I couldn't leave you hanging for too long after the last chapter. Not that I promise a big resolve, not yet ;-) But at least another (long) chapter that lets you know how things continue.

Enjoy!

Chapter 9 – Fear

Carlton Lassiter was in a foul mood.

Coming from him, that said something. He knew that most uniformed officers thought he was in a perpetually foul mood, but that simply wasn't true. He just didn't see the need to go parading around the station with a smile plastered to his face. He was a cop. Head detective of the SBPD. He represented something, he had to be a role model to the younger officers. Smiles weren't a part of that, and if anybody was too thick to notice the subtle degrees of his mood for what they were, well – that didn't bode well for their career.

But right now, Carlton Lassiter was officially in a foul mood.

He had three unsolved murders on his plate, another victim who had probably been attacked by the same perpetrators but who had gone AWOL, and since yesterday he now also had the FBI breathing down his neck. Lassiter knew how that worked. They might send in their most nerdy agent right now, but Lassiter knew that they'd be on the case in a heartbeat as soon as they were given a reason.

And he was not going to give up this case willingly. Not to the FBI. Not if he could prevent it. But that was exactly the problem. If he wanted to stop the FBI from taking over and effectively marking the SBPD incompetent of solving the case, he needed to find a lead. Soon.

And if there was one thing they didn't have right now, it were leads. Or evidence. Well, they had plenty of evidence on the case, but none that was going to get them any further in their investigation. DNA that wasn't in the system, generic fibers, generic boot prints. Just what he needed.

And now he had spent an entire day validating alibis. And who was to blame? Shawn Spencer, of course. All it had taken was one crappy pseudo-vision and the Chief was all over it. Lassiter respected Chief Vick, he really did, but when it came to Spencer he sometimes doubted her sanity. He didn't know why she was giving the man so much leeway. And he really didn't understand how she practically jumped at every lead he was tossing their way, no matter how ridiculous it seemed.

Truth be told, all they had that connected the murder cases to the Pi Sigma Delta fraternity was the word of a psychic. An alleged psychic, since Lassiter was still waiting for some real proof of the man's abilities.

Spencer had come into the station, had butchered one of the few songs Lassiter really liked, had done some pseudo-cheerleading and suddenly everybody thought they'd find the murderers if they only investigated the fraternity close enough.

If Lassiter was ever going to become Chief, this was going to stop. The first thing he'd do would be to impose a ban on all psychics in the police station, for all times. Sometimes, when he was close to really consider shooting the man he'd imagine Spencer's face when he kicked him out of the station for good. So far, it served well to get him through those days.

But right now, he needed to check the alibis of the fraternity brothers because Spencer thought for some reason that there was a connection. He and O'Hara had split the list, but even so it had taken him the entire day to get through his half of the list. Without result. Some of the students had attended their scheduled classes on the evenings of the murders. Some hadn't. Some had solid alibis, but there were still far too many who hadn't.

Half the people on Lassiter's list didn't even have classes scheduled for the time of the murder. So they all remained on the suspect list for the time being. Probably until Spencer had another vision.

With a sigh, Lassiter sank down in his desk chair and loosened his tie. He would check for messages and reports that had come in while he had been away, and then he'd call it a night. FBI or not, he needed some sleep, and he'd better catch it while he still could. If they ever caught a break on this case, he'd quite probably be working double shifts.

There were no messages, and only a few reports by junior officers which he had to sign off before they were handed over to the Chief. It took ten minutes all in all, then Lassiter was ready to leave for the night.

And of course the phone rang just as he turned around and took a step away from his desk. His first reaction was to roll his eyes and groan, look up to the heavens and ask what bad karma he could have possibly accumulated in his previous life to have earned this, but that was not the reaction befitting a head detective. So he merely drew a deep breath and picked up the phone.

"Lassiter."

"Detective, it's Jennings from dispatch. I need you to come down here for a moment."

"I'm on my way."

Lassiter put the receiver down and started walking down the corridor. Calls from dispatch were no rarity, after all dispatch coordinated all incoming calls, and they were the ones who passed the information on to the detectives. But what was out of the ordinary was that he was called to actually come down to dispatch. Lassiter only hoped that it wasn't a big problem. Hopefully no trouble worthy of internal affairs, or yet another sexual harassment suit. Those were the downsides of being head detective – he was always the first to get to know about those kind of things.

Dispatch was located on the ground floor, in a room just off the main entrance of the building. It was manned 24/7 by officers who coordinated the incoming 911 calls and passed the information on to the patrol cars and if necessary, ambulances. When Lassiter came into the room, all of the officers on duty were busy talking into their headsets or typing. Jennings was the only one who was sitting behind his desk with his headset slung around his neck, typing away at the computer in front of him.

"Jennings, what is it?"

Lassiter stepped up to the man's desk. He kept his tone deliberately brusque, hoping Jennings would get the message and get this over and done with as quickly as possible. Jennings looked up, then typed something into his computer.

"I just got a 911 call right before I called you. I thought you would be interested."

Before Lassiter could even ask why the man thought he'd find a 911 call interesting, Jennings typed another command into his computer, clicked on a symbol with his mouse, and the recording of the call started to play over the tiny speakers of the computer.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"I need an ambulance."

Lassiter immediately recognized Spencer's voice. And the moment he heard it, he knew that something was seriously wrong. Of course, if Spencer called for an ambulance, something had to be wrong. People didn't just call for ambulances for the fun of it, not even Spencer. But it was the tone of voice that spoke volumes about the seriousness of whatever had happened.

Lassiter had seen it happen often before. He worked with people who dealt with emergencies and calls to the police every day of their lives. There came a point when 911 calls became routine. But Lassiter had seen it happen before that all this was forgotten as soon as those people found themselves in a situation when they were involved personally. It was as if the brain stopped working when it was somebody you cared about who was in need of assistance.

Spencer had called 911, he hadn't thought to call one of the many detectives on his speed dial. And there was undisguised panic in his voice. As the call played, Lassiter noticed how the psychic barely answered to Jennings' questions, but merely kept repeating that he needed an ambulance, rattling off an address that Lassiter recognized as the address of the Psych office. Jennings had tried to keep Spencer on the line, had tried to get more information out of the man, but after the first reassurance that the ambulance was on its way, the psychic had disconnected the call.

Jennings stopped the recording and looked up at Lassiter. "I sent an ambulance over immediately, as well as the nearest patrol unit. McNabb and Parker, they were closest to the scene. The ambulance checked in their arrival just before you came down here. I just thought you'd want to know."

Lassiter nodded, feeling strangely numb. "Do you have any idea what happened?"

Jennings shook his head. "No, he didn't answer my questions. He didn't even say who was hurt, just that he needed an ambulance."

But Lassiter knew. Somehow, he knew.

If they were at the office, and if Spencer was this worked up about whatever had happened, it had to be Guster. Everything else didn't make sense. He turned around to leave and spoke over his shoulder.

"Call O'Hara, tell her what happened. Have her come to whatever hospital the ambulance is going. Then call McNabb and tell him I'm on my way, and that he's to guard the scene until I arrive."

"Yes, sir."

Lassiter left the room, and as soon as the door closed behind him he started running. The ambulance was already on the scene, that meant he'd better get fast if he wanted to know what had happened. Judged by the state he had been in during the 911 call, Spencer might not be in the condition to answer any questions coherently. He barely was in what he called his normal state.

Lassiter pulled out of the parking lot with flashing lights and siren blaring. No matter that Spencer was a pain in the ass of law enforcement in this city, he was an employee of the SBPD. As head detective it was his duty to get there as quickly as possible. And it was not that difficult to piece together what had happened.

Spencer and Guster were working the case of a bunch of racists who made a habit out of beating people to death. Those guys had already broken into their office once, ransacking and spray painting it.

Guster was black.

It was really not that hard to figure out what had happened.

Nevertheless, Lassiter hoped and prayed that he was wrong.

It could be anything, actually. Maybe Spencer and Guster had had another of those ridiculous desk chair races and Guster had bumped his head. Maybe Guster had merely broken a finger during one of those thumb-wars the two occasionally held. Maybe he had slipped on a banana peel. There were so many possible explanations as to what had set Spencer off like that. It wasn't like he was the most calm and reserved person on any normal day.

But deep down Lassiter knew that the explanation wasn't that simple and harmless. After so many years as a cop he knew when to trust his gut feeling. And right now his gut told him that this was serious.

Just as he pulled into the street that would take him down to the beach promenade where the Psych office was located, an ambulance drove past him in the opposite direction, the sound of its siren clashing horribly with Lassiter's own. Lassiter put the foot down on the accelerator even harder and pulled into the parking lot beside the office.

There was another ambulance standing in front of the office, and a black and white patrol car standing beside it, both with their doors open and their lights still flashing. Already, the first crowd of onlookers was starting to build up near the street. He'd need to tell McNabb and Parker to cordon off the area before they dared to get any closer.

Lassiter got out of his car, shut the door and went into the office. He knew that the situation was probably secure, two officers were already at the scene and one ambulance had left towards the hospital without being held up. Nevertheless, his hand strayed close to his shoulder holster as he stepped into the office.

Two feet into the office, he stopped short.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his hand sank down from hovering beside his gun to hanging loosely beside his leg, but he barely noticed.

It looked as if Spencer and Guster had been trying to repaint the office when whatever had happened had happened. The whole room was covered in plastic foil, all outlets, doors and windows were taped off, and half of the obscenities and racist ramblings had vanished from the walls. But then something had gone wrong, seriously wrong by the looks of it.

One of the cans of paint had been knocked over, spreading paint all over the foil-covered floor. A myriad of footprints went to and for through the office, some of them possibly created by the perps, but most of them stemming from the paramedics who had been in here earlier.

There was an area off by one wall around which the footprints in the paint were most concentrated. That was also where most of the blood was. There weren't huge puddles of blood, no spray of blood on the walls that would suggest anybody getting shot, but there was enough blood on the floor for Lassiter to know that whatever had happened had been bad.

There was something on the ground in the middle of one of the blood stains, and curiosity got the better of Lassiter as he carefully stepped closer, always minding not to step into the paint, and bent down to have a look.

Once he recognized what it was he was looking at, he quickly straightened up and drew a couple of deep breaths to keep his meager dinner down. It was a tooth. Covered in blood as it was it had been barely recognizable from a distance, but it was a tooth. An incisor, the white enamel stained red. But what made Lassiter's stomach revolt wasn't the tooth as such, it were the bits of tissue still clinging to the root. Whatever had knocked out this tooth, there had been a lot of force behind it.

"Detective!"

Lassiter turned around and came face to face with Officer Parker, McNabb's partner on patrol. The young officer was pale, and his relief at seeing the superior officer arrive was obvious. Lassiter didn't envy the younger man for the experience. The first case where you knew the victim was always hard, and everybody at the precinct knew Spencer and Guster. Half the precinct would joint their fan club if they only had one.

"Parker, what happened?"

"We arrived here shortly after the ambulance did, sir. The perps were already gone, and the paramedics were treating Mr. Guster."

So it had been Guster who had been hurt. Not that Lassiter had needed any more confirmation, but still. Now he knew for sure.

"What happened then?"

Parker shrugged awkwardly. "The paramedics took Mr. Guster away pretty quickly. They didn't say much, but his condition seemed serious enough. Head trauma, and he had problems breathing. They've taken him to Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital."

"What about the second ambulance?"

"We called it in after we arrived. Shawn…I mean, Mr. Spencer, he's in a bad condition."

Lassiter frowned as he let his eyes roam through the office in search for the psychic. "Why, he got hurt, too?"

Parker shook his head. "No sir. He's…extremely distraught."

Lassiter finally found what he was looking for, wondering how he could have missed Spencer during his first sweep of the office. But then again he had been distracted by the blood and that tooth on the ground. Not looking away from the corner in which Spencer was cowering, Lassiter gave out his next instructions to Parker.

"Cordon off the office, there's already the first gapers outside. Then call CSU, they need to start working here as soon as the second ambulance has left."

Parker nodded and went outside, and Lassiter drew another deep breath before he started walking towards Spencer.

The psychic was crouched in a corner of the room, his back to the wall and his knees pressed against his chest. He had his arms wrapped around his head and was staring off blankly into space. To Lassiter, the younger man didn't look hurt, at least not obviously. However, it was clear that he was in shock. It had been a good idea to call the second ambulance, though the two paramedics were standing a few feet away from Spencer, looking at him without doing anything.

It seemed strange that the paramedics weren't treating Spencer, but Lassiter noticed how McNabb was crouching between them and the psychic, slightly closer to Spencer than they were but keeping his distance. The young officer was talking in low tones, a constant murmur that was indiscernible for Lassiter. And the yellow paint stains on McNabb's uniform pants were a testament to what had happened the last time he had gotten too close to the psychic.

If Spencer was so far in shock that he didn't seem to recognize people who were trying to help him, it was important to get him into hospital, as well. And judged by the nonexistent success of McNabb's soft approach, Lassiter decided that it was time to try a different tactic.

Careful of the paint stains on the floor so that he wouldn't destroy any evidence, Lassiter closed the remaining distance between himself and Spencer. McNabb looked up as he passed him.

"He's not really here, sir. He freaked out when the ambulance took Gus away, and doesn't let anybody get near him since."

Lassiter nodded. He had figured that much.

"Spencer!"

There was no perceptible reaction, but at least Spencer didn't lash out at him as he took yet another step closer.

"Damn it Spencer, snap out of it! I don't have all day, and I can't work this crime scene until you get your butt out of here!"

Slowly, Spencer blinked a few times and turned his head towards Lassiter.

"Do you hear me, Spencer?"

"Lassie?"

Spencer's voice was hoarse, and actually Lassiter didn't even want to think about how that had happened. Spencer's eyes were still glazed, but Lassiter imagined that he saw at least some clarity in them.

"Yes Spencer, it's me. And you're holding up my crime scene investigation. So how about you let those paramedics look at you now and then go to the hospital?"

Spencer shook his head and looked around the office. His breathing was coming in short, harsh gasps and he kept on biting his lip. Only when he took his arms away from their position over his head did Lassiter notice that his shirt was torn at the sleeves, and that his head was a mess. The otherwise always so carefully crafted 'I just fell out of bed that way'-hairstyle was ruined, standing up at odd angles, and strands of hair lined the collar of his plaid shirt as if somebody had ripped at them.

"Where's Gus?"

Oh, for the love of all that was good, please don't let him have an amnesiac episode. Lassiter was not going to be the one to rehash the little he knew about this attack to the man.

"He's in the hospital."

"He was hurt."

Lassiter nodded, though he doubted that Spencer could see. He never got tired of comparing Spencer and his antics to those of a small child, but this was the first time he really felt that he wouldn't get through to the man if he didn't talk to him just that way – as if he was talking to a small child. Spencer's abilities at grasping things seemed very diminished right now.

"Yes, he was. And he's in the hospital now. Which is where you're going now, as well."

Spencer nodded, but made no move to get up.

"Spencer, do you hear me?"

Again, Spencer nodded without moving. Lassiter suppressed a groan.

"All right Spencer, the paramedics are going to take you to the ambulance now. Are you hurt? Is there anything they need to watch out for?"

Spencer shook his head. "Gus was hurt."

"Yes, we know that. But are you hurt anywhere?"

Another shake of the head. "They only hit Gus. Said it was a warning."

Lassiter filed that information away for further use and with a nod gestured for the paramedics to approach. Spencer jumped slightly as one of them put a hand on his arm, but he didn't lash out. Slowly, carefully, he got to his feet and allowed one of the paramedics to lead him to the ambulance that was waiting outside. Lassiter ran a hand through his hair with a sigh and was just about to start barking out orders at McNabb to secure the scene when the other paramedic addressed him.

"Sir, if possible it might be good if you came along."

"Pardon me?"

The man shrugged. "Right now he's calm, but you didn't see him earlier. I don't want to sedate him if not absolutely necessary, not before he was checked out thoroughly. He seems to react to you, if he has another episode in the ambulance I'd be more at ease if you were there."

Lassiter sighed. "All right."

He turned towards McNabb. "You and Parker stay here and secure the scene. Parker should have radioed CSU already. Call the Chief, tell her to come here. I'll be at the hospital."

The young officer nodded. "Of course, sir."

Lassiter turned around and made his way over towards the front door of the office. On his way, he pulled out his cell phone. The hospital had probably called whoever was first on Guster's contact list already, he'd check that as soon as he got there. But for now, there was one person he needed to call himself. If only so that he wouldn't be stuck guarding Spencer for any longer than necessary. Scrolling through his address book for a moment, Lassiter found the number and dialed.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Henry had known that one day, this call would come.

He just hadn't imagined it to be quite like this.

He had just switched off the TV and gotten comfortable with the thought of going to bed now when his cell phone had started ringing. His first thought hat been that it was Shawn. The kid should be painting the office just about now, but if he was calling with a question about DIY at nearly eleven in the night, it would become a short conversation. But maybe he needed help on the case, and considering that Henry didn't want his son to work this racist case in the first place, he'd be glad about every new bit of information he could gather. Maybe that way, he could stop him from getting too involved in things that could get dangerous.

But it hadn't been Shawn on the other end. It had been Lassiter.

For a long time, Henry hadn't experienced the feeling of his stomach plummeting down into bottomless depths, but the moment the head detective had said his name, that was exactly what had happened. Lassiter didn't just call him out of the blue. And they hadn't scheduled any fishing appointments he could possibly want to cancel. So this call had to be about Shawn.

And it had been. Only, Shawn wasn't the one who had been hurt. Lassiter had been clear about that, as if he was trying to pacify Henry with the message. Shawn wasn't hurt, he was merely roughed up a bit and in shock. It was Gus who had been hurt.

And somehow, that piece of news didn't do anything to get Henry's stomach back up from its position somewhere between his knees. If Gus was hurt, then this had to do with that case of the racist murders. Henry didn't know where his conviction of that fact came from, but he trusted his gut feeling on that. And if those racists had hurt Gus, it was bad.

All thoughts about going to bed had vanished as quickly as they had come. Instead of going upstairs, Henry put on a pair of shoes and got into his truck, driving towards the hospital as fast as he could.

But despite the fact that Henry blatantly ignored the speed limit for most of his way, it still took an endless twenty minutes until he parked the truck in the hospital parking lot and got out. He didn't like to admit it, but he knew the way around the hospital and the ER like he knew his way around his own house. He had been here far too often because of Shawn, and occasionally also because of Gus.

The sliding glass doors opened in front of him and he lost no time hurrying into the hospital and towards the ER-waiting area. He directed his steps towards the nurse manning the reception desk in the ER, but then he saw Winnie and Bill sitting in two of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting area, and he changed his course and walked towards them. Both Gus' parents looked distinctly pale and queasy, and Winnie was constantly dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a bunched up tissue.

"Winnie, Bill."

Bill looked up immediately upon hearing Henry's voice. He had one arm on his wife's back the other clenched into a fist at his side.

"Henry."

"What happened?"

Bill just shook his head. "I don't know. We got a call saying that Gus has been brought here, so we came immediately. But they won't tell us anything, only that he's in surgery right now."

Winnie uttered a small, choked sob, and Bill rubbed his hand up and down her back comfortingly. Bill looked shaken up, but there was a deep-rooted anger simmering in his eyes.

"Somebody beat him up, Henry. Somebody beat my son up so badly that he's in surgery now."

Henry ran a hand over his head and sighed. So it was true. And if Gus had been beaten into hospital, it was no big leap to assume that it had been those racist idiots who were behind it. And while his heart went out to what Winnie and Bill had to be going through, right now he needed to know where Shawn was.

"I'll be back in a few moments, all right?"

Bill nodded wordlessly, and Winnie still acted as if she wasn't really aware of anybody's presence but her husband's. Henry turned around and went over towards the nurse behind the reception desk.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"I'm looking for my son. Shawn Spencer. I was told he was brought here."

The nurse nodded and checked something on her chart. "Of course. Shawn Spencer. Down the corridor and to the left."

That was all she seemed to be willing to say. The phone on her desk rang and the nurse picked it up, leaving no doubt to the fact that their conversation was over. But at least Henry had all the information he needed. There had been occasions when it had been harder for him to get through to his son in this very hospital.

He quickly hurried down the corridor the nurse had indicated and took a left turn at its end. He ended up in another corridor, and at its end he could see Lassiter standing beside a treatment area that was closed off by a curtain. The detective had been staring at the ground with his arms crossed over his chest, but as he heard steps approach he looked up.

"Where is Shawn?" Henry asked without preamble as he got within hearing range.

"He's in there." Lassiter said and gestured towards the area behind the curtain. "A doctor has been by to examine him, but they thought he shouldn't be left alone."

Henry quickly made move to pull the curtain aside. If Shawn wasn't to be left alone, that meant he had been agitated. And Henry only hoped they hadn't given him any meds to calm him down. "Did they sedate him?"

"No, I don't think so. Why, is he allergic to anything? They had a file on him that was about an inch thick, shouldn't any allergies have been in there?"

Henry shook his head, his hand on the curtain. "No allergy. But Shawn doesn't react well to being sedated. It's best to either put him under completely or not to give him anything. He can't think straight when he's on meds, and it drives him nuts."

He shook his head and pulled the curtain aside. It was not easy to explain why his son couldn't deal with his brain being fogged by meds. He simply couldn't, and that was why Shawn refused to take medication unless he was in some serious pain. Being sedated always gave him the feeling that his head was no longer functioning properly.

And all thoughts about whether or not Shawn had been sedated were gone quickly when Henry pulled aside the curtain and got a first glimpse at his son.

Shawn was sitting on the bed, hands folded loosely in his lap. His head was bent and he was staring down at his thighs as if there was something very interesting to see there. Shawn was shirtless, and as always when saw his son without a shirt, Henry's eyes immediately fell onto the large scar on Shawn's chest. Had his stomach not already done the big leap into unknown depths, Henry knew it would have done so at this very moment.

It had been nearly ten years ago, but the memories were still fresh. It was only easy to forget how Shawn had received that scar when Henry wasn't forced to see it.

And normally he didn't. Shawn was always wearing his shirts buttoned up, or he was wearing a t-shirt underneath, and Henry knew that it was partly so that the scar wouldn't show. Shawn didn't want to answer the questions that always followed when somebody saw the scar. But Henry couldn't just forget about it.

He couldn't forget about those hours spent in the very same waiting room where Winnie and Bill were sitting right now after Shawn had had that big accident with his bike. He couldn't forget about the doctor coming out after a small eternity to tell him about the injuries Shawn had sustained, about the broken ribs and chest trauma. He couldn't forget about the emergency surgery and the days Shawn spent in ICU afterwards. He could push the memories away when he was not forced to confront them, but he couldn't forget.

But today his eyes lingered on the large scar only for a moment. The deep purple bruises on Shawn's arms stood out so starkly against his pale skin that Henry's eyes were immediately drawn towards them. Shawn's upper left arm was badly bruised, the marks distinct enough for the cop in Henry to recognize them as the marks left by the fingers of somebody holding Shawn back.

His right arm looked even worse. It showed the same purplish bruises, but here the skin was also scratched in places. Orange-yellow stains on Shawn's skin showed where the cuts had been treated with disinfectant, but obviously the gashes hadn't been bad enough to require bandages.

Aside from the bruises Shawn didn't look seriously hurt. But what worried Henry most was that his son had yet to react to his presence. He hadn't as much as looked up when Henry had pulled back the curtain. Carefully, Henry stepped up to the bed.

"Shawn?"

Shawn rocked slightly back and forth, but Henry was unable to tell whether or not that was a reaction to his words. He took a couple of steps closer towards the bed so that he was standing beside Shawn. His first instinct was to put a hand on Shawn's shoulder, to touch him if only to tear him out of his silent reverie, but he suppressed that urge. He and Shawn weren't the touchy kind of guys on a good day, and he didn't know how Shawn would react to being touched right now.

"Hey kiddo. How are you feeling?"

Shawn swallowed and finally raised his head and looked up at his father. Henry was shocked when he saw the empty look in his son's otherwise so expressive eyes. But it wasn't the numb expression of somebody on sedatives. No, that hollow expression came from Shawn himself, without the aid of any medication. It took a long moment until Shawn's eyes finally focused on his father.

"Dad."

His voice was hoarse, and Henry started a little upon hearing it. Earlier, when Shawn had dropped by for lunch, his voice had been just fine. But somewhere in between then and now, Shawn had obviously screamed himself hoarse. Henry felt his own throat tighten at the mere thought.

"How are you doing?"

Shawn shrugged. "I'm fine. How's Gus?"

Henry swallowed and sat down on the edge of Shawn's bed, careful to keep his distance. Shawn would let him know if he wanted contact.

"Gus is in surgery. His parents are waiting outside, but it might take a while until there's news. What happened?"

Shawn shrugged again. "It was those guys. They were in the office when I came back. It was because of the case, Dad. They beat Gus up because I was working the case. And there was nothing I could do. They held me back and made me watch how they beat Gus up."

Shawn's eyes were suspiciously shiny, but Henry decided to ignore that. Shawn wouldn't react too well to Henry pointing out those tears right now. Besides, it wasn't as if it really mattered whether or not Shawn felt like crying.

"Will Gus be all right?"

Henry wanted badly to give his son at least that little reassurance, but he didn't even know how serious Gus' injuries were. If Shawn was already reacting like this, then it must have been bad.

"I don't know, kid. But as soon as there's news, you'll be the first to know. I need to talk to your doctor, why don't you sit back and at least try to relax a little in the meantime?"

"Henry."

Henry turned around when he heard Lassiter's voice behind him. "Yes?"

Lassiter was peeking around the corner of the curtain. "One of our forensics guys is here."

"Why?"

"His fingernails. It seems like he scratched and clawed at those guys. We might get definite proof tying this attack to the previous murders."

Henry looked down at his son's hands. He knew that it was standard procedure nowadays to search for DNA evidence after an assault of any kind. But right now, he just couldn't tell how Shawn would react to that. Henry raised his hand, gesturing for Lassiter to wait a moment, then he turned back towards his son.

"Shawn? One of the CSU guys is here. They think there might be evidence…"

"Under my fingernails, I know. Lassiter told me. It's okay."

Henry didn't know what worried him more, the fact that his son was using Lassiter's real name, or the flat tone of his voice. He kept a close eye on Shawn as Lassiter led the man from CSU into the cubicle. Shawn barely reacted as the man wordlessly reached for his hand and started to scratch out his fingernails. In fact, Shawn wasn't even looking what the man was doing, and for somebody whose whole life revolved around watching and noticing things, that was a worrisome development.

All the while Henry tried to catch his son's eyes, tried to establish some form of communication between them even if it was nonverbal. But Shawn was staring ahead sightlessly, not showing any reaction when the man from CSU finished with one hand and repeated the procedure with Shawn's other.

It was over in less than three minutes, and as the CSU guy bagged and tagged the evidence he had collected, Lassiter stepped up to Henry.

"I need to get back to the crime scene. O'Hara should be here any moment now, she'll wait for news. I'm sure the Chief will drop by later as well. Call if there are any news."

Henry nodded. "Sure. Thanks for waiting with Shawn."

Lassiter nodded, then he vanished behind the curtain and out of sight. Henry turned back towards Shawn, who was still staring off into space. Tentatively, Henry put a hand on Shawn's leg to get his son's attention. And true enough, after a few seconds Shawn's glassy hazel eyes turned towards his father.

"How are you holding up?"

Henry felt like a broken record asking the same question over and over again, but truth was he didn't know how to deal with this. Shawn had been in hospital uncountable times before. Occasionally, Henry had been forced to drive both Shawn and Gus here because they had both managed to mess themselves up.

But it had been either small injuries – a bandage here, a cast there, sometimes a few stitches on either of them. Or it had been serious injuries on Shawn's part, injuries that had left both Henry and Gus sitting out there in the linoleum-covered waiting room until there were news.

This was new. This was a whole different story.

It had never been Gus before. Never once had Gus been seriously injured and Shawn had escaped pretty much unscathed. And if those racist bastards had beaten Gus right in front of Shawn's eyes, holding him back from any attempt to help his friend…

Henry didn't want to think about it. He especially didn't want to think about what would happen if Gus' injuries proved too severe. Those people had already beaten three men to death, and he didn't know how bad Gus' wounds were. But he knew how close Shawn and Gus were, and he knew what it would do to his son if Gus wouldn't pull through this.

Henry didn't want to even contemplate the possibility. Because if Gus didn't pull through this, Henry was sure about one thing – he wouldn't be able to catch his son if that happened.

But it was useless to start worrying about all that now. Not for as long as there wasn't an update on Gus' condition, anyway. Right now he needed to talk to Shawn's doctor, to figure out what exactly his son had been treated for. Henry doubted that Shawn would have to stay for the night, but he'd need to talk to the doctor to make sure.

And then they had to wait until somebody could tell them a little more about Gus' condition.

As Henry bent forward and pressed the call button beside Shawn's bed he had no idea what was going to happen next. But he knew for sure that this was going to be a long night.

Thanks for reading. As always, please let me know what you think. Thanks a lot.