Chapter 7

"Henry, we have to carry through with this investigation. I'm sorry that it's difficult, but I know you understand," said Chief Vick.

"Yes, of course I do. But I'm sure you understand that I'm going to be looking into this as well and helping Shawn in any way that I can," said Henry. He sat back in his chair and chewed briefly on a nail as his knee bounced.

She nodded. "Of course."

"Can I post bail today?" asked Henry. He glanced over at Gus who had been sitting next to him silent as a mouse the whole time they'd been in the chief's office.

"It's early. He can probably get into court this afternoon. So there's a good chance, yes."

"Great. Can I talk to him now?"

"Sure, you can take a few minutes, but save the interrogations for later, please. Just let him know what's happening," said the chief.

Henry snorted and stood up. "Right. Thanks, Karen. Come on, Gus."

Gus followed Henry out of the chief's office like a lost puppy. Henry stalked down the steps and asked about Shawn but was told they'd have to wait a few more minutes while he was finished being booked before they could speak with him. He turned to Gus and narrowed his eyes.

"Okay, Gus. Spill," said Henry.

Gus blinked. "What?"

"What did you two not tell me?"

"Nothing!" said Gus, glancing around to be sure no one else was in hearing distance.

Henry almost felt like shouting to the whole station that his son and his son's childhood friend were frauds, just to finally be finished with all of the skulking around. He was fed up with it, especially when it contributed to his son getting police officers injured and getting himself arrested.

"Did he break into that guy's house?"

"No, sir," insisted Gus, face setting into defiance. "His phone went missing two nights ago. It must've been stolen. We just, you know, thought he misplaced it." Gus grimaced and shook his head. "He's being set up, Mr. Spencer. Whoever set that explosive is probably doing this too."

Henry squinted and regarded Gus for a few moments, but as the younger man squirmed under his gaze his thoughts were actually on the events of the past day. He realized that Gus was right. Someone had set them up. But why?

"Please, Mr. Spencer, you have to believe us," pleaded Gus.

"I do, Gus. I do. I think you're right. Someone set you two up, and Lassiter and O'Hara, also, either directly or indirectly. Unfortunately, Shawn was too wrapped up in his search for glory to see it, am I right?"

Gus's eyes flashed with anger. "That's a little harsh."

"He knew that envelope and the call were suspicious, didn't he?"

Gus pursed his lips and nodded reluctantly.

"And he didn't tell the police about it. He just had one of his 'visions' and sent them into the trap."

"But..."

"Yes, he didn't know it was a trap, yadda yadda. BUT, that's because he wasn't using his head, Gus," growled Henry. Then he sighed at Gus's hurt expression and wiped a hand across his face. "Alright. We'll figure this out. We'll get him out of here. If he didn't break into that house, there won't be any other evidence than his phone, so he probably won't have to face charges beyond possession of stolen property. And in the meantime, we can all put our heads together and try to figure out who's doing this. Maybe we can catch the bastard and Shawn will be off the hook for good."

Gus sighed and nodded. "Okay. Thanks, Mr. Spencer."

"Don't thank me yet," grumbled Henry.

After ten minutes, they were told they could speak with Shawn on his way to the holding cells. The conversation turned out to be short and uncomfortable as they stood in the middle of the booking area. Shawn was in no mood for a lengthy discussion and Henry was finding it harder not to lay into his son than he'd expected. The stress of the events since the explosion, and mostly because of the explosion, still had him on edge. He couldn't shake the idea that Shawn and Gus had been the real targets of the attack and the detectives had just been unlucky. Or, at the very least, all four of them had been the targets. In any case, his son was being stalked by a person or persons willing to kill. And when he got himself into those situations, Henry's first reaction was always anger. Anger at his son's recklessness and anger at his own failure to train him better. Following on anger was the feeling of desperation. He was driven to jump in and make everything right again, and when that proved difficult, he was frustrated. Anger, desperation, frustration...the emotions of life with his son. Sometimes he wondered how other men managed, because he sure didn't feel like he'd gotten this fatherhood thing right much of the time.

"Just, go eat some lunch or something," Shawn said dismissively. His eyes had been wandering around the room through their entire discussion as if he was avoiding his father's intent gaze. "I'm sure Gus has some 'real' work to do, too."

Gus grimaced and Henry rolled his eyes. "Fine. We'll check in to find out when your court time is," said Henry, then he licked his lips and lowered his voice. "Tonight we'll talk about this. We'll figure it out."

Shawn drew in a deep breath and nodded. His eyes narrowed but seemed to be focused on something over Henry's shoulder. "Sure, dad. We'll do that."

"Shawn..."

"It's okay. I can handle this," said Shawn finally looking Henry in the eye. His expression was tinged with sadness and what Henry thought might be embarrassment. "I'll see you later."

"Hang in there, Shawn. Once you're out, we're going to rock this. You know it," said Gus with a look of determination as he held out his fist.

"You know that's right," Shawn quipped half-heartedly, bumping fists with his friend.

Henry could feel his son's discomfort and desire to escape, but he grabbed him and pulled him in for a quick hug anyway. Sometimes they both needed to fight through the forces within their personalities that pushed them away from each other. It was necessary, and it was worth it.

Shawn nodded at Henry as they pulled apart. "Thanks, dad," he said warmly. He gave them a small wave as he was led into the holding cells.

OoOoOoO

Shawn paced his cell. Four steps width, five length. The drunk guy next door kept flashing him dirty looks over his shoulder as he tried to sleep it off on the squeaky cot. Shawn paced and thought, his mind filled with images that weren't the crappy amenities of the fine Santa Barbara jail cell. Juliet lying on the ground, the envelope flopping onto his foot, the dart board on the wall of the Psych office that he'd been staring at when he'd been talking to the mysterious caller. He was thinking of calling the guy Bullseye. Or maybe just Bull, because the whole situation was turning into a giant load of...he sighed and shook himself as he paced. The drunk next door grumbled. He saw the smudge outside of the office again. Printer ink. And he thought back to the previous night.

After Gus had left him, he'd taken his bike to Hammond's neighborhood. It was late and quiet. He'd felt like a burglar as he'd stalked around Hammond's house, hoping that a neighbor wouldn't happen to look out and see him. At the time, he'd thought about how bad it would be to get arrested for burglary of the suspect's home when he was supposed to have been investigating him through psychic means. A thin, mirthless laugh escaped him as his chest tightened from frustration.

"Hey, buddy, stop makin' s'much noise already," groused the drunk.

"Stick your fingers in your ears," suggested Shawn rudely.

"Ahhh, phooey," said the drunk as he rolled over and stuck his fingers in his ears.

Shawn paced. He ran through all of the images of the previous night. He'd found footprints in the dirt near one of Hammond's windows. He'd risked his penlight and had found the same dark substance in the footprint as he'd found outside of the office. After another quick circuit of the house he'd gone back to the Psych office to examine the sidewalk smudge, but it had been mostly worn away by that point. Then he'd gone into the office to do more research, but he'd ended up falling asleep at his desk until the tall, blond Officer Baker had come along to ruin the day.

He sighed and put his hands on his head, trying to re-focus his thoughts. So whoever had robbed Hammond's house had then gone to Psych and dropped off the loot. A slick set-up. The same guy most likely lifted his phone at dinner and planted it in the house, also. So, a professional job, but who had hired the guy? Someone was behind the whole operation. Who? One of Hammond's enemies? He still felt like the guy was too small-time to have enemies like this. Who else would have something to gain, though? He paced. He let his mind wander. His mind went back to the discussion with his father in the booking area, for some reason. Stupid mind, he thought. He disappointed his dad enough without being framed for burglary so effectively. Henry said he believed his story. He probably did. Still, it was him, in the jail under arrest, with his dad watching. Never a good time.

He sighed and let his mind flood with random images. The talk with his dad stayed in the forefront. He'd been looking around the room, avoiding his dad's eyes. He'd seen Baker waiting impatiently and had been able to maintain the slight bit of amusement about the tall blond California police officer having the same name as the character from CHiPs. He'd seen the chief at the top of the steps leading Hammond from her office to a detective's desk, supposedly to take his statement. At one point, during the hug with his dad he realized, he'd noticed a bug-eyed old man shuffling to the bathroom with his walker. There was a little oxygen tank on a strap slung over his shoulder with its clear tube snaking up to his nose. He remembered it clearly because the man had shot them a curiously venomous look.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he kept pacing, sorting through all of the images he'd soaked up during that short discussion with his father. Something was niggling at the back of his mind and he was determined to figure it out. He remembered that he had even scanned the floor in his most desperate moments. The floor, with a detritus of dust bunnies and coffee-drip stains and footprints and gum wrappers and...a particularly dark footprint. Actually, a whole set of them. He stopped pacing. Near the records room, he'd noticed a darker, smudgy spot on the floor, like someone had spilled toner and had tried to clean it up hastily. The spot had foot-shaped marks next to it. The foot had apparently stepped in the spilled printer toner and had walked out the back door of the station. The same guy had been in the station. In the records room. But what records had he been searching in the police station of all places? And why?

"Holy crap," he hissed. The drunk guy had apparently fallen asleep finally as no protests erupted from his cell.

Was this an inside job? He shook his head, wondering how many bad cops there could be in the moderately-sized department. An infiltrator? What the hell was going on? He rubbed his face as he sank onto the cot and wished he could just be the drunk guy sleeping it off.

OoOoOoO

Morton shuffled up to the bench, letting the walker bang into the wooden seat. Bob looked up and tensed, sensing the old man's sudden mood change. Actually, he'd been feeling an undercurrent of tension all morning. Since he'd picked up his friend, he'd noticed an agitation that Morton hadn't been able to totally hide. They'd been enjoying themselves, watching the scene at the station and the cops running around in confusion. Still, Morton had been edgy. And now, whatever had been causing that edginess had apparently come to the fore.

"You okay?" asked Bob.

Morton scowled and shook his head. Something had spoiled the old man's fun, but they couldn't discuss it out loud. Bob felt a sinking feeling of regret at the change. He'd been having fun as well. They'd been snickering at the skinny detective who looked like something the cat had dragged into the station. And then when his lady Chief had gotten on his case, they'd almost had to leave for their stifled laughing. Bob had to hand it to the guy, though. He'd shown up for work the day after being blown up, apparently still wearing the same clothes. He'd probably come in straight from the hospital. It showed gumption, but plenty of cops had gumption. It didn't make it good gumption. They'd gotten a kick out of how frustrated and confused the skinny detective and all of the other officers looked. They had no clue who'd gotten to them, and it was beautiful. But now, the bubble had burst for some reason. Morton was glaring and fidgeting impatiently.

"You ready to leave then?" asked Bob as he started to stand up.

Voices sounded behind them and Morton maneuvered himself around to sit again. Bob settled back in his seat, curious about what was happening. The two men they'd seen earlier walked up to the reception desk nearby, talking intently. It was the older man and the black guy who was the partner of the psychic. He'd gotten the sense that the older guy might be the psychic's father. Morton glared at their backs as they spoke to the receptionist and then continued their own whispered conversation. Bob looked back and forth from them to his friend and had the sudden feeling that their operation wasn't quite over yet. The older guy spoke for a few moments with the officer behind the desk, and the black kid turned and cast an eye their direction. Bob donned his most senile look and gazed around the room vaguely. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Morton was just poking at his oxygen tank, keeping his eyes down. Finally the two men left and Bob looked a question at Morton who just jerked his head towards the door. They stood up to leave.

"Did you gentlemen still want to speak to someone about your complaint?" asked the officer behind the reception desk.

"No, thank you," said Bob. "We need to get back now. If those kids come by again, we'll call."

"Okay, then. Have a nice day."

Bob followed the old man who was already out the doors. After they climbed into the big sedan, Bob turned to Morton. "Something's up," he said simply.

Morton grimaced and said, "Just take me home."

"Everything's still going as planned," said Bob, wondering if Morton was just worrying about details of the operation. "I sent that girl the message. We're on track."

Morton shrugged and picked at a piece of lint on his shirt. "Fine. That's fine. This is just...I want to call Sinclair in again."

"Why?"

The old man scowled more deeply. "Hard to explain, Bob. I just saw that idiot psychic kid and his father talking and it got me worked up. You know what I was talking about the other day...fathers and sons," he said, then trailed off, frowning out the window as Bob pulled the car out of the parking lot. After a few more moments of silence the old man said the words Bob had been fearing. "I talked to Maxwell last night."

Bob took a deep breath and sighed. Morton and his son Maxwell had always had a tortured relationship. Maxwell had been his mother's shining star, and Bob knew that Morton had always resented their closeness. It was a special thing for a man to have a son, and when the son was closer to the mother instead it could provide a special sort of pain for the father. At least, that was always the case for his friend. He'd been hard on his son, training him and trying to make him tough, but Maxwell had never lived up to Morton's high standards. Bob wondered what his friend had seen between the psychic and his father. Whatever it had been had thrown salt on an old wound. And if Morton had spoken with Maxwell, and it had gone as Bob suspected, the wound though old had already been reopened, making it all the more painful.

Morton wasn't one to take pain kindly, no matter how inadvertently it was caused by this psychic kid and his father. If he was determined to call in Sinclair once more, it meant that Morton wasn't satisfied with just messing with the kid's business and discrediting him in order to torpedo the case against Maxwell. It meant that the kid was well and truly in for it now. The crosshairs of Morton's anger with his own son had come to settle on this Spencer kid and most likely anyone near him.

"So it's 'cry havoc' then?" asked Bob, mind racing to come up with plans to shield Morton from any backfires.

The old man nodded and turned his stone-cold gaze to Bob. "'Let slip the dogs of war,'" he said, finishing the quote and loosing any reins they'd had on the operation.

OoOoOoO

Lassiter heard voices and opened his eyes, realizing much too slowly that he'd fallen asleep in the chair. He blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs in his brain. He saw one nurse just leaving the room and another one still hovering over his partner.

"I'm sorry, detective," said the nurse standing next to Juliet's bed. "We didn't mean to wake you."

"I didn't mean to sleep," he mumbled as he sat up and grimaced at his numerous aches and pains.

"Looks like you need it," she said over her shoulder as she checked over Juliet and marked off items on her clipboard.

Lassiter frowned, knowing he couldn't really argue with her on that point. "How is she?"

"I'm sorry, there's no change. It takes time," she said with a sympathetic look as she turned to leave the room.

Lassiter let his head fall back again and gazed at Juliet's still form, hating the breathing apparatus and all of the other tubes sticking out of her. He'd been sitting with her since getting his official release. Earlier, he'd been able to convince Buzz to swing by his place after they'd left the station so he could grab a quick shower and a change of clothes. Then he'd gotten checked by his doctor at the hospital. The doctor had cleared him for release with the stipulation that he went home and rested for at least a day, preferably two. He had, of course, promptly ignored that stipulation. Instead, he'd forced himself to eat a sandwich in the cafeteria, because he knew he needed food even though he had no appetite, and then he'd settled himself, finally, into Juliet's room.

After speaking about mundane things for a few minutes in an attempt to do something even remotely useful for her, he'd given up and flopped into the sleeper-chair near the windows and had apparently fallen asleep. He checked his watch and saw that it was already the dinner hour, even later than he'd realized. He'd slept over four hours. He sighed and rubbed absently at his right ear. He took a deep breath and felt his eyes becoming heavy again when the sound of voices flared up from the other side of the door. He sat up and turned his left ear to the sounds with the sinking feeling that he recognized at least one of the voices. Then the door opened again.

The nurse he'd spoken with walked in and said quietly, "Detective, there are some men outside who want to see you. I can't allow them all in here."

He sighed again and stood up. "Okay. Thank you," he said as he walked out of the room to find his worst nightmare waiting for him. Both Spencers and Guster. He hoped that maybe he'd fallen asleep after all and was just dreaming.

"Lassie," said Shawn. "You still look like crap."

"Aren't you supposed to be in jail?"

Shawn shrugged and crossed his arms, one finger pointing at Gus on his left side and the other pointing at Henry on his right side. "Blame them."

"Gladly," said Lassiter, scowling at all three of them as he felt the perpetual headache he'd been suffering since the explosion threatening to become worse.

"Will you two shut the hell up?" hissed Henry. "We've got more important things to talk about here."

"Gentlemen, you need to move this conversation elsewhere," said the nurse sternly as she came to stand beside Lassiter.

"Sorry, ma'am," said Gus.

"I want to see Juliet," said Shawn quietly.

Lassiter realized he was standing in front of the door as if guarding it. He gave the nurse a slight nod and took a step away.

"Just two minutes," she told Shawn.

After Shawn had entered the room, Lassiter jerked his head to the side indicating Henry and Gus to follow. They moved down the hallway away from any room doors.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Henry crossed his arms and glanced around before looking at Lassiter. "There's something big going on here. We need to put our heads together to figure it out. All of us," he said with a note of warning in his voice.

Lassiter's hackles raised at the idea that Henry was trying to tell him what to do, but he took a deep breath and considered his words before replying. The man irritated him much the same way his son did, but Lassiter had actual respect for him, too, because of his service and his skills. He'd never been able to figure out the crazy relationship Henry had with his son, but then he'd never felt that he could really judge it either, considering his own screwed-up paternal dynamic. In any case, he realized that Henry was right. The explosion and Shawn's arrest...the situation wasn't like their usual investigations where he could afford to get into sniping contests with Shawn. This was a whole different animal, and it was apparently stalking them all.

"Okay," he said nodding. "I agree."

"We should go to my place," said Henry. "We can talk it all out, no interruptions. I can give you a ride Lassiter. You don't have a car here, right?"

Lassiter grimaced and just nodded again. He wasn't doing any good sitting in Juliet's room, as much as he wanted to continue doing so. He couldn't really go back to the station again. The chief would have his head if he showed up, and he hadn't been able to dig anything out of the files and mug shots like he'd hoped. And, as much as it pained him to admit it, Henry and Shawn had a knack for sniffing out details and putting together seemingly random items that sometimes broke cases wide open.

"Maybe we can pick up some food on the way," said Gus. Henry and Lassiter just looked at him. "What? I haven't had any dinner yet."

OoOoOoO

Shawn stood next to Juliet's bed and wiped a hand across his eyes, sniffing loudly. Seeing her surrounded by machines and with the breathing tubes and other paraphernalia was almost as hard as seeing her lying bloodied on the ground.

"I'm so sorry, Jules," he whispered. Then he tried to pull himself together. Blubbering at her wouldn't solve anything. He swallowed thickly. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I know you know that. You of all people." He touched a bare part of her arm lightly with his fingers. "There's someone out there who wanted to hurt us. I think he wanted to hurt all of us, at least in some way. But we're on to him now. Or we will be, once we can compare notes and hash this out. Combine all of our powers for good. That kind of thing. We're totally going to pull a Super Friends on this guy's ass. Dad's Superman. Lassie's Aquaman because he's all wet. Gus and I are Batman and Robin, of course. And we need our Wonder Woman. So you gotta get better."

He found his throat close up suddenly as his eyes stung. He just looked at her for another minute, listening to the hiss of the breathing machine and the soft beeps of the monitors.

"Stay with us, Juliet," he said softly. "God knows Lassie needs you." He paused and put his hand over his mouth, wondering briefly why it was so hard to say even now. He swallowed and lowered his hand. "And I need you."

The door opened and he flinched, then he turned to nod at the nurse peering at him. He held up a finger and turned back to Juliet.

"We have to go do battle with evil now," he said quietly, hoping the nurse wasn't listening but not really caring. "I know you don't want to miss out on all the fun, so wake up soon. Please." He brushed his fingers along her arm again quickly and then turned and left the room.