Chapter Three: I've Been Playing You For A Fool, You Fell For Every Broken Rule
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Disclaimer: I don't own iphone or any of its possible accessories.
Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone for reading and for all of your wonderful feedback! Your reviews mean more to me that I can possibly express with words, so I hope you all know how much you are appreciated. :)
WARNING: This is the chapter where the graphic violence/ gore/ bloodiness/ general disturbing stuff begins. It will be escalating from here on out, so prepare for that as well as for, um, practically never-ending Lassiter whumpage. I've changed the rating to "M" because, honestly, the villain is scaring me, and I made him, so, just to be safe. There will also be more swearing , but likely not in excessive amounts.
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Lassiter's hesitation, he decided, was to become more aware of his surroundings— what kind of space he was dealing with, what possible obstacles he might face— instead of a deliberate pause out of the pain of being upright after practically blowing out his ankle in the fall. After compounding years in the public eye, he had learned to conceal his physical— and mostly his emotional— pain behind a neutral facade or even a necessary smile. He still found himself biting back manly whimpers and heavy panting as if there were someone around to impress, either an underling or a superior, so that he couldn't afford to let any of his discomfort show.
Lassiter hobbled a few steps forward, wondering if, somewhere in the shadows there were other rooms, doors, a phone or a radio. The whole place couldn't be just this one big open space— right? Staring at it was giving him a reverse sense of dizzying vertigo— instead of looking down from a great height, he was looking up from the bottom of a pit.
Get a grip, you're the only one you've got, Carlton told himself. He shook his head for good measure, forcing himself forward, but carefully. It was slow going, stepping towards the outstretched brown shadows; he stepped only on the toes of his left foot, finding it the best way to avoid putting his body weight on it. It wasn't a perfect solution and still hurt badly, but it was the best alternative to crawling. Halfway there, Carlton kicked himself, being reminded that he should have his gun out and ready. Getting it out did make him feel a little better; after all, his attacker could be anywhere in the lumbering silence, just waiting for Carlton to slip up again.
As if that wasn't going to be hard to do. He rolled his eyes. Getting to the edge of the shadows, he walked the line, trying to decide if he should enter. The inner shadows were black and could be concealing anything from a room at level to another unwelcome drop of several feet. Hearing a repeat of the sentence spoken at the back of his neck, but this time just an echo of its past in the back of his mind, Carlton spun around, making sure he was covering the space he'd just walked from. It was still quiet and he could detect no other human presence. The air had an earthy smell, of dirt, and some kind of rotting vegetation.
Lassiter sighed, wondering vaguely for a few moments what he should do. His thoughts slipped back to his broken cell phone— its replacement was likely going to come out of his paycheck. He frowned, another embarrassment he'd have to explain on paper and have put on record. And it had happened because he'd been so intent on getting his partner on the line that his guard had slipped— and he had allowed a stranger to not only sneak up on him but assault him as well. How had he not heard the approach or the inhale of breath before the words were spoken? And before that, there was the whistling— Lassiter frowned again, hating himself for having allowed his senses to dull.
Maybe I should try to get back to that door— that was only way he knew was a definite out. Or was it? A drop of five feet wasn't that startling, but it had been unexpected and he was unprepared. It shouldn't be too hard to scramble out of the door, even if he had climb through it on his belly, scraping his injured leg along the ground. Lassiter had more than a sneaking suspicion that, should he make it back to that door, it would be locked from the outside and he would still be trapped. Trapped. Great, he hadn't wanted to think in those terms, but now that he had, a twist of worry gripped his temples the way the tension headache had much before he'd come here. Carlton supposed he a right to feel uneasy— there was someone here with him, whether he liked it or not, and it was becoming more than probable that this other person was not just a squatter or a local drunk.
Absently, he scratched at some mosquito bites on his arm and chest, then along his thigh and the small of his back, holding his hurt ankle off the floor while he paused. There was a chance, he decided, that O'Hara may not have received his message; if she had, wouldn't she have texted him back with something, even just with a reluctant "okay" or a promise of face-to-face word exchange when he got back? He allowed himself a smirk; he could always pull rank on her no matter what— if he saw fit to take her tip and run with it, then he could— the smirk fell away.
He sighed. If she were here, she would demand he lean on her to take weight off his ankle. And he would bark that he was fine— but the look on her small face wouldn't relent even if her words might. "She's making me soft," Lassiter said to the shadows, who offered no comment. Truth was, he could use her here— for other than just physical support. She always accepted his grumbling whenever he gave in to her offer of help— out of necessity— pleased with herself, he knew, that she had drawn him out of his solitary shell. Another faint smile returned to his lips; what O'Hara did wasn't so bad— and he gave her ample credit for not slapping him silly much more often— rank or not.
You're more than capable of getting yourself out of trouble, Lassiter reminded himself. You don't need some girl to come and save you. Hmm. But that was, he amended, a bit unfair. O'Hara was much more than "some girl"— and really, if there was any inkling in her that his ass was still worth saving, than he wouldn't turn it down. He could easily play it up that he had the situation all under control, but he knew she could often see right through his bullshit— and was also amazingly suave at primping his ego.
It astounded Lassiter how O'Hara was so adept at reading his personality but wore some kind of blinders when it came to Spencer's. Of course, the Chief was also watching this same channel; Lassiter's top lip curled. Plain and simple, Spencer had more charm than he did, and knew exactly how to use it. But Spencer was never going to be a cop, and it seemed his morals were loose at best. One good thing about Spencer, despite his uncanny ability for crime solving— methods always, always in question— was that he seemed fiercely loyal and protective of his friends, and for some reason that Lassiter couldn't fathom, Spencer had chosen him as part of this unlikely group. He would be much below Vick and even McNab, but still. It brought out another annoyed frown; it was a necessary but unwelcome working— thing; Lassiter found he couldn't use the word "partnership" or "professional relationship" without feeling weirded out. O'Hara was the only partner he wanted— ahem— needed, and the fact that Spencer and Guster attached themselves to cases had made the four of them, and sometimes the Chief, into one of the strangest teams on record.
Oh, well, enough about that. They would be plenty of time to be annoyed later— if he could get out of here without passing out. Lassiter had unwillingly pictured Spencer's teasing from earlier and had wondered what would be in store for him when Spencer found out— the bastard always had his ways— about all this, but now he was nearly overcome by lightheadedness. After a long set a deep breaths, Carlton willed the pain to recede, and in an effort to prove he was fine, started walking again. Noticing a pale yellow wall ahead, he went towards it, concentrating on each step with his ears and eyes alert, the Glock at his side ready to be raised at a second's notice.
The slanted shadow he'd made out two feet away on the wall was a door frame. Carlton turned the handle, pushing the door open all the way and testing the ground for stability before he crossed the threshold. He tossed a look over his shoulder but couldn't see anyone, so he went in.
The ground beneath his feet was only dirt, much like the basement room he'd been shoved down in to. It was dimly lit by some overhead bulbs. This room, actually enclosed with four walls, mimicked the space outside with its bareness— it had a gutted feel, as if anything useful had been long ago taken. Carlton swallowed, walking through it to a narrow area that had likely been a hallway but had now had the feel of a tunnel. It was short, and emptied into smaller room. This one, he noted with a gulp, looked like very crude living quarters— maybe it was only some squatter having a few laughs. A bare, dirty mattress lay on the ground next to a wall, and on its opposite side, two small cardboard shoe boxes stacked up on each other. Carlton resisted glancing behind him and went towards the stuff, flinching when his sore ankle glanced of the corner of the mattress. Goddammit. He hastily wiped a hand across his forehead, preemptive of the inevitable sweat.
Lassiter didn't realize he was holding his breath until was in the process of lowering himself into a squat so he could open the boxes. He glanced out of the corner of his eye to see if anyone was there— still no one. Using the muzzle of the Glock, he knocked the lid off of the box on top.
At first, his brain told him he wasn't really seeing what he was seeing. After all, who would be that careless to just leave a prop such as this just lying about. But no one was here— no, that was a lie. It was quiet enough to believe that, but he was here and so was—
Lassiter's breath caught in his throat. Had the circumstances of the discovery been the slightest altered— had he felt that he was more in control— Forget that, he sneered at himself. This was enough for a search warrant, and it wasn't exactly breaking and entering since he'd been pushed—
He started to reach into the box with his bare fingers, but stopped himself in time, pulling out a handkerchief from his inside breast pocket. He was awed by how many there were when he retrieved a single one— all exactly the same size and color, 15 cmm in length with a shiny silver base and a red teardrop shaped cap. They were stacked neatly up to the very top of the box in smooth, perfect rows.
It wasn't until he had one wrapped in the handkerchief and back into his pocket that he really thought, Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Lassiter felt a rush of emotion, one he mistakenly assumed was 100% excitement, until he remembered exactly where he was and why he was here alone. Or, not here alone, but why he'd walked into whatever he'd walked into alone.
That's great, you've finally got a viable lead— tangible proof— and nobody knows it but you. And you can't tell them because— in frustration, Lassiter bumped the box of hat pins with a swipe of arm. It didn't tip, but the pins rattled. He frowned, reaching for the lid when he heard a thud directly above his head. Startled, this swipe of arm knocked the box off completely, spilling the pins across the floor. There was another thud, then the sound of heavy footsteps. Ruling out immediately that it was a ghost, Carlton jerked himself to his feet, leaving the mess and the other unopened box where they were. His ankle reminded him to take care, but he told it to "Shut it" with a grimace. He hobbled towards another door in the wall, hoping it would take him somewhere that would— this time, his grimace bore some traces of fear— bring him face to face with the man he guessed was the King of Hearts serial killer. Take out this bastard before he hurts anyone else, Lassiter thought, feeling a swell of bravery that was deserved or not.
He was through another hallway and nearly out into another narrow area, slightly larger than the "hall" when the lights overhead flickered for the first time. Lassiter paused, listening for rain or thunder— some cause for the electricity to short out. Again, only silence.
The back of his throat felt dry. He raised his gun and stalked forward as hunter ready to snag his prey. The lights flickered two more times, then seemed fine. He looked around; the walls seemed to press inward but it was only a trick of the low light. When he finally made it through, he turned a sharp angle to the left, and glimpsed a blur of movement ahead. Logic wasn't with him when he pressed on, unable to separate how he could have heard noise over his head and only a few minutes later now see something plausibly solid adorned fast with red and tan up ahead.
"Hey, you! Stop!" Lassiter yelled, giving chase yet again to the figure he had only seen the briefest flashes of; wondering now if the flash of hand he'd seen had been the one he'd felt between his shoulder blades a short time ago, shoving him inside this little funhouse. He heard clanging of this person likely ascending stairs, and picked up his pace. He had given into running, though it hurt and was another of his many pet peeves, but allowed himself to entertain the fantasy of discharging his weapon near to this mysterious figure's eardrums— causing temporary hearing loss. He smirked to himself as he pivoted around another corner, grumbling when he caught sight of a metal staircase up ahead.
Lassiter stopped, unease resting under his tongue as he saw that not only was the staircase steep, with ten open, wide steps spaced about a foot apart each, and a long metal landing at the top, but also it seemed, after twenty, to disappear into the ceiling. It had to be an enclosed landing, but he wasn't as certain about climbing it as he'd like to be. Especially with his ankle in its condition. With his long, muscular legs, it shouldn't be problem, but he wondered if he was putting himself in more blind area than where he was now.
If the killer was up there, he was likely armed— and probably had no qualms about killing a cop. But I can't— I can't just let him get away, Lassiter reasoned, estimating the climb. What if he goes out to kill someone else while I'm out looking for help? Lassiter set his face, losing the placing of it once while he ambled to the stairs, but then fixed it. He'd decided, he was going to do this. He holstered his gun so he could keep his balance.
Lassiter leapt for the first step, feeling the slightest skitter of worry when the lights above dimmed, then blacked out. He landed on the step and began his climb, annoyed at the darkness until the lights turned back on. Pain jolted up his left leg with every step. He'd made another two before the lights flickered; one more and then another flicker. He was halfway up, but paused mid-step to the sixth. He didn't want to risk another tumble— a fall like this could kill him. Lassiter squared his feet on the stairs, and waited until the lights were stabilized before he raced to the top. When the lights darkened again, Lassiter kept running, ignoring the twisting in his gut that he couldn't place where his feet were landing and stepping to. As the lights flickered again, his blue eyes were drawn downward— and he was struck by the outline of an elongated oval pressed in red against the silver of the stair. This time, the lights stayed out.
He slid on the second step just before the landing, a shoe dipping in some gelatinous sticky goo, pivoting 180 in the pitch black darkness. A rush of air left his lungs; there wasn't time for any words or last thoughts or stale images of his life up until this point. Lassiter's arms wrapped up around his head, trying to ward off disfigurement or instant death when his skull cracked open against one of the hard stairs or worse, the metal landing above or below. Lassiter pitched forward, his stomach lurching into his throat in the heady, suffocating darkness.
The lights flickered on for a brief moment; to his left, he glimpsed a metal railing he'd before missed. In a fit of terror reserved for a toddler, Lassiter flailed, his blue eyes as wide as they could go; though he'd never, ever admit that the gurgles coming from his parted lips were bubbled with saliva and infant-like. The brightness wasn't going to last; Lassiter's long fingers closed around the thin pipe railing just as artificial night switched back on. The relief was short lived; the railing went slick with wetness from his palms. His hands descended the railing as he did, jerking him back at base as his knees banged against the third step; his double handed grip was lost.
In one last desperate attempt to save himself, Lassiter threw his left shoulder towards the railing, crying out for the first time since the sliding as the metal jarred his skin and bones, scraping him through his clothes, shredding some of the fabric on his way down. Lassiter's left cheek glanced the hard sharp arrow where the longer and shorter parts of railing connected, and then his body lost all connection with the metals. He cried out again, turning in one direction in midair, his body hurtling headlong into dark space ahead, as something hard clashed meanly with the back of his head. Then he crumpled on the floor, face down, unmoving.
* * *
Back finally to the non-bloodied safety of the Psych office, Gus busied himself with distractions of food, so engrossed with this and checking his e-mail for a solid ten minutes that he didn't even notice Shawn's pinched forehead or the way he stared at the desk's surface with his chin on the back of his hands.
"You sick or something?" Gus asked, with a mouthful of ice cream when he finally looked up. Shawn's stillness was confused him.
"No," Shawn said, looking up and forcing a smile.
Gus swallowed a mouthful of Triple Fudge Ripple. "What's the problem?" He raised an eyebrow. "Was the crime scene that terrible?"
Shawn shrugged. Gus noticed he had his iphone with its green Psych skin out on the desk in front of him.
"You didn't get to chat up Juliet as much as you wanted? Is that why you're down?"
Shawn pursed his lips and scrunched his eyebrows, then huffed. "No, I didn't. She was working. Usually we can get into a rhythm, but with Lassie not there—"
"Detective Lassiter wasn't there?" Gus interrupted. "Isn't that one of his big cases?"
Shawn smirked. "You didn't notice, 'cause you were out of there in a blur. I'd almost forgotten what a chicken you were." He raised an eyebrow. "Almost."
Gus frowned. "Nothing wrong with not wanting to look at some poor dead girl." He wrinkled his nose. "I can't believe you stayed as long as you did."
"Yeah," Shawn muttered, distracted. He looked back down at the phone.
Gus stood up and took his empty bowl to the sink. Running water in it, he watched Shawn study the phone as he were expecting it to ring any second. He sighed, thinking back to earlier at the station. "I wish you would have told me ahead of time you were planning on an extra show for Internal Affairs, Shawn. I had nothing prepared— I felt like an idiot."
Gus watched a smile bloom across Shawn's lips. It seemed this was one of the many things Shawn lived for— making Gus into a fool. He shrugged. "Didn't plan it— it was complete improv."
Gus snorted. "I don't know why you bother. You saw how 'grateful' Lassiter was afterwards."
Shawn shrugged again. "It was just as much to help Jules and make me look good in front of the Chief. Well, it was really more so to help Jules— and to force Lassie into doing us a favor at the most inopportune moment." He grinned. "You like that, don't you?"
Gus turned off the water. "I guess. But he doesn't even know what you—" Gus stopped, pursing his lips. "Wait a second, I don't even know. You said you were going to tell me." He waited. "Tell me."
Shawn flicked his eyes back to the phone, then forced out another smile. "Yeah, about that," he began, then sighed. You don't want to know.
When Shawn said nothing, Gus stepped on his thoughts. "Did you do something bad, Shawn?" he accused. "Something that's going to get us in trouble with the police? You know how I hate that." Again, he waited. "Shawn?"
Shawn had to physically close his jaw with his hand; his friend had no idea how close his questions were to the something he had actually done.
* * *
It took Carlton a long time to understand the reasons he couldn't move his limbs was not because he had been paralyzed; suffered a severed spinal cord or broken his back or neck, but that his wrists and ankles were being held together with zip ties. He was still lying face down, but now his arms were over his head and his legs stretched out to their length. He could move his toes, and his legs, but not apart besides at the knees. The plastic cut painfully into the bulge of his swollen left ankle, and seemed to be pulled over the area extra tightly. Even the act of brushing his sock covered ankle against the plastic pulled unwilling moisture from his eyes. Lassiter moaned lowly into the floor before becoming aware of the pressure on the back of his head. The area felt wet, but he couldn't tell if it was because his hair was still damp from the rain or because blood had bloomed from a fresh wound. There was something sticky trickling down the back of his neck. . . .
He groaned loudly, unable to recall the details of the fall after letting go of the railing. His knees and palms, he could tell already, bruised a deep shade of maroon, other twinges on various parts of his body brought him newer and newer unease. The pressure increased, teasing him with uncomfortable sleep. Carlton felt like tightening up into a fetal position under a pile of blankets, and sleeping for days, but it seemed the presence of imaginary power tools, a sledgehammer, no, no a battle-ax or a drill— a hand held screwdriver— were burrowing into his brain, chipping away at the bones of his cranium. God, it was awful. His entire body ached; he knew if O'Hara were offering hugs right now he wouldn't turn one or two down.
O'Hara. Where? Where was she? Why didn't she have his back? Or was she calling for help?
You came here alone, you idiot, a voice taunted from within his own ears. Lassiter groaned again, more loudly and in self-pity. It was true. He'd made a rookie mistake. Trying to move his wrists brought on the slightest prickle of anxiety— up until this point, he had yet to see the man— the killer— but he had known he was in the building (not just his eyes and ears playing tricks)— but now? He was bound, injured— pretty easy prey. Yes, Carlton, the voice reiterated, you are an idiot. What if he puts you under his knife?
Lassiter wasn't out of hope yet— he still had his wits if not his weapons, and he was awake and not yet sliced up. He couldn't judge the seriousness of his head injury or blood loss yet, but at least he still had feeling in bound limbs— and could use them to bash or kick accordingly.
He heard footsteps, the slow approach of a measured steps, a clack of boots across the dirty floor. They were coming from the direction of some of the shadows he could see in front of him when he lifted his head. It ached to move; his twisted ankle protested as he tried to shift his weight; he tried to rollover onto his back, but even the slightest inclination in either direction tightened the muscles from his waist to his armpits with a blinding searing; maybe it was best to wait. Like this, Lassiter could do nothing but wait anyway until the human figure got closer. Even craning his neck a few inches from the floor made him dizzy; he lowered, too anxious for patience. The zip ties cut into his wrists; he realized how vulnerable he was. Too dangerous; he should have known better.
When steps got closer, Lassiter forced his chin to stay in line with his forearms and pressed his eyes to stay alert. He hoped that the approaching figure was someone who could help him, but he was more than suspicious that it was the person who had tied him up. He gingerly raised his head a little further, shifting his eyes in the direction of the footsteps.
The figure arrived into the dusty light and when Lassiter could see who he was dealing with, he got a hot, prickling punch to the neck, a searing like fireworks crackling into his throat. This was the man— dark haired with the blue jeans and the red flannel he'd caught a fleeting glimpse of— he had tanned skin, a rugged complexion from long hours— years— in the sun— his hair a loose black coil that framed his whole head and tripped a bit down to his neckline. He was clean shaven, with flat brown eyes that still held a charmer's sensibility, a strong jaw line, angler but small nose, a wide brow and medium sized full lips. He was both striking in appearance and the ordinary looking— with muscular, veiny arms— the sleeves of the flannel had been pushed up to his elbows— and a bulging chest which strained against the white t-shirt he wore beneath the flannel. His hands were also weathered— no, hidden, by dusty brown work gloves. His age, Carlton would guess from this distance of about six feet away, to be about mid-thirties, likely no older than 35.
He stopped just three feet away, whistling as he appraised Lassiter's form. Lassiter held still, but couldn't help but feel unnerved by the way this man was looking him over— as if, as if—
"Well, isn't this bittersweet?" the man's low, rasping voice asked. He licked his lips. "Razor blades and lemon juice, mighty fine."
Lassiter froze, the muscles in his stomach and legs tightening one by one, then his shoulders and biceps followed suit. The hiss was of course familiar— the tone of amusement the same. Figures, didn't it? That he had talked O'Hara out of checking this out— his paused, mid-shudder. What if she had come here instead of him, alone? If she had been the one who— It sickened him to think of her this way, waking up to a stranger's voice intoning a shaky madness with a drawl like molasses. You idiot, he reminded himself angrily. O'Hara would never enter a situation like this alone. You taught her, after all. . . . He sighed to himself, as if he were one to "talk".
The man allowed a low whistle, looking over his shoulder in the direction behind him. "It's somthin', ain't it, out there?" He turned his head slowly back towards Lassiter, fixing him with a teasing gaze that actually chased a shiver down his spine. Lassiter lowered his head back to the floor, uncaring that his chin was touching the cold surface. It was putting a strain on him, just raising his head and shoulders that little bit, and he sensed that the man had some little story to tell that Carlton needn't be that alert for. "Yes, siree," the man continued, shuffling. "Out there, they really took some care— supposed to be a facade for a movie, from what I heard of local gossips. Supposed to look kinda haunting, but stunning— but they lost their budget and never got to do the inside— the place where I've got you now."
Lassiter flinched, then cursed himself for the small action. Just because things looked very bad didn't mean he still couldn't get himself free. Yes, he needed to remind himself of this. But when he absently scratched his ear against his armpit, pain flared up to his wrists and down to his lower back, throwing him for a second. His breath came out harshly into the floor. The man was still talking but Lassiter was numbly aware that he'd skipped over consciousness for a few seconds.
"Now, I have looked through your credentials, Dee-tect-ive Carlton Lassiter, badge number 856-SBPD," the voice continued, each word enunciated with the husky rasp of a smoker's cough, or of a man accustomed to yelling to be clearly heard across a range over the distance of hundreds of feet. He added extra e's, pronounced his s's slow like hisses, paused in multi-syllabic words to emphasize their beginnings and make the last parts hush. Despite the wavy dreamlike quality of his sentences, they were each brushed with a harshness, though some would go no higher than a whisper, they were said this way to edge into a person, to separate skin, to cut. "And I have confiscated your weaponry. Got some shiny pieces in your arsenal, well, I've got 'em now."
Fear ran up Carlton's spine, using one of his ears as a passageway into his brain. He's got my Glock .45, he knows my name. He's—
A cold, heavy blade pressed against the back of his neck, forcing his throat back against the hard floor. "Just one taste?" the man's voice asked, though Lassiter had no idea what that meant— and he had no desire to know. "Yes, I think so." Lassiter bit his lip as the blade with no hesitation sliced into the skin just below his hairline. It was just a small thing, he was sure, but the suddenness of it brought some moisture to his eyes— less than tears but a definite quick shock— why was the predator acting so quickly? Hadn't the marks on the victims suggested—?
He wasn't at all prepared for what followed— the man's breath, then tongue on the back of his neck— Lassiter recoiled, forgetting his head injury and the bruising to his battered body in the fall down the stairs. He tried to jerk away, not realizing the sensation was long gone, and the killer was chuckling. Lassiter's stomach punched up with cold dread— what the hell had he gotten himself into? He had not done this to the other victims, otherwise, they would have had his DNA on file four bodies ago.
He toed Lassiter's ribs with his black leather boot until he had the steal tip wedged underneath Lassiter's stomach. He shoved Lassiter roughly onto his back; Lassiter groaned again, dropping his arms painfully to his chest.
"You could say that you hurt yourself enough already, friend?" the man said with the slightest of Southwestern drawls, looking down at Lassiter from his full height, which Carlton couldn't gauge. "This is the man who's come gunning for me? Ha."
Lassiter was not yet ready to form any words. He lay there as still as possible, even as the man squatted down and drew the low gleaming blade of the hunting knife under Carlton's collarbone. "Name's Saul," the man said, holding Carlton's eyes as he cut. Lassiter winced and released the slightest breath, his eyes stinging but that was all. The blade was sharpened, would or could slice the toughest skin as if it weren't a shield for human bones and organs but something necessary but insubstantial in small doses, like air or water. It was one long slice to make that thin ribbon of red. "No go, lawman?" the man taunted. He poked the tip of the blade under Lassiter's chin. Carlton watched him, the way his movements jerked, as if he were watching time-lapse photography rather than real time action. As soon as the killer had moved, Lassiter wondered slowly why he had not reacted more, or tried to bash the man's gut with his hands. Due time; his aching brain was making it hard to think.
He tried his words. "You sick sonofa—" he breathed harshly, his voice breaking.
"Now, now, lawman, that ain't no way to talk to me." The man emphasized his sentence with a sharp twist of his wrist; Lassiter winced as the blade bit into his skin again. Another small cut. He smiled. "Old tales, is all," he began, still holding the knife to Lassiter's throat to keep him still. "Passed down from son to son to son. Taste the blood of the man who's come in for the kill, see how sweet it tastes. The more bitter the blood, the harder the kill— but not the fight, you understand."
Lassiter risked small movement of his chin, a shake of the head, no. His chin was already cut. The man chuckled. "But you're brave, lawman, I'll give you that. To track me down and come here lonesome." He pulled the knife from Lassiter's throat. "And don't you try to mumble out a bluff, 'cause I know it'd be a bluff, Dee-tech-tive. I know the Calvary is you."
Lassiter stared back, again unable to speak. His heart was beating fast, and he'd parted his lips to release their tiny breaths, but a darkened anxiety was creeping coldly from his insides. It wasn't defined as all out fear until Lassiter heard his captor say, "Maybe this time, I chose not to pierce your heart." He took a playful jab in the air towards Lassiter's chest. "Maybe this time, I'll eat it instead"— Lassiter's eyes shot wide open, he couldn't help himself, a sound of muted pain mewing under his tongue— "eat your heart, see if tastes as bittersweet as your blood."
He'd heard worse things, right? Much worse? Horrible, perverted threats, such as these? Just walk it off, Carlton, he ordered himself, putting on his strongest suit of mental armor. No way this creep will break me.
"Because you're formidable, I can tell," Saul continued. "Worthy of the fight— not so easily scarred or breakable as the others were. The tales my granddad used to tell that his granddad use to tell— the stronger the man, the more potent his blood." He studied Lassiter with eyes as black as coal; Lassiter couldn't make out the pupils in this limited light, giving his captor a more demonic air. "The weaker the man, you see, the more blood he needs— good blood to fill up a wicked heart."
The weaker the man, the more blood he needs. Was this his explanation, his confession? Lassiter stared back, his mouth fixed in a tight line, incredulous. He was annoyed at himself for his earlier reaction. He pressed against his bonds, looking for a weak spot, any give at all. It didn't matter, they were only a minor hindrance. Lassiter knew he could get out of them, as soon as the back of his head stopped burning long enough for him to formulate a plan of escape.
"If what my granddad's granddad said's true, then, if I drink your blood and upon your death, I will take your strength into me." He related this story as if were only tall tales, but there was a deep air of serious belief to his words. Lassiter realized he couldn't wait long, burning pain or not, he needed to get himself away from this maniac.
Lassiter tried to sit up; both his back and stomach protesting, but he managed halfway before his captor's boot caught him square in the chest. It hurt too much to fight; no, there was another reason he lied down like a dog, right? Scowling at that thought, he tried again, only to take a mild kick to the throat. Now, it hurt too much. Maybe as soon as he caught his breath. . . .
The look in his captor's eyes seemed to taunt: "Don't fight it, don't even try." Lassiter, stubborn, moved. He coughed, fighting for breath.
"Lie down or the next goes to your head," Saul warned him. "I'd like to use this now, not while you're getting shut eye." He bounced the curved tip of the blade off his index finger and thumb, just for show.
"You can't keep me here," Carlton blurted out, sweat, he now noticed uncomfortably, collecting on his palms and fingers. Out of the corner of his right eye, he watched Saul drag his black boot along the floor, parking his toe against the instep of his other one. Carlton turned his head slightly, realizing Saul had his muscles poised for just such a kick to his skull. And with his reaction time slowed, Lassiter doubted himself at this moment that he could move out of the way in time. And he didn't want to be unconscious for whatever lay ahead, even though his worries of what that could be were getting the better of him. Carlton lowered his back to the floor, but drew his legs towards his chest, just in case he got the chance to kick.
"I think I can," Saul challenged. "I've kept others before you."
"So, you admit it?" For a few unsteady seconds, the rugged, husky man blurred into two figures; Lassiter blinked repeatedly until his vision cleared.
Saul chuckled. "I know you slipped on some of my last's blood on the stairs. Now she was a pretty thing, a real looker, you see." His eyes gleamed over Lassiter. "Now, 'course, I needed to fix that." He raised his eyebrows, studying Lassiter. "Though I ain't needing to do that your face— I already got all the answers I want about just the kind of man you are."
Lassiter did not react to that outwardly, but a sense of horror entered through what he'd thought was a barricaded door in his mind. A part of him wanted to yell, but he kept his mouth firmly shut. He was in this alone— his choice, his mess, and it was up to him if he could stay alive. A shudder escaped.
"I wasn't expecting you so soon, Dee-tech-tive," he said, using the hilt of the knife to scratch at an itch under the sleeve of his flannel. "But I was dee-lighted, nonetheless. I suspected some officera the law was abound to come— and imagine my luck that my iron and steel walks right to me." He smiled in the way of a leer, always, always looking too long; Lassiter wondered if he had done this with the others— the corpses he and O'Hara and Vick had seen arranged picturesquely. No, you can't think like that, he told himself firmly. You're not going to become this killer's latest. Lassiter heard the sharp silence around Saul's footfalls, and wondered vaguely if he screamed— if anyone— Stop that. Yes, you got yourself into this mess but it doesn't mean it's the end. Just because you're alone, and no one seems to know you are here— Lassiter sneered at himself. Great pep talk, I feel so reassured. Though maybe it was better to stay on edge with a familiar paranoia as his best companion.
"I had only just returned," Saul continued, "when I caught sight of you— it was quick, but I was enticed by the fire of your stance." Again, he smiled. "I knew I'd done right."
Again Lassiter heard the leering silence, but this time the silence in between Saul's words, a pause after "just returned". Just returned, just returned. Lassiter turned the words over in his head. Where had the killer just returned from? His last— his last kill was a woman, yes? The blond, the nineteen year old runaway? Lassiter forced himself to study the man before him, noting his relaxed posture, his features at rest— in spite of some eagerness in his eyes at having captured him— it was as if the man had recently had some need— or pleasure— satisfied. Carlton turned his head away, a sneer of being sickened riding his lips. This was not a new concept or theory— many criminals— murderers— took pleasure in their crimes, feeling sated when they were done, though like any pleasure or need, they weren't forever slacked, and required more. Criminals, career criminals especially, seemed to carry this perverted human condition, greed, blood, death— always, always more.
The— shoe. He recalled— was it real?— the faintest imprint of a flat sandal, pressed into the metal at the top of the stairs, a decisive step though there was a still wet pool just one step below. Lassiter worked hard to drop the wide look from his eyes. The shoe outside— was the killer's souvenir. Or was it a tool to get him to come in— that invisible bait he'd been following, sniffing out the real reason he was here?
But that wasn't right— hair, blond hair was what the killer had taken. The shoe— He had to bite his lips and tongue hard to keep himself from asking the question— who, who have you just— where have you just returned from? Lassiter felt the weight of his legs and remembered he still bore a well of inner strength. He was going to need this— and took comfort in the weight of his own limbs.
"I'll break your legs too," Saul told him, tilting towards Lassiter's drawn in knees. He spoke as if he could read Lassiter's thoughts. His voice was husky and rasped on a few of the words. "That won't taint your blood, none."
"Burn in hell," Lassiter retorted. He wasn't going to let this man scare him— not too much. After all, he was just a man, right? Or was he a deliberate monster?
"If I thought it might get me somewhere, I might hold you for ransom," Saul continued, wistful. "Use you to pay my way onto the next— but I know they'd never pay to get you back."
Lassiter bit the inside of his cheek; that remark stung; who would pay to get him back after the way he'd behaved today? The choices he'd made, puffing out his chest though he'd had several warnings— hadn't he been trained better, seasoned better? Why would he ignore the creeper feelings? Because he'd been on a one man mission to prove he was still a "real man". That was why he ignored the sensation of eyes on the back of his skull, eyes like in a painting that followed him no matter where he looked or went? He knew he deserved that look from Vick and even a smack to the back of his head from O'Hara. He had indulged in some paranoid thinking, something as detective he should never do, but seemed prone towards at times.
Part of it, however, wasn't even his fault— but he knew he could still get blamed for ending up abducted. He'd walked right into this shit, after all. But Lassiter knew that wasn't the reason the Santa Barbara Police Department wouldn't pay his ransom— they were under a strict "no deals with terrorists or extortionists or abductors"— at least when it came to their own. With civilians, it was the same, but they had negotiators for that. Should this become a hostage situation, then— it would still likely end in a rain of bullets or tear gas. Besides, they'd take out a killer. Why would they even hesitate? Lassiter was an idiot, after all, and a weak shield— stop that, right now, he growled at himself. Thinking like that wasn't going to help, and his department would not just scrap him and move onto the next, even if it meant taking out a murderer. Would they? No, you idiot, he snarled at that worried voice inside. They'd— they will, if it comes to that— do everything in their power to ensure you end up safe. Because, for fuck's sake, how else are they going to kick your ass for all this?
Lassiter pressed his head against the floor, just now realizing he'd been tensed, holding his head, neck and shoulders several inches off the floor, which was unnecessary, because he could see Saul clearly and Saul had been leaned over him when it came to speaking. Saul liked his audience and to him, wandering around with his back to his captive while he spoke just seemed impolite. Lassiter relaxed in the slightest, now that he'd reconciled his thoughts, should it come to his getting rescued. There was still the faintest chance he'd manage to claw his way out of this— but he couldn't leave here without taking Saul down somehow. At least with a hard knock to the head, and some restraint to something solid— this killer could not go free.
"Though, if I play my cards right, after you, I ain't gonna need no more." He held Carlton's eyes until Lassiter looked away. Carlton felt Saul's continued look, and forced himself not to look back and curse out the killer. He whipped his face in a flinch as Saul squatted next to him, poking at his collarbone with the tip of the weapon. "I was just playin' with you, lawman," Saul told him, pressing the blade into the earlier wound he'd cut. Lassiter bit his lip hard, making no sound. "You're worth more than cash to me— hell, then any other's blood." Saul traced the blade along the lines he'd opened slowly, keeping his eyes steady on Lassiter's face. Lassiter kept his head turned to the side, his eyes fixed on the shadows. He winced as he felt more of his skin part, but had no choice but to let Saul do what he wanted. But he wasn't about to—
Saul yanked the side of the blade across the rest of the wound, jabbing at Lassiter's right armpit. Lassiter's mouth opened in a gasp— and it seemed to satisfy his captor. Saul sat back with a chuckle. "None of them were worthy, lawman. The more blade did play, the more of their lives I found out— what I didn't need to know. I thought, when I looked at them— I could eat their hearts." Saul got back to his feet and went back to his slow pacing around Lassiter, never taking his eyes off Lassiter's face. "With them, all of them, I had to be the seeker. But you came of your own accord."
I did not— Lassiter wanted to blurt out. He wanted to give the detail that an anonymous tip had led him to this so-called fate— but again, he kept his mouth shut. The time for reasoning and insults would be more effective once he was back on his feet with his gun back in his hands. For now, he'd have to accept that Saul chilled him more with each new spill of phrases.
Saul grinned down at him as if he could read Lassiter's mind. "Yes, siree. I must tell you it gave me a thrill callin' in about m'self." He took in a deep breath calmly. "Had no idea if anyone would come— lots of people been lookin', but none of 'em know what they were looking for."
"You—?" Lassiter blurted out, stunned. Another chill ran through him, and he felt acutely aware of the shape of his own body lying against the floor. He hadn't thought of her in a long time, but a memory of O'Hara edged back, the one of her standing in front of his desk in the office, her small face serious. She was going to come out here— he felt it with dis-ease— if he hadn't swooped in and used the information of learning of the tip to distract the Chief from yelling at him. O'Hara would have— For the first time, Lassiter's stomach tumbled with nausea, certain he would throw up the nearly empty contents of his stomach. It was physically hurting him to think of her in this situation— in his place. And this, too, stunned him— but he knew he never wanted to see her get hurt.
"Hurts, don't it?"
Lassiter was certain the look of pain must be written all over his face for Saul to make such a comment, but Saul had no idea, he was sure, of exactly what kind of pain Lassiter was thinking about. Though his ego fed him the slightest whisper that he'd done an unwittingly heroic thing by coming here instead of O'Hara, it was tainted by the fact that he'd ultimately been stupid and careless and was now in the hands of a serial killer. O'Hara wouldn't be, he reasoned. She was smarter than he often gave her credit for; if she was unnerved, she would have called in units before entering, wouldn't she? Or would she feel she could handle things on her own as he had, or feel that she had something to prove— not just to herself, but to him?
He felt miserable, considering these thoughts of her possible hesitation because of some insistence she might have— that he must have forced upon her through all these years— that she need to stay on top of her game and always please him— never disappoint him. Yet, here he was, having completely failed her— unable to live up to his own expectations and lead by example. No, he couldn't picture her getting into the kind of trouble he'd let himself get into— because, unlike him, she did her thinking with brain. I think with my head, he amended to himself, but sometimes I don't. Lately, at least today, he'd been too busy thinking with his pride, with some convoluted sense of honor— convinced that he was still working side by side with justice as he'd performed each of the day's small actions— even the one where he'd accosted Spencer for the kid's usual sniveling.
Still, it bothered him— IA had let him off much easier than he probably deserved, whether their accusations of his gunplay were justified or not.
Lying on his back, Lassiter looked to his side, feeling new sickness come to his mouth when he caught sight of a 2x4 on the floor, one of its rectangular ends blood stained. Saul caught him looking it over, and chuckled. "You looked as if you needed some help— thought for certain that fall was gonna kill you though."
Lassiter kept his eyes on the tool as Saul spoke. "Couldn't just have you tumbling off those stairs mildly unscathed— did I brain the back of your head too hard, would you say?" He tipped an imaginary cowboy hat in Lassiter's direction, then wiped his hands together with a sharp clap.
Carlton scowled, forcing himself to glance back at Saul. "Just because you got the better of me for now doesn't mean you're not going to end up in a pool of blood yourself."
Saul chuckled. "Yes, siree, I knew I was gonna like you. I knew you was gonna be the one." He sniffed. "Might not be as much to look at as those pretty young things with no souls, but you came here, and you chased me."
Lassiter wondered if he could move fast enough to get that 2x4 into his bound hands. Eyeing it, he thought it could be useful, but didn't doubt that Saul would kick him in the head as he'd promised if he thought Lassiter was getting too riled up. Maybe for now, he'd have to fight back with only his words.