Chapter Twenty: The White Knight Is Talking Backwards
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Disclaimer: The information about sodium pentothal I credit to Wikipedia.
Italian Vocabulary: (Which I credit to wordreference dot com) La acqua = The water; Amato (masculine) = Love, beloved, "sweet one"; E meglio che tu vada = You'd better go; Come hai potuto fare una cosa del genere? = How could you do such a thing?; Si = Yes; Caro (masculine) = Darling, beloved
Author's Note: I will be starting a job tomorrow that requires me to work a lovely overnight shift of 9:30 pm to 5:30 am Sun to Thurs for three weeks. Having never done a job like this before, I have no idea how it will go or how spaced out I'll be during my waking hours, but I want to let you all know that I'm not abandoning this story. (Who needs to sleep, really?) I know this update comes a little later than my other ones, but it took me a while to get all the "parts and pieces" all synched up. And I have been writing for the next chapters as well, tweaking and editing and such, so I hope they'll be even more fleshed out by the time I post. Thanks so much to everyone for reading.
Again, thank you to all my reviewers. I really can't say it enough— thank you. :) I so appreciate all of you! :D Thanks so much for your feedback and wonderful words.
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* * *
After Henry got home and checked the house and locked all the doors, he got out the loose pieces of paper from his pocket where he'd written Lassiter's account of his attack. It chilled him to read them, especially since he could hear them in Lassiter's voice, recounting every horrible second. Hearing him say— "He could have easily killed me. I don't know why he was holding back, but I know he was. He told me as he choked me that 'this isn't the end'"— was almost too much. Henry was sick with worry. The picture proved that Shawn was alive, but its existence was also terrifying because it confirmed so many other fears of Henry's— and Lassiter's. The same man who'd put Lassiter in the hospital had likely left that nasty bruise on Shawn's face. It was hard to tell from the picture's flat surface if Shawn had been harmed in any other way; other than the blood on the side of his mouth, he only seemed scared. But that was enough.
God, Shawn, I wish I knew where you were. I'd come and get you right away. Henry wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He went to the safe and retrieved the journal. He slipped the loose sheets into the two pages after the last entry, and then sank onto the couch to read. He'd told Lassiter he would read it and then the next morning, they could go over anything that needed an extra explanation.
Before he'd left Lassiter, one of the nurses had come for rounds. Henry flushed, partly because there was still a light pink mark on Lassiter's cheek where Henry had hit him, but the nurse seemed more concerned about the cut and how it could have gotten there. As she started to throw a suspicious glance towards Henry, Lassiter stammered that it was accidental. He told a different version of what actually happened— though it reached a little farther into the past of a few days.
"I— I thought he— the man— in my apartment— was"— his breath came out in little huffs— "he had his arm around my neck," Lassiter said, his voice low, staring at the ceiling. "I was trying to scratch his arm— I thought I was. But then I realized where I was and that— that it was my own face."
"Poor dear," the nurse, an older woman, mumbled with concern. She left to get some antiseptic and a clean bandage.
Henry stared at Lassiter, his eyes wide. The parts that had been true— he only fibbed about scratching his own skin— Lassiter had stated with a thin, barely contained fear. It was no wonder why the nurse didn't question him more— Henry felt a little sick. He wondered how long Lassiter had been telling everyone that his mysterious bruises or sprains were self-inflicted. Carlton had told him— and he was also reading it— that whenever he remembered something that had happened, it came at him with a vividness that most normal memories— shades of the actual events— didn't have. Sometimes he experienced a violent panic attack, sometimes he passed out. Disorientation often accompanied these— and a crushing fear, sometimes so intense he had a difficult time catching his breath.
"That doesn't sound normal," Henry murmured to the empty house. He knew Lassiter had suffered much, and that it didn't help that his abductors were still hanging around with their stalking and their threats— those extra keys, their tricks, anything that unnerved him. Henry found himself understanding more of Shawn's motives— Shawn would recognize serious trouble when he saw it, and this cop had nearly been engulfed by it; his true self barely visible through a sea of murky panic. If Lassiter had been alone through all this— he would have already convinced himself he'd lost his mind completely. Henry felt a burn of pride for Shawn; then he frowned, the worry for his son's condition edging in. Lassiter's problems were, sadly, a welcome distraction from thinking endlessly about Shawn and how he was being treated. He'd left Lassiter the picture with the excuse that he'd want to study the note to make sense of it, but in reality, Henry didn't want a picture of his son like that in his house.
No matter how much they clashed, Henry never wanted to imagine anything bad ever happening to his son. Usually, Shawn steered clear of him during his PI cases, as if knowing Henry didn't want to know how many times Shawn had had a gun held to his head or any other dangerous things that he'd somehow managed to talk his way out of. For all of their differences, their fights, Henry wished Shawn was here right now, exchanging heated words with him. Just to hear his voice, know he was safe. Shawn was past thirty, but it didn't matter. In that picture, he looked ten years old again. God. Henry couldn't get the image out of his brain.
Looking at the journal, he read that Lassiter remembered being bound and gagged as well. He hated to picture that— Lassiter helpless, in the hands of kidnappers— the same who had hurt and intimidated him today— the same who now had Shawn. Mostly he prayed that he would get Shawn back unharmed— but it also nagged him that Shawn could come back the same way as Lassiter— skittish, constantly afraid— Henry closed his eyes for a few moments. Getting Shawn home safe was the only thing that mattered. Anything else— anything else could be worked on. Fixed. He had to hold onto that.
Henry turned the pages in stunned silence. He had the impulse to march down to Karen right now and throw this on her desk and then dare her not to believe wholeheartedly in Lassiter's problems. God. The things this poor man went through— alone, Henry realized— it was really no wonder why Lassiter was paranoid and terrified and reluctant to open up. Somehow, Shawn had been able to help him— shit, his kid was suddenly, in his eyes, like some kind of saint. Not that he'd ever admit it— unless Shawn walked through that door right now, completely unharmed. No dice. Henry sighed.
Henry wondered about this mysterious drug that had been in the syringe. It was very possible that whatever this was could be the reason why Lassiter had obeyed orders; but, was there really a drug with such properties? He sighed again. There was sodium pentothal— truth serum, a psychoactive, with properties for sedation and induction, which interfered with judgment. But this— it seemed much more potent. According to Vick's assessment of Lassiter's blood test results, his blood was clean, free of drugs. But what if it wasn't? What if it was some horrible lie or trick? Was there another explanation? Henry wondered. Despite everything Henry had seen, he couldn't imagine fear alone would be the cause of Lassiter following orders given by kidnappers and killers. And in all of Lassiter's memories, it seemed that the brandishing of weapons of any kind were scarce. Maybe he'd been threatened again and again with death; but why hadn't he remembered that? Even the way his mind had protected itself— hiding his witnessing of the murder in other gruesome scenes, like showing his elbow coming apart— why hadn't it conjured up some—?
But Lassiter's a cop. He's used to guns, knives, weapons. He wasn't— he wouldn't be, Henry thought— that scared of a gun, because he'd know how to handle himself. Henry shook his head. But he had been kidnapped. Henry shook his head again. But he's a cop. He had that training— training and stress management and how to handle yourself should you end up in a hostage situation. Though being a hostage could be alarming, even for a cop. But Lassiter's fear, even at recalling a small part of his recent attack, could be enough to floor him, to daze him so completely that he couldn't think clearly, get his words out, that he couldn't hear someone pounding on a door half a foot in front of his head. This had to be something else.
* * *
Lassiter studied the picture of Spencer— he hoped the kid was okay. He looked— he was alive, scared, bruised, dirty— but still there. But he needs to be here, Lassiter thought. He was so pissed that Notte and the others had actually gone after the kid; it wasn't right. Were they suddenly so cowardly that they had to pick on Spencer instead of him? Granted, Spencer had been relentless to prove his innocence— god, he wished it hadn't come to this. No matter what, he promised to get Spencer back in one piece— even if it meant he'd have to sacrifice his life— the straggled remains of it, anyway, barely one full offering— to do it. He knew he owed Spencer a lot— more than could ever be repaid by a thank you or a grateful look. In fact, he admitted now Spencer's persistence and belief in him were likely the only reasons he hadn't completely given in— given up. He still didn't understand why Spencer had offered his help— especially after the numerous times Lassiter had pushed him away. It's because he knew. He knows when people are in trouble. Lassiter sighed. That still didn't mean he believed Spencer was a psychic— but he was starting to believe that Spencer was a good friend. And now, Henry— yet another Spencer he didn't directly ask for help from— but was able to perceive, outside of cuts and bruises on his face, that something else was wrong. It was just— good detective work, Lassiter thought. The Spencers had perspective that the Vick and the others didn't seem to have.
But Spencer annoys you, a small voice muttered somewhere in his head. I know, he does, but he gives a damn if I live or die. Lassiter recalled Shawn telling him that night that he didn't think he was doing a very good job of protecting Lassiter— but he was. He'd offered to stay— to look out for him. Lassiter had felt embarrassed; part of him still wanted to believe he could handle everything on his own. And now Henry, just as worried as Shawn had been— nearly unable to leave him alone. It may have something to do with the fact that both Spencers had seen his aggressors— and witnessed his fear, surprisingly, without much judgment. Spencer had missed many opportunities to tease and humiliate the hell out of him— he felt himself flush. Maybe he had misjudged the type of person Spencer really was— good at heart.
You knew that, he told himself. You're only lying in this hospital bed because Spencer got help for you— otherwise, you might have— "Drown in my own blood," Lassiter muttered aloud, feeling his fingers start to tingle. He couldn't remember which of the swirling voices had told him this when he'd first awoken— if it was Vick or O'Hara— or maybe another voice during his partial consciousness. It was too similar to— Cavaliere. That was the one word Notte had snarled in his ear— the word Lassiter remembered before Marte broke in his door. He shivered, shrugging the thin sheets over his arms. How could this Notte possibly be connected to the Cavaliere family? And what could either family want from him?
He tried to go over the note again. There was only one line that seemed clear: 'Tell me that he's missing . . . ' Spencer was missing. The rest . . . it made his head hurt to try to think through it. That line was the one that hurt most— stabbing at him with a knife-like guilt. Lassiter recalled Henry's insistence to stop blaming this on himself; funny, because he had said that both before and after he knew exactly how Lassiter was involved in Shawn's disappearance.
* * *
Shawn awoke slowly, gaining conscious as a hand gently stroked his hair. He looked around blearily, feeling dizzy enough to pass out again. He groaned, turning his head delicately. This nightmare was never ending. This is what you get for helping people, a little voice sneered, but Shawn really couldn't place it— was it inside his head or was it external, spoken by one of the malicious people holding him against his will?
"There now, isn't that better?" Donia asked once Shawn's eyes were open.
"Is what better?" Shawn asked dryly. His tongue actually ached, possessing the sensation of being cracked. He moved it around his mouth, hoping to moisten it, and slowly realized the gag had been taken off. He moved his stiff fingers; pain inched up his wrists, his elbows and struck him like a blow between his shoulder blades. He shifted his knees, waiting for his joints to pop to offer the smallest relief, but they refused.
Donia had pressed something to his lips, perhaps the lip of a bowl. She tilted it and cold broth flooded his mouth, its high salt content making him wince. Shawn swallowed some of it but choked on the rest; some spilled out of his mouth. Donia seemed to be waiting; Shawn's eyes stung as he coughed. "Water," he pleaded.
"Oh, la acqua?" Donia asked. "I haveh that." The bowl disappeared and a bottle of water appeared. She held it to his lips and he drank, swallowing some mouthfuls of air after he sucked down half its contents. She pulled the bottle away while he gulped. His stomach felt cold; he hoped none of this was going to come back up.
"Shh, shh," Donia hushed, petting Shawn's hair. Shawn wished he had the strength to yell at her. He'd dropped his head, feeling hot wetness slip from his eyes. What are they going to do with me? He looked up too fast and the room spun, ugly dull browns and grays above his head. Oh, crap. He opened his mouth to the side of the chair and some liquid dripped out. He grunted with a helpless frustration, squeezing his eyes closed tight. "Please," he whispered. "Untie me."
"I cannot," Donia told him simply. She moved the bottle of water back to his mouth. He wanted to refuse, but he parted his lips and drank greedily. There was a sour taste in his mouth that he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to get rid of. "We did not want to hurt you, amato. You should haveh stayed away."
Shawn was torn for an appropriate response. He wanted to make a sarcastic joke but he felt his head spinning again. He didn't want to plead because he knew he'd get nowhere. He was stuck; he was in need of a rescue. But who? It seemed if Jules knew where he was, the police would have been here by now. How long had it been? Years? No, it was only days— a few days. But it felt like forever. Shawn's heart thudded again; he'd done his best to keep his terror at bay, but he couldn't anymore. If his father showed up with the ransom, both of them would probably be killed— but why hadn't they killed him already, if they were going to? And now Donia mumbling this cryptic crap about not wanting to hurt him. Shawn's head was too fuzzy to think it through all the way. "Drink this," Donia said softly. She offered more of the broth, feeding it to Shawn slowly, waiting in between mouthfuls to be certain it wasn't coming back up.
"I would not haveh you die," Donia said, then after a pause, "This is not whata I want." She shook her head slowly.
Shawn was too scared to ask her to explain herself further. The young woman had a faraway look to her eyes. She sighed. "I know my father—" She shook her head again. "But should I rule in this world, I should keep him."
She didn't say anymore, but Shawn wondered if the "him" she'd mentioned was Lassiter. Lassie. He had failed— Lassiter was in even more danger now. Shawn closed his eyes. "You cut him."
"Ah?" Donia exclaimed, her eyebrows shooting up.
Shawn turned his head slowly. "He told me."
Her eyes were shining. She scrunched her nose up defensively. "The things he remembers." She made a tsking sound. "If we were together, he would not care."
Shawn's jaw dropped. He had to turn his eyes away. She sounded so serious. "He's not your puppet."
"He is mine," Donia countered, the pout evident in her voice. "But I— we are star crossed. It was a blessing that brought him to me."
Shawn's eyebrow shot up. She really believed in her words. Shawn had to bite his tongue hard. Who were these people; how did they get to this way of thinking? That they could just use people, take people, do whatever they wanted without any consequences? Shawn winced, imaging Lassie's reaction to this. He wasn't sure if the girl herself caused him terror, or if it was the thought that she was one of them, those who had hurt and tormented him. Though, he reflected, she was pretty scary herself. And she had joined right in, willingly it seemed, to mess with his head— so much so that Cybil, the killer, had scolded her for her brazenness. "It was a crime that brought him to you," Shawn snapped suddenly, turning towards her. "You can't meet a guy yourself so you have to wait till your father abducts one for you?"
The slap was loud in the room, standing out against the neat silence. Donia stood in front of him, her hand still poised in the air. Shawn was more shocked by the force of it, hard enough to turn his head. He could already feel her small hand print raising on his cheek. "How darea you speak to me this way," Donia spat. She let out a quick stream of angry Italian words.
Shawn knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he reasoned later that he'd never been good at that. "What," he heard himself say, "it isn't true?"
"Then I don't carea if you die!" Donia yelled back, her dark eyes worked up into a fury. "Die!" She grabbed the empty porcelain bowl that the broth had been in and swung it for Shawn's cheek.
Shawn yelled out, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing for impact. He heard the bowl drop against the floor. Wincing, he tentatively opened one eye, then the other, and saw that one of the men had a hold of Donia's hand— and had forced her to drop the bowl before she could strike Shawn. Shawn raised his eyes slowly, wondering which one of them had rescued him from a bloody face. Notte. The breath caught in Shawn's throat. Notte pulled Donia away from him slowly, never releasing her hand. The young woman seemed to be shaking with sobs, but no sound was coming out of her. "E meglio che tu vada," Notte told her firmly, but without any anger to his tone. At the door, he let go of her and she disappeared.
Notte turned back to Shawn, and Shawn wished he could take steps back. Before he knew it, Notte had his hand under Shawn's chin, easing his head to the side to get a closer look at his slapped cheek. Shawn felt so confused. Donia gave him fluids because he was in obvious need, and told him if it were up to her, there would be no killing. Then she'd screamed that he should die. Now Notte was being gentle with him; Shawn shook under his hand. He knew it wasn't possible it could last. He was in for another slap or punch sooner or later. Since he couldn't move, he was a sitting duck. Why was Notte so calm? It was eerie. He hadn't spoken to Shawn or made any move to gag him; Shawn waited.
"Sometime, my daughter is overzealous," Notte muttered smugly, his back to Shawn. Shawn tensed. How had Notte known what she was about to do? How he gotten to her in time? Shawn felt a chill spread across his back. He'd had this sensation before— that night he'd witnessed Donia outside sitting on Lassiter's car, staring at him and Lassiter, telling someone that the both of them knew. The first time he'd seen Donia she'd been across the street, and he hadn't gotten the best look at her face other than to note that she seemed to have an otherworldly attractiveness about her. He wondered what he had been thinking— Donia was an ugly monster.
And not just because she'd nearly scarred his face. She was dead serious what she had said about Lassiter— if she had the power, she would likely spirit him away, wholly convinced their one sided love story could work. Shawn had wondered, that first time Lassiter caught her outside, why he was so upset— she only seemed to be a little thing, airy, delicate. He had wondered about Lassiter's mental state; but now he understood that fury and demand could come in the smallest packages. She was terrifying. Nearly as terrifying as Notte— Shawn looked up, still wondering.
"The pity of a place like this," Notte mumbled, still with his back to Shawn, "is that the voice will carry." He turned. "Though I enjoy you gagged more so because your words are what cause you your trouble—"
Shawn bit his lip with a scowl. He wanted to set loose a steady stream of curses but he hated having that cloth between his teeth. It gave him that sense he'd had in the Psych office, with Marte approaching, when he couldn't gather enough of his voice together so he could yell. Without his voice, he felt helpless— even if the moment passed.
"Your words," Notte continued, his mouth dipping into a frown, "have protected him— for too long. Come hai potuto fare una cosa del genere?" He clenched his teeth and seemed to be fighting a fit of rage; Shawn tensed, fully expecting another slap, but Notte gained control. "I wanted nothing with you." He leered over Shawn. "But now that I haveh you, I know that it panics him. He feels responsible— as he should." Notte gave a piercing, dark look which made Shawn squirm. "And any moment he feels the slightest twinge of fear— the drug reacts."
Notte was silent for a few seconds, and Shawn took the time to try to understand what had just been said to him. The drug reacts . . . to fear.
"It is, unfortunately, unpredictable. He is the first test—" Notte chuckled, staring into Shawn's wild eyes. "You needn't worry— we haven't any more. We would haveh to create it— my brother never wrote down any of his recipes." Shawn's tongue was thick, filling his mouth. The syringe, whatever had been in the syringe was— Notte had dosed Lassiter with something unknown and unpredictable. And—
"Any time he's scared?" Shawn asked thinly, horrified. Shawn's mind wandered back to Lassiter's reaction to what he'd read from Donia's lips; how he'd turned around to find Lassiter on the floor in a heap. He heard Lassie's words, "I just get scared" as explanation why he was near incoherent and soaked with sweat. And before that, when he heard Lassiter scream at the sink— Shawn closed his eyes. It had sounded like someone was killing him. Well, he'd been partially right— but it was happening internally rather than externally. "What is this going to do him— long term?" Shawn mumbled, staring at Notte, who stared back amusedly.
Notte scowled suddenly. "Mr. Lassiter has no long term, Mr. Spencer. As much as I would gain the slightest measure of joy from drawing out his torment by years—" Shawn gasped. "There can be no prediction made if it will remain in his system. I haveh already waited much too long." He smiled again. "It was you, Mr. Spencer, that made me realize that it was I who should carry out the act— not allow some three strikes killer to cut up his pretty face."
Shawn's mouth dropped open as far as it would go. Lassiter had said . . . wasn't that how Roman Cavaliere had died? "His throat was a wide gash, and deep cuts had separated the skin from both eyes, his nose, and corners of his mouth." Shawn tried to speak, but the only sounds that would come out were straggling gurgles.
Notte frowned. "You haveh tried to undermine me, Mr. Spencer. It is not appreciated." Shawn flinched when he saw Notte's leathery hand come at his face. He braced himself for a blow, but instead, Notte fingers coiled around Shawn's hair. Shawn winced, feeling the first tugs. "I haveh watched him— he is not aupposed to have any true friends." Notte shook his head. "So easily his police friends turned on him. Ah, he doesn't not deserve true friends." Notte's lip curled. "Yet, one copies test results— the other—" Notte yanked Shawn's hair until he cried out. "The other nearly convinces his police girlfriend that a mistake was made against Mr. Lassiter." Notte pulled harder. Shawn bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. "Then, he helps Mr. Lassiter retrieve all of his bad memories— the ones any other would as soon as forget."
"Those memories are important," Shawn grunted. "He remembered he wasn't a killer." Tears streamed down his face.
"You are daring, Mr. Spencer." Notte released Shawn, a strange amusement in his tone.
"You can't just— you can't just do this to people— screw with their lives because—" Shawn's voice pitched with anger, though he had no idea why he was letting himself argue with Notte— it was stupid and dangerous. "Because it suits you." He spit out some blood.
"Child, you vex me. To haveh some irksome psychic getting in my way," Notte snarled over Shawn, who looked back with anger and hatred. "I haveh waited too long— Ah." Notte paused, looking Shawn over very slowly. "Are you to wish that someone also desires your agonizing death?" Shawn shuddered and looked away. "Si, I think not. But you may haveh it."
What? Shawn thought with new shock. No.
"Ah, he pleaded for your safety, Mr. Spencer. How I nearly—" Notte clenched his fist around the air, then after shaking it, dropped it. "Alone— it would haveh been easy to pry the light from his eyes." Notte paused. "He is alarmed, on this edge, not knowing if we haveh hurt you— he say he will confess— throw away his freedom, if only we will grant you yours."
"What?" Shawn gasped, staring back. His stomach flipped. "You've seen him— talked to him—" Threatened him? Terrified him? Since the fight?
Notte clucked his tongue. "Ah, Marte did good work— but Mr. Lassiter is awake." Notte sighed. He patted Shawn's head.
Shawn felt the shock start in his toes and shoot up his body until his lips trembled. He repeated Notte's words in his head, trying to make the best sense of them. Lassie was awake— Shawn was relieved. But Lassie was alone. No one believed in his innocence. Notte had been to see him— had threatened him like before— except now Shawn was part of the reason for the intense fear. And Lassie— Shawn felt shame, and something else he couldn't put a name to. Lassiter said he would confess to the murder, if Notte released Shawn, safe and unharmed. Why would he do that? Then, before that, Notte alluded that it would have been easy to kill Lassiter in his hospital bed— because he was all alone and panicked— as if he wouldn't be missed.
Shawn jerked his head away. "You're a monster," he blurted out, letting the anger flare. "He didn't kill your brother. Why choose him, out of all the other cops?"
Notte frowned. "You cannot see it? Mr. Spencer, of all the police, he had the most to gain— he was the youngest yet presented the most diligent work ethic."
"So?" Shawn mumbled before biting his lip.
Notte balled his fists. "He would not let Roman from the charges. He looked for more and more damning evidence— ah, he would not stop. The other police may have given up eventually—"
Shawn stared back incredulously. Is this what Notte truly believed? That Lassiter had led some kind of one-man investigation and gathered all the evidence himself to put Cavaliere behind bars for good? Notte paced jerkily before him.
"I also remember the victorious sneer he wore on his face in court the day my brother was sentenced. He was ecstatic he had broken up my family."
Shawn knew it was pretty much useless to argue with Notte and his delusions, but he felt he had to try some reason. "You really think all of that is Lassiter's fault?" Shawn held his ground when Notte spun with hard eyes towards him. "Why don't you scapegoat the right person— your brother— the criminal who enjoyed drugging kids?" Notte took a menacing step towards Shawn's chair.
"And he was only doing his duty?" Notte growled. "No— he was securing his future. Making a name for himself in Santa Barbara. Making his name out of the bloodletting of ours. This brought him marks— and he was proud of his destruction," Notte seethed. "And from then on, on his way to become Head Detective. Never looked back, never had fears, lost sleep over what he had done. I haveh watched him since that very day— from the shadows. How many times I wished to leap out, silence him immediately with one bullet— but this is, ah, much sweeter."
Shawn clamped his mouth shut. Notte's words suggested how seriously convinced he had become of this— that Lassiter had single-handedly destroyed an entire family— all because he worked hard to put a criminal in prison where he belonged. Pin pricks of fear ran down the back of his neck, then down his arms and he shuddered before he could stop it. He knew he had to change the subject fast, though he wasn't certain he wanted to hear Notte's reasoning of anything else.
"Why wait all this time— if you were here?" Shawn asked, a shiver going up his arms on the word "here". "If you really wanted to, why didn't you—" he broke off, not wanting to finish the thought let alone the sentence. It chilled him to know that Notte had stayed in Santa Barbara after his brother's death, the reason being to start a dangerous obsession with Lassiter which would only, at least in Notte's mind, end with Lassiter's suffering and death.
"Why did I not put a bullet in his heart immediately?" Notte asked, looking Shawn over. Shawn didn't move or say a word. He stared past Notte to the door, tracing his eyes around the door frame. "At first, shock. I did not know what to think. But with the passage of time, I came to understand who— which one of them exactly— was the most responsible. And with this understanding, I realize that a quick death is no good. He must feel pain— there must be destruction of self— loss— everything must ache to the point of dying— without dying, until I say."
Shawn couldn't help himself— he let his eyes stray to Notte's face. He would have never admitted it before all this if evil truly had a face— but it did now.
"Then, a few years ago, the hand of fate offered its plan— a special concoction, virtually unknown. Then, it did not have a name, but it made outlandish promises of enhancing fear— working both along and against a person's reaction to any given situation— real or imagined. It sounded too good— not without its price, certainly," Notte said with narrowed eyes. "We searched and then, at the right time, what we had wanted would become ours."
"The right time?" Shawn asked softly.
Notte smiled. "Mr. Lassiter was at the height of the game— a leader, respected, admired, nearly infallible. Yet, how easy it is torn away. How easy they turn from him, how easy they place their blame." He paused, looking Shawn over again. "Perhaps too easy— but this is why I haveh you here now. You nearly saved him, Mr. Spencer."
Shawn felt bile in his throat. Notte was studying him with a twisted admiration— a mix of disgust and awe. He looked away again, feeling more helpless now than he'd ever felt, even as a child. He was still having a hard time grasping that Notte stalked and plotted against Lassiter for years— that he had completely fixated on the Lassiter as the source of all of his problems. Even Shawn would admit Lassiter had his irritating qualities, but at his heart he was a good cop. He didn't deserve this.
"Ah, now that you are more well, perhaps we should call your father again?" Notte asked, his voice beveled, even. Shawn was stabbed with a coldness. He wished his father would keep his distance, but feared Henry wouldn't— even though Shawn wanted to see him. That would be the day, wouldn't it? he thought nervously. It was messed up that it took him getting kidnapped to admit, at least to himself, that he needed Henry. "I'm certain he is worried about you, si?" Notte reached in his jacket pocket, retrieving a switchblade which he snapped open close to Shawn's face. Shawn jumped, then his eyes focused on the dried trail of red on the underside of the blade. With his other hand, Notte got out his cell phone and dialed. He pressed the blade against the hollow of Shawn's throat, waiting for Henry to pick up. "Shh, shh," Notte whispered to Shawn as he gritted his teeth, tightening his muscles to pull back the slightest distance from the knife.
"Hello, Mr. Spencer," Notte said when Henry picked up. The elder Spencer immediately asked about Shawn. "I was just speaking to him," the man continued, in an even but teasing tone. "And because I have decided to be generous, I will let you speak to him without the gag." Notte held the phone to Shawn's ear.
"Dad?" Shawn asked. His voice sounded very small. He coughed. Shawn felt the cold blade against his skin. "Dad?" he repeated, his voice quivering.
"Shawn?" Henry practically yelled. "Shawn? Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," Shawn rasped. "Lass—"
Notte whispered something in Shawn's ear.
"Dad, please come get me," Shawn said flatly, though there was an obvious fear in his tone. The phone was pulled from his ear.
"Let us see, it is just past eleven— I will give you two hours, Mr. Spencer. Bring the documents, come alone, and no police." Notte told him the address.
"Wait, are you letting Shawn go?" Henry blurted out, fear making him tremble.
"See you soon, Mr. Spencer," Notte said with a note of finality. He closed the phone.
Shawn barely noticed that Notte had pulled the blade away. He hung his head, feeling ashamed. Notte's mouth against his ear: "Tell him to come to your rescue or I will slice your neck slow and all he will find upon arrival is a bloody corpse." His breaths hitched, his eyes closed tight to keep in hot tears.
"Ah, but your father will come for you, Mr. Spencer," Notte placated over him, patting his cheek. Shawn stiffened, jerking away. "And then all will be well." He gagged Shawn, and then left. Shawn knew it was hopeless, but he struggled against the restraints, just as frustrated as ever that there wasn't any give. He screamed into the cloth until he was only a mass of shaking rage— a mess. Please, somebody, help me. Shawn struggled again, over and over until he was lightheaded— whatever calories had been in the broth must have gone. Please, I need help. Help me! He passed out screaming.
* * *
"Ah, isn't delirium soothing, caro? See how much you haveh upset them? How could you?"
Lassiter could hear voices— he fought the current to break the surface of sound.
"Now, I would not move if I were you, caro."
Where am I? What am I doing here? He felt his limbs curled into towards his body; his arms were freezing. Angry male voices argued somewhere above his head.
"What do you need him for? You will risk everything we haveh worked for?"
"This is about taking back what is ours. You do not want that? We have come to be so lowly in our own name because of him!"
"Why not kill him now? Why haveh you waited?"
"He must suffer, as my brother— your father— suffered."
"What if this does not work? What if they do not believe this theft? Notta, why choose that over the poison? It could have been quick. It still could. We could be at peace."
"He does not deserve quick! You do not want his suffering?"
Lassiter stirred, just a bit, catching faint glimpses of the two men arguing. He pawed at the floor, trying to sit up. One of them spun— an angry, young face— and then the sting of pain on his cheek that raked tears to his eyes. Why couldn't he get up?
"What if we cannot get what we want? What if they do not arrest him? What if we have more to do to secure his torment? Notta, have you put all your hopes on—"
There was another sharp slap, but Lassiter realized that he hadn't been hit this time. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open, so he listened to the voices threading in through his mind, even though he could swear someone was calling his name.
"You cannot go back on this! You were there as much as I— and we at least haveh this one more job to do."
"We do not even need those— it is such a risk! What if he is recognized? They will take him from us, then what?"
"You worry like a woman— he is ours—"
Their voices were drown out by a sound equivalent to a sledgehammer bashing metal right near his head.
"Then we should keep him here," the first voice muttered as the clanging died out, young, sweet with an edge. "For all time. Then you will haveh what you want— no more police, and I shall haveh what I want—"
"You fool! They will not stop looking for him!"
While Lassiter shifted uneasily in his sleep, Henry read over the journal again. He'd arrived immediately, as soon visiting hours began— his stomach was tight with knots of dread; Lassiter had been asleep for almost the full hour since he'd been here. Henry knew he needed to rest in order to heal— but the younger man seemed to grow paler with each passing minute. He sipped his coffee and flipped another page. It was hard to ignore that Lassiter looked like he was in some kind of agony; Henry made himself reread the whole journal before he tried to intervene.
There was a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to guide him away from the voices. Someone wanted him to wake up. He heard his name.
"Carlton, please," a voice in the present urged. "Come back."
He felt the hard tide of memory attempting to pull him back under; a darkness, like a shivery scream, hovering just inside his mouth. He swallowed it, dry as it was like paper.
Coolness on his skin— soft as cloth, damp. The voices were melting, muted into the background of the darkness in his head. "A bad dream," he heard someone mutter, the ethereal voice hovering close to his face. He shivered, and then couldn't feel the cloth anymore.
"You still look like hell," Henry muttered when Lassiter opened his eyes. Lassiter recognizing him, shot back, "I feel like"— he coughed, pain shooting up his ribs. His eyes watered a little. "Hell," he finished.
"You all right?" Henry asked, looking him over with concern. "Doctor said it was just a bad dream—"
"I wish," Lassiter murmured. He pressed his left hand against his head, stifling a groan.
"Was it a memory?"
Lassiter shrugged, feeling pain in his right wrist. "Bits— pieces— it was too muddled to make sense of it." Lassiter's eyes fell on the journal. "Light reading?"
Henry grunted, deep in his throat. Lassiter's nasty injuries glared at him. "Anyone bother you last night?"
"No," Lassiter said. "But my sleep was restless at best." He shifted, wincing.
Henry nodded. "Mine too." He tapped the journal. "I'm sorry."
"For what? My life?" Lassiter mumbled, turning his head.
Henry sighed. "Yesterday— I lost my temper. You'd just been—" Henry hesitated, the contents of the journal still fresh. "And then I hit you—"
Lassiter shrugged, gingerly. "It knocked some sense into me— it was wrong of me to try to keep that information from you. You're right, he is your son. And it's my mess and my responsibility."
"Carlton, this is more than a 'mess'," Henry said, dropping the journal on the metal bedside table. He sighed, not knowing exactly how to phrase it. "I think— from all this, from what I saw yesterday— that the contents of the syringe are still in your bloodstream."
Oh. Lassiter wasn't expecting that. He turned his head, staring at Henry as wide as his eyes could go.
Henry gestured to the journal. "In there, you make several references to being under someone's control— do you know why? Were you threatened in some way? A weapon, a death threat?"
Lassiter swallowed, trying to think through the holes in his memory. Eventually he told Henry that there was threatening, there were weapons, possible death threats— but that those weren't the reasons he did what he was told. "They'd just say something— sit, walk, be quiet, stop, stay still—" Lassiter shook his head slowly. "And I'd do it. There were times I could resist— try to, but—" He grunted with frustration. "It doesn't make sense. It's no wonder everyone thinks I'm crazy— I even think—"
"You're not. Get that thought out of your head. I'm sorry you had to face this alone— it seems that that's what your abductors wanted."
"What?" Lassiter's eyes widened.
"You, cut off from everyone— friends, colleagues— isolated. They could prey on you more easily if you weren't thinking clearly— if you, yourself, were convinced you had lost your mind. And then if you'd been drugged, the effects of paranoia could become more debilitating."
"Oh, my— god." Lassiter took in some deep breaths, feeling his hands shake. It— made sense. Then he paused. "But Shawn was helping me. He was keeping me sane," Lassiter realized slowly as he said it. "I didn't want his help, I didn't think I needed it— but he was there— convinced that something was wrong." Lassiter pressed his lips together. "I didn't deserve his help— I don't deserve yours. Whatever I've done—" Still, after all this time, after all that Spencer had helped him uncover, after all he'd remembered on his own— god, even if this whole thing was somehow connected to Roman Cavaliere— what had he done wrong? He had no idea. Other than remembering, other than figuring out that he wasn't the killer of Max Sweets. He shook his head.
"Stop it," Henry cut in. "They're not getting you. I won't allow it."
Lassiter froze, peering at the serious look in Henry's eyes. "What if it's not up to you?"
Henry crossed his arms. "You don't deserve any thing bad happening to you— and I'm pissed that they went after you like this."
Lassiter looked him over, wondering if Henry was only saying this because he was worried about Shawn. "I'm not a saint, Henry."
"Doesn't matter." Henry paused. "I see what you're doing— trying to push me away. You think you can handle this yourself?"
Lassiter sighed. "No, I don't. But I've already put enough people in danger—"
"Carlton, don't let me ever catch you saying that again," Henry said firmly, stunning the younger man a little with his tone. Lassiter had heard Henry use this tone with Shawn— and heard the kid laugh it off. Perhaps he was mistaken, but it almost seemed Henry was treating him like a son— or a younger brother who needed to be looked out for. It was strange; he was used to looking out for himself.
"You don't think I put Shawn in—"
Henry's mouth drew into a tight line. "I told you, Shawn is Shawn. I saw that bruise— that would have been enough to make me retrace my steps, fall back into the shadows a little more. But Shawn sees something like that as a challenge; besides, he was right to have his concern. These aren't childish games— your life is at stake here. So is his."
Lassiter was stunned to silence. He thought over Henry's words.
Henry's cell phone rang inside his pocket. Henry grew tense, pulling the phone out and answering it. He got up, wandering to the window, which now showed him a bright sunny day— the fourth day since Shawn's kidnapping. "Hello?"
"Hello, Mr. Spencer," the man said. Henry threw a look to Lassiter and then mouthed, "It's him."
"Can I please speak to Shawn?" Henry pleaded. "I have the documents— I'll do whatever you want."
After the man made claims of his great generosity, Henry heard Shawn's voice. "Dad? Dad?"
"Shawn? Shawn? Are you okay?"
Shawn sounded very weak— dehydrated, definitely. He couldn't tell from these few words if Shawn had been injured; he prayed that Shawn was all right. Henry knew he was somehow being forced to say the words, "Please come get me—" because if Shawn were himself, he'd try to talk Henry out of it with some sarcastic or joking remark.
"Dad, please come get me." The words made Henry shiver as he listened to Notte's instructions, then heard only silence. He stood by the window trying to control his breathing.
"You talked to Shawn?" Lassiter asked, bringing him back into the present. Henry went back to the chair and sat down.
Henry rubbed a hand across his mouth. "Yeah. I've got two hours to deliver the documents. They didn't say if—" There wasn't any plan; Henry heard the man's warning to Lassiter yesterday— "Do what we say or we'll keep him. And you'll never find his body."
Lassiter swallowed to moisten his cotton dry mouth. He'd held his breath the whole time. "How did he sound?"
"Scared," Henry said. "He said he was okay. He started to ask about you." Henry got up but froze, seeming unsure. He looked towards the door, then back in Lassiter's direction.
"Where do you have to go?" Lassiter asked. He felt around for the remote to the bed, pushing the button so he could raise the bed into a sitting position.
"Leadbetter Hill Beach, to some quiet, near empty lot of storage and industrial buildings," Henry said, repeating what Notte had told him. He started to repeat the number when he saw Lassiter push the sheets from his legs and reach for his IV lines.
"I'm going with you," Lassiter told Henry. He ripped out his IVs with a few grunts before Henry could even protest.
* * *
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Samuelson asked Juliet, who still looked nervous despite her insistence that she wasn't.
"I'm sure— I'm trying to prepare myself for likely fall out." Juliet smoothed her hair, tight in its bun.
"He really means this much to you?" Adam asked. "That you would risk suspension?"
Juliet sighed. "They both do— I can't ignore that things aren't wrong anymore, especially since there are vivid visuals which state otherwise." She set her face and strode towards Chief Vick's office.
Vick was going over the two reports when Juliet knocked on the door. She was trying very hard to make sense of this strange plastic container the CS team had found under Carlton's sink; it had been written up in the report as being connected to the kitchen water pipes, set on a timer, and its purpose seemed to be to change the water into a red gooey substance akin to corn syrup. But what was its real purpose? Why . . . no, how, had that gotten in there? When? They wouldn't have even found it if the kitchen cabinet hadn't been already opened. Its existence made Vick very uncomfortable. She realized the only person who could explain it was Lassiter— and she had forbidden any of her force to see him.
And why had— who might— "The real killer?" she heard O'Hara's snap from yesterday.
She let O'Hara's voice stay fresh and scanned the next part— which detailed the damage done to Lassiter's car. Dear god— hadn't O'Hara tried to mention something about slashed tires— "I didn't listen to her," Vick muttered. She looked up at the knock. "Come in," she said distractedly, mildly surprised to see O'Hara standing rigidly in the doorway.
Juliet stepped in, easing the door shut. Juliet smoothed the front of her jacket, though it was already free of wrinkles. "Ma'am. I have something I need to say." She waited for Vick's full attention.
"All right," Karen said, folding her hands together. She stole another glance at the report.
Juliet took a deep breath. "I want to apologize for the way I spoke to you yesterday— I let my emotions get the better of me. But I would like to express the reason why I was— why I am— so upset."
Karen nodded. The words found cut into Carlton's car door were glaring at her from the sheet of paper, as well peeking at her from their photographs. She cleared her throat. "Go on."
Juliet shifted her weight. She began explaining some of what she had told Samuelson— how she knew it was her duty to arrest criminals and how letting her feelings for a particular person get in the way was never an option. But Lassiter had been her partner for three years— she knew him. At first, she'd been confused— but she was certain now that a horrible injustice had been done against Lassiter— and she needed to discover who was really responsible.
"I see," Vick said. "And how long have you felt this way?"
Juliet shook her head, knowing what she was about to say might get her fired. "Nearly since the beginning, but I didn't act on it until—"
Vick held up her hand with a sigh. "Did you go to Mr. Spencer?"
Juliet frowned, but nodded. "But only to ask for his help, to do his own investigation— not to play detective with him. That was on August 11. To my surprise, I discovered Shawn had already been helping him."
"What?" Vick stood up. "O'Hara, this is important. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"I—" Juliet flushed. She thought of the perfect example. "You didn't believe me when I told you about what Shawn said about Lassiter's slashed tires"— Vick froze— "so why would you believe me if I let you know that Shawn told me Lassiter may have a stalker?" Juliet's hands flew to her mouth. Her skin felt hot and prickly. She was certain she had just perjured herself.
Lassiter may have a stalker. Karen felt the same ice in her veins as when she was told of Lassiter's probable attack. Finding her voice was hard; it was drifting above her head in many shattered pieces, but she was able to collect some shards, enough to say, "You're right, O'Hara. I wouldn't have believed you— then. But I believe you now."
Juliet's brow furrowed, staring at her superior. "You— what?"
"Here," Vick said, handing over Lassiter's report, open to the page she was studying. "Tell me more about this stalker, Detective."
Juliet took it, confused. "I didn't see this part before," she said.
"I just got it— it's the second part of the report. I held it onto it, trying to make sense of things."
Juliet stared at the enlarged photographs of the angry, red scratches of "Ask" and "Tell". "Oh, my god. Shawn didn't say anything about these."
"Maybe he didn't know— maybe this had been done after he'd seen the tires."
Juliet looked up from the pictures, staring into Vick's eyes. This did seemed like the work of a stalker; god, wouldn't that be a better explanation as to why and how Lassiter had been attacked than as a random home invasion? After all, nothing had been stolen.
Except Shawn.
Juliet cleared her throat. "Shawn told me that Lassiter was panicked because he thought he was being watched— Shawn said that that was the reason he'd left the hospital." She sighed, trying to sort out that conversation.
"Because he thought he was being watched?" Karen felt herself backsliding and did her best to focus on this moment. Lassiter may have a stalker. This stalker may have attacked him, could have almost killed him— god. "Wait— Lassiter told— tried to tell me that someone had visited his room in the middle of the night—" She breathed, closing her eyes, hearing his terrified cries on Shawn's voice mail. "And scared him to death." She shook her head. "He tried to tell me."
Juliet nodded. "That's what Shawn had said— Lassiter apparently told Shawn he didn't feel safe in the hospital after this person—" She sighed. "Chief, Shawn mentioned it was possible Lassiter's— abductors could have cleaned up. Made it seem like he was lying about the whole thing. Shawn said that Lassiter was worried the people watching him may have taken him— but he just couldn't remember."
Lassiter's abductors. He can't remember. There it was again. Though, Vick tried to admit, if it was possible— more than possible— that Lassiter was being stalked, and he'd been alone, confined to his apartment, wasn't it also possible that Lassiter had been telling the truth, all along? Of course, none of these thoughts were new to her— she'd been wrestling with them since Lassiter first went missing and then returned. If this was really true— then she'd have to admit that she had been nearly as bad as these abductors or stalkers— she had disregarded his claims and fears as lies— she'd victimized him simply by not having the faith in Lassiter, to know enough when he was telling her the truth.
"According to Shawn, Lassiter remembered the name— surname— of one of the people who may have abducted him," Juliet said, still sorting out her thoughts. She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, trying remember how to pronounce the name.
"A surname?" Vick said, feeling needles in her hands.
As Juliet tried to remember how to say it, a knock at the door startled them.
"Come in," Vick called, still eyeing Juliet, who was stumped.
Adam Samuelson leaned in the doorway. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's a man who—"
"I know that it means 'the night' in Italian," Juliet said, not meaning to cut him off, but doing it anyway. She furrowed her brow deeper. "Why can't I think of it?"
"What means 'the night' in Italian?" Samuelson asked.
Juliet sighed. "This surname I can't think of," she said.
Samuelson thought a moment. "Do you mean Cavaliere?"
Juliet froze. "What did you say?"
"Cavaliere," Samuelson repeated. "Lassiter's old case, right, from 1998?"
"What are you talking about, Lassiter's old case?" Vick demanded, her eyes shining.
Juliet shook her head, squeezing her eyes closed. "Why did you say Cavaliere?"
"Because that name means 'knight' in Italian." When he caught the two women staring at him, he elaborated. "Knight. You know, regal, gallant, rides a white horse, chain mail, jousting—"
Juliet felt her blood hum through her veins. "Adam, didn't you tell me that the family— Cavaliere— had to change their name because of some scandal—?"
Adam nodded. "They didn't have to— but they had too much pride. At least the reporter who wrote the story thought they did. They changed it to— huh. It was another word that means 'night' in Italian, but that kind of 'night' that's darkness, the opposite of day."
"Notte," Juliet supplied, the name sharp on her tongue.
Adam nodded. "Yeah. That's it. That's what they changed it to. The reason being something about their world going dark since the beloved golden son had died."
"Notte?" Vick repeated, staring hard at her two detectives.
"Yes," Juliet said, feeling her lips go numb. "According to Shawn, that's the surname of the person Lassiter remembered stalking him— and who may have abducted him."