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Twenty-Seven Days
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Waking up, the first thing Shawn realized was that he was in pain.
Everything hurt.
He was alone, he was lying on the floor, and there was no part of him that didn't hurt. From his little pinkie toe to his left eyebrow, everything ached. What didn't ache was throbbing. What wasn't throbbing was pounding; what wasn't pounding…
He bit his tongue to make himself stop, which he belatedly realized was stupid. He hadn't even been speaking out loud.
Great. Now his tongue hurt. Where was Gus when you needed him?
Where was Gus?
Where was he?
He felt like one of the rocks he'd put through the rock tumbler his grandpa had given him for his ninth birthday. He'd thought it was so cool. Of course, he and Gus had collected smooth rocks on the beach for as long as he could remember, but now he could do it; hecould make them smooth. He felt as powerful as the ocean, and he…
Uh oh.
If he was drifting off topic that badly, he probably had a concussion.
Time to assess. What had happened to him? Where was he? Where was Gus? How did he get here—wherever here was? Who had done this to him? What was going on?
Ignoring his pain for the moment, he reached out with his senses one at a time.
Sight: The room was dark. Simple enough. But not completely dark. He could make out some shapes, so there had to be some light coming from somewhere… um... above him. Okay a little bit of light coming from above him. Good enough for now.
Smell: Earthy. Damp. Was he underground? He needed more on that point.
Taste: Nope. Not licking anything. Not that desperate… yet.
Touch. He was lying on something not exactly hard but not soft either. He'd have to move his hands. That was going to hurt. Moving as little as possible, he shifted his fingers to the floor under him: Dirt. Smooth, hard-packed dirt.
Okay, this was working. He was slowly building a picture of his surroundings, and focusing on something else was helping distract him from his pain.
Hearing: Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Silence so loud it made his ears ring. But that could change at any moment, so he resolved to keep listening.
Okay. Put it all together. Even a concussed Shawn-brain was better than most. Dark, earthy, damp, packed-dirt floor, silence.
I'll take "cellar of an old house in a remote location" for $400, Alex.
He mentally patted himself on the back.
He thought about cellars. Cellars had stairs so people could get in and out. If he could get out, he'd know where he was.
Obviously.
Of course, that meant he'd have to move.
He tentatively took a deep breath. His chest hurt but not broken-ribs hurt, so that was a point in his favor.
He sat up. The room spun. He closed his eyes tightly and took more deep breaths until the walls and floor decided to take their usual places.
When he opened his eyes, he felt better.
He tried moving various body parts. He was relieved to find that, while he was definitely bruised and sore, nothing seemed to be broken or permanently damaged. He wasn't bleeding. The concussion was probably the worst of his injuries. He touched the back of his head very gently—OW!—and the area around the knot felt a little wet. Okay, bleeding a little but nothing life-threatening. He checked for his phone. Of course, it had been his first thought upon awakening, but, given the circumstances, he'd really doubted it would be there.
He was right.
Time to go exploring. His curiosity was now stronger than his pain, so he rolled onto his hands and knees.
So far, so good.
He sensed an obstacle next to him, so he reached out and felt a wooden beam that stretched vertically toward the ceiling. That was handy. He used it to pull himself to his feet.
His eyes were adjusting to the darkness. As he looked around, he could barely make out that the beam was attached to the stairs.
Awesome.
Freedom, here I come.
He started up the old wooden stairs, careful to test each one for rot. As he ascended, the light became marginally brighter, so that explained the source of the light. Reaching the top, he found a locked door.
Under the circumstances, he probably should have been expecting that.
He explored it with his fingers. There was a knob, but no sign of a lock, not even a keyhole. And it was sturdy. He'd really been hoping for an old, half-rotten piece of plywood, but it felt really strong. Gus would probably say it was oak. And the hinges were on the outside. Of course.
As he turned away from the door, he saw a light switch. Ooh! Light would be a big improvement. He flipped the switch. Nothing happened. He felt around and realized the wires coming from behind the switch had been torn away.
He turned and plopped down on the top step and tried to accept the fact that he wouldn't be getting out on his own any time soon.
Looking down the stairs, he suddenly realized where all his bruises had probably come from.
It was easy to imagine someone holding his unconscious form in the doorway at the top of the stairs and then just… letting go. (Ouch, ouch, ouch!) He shook his head to dismiss the image. (Bad idea with a concussion!)
The door was a bust, but maybe the cellar had another exit. Sometimes they did, those weird, slanted doors that they always use in the movies to escape a tornado. (He must have a pretty decent concussion if the idea took that long to occur to him.)
As he slowly made his way down the stairs and began to explore the rest of the room, he tried to remember what had happened to him. He could remember being at Psych with Gus. He remembered arguing about which 80s show to watch for their weekend marathon. He'd wanted to watch 'The A-Team' but Gus said they'd been watching too much action lately and he was more in the mood for 'The Facts of Life.' He had made such a compelling argument, that Shawn knew he was losing and decided to leave. He had been certain he could talk Gus into seeing things his way eventually.
And that was it. He'd grabbed his helmet, gone out to the Norton, and… woke up here.
He made one circuit of the cellar. He felt four very rough, very crumbly brick walls; sadly, no windows or doors. The staircase was about in the center of the room. There was a set of shelves against one wall, but the only thing on them was dust. Could be a source of a loose nail or splinter of wood though. He'd keep it in mind for future reference. He wasn't that desperate… yet.
He did one more circuit, partly to make sure he hadn't missed anything but mostly out of boredom.
There was nothing. Bare walls, bare shelves, bare floor, bare ceiling. The little bit of light he'd detected earlier was daylight coming in around the edges of the door at the top of the stairs. That was it.
Okay.
He shrugged. He didn't know who had put him here, but running through his old case files looking for potential suspects would give him something to do while he waited for his rescue.
He sat himself on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, crossed his ankles, and leaned against the wall. He smirked up at the door. All he had to do was wait for Lassie and Jules. He knew they'd be there any minute.
"Oh, Shawn!" he said in his ridiculous falsetto Jules-voice. "We were so worried about you! Ooh! You're so brave!" And then he had to stop because he'd made himself chuckle.
Or maybe his dad or Gus would come bursting in and rescue him. That wasn't quite as appealing as Jules, but he'd be more than happy to see them.
Either way, he knew it wouldn't be long.
When he'd been shot, no one had any idea where he was, so it had taken them a few hours to find him. This was different. He'd been right outside Psych! Maybe Gus had even seen what had happened.
He waited.
He knew Gus would think he should be more concerned about his captor, but he doubted he'd be here long enough to be in any real danger.
They'd be here soon.
He ran through all his cases starting with the most recent and working backward.
When he had finished and his rescuers still hadn't arrived, he ran through the cases alphabetically.
Finally, he gave up. He couldn't think of anyone from his previous cases who would want this kind of revenge.
Next, he tried to think of anyone who might hold some kind of grudge against him.
He looked up and noticed the light around the door was beginning to fade. As it disappeared, so did his smirk.
What was taking them so long? He'd been locked in this cellar for hours! He was starting to get hungry!
He chuckled to himself. "Well, they don't have their favorite psychic to help them!" he said, his voice overly loud in the dead silence. His smirk returned. He still wasn't worried.
A few more hours wouldn't be too bad. He was sure they'd be there before the morning. And when they arrived, he'd guilt them into taking him out for dinner.
He waited.
Soon, his head began to nod, and, without even realizing it, he drifted off.