Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No copyright infringement of publicly recognizable characters, products or services is intended.

A/N: It has been a while...

Chapter 4 Rendezvous

Annie was wrong about Old Sonora. Sure, not many of the buildings remained and what used to be the old jailhouse was now a row of port-o-johns for the mining contractors. The typical quiet was disturbed by the distant sounds of machinery and what would have been the jubilation of awestruck tourists was now replaced by the occasional expletive or apish grunt of day laborers. But it wasn't enough to deter him. This was still his home.

Lassiter closed his eyes as a gentle wind kicked up the dirt beneath his feet. He listened to its sound as it whipped and spun about him like children playing poolside on a hot summer's day. It tugged at his tie and mussed his hair and he couldn't help but smile in spite of it. Just minutes in the open air and he must have already looked as if he had been playing outdoors.

"Nature's gonna have its way," he had heard Hank once say. "I reckon that's why the city folk don't take too well out these parts."

He chuckled to himself as he brought a hand to straighten his wayward tie and tame his hair. There were no illusions about Old Sonora. You were never expected to be any more than what nature had intended. Dirty hands, mussed hair, un-tucked shirt; it didn't matter. If it didn't hurt you or make you sick then there was no harm in it.

Lassiter had to admit that Hank's prairie-land philosophy was the toughest to break when a Sonora weekend was over. Monday morning meant back to the real world. Back to his parents and their fighting. Back to the school nuns and their relentless insistence that cleanliness was next to Godliness. They would turn a nose at his smudged face and windblown hair and always ask him why he never took enough time to wash the dirt from under his fingernails. It was as if they never considered that this vast stretch of cattle land could be dear to God too.

Dearer, even.

It was his heaven, his haven and every inch of it reminded him of that. There wasn't a tree that he hadn't climbed, a path that he hadn't explored or a bug that he hadn't caught. He could smell his childhood in the wind; more than a dozen summers of horsehair, firewood, baked beans and mosquito repellant. He breathed it all in, his nose tickling with the smell of the old wood from Hank's fence standing off in the distance. The weatherworn, dilapidated frame leaned tiredly against the horizon, fighting in vain to remain upright against the forces of gravity and neglect. Years ago, it was his shooting range; perfectly balancing glass-bottle targets in the summer sun and never once complaining about all the times that he missed. Before that, it had served as his trusty steed when the art of riding stable horses was still un-mastered. Together they raced Hank through town, chased away bandits and subdued the infamous Tyler brothers on three separate occasions. Now, it was hardly more than old, rotting wood but Lassiter couldn't resist the temptation to nod his head slightly, as if saying hello to a long-lost friend.

He smiled at his childish naivety as his eyes combed the horizon for more memories yet uncovered. The earth beckoned to him. He sank to one knee and let a hand rub across its dusty surface, petting it as tenderly as a house cat. His fingers, longing for an embrace, gathered a mound of dust and slowly let it slip into the wind. He watched each spec escape from his hand and thought of a hundred trail rides, a thousand campfires and countless starry nights. He could smell the musk of flaming bark, could feel the sting of smoke in his eyes and could hear the faint tones of Hank's fireside harmonica.

Hank was alive in this place. Lassiter felt that if he stayed in his memories long enough nothing else in his life would have to be real. He wouldn't have to attend a funeral. He wouldn't have to stand behind an oversized casket. He wouldn't have to speak to a faceless crowd. He wouldn't have to bear anymore of Annie's tears and could pretend that the empty whispers in his head were just the shadows of a forgotten dream.

But reality always had another plan. He hated to admit—and certainly would never do so publicly—that Spencer was right. The important thing was not the past; it was only about the present—or, more precisely, the future. In less than an hour, he would be delivering Hank's eulogy to an audience of loyal patrons; people who, just like him, had made lifelong memories in this old western world.

To her credit, Annie had organized things beautifully. She had invited Tripsy and some of the other members from the old gang to share in one final revival of the old western town. She had notices published arranging for a day of activities meant to commemorate the life and legacy of Hank Mendel's almost 50-year dream. And much to Lassiter's delight, people came. Dozens of families made the trek to say one final goodbye to the cherished childhood institution and the visionary founder who made it all possible. They were dressed in their boots and spurs, had donned cowboy hats and holstered popguns. Their cameras were ever at the ready and their nostalgic faces were beaming with delight. The spirit of the west lived on in their expectations and the mood made the reason for their gathering even more surreal.

Lassiter watched the last of the dirt slip from his hand then rubbed the dust clean between two palms. He heard footsteps quietly approach from behind him and sensed a familiar presence. "Thanks for coming, O'Hara," he said, standing slowly and turning to face his partner.

Juliet looked more than a bit surprised. She had stopped just short of him, her hands clasped lightly in front of her, her eyes holding the last of what looked like more than a few tears. "How did you know it was me?"

Lassiter couldn't help the smile that formed across his lips. "Smelled your perfume," he said lightly. "You'd be surprised how much you can hone your senses out here." His gaze slipped past her to the small crowd gathering outside of the chapel. Everyone was well dressed and mingling nervously. Amongst the group, a single man caught his attention. The man was milling about, at the edge of the crowd, with his hands in his pockets and staring idly at the ground.

A sudden queasiness panged his stomach and must have registered on his face because O'Hara wrapped a hand around his arm and squeezed gently.

"Are you okay," she asked.

Lassiter allowed his attention to return to her. He managed a nod then drew a breath, placing a reassuring hand against hers. "Did you know that Hank taught me how to hunt," he offered. He ushered O'Hara towards the chapel as he told her the stories of his earliest hunting experiences with Hank. How much time they would spend tracking and how much care they took when it was time for the kill. He revealed how unsure he was a marksman in those days and how Hank had been the one to teach him everything about his weapon.

"Hunting is a patience game," he would say. "Don't shoot with your hand, shoot with your head. Always use your head."

The wind blew against them as they approached the steps of the chapel and Lassiter struggled to squint past the stirring sand and into what remained of the dispersing crowd. Almost everyone had made their way into the building but still he searched the stragglers for recognizable faces; his neck craning to the left and right.

"What is it," O'Hara asked, ever observant of his mood.

"Nothing," Lassiter allowed, his eyes still sweeping the horizon. "I just thought I saw someone earlier." He placed a hand on her arm as he helped her up the chapel stairs.

Once inside, they were greeted by the scene of dozens of people finishing their quiet "hellos" and telling wild stories about their time at Old Sonora. In the midst of the crowd were two familiar faces; ones that Lassiter had hoped against hope to not have to see, especially today of all days.

"Spencer," he said in a low rumble, trying to breathe through the new tension that had amassed in his shoulders. "What are you and Guster doing here?"

"We've, uh," the pseudo detective kicked at the floorboards with a pair of worn sneakers and cleared his throat. "Lassie, we've come to offer our convalescence. We're very sorry for your loss." He looked genuinely at the detective, missing Gus' frown.

"The word is condolences, Shawn," Gus offered.

The other man shrugged, turning to his friend. "I've heard it both ways."

"No you haven't. You definitely haven't—"

"Man," Shawn cut in, some agitation rising into his voice. "Can't you see that Lassie is in mourning—And noon and night—All at the same time? The guy's going through stuff, man." He turned towards Lassiter and punched him lightly on the arm. "Lassie, we just want you to know that we're here for you. I mean, Gus wasn't a huge fan of this place after he broke his man parts falling down that hole—"

"Coccyx, Shawn. I bruised my coccyx."

"Gus, there are children present."

"That's what it's called!"

Shawn shook his head. "He still can't let that go. So you can imagine why he swelled up like a blowfish when I told him the news."

Gus nodded in agreement as his eyes dropped to the floor.

"He brought a whole box of tissues because he cries like a little girl," Shawn continued.

Gus' eyes shot up quickly. "That's not true," he offered, pointedly.

"Pictures of puppies make him curl up in the fetal position and sob until he's practically dehydrated."

"And that's completely unfounded."

"Tears just flow like the waters of Mount Saint Helens," Shawn concluded.

"You mean Niagara Falls," Gus scolded.

Shawn snickered. "Please, Gus. That's a volcano."

Gus sucked his teeth and turned his full attention to Lassiter. "Look Lassiter, all I want to say is, I feel your pain. I had a really hard time dealing with Shabby's death so take my advice. If you find yourself getting choked up or start feeling completely overcome with emotion, just remember to breathe and think of the good times."

Lassiter's eyes narrowed. "Did you just compare Hank to a seal?"

Gus looked flush. "What? No!"

Shawn hid his mouth behind an out-turned palm. "I think indirectly you did," he half-whispered.

Gus held out two calming hands. "No, I was simply making a correlation in order to underscore the fact that you have to celebrate the good times."

Lassiter shook his head. "Guster, what good times could you possibly have had with a seal?"

"Sea lion," Gus corrected.

"Whatever," Lassiter sang, closing his eyes and wishing some stroke of fate would make the two menaces disappear. "Look fellas," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Thanks for coming. Now go away."

"What? Before we hold hands and sing Amazing Grace," Shawn argued.

"Especially before then." Lassiter clenched two strong hands on their shoulders and ushered them towards the door. He would have walked them through it and to their car had another figure not caught his attention.

Michael Lassiter stood flush against the chapel wall. His dark cloths had almost allowed him to blend in completely with the dimly lit room. A pair of cold blue eyes stared silently in his direction and Lassiter felt a new tension begin to grip him.

"Booker," Michael said in a deep rumbling voice that chilled the blood in Lassiter's veins.

"Booker," Shawn asked, turning slightly in Lassiter's grasp. "I thought it was Binky."

There was a retort for the menace. It was something to the tune of "Shut your pie-hole, Spencer" but Lassiter couldn't bring himself to say it. Instead, he felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach and his throat begin to swell with a dull ache. He could only stare at the man opposite him, quietly shaving the years away with his mind's eye until he was left with nothing but the resolute conclusion that the man before him was indeed his father.

They were nearly the same height now but somehow Michael still seemed taller. His shoulders were broad and his chest wide; the product, no doubt, of decades of manual labor. His face now hid behind a full beard, speckled with shades of grey. It perfectly matched his full head of equally gray but very long, wavy hair which hung in loose curls just above his shoulders.

Lassiter had always been told that he had his father's eyes. Of course, he never really noticed it as a child because he never had the courage to look his father in the eye. But now, face-to-face, he saw a mirror of himself staring back at him. His father's glint held the familiar scowl that Lassiter had been known to use at any convenience; scaring convicts, officers, children...

God, did he get that from him?

Lassiter didn't care too much for the older version of himself. Michael looked bitter and spiteful. There was not an ounce of warmth in his eyes, even after not having seen him in over twenty years. The deep cool blue of Michael's gaze was capable of saying so much but instead they said nothing at all. They just gazed at Carlton until the younger man dropped his hands and his eyes to the floor.

It felt childish. It felt strange. It felt wrong and yet exactly right. Of course Michael would be here to ruin this moment. He was the bookend to every Sonora memory; the drunken car rides, the loud fights with his mother, the beatings. He was everything that Hank wasn't. So why not close the last chapter of Hank's life the way that every other memory ended? Cue Michael Lassiter, the vile bookend to everything pleasant in life.

Michael slowly closed the distance between them, his ominous figure growing to eclipse what little amount of light that the two men shared.

Lassiter stepped backwards unawares, not truly realizing that he had given up ground until he brushed into Shawn and Gus who had repositioned themselves strategically behind him. Still staring at the floor, Carlton watched his father's shoes come into view. The steel-toe boot was two sizes bigger than he remembered. They were worn and tattered, probably the same pair that he had been wearing for the past thirty years.

A meaty hand grabbed his shoulder and he watched it peripherally, wondering what it would do next.

"I couldn't turn down the invitation," Michael said in a voice that was meant to be a whisper but still rumbled just the same.

Lassiter slowly brought his eyes up from the floor. "What…invitation," he stuttered in a voice so soft, he wasn't sure if it was truly him who said it.

Michael looked beyond him, towards the front of the room.

Lassiter turned to see Annie, seated in the pew just in front of Hank's white casket. She was dabbing the corners of her eyes with a lace handkerchief and nodding along with another woman standing just above her.

Lassiter felt a sting in his throat and hot breath fill his nostrils.

Annie? What had that meddling woman done now?

The day was becoming increasingly overrun with impassible obstacles. First Spencer and Guster. Now this.

Why did Annie invite him? How did she even find him?

This ruined everything. He would ruin everything.

Lassiter shook his head then looked bitterly at the hand resting on his shoulder until it slid slowly back to Michael's side.

"You probably have a lot to say," Michael led.

Lassiter's eyebrows knitted together. What could he possibly have to say to the man? He had lived his entire life without him. He had practically raised his younger sister and fully supported his abandoned mother. What possible thing could Michael contribute to his life now; a listening ear? What for? It was too late for that.

He breathed a stern breath. No. There was nothing to say.

"I know it's long overdue but," there was a faint spark in Michael's eyes as he paused to take a deep breath of his own, the air whistling through his nostrils. "It's good to see you, son."

The gasp that rose from Spencer and Guster caused Lassiter to blush.

Great, now everyone knew.

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Better find your seat," he mumbled trying not to sound as angry as he felt. "I've got to go do the," he paused, wishing bitterly that it was Michael that he was about to eulogize. "The thing," he allowed. He spun on his heels, brushed past the Psych duo and found his place at the podium.

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A/N: That's all for now. Feel free to send along your feedback and, as always, thanks for reading.