How Happy I Am That We Covered Our Tracks

Shawn had never stuck his head inside a ringing church bell, but he was getting a pretty good idea of what it might feel like. His skull had turned into a huge resonant cavity for his heartbeat, and his eyes seemed to be vibrating, too, because when he opened them, they would not focus, no matter how hard he tried. But then again, it was nearly pitch dark, with only a little moonlight coming through a window and giving contours to the room he was in. He closed his eyes and concentrated. What had happened? He remembered driving Juliet's car, then came an enormous blackout. Not very helpful. So where was he now? His hands were tied behind his back, and he was sitting on a chair. Serious déjà vu here. He smelled wood, sweat – probably his own –, blood – definitely his own –, dust, the humid odor of nature. Plus Juliet. He raised his head.

"Jules? Tell me again why we're tied to chairs?"

"Oh my God, Shawn. I thought you were never going to wake up," came the reply from behind him. Apparently they were sitting back to back.

"How long was I out?"

"I'm not sure. Three or four hours maybe. You must be badly concussed."

"Figure that. 'Cause here's the next question: why was I out?"

"Do the words redneck and red pickup truck ring a bell?"

Shawn winced. "Don't use the words 'ring' and 'bell' right now, please." Nevertheless, images started to flash in front of his inner eye. The two flannel guys standing on the sidewalk when he had picked up the keys for the cabin in Ojai, the pickup following them, something red smashing into the Honda, and the blackout again. He realized Juliet might be injured, too. "What about you? Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes."

That was a little too short-spoken for his taste. "Jules," he inquired.

"It's a flesh wound. Nothing serious."

"I hope so. Because if it's anything more than that, I will have to kick some redneck ass." He made a dramatic pause. "But I'll probably do that anyway."

"No, you won't." He physically heard her smile. "Your legs are tied, you know?"

"Well, thanks for the discouragement. I don't think you're supposed to do that in a healthy relationship."

"One of them went away. I think he's placing a ransom call. The other one's right next door, I believe he's sleeping."

"Wow, that's an abrupt change of subject. Weren't you the one who wanted to talk things through?"

"Shawn, focus," she said in an urgent voice.

"Okay. Ransom call. What? Why? What do they want?"

"Well, experience shows that in most cases, kidnappers want money."

"Now you're being sarcastic, great."

"Sorry. There's something you need to know. They only wanted me – you're collateral booty."

That came unexpected. Shawn was stunned. "Okay, you just lost me. But keep explaining, I'll probably catch up at some point."

"I'm not entirely sure, but pretty confident about this. They must have seen me with, uh, Declan."

"What, here?"

"Down in Ojai. We were there a few weeks ago when he donated an MRI scanner to the hospital."

"Oh, he donated – great. So he's the reason we're in this mess now?"

"Partly, I guess. But it was your idea to go here for the weekend, so you can't really blame him alone."

"Well, I do."

"Shawn, please. I know that Declan will pay whatever they ask for, even though we're no longer together. We'll be fine."

"You will, yeah. What about me? They don't even know my name, and I'm wearing a red shirt. I'm screwed. Speaking of which - this is just like 'Deliverance', and I'm not sure yet whether I'm Ned Beatty or Ronny Cox."

"How about Kirstie Alley in 'Shoot to Kill'?"

"Do I look anything like Kirstie Alley? She was awesome in that one, though."

"Don't worry. Declan will go to the police, and they will trace our steps using your credit card information – or Gus's, for that matter, and start their search at the cabin. They'll find us in no time."

Shawn coughed slightly. "Well, about that…"

Gus entered the hallway and steered directly towards Lassiter's corner. "Any luck yet?" he demanded.

"Not a trace of them."

"Have you tried his credit card? Or mine?"

"We have. Nothing. I have to admit he is good at moving under the radar. We checked with every hotel, motel, cabin and camping site within a fifty mile radius of Santa Barbara. No Shawn Spencer or Juliet O'Hara checked in."

"Of course they didn't." Gus rubbed his temples. "He wouldn't even tell me where they were going, so he probably used fake names. We should ask for lists of everybody who checked in on Friday and paid cash, and look for something out of the ordinary."

"Aside from the fact that we'd have to go through hundreds of names – what do you consider 'out of the ordinary'? Lavender Gooms perhaps, or Seraphim Proudleduck?" Lassiter snorted.

„Not quite. I'll know when I see it."

"Oh, you'll know it when you see it. Now that's confident."

"I've known him for well over 30 years, I have all the reason to be confident…"

Lassiter gave a laconic laugh.

"To identify his alias, I mean." Gus placed his palms on the Detective's desk. "Look. We can narrow it down. I mean, a couple that doesn't get any private… quality time in their daily lives, where would they go for the weekend?"

"Although the bare thought curls my toenails," Lassiter shuddered, "- someplace secluded. A cabin perhaps, not some rotten out-of-the-way motel. The latter may be his style, certainly not hers."

"And we're back in the game. Make it a one hundred mile radius, get the fax machine ready and let me use a desk. Oh, and do you think you could get us some of these caramel-filled donuts?"

Lassiter returned an ice-blue look that would have sandblasted the finish off the Blueberry.

"I'm just saying this might take a few hours." Gus shrugged. "We might get hungry."

Not quite exactly forty-five minutes later, Gus leafed through a stack of faxes and printouts while his free hand was rummaging in a box with doughnuts.

"James Hattrick and Monica Roberts. No. Raphael Godin and Rebecca Bernsen. No. Carl and Maggie Fuller. Definitely not." Gus sighed, wet his finger and turned the page. "David Addison, Jr., and Madelyn Hayes."

"Wait. That's Moonlighting." Lassiter put his index finger on the paper.

"What?"

"Moonlighting. Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd. 1985 to 1989."

"I know that," Gus replied, a little miffed that the Detective had beaten him to this. "Why do you?"

"Oh, come on. Are you the only ones allowed to watch TV? Moonlighting is general knowledge, by the way. It's not like he had checked in as Barnabas Collins."

"Do you realize that this last sentence costs you the Moonlighting bonus you had just earned?"

"Let's skip the age and creepiness jokes and get right to the point where you tell me you're absolutely sure we just found Spencer and O'Hara."

"Positive. But if you want to be sure, why don't you roust the owner out of bed and fax him their pictures?"

"We'll have Riley do that while we're on the way. Let's get moving." Lassiter took his jacket from the back of the chair.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a cabin a little more than 30 miles north of Ojai just off the SR-33."

"You think they ever made it there?"

"The best we can do is follow their footsteps."

"Are we taking backup?"

"You bet."