Thank you so much to those of you who review! I honestly do write so people can enjoy and greatly appreciate feedback, comments, etc. It also makes me write faster (hint, hint). So - if you enjoy this story, a quick note would be really, really nice.

Sorry for the continued whump. Some more questions answered.

It was getting harder and harder to come back from the warm dark nothingness that kept the pain away. He groaned, desperately wanting to return to that place where he didn't have to feel – or to think – or to know.

It was also getting harder to breathe and his throat felt like it was covered in shards of glass. He refused to let himself even think about liquids of any kind. That was one torture too many.

He groaned again and tried to lift his head. It took a long time and almost wasn't worth it anyway. His vision was failing him along with everything else. "Spots", he muttered, watching the black flecks race across his eyeballs. "Rovers", he giggled, although the sound that came out was more like the rasping of sandpaper on wood.

Stop thinking about dogs, he told himself harshly. So what should he think about? He sat for a moment, trying to get his mind to stop on one thing so he could distract himself. "Ha", he grated. As if he could distract himself. It's not like he was listening to another lecture from his Dad or watching a 'Charles in Charge' rerun.

Photos – those damn photos were still there. Although it took a moment to focus his eyes he was finally able to look at them again. They were still horrifying, still gruesome, but in some odd way they gave him comfort. It was almost as if he knew she was there with him, was simply waiting for him. Unlike anyone else, she knew what he was going through. He knew it was probably sick and nothing more than the wandering mind of a man who'd gone crazy with pain and fear, but with the photos he didn't feel so alone.

He concentrated on the girl's face – only at that moment realizing he didn't even know her name. That struck him as terribly sad and he felt guilty. Why hadn't he asked Bill for her name? "I'm sorry", he whispered. "I should know it. How about I call you", he tilted his head and regarded her face, "Emily – you look like an Emily." He tried to swallow but it was impossible. He concentrated hard on not coughing, knowing if he did he would most likely choke to death.

After a few horribly uncomfortable seconds he again regarded the pictures. "How did you die Emily?" he wondered out loud. He kind of wanted to know how Bill was going to finish him off. His kidnapper hadn't said and he couldn't really tell from the pictures. Maybe it was just the accumulation of everything – or maybe she'd died of dehydration.

A wave of dizziness passed over him and his head drooped. He was almost unconscious when a random thought flew threw his way too sluggish brain. She didn't look dehydrated in any of the pictures. He forced his eyes open once more and did a slow perusal of each picture. In fact, she didn't even look like she got thinner through the ordeal and yet according to Bill the pictures had been taken over a two week period. So why did she look similar – except for the horrific wounds – in each picture.

He tried to frown, but even that took too much energy. His eyes closed again and he allowed himself to drift. It didn't really matter why she looked the same – nothing really mattered anymore.

"Shawn, are you going to tell me you're going to quit now?" His father's voice rudely interrupted his march towards unconsciousness. "It's just like you to get bored half-way through something and quit. No wonder Bill doesn't like you. He paid you to do a job and now because it's too hard you're just giving up."

"No", he gasped, jerking awake. "No – Dad." He opened his mouth, trying to explain to his father. Bill hadn't hired him – had he? He tried to think. No – no he hadn't. "And – not giving up", he wheezed out. "Not bored – hurt."

"Excuses, excuses! Come on – Spencers aren't supposed to make excuses. Get the job done."

He whimpered. Why wouldn't his father just let him sleep? Still, he'd disappointed the man enough already so he might as well try and finish this. He took a breath – shallow and painful – but it allowed him to lift his head the few centimeters needed to stare at the pictures.

What had he been thinking? He looked at – Emily – and tried to concentrate. Oh yeah – under the horrible injuries she almost looked too – healthy. That was strange – if she'd been tortured you think she would have looked more – fragile.

He tried shaking his head. He was just imagining things. He'd been staring at the damn photos for hours – days – and he hadn't seen anything other than the clues the killer had left. Why was he doing this now? Why was he suddenly seeing something – that if it was true – he should have seen immediately. Still, that niggling sense of something being off – of being wrong – wouldn't leave him alone. He knew there had to be something – and he supposed he could have missed it. It's not as if he hadn't been thrown by the content of the pictures and the fact that he was being tortured to death.

"So Psychic – how are you doing?" Bill had walked all the way up to the table this time before Shawn even knew he was in the room.

Guess I'm really out of it, he thought. "This – it?" he choked out.

Bill actually laughed. "Is this it? I'm afraid so Shawn. I've given you enough time to find him and you haven't. I didn't get my money's worth out of you I'm afraid, so I'm going to have to cancel our contract."

"Figured out – the clue", he gasped.

Bill's eyes narrowed. "You figured out – what clue?"

"Clue – in the pictures."

Bill reached over and grabbed a handful of the photos and looked at them. "What are you talking about? There aren't any clues here. These are pictures of my daughter – the one who that pervert tortured and killed. THERE AREN'T ANY CLUES."

"Yeah – date", he murmured, his head once again on his chest. "And – you killed – Scheffer woman", he decided to throw in for good measure. He'd forgotten that he'd even figured that one out. Obviously Bill had done that murder as a way to see if Shawn was truly psychic – it had been the 'test' Bill had referred to. Too bad he hadn't been put on that case. Maybe he wouldn't be here now.

"What?" Bill screamed. He grabbed Shawn's face and pulled it up. "Who told you these things? How did you get this information? TELL ME?"

"Psychic", Shawn told him, a crooked grin appearing for a brief second.

Bill dropped his hand and stepped back – a look of fury and of fear on his face. "Someone must have told you."

Shawn struggled to lift an eyebrow, incredulous. "Uh – all – alone here", he reminded the man.

The kidnapper began to pace in the small room, breathing heavily. "How did you know? How did you find out about the Scheffer murder? Who told you?"

"Spirits – told me", he panted, again seeing nothing but black spots. He could no longer see Bill and even the man's voice began to fade. His throat was tightening and his breathing was becoming shallower. He prayed that he would pass out soon.

Suddenly Bill stopped, directly in front of Shawn. "It's too late now Psychic – although if you tell me what the clue is, I'll kill you quickly. I had another couple of thing planned, but I'll be merciful if you tell me."

The only thing that got through to Shawn was the idea of dying quickly. He couldn't take anymore and simply wanted to let go. He nodded. He'd tell Bill and then hopefully the man would end it. "Clue – date."

"Okay, okay – it's a date. What date?"

Again Shawn tried to lick his lips but there was no moisture left in his body. He struggled to speak but instead started to choke and gag.

With a curse Bill quickly reached for the bottle he'd left of the table. "Here – drink – come on." He held the bottle up and allowed a few drops to fall into Spencer's mouth. He waited a moment and then gave him a few more. "There – now talk!"

It hadn't helped – not really – although Shawn knew he didn't have a choice. He couldn't handle more torture. "Sept – ember 10, 19 – 69", he gasped out.

There was dead silence in the room although Shawn didn't really notice. It wasn't until he heard a soft sound – more of a breath really – come from the other man that he was brought back to some kind of awareness.

"That bastard", Bill ground out. "That bastard!"

Shawn wondered briefly who the bastard was – but quickly lost interest. "Please", he whispered. He wanted it to end.

Bill's attention was pulled back to the Psychic. The man looked as if he was about ready to die anyway. He debated for a moment whether or not he should just leave him to die or whether he should carry out one final act on the man responsible for his daughter's death. With a small laugh he decided he had time.

"Okay Shawn – I did promise, didn't I? Once more and then soon you'll be finished and you'll never hurt anyone again."

Shawn gave a small nod. Yes, that was true. His father and Gus – and all of them – they'd all be better off without him. He wouldn't hurt them anymore. He didn't hear Bill leave – nor did he hear him return a few minutes later. And he certainly didn't see what he had in his hands. At this point it wouldn't have mattered anyway. He was too far gone – in too much pain already – to really care.

"Sorry about this Psychic." Bill stopped and thought for a moment. "Actually no, I'm not sorry. In fact – I'm going to enjoy this." He wrapped both hands around the baseball bat and pulled it back. "This is for my daughter!" With that he swung the bat, with all his strength, at Spencer's right leg.

Shawn gasped at the pain and the noise of something cracking. He could feel the nausea rise in his throat – briefly stopping the scream that wanted to escape. Before he had a chance to breathe or even to cry out, the bat hit again – his other leg. This time he did cry out – the agony pushing past his throat and into the small room. "No", he cried again at the third hit. That was the last one he remembered.

"Just one more thing Spencer", Bill said, looking down at the broken body in front of him. "Just one more thing." He stepped back, lifted his camera, and snapped a picture.

"What do you mean she didn't exist?" Henry shouted angrily. "You said there were pictures. What the hell are you talking about?"

"It was all a hoax", she told him softly, "perpetrated by the father. It was one of the reasons he got off on an insanity plea. It turns out he wasn't married, nor did he have a daughter. It was all a fantasy, created in his mind."

"But – but the kidnapping, the torture. There were pictures", Henry said again, looking at Juliet as if she were lying to him.

"O'Hara – what the hell happened?" Lassiter too was looking at her strangely. "Henry is right – there were pictures. Was it possible they couldn't find her so simply decided she couldn't be real?"

"No – the father – Bill Farris – was a professional make-up artist. He'd worked for a number of years in Hollywood but then started developing symptoms of schizophrenia. He eventually couldn't work anymore. Some of his co-workers testified that he had suddenly started talking about having a wife and kid – a little girl by the name of Heather. At first everyone was surprised because they didn't think he was married – but after a while they started to get suspicious. When it turned out he was sick they realized it was just a fantasy."

"And the pictures?"

"He created the whole thing with a model. The girl's mother came forward at the time of the trial. She thought it was for a slasher movie – and Farris had paid for her daughter to be a model."

"What kind of mother let's her daughter be made up to look like she was tortured?" Henry asked in disgust.

"A stage mother", Lassiter replied. "But why didn't she come forward when the police were supposedly looking for the girl?"

"She didn't know about it. She and her daughter had flown out east to visit the girl's grandparents. I guess Farris had offered her the trip as part payment for the deal."

"God – so he sent himself the pictures to make it look like she was kidnapped and he was the grieving father?" Henry was back to pacing. "But – the psychic? How did he fit in?"

"The doctors that testified at his trial said that he probably didn't even realize that he'd set it all up. He was so delusional that from one moment to the next he went from really thinking his daughter had been kidnapped, to mailing the pictures and setting up the whole scenario. He really did blame the psychic, even though the man wouldn't have been able to find his daughter, since she didn't exist."

"Crap – and this is the man we think has my son?" Henry growled, his hands clenched in fists. "We've got to find him!"

Practically every officer in the police station was working to find Spencer. The Chief contacted the Phoenix police to try and find out anything more. Lassiter and Juliet searched through everything they could on the computer, trying to find even one clue. Others were canvassing the city with Farris' picture to try and find something that might lead them to where he was holding Shawn.

Gus had arrived a short while before and was sitting at a computer terminal, trying to find something as well. He felt sick and found it hard to concentrate – he had a terrible feeling that something awful had happened to his friend.

"Uh Detective?" Buzz was standing over Juliet's desk, looking concerned but also slightly excited.

"Buzz? What is it?" She looked up tiredly, blinking her red and exhausted eyes.

"Uh – I just spoke with a hardware store on State and W. Carillo. One of the clerks remembers a man who came in and bought a magazine on how to change locks in your home. He also bought a hunting knife, some duct tape, some hand tools, rubber tubing and other supplies. He said he remembered thinking the guy seemed a little weird to him."

"Buzz – thanks!" Juliet jumped to her feet. "Do you have an address?"

The young police officer handed her a piece of paper. "Do you think it's the guy that took Shawn?"

"It's a possibility Buzz. We're going to check it out. Lassiter", she called. Her partner lifted his head, blinking furiously.

"Yeah O'Hara?"

"We have a lead – a hardware store. It may be our guy. Do you have his picture?"

"Yeah", Lassiter stood quickly, grabbing the police photo off his desk. "Right here. You have the address?"

"I'm coming", Henry was there right beside Lassiter, the look on his face saying he would not take no for an answer. A moment later Gus was also there, although he didn't say a thing.

Lassiter sighed and nodded. "Just don't get in our way." After a quick word to the Chief they were soon on their way.

"Yeah, he was weird", Albert, the clerk at the hardware store answered the tall detective in front of him. He was a bit nervous – having four people staring at him was rather disconcerting. Still, this was his moment of fame and he was going to make the most of it.

"Is this him?" Juliet laid the picture on the counter in front of him.

Albert looked at it for a moment. "Yeah – that's him, although he looks a bit older. Who is he?"

"His name is William Farris. Do you have any idea where he might be?"

"Nah – he didn't give me any information about himself and he paid in cash." When Lassiter opened his mouth Albert continued. "I checked after I talked to the policeman."

"So why did you contact us? What was weird about him?"

"Well – partly it was the weird stuff he bought. It was like he was Rambo or something – you know, planning some kind of commando job. He even bought a backpack to put all the stuff in. It was actually kind of creepy. But you know the really weird thing?"

"No – that's why we're asking you", Carlton said sarcastically.

"Oh – yeah", the Albert laughed. "Well, he kept muttering something about 'Heather' – and how it was the psychic's fault. I don't know what that meant, but it sounded weird. When I came back from lunch one of the guys said the cops had been by asking about anything strange. That's when I decided to call."

"Thank you Mr – ur – Albert", Juliet smiled at him. "I wish more citizens were like you."

Albert preened a bit – there was nothing like having a beautiful woman compliment you. He wondered briefly if she'd be interested in going out with him. He opened his mouth to ask when he received a scowl from the tall, dark-haired one and thought better of the idea. He didn't want to tangle with this one. He looked mean.

"And there's nothing else you can tell us", the mean detective asked. "Nothing that he said or did that you can remember?"

Albert pursed his lips and thought back. Was there anything he'd said? "Um – he asked me where the nearest gas station was, that's all."

Carlton gave a sharp nod after he got the directions to that station and the approximate time Farris had been in the store. "Come on, let's go." Without another word to the helpful clerk he turned and rushed out of the store, leaving it to Juliet and Gus to again thank the man. Henry hadn't said anything either – quickly following Lassiter.

They spoke to the clerk at the gas station – who couldn't remember anything and didn't recognize the picture. "But he should be on the camera", he pointed. "There's one inside and one at each pump. If he got gas here he should be on it."

By the time they arrived back at the station there was already a warrant to look at the footage from the station. Until the film came through, there was little more they could do.

"This is taking too long", Henry complained. "Where the hell could he be?"

None of the others had an answer, although it was obvious that they were equally as frustrated. They were also tired and afraid. The longer it took, the worse things looked for Shawn.

"Excuse me?" Melissa Benton, the officer on duty at the front desk, appeared with an envelope in her hand. "This just arrived." She held it out. "It has Shawn Spencer's name on the front so I thought I'd -"

Before she even had a chance to finish four people had rushed to grab it. There was a short tussle, but Henry was the winner and he pulled it back.

"Wait!" Juliet cried. "We could be destroying evidence. We need the gloves."

As much as Henry hated it he knew she was right. He waited until Juliet handed him a pair of latex gloves and he put them on. "Okay." He carefully opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper.

The Psychic has paid for the death of my daughter.

He quickly read the note – his forehead creased in a frown but no other expression on his face. He then reached in to the envelope again and pulled out a photo.

"Oh my God!" Juliet's hand rose to her mouth, a look of horror frozen on her face.

There was the sound of retching in the corner, as Gus lost his breakfast and lunch and everything he'd eaten in the last week.

"Shawn!" his father cried.

"Crap Spencer", Lassiter whispered.

The photo floated down onto the floor in front of all of them – on it the picture of a man who couldn't possibly be alive.