He woke up slowly, feeling sick and disoriented – and sick, really, really sick. Not only that, but he could smell the odor surrounding him, which made the memory of what happened come back to him although he tried to instantly put it out of his mind.

His head was resting on his chest and he didn't have the energy, or frankly the hope, to lift it up. He hurt and he wanted his Dad and – and the tears again began to roll down his cheeks.

He couldn't bear to look at his hands, his fingers – even though the pain was so intense it was sending shooting agony up his arm. He wanted to vomit when he remembered his nails being pulled – but not just pulled. He closed his eyes and he clearly felt again the twisting, pulling, yanking of the pliers as they'd forced his nails out of his fingers. He could feel the gorge rise in his throat, unable to believe that he was actually enduring what he'd only ever read about.

It was as he tried to force himself to calm down that he realized he was shaking. He was freezing cold and the tremors were so bad they were causing the chair to move slightly. He let out a strained giggle, which frightened him – was he going insane already? He knew the shaking was partially because of cold, but mostly due to shock and wondered how much longer he could last.

He finally gathered the strength to look at his hands, only to flinch. The blood had stopped flowing from his arms but they were already totally brown with blood, which had, in turn, dripped on his pants. His fingers – God – they were curled like claws but he could see that they were raw and red – and looked like they'd been stuck in the end of a meat grinder. He wondered briefly if finger nails grew back once they'd been ripped out – and with the next thought decided it didn't really matter. He probably wouldn't live long enough for it to make a difference anyway.

He tried to shift his legs – both of which were numb but they were still taped to the chair. It was only then that he allowed himself to face the other horror, the fact that he'd actually wet himself. His pants were cold and clammy and the smell was bad. He almost laughed at himself for the blush he could feel creep up his neck. Who the hell cared that he'd peed himself? Certainly not his torturer – and no one else would know – at least not until he was dead and then he wouldn't feel embarrassment anyway.

He was pretty sure his Dad would be disgusted. He could just imagine him telling him that a Spencer would "never wet himself Shawn. If you had become a cop you would have been able to hold it."

He giggled again – yeah okay, he was definitely going crazy. He tried to swallow, but instead coughed. He hadn't had anything to drink in what felt like days and his mouth and throat were so dry he was sure he was going to choke. Hey – maybe he'd die of thirst and save himself any more torture.

"Except dying of thirst is torture Shawn", his good friend Gus made sure to point out.

"Thanks Buddy", he mumbled. "Can always count on you."

"Of course you can Shawn – I'll always be there for you. Whoops – no I won't – I forgot. I'm not your friend anymore, which is actually kind of good because now I don't have to worry that you're missing. I can do my job and be the best pharmaceutical representative on the west coast without you around to bother me. I'm finally happy Shawn – so you see, you getting kidnapped and tortured was the best thing that could have happened to me."

He felt like crying when he heard Gus' words, although a part of him questioned whether or not they were real. Maybe they were just in his head. Then again, he knew he had often bugged Gus and that sometimes he could be pretty selfish where his friend was concerned, but surely Gus didn't really want him to be tortured – did he?

"Of course not Shawn", his father said impatiently. "Gus is too good to say those kinds of things although they are true. You have held him back. You've just never grown up, have you? You thought you could go through life simply having fun and not taking responsibility for anyone or anything including yourself. Well look what that's brought you. Here you are getting your finger nails pulled out and for what? So you can spend your life thinking about Churros and a pineapple smoothies. I'm afraid you got what you deserved son, so don't come crying to me for help this time. I've had it with you."

"Dad? No Dad – please, you've got to help me. I'm sorry – I am, really. I'll grow up – I promise if I get out of here I will – really – please."

No one answered his cries so he continued to sit, unmoving and, he knew, slowly dying. He understood that he couldn't take much more, didn't want to take any more, although he was pretty positive he had no choice anyway. He tried not to see those pictures - to know what was coming, but he couldn't help it. If there really was a merciful god, maybe he'd die before it went too much farther.

He moved restlessly, as much as he could, trying to find some position that wasn't totally excruciating. As his head moved he again caught site of the pictures. He laughed – why had he thought that actually solving something would make a difference? Bill – dear old Bill – wanted to torture him. He didn't really care about finding the murderer. Still – without wanting to, Shawn's eyes and mind again returned to the mystery of the numbers. At least it would take his mind off what he was feeling.

"Any luck O'Hara?" Carlton was standing by her desk, his usually immaculate appearance somewhat lacking for once. His jacket was off and his tie had been pulled down, the top buttons of his shirt undone. What was even more surprising was that his hair was messy, as if he'd been running his hands through it. Although Juliet had known it for a long time, this proved to her that Lassiter really did care about Shawn. She knew he'd die rather than show it – but he considered Shawn a friend and a colleague and he was going to do his damnedest to find the psychic.

"No, nothing", she finally answered, just as Lassiter began to look at her strangely. "I've been through what feels like dozens of files but there's nothing. Did you get anything off any of the notes?"

"No – no finger prints, nothing. We also checked with locksmiths and with the furniture company. They have no records of anyone doing this. The furniture company claims the furniture was ordered on-line and paid for through . The credit card was a dead end – the numbers had been stolen – a case of identity theft."

"So there's nothing definite although it sounds like whoever did this had to be very smart. But why? Why would they go after Shawn? The Chief is working with Buzz to go through all of the cases Shawn has done for the SBPD and there's nothing that has come up. Either the criminals are all in jail or they have no reason to hurt him."

"I don't know O'Hara, but there has to be something. This didn't happen for no reason. We just need to keep looking."

She nodded and pulled out the next file. She glanced over at where Henry was sitting at another desk, carefully going through more files. He'd said nothing in the hours they'd been searching, simply getting up occasionally for another cup of coffee or trip to the men's room.

She sighed and rubbed her hand through her hair. There had to be something. If only Shawn were here he would find it – it's what he did best. She laughed ironically. Yeah – and if he were here then they wouldn't need him. God, to think the only person who seemed capable of solving this crime was the victim himself. No! She was a detective – a damn good one. She could do this. For Shawn she would do it. It was not going to end here, not before they had a chance. She'd waited, had let things go because she thought there was time. Well time had run out and she was going to get him back.

Lassiter couldn't remember the last time he felt so angry or so frustrated. How in hell did the psychic – the fake psychic get himself into these situations? Lassiter's life had been clear before Spencer had arrived. He'd had a crappy marriage and was having an affair with his partner – but those things were normal. At least he'd never worried about his job or his skills. He came to work, was the best detective the department had, solved crimes the way they were supposed to be solved, and went home. That's how it was supposed to be.

And then Shawn Spencer had flung his way into his life. He'd hopped and danced and twirled and pseudo-divined his way into the life of the station. He'd pulled the wool over everyone's eyes, had made Lassiter's life hell and had solved crimes that should have been his to solve. He'd laughed and teased and irritated and driven him crazy – so why was he working so hard to get the idiot back?

Well, Spencer was a civilian and it was Lassiter's duty to protect civilians. He pulled another file, wanting to leave it at that, but the small voice in the back of his head that refused to let him lie to himself told him that that wasn't the only reason. He'd grown – accustomed – to having Spencer around. It wasn't that he'd really miss him – hell no – but he did make life more interesting. And O'Hara seemed to like him – too much if Lassiter had anything to say about it.

And of course he brought occasional comic relief. Lassiter practically grinned when he remembered Spencer channeling the cat. And okay – so he had helped – a tiny bit – on occasion. Still, he really wasn't –

"GOD DAMN IT!" He threw the files on the floor. "There's nothing here! Why can't we find the damn man? There has to be something here."

Juliet looked up in shock, unused to see Carlton so outwardly upset. She noticed that Henry too looked up – but the small smile on his face suddenly reminded her of Shawn and she had to look away.

"It's there Lassiter", Henry said softly, standing up and walking over. "We're just not looking for the right things. We have to go back to the beginning and consider all angles, even those we've ignored or didn't think likely."

"What angles?" Carlton said in frustration. "We're just looking for any woman – or girl – who was killed. That's a pretty broad angle. And okay – so we're trying to find a tie in with Sp- ur Shawn – but what if there isn't a tie in? What if there's nothing?"

The other two looked at him in surprise although in Henry's case that quickly turned to an arrested expression. "Wait – maybe that's it."

"What?" Juliet's brow crinkled in confusion. "What's 'it'?"

"Maybe this doesn't – didn't have anything to do with Shawn."

"I think the notes and this guy's actions proved otherwise Henry." Lassiter was shaking his head.

"No – I mean yes, he went after Shawn – but what if the original crime had nothing to do with him. What if he'd just picked Shawn for some other reason? I mean, it could have been that the guy simply saw him coming out of the police station or – hell, something else."

"But why Shawn and not someone involved in whatever crime was committed – or unsolved? Wouldn't a police officer be more logical? Or even a lawyer or prosecutor – someone like that."

Henry began to pace in the small office. "What's the one thing that's different about Shawn?"

Lassiter opened his mouth but at O'Hara's sharp look he closed it, although it looked like it was killing him to do so.

"He's a psychic", Juliet answered, her eyes round. "Could that be it? But – but what would that have to do with anything? And anyway – Shawn's been totally successful with all the crimes he's investigated. He hasn't failed."

"No – but what if someone else did?"

"Another psychic?" Lassiter began to shake his head. "Come on Henry – you're reaching. How in the world – why in the world would there be another psychic and if there was, this guy wouldn't have confused them."

"No – maybe not." Henry sighed and again rubbed his head. "But at least let's check it out. There has to be something. I just know it."

Juliet glanced at Carlton and at his short nod she stood. "I'll check the computer. Hopefully we'll find something."

Shawn's head jerked up – and his eyes opened. He had almost fallen asleep. "Should have just let myself", he muttered. Sleep had to be better than the agony he was in. But he was almost finished and no matter what happened, he wanted to figure out the clue. He knew it didn't mean anything – it wouldn't solve anything or save him – but it was who he was. He was a crime fighting machine – and he might as well go out the way he lived.

He'd figured out the code after a few minutes of staring at the pictures. There was an order to the numbers based on the order of the pictures, and he'd been able to figure that out by the little girl's necklace.

The murderer had placed the little pendant in different places around her neck, starting at a spot under her right ear and working around to the left. In each successive picture the pendant moved. All he then had to do was figure out which numbers came first, second, etc until he had the final sequence.

In the end he'd deciphered the date: September 10, 1969. He wasn't positive about it, but it seemed likely. Of course he had absolutely no idea what that meant – but maybe it would to Bill. He wondered if he should even bother telling his torturer. What difference did it really make? He finally allowed his head to droop onto his chest.

"Spencer? What the hell are you still doing alive?" Lassiter's voice cut through the haze that was surrounding him. "I thought you'd have the decency to die by now and let us get on with our work. Without you here the station can return to the professional operation it once was. There'll be no more shenanigans around here I can tell you and I for one will be glad. Now I don't have to be ashamed that the place I work would hire a childish buffoon like you." The tall, dark-haired detective turned away to file something in his hand.

"Shenanigans? Really Lassy?" he muttered. Still, the detective's words cut deep. He'd thought old Lassiface was beginning to respect him – maybe even like him a teeny bit. It was pretty obvious, though, that the man felt nothing but contempt. He definitely would be happier without Shawn.

He turned away from Lassiter to see his favorite Detective. Hey, at least he could always count on her.

"Hey Jules!"

"Shawn? What are you doing here?" she frowned at him. "Lassiter told me you'd died."

"Uh no – still here." He glanced around, starting to feel paranoid for actually existing.

"Oh – well I'm really busy now so I can't talk."

"Maybe later?" he asked hopefully.

"Sorry – I'm going out with two different men later Shawn – both of them much more mature than you. In fact, I'd be proud to spend my life with either of them", she pondered for a moment, "or possible both. I don't have time for immature, selfish psychics, no matter how great their hair is. So you should consider doing what Lassiter said."

"What -?"

"Die Shawn – just die."

He couldn't help the sob that escaped. Even Jules hated him and wanted him to die. So why wasn't he doing it? Why was he hanging around just wasting everyone's time? They'd all be better off if he died – his father, Gus, Lassiter, Jules. He was being selfish. "Just die Shawn", he whispered to himself.

This time he heard the door as it opened but his only reaction was to close his eyes. He knew what was coming and that there was nothing he could do to stop it. He just prayed that he'd lose consciousness quickly or, more preferably, he'd simply kick the bucket.

"Where's they get that expression Bill?" he asked, his word slurring.

"What? What the hell are you mumbling Psychic?"

"Kick the bucket – seems a strange expression. Why would anyone – wanna kick a – a bu – you know." His voice was rough and barely audible and he could no longer even get a clear thought out.

"Shut up", Bill told him. He walked over and lifted Shawn's head with his hand. "Not going to last too much longer, are you?" He laughed. "Good thing cause you're really starting to smell."

"Please", Shawn whispered. "Water?"

"Water? Why would I give you water? I want you to suffer and die. But maybe I should give you a bit." He looked his captive over carefully. "I do want you around to appreciate the end so I'll give you a little to keep you going." He reached back into the backpack of doom and after a moment pulled out a water bottle. Still watching Shawn he twisted off the cab and walked up to him. "Here." Without any warning he tipped the bottle up and into Shawn's mouth.

"Gaaah", water poured into – and out of his mouth – too quickly. Unfortunately some of it made its way down his windpipe, causing him to choke and cough.

"I thought you wanted some?" Bill laughed and took a swig. "Here, have some more."

This time Shawn was prepared and managed to actually drink a few sips. It wasn't nearly enough – but it had been a small taste of heaven.

"There, that's enough. Wouldn't want to get greedy."

He debated begging once more, but didn't really have the energy and knew it was probably a lost cause anyway. It was probably better this way – water would have revived him too much and he just needed to let go, to do what his family and friends wanted, and die.

"So, only a couple more times together Shawn. I'm gonna miss you, you know. It's too bad you weren't able to figure it out. All I wanted was for you to find him – to find her killer – that's all I asked. You promised but you lied to me and I'm afraid you're going to have to die." He stopped and waited, expecting Shawn to speak – to deny, to beg – to do something. But the man in front of him refused to even look up.

There was no point, Shawn knew. It was best to sit quietly because Bill was going to do what he wanted no matter what.

"You know you've done wrong, don't you", Bill suddenly hissed. "That's why you're not trying to defend yourself. You are a liar and a cheat."

"No – no I'm not", Shawn said softly. He wasn't going to plead with the man, nor was he going to let the other man say what he wanted. "I didn't lie and I didn't cheat. I've done nothing wrong."

Bill screamed and looked as if he wanted to kill Shawn right there and then. At the last moment he pulled himself back – and instead smiled. "That was naughty Shawn. I have this planned out and I would have been very angry with you if you had spoiled that."

Bill considered the almost unconscious man for a moment and then retrieved his bag. "Let's see – I've got it right here." He pulled out the knife he'd already used to cut the other man's arms, Shawn's blood already dried on the blade, having turned the blade a dull brown in color. "I've already used this", he lamented softly, "but it is a good knife and I didn't really want to have to buy another one for this round. I hope you don't mind that it's a bit dirty. Since it's your dirt it shouldn't matter, should it?"

When he didn't answer Bill grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. "Are you listening to me? Because you need to pay attention. I want everyone to know what kind of man you are psychic. I want them to know you're a liar and a cheat – so I'm going to make sure they do." With that he pushed Shawn forward in the chair.

He groaned – the pressure on his back and legs and arms was terrible. With his arms taped to the chair the position caused horrible strain on them and they began to bleed again. It also hurt his neck – but there was nothing he could do.

Shawn couldn't see what was happening with his face pressed half-way to his knees. Bill continued to hold him down with one hand and waited for something to happen. He whimpered again – God – no. "Please don't", he begged.

"You are a liar!" Bill's other hand grabbed his shirt collar in back. "And a cheat!" He pulled down on the shirt – which tightened around Shawn's neck. Fortunately, after a few seconds, it began to rip. With a strong 'yank' Bill ripped it right down the middle, leaving Shawn's back exposed.

"LIAR"

"Aaaaargh" Shawn screamed as the damned knife pressed into his back. He continued to scream as Bill muttered and drew the knife across Shawn's back,slicing the skin. It went on for what seemed to be an eternity of pain before Shawn realized.

The man was writing on his back with the knife. He was actually forming letters in his back. He wondered briefly what he was writing. A moment later he passed out.

"Oh my God!" O'Hara placed the receiver down and turned to the other two. "I found something."

"What? What is it?" Henry rushed over, as did Lassiter. "What did you find detective?"

"I just talked to an Officer Hilcrest. t's an old case of his that took place about five years ago in Phoenix."

"Phoenix? Why the hell were you looking in Phoenix, O'Hara?" Lassiter asked.

"I wasn't." She looked up at the two men, her face white. "I checked the data base for anything related to murder and psychic– and this is what came up. I decided to give him a call and he just finished telling me all about it."

"Tell us what he said", Henry told her, trying to remain calm.

"About five years ago a man came into the police station in Phoenix, claiming that his young daughter had been kidnapped. He brought in a picture of her and told them that she'd been taken from his back yard. Of course, being a child, they mobilized right away. Officers were immediately sent to his house and surrounding area – where they checked everything carefully. Unfortunately, they couldn't find any evidence that pointed to where the girl could be."

"So how does this -"

"Let her talk Carlton", Henry interrupted. "I'm sure she's getting to it."

Juliet gave him a quick smile and continued. "Days went by and nothing – no ransom, no idea who could have the child. Finally, on the fourth day, an envelope arrived. They thought it would be a ransom note – instead it was something much worse."

"What? O'Hara?" Lassiter asked impatiently.

"A picture – of his daughter."

"And?" Henry looked up, seeming to understand where this was going.

"She had been tortured."

"Crap!" Lassiter turned around, his hand to his eyes. "Was she alive?" he finally asked.

"Yes – at least in that first picture. The police doubled their efforts to find her – but nothing and each day another photo would arrive. The kidnapper was torturing her and sending the photos to her father."

"God" Henry breathed. "So what happened?"

"When it didn't look as if the police were going to solve the case, the father claimed he was going to find her on his own. He hired a psychic to help find his daughter." Juliet stopped and took a deep breath.

"By this time she'd been gone almost a week and there were no new clues or ideas as to where she could be although the psychic promised he could find her. The father stopped even talking to the police, relying solely on the psychic."

The others were watching her intently, knowing that there was something else, something she hadn't told them yet. "And what happened?" Lassiter finally asked.

"Eventually the case went cold and the investigation was pared down. The father begged them to continue, but they told him there were no more leads. They would keep looking, they told him, but they were drastically reducing the number of officers assigned to the case. It's pretty evident they thought it was too late and she was already dead. It was strange, but the report says the father didn't blame the police at all."

"But he blamed somebody", Henry said softly.

"Yes", she nodded, looking stricken. "He blamed the psychic and told him he was going to kill him for causing his daughter to die."

There was silence in the room until Lassiter eventually spoke. "That's nice O'Hara, but Spencer had nothing to do with this so the guy had no reason to kidnap him."

"That's not all", she said. "He did try to kill the psychic and ended up putting him in hospital with severe injuries. At his trial it was deemed he wasn't mentally competent and he was put in a secure mental health facility."

"Is he still there?" Henry was looking at her intently, his face pale.

"No", she whispered. "He got out three months ago. They said he was doing well."

"Damn!" Lassiter looked furious. "What about the psychic – the one from Phoenix. Do we know what's happened to him?"

"He's dead", Juliet informed them. At their look of shock she quickly explained – "he wasn't murdered. The file says he died of lung cancer three years after the man was committed."

"So he couldn't go after the guy", Carlton nodded, "and instead decided to take revenge on another psychic instead. You may be on to something here."

"Of course she's on to something", Henry barked. "This has to be our guy. What's his name?"

"William Farris", she told them. "He went by 'Bill'. We need to find out where he is."

The next few minutes were spent getting permission from Chief Vic and beginning the search for Farris. Once things were in the works everyone convened to Vick's office.

"What about his daughter", Henry finally asked, once everyone was seated. "I assume they never found her?"

"No", Juliet looked over at him, a look of compassion in her eyes. "No, they didn't find her – because they couldn't", she told her companions.

Henry stared at her for a moment, knowing there was something else she wasn't saying. "Why – why couldn't they find her?" he finally asked. The Chief and Lassiter both looked at her intently, also seeming to feel that there was something important that hadn't been said.

Juliet looked up, a look of hopelessness on her face. "Because she didn't exist."