4

Shawn woke with a pounding headache.

With a groan, he tried to bring his hands to his head to cradle it, but found that he was stuck. After a moment he became more alert, and he realized that his hands were bound behind him—cuffed, actually. Something was wrapped around his neck, too, but he couldn't yet figure out what.

Hearing nothing, Shawn deduced that he was alone, wherever he was. It smelled disgusting, like urine and manure and wet dog. He wondered if he was in a barn, but he didn't find that quite right.

The pseudo-psychic finally forced his eyes open, his headache receding slightly.

He was obviously in a basement, lying on his side facing the stairs. The door was shut at the landing, and he was sure it would be locked. Shawn slowly sat up, taking inventory. The room wasn't large, but not small, either. The walls were cement, as was the floor. He shivered as his bare feet touched them. He saw his shoes at the foot of the stairs, too far for him to reach.

A workbench was situated against the far wall, but it and the few tools that lay on it were covered with dust and cobwebs. Unused. Shawn swiveled his head, wincing as his neck was pinched. The chains clinked as he moved, but he did his best to ignore that in favor of noticing the camera mounted in the top corner of the room.

He quickly pieced the evidence together.

Wherever he was, he was sure he was with the killer. Thinking back to the first two victims, Shawn realized that he shared a few similarities with them: he was a white male in his thirties with dark hair, and he lived alone. A profile.

He could deal with that.

But perhaps what made his heart beat so ferociously in his chest was the fact if he was with the killer as he suspected, then he knew what was going to happen to him. The chain around his neck, almost too tight, was probably enough evidence to conclude that he was going to be beaten and—well, not thinking about it made it less real.

Shawn didn't have much time to dwell on it.

The door opened, letting in a bright shaft of light that revealed to Shawn the dark stains on the floor. It was surreal, like one of those horror movies that he and Gus once watched and couldn't sleep for weeks afterward.

The psychic tore his eyes away from the bloodstains and examined his captor. He was slightly surprised to see it was a woman.

She had a friendly smile despite the circumstances, and her bright red hair—dyed—had been neatly combed and pinned. She wore lavender scrubs (which frankly, Shawn thought, clashed with her hair), and white nurse shoes. Her eyes were shadowed.

"Hello," Shawn said.

"Oh, hello," she answered in a high voice. He immediately decided that that was her real voice, and that it was annoying. "I hope I didn't hurt you."

"Nah," Shawn grinned. "But these handcuffs are a little tight. Think you can loosen them?"

She shook her head, sitting cross-legged in front of him. "Sorry."

"Okay. I'm Shawn Spencer, psychic detective."

"Oh, I know who you are," she laughed. "I've known who you are for a long, long time. You're very beautiful, you know that?"

Shawn nodded, though he felt very uneasy. "Well, you must know all about me, then. But I know nothing about you!"

The woman cocked her head. "But you're psychic."

"Hm, yes," Shawn concurred. "But sometimes the spirits aren't in a very giving mood. All they're really giving me is…" He raked his eyes over her, and spotted precisely what he was looking for. "Is that you're married to a left-handed police officer."

She gasped with delight. "Oh, good! I am. He'll be home soon." The nurse leaned forward, eyes glittering. If Shawn had met her under any other circumstance, even he wouldn't have figured she could be capable of kidnapping three men and holding them in her basement. "I can't wait for him to get here! I've wanted to meet you for so long!"

"You always could have just dropped by the office," Shawn said. "We don't make it a practice to turn fans away."

The nurse nodded thoughtfully, but then jumped as though she had been shocked. "Oh! I'm sorry, I'm being such a bad hostess, aren't I? You must be hungry."

Before Shawn could say anything, she had practically flown up the stairs, leaving the door open in her wake. The young Spencer took the moment to check the strength of the handcuffs, not really expecting to be able to free himself. He had to try. Of course, the cuffs didn't budge, and he glanced up as his captor reappeared.

She was carrying two bowls in her hands, and carefully descended the stairs so as not to spill anything. The nurse placed the bowls down beside him.

Shawn arched his brows as he realized that they were dog bowls, filled respectively with water and with dry dog food. He raised his eyes to the nurse, who was watching him expectantly. "Thank you," he said slowly, cautiously. "But I'm…not hungry."

"Well, why didn't you say so?" she said good-naturedly, stooping to pick them up again. "We'll save it for later, then. Oh, I have to go for a while. I've got to pay some bills. But my husband will be home later, and then we'll all get started, okay?"

"Okay," Shawn agreed reluctantly.

The woman turned pertly and left with his meal. This time she shut the basement door and locked it behind her.

Shawn let out a slow breath.

He had no way of knowing where he was, unless the police officer was someone he knew, and consequently one who lived at an address Shawn knew. He wasn't entirely sure how much time had passed: it could have been a couple of hours, judging by the light visible from the high basement window, or it could have been the next day. Either way, it was all too likely that no one knew he was missing.

Shawn could only hope that one of his captors would slip up. Either they would leave behind some incriminating evidence that the police would discover, resulting in a search of their house, thus finding Shawn, or they would unlock Shawn's cuffs and leave him to his own devices. He was fairly certain that he could get out of the situation if he only had the use of his hands, even if it was to just send a message out.

All he could do was wait.