Chapter Four: He Bit My Lip And Drank My War, From Years Before

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Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for your continued support! I had terrible fears that I was going to scare everyone away when I changed the rating and the subject matter took its scary nose dive into the graphic violence sector, so I can't tell you how much it means to me to still have you wonderful, loyal readers/ reviewers. Your feedback and comments mean the world to me and I'm so grateful that you are still out there! Thanks again. :D

Disclaimer: I don't own Gum Drops, Reese's Pieces, references to The Sixth Sense, John Wayne, the Manson family or Victoria Parker (or any other character in the Psych universe, of course.)

Minor references to/ spoilers for: Season One's Pilot, Spellingg Bee and Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast, Season Two's Gus's Dad May Have Killed An Old Guy, and Season Three's Daredevils! and Lassie Did A Bad, Bad Thing.

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* * *

"It's nothing," Shawn said firmly, amazed at his powers of persuasion. He still had it, even over the one person who should know him best. He was a little suspicious that Gus let it go so easily, only prodding him with a few repeated words: "Shawn? Shawn? Shawn? Tell me right now. Shawn?". Shawn was also amazed that he didn't need to bribe Gus with the promise of sweets to throw him off the trail of Shawn's— well, his what? There wasn't actually any proof that Shawn had caused—

Well, Shawn thought, there was proof. Or was there? Those things weren't recorded, were they? But there wasn't any in the sense that Lassiter had actually— No. It couldn't be possible. Anyway, Jules had said that Lassiter was probably working on another case.

But he couldn't help but flash back to what she had said at the scene. "He always answers his phone." And she had said it with the smallest bit of worry; but then she didn't know anything for certain.

And she didn't know anything for certain because Shawn had received the text message meant for her. Which could only mean—

"You will tell me later, Shawn," Gus said, not as a question. He sighed, looking at his watch before getting up.

"No, I won't," Shawn teased.

"Yes, you will," Gus repeated, sounding tired.

"No, I won't. Where are you going?" Shawn asked.

"I told you, I've got to go into work today." He raised his eyebrows, staring intently at his friend. "Company wide staff meeting? Mandatory? Ringing any bells?"

Shawn stared back blankly. "Wait, tell me in your Jamaican accent."

"No," Gus refused, curling his lip. "Sometimes you amaze me, and not in a good way."

"You're leaving me?" He jumped up. "But— but we didn't even eat yet!"

"I ate; where were you?" Gus said, pulling his keys out of his pocket.

"But you didn't partake of any of the greasy foods of street vendors. Come on, dude. You take this second job of yours way too seriously!"

Gus sighed. "This is my second job," he said, pointing to the floor, then the ceiling, then circling his finger around the office for emphasis. "If you haven't noticed, my job at Central Coast is my bread and butter. Yours too, since I do pay for everything when it comes to you."

"But Gus, who cares about bread and butter?" Shawn had resorted to small jumps next to his desk.

Gus pursed his lips. "You do, for one."

"But Psych is your pineapple flavored Gum Drops and Reese's Pieces," Shawn whined. His jumping had changed to impatient shuffling.

"Great, so I get cavities and I don't have a dental plan because Psych's dental plan is 'don't get cavities'." He rolled his eyes at Shawn. Gus made a face. "Speaking of pineapple, Shawn— you do know those cough drops are disgusting, right?"

An amused gleam passed through Shawn's eyes. "Of course I know. Why do you think I gave them to you?"

Gus actually laughed, but it was humorless, and then he flicked his nose with his thumb. "You're kind of sick, you know. And don't mean that it a cool way."

"Yes, you do," Shawn countered, following Gus to the door.

"No, I don't," Gus tossed over his shoulder.

"Yes, you do," Shawn insisted.

"No, I really don't," Gus retorted.

"Oh, but I think you do."

"Goodbye, Shawn. And please don't call me fifty times while I'm away."

"But you want me to."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do!"

"Shawn!"

* * *

She wasn't certain what it was about this latest one, but the sight, it seemed, had taken its time to seep into her consciousness. Maybe it was that this woman was her age, a young professional on the rise— her star tarnished so suddenly, snuffed out.

"Detective?" Vick startled her, making Juliet jump. She leaned forward on her chair, pressing her palm against her forehead with a suppressed groan. She didn't need Vick accusing her of staring off into space with another of this maniac's victims in their hands.

Especially since her partner was still not picking up his phone.

"Yes, Chief?" Juliet responded, blinking a few times and then giving her full attention to Vick.

Karen studied her for a moment. "Is this case getting to you, is it too much?"

"What?" Juliet asked, her eyebrows pulling together. "No."

"Because if it is—"

"It's not. I can handle this."

Karen nodded, noticing the serious shift in Juliet's eyes. "We've identified the victim through finger prints; she was a local who lived here all her life. I need you to research her family, if she had any— they should be notified Asap."

"For a positive ID?"

Vick nodded, adding that she was certain the woman's family should be told because they might want to know about their daughter sister mother wife whatever. Vick wasn't certain she liked this little bit of Lassiter's personality on O'Hara— sometimes he came off as too unfeeling, even for all his strengths. She didn't want to see O'Hara become too much like him, though sometimes when you worked with people nearly 24/7 or, on double shifts, 48/14, personality traits of the other became harder and harder to ignore. Vick didn't mind that the two, after a rocky beginning, had become more used to the other and seemed to be absorbing the mostly good things about the each other— well, it really wasn't her place to make a comment about it.

"As soon as you've contacted my family, come to my office. I think we should go over the similarities again— and you can fill Lassiter in when he gets back."

As Vick strode off, Juliet stood, more than tempted to call after her about what Vick had said to Lassiter after she left the office. She bit her lip, watching her superior's back. This was so unlike him; even when he was in the most foul of moods, he still recognized that he had a job to do. He would do it on the upswing of fury, with threats, mild roughness in the treatment of suspects and his weapons making quicker appearances all in escalation fitting of his anger. But no matter what, he was there. He would be pissed that he missed this recent crime scene, as pissed as Vick was ought to be that he missed it.

Vick was nearly gone; should she say something? Or would Vick snap that she was not Lassiter's keeper; if anything, that job fell to his partner?

Sometimes, some of the lines of this job— well, of partnership, were confusing to her. There was the time when Vick had seemingly ordered her find a girlfriend for Lassiter— well, she recalled, he did need serious help in that department. And that hadn't been as stressful as she'd originally thought, though Carlton was clumsy at best when it came to talking to a woman who was not Victoria Parker. Still, Juliet amended, he was getting better at talking to her in a friendly capacity, and even to the Chief in a similar, yet more respectful way. He'd made strides, definitely. Juliet smiled to herself, knowing she was doing her part for her partner's sake— even if he had a hard time expressing his gratitude. She reflected that he had become more open throughout the years, talking to her as a person and not as some pitiful child he was stuck baby-sitting.

Funny, because she had regarded him in a similar capacity when they were first assigned as partners after her transfer. She knew his type well; practically all the male detectives in Miami walked around as if they still had something to prove, and were jerks through and through. She had been lucky there, paired up with the only other female detective in the department. Well, water under the bridge now, as well as her very first year as Lassiter's junior partner. Juliet had never thought, though she had hoped, that she and her new partner were going to immediately get along.

But she was secretly grateful to that crazy woman, that Detective Goochberg, who'd worked her mojo and scared the hell out of Lassiter. And she was also grateful to Vick, who had made the "incident", as Lassiter referred to it, that much worse by pointing out that he was on the fast track to become just like Goochberg in a few short years. Juliet, Shawn and Gus had overheard the whole thing since Vick's office door had been wide open. Lassiter, going in, had no idea what he was walking into when he'd asked the Chief what awful thing he could have done to deserve something like that.

The change didn't come over night, but little by little, Juliet found her partner catching himself snapping at her mid-snap, first saying nothing and then, later, grumbling an almost audible apology. She let him warm up to her in his own time, knowing the impossibilities of getting water from a stone. Or blood. Though his accepting her invite to her O'Hara traditional family holiday festivities hadn't gone at all as she had planned, she was still glad she had extended the invitation and that he had actually shown up. He was, she knew, a lonely man. She wanted to be his friend if he was willing to be her friend back— and it was turning out to be a mutual relationship.

He was still grumpy and angry, and today, it seemed, had not been a good one for him. During the IA meeting, Juliet found herself a little shocked at their approach (whether it was deserved or not) and had felt guilty for not making a stand for Lassiter. Though the Chief had not either, she reflected. And, she'd agreed that their comments on his somewhat rumpled appearance had been too low a blow, but she wished that her partner hadn't stormed out. Something must have really been bothering him for him to behave like that.

I should have made a point to ask, she thought, though she wasn't certain if this would have been a good idea. Lassiter had been acting funny around her today, asking her questions about her fragrance and blushing when it seemed she might be standing too close. Juliet wrinkled her nose, hoping that her partner hadn't developed some kind of romantic feelings for her. She had meant what she said on Day One, she did not approve of intradepartmental relationships. Besides, she knew she could never see Carlton as anything more than her partner and her friend, and she was happy with those relationships as they were. (Though he could always use a little more help in the "what it means to be a friend" department, she laughed to herself. Still, she was proud of him; he'd come a long way.)

As she thought more about it, she figured Lassiter's odd behavior towards her today wasn't some sign of budding feelings. If so, he would have made more of an effort to smile, and would have fallen all over himself trying to say something witty. Juliet smiled, relieved. Lassiter was extra grumpy, having a rough day and looking towards her in their established platonic capacity for a friend. Again, she felt proud of him for all his strides and felt selfish for not recognizing that he might have needed her a little more today; sometimes, it was just hard to tell when he wanted a hug and when he wanted to be left alone.

Even so . . . was now one of those times? Did he want to be left alone or could he use a friend? Or did he just want to vent his frustrations at being yelled at by Vick so soon after the IA meeting? There were still times he could be nasty, transferring his anger to her without any apologies, but those times were less and less. Hmm. Juliet chewed her lip, then picked up her phone. Bad day or not, Lassiter still had a job to do and even if he did go off to sulk somewhere, he should have come back already. It made much more sense to her that he was out checking the lead to some other case . . . but he still always answered his phone.

She dialed his number, waiting to hear his grouchy, "Lassiter."

"You have reached the voice mail of Head Detective Carlton Lassiter. I'm not available—"

"Dammit," Juliet said, pressing the "end call" button. She was surprised when she glanced at the time; it was going on two hours since she'd last seen him. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to ask the Chief if he'd said something to her about going somewhere. Juliet couldn't remember Carlton telling her he had an appointment or court appearance or parole hearing or anything of the like that would cause his absence.

She started away from her desk only to be turned back when her cell phone rang. She allowed herself some premature relief, telling herself that she was being silly for having given in to any bit of worry. Juliet scooped up the phone, pressing the "answer" button before getting a good look at the screen. "Hello?"

* * *

It was hard to tear his eyes from the 2x4; it could hold the silent key to his memory in his fall as well as aid in his possible escape, or at the very least, be the tool for his beat down of this killer. Who am I kidding? Lassiter asked himself, gingerly moving his head back to stare at the ceiling, though looking upwards brought on some more of that reverse vertigo— With an inner sigh, Lassiter dropped his eyes to the space in front of him.

Though he hadn't seen his weapons since Saul had claimed he'd taken them, Lassiter could feel his shoulder holster was empty of his Glock .45, and the Glock .17 he kept strapped to his ankle was missing as well. Even the night stick, the small pocket knife his surrogate father had given him on his twelfth birthday, and the small vile of mace with its easy-touch spray trigger were missing from his belt— he knew their weight and felt naked without them, as well as without his badge. Or if not naked, then vulnerable. The knife was more of a sentimental item than an effective weapon; his guns were his real security blanket. He had to get them back.

He took everything— No, he hasn't taken everything yet, Lassiter reminded himself in this moment of weakness. Yes, he'd been stripped of his tools but not of his wits, not entirely. And his life, he still had that. But what he wouldn't give for the familiar weight of one of those guns—

He had little explanation for the killer's sudden game change, and he wasn't certain what was bull and what wasn't. Lassiter scraped together some words; they felt thin in the air. "Why are you— why— are you here?"

Saul rasped a small laugh. He paced slowly around Lassiter as he spoke. "Don't get me wrong, I loved New Mexico," he confided, "but there's only so much stale blood I could take. Didn't find my heart there, no siree. And before that, Nevada— I really thought she was gonna be the one. But turns out it was sweet, sweet Cali— shoulda known it from the start, shouldn't I? Though I was starting to banish my hopes. Yes, I've been looking for my heart for a while— granddad's tales told me—"

"Let me guess, you come from a long line of killers, like the Manson family—" Lassiter had no chance to even tense his muscles before the killer dropped down, kneeling next to his torso. The rest of his angry words were stopped by a sharp smack to his cheek.

"You ain't got no business talking ill of my granddad, of my kin," Saul spat, pressing the Bowie's blade against Lassiter's forehead with intent to cut in between its lines. He looked angry enough to do it, as if the slap hadn't been enough. Saul moved the tip of the blade to Lassiter's hair line and made a small incision. Lassiter gritted his teeth, still partially reeling from the slap; he'd tasted blood in his mouth.

"So," Lassiter continued softly, "it's true."

"My kin's of no concern to you," Saul said, fixing his eyes on Lassiter's. "You mention them again and I'll make you real sorry. And it's too soon for that."

Lassiter gulped down his "I'm not scared of you" because he knew he couldn't get it out in a way to be convincing. He tried a different approach, testing the waters to see if Saul wanted to discuss his victims— or the very least, their deaths. "Your latest— what was she to you?" He groaned after an ache flared in the back of his head.

Saul shook his head, seeming amused at Lassiter's clumsy attempts at speaking. "Nothing— she was nothing. She was a romantic though, taking my hand and holding on tight as if that would prevent me from stabbing this her through the heart."

Lassiter turned his eyes away from Saul's, glancing at his other side. He noticed, for the first time, that he was not near the staircase. In fact, wherever they were resembled more of an open area, dimly lit and scattered with shadows. Lassiter couldn't make out any furniture. He swallowed hard, thinking through how the killer got him here. It would make the most sense that Saul had grabbed Lassiter by the ankles and dragged him here on his face, but there was a possibility, however slim it might be, that he was carried here. Stealing at glance at Saul's muscular arms and torso, it definitely didn't seem impossible.

But why bring him here, tie him up and then leave? Was it for some kind of effect, an issue of control— a show of the shifting of power?

Lassiter didn't doubt that the killer believed himself to have all the control and found his prisoner to be well under it— Lassiter's mouth tightened into a thin line. This situation he was in was temporary— partner or no partner coming for him, Lassiter was resolved to survive this.

He found his breath and gathered his words, trying reason. "It would be in your best interests to—"

Saul stamped his boot on the floor. "Don't you try to talk me outta this. You ain't going anywhere and I ain't about to surrender, lawman." He smiled. "Should you best me fair and square, I'd be hard pressed to ignore that, but you ain't in any position to be making threats."

Because I've never been overpowered by a killer before? Lassiter thought, trying to recollect and order his words. At least, not like this. It shouldn't be this difficult; but just how hard had his head been hit? Lassiter had been held at gunpoint before, even knife point, once, when he had been a rookie. His partner at the time, an older male detective with plans to retire, had sat with him while his neck was bandaged— and lectured him about how he sorely needed to be more aware of his surroundings. In truth, it hadn't been his fault, not really— it was a youthful mistake that he made certain to never repeat. Underneath the sheen of the lecture, Carlton recalled his partner's worry; he had been just as upset and fearful that his young partner, whom he was responsible for, had been grabbed and used as a shield for a desperate suspect, as Carlton had been actually being the shield.

But this— had he ever been made the prey of a man consumed with cannibalistic and vampiric acts, insistent of draining his blood and devouring his heart—? He would have to go with a solid "no". Let alone to actually be in the presence of a man such as this, without his partner or a phone or any help on its way. Now his partner was the more youthful one, and had made her share of junior detective mistakes . . . just as he had; it was hard to be pristine, without any faults. Impossible, really. It didn't stop him from kicking himself over and over for putting himself in a such a dangerous situation as if were some kind of super man well equipped to go up against a potential serial killer alone. You're an ass, just face it, and move on, a voice helped. He grumbled at it but had to admit it was right. Self-pity and self-loathing weren't helpful, though he didn't know how to turn either off. He could shuffle them aside, but a small part of his brain clung to them, worried it seemed, that if he banished them, his fear of being stranded here was going to take over completely. Granted, it hadn't happened yet; if he were really afraid to enter a situation, no matter how potentially lethal it could be— he always had overconfidence that he could diffuse whatever sprung up that was negative— save the day without breaking a sweat.

Of course, this didn't mean he was never afraid, or even anxious, from time to time. Busting down a door and identifying himself as police with his weapon drawn and poised gave him a thrill— but mostly boosted his ego because he was never shaky as if he didn't want to look a criminal in the eye or as if he didn't know how to properly hold his weapon— I'm not a rookie anymore, Lassiter thought, frowning to himself at the memory of his clumsy, early days. But still, sometimes he held the anxiety at the base of his throat, keeping it in place by yelling out louder, angrier, if the situation demanded. He never knew if a suspect would try to run or pull a weapon out upon him— or on O'Hara for that matter, and try to use distraction to his or her advantage. He usually thought of himself on constant alert; he thought he had learned his lessons well. But why hadn't he paid more heed to the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, or the obvious choice of entering an unknown, blindly, without any back-up or notification?

Lassiter knew he had been drawn here— lured— and something about the atmosphere and appearance of the buildings couldn't be ignored. Add possible guts and glory, a possible commendation from the Chief, a possible career advancement— Lassiter sighed. One step forward and about 50 in the hole of set backs. If he lived through this, he'd either be confined to desk duty or IA would yank his clearance for sure— if I life through this.

A scream welled in the bottom of his throat. It was one more of frustration than pure terror, and he wondered if releasing it would unburden his mind. He considered it, biting his lips. This man above him was of the vicious sort— it may be easy to convince his superiors that he'd unwittingly walked straight into a trap— which was too true— and had become a hostage. But to say any of that meant he would have to admit he'd relinquished control and had still acted on impulse, more a hunch then "instinct"— and had paid dearly for it. Well, if he had to swallow his pride— if he had to choke it down dry, admit he'd become a victim, it might give him some leverage when it came to holding onto his badge.

How could he not have felt the killer watching him? He wasn't perfect, but he usually picked up on these kinds of things— or was that O'Hara who was his extra pair of eyes? His instincts for taking someone down were still as sharp as ever, if there had to be a tackle, he always jumped for it, his fingers tight around his gun, protecting and saving any potential bleeder from harm.

Right? But how was it that he'd let his guard down when it came to watching out for himself? He'd been in danger all along, he knew with a sudden chill. Long before he'd found the shoe, or had been nearly killed by the falling branch. The danger began as soon as he'd parked the car, and taken his first looks at the unknowingly bloody destiny that awaited him.

"Sure, you ain't much to look at," Saul said, though he was looking at Lassiter in that sickening way that turned Lassiter's stomach. It wasn't a look, Lassiter realized, of some kind of dormant romanticism; no, it was something darker, a look that pierced him, saw through he as if he weren't all there— a soul seeking look where the one looking had none of his own and had no clue of what exactly to look for. Another chill went through Lassiter; he felt he could really use the firm but kindly words of his former partner, the older detective who'd not only be able to harness Lassiter's clumsy rookie energy, but had been able to steer him towards the path he'd wanted and keep him in line when he fell out of it. Funny, Lassiter thought. He hadn't thought of his early former partner's guidance in years, but was now seeking out some of his old words as a comfort. It was an action that actually made him sweat with cold; he was giving in to fear.

Lassiter bit his lip hard as Saul's Bowie slid into the crook of his right arm, easily parting the fabric with one twist. Saul didn't hesitate to do the same to Lassiter's skin; another small cut, but it hurt.

"But those, even before I cut 'em up, they weren't really," Saul continued, wiping his knuckles on his jeans. "Some of 'em looked nice, on the outside. Like you probably look nice to any woman, huh?" He pressed the tip of the knife into the small cut, his brown eyes gleaming at the rising gush of red. Lassiter was still, not making a sound. He'd forced himself to study Saul with cold eyes, his thoughts clinging to the underside of his own skin, and holding himself as far as possible from his churning worry. I need to save my strength. I can't be too scared now— it will deplete all my energy. If his partner were here— either his old one or his very newest— he would be told to keep hanging on. Don't give in, Carlton. Don't give in.

Saul sliced the white shirt from the arm of the he'd been cutting up to Lassiter's shoulder, tapping his exposed arm as if searching for a vein.

"What do you really want?" Lassiter asked. He bit his lip again as Saul turned the Bowie away from his arm to press its tip again under his chin.

"You certainly ain't like the others, no sir-ree," Saul said, his eyes flickering over Lassiter's face. His last word was hushed but harsh, and he coughed after uttering it. "Pretty things used to pretty things— but they were much more a worka art after I was done."

Oh, my god. Lassiter's eyes closed and he swallowed hard, knowing the act was visible, but also knowing the words he wanted to say needed to remain under his tongue. It was rare that he held back his grievances, often uttering the first callous thing that came to his mind, no matter how insensitive, to suspects and colleagues alike. To dates— he could hear, out of nowhere, O'Hara's voice scolding him as they walked down the hallway of the police station (a past which seemed like it was many years before), "You told her the dead clown story, didn't you?"

"You ain't gonna look like no worka art, lawman," Saul told Lassiter, bringing him quickly back to the present. He wore a wolf grin, and his pupils were barely visible in this light. A scowl overtook Lassiter's face, and instead of words he gathered as much saliva under his tongue as he could muster, puckered and spit it.

"You're a sick son of a bitch," Lassiter growled, his nearly helpless rage causing him to twist on the floor. "You're right, I"m not like the others— I came here to arrest your sorry ass and thank the gods of the California death penalty—"

Saul dug the blade harder into Lassiter's skin, the shock of pain making him cry out; remember who he was dealing with, talking to. He could feel a rush of wetness running down his neck. Saul left the spittle on his cheek, using his free hand, balled into a fist, to smash Lassiter's mouth once. The force of the blow jerked Lassiter's head to one side, his ear and temple knocking painfully against the floor. He groaned, but seemed to realize his legs were in the right position to kick his captor. Ignoring how dazed he felt, Lassiter lashed out, catching Saul's stomach.

Saul groaned, losing his balance and toppling to the floor. The blade slid away from Carlton's throat, digging what he was certain was a long line of red into his skin before losing contact with it. "You're a bad thing, lawman," Saul muttered, pawing the ground next to Lassiter so he could get up. Carlton swung his bound feet to his right, his knees catching Saul in the chest. His entire body protested the movement long after it was done; Lassiter was starting to get scared that there wasn't enough adrenaline in the world left to allow him to get out of this position. He squirmed, trying to gather his restrained limbs together enough to sit, and then with any luck, stand. He was doing his best to back away from Saul, or roll away, or twist away, but his muscles had been too wrenched recently for immediate cooperation.

Saul's arm shot out, catching Lassiter's left ankle. He squeezed, gaining his balance and managing to get to his knees, and then yanked Lassiter toward him, feet first.

Carlton was shocked that he could only describe his pain through color, flashes of red and white followed by yawning chasms of black; he eyes shot open, wide, and he clenched his fists to regain the slightest contact to stability. With a yell he assumed was loud, he kicked Saul, another square hit to the killer's chest.

The pain in his ankle, if not other pains too, caused him to black out. He fought it, but the colors were at war and he was caught at the front lines with no weapons to stop either side. He wanted to argue that there was another enemy, one much fiercer than they, but he couldn't. He had to give in.

Don't give in. . . . It was the look in his former partner's eyes when the unstable criminal, a guy only a little older than himself then, had grabbed him and pressed the knife to the side of his neck. Carlton could recall the criminal— half of a pair who'd robbed a liquor store while high, who'd shot and killed the owner— by the rancid way he smelled, the sweat of being caught, of being desperate. He hadn't been thinking clearly and grabbing a cop had been his first thought.

Carlton remembered their breaths in the cold night air, how heavy the blade felt and how his partner's eyes had held his like a light or a lifeline. It was, he reflected, the very first time as a cop that he'd ever felt helpless and had been terrified— and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Most of the following years didn't bring the same kind of fear; but there had been times when he'd felt the same even though he had been in the position of negotiator instead of hostage.

"You're wily, ain't you?" Saul said over him, a fistful of Lassiter's hair caught in one of his gloved hands. Lassiter winced, opening his eyes at the tug, rather than the words.

"Go. To hell," Carlton muttered, wincing at another hard tug. The pressure stopped, then he felt the killer ruffle his hair. He stiffened, moving away from Saul's hand. "I hope you die," Lassiter whispered.

"Before you do, or after?" Saul countered, poking Lassiter's right arm with the knife.

"Does it— matter?" Lassiter asked, trying to breathe evenly. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, but it was apparently long enough for Saul to get the upper hand again. Or so it seemed. The killer was squatting next to him, near his right shoulder. It would be a stretch to kick him again, even with Lassiter's long legs. He was really feeling every bruise, and the pains of his abused knees and the back of his head were starting up with new flares. Lassiter couldn't, at the moment, discern the pain of his ankle; it made him nervous. He noticed he was again flat on his back, and had a sense that the zip ties had been tightened around his limbs. Don't give up.

Saul laughed, fixing a smile over his lips that Lassiter assumed was some kind of twisted respect. "You got no idea what kinda spell is in that blood of yours, do you? I looked, I chased those little mangy, malnourished vixens, those too well-fed bureaucrats— got nowhere. Not a one of them had the charms— but you, you come sauntering in here like John Wayne revisited— acting not a lick afraid of dying."

Lassiter listened, unable to do anything else as he struggled to find all his limbs and each pain attached to them. "What— what the hell are you talking about?" he spat, having a difficult time following the killer's logic.

Saul pressed down with the blade, making Lassiter tense up as he felt what was likely a small "x" being cut into his skin. "Due time," Saul told him. "You got a right to know, way I see it, since you will be dying at my hand." Saul took the knife out of Lassiter's view, setting it down away from him. Lassiter caught its imagined glint in his mind's eye; he needed to get his hands on that knife. Saul then used his left hand to strip off his right glove, revealing a hand with skin as tanned and weathered as Saul's face. He pressed a fingertip against the "x" he'd cut; Lassiter jerked his arms at the touch. The killer smiled that wolf grin again, bringing the fingertip to his lips, much to Lassiter's horror.

* * *

As Shawn sat in the empty office, he flashed back to the crime scene; the woman on the beach. Great, Gus had only been gone twenty minutes, and he was already feeling so alone that now he was "seeing dead people." He might have laughed, but he really couldn't dredge up anything funny about it. Shaking his head, he scooped his phone off the desk, still unwillingly seeing the deep slashes in the woman's face, arms and feet. Her eyes had been open, staring through blue at the overcast sky; well, not exactly staring since the person she had been was gone from the body.

Shawn felt a stab of cold in his chest. It couldn't be possible, right? Not— not Senior Grouch, Master Of All Things Unfun And Sour, Master Of By-The-Book—? He took another good look at the text message, again tasting some dread.

O'Hara, checking out the tips you got for KOKH sightings. 6067 West Trail & Beach Lane, Samarkind. Back soon. You do good work.

"Checking out tips you got for the KOKH sightings." Shawn wanted nothing more than to fool himself into believing that "KOKH" was an acronym for something else; especially since Lassiter, in what might have been haste, transcribed the letters wrong. It should have read "KOHK"— "King of Hearts Killer," Shawn said out loud.

Shit, wasn't that a mistake? Now it was real. Now that he had said it, he was going to make himself do something about it. It's your fault anyway.

"How, how is it my fault?" Shawn could see Gus, if he were still here, raising his eyebrows in serious doubt of Shawn's sanity as he argued with himself, out loud.

If he went— if he went alone?

"Alone?" he scoffed. "Head Detective Carlton Lassiter? Going to a place like that without backup?"

It wasn't helping, saying anything aloud— or, Shawn reflected, even keeping it in. Maybe he should have told Gus something— but he couldn't see how it would have helped. Gus still would have left the office, telling Shawn he was being an idiot for giving a crap about Lassiter's well being; Gus was still half convinced that Lassiter had murdered Chavez, even though Drimmer was already in the process of being convicted. Even though Drimmer had kidnapped him because he'd known in that moment of talking to the fake psychic that Shawn had figured everything out.

Shawn sighed.

"Even if he went alone, how is it my fault? Huh? Huh? That's right, you've got nothing."

Shawn waited for his inner voice to counter him; he waited. "That's right," Shawn said to himself. "You've got nothing."

Well, crap.