stopped dead. Vick saw him exchange a few quick words with Shawn, gesturing almost frantically and puckering with anger when Shawn tried to talk him out of it. Shawn took two strides away from the frozen man, then stopped and glanced over his shoulder. When he turned back towards her, Vick saw that Shawn was resigned but not so much surprised that Gus was halfway to the car, his speed walking melting into a sprint when he got off the sidewalk and crossed the road.

"Is Gus okay?" Juliet asked, pinching her brows together as she glanced at Gus's progress.

Shawn shrugged. "You know how he is, can't stand the sight of blood." Shawn looked over the body, his own stomach doing a little flip. "And that's a lot of blood." His eyes alighted over the sadly familiar details that he remembered from the crime scene photographs he'd been shown. This was the very first time he'd seen one of the King of Hearts Killer's victims up close. Being as schooled as he had been growing up with a cop for a father, Shawn usually found himself more than capable of making jokes in the face of death— even when it was his own life on the line if a gun was pointed at him. If Gus had stayed, he may have been able to cough a few up, maybe something tasteless about the high stakes of losing a poker game to this guy, but he respectfully kept his mouth closed.

As in the other cases, a suicide king had been severed with a Bowie with a 6 mm blade plunged into the victim's heart, and then the card was pinned elegantly to the woman's light blue tank top with a 15 cm hat pin, the signature of the red teardrop tip the same. Again, Shawn picked up that the hearts on these cards were slanted just so, not enough to really pick up on unless the person with the normal eye and processing skills analyzed and overanalyzed this card for hours on end. It made Shawn question the manufacturing of these cards— it seemed less and less that they were regular cards from deck— mass produced— and more and more likely that they were some other artist's rendering— either a deliberate fake or a poor attempt at flawless reproduction. As before, Shawn kept these wonderings to himself, not certain how relevant they would be and also in case he needed this small detail later on to use in one of his reveals.

Shawn squatted down in the sand at the woman's feet. As the others, her bare foot, both the sole and top were deeply slashed— he swallowed. It looked like it hurt so bad, this slow, slow torture. He thought briefly of his own low threshold for pain and wondered if this woman had been welcoming, even for a second, the end— the pierce of the heart, the pain line to her brain severed. Forever. He bent closer to her other foot, the one with the shoe still in place. The top of the left foot was also cut up, but the shoe had the appearance of being lovingly arranged. Shawn noticed that the toes on this foot each had curved cuts, as if the killer had used the tip of the knife to split the skin on each toe in half.

"Don't touch anything!" Vick called, startling him. Shawn pulled back from the body in time to catch Vick glaring at him before she squatted down to take a closer look at something in the victim's short, stylish dark chocolate hair. Shawn was curious just what she might be retrieving with her gloves; it seemed, he thought, aware of his insensitivity, that Vick was a primate picking fleas or ticks from another, and that at any moment she would stick the bug in her mouth and chew.

He couldn't make out from here what she was holding; she was too quick ordering one of her forensic officers to get out an evidence bag so she could place this found item in. The bag disappeared just as quickly. Suppressing a sigh, Shawn got to his feet, patting the legs of his jeans for any stray granules.

"So, Jules, what have we got?" He tried out one of his winning smiles, but she wasn't looking at him, instead, signing off on something on a clipboard that an officer was holding.

"Shawn, I don't have time to chatter," Juliet said. She did look busy, but Shawn still pressed.

When she hesitated, he hastily reminded her that the Chief had brought him for extra help on this case. Juliet sighed.

She explained that the body was found in this location by a man walking his dog. The SBPD had responded quickly, especially when it was learned a storm front was rolling in and key evidence could likely be lost in the event of rain. She went over the details he already knew, how this appeared to be the latest serial kill of the King of Hearts mystery man— or woman— by way of objects left behind or missing, direction, width and depth of the cuts, and by the fatal piercing to the heart. She was, however, in lightning speed in this discussion, never stopping, making him keep pace with her, and interrupting herself to talk to other officers and CSU.

In her multitasking, Juliet had even managed to pull out her cell phone and try Lassiter's number again, frustrated that there was still no answer. Shawn glanced at the screen quickly, wondering for the first time why Lassiter wasn't on scene. Not that he cared one way or the other, especially after how jerkish the Head Detective had behaved towards him earlier. It wouldn't be that hard to devise something that would annoy Lassiter, but Shawn figured he'd have to think of something especially evil as pay back. It gave his step a little bound, but he found he was curious, and asked.

Juliet sighed again, an unguarded worry sliding out from under her frustration for a second. Then it was gone, and she tried for anger, then sullenness. "He always answers his phone. It's hard to believe he's been off sulking for this long; he lives for this sort of thing. Though our caseload this week has been heavy, and it's plausible he off tracking some lead for another case."

Chief Vick waved Juliet towards her, first shooting a frown at Shawn. Juliet looked at him full faced for the first time. "I think that's your cue to leave, Shawn," she told him with a small smile.

"But things are just getting good."

Juliet tossed a look and another smile at him over her shoulder. "Yeah. Right?"

* * *

"So, you are over here," Shawn said as he approached Gus's Echo, aka The Psychmobile. At least this alias was what he most often referred to as Gus's company car.

Gus was waiting, propped against the driver's side door with his arms crossed. "As if you didn't know."

Shawn studied his best friend. This time, he honestly couldn't blame Gus for not wanting to get the "full experience" of getting up close and personal with a corpse such as that. He wouldn't admit it, but the scene had chilled him. The pictures they had scene, though obscene, did that little justice. Shawn absently glanced over his right shoulder; he could make out Juliet's slender silhouette in profile adjusting the sunglasses on the bridge of her nose. The sun had just peeked out before he'd started back, and down on the beach it was suddenly very bright. It was making the details he'd already seen too clearly brighter; and he didn't want to see anymore.

"It's this King of Cards guy," Gus declared when Shawn was close.

"Hearts, Gus. They're calling him the King of—"

Gus waved his hand in the air to signify a "never mind." "That cologne was so strong," he explained as though Shawn were already clued in. "It was more odorous than the blood."

Shawn's face scrunched up, his eyebrows dipping towards his eyes while his mouth hiked towards his nose. "Say what?"

Gus huffed. "The cologne from those other playing cards?" Gus added the inflection of a question at the last second because Shawn still looked baffled. "Don't you remember being in Chief Vick's office? Looking at the photographs of bodies this killer has left strewn about?"

"Yes," Shawn said slowly, waiting.

"Okay. And don't you remember when she opened the seal on one of the evidence bags of the playing cards and had us smell—"

Shawn fumbled around in his memory for this event, eventually recalling it partially as he had, at the time, been using his "divining skills" to not so subtly flirt with Juliet. He told Gus, yes, he remembered.

"It's the same one," Gus said as he sniffed the air outside of the car.

"How do you know that? You were only there for a, like, a second before you ran away."

"They don't call me the Super Smeller for nothing," Gus said proudly, adopting a smile.

"Dude, no one calls you the Super Smeller—"

Gus raised an eyebrow. "You do. You have. And my parents—"

Shawn sighed. "Three people, maybe two. I'd still like, in writing, these incidents when the words 'Super Smeller', directed at you, came out of my mouth."

Gus rolled his eyes and then cleared his throat, continuing as if this interlude had never transpired. "Old West Cologne for Men. Shawn, it was right there in the wind, mixed with the scent of summer rain, atmosphere and sand. How did you miss that?"

"Because I'm the Super Seer and you're the Super—" A smirk overtook Shawn's mouth. "Nice try, buddy."

"'Super Seer'?" Gus repeated. "That's never going to stick."

"I think you're wrong about that. It can be a dual act— we can take it on the road. Think of all the pineapple—"

"— That will be thrown at us?" Gus frowned, shaking his head. "Uh, uh. I'm not working with you. What do you think I am, crazy?"

Shawn's phone jingled. He pulled it from his pocket as Gus eyed him suspiciously. "Who's that?" he asked.

"Relax, it's just a text message," Shawn replied, scanning quickly over the screen. His brow furrowed. "That's . . . odd."

"What?" Gus asked, raising an eyebrow. "Some girl you met pissed you didn't call her for a second date?" When Shawn didn't answer, Gus opened the driver's side door and got in, starting the car to gesture his impatience to be gone from this place.

Shawn flashed back to his and Juliet's conversation a few minutes prior. "This is definitely the M.O. of the King of Hearts killer, down to the 15 cm red tipped hat pin, severed suicide king playing card and the missing shoe— it seems like it was taken as a souvenir."

O'Hara, checking out the tips you got for KOKH sightings. 6067 West Trail & Beach Lane, Samarkind. Back soon. You do good work.

"667, neighbor of the beast," Shawn mumbled, thankful Gus was busy adjusting the level of air conditioning to really question his quip.

"Must be a misdialed number," Shawn told his friend when he opened the car door. "And I did call that girl back."

"Which girl?" Gus asked, idling through the beach's parking lot.

"You know, that girl. From the— the other day." Shawn hoped Gus was too occupied getting back onto the road and away from the scene of this grisly killing to notice how distracted he sounded. He smiled to make a show that it looked like nothing, but a tiny pinch of anxiety pulled his eyes open a little wider. He bit his lip and took a deep breath, resolved to not let Gus in on just what this might be until he had more facts.

And so he could get himself out of being at fault. It had just struck him as strange that Detective Lassiter was not here— and that Jules had said that he wasn't picking up his phone. This was a big case, and Shawn knew that Vick was putting a lot of pressure on Lassiter and Jules for concrete answers— and an arrest. He should be here— but he was, like the other missing shoe, nowhere to be seen. Or heard from.

Why send this text to me? he wondered, though he'd already closed the phone and stowed it in one of his pockets. It was meant for— Jules. Could that mean Lassiter had be flustered, or without clarity? Shawn shook his head, glancing out the window at the passing blur of scenery. Lassiter wasn't the type to make these kind of mistakes.

A cold dread spiraled into the pit of his stomach that usually kept as a back-up space for extra food consumption. What if . . . what if Lassiter's gotten into trouble? And what if . . . it's all because of me?

* * *

As he walked, Lassiter shook off any unprofessional rookie nervousness he'd allowed himself to fall into by talking up his ego to himself. He'd loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar because the wet fabric stuck to his neck had been bothering him. He engaged in a second pep talk, this one longer with more reminders. Remember who you are. Carlton Lassiter, youngest Head Detective in the Santa Barbara Police Department's history. You don't take crap from anyone, or give into whims or let some strange descent of eeriness get to you. Lassiter wasn't insecure, or he would have made excuses not to get out of the car in the first place, but it didn't hurt to boost his confidence to eleven out of ten every now and then.

His overconfidence was even able to talk him back to the side of good feelings— this lead seemed more and more likely to pan out— even if this was just another tip that led to another. Maybe this was the third to last piece of the puzzle that would finally allow him± ahem— the SBPD to lock up another dangerous and sociopathic criminal.

Carlton even chided himself for the vertigo-esque feelings he had had, though his feet were planted firmly on the ground. To prove to himself he was fine, he set his Glock .45 in its holster. He found it almost easy now to adjust his mindset and convince himself that his previous bad luck had occurred not today but yesterday, and this was a new day. He imagined the gloating he would do at the station, using that magnanimous catch phrase, "Just doing my job," which was always betrayed by his giddy smile and his willingness to exaggerate and over-share. Though, his conscience reminded him that he'd need to consider O'Hara and credit her as if she were there by his side during this— somewhat harrowing— mission of information retrieval. Especially if there was more than met the eye and it wouldn't be just information he'd be gleaning.

He frowned a little at giving O'Hara an unearned pat on the back— though he wouldn't have come here if not for her— and the Chief, so he reasoned that he'd have to be okay with sharing the limelight. And, giving selflessly O'Hara her dues made him appear humble, friendlier and more open— an ear to listen and a wise soul to ask for advice. Though, Lassiter grumbled, he was never going to willingly listen to Buzz McNab paw for advice about sexual positions that Francie had read about in a woman's magazine.

If not for O'Hara— and the Goochberg Incident of 2006— Lassiter knew he would still be viewed as a cold fish or an angry, work alcoholic loner. So, it wasn't so bad after all.

Lassiter smirked, seeing his destination with new sight.

He was only slightly aware of his still damp, sticky clothes, having written off the discomfort as part of his job description— until his long strides took him to the middle of a swarm of bugs, buzzing, whining, (hissing? No, these kinds of bugs didn't hiss. Right?) over an inch deep oval of stagnant rainwater, pooled at the bottom of a sloping pathway. Lassiter gasped, annoyed immediately when he sucked a few tiny bodies into his mouth— no-see-'ums, tiny flies and mosquitos. He spit, wiping his tongue with the back of his right hand, cursing when he was reminded that the skin was still irritated from an earlier mishap.

These pests seemed to know exactly who he was— fresh meat— landing on him and pecking like vultures. He swatted furiously, cursing again his wet clothes. They hummed and whined in his ears, looking for any open passage to get inside his body and bite.

The top button of his collar was undone; his neck, face and hands were the only other exposed skin. But he seemed to taste so delicious to these little demons, they were not satisfied with the exposed skin they could bite, and were attacking his wrists by breaching his shirt cuffs. Lassiter slapped his chest as some disappeared down the front of his wet shirt, some skimming his neck with furious bites. He could almost feel them invading the space between his buttons; he bit back curses with a grimace, not wanting to swallow any more. He slapped at his arms and torso and anywhere else he could swear he felt them biting— on his legs, his back, the back of his neck, his scalp, his forehead— god! god!— his cheeks and lips. Relentless, it seemed they had planning this attack for a long time and were bent on the kill.

Resolved not to fall prey to these little killers, Lassiter shuffled his way through them quickly, pressing himself towards a stone half wall off to his left.

On the way, Lassiter raked his short fingernails across the damp fabric sticking to his chest, stomach and arms, trying to satisfy both the real itches of the mosquito bites and the imaginary ones brought on by the bug paranoia. All his life, he had hated these bloodsuckers and questioned the purpose of their existence. As he got older, the hatred got stronger. He had shocked a few Goth suspects once while interrogating them when he admitted that he did believe in vampires, but he hadn't elaborated on just what kind. Mosquitoes were a pest worse even than deer flies or fire ants— worse even, dare he say, than Shawn Spencer.

While he scratched, he became aware that his tie was missing and grumbled over it for a moment. He considered briefly turning back to look for it, but wasn't about to give those little biters another chance at him. It was only a seven dollar tie and easily replaceable, but it was one that O'Hara had made a nice comment about recently. (Well, it was only a tie.)

Why did his thoughts keep turning back to her? Was it because she wasn't around to tease him— albeit platonically— about all the bad luck he kept encountering? In the beginning, she had fretted over his temper, keeping her mouth shut while he swore like a sailor or cursed things beyond their control, like the weather forecast or a perp's mindset. The more comfortable they both became with each other, the more she spoke up and shut him down when he got too out of control. It was begrudging, but he did come to respect her for her uncanny ability to be able to not only put up with him on a daily basis but to give as good as she got and not once run away crying.

Making it to the wall, which he eagerly rubbed his back against to relieve its real or imagined bites, Lassiter got out his cell phone again, wondering if this was a better place for a signal. He had one bar; he dialed and put the phone against his ear to wait.

She would laugh at him, for being caught out in the rain, for nearly having a heavy branch smash him in the head. He'd see.

While he waited for her to pick up, he heard a low whistling— a tune unfamiliar to him. Lassiter was on instant alert, pulling the phone from his ear and heading towards the tune— which seemed to be coming from the other side of the half wall. He slipped the phone into his pocket and rested his hand on his gun which he had replaced into its holster earlier.

The wall, he found out, was in the shape of an "L", with the base of "L" leading him around an angled turn to the left. On this side, it was darker and the air smelled of muddy dampness; he stepped forward and then down; these were blind stairs going down, how far he wasn't certain. "Hello?" he called out, poised on the top step, looking around. Carlton couldn't hear the whistling anymore and wondered if he'd imagined it, but wondered if this was worth checking out. He got his cell phone out of his pocket and used the lit up screen as a makeshift lantern. This was another pathway like the others, only with stone steps the same kind as the wall.

After five small steps, Lassiter bumped into a burnt orange metal door. Its handle was tarnished. Hmm, another way in? Lassiter wondered, trying it. Pulling did nothing, so he pushed, surprised when his gentle touch produced creaking in the door's hinges. Huh. Lassiter paused; the glimpse he'd got of just inside the door was only more dimly lit space. Beyond that, the promise enticed of more dimly lit rooms that smelled of old dirt. He hung back, pulling up O'Hara's number and dialing. Now that he was actually about to enter, he found he had some justifiable doubts.

The line was ringing, but he sort of expected the signal to cut out at any moment. Still, he wanted to try. He leaned forward, pushing the door in a little further. He couldn't see much, not below the door or past where it was open. Come on, O'Hara, he thought, his patience waning.

"Razor blades and lemon juice."

Carlton stiffened; the voice, smoky and distinctly male, had been uttered directly behind him, but he had little time to gather his thoughts let alone make an attempt to defend himself before a hand was slapped between his shoulder blades and he was shoved forward— into the door (he grunted as his nose, chin, then forehead flared with pain)— with a fury that was disagreeable with the almost friendly statement he'd heard. The hand was attached to a very strong arm which moved him easily; the shock couldn't have helped his situation either. He was supposed to be warned of these things by his guardedness— his readiness of fight (or flight). Had it slipped? He tried to whip his head over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his assailant, but the culprit was too fast. As Carlton clumsily pitched forward, the door swung fully open on its hinges and he smashed into it as the bottom of his feet lost their grip on solid ground.

The space under the door was not even or level, and he found himself falling with much more dread than he'd felt earlier when he'd tripped over his own feet in the station.

Lassiter estimated a drop of about five feet. He distantly heard the door somewhere above him slam closed; this also brought on worry he thought he'd already banished. Instead of landing on his chest as he had before, Carlton fell into a squat, landing hard on his left ankle, hearing something crack or pop. He hoped to the highest power it wasn't a bone but just a stiff joint in need of release. It wasn't enough pain to rake tears to his eyes, but he did yell out some expletives, recalling some from earlier when he'd walked through the torrent of rain.

He crumpled onto the ground of this room, which had a dirt floor, rocking onto his back as his left ankle protested— and resisted— any extra weight. God. Dammit. Could it be twisted? Lassiter lay on the ground for about thirty seconds, giving himself time to go over what had just happened and recollect the air that had been knocked out of him when he'd hit the ground.

I was pushed. Someone— a guy— pushed me down here. But, why? And, could this attacker be the same flash of man he'd seen outside? Huffing, Carlton crawled to his hands and knees, gently pressing back on his feet to test his ankle. It seemed okay, so he pressed more. Pain spiked up his leg to his knee and forced Lassiter to cry out. Dammit, this is bad. Focusing on it, he could separate its throbbing from the other minor bumps. Great, if his ankle was twisted, putting any kind of weight on it was going to be a bitch.

But I can't lie here all day, he told himself, squinting around the room. The lights were low; the walls, the same kind of stone as the "L" shaped wall he'd followed down here. Abruptly, he sat back on his heels, remembering he'd had his cell phone out when he'd been blindsided. Pain grayed his vision and forced him to ease forward onto his elbows, taking all weight off his left ankle. What— what did I get myself into? Lassiter thought, wiping away some sweat from his forehead. Where had his cell phone ended up? This was the time he could use some help— though it would have been much better if he'd taken preventative measures more seriously. Carlton searched the floor for his phone, trying to force back any paranoia that he'd dropped it outside. He took advantage of slow movement; he might need that strength soon. The pain wasn't anything like the time he'd broken his shoulder slipping in the shower that one time, which did bring him comfort.

Relief flooded him as he laid his hands on a hunk of plastic, but panic stirred as he ran his fingers along the surface and felt jagged edges. He brought the object closer to his eyes, his heart skipping into his throat as he realized it was his phone, but it was broken. A large chunk of it was missing, namely the keypad and the screen. Lassiter's blue eyes stared off ahead of him as he placed the useless device on the ground. He had no choice; he would have to crawl until the pain receded enough so he could stand. Then, what? Well, he did still have his gun— yes, yes, it was still there.

Lassiter choked back any anxiety, moving out of this room gingerly and carefully. The light faded, but he kept up a pace until it was a rhythm. He estimated he was down low for about seven minutes before the air changed; Carlton raised his head slowly. He was no longer in the basement-like room he'd been forced into; this space was huge and artifically bright— and nothing like what its pretty, art-like facade had suggested. There were not many rooms, hallways and doors, staircases or elevators, nothing decorative or welcoming. Not like a fancy house or office building. No, this space was large, hollowed out, with plain, dirty cold floors— only dirt in places— as if it were a building being prepared for demolition.

Lassiter's mouth dropped open as he took in his new surroundings, unable to ignore the deadness that had gripped his stomach. He felt insignificant in this place, tiny, something he, at 6'1", was not accustomed to. The charming spell from without was gone, and in its place, a dungeon-like presence of hard walls. He sniffed; there it was again. Again, he forced himself to choke down his panic— after all, he'd been in situations much worse than this. Right?

As he struggled for an example, the citrus odor hit his nostrils again, and he couldn't halt his shiver. It was only one— but so was he.

For the first time since he'd come here, Lassiter hoped that O'Hara's found tip would amount to absolutely nothing. He winced as he gathered his legs together and got to his feet, the pain in his swollen ankle threatening him with a black out for a few moments. Lassiter gritted his teeth hard, waiting out the pain to see if he could take it. Even if he couldn't, he was determined to try. It was ironic that he'd spent so much time trying to get in, and now he worried that if— if that man who had pushed him was— Carlton closed his eyes, taking in some deep breaths— if it was, could this place be his grave?