Chapter Five: I See It Coming, But I Can't Defend, You Cut So Deep

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Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone for your continued support! I very much appreciate reviews, feedback and constructive criticism. Minor references to Season One's Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast and Season Three's Lassie Did A Bad, Bad Thing.

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He could only play this game of tag with himself for so long, though he knew he was dragging his feet. And the rising dread . . . that wasn't just a nasty case of latent ingestion from yesterday's pizza chili cheese fries. Shawn gritted his teeth, angry that his father had really instilled in him the most important lesson (though Shawn often resisted this as long as he possibly could), which was to do the right thing. He didn't always; he had overcome years of parental guilt during his time spent away from Santa Barbara after high school, skipping from job to job and country to country as if in a childhood game of hopscotch.

But when it really counted, when it really mattered, Shawn was there.

And there was just a teensy, tiny bit of him that was convinced he could turn out as the hero of this story.

As long as Juliet or Chief Vick weren't alerted to the . . . Shawn grimaced, bending forward and clutching his stomach. No one was in the office but him. Impulsively, he snatched his phone from his desk and dialed, fixing a smug look on his lips. This was nothing; Jules just worried too much.

"You have reached the voice mailbox of Carlton Lassiter. I'm not available to take your call—"

Shawn listened to the full message, rolling his eyes as Lassie droned on about the probable duties he was enmeshed in, like "serving and protecting", "hitting the streets to chase down scum" or "interrogating the hell out of tight lipped suspects" as the reasons why he was unavailable.

While Shawn was surprised not to hear "getting my fifteen in the spotlight", "on the range, practicing my killer aim" or "sulking after yet another case was solved by Spencer", the one he was expecting— "I'm being held at gunpoint right now"— was not in that tidy little bundle either.

Shawn ran a hand across his face, feeling stupid for both dallying and for giving a crap. He was still pissed about earlier, but in Lassiter's defense, Shawn knew that he had been literally adding insult to injury after Lassie's fall this morning. It was a moment too priceless to let slide by without comment; after all, he'd witnessed the whole thing and had held back from collapsing on the floor next to the fallen detective in fit of raging laughter.

He was a professional, and could maintain his composure in public . . . Shawn smirked to himself. That was the line he'd used on Juliet after the fact, feeling proud for sounding as suave as he did and for having the facts to back it up. Well, some of the facts.

Shawn had cut Lassiter some slack on behalf of Juliet's beaming smile, directed at him as he'd passed by her in the hallway. Still thinking of its starry brilliance, he'd barged into Vick's office, spinning a clever tale nearly off the tip of his tongue. He'd been encouraged by another smile of Juliet's in the office, though this time it was closed mouthed and quick. Shawn had taken Lassie's absence as good fortune; it still irked him that Lassiter had poked him in the chest when all he'd been up to was—

Shawn shook his head. Lassiter was an even less fake psychic than he was, and was easily swayed by paranoia and superstitions. He sighed, laughing at himself. I should have known. Idiot. Lassiter had no idea what Shawn had done— following the path of this thought with another context at stake suddenly rocked Shawn with chills. The phone still in his hand, he dialed again, wondering as sweat beaded across his eyebrows if Jules wasn't onto something significant with her growing worry.

"You have reached—"

"Dammit." Shawn scowled, hastily taking a seat. He dropped the phone on the desk, leaning back in the chair to put his feet up. Lassiter's cell phone wasn't even ringing; if he was still on duty, what was the detective doing with his cell phone turned off? Shawn ran through a list of unlikely scenarios, unlikely even if Lassiter wasn't on duty since the man practically lived at the station.

He was doing his damnedest to ignore that he'd mistakenly received a text message meant for a cop; what would Juliet do with that information anyway? How long would it take her to realize that the situation outlined in the text had gotten out of hand?

"You don't know that for sure, dimwit," Shawn chided himself out loud.

But then, Juliet was missing a key piece of evidence that would have probably made her reach for her gun and set her face immediately. Or would she assume, like Shawn was trying to desperately assume, that Lassiter was a big boy and could always take care of himself?

Yeah, always. Just like that time Lassiter walked into his own apartment distracted, only to have former Detective Drimmer shove a gun in his face?

In order to sway his decision, Shawn pictured Juliet crying. He hadn't ever seen it happen, so he juxtaposed the faces of other girls he'd seen (or made) cry over the years onto Juliet's in his head, focusing on her stern voice choked up with tears and broken with pain.

But he was just her partner. She would get over it. She'd just get a new one, she'd just—

Shawn bolted out of the chair. Even though it was just a test, Shawn hated that he'd allowed his own thoughts to stray to a place where he would consider letting a semi-colleague— honestly the most fun one to grouse the hell out of on a daily basis— become a victim— or lose his life.

He was out the door and on his bike, kicking the engine in gear before he wondered if what he was about to do could be stupider than doing nothing at all. Shawn pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly typed up a message to Gus. Not long after that, he was on his way.

Shawn was determined to banish his guilty thoughts, determined that he had to, somehow, make whatever he had made all wrong all right.

* * *

"Were you born this sick, or did you grow into it?" Lassiter was surprised he could still muster this much venom, though he had just witness Saul lick another small drop of his blood.

Saul's lip curled. "This your dying wish, lawman? Talking about me?" His eyes narrowed. "What are you tryin' to stall for? We're gonna take this nice and slow— I like it slow."

Lassiter's eyes rolled to the ceiling, purposely not focusing on Saul. He was furious at himself for not being to stave off his pain long enough to get away from this bastard. Despite his intensive and extensive police training, he found it nearly impossible to banish an insistent flicker of panic that had set up camp at the base of his skull. At first, it was just a tiny light, blinking on and off in some kind of morse code. But then the light stayed on, burning, searing, refusing to go. Because of its proximity to his brain, it was having an effect on his other organs, making his heart pick up some extra beats, tightening the muscles in his stomach into knots, and sending its message of fear to each pain, old and new, very new—

Saul brought his ungloved hand to Lassiter's face, tilting Lassiter's chin upwards as if to inspect his artistic abilities on Lassiter's throat. Lassiter jerked his face away, his entire body going tense. "You're shy," Saul soothed, chuckling as Lassiter's eyes narrowed and he released a noise like a low growl. "I get it, you're timid-like, with the heart of a viper— well, ain't no worry. We're here lonesome, and ain't nobody around to hear you scream."

That, there it was. The light, once a tiny square was now a circle; the alarm was growing, jumping, starting to screech. Silently, Lassiter begged for help— any kind of help. He would give himself this— begging, and hate himself for it later, if there was a later.

There will be a later. Carlton wasn't quite sure where this affirmation came from, from his own well of resting strength or from the pieces of another voice all together— like O'Hara's or Vick's. He couldn't understand it, but just thinking it made him queasy.

Could the killer be bluffing? If he yelled, would someone—? No, it didn't seem likely. He didn't remember seeing anyone around outside, and the area wore its silence fashionably. He couldn't even recall hearing a dog bark or any children playing, or rumbles of engines sitting in traffic. How— how did I let this happen? Carlton asked himself dumbfoundedly. He flinched again as Saul touched him. "Get your hands off of me," Lassiter spat, again jerking his head away. He stared coldly at Saul, trying to sort out how he could get the upper hand even while lying here— find the killer's weakness and then make him angry enough— yes. Lassiter figured that there would have to be a fight— the man could only respond to violence with more.

Saul ignored him, digging his fingertips into Lassiter's jaw line.

Lassiter forced himself to ask the first question again, knowing already that any mention of family made Saul extra vicious. "Is this streak hereditary, or unique to you?"

Saul shook his head. "What's your game, Dee-tech-tive? What're you after?"

"Your conscience," Lassiter snarled.

"My, my," the killer patronized. He retrieved the Bowie from the floor, gripping it tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He held it three inches above Lassiter's eyes, as if he'd changed his mind about cutting Lassiter's face.

"Do you have one of those?" Lassiter continued, fighting hard to keep his voice steady.

"What? A soul?" Saul asked. He sneered, turning the knife towards the exposed skin beneath Lassiter's collarbone, just under the long, oozing cut. "Ain't every living creature in some possession of that?"

Carlton's back went rigid against the floor as the blade pierced him, peeling back what felt like inches of skin. It couldn't be, but this was more than the slicing, the tiny things that drew a little blood. The blade wasn't stopping. The exertion of biting back his cries turned his face red. He exhaled a hard breath when he saw Saul sit back, his pupils locked on the blood on one of the blade's sides.

"This has got to be hurting you," Saul told him, digging in his jeans pocket for a cloth. He used it to wipe the blade, as if not to be tempted. Then he got to his feet, seeming to enjoy staring at his prisoner from his full height.

"No," Lassiter lied, trying ignore the stinging of the newest wound.

Saul guffawed. "You're a different breed, all right. All those bodies there before you— they had no reason to lie to me."

Lassiter sucked in some shallow breaths through his nose.

"I know it hurts— I should know," Saul said, leaving the last admission dangling in the air.

"Why?" Lassiter snarled. "Did your grandfather use you as his own personal cutting board?"

"I thought I told you—" Saul's voice rose dangerously, and he lashed a nasty kick to Lassiter's side. Pain exploded throughout his body, the kind of pain that erupts in the form of white cartoon stars. "I thought I told you, boy, to keep your mouth shut about—" Again, another kick. The second kick made Lassiter gasp; some kind of liquid filled his mouth. He heard the killer's voice echoing in his ears, "I thought I told you, boy—" The harsh rasp of the sentence didn't quite belong to Saul, though it was said with his voice.

"Stop!" Lassiter yelled out after another relentless kick. He had been fighting to move his bound arms to protect his ribs, but Saul had merely toed them away before resuming his anger. He was breathing hard, as if he'd been running, and starting to feel woozy, even though he was already flat on his back.

"I ain't done with you," Saul told him, brandishing his knife as if it were a finger he wanted to wag at a disobedient child. "But before you die, I'm gonna know all your secrets, but you ain't gonna know mine." He lowered himself into a squat, close enough to poke the new cut he'd opened. Lassiter winced, turning his head. "You got a soul, I know you do— and I'm going to enjoy eating that too."

Despite the pain— all of it, really, Lassiter's mouth twisted up into an disbelieving smile, his left eyebrow arched for emphasis of the absurdity. "Are you— are you kidding me? You're going to 'eat my soul'? And you think that sounds threatening to me?"

Saul stared at him, the thinnest veil of confusion settling over his eyes. It faded as Saul looked away from him into the shadows. "My last— she tried to scramble. Cat and mouse wasn't as fun with her; she was running blind with blood in her eyes— she had blue eyes, dark hair, like you, lawman."

The smile slid off his face in a sobering moment; he knew it had been an attempt to reassure his fears, though trying to read something deep into this "soul eating" line was nearly bubbling inappropriate laughter from his lips— he pressed them together. This attempt was counterproductive— the laughter he wanted to exude was a sign that he was already crab walking himself to the edge of this terror, terror that would have made civilians scream or cry many times over by now. Had they also felt dirty, as if their humanity was being cut from them, strip by strip? The thoughts burned him— he wanted justice for those whose humanity had been dismembered by this killer; and these thoughts disquieted him— he would give anything to find a way out, back into the life going all wrong but where he was still alive.

Since he was only talking to himself, inside his head, and no one else would ever hear it, Carlton visualized his partner rushing in, gun drawn, with her sharp cry of "Don't move!" He liked to hog the spotlight, being the first to identify himself as police and demand the suspect, whom he would tag with some insult, "Freeze." I take her for granted, Lassiter thought, knowing how much he had really come to rely on O'Hara— as partner and as— what was that word she used, that word defining that group of people he didn't have many of— oh, "friend". Friend— nearly an alien word in his vocabulary until— Miss Sunshine. She'd laugh at me, thinking like this, Lassiter thought, feeling both relieved and miserable. This train of thought made him address the panic— Okay, he thought, fine, I'm scared. I don't want to die. There— he'd admitted it— but he made himself promise that he would not, no matter what, let Saul extract these words from him. Better to let the killer think Lassiter was as unfeeling as him.

Saul touched Lassiter's face yet again, this time running a gloved finger across an earlier cut near his right ear, either one obtained from his shaving mishaps or the one from when he had fallen in the police station. The police station . . . it was alarming to him that he could only see it as if he were looking at it through a narrowing tunnel, with a dirt floor— then, sharply, the faces of his colleagues. "You had these," Saul commented, running his finger across the cuts. "Maybe you like to be cut?"

"Like you?" Lassiter shot back, clenching his hands into fists. The movement made him recall the burn and he had to quickly release his right fist— it was just coffee. Why did coffee hurt him so much? Or was it the water that had hurt him?

"Like me?" Saul repeated, pressing the side of the Bowie against the small cut on his jaw line. "Huh. Maybe you got someone who cuts you— but not with a blade?" Saul raised his eyebrows as he traced a deeper line in the cut, using precision to keep it the same size.

Lassiter remained silent, again sparing some anger. He felt every incision as if they were all more than superficial, with some of the killer's words seeping into him as slow acting poison.

"Not only weapons can cut," Saul said. Again, he traced the cut on Lassiter's jaw. "Nuh-uh, you can do it with the eyes, with your tongue— your whole mouth of teeth and lips and your brain, with your words— with a touch—"

"You were ugly like death at your birth," Lassiter snapped. "Weren't you? Hideous."

"I'm just human, lawman," Saul countered gently, letting Lassiter's insult roll off him. "Just like you."

"I'm nothing like you," Lassiter said, looking away.

"You're a killer," Saul said softly. "Don't tell me you ain't never put that barrel against— squeezed the trigger— fired— and had it feel so good." His eyes narrowed as he looked Lassiter over. "Don't deny."

Lassiter scowled. He tried to bite his tongue, but couldn't let this go. "I am not a murderer. There's a huge difference. You're on the wrong side, jack-off."

A dark smile crept over Saul's features. "You ain't got no one, I'm suspecting— working on your own— entering in with your shiny toys— though I did stop you from calling in to spread some lies."

"How do you know that?" Lassiter bluffed, he hoped, convincingly.

"Ain't no one gonna come for you, lawman," Saul told him with a grin. "Ain't no one out there missing you— you're an angry one, rage bundled— many out there, they're skin and fluff, no depth, just getting by on a big fat smile. No'ne, I suspect, can handle some'ne like you"— he chuckled— "or me— and they'd be none the happier to forget you ever was. Just like me," Saul added those last three words thickly, darkly, slowly— and they shook Lassiter's heart because he knew there was more than a scant possibility that they could be true.

"In a few short years, you could be like her. Everyone is, frankly, surprised that it didn't work out." Lassiter shivered inwardly, suddenly haunted by Vick's words following "the incident". The Chief had gone back to her paperwork without another word as he'd stood there, dumbfounded, waiting, he'd reflected, for some kind word or reassurance of his worth. When neither had followed, he'd left, turning around to face the department who viewed him as— cold, his whole body was cold.

He wouldn't, not for a second, allow himself to believe that the killer thought of him as similar or the same— but Lassiter was more iced with paranoia that the killer could be right about his colleagues forgetting him as if he— had never been alive. As if they'd never met him, spoken to him, known him— would it be a "good riddance" thing? Lassiter felt the hard space of floor underneath, wondering if it was only earthen and if it might be his grave. Would anyone care that he might be buried beneath here, missing his— blood and his heart? Or would be just another faceless nameless DB— useless, worthless, soulless—

He didn't care if the water now in his eyes could be viewed as a sign of weakness; he let them fill slowly, he let the moisture burn him. The pain of his own making made him remember that he wasn't dead yet and that he was a fighter— and that— what? That he could change? He didn't want to change the whole of himself, just small things. O'Hara will help you, she's already helped you— a voice reminded him. Some moisture spilled from one eye, just from his lower lid to the dark half circle under his eye, pooling. O'Hara— please. Please— help me.

* * *

"Hello, Juliet?" Gus asked. "It's Gus." He didn't miss the disappointment in her tone as she greeted him. He was a bit taken aback. "Sorry, we you expecting someone else? Shawn?"

"No," Juliet said, move a stray strand of hair from her eyes. She sighed. "I'm sorry, Gus. I thought you might be Lassiter." She shook her head, though he couldn't see. "Never mind. What's going on?"

"Oh," Gus said, unable to hide his worry. "I was just wondering, is Shawn at the station?"

"No," Juliet repeated. "I haven't seen him since the crime scene. Why?"

"It's— probably nothing. He's just not answering his phone, and he left me this kind of weird text message." Gus inhaled and then exhaled loudly. "I just thought maybe he would have—"

"Where are you, Gus?" Juliet asked politely.

He explained about the meeting. "I left the Psych office about forty-five minutes ago, and I had my phone turned off because I figured Shawn would try to call me several times, as he usually does. But the meeting just let out for a break. I called the office but he's not answering."

Being told that Shawn wasn't answering his phone brought up Juliet's displaced worry for where, exactly, her partner might be. She could easily guess that a possible reason Shawn was not answering was because he'd forgotten to charge his phone, but Lassiter? What possible explanation could there be for Lassiter— it hit her suddenly with the weight usually illustrated in cartoons, a ton of bricks.

"Oh, god," she murmured, willing her worry not to be true.

"What is it?" Gus cut in, nervous.

"No, it's— I'm sure Shawn is fine, Gus," Juliet said distractedly. "Did you try his father's house?"

"What?" Gus asked, furrowing his brow. "No, why would I do that?"

Juliet's brows pinched together. She swallowed a big lump of worry, though it stuck in her throat. She needed a game plan, a good explanation to fully convince herself why Lassiter was away. She imagined every which way of reprimand, every cast off glance, his low growls at her wasting time on something so trivial as him being out of the station. How he could enter the bullpen at any moment, grumbling and cursing, not even noticing her standing by, her chest tight with dismay.

But such an occurrence as this was rare; it was a necessity to their job to let the other one know where they were unless they were each working separate cases, or off duty, of course.

Experience had taught her that no matter how resilient and courageous her partner was, he was not invincible though he held onto the conviction that he was. She usually took her silent pride in a smile to herself at how much he had come to rely on her without even realizing it— and not just as another insubordinate who would follow his orders and do the menial jobs of a junior detective with no back talk. Of course, they had come up more as equals, though Lassiter was still higher in rank to her. Juliet felt that her partner had no idea how much he— she paused, unsure if "needed" was the word she wanted. Needed her, she tried it out. How much he needs me.

She would never push him to admit it, or gloat over it if it happened to slip out of his mouth.

* * *

"You got yourself some nice burnt flesh," Saul commented, jabbing the knife towards the burn Carlton had sustained earlier. The tip poked the skin joining his thumb to his pointer finger, stinging as if it were a needle going in. Lassiter bit his lip; it had long ago already opened to offer its blood, so he was surprised by more of its copper on his tongue. "Yes," Saul murmured, tracing the blade slowly across Lassiter's hand, across the whole of the burn.

Lassiter cursed, taking himself out of the sensation of pain by focusing on how close the knife was to his bonds— and how close Saul's hands and torso were over him. As Saul cut more lines, deeper lines, waiting for his victim's small cries, Lassiter ceased to feel the blade, overwhelmed by the sense that he needed to fight— that it was now or never. And if he wasn't feeling pain, this would be the best time to get to his feet. But, on the flip side, if he wasn't feeling pain, he might not be feeling his limbs either and might end up crashing straight back down to the floor. Chance I'll have to take, Carlton insisted, tightening the muscles in his arms. He let the killer think that it was because slashing open of his hand hurt that badly. Carlton waited, holding his breath even as a small voice cried that he needed a steady breath to make this work. As Saul turned the blade, bringing it back across his hand, teasing a few of Lassiter's raised veins, he paused as if inspecting his "anti-artwork". "Mighty fine," Saul muttered, dropping his face closer to Lassiter's right hand.

With a grunt released halfway into his action, Lassiter raised his bound arms with as much reserved strength as he had towards Saul's face, catching the killer sharply in the nose. Saul's head jerked up, managing an intake of breath before Lassiter struck his again in the cheek, using his abused stomach and calf muscles to sit up. Wasting no time, Lassiter struck again, smashing his arms into Saul's throat. The blade was gleaming, catching the light high above them, and almost seducing Lassiter into taking it. Not that he needed to be tricked in order to consider it; he stretched his fingers out for it, though it was still firmly clutched by the killer.

Saul swung for him, ready to punish his captive for disobedience.

Lassiter dodged, but Saul's fist grazed the top of his back. With a yell, Lassiter knocked his shoulder into Saul's chest with enough force to send the man onto his back. His head hit the partial earthen floor with a dull thud. And unlike earlier, Saul didn't get up right away. The knife was gleaming, still gleaming, like forbidden fruit waiting to be picked. Lassiter gathered his knees under him, scooting as quickly as he could towards the weapon.

Adrenaline blurred the edges of his actions, his breath coming out in harsh huffs through his nose and mouth. Lassiter could taste the blood on his lips, and willed pain to keep at bay. Lassiter struggled like chained up cattle, clumsy but existing on speed. He couldn't feel anything, or think about anything, except getting free. This had to work. It had to.

Hovering over his captor gave him not on the usual enjoyment he usually took in gaining the upper hand. Saul's eyes were partially closed, but flickering, a low groan hissing through his teeth. Lassiter thrust his fist toward the Bowie, struck by new alarm while trying to pry the knife from the killer's grasp. If he was still holding on, then there was more than a chance he could snap back up, madder than ever. With his heart doing an accelerated samba in his ears, Lassiter yanked on the hilt with all his hope and was rewarded by its release into space— though the motion sent him tumbling onto his back.

Lassiter stiffled a cry when he saw Saul move, then lurch for him, snake-like. Without hesitation, Carlton lashed out his bound feet. The killer's veil of coolness was gone, and the murderous part had surfaced, giving him a more deadened appearance. There was no conscience behind this human-like skin, a thought that parted the flurry of action that Lassiter was engaged in.

The kick had caught Saul in the stomach, and had enough power behind it to slam the back of Saul's head into the floor with a crack; Lassiter heard him groan but knew his window for escape was even smaller than before. He gripped the handle of the knife and rubbed the sharpened blade against the tight plastic holding his wrists together. It took a bit of hard sawing, but as soon as the plastic parted, Lassiter yanked his arms apart with some strength he'd been saving up. The zip ties popped off; he didn't allow himself any time to savor this freedom and instead, curved the blade towards his ankles. Unintentionally, he bumped his twisted ankle and had to gasp, but didn't dwell on how much it was going to kill when he got to his feet. A voice was telling him that he needed to run, and even if this meant that Saul would get away, he knew it was in his best interests to listen to it. After all, ignoring these alarm bells earlier had led him straight into danger— this was not a job for one man alone.

Saul was moving, raising a hand to his forehead as Lassiter frantically sawed through the zip ties around his feet. Lassiter kept one eye peeled on the killer, ready to either duck or fight if Saul should take a swing or aim a kick at him.

"Pretty slick," Saul muttered, his eyes now open and staring up at him as Lassiter finally got the ties off his feet. Lassiter pawed the floor and then scrambled, jumping up. He cursed violently under his breath as soon as he put weight on his ankle. He stumbled back a few feet from Saul, who was pressing up on his elbows as if to watch a show. The coolness had returned, and Saul pursed his lips in a way that suggested that he was still in control even though his snagged prey had momentarily untangled himself from its net. "You still ain't goin' nowhere," Saul drawled, as if in emphasis of his look. "You already tried this dog and pony show once, don't you remember?"

Carlton hadn't anticipated the pain to be this bad; he'd felt that the cut along his collarbone hurt much worse, but he was sweating profusely and even feeling lightheaded. He begged his fight or flight response to hold out so he could get away; had he really thought he could subdue Saul before running off to get help?

Still gripping the knife, Carlton wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. Some blood, still wet, rubbed off. He got a quick glimpse at his wrists— they bore the circular red impressions of the zip ties. His joints were stiff, but he hadn't been tied up that long so he retained most of his circulation. Saul was climbing to his feet.

"I've still got your guns, lawman," Saul reminded him, reaching around his belt for where he'd put one. "Not my weapon of choice, but it will do."

Lassiter sneered at him, straightening though the pain raked moisture from his eyes. How callous, this bastard thinking he could use Lassiter's own Glock .45 against him. "Just try it," Lassiter dared, feeling a rush. A new surge of adrenaline had wiped out his panicking, and made him believe he could engage in some kind of fair fight with the murderer's knife against his very own gun.

Saul shook his head. "I ain't gonna shoot, but you're gonna give me back my knife."

"Like hell."

The killer pointed a gloved finger in his direction. "You came here of your accord; that must mean something to you." Saul flicked off the safety and adjusted his hand to the weight of Lassiter's gun.

It was dumbfounding, trying to follow Saul's logic. Lassiter decided not to try. "You tricked me to get me to come here. That's kidnapping."

Saul shrugged. "Kidnappin's the least of my sins. And here you are, trying to get me to surrender, as if you're the hero of this story."

Lassiter held his ground as Saul took one step in his direction. He was going to have to make a decision soon, whether to test Saul's "I won't shoot" theory out or put down the knife and still hope he could get the upper hand.

"'Sides, ain't kidnapping a peace officer just as bad as killing him?" Saul asked. When he grinned, Lassiter took a step back, the voice reminding him that he was supposed to run. "But I don't wanna kill you, not yet. No, I think I want— more taste."

Lassiter's anger and disgust flared. He remembered much too well the sensation of Saul's tongue on the back of his neck— one of the many assault charges Saul was racking up. "Why do you think my blood is worthy?" he called out, brandishing the knife as if it were a gun. "You didn't take the blood of anyone else."

Saul laughed. "They looked pure— but their answers told me they weren't. Cut, slice, dig— every last one was a disappointment."

"I'm not pure," Lassiter said.

"Yeah, you are— you're the source, the well of black gold— blood strength in a man."

Lassiter heard the hush after his words— a whish or swish— and he shivered violently inside. Saul did truly believe in these old tales— or lies— of his ancestors— or of a more recent source. "Because— you think this because I came here?" he said, unable to contain the horror and disbelief in his voice.

Saul smiled. "Now you're catching on."

"Then why kill those others? Why take them if—"

"It was a hope that I'd get lucky. Find the one— ones, maybe, even— to—"

"Shut your filthy mouth," Lassiter yelled, not wanting to hear anymore.

"You still think you're gonna take me in, put me in those shiny silver bracelets and haul me off in front of some judge," Saul taunted. With his free hand, he reached in his back jeans pocket and pulled out Lassiter's handcuffs. He let them dangle for a second before tossing them onto the floor.

Goddammit, Lassiter thought, staring. He felt unbalance without his cuffs, his gun and badge on his person, this weapon in his fingers a poor substitute in his battle to stay alive. But they were just things, and if he got away he could come back for them later.

"Now, I think I've played nice for long enough. I was taught right, no elbows on the table, say your prayers before each meal, don't play with your food." He glared at Lassiter with no trace of a smile on his face. "Drop the knife."

Carlton tried to not let the killer's words linger in his mind, but they were hanging on and he was more than disheartened. He owed this man before him pain, but it would be better to do it on his own terms, in an interrogation room where he was safe and at ease. Still, he was not about to let this freak get his hands on him again if he could help it. "Make me," Lassiter snarled, breathing harder as he pressed more weight onto his injured ankle.

For a few moments, they waited, each looking the other over as more animals than men— and then there was a rush of air, and a hard scrape of shoes, Saul moving like a fanged large cat or wolf bent on cornering its prey and Lassiter like the wounded game charged up with life, taking his ragged steps forward, baring his teeth and claws as the only razors of his anger. They were matched in strength, but Saul had more weight on his frame and was not as battered, but Lassiter still fought to hold his own. He jabbed with Saul's knife, catching the killer's fingers with enough force that Lassiter sliced through the fabric of the remaining glove, causing a hiss from Saul. Lassiter stabbed again, piercing the fabric of the killer's shirt; Saul grunted, and smacked at Lassiter's wrists with the butt of the gun. Saul actually loosened his hold on the gun at Lassiter's next few and continued jabs, spilling his first blood since the days of youthful bar fights. The Glock .45 slipped to the floor, somehow not going off when it hit. Saul's hands were on the underside of his forearms, squeezing hard. Lassiter jabbed the knife again, this time towards Saul's neck. They kicked each other at the same time; Saul grunted as his shin took the hit, but Saul's kick caught Lassiter's injured ankle and he saw red-black stars.

Lassiter retreated a few steps, trying to catch his breath. His arm shot out with knife pointed at Saul's gut when the killer came at him but Saul grabbed right Lassiter's elbow and bent his arm upward— this time getting a solid kick to Lassiter's groin. Still, Saul had to pry the Bowie from Lassiter's sweaty fingers because he was hanging onto its hilt for dear life. Lassiter managed to slice the killer's hand again before he fell to his knees, the pain unbearable. Saul tilted the Bowie, bending his elbow and catching some overhead light on the 8 mm blade.

"You son of a—" Lassiter huffed, his face a deep maroon. He hissed, fighting to keep his eyes open and to stay on his knees. He felt like he was dying, but he knew the pain would pass. My gun— my gun is on the floor. Keeping his eyes on Saul, who was wiping his bloody fingers on the front of his jeans, Lassiter lowered himself further and felt around for his gun. Laying his fingers on familiar steel, he knew he had one chance, just one chance to stand and stop this maniac. Grunting, then yelling, Carlton ignored the stab of red in his eyes as he jumped to his feet. His finger wrapped around the trigger, pulling it as naturally as breathing. Saul lunged at him again, at the same instant— they were forces in motion— collision unavoidable.

He missed— Lassiter missed. He was in shock; one shot fired had left his gun, but Saul was quicker than he'd anticipated— he'd sidestepped— or was Lassiter's aim off? That off? How? He could have sworn he'd seen the bright flash of the round exploding from the barrel, seen a small spray of blood from where the bullet may have penetrated, but the killer showed no pain on his features. He screwed up his eyes, trying to make sense of the scene before him, asking the questions he was certain to ponder again and again as he— Lassiter gasped, sweat exiting his pores fast. He cried out, a guttural sound, then a sharper yelp of horror, disbelief— then, the harsh wrangle of breath from his lungs.

Saul hadn't missed. He wore a look of dissatisfaction that it had come to this, that he'd been forced to defend himself, that he had to go to such extremes to keep Lassiter here. He stood over Lassiter, who was back on his knees, panting harshly and bleeding from the mouth. Saul held out the Bowie, blood from Lassiter's right side coating half the blade. "You're trying to make me waste it," Saul finally said, bringing the blade to his lips as he determined he'd subdued his victim enough for the moment.

Lassiter's hands went to the gushing stab wound— he stabbed me, Carlton thought with new shock, feeling so lightheaded at only the thought, he was certain he would pass out. He pressed on the opening, trying not to think about the slippery liquid that he needed escaping from his body, pouring over his fingers so quickly he couldn't understand how. He flicked his eyes towards his captor, wishing in god's name that he hadn't, because he witnessed Saul licking some of his blood off of the blade.

Lassiter was, in that moment, too scared to make a sound. He couldn't assess how bad the wound was because the light around his head was dimming, then darkening. His limbs were giving out from underneath him. He was afraid to go sleep because he didn't know if he'd wake, but the darkness gave him no options and just pulled him down into its folds.

* * *

"Juliet?"

Juliet's breath stopped, and she sighed. Had she just blanked out while Gus was speaking? How much time had passed? She glanced at the clock, wondering if it was accurate; really, more than five minutes? She was ready to own up to it, to blame it on stress of the latest case, when Gus launched into another drone of what Shawn might be up to, and told her to hang on for a moment while he tried some other avenues.

Juliet went back to her thoughts from a few minutes ago; there was an undeniable heaviness under her ribs and she knew, just knew, that something was seriously wrong. It was more than woman's intuition, but it was frustrating to not know what was wrong— or how bad things may be. Without any evidence, she could only speculate, and suspected that Vick or anyone else might call her on transferring her feelings from these killings into her recent worries— but this was Lassiter. Juliet reached out and grabbed the edge of her desk with her free hand.

She turned her head, craning her neck to watch some passing officers and detectives, searching out that tall, lanky man who knew how to wear his suits well but sometimes had the worst taste in ties it made her a little sick to look at them. But what she wouldn't give to . . . put her fears to rest. Tell herself how ridiculous she was being . . . Lassiter was fine.

She couldn't abide, and her anxiety gnawed at her, teasing relentlessly that something bad had gone down. Juliet tried to talk herself out it, tried to lessen the worry, telling herself it might be . . . the anniversary of his first break up to Victoria . . . or it was just remnants of the bad day he'd been having . . . he was out, taking it easy, on an extended lunch. The roof of her mouth hummed. She couldn't believe in these lies; something else was going on. She had no clues, nothing to go on— but she could track the GPS in Lassiter's phone.

This plan calmed her. She considered herself resourceful, and planned out her words to tell her partner when she found him— no, it wasn't spying and if it was, she had learned from the master, so there.

To practice for this time when they were face to face again, Juliet focused on one of Lassiter's often angry glares that he fixed on anyone who dared to annoy him; she was proud to say that she had come to cower less under its burning gaze. Besides, she felt she was entitled to smack him on the arm for worrying the hell out of her, even if it turned out to be absolutely nothing. She could write the smack off easily too, a throwback to his callous words in Vick's office earlier. Juliet's eyes found the clock, and she calculated backwards the time when she had last seen her partner— and was startled to realize that nearly three hours had passed, not just over two. She estimated that she must have called at least 60 times; the fear was back.

Not waiting for Gus to return to the line, Juliet sank the phone back to its cradle. Whatever this was with Shawn could wait— it was probably nothing.