Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own reference to Netflix or Law & Order: SVU.

Author's Note: Hello again. It looks like 2015 slipped by without me updating a single Psych fic. Well, now it's a new year. Reviews, feedback, and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated. Thanks for reading! :)

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Chapter Nine: If You Believe In Me How Can I Be Dissolving?

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X X X

Carlton was curled on his side in the trunk of some car that he had not seen; Emil had led him, bound and blindfolded, from . . . from where, Lassiter couldn't say. It had been a long, careful walk, slow, mostly because Lassiter was dizzy upright, his muscles stiff and his head throbbing from all the hits it had taken. He'd fallen at first, half a ploy to get one last close look at McNab, half because standing was a shaky exercise. McNab was so blood smeared and motionless it was difficult for Carlton to determine if he was still breathing. Standing finally, he'd leaned against the wall, drained of fight. Who knew nightmares could grow worse the longer you were in one?

It seemed to be a risk, dragging him outside in broad daylight; in spite of the blindfold, Carlton had been able to feel the sun's warmth and practically taste the humidity that was common of mid-afternoon. Still, his captor seemed to prefer broad daylight for kidnapping cops. Or . . . psychics.

A few times he considered making a break for it, in spite of his promise not to run, but he didn't think he could manage it. Walking was hard enough, with his injuries, the blindfold and his wrists handcuffed behind his back. (Lassiter had watched Emil relieve McNab of his cuffs and cuff keys with feigned disinterest. If he could get his hands on those keys . . . ) Not to mention he had no idea where he was, or what Emil might to do McNab if he tried to pull a stunt like that. Yelling for help was out too. So he didn't, he played the good little hostage instead, never mind how anxious, chilled and pissed he was. Never mind know that you never, ever got into a trunk willingly, even at gunpoint, it was cop training 101.

It was all happening too fast, or not fast enough. And what was he, going soft? Still, his freak out over Emil's bad treatment of McNab was not an act; "Spencer" or not, he didn't want to see something like that. McNab was a fellow officer of the law—and no one deserved what he got.

Emil hadn't let him call his "father" because there hadn't been the time; Lassiter had made their situation of being caught seem too dire, which left him worried that no one outside of McNab—if McNab came back to consciousness, that was—would ever know his whereabouts.

Lassiter begged and bargained with whomever might be listening that McNab wasn't that bad off, and that someone might find him before he got worse. It was killing him to just leave an officer down without calling it in. He should be at McNab's side, making sure the younger man's airway wasn't constricted, stopping any blood flow, keeping him conscious. He could do it either as Lassiter the Head Detective or Spencer the fake psychic, it didn't matter to him, but he knew he couldn't go back on his deal now. When he told Emil the cops were coming, he'd been bluffing; McNab's radio and cell were smashed to bits, making it less likely for his GPS to be traced. Don't let him die because of me, Lassiter pleaded, not even hating himself a little this time for doing it.

When they stopped walking, Lassiter heard a metallic sound, and felt Emil squeeze his arm. "Just a precaution," Emil uttered next his right ear before grabbing the back of his hair. Lassiter grunted and felt Emil loop a thick cloth around his mouth and tie it behind his head before pushing him face first into the trunk. A gag was preferable to being drugged again, Lassiter considered. If it meant not waking up disoriented and sick, it was the lesser of the two evils. He almost bit Emil; he would have, if he'd been prepared. Shawn would have bit Emil; that faux-psychic could fight dirty for sure.

Carlton landed awkwardly on his side. Emil's hands maneuvered his long legs into the small space, keeping grip on both ankles until they were secured with something. Cloth, he surmised, maybe some old found rag. Emil muttered something unintelligible over him which ended with "my friend" and then the trunk—which smelled earthy and moldy—closed. Carlton was uncomfortable, huddled up in this position, in pain everywhere—his head, his face, his neck, knees, waist and wrists—and he was worried all over again. Making deals with psychotic criminals was something the trained professionals never did—but he was playing psychic and was out of options. It was . . . it was perhaps what Spencer would do, so maybe he was on the right track.

That sick laughter bubbled up, stopped by the gag in his mouth. He was glad for it. If he started to laugh, it was just as easy to start to cry, to break.

Under ordinary circumstances, Carlton would never let himself even entertain the notion of "crying"or "breaking"—but these circumstances were not normal. He sighed, a loud huff of air. He wasn't going to cry. Or break. To distract himself, he paid close attention to the course they were taking, staying alert for small or distinctive sounds, anything that might be able to tell him where they were or where Emil might be taking him. From the shape of that basement, Lassiter guessed Emil didn't have a backup a plan—another perfect, isolated location where no one could hear him scream. No . . . but Emil seemed to be making due. In the meantime . . .

Panic caught in his throat, pushing down on his windpipe. In the meantime, he might be spending extended time in the trunk; there might be ten to twelve hours of air in here—assuming he didn't panic, breathe too deeply, or pass out due to his injuries or just sheer exhaustion. Or the fumes. He couldn't exactly pinch his nose shut.

He tried to devise a plan, and wondered how much mileage he could get out trying to explain to Emil that he wasn't a—er, that Spencer wasn't—a medium. That he couldn't speak to the dead. Though, Spencer claimed he could communicate with the dead—as long as the voices came through plastic army men or cats or press badges that declared murder in the first.

Carlton squirmed and tested his bonds, but they held tight. He knew he could work the gag and blindfold off with minimal effort, but he considered he'd just make Emil mad. And in that same vein, kicking the taillight out was also out of the question. He had to be patient until they were well away from McNab and any other innocent bystanders that Emil could hurt with his demented rage. As soon as they got where they were going, the truce was off. And he was going to demand his one phone call or give Emil more of the silent treatment.

I bet you're a lucky lady, if you really are dead, Anja, Carlton thought coldly. He's out of your life. Now can't you get him out of mine? He scoffed at himself. It was too soon to go stir crazy; and it was too much to waste energy on trying to conjure up non-existent ghosts. He wasn't a believer in anything remotely supernatural; dead was dead in his book. He might embody the spirit of his great-great-grandfather Muscum T. Lassiter when he did his Civil War reenactments, but in no way did he believe Muscum was still hanging around as a ghost.

Getting a read on Emil, on what he wanted to hear, was practically unfeasible. Carlton still had no idea if Emil wanted to hear Anja was dead or alive. He had learned that slandering the woman was dangerous to his health, but guessed that making her out to be a saint would get him in just as much trouble. Anja must have been a dirty, filthy criminal—but could she have been as bad as Emil? Could she have been worse?

What would Spencer do? he asked himself again. He'd tried talking; he'd talked his heart out, throwing a ton of questions and scenarios in Emil's face. But nothing had come of it. Spencer, who seemed to never tire of hearing the sound of his own voice, would just keep talking. And then he'd get to the truth, in whatever mysterious, incredulous, fake way that only he could do. It was sickly astonishing, always annoying, but Spencer's mojo did close cases. He let his mind wander, thinking about Spencer's methods—what he'd witnessed, usually always in public and in front of a rather large audience—and went over some of the difficult cases that Spencer had wormed his way into and managed to solve with flourish and ease.

Though . . . not every single case Spencer had worked or solved was done with finesse, and Spencer often made huge mistakes—like accusing the wrong person with too much confidence, damning him or her while the real murderer almost got away with it. So that psychic thing, was it more detective work than psychic mumbo-jumbo? These were notions Carlton had wondered over in the past.

What would I do, Lassie? Spencer's disembodied voice laughed impishly in Lassiter's ear, startling him. He flinched. He was breaking. This was not happening. He must have drifted off; thinking about Spencer too long could, apparently, literally bore a person to sleep. "Go'way," he mumbled through the gag.

Get him to talk, Spencer continued. Spencer never listened, why should he start now?

Talk? How? Great, now he was answering some nonexistent entity too.

Everyone wants to tell his story, Lassie. Everyone wants to confess. Didn't you get some useful stuff out of the psychopath already?

Carlton slowly moved his head, trying to shake away the voices he was hearing. Well, voice, singular. Where was this so-assumed helpful voice back in that room? When McNab— Stop it! Stop! he urged himself. You're losing it. Wake up!

Lassie, you're not losing it! Just let yourself give in to the Shawn Spencer way of life! I mean, what you did, that took balls! And I thought you said policemen didn't have balls!

Carlton choked, a strangled laugh. He was obviously close to losing consciousness, that was it, or he was still sleeping. This was nothing more than another bad dream. This was a better option than freaking out and definitely better than finally going toe up crazy.

Don't worry about Buzz, Spencer hissed as Carlton closed his eyes.

Don't make promises you can't keep, Spencer, Carlton thought in response, starting to pay more attention to the droning of tires on asphalt, an unintentional lulling sound.

X X X

"Witnesses from the cafe all say that McNab was spotted walking west, away from his cruiser," Juliet told Shawn and Gus as the three of them stood outside the coffee shop.

"What's that way?" Gus asked, pointing right.

"A few more little shops and businesses, and eventually, a residential area."

This should be easier, Shawn thought. Buzz had actually been seen by other people before he, too, had vanished off the face of the earth. It would have much easier if they could have traced his cell's GPS, the way they did his cruiser's, though.

"What was he doing, walking that way?" Gus asked, puzzled.

Juliet shrugged. "He may have been following a man, or just walking in the same direction as one. According to a few people some officers have spoken to, Buzz was seen crossing the street but never got close enough to the man to pass him."

Shawn started walking, following Buzz' invisible trail. The area where Buzz had radioed from nearly two hours ago was being canvased and searched, but so far nothing had turned up. With going door to door in the small residential neighborhood, it was discovered that most people weren't home this time of day, and the few people they did speak to were housekeepers or nannies that spoke little English.

"He just stayed on this side, walking a straight line?" Gus asked Juliet as they trailed Shawn, who had taken to holding both hands out in front of him as if he were trying to spiritually douse for water. Or people.

"That's our best guess, Gus," Juliet replied, her mouth scrunched up. "Why, we don't know, and who the man was—"

"Don't know that either," Gus supplied.

"Uh huh," Juliet said with a sigh. This whole business . . . it confused and frightened her. Lassiter was still missing and now McNab . . . it couldn't be a coincidence.

Shawn kept aware of his surroundings, noting each time they passed through a different section of town. It was almost funny to find that the businesses and houses weren't that far off from a worser section of abandoned buildings laden with graffiti and boarded up windows. Not to mention how quiet it got to be once they left the strip of shops behind. He didn't even pause at the residential area; he'd heard Juliet inform Gus that nothing had come of a search. It wasn't likely, he decided, that Buzz would have gotten into trouble at one of those houses.

Gotten into trouble . . . Shawn shook his head. He hadn't really thought of it that way until now, though he had considered it somewhat suspicious that Buzz hadn't come back to the station when he was supposed to, or radioed in.

"Where are we going, Shawn?" Juliet called from behind him.

"I don't know yet," Shawn answered. "The spirits aren't giving me a clear picture." A quick glance at his cell phone showed it had been almost 25 minutes since they left the coffee shop. Should have taken the Blueberry. They were coming up on the back entrance of an old building. Shawn tried to figure out what it used to be when it was functional, but it just looked like a sad discolored cardboard box, of a larger scale. Just to amuse himself, Shawn deemed it a former shoe warehouse, and stopped to give it a better once over. "Is this the area Buzz called from?"

Juliet gestured to the twenty or so other buildings around them, in various states of disrepair. "He didn't say exactly where he was, or we may have found him by now." She gave Shawn a pointed look. Right. This was why Vick had asked for Shawn's help. Several of the buildings were condemned, and required permission from the city or the fire department to enter. The SBPD only had so many resources, and it didn't make sense to waste them all on trying to find one officer, who might not even be here.

Or he could be here, and hurt. Unconscious. It was all a little scary but kind of exciting too, like searching for buried treasure. Huh. Maybe it wasn't so good to picture Buzz buried, like, in a shallow grave. Shawn tried to shut the door on these thoughts as quickly as possible. Instead, he backed up to get a better look at some of the other buildings. He knew that Buzz hadn't responded to either calls from officers or on his radio or cell phone. Calls to his cell went straight to voice mail, which nobody liked. It had been bad enough that they couldn't trace it; it could be turned off, out of range, or disabled. Taking a deep breath, Shawn raised his hands into the air and began to wiggle his fingers as if the spirits could guide him to the right place through such a ridiculous exercise. All he really wanted to do was distract Juliet long enough to pick the best worst building, but Shawn was worried it would be the wrong one.

"I vote for all SBPD officers to be implanted with homing chips," Shawn suggested. "You know, like they do with dogs, and kids." He threw a look over his shoulder to see Jules wrinkle her nose in disgust. "Don't want to lose you too, Jules."

"Yeah, that's not going to happen," Juliet said with an edge to her voice.

"They don't do that to kids, Shawn," Gus said.

"They did it on an episode of Law & Order: SVU, Gus."

Gus made a derisive noise. "We're canceling our subscription to Netflix."

"Gus, please. I have your credit card number memorized."

"Not if I report it stolen!"

"Please, focus," Juliet snapped. Buzz would never . . . disappear of his own volition. It was all too familiar, these thoughts. She suppressed her irrational fears as best as she could, but there was still the niggling notion that this was connected to Lassiter—that the mastermind behind this whole thing wanted to silence Buzz before he got too close. Mastermind. Juliet sighed to herself. Sometimes she tried to think of it on a larger scale—that there was a master plan, a huge, important reason behind her partner's alleged kidnapping, that ransom was desired, or even revenge. But was there any master plan? It was all about as likely as if he'd been grabbed by some fanatic religious cult who needed human sacrifices.

No. He was probably just . . . dead. And Buzz . . .

Gus took in Juliet's appearance as he waited for Shawn to work his phony magic. She was impeccably dressed and put together, not a hair out of place, just as she was every day, but her skin looked dull and her eyes tired. Her mouth was pulled into a line, occasionally straying to a frown. He watched her shake her head as if to clear away a bad outcome, and put his palm on her wrist.

"Gus," Juliet spoke softly. "It's been almost three days. Nothing. And now . . . we were working together, Buzz and I. We were going to . . ." She cleared her throat. "We drove out to the prison where Salamatchia is—"

Gus squeezed her wrist. She was trembling, uncharacteristic of her usual toughness, but Gus didn't comment. "I just don't understand this, any of this."

"Juliet." He could see the anxiety in her eyes, how afraid she was of failing, and tried to give her a reassuring smile. "We're going to figure this out. Lassiter's tough as nails. I'm sure wherever he is, he's holding his own."

Juliet nodded but couldn't return his smile.

"And you shouldn't worry too much about Buzz. With Shawn's help, we'll find him in no time at all. It's probably just some silly misunderstanding."

"Thanks, Gus." Juliet patted his hand back and then let go.

Shawn was still wiggling his fingers, but his head had turned to look again at the shoebox building. It was the first building at the "end of the line", literally where the sidewalk ended, but Shawn was trying to pick up a clue that would direct him there. He moved a little toward the back entrance, which, he noticed suddenly, had no door, at least not one in the wall. Giving a stealthy look behind him, he noticed Gus and Jules involved in some talk, not even paying him any attention. Shawn went to back of the building, saw a square piece of plywood on the ground, angled carelessly to reveal a door as colorless as the building itself.

Shawn kicked the plywood away and lifted the door's handle with the toe of his Converse. Peering down, he saw three or four steps led down into darkness like the entrance of some storm shed. It was weird and kind of creepy, and Shawn tried to picture a purpose for it when the building had been in use. Maybe this place had been a mob front. If so, there was no way he was climbing down those steps.

"Shawn? What are you doing over there?" Juliet called.

Shawn gasped; he had to keep Juliet from coming over here, or she'd surely want to explore. Shawn ran around the building's side, hoping to come across a front or service door, hopefully one without a padlock.

"Shawn?"

With a grunt, Shawn threw himself against the building, stretching both arms out widely as if to give that big old shoebox a hug. His heart was thudding as he formulated a plan.

"What are you doing, Shawn?" Gus asked, suddenly at his side. Juliet was close behind him.

"This is it! This is the one!" Shawn yelled. He wiggled his fingers against the wall for emphasis.

"Are you sure?" Juliet asked. She pulled out her cell phone.

Well, no, not exactly, but he said, "Yes! We have to go in!"

Gus shook his head. "I'm not going in there."

Shawn raised an eyebrow; he knew Gus hadn't seen the creepy steps but yet his partner had already decided he didn't want to investigate a condemned building. "Why not?"

"Don't you remember that one time we went undercover as firemen, Shawn? We almost got killed, twice."

"Gus, don't be a rotten candy apple. Those buildings were on fire!"

"This one could be on fire," Gus offered a little lamely.

"I think we'd smell or see smoke, don't you?"

Gus clicked his tongue and looked away. Juliet was busy on the phone, her back turned. Gus stepped closer to Shawn and whispered, "What's our game plan?"

"Save Buzz, or find him. I'm still not sure what's going on here."

"What are you thinking? Why this dumpy place over all others?"

Shawn told Gus about the hidden stairs and his theory about the mob. Gus quickly reiterated that he wouldn't be entering. "Dude, none of this makes any sense."

"I know," Gus agreed. He told her what Juliet had said—three days were gone and there were absolutely no leads. "She'd even almost gone to visit Salamatchia, that's how desperate—"

Shawn made a disgusted face, thinking of that man and his lack of revenge intended for himself and Gus. It hurt, and even though they hadn't really worked the case, it would have been nice to be included.

Gus smacked Shawn's arm. "Don't tell me you're still harboring the thoughts that that would-be-cop-killer left us out." Shawn started to answer when Gus held up his hand. "I said, don't."

"She didn't visit?" Shawn asked after a moment.

"I guess not. But it is . . . eerie, right? That godless man trying to kill Lassiter, and then Buzz, and now, both of them are missing?" Gus shuddered minimally, considering the coincidence.

Shawn shook his head. "He's locked up in maximum security, Gus."

"He could still have active contacts on the outside. He was in the military."

Shawn shook his head again. "I know this is funny coming from me, but that's just not logical. It's that whole . . . chasing zebras theory."

Gus was momentarily impressed. "You mean, the theory that any given crime is usually more simple than complicated—that having a serial killer case like Mr. Yang is an anomaly?"

Shawn brightened. "You saw that SVU episode too?"

Gus glared daggers at Shawn. "You need Jesus." He added, "But if you're right . . . then what is it we're looking at here? Is it just a 'simple crime' or is it really a . . . zebra?"

Shawn shrugged, admittedly frustrated. He didn't want to circle back to that 'no body, no crime' theory—Lassiter's—or was it Abigail's?—original theory. "We need to find Buzz, and then make him tell us whatever he knows."

"What good is that going to do?" Gus asked.

Shawn shrugged again. "You have a better idea? We've got—we've got nothing."

Gus made a face. "Nothing. I'm starting to hate that word."

"Me too, Gus, me too."

X X X

Shawn headed the search party, continuing on what he really, really, really hoped was Buzz's invisible trail down through the old building's ground floor. He borrowed a flashlight from an officer at Juliet's request and led her and a three officers into the crypt. Shawn shivered; it really did feel like some godawful underground burial chamber. He tried not to look around too much, at least beyond the beam of his flashlight, and was holding his breath at intervals in order not to speak so he could pay attention to the most minute sound. He could make out, though not its origins, dripping water, but like that douser act from earlier, he figured heading towards water was as good a chance as any. I can see Buzz, he imagined telling Juliet, he's near a body of water.

It was a blind mission; Shawn's pulse thudded in his ears. Sure, he'd been wrong before, but if he was wrong now, he might actually be wasting precious time. Sure, sure, he was really good at that, but when the stakes were higher it made him uncomfortable. For a few moments he wished Gus had braved the dank, stale darkness so they could exchange their own whispered fears of coming up short. Shawn considered that the officers might be less likely to attack him at the empty end of the line if he could cower behind Gus and lay all the blame on him. But. Now he was committed.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Juliet hissed near his left side.

Shawn felt all kinds of blessed he couldn't see her expression; he could clearly hear doubt in her tone. "Psyching isn't an exact science, Jules," he replied, pretending playful innocence. In a way, he guessed it was true.