Henry waited until the painkillers finally put Shawn to sleep the next day before heading to the SBPD.
Lassiter was at his desk when he walked in, looking slightly beat-up from their car bomb encounter himself.
"What do you have?" Henry asked, taking a seat across from the detective.
Lassiter glanced up, then tossed him a file.
"He's long gone, but we have an I.D. and address. Ben Morton, Jr. I've already checked out his place."
"Morton?" Henry mumbled, flipping through the pages with his functional hand.
"Ring any bells?"
"Yeah. Ben Morton was a scumbag I'd bust at least a few times a month when I was on the force. He liked to get drunk and use his kid as an ashtray. I'd get a call, haul him in, and he'd be out by the next day."
"Well, it looks like our Psycho is that kid. When he was ten, he finally got put in a foster home. He spent most of the next decade bouncing around the system. Didn't stay anywhere longer than a few months, usually due to some sort of anti-social behavior. Fighting…stealing…torturing family pets, though no one could ever prove anything. He finally did a stint in juvee. He turned 18, got out, and has been off the map ever since."
"What does any of that have to do with me?"
Lassiter shrugged.
"Hell if I know. Maybe he blames the cops for busting his dad and ruining his happy home. Whatever it is, he's been planning this for a long time, Henry. A long time. I found journals at his apartment full of…well, ways to kill you. No explanations, no reasons. Just plans…most of it pretty twisted stuff."
"Yeah."
"Just watch your back."
"Why? You think he's coming back?"
"Don't you?"
"No," Henry stood up to leave.
"I know he is."
He drove back to the hospital, already preparing mentally.
It took longer than Henry had imagined for the Psycho to make his next move, however.
Nearly an entire month.
Actually, from the Psycho's perspective, the timing couldn't have been better.
Henry had just started sleeping again.
He'd just stopped holding his breath every time the phone rang.
He'd just stopped checking over his shoulder every two minutes when he walked down the street.
He'd just stopped finding excuses to drive by Shawn's apartment, just to make sure…
And then it happened.
It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Henry pulled into the driveway with a sulking Shawn sitting in the passenger seat.
"Come on, Shawn. You promised," he chided, getting out of the truck.
"Yeah, like three months ago."
"Exactly. You've been putting it off for three months. Well, you're going to do it today, or I'll never help you out on another one of your little cases again. Ever."
"Fine with me. I don't need your help, anyway," Shawn countered.
Henry just shot his son a look that told him to shut up more eloquently than words ever could, and handed him a broom.
"A deal's a deal. I get your forensics report run, you sweep the garage. Move."
Shawn sighed dramatically, taking the broom as if it might break if he gripped it too tight.
"Any leeway with the whole almost getting murdered thing?" He asked hopefully. "Have I played that out yet?"
"It's been a month. Get over it. Get to work."
Shawn rolled his eyes and began to sweep, muttering under his breath about how Gus never had to do stupid chores anymore.
"Don't forget under the workbench," Henry added before turning to go back into the house.
As he turned away, Shawn saw it.
A small, red point of light on his father' temple.
At least, he thought he saw it. By the time he looked again, it was gone.
I'm seeing things…
Except he wasn't.
He knew he wasn't.
He watched Henry cross the yard, but the red dot didn't reappear.
Until the split second before he closed the screen door behind him.
Shawn saw it flash again; gone as quickly as it was there.
"Dad!" He yelled, rushing towards the house.
"Shawn, get---"
"Get inside!"
Shawn had already reached his father, shoving him inside the door and slamming it closed behind them.
There was the ping of a bullet narrowly missing its target and striking the house instead.
"Get away from the window!"
He quickly drew the curtains.
Henry had already caught up.
"He's out there?"
"With a scope. Probably in a tree,,,"
"Oh, gee, Shawn. And who was supposed to prune the trees so they didn't get overgrown?"
"Now is really not the time—"
"This is why we have chores, Shawn! So we can see the snipers in our trees!"
"Dad! Not now! Psycho with a gun out there…"
Henry already had his gun in his hand, ready. He looked over at Shawn.
"Where's yours?" He asked.
"I don't have one. I've never owned a gun!"
"Well, aren't you Mr. Sensitive. Go get the hunting rifle from the hall. And for God's sake, stay the hell away from the windows!"
Shawn quickly ducked into hall, emerging a few seconds later with the rifle.
From upstairs, they heard a window shatter, followed by the sound of heavy steps walking around.
Henry motioned for them to split up and circle around the downstairs. Shawn nodded, heading into the kitchen.
Ten seconds later, he heard a gunshot, followed by the thud of a body falling. He ran into the living room. Henry was slumped on the floor, blood covering his shoulder. His gun had skidded across the room, out of reach.
The Psycho was facing the door, waiting for Shawn to enter. He got off the first round, and Shawn could feel the bullet ripping through his forearm with searing pain.
He fell into an excruciating heap on the floor, dropping the rifle in the process.
The Psycho was smiling…moving towards Henry…
Shawn could see his father's gun, lying on the ground…it was close…so close…
He moved as subtly as possible, inching his way across the floor, but he knew he had to move quickly. The Psycho was standing over his father now, his rifle inches from his temple.
Shawn's hand closed around the discarded gun. He only had time for one shot…it had to count…
He pulled the trigger.
The bullet left a small, perfectly round hole as it tore through the Psycho's skull.
He was dead before he hit the floor.
Shawn slowly stood up, his arm still bleeding profusely. He dropped the gun and walked over to where Henry was still lying on the floor.
"Dad?"
"You got him," Henry almost smiled through the pain.
"Yeah…well…"
Shawn couldn't think of a way to tell him he wasn't proud of that, so he dropped the whole subject and went to get the phone.
He came back a few minutes later.
"The ambulance is on its way," he announced.
Henry nodded, his eyes beginning to glaze over slightly.
"Head shot…" he mumbled.
"What?"
"You took a head shot."
"So?"
"You could've missed. Easily."
"But I didn't."
"You should've gone for the chest…better chances…"
Unbelievable!
He's passing out, and he still finds a way to criticize me!
"I'm a good shot, Dad. I knew what I was doing."
"…luck…"
Shawn rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, yeah."
He could already hear the ambulance approaching, sirens screaming.
It'll always be luck…
To him, it'll always be luck…
He sat on the floor next to Henry, pressing a clean cloth to the wound to stop the bleeding.
It was bad, but Shawn could already tell it wasn't fatal.
"You keep telling yourself that, Dad. Keep telling yourself that I'm just lucky…"
But, someday...you'll have to admit the truth.
That I'm just damn good!