Chapter Six: You Know What Flows There Like Wine
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Author's Note: Thanks for your reviews, support and patience! Special thanks to Texasartchick and windscryer for their great knowledge and wisdom on the subject of gun shot and knife wounds. As always, reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. I'm still working on both humor in general and Shawn's humor, so just please bear with me.
Disclaimer: Don't own Del Taco. Minor references to Season One's Pilot, Poker? I Barely Know Her, and Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast and Season Two's From Zero To Murder in Sixty Seconds, and Season Three's Lassie Did A Bad, Bad Thing.
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* * *
Shawn made good time, getting to the address just as the overcast sky hinted deeper blues, signaling oncoming night. He shivered in a toss of wind on his face after he removed his helmet, staring off down the maze of pathways that led to the buildings. He was struck by how much eerie charm was lost on this place after the sun had gone down. It looked like, under the rain slick pavement and on rain soaked gutters, just another Spanish Style Southern California home— a stock house, an overly large mansion or set of building block mansions all lined up together.
The area was silent, as he'd recalled it the one time he'd passed by here, after getting lost on his way to find a new Del Taco location which had promised free cinnamon twists. For a few moments, Shawn considered calling out, but swallowed it when he figured that if there was any action, it was probably happening within.
Shawn hoped there wasn't any action, though he couldn't deny there was a small part of him who wished there was some kind of fight. He imagined himself victorious, coming to Lassiter's aid only so he could tease him relentlessly about it later— "I saved your life. I, Shawn Spencer, saved your life." With a nice, fat sneer. He couldn't wait to gloat.
But, he shouldn't hold that fantasy too dear. If the truth came out about why Lassiter would have come here in the first place, without backup or not— Shawn's gut twisted, and a sour taste found its way under his tongue.
That was Lassiter's car he'd parked next to— the detective was here, somewhere. Shawn remembered the way his stomach had lurched when he'd seen the car while he was pulling in. This was the car who had beat him and Gus to many crime scenes, scooping up the evidence before he could take his "psychic" readings on it, i.e. so he could look first and then fake it later. This was also the car so hyped by Lassiter himself, which had been missing the moment the detective took Shawn and Gus out of the station to show it off. And the same that had met him and Gus at the old asylum when Shawn had discovered Juliet aka Mary Lou Baumgartner was in mortal danger. It was strange to see the car sitting here without any occupants; at least, at crime scene, he knew that its occupants would be coming back to it.
Shawn let a shiver overtake him as he stared through the vacant windshield, and didn't stop the jabs of anxiety that . . . that what he may have "predicted" had come true. For a few moments, Shawn stood staring at the sprawling building, glancing once at his motorcycle and then staring at Lassiter's empty car to anchor his decision. I'm here now, I might as well go in, he thought with bravery that was only half there.
Shawn remembered the doors he had seen from the street as he'd passed by on his motorcycle, and headed directly for one, twisting through the maze as if there were no barriers.
There was something pulling him closer, though he couldn't tell completely or admit that it was, but it felt like a rush of thrill— or the excitement of solving a case, and the knowledge that Shawn could aptly prepare his "great reveal". Danger, yes. He didn't slack his pace, though his dread increased the closer he got to the doors. If danger was "calling", then this was the real deal— not some kindhearted would be killer who "never meant for any of this to happen" while waving his gun around haphazardly and pleading his case of not going to prison.
Shawn flicked a long look back over his shoulder. He could make out the outline of Lassiter's Crown Vic, its sleek body half vanishing into shadow. He was still struck that Lassiter was, of course, not inside and seemed to have been gone from the driver's seat for a while. Which could only mean that— Shawn turned his head, looking ahead. He paused, briefly considering calling out from this distance. Halfway there, the silence continued, the unnerving kind with its limitless stretch of no activity.
As he walked, it began to dawn on him that even if he yelled, either here or within, Lassiter might not be able to answer. Shawn quickly retraced his thoughts, backing up to make the decision to think that a likely reason Lassiter would not be able to answer was out of his great shock that Shawn had "divined" his trouble and come to help. (And had not come, of course, to save his own hide from stern lectures from Vick, Juliet, and his father, as well as to avoid any jail time.) Uh huh. He was here to do the right thing.
Shawn's thoughts shuddered once or twice over the corpse from the beach and though he tried not to consider it, it pinched Shawn's stomach to wonder if Lassiter might be lying there in a similar condition. Stop it, he's not. He's Lassie. To make himself feel more at ease, Shawn recalled some incidences that he, with the help of Gus, had made Lassiter look like a fool in front of the Chief when he'd zoomed in and solved a case the Head Detective had been absolutely certain he had solved already. A few smiles tugged at the corner of Shawn's lips, but he was unsuccessful at banishing the thin line of worry that had driven him to come here.
Shawn well remembered Lassiter's bewilderment when Drimmer stepped out from behind the door with a gun, and the look of terrible realization as his mind pieced the how and why Shawn was in his apartment. But Lassiter had recovered quickly, never showing once ounce of fear as he back talked Drimmer and searched for spare guns. Though this was different; certainly not some dirty cop looking to set Lassiter up. Even so, it was near impossible for Shawn to imagine Lassiter in this kind of danger, even up against a serial killer this brutal— if that's what truly lay beyond the facade.
But this killer was unknown to them— sadistic and savvy, meticulous and practiced.
It was more than possible, even for an experienced Head Detective, that Lassiter had no idea what kind of foe he was actually going up against. But Lassiter as helpless? Shawn felt a prickling on the back of his neck; he wasn't a cop, didn't have a weapon— and there was more than half a chance that his cell phone battery was getting low—
A door handle was within reach. Shawn went for it, letting out a small gasp when the handle turned with a rusty squeak. This was it, he was going in.
Shawn hovered in the darkness of the threshold for a few seconds, desperate to believe that there weren't a graze of raccoons— or was it gaze? gazy? gazelle?— Gus had just corrected him on this a few weeks ago, but he told himself that this wasn't the best time for him to remember such a trivial fact— hoping there wasn't a huge bunch of raccoons waiting with their beady little eyes— until an angry voice from within his thoughts— maybe a manifestation of his father's— yelled at him that he'd better "Move it, or he'd lose it". It startled Shawn enough that he did what it asked, going within and closing the door. It wasn't until he was inside, waiting for his eyes to adjust, that he wondered if the "manifestation" was not his father's anger, but Lassiter's.
* * *
Gus had chickened out halfway through calling Henry. When he took Juliet off of hold, he was surprised to find only dead air. He hadn't even the chance to tell her about the text. Pulling the phone away from his ear, Gus took another look at it, hoping to make some sense of it.
Gus McSnazzy-abandoner-pants & shirt & buttons :p m prob. doing sumthing stupid. ? :O But good stupid, u kno, the kind that fixes the stupider-er things. Just shut up.
Gus sighed. He was kind of glad he hadn't had the chance to relay this message to Juliet; with the way she sounded, she could have likely snapped at him not to waste her time. Or that she was not Shawn's keeper— he was. Gus frowned. This might be the guilt talking— the guilt Gus always ending up feeling somehow from the problems Shawn caused— the ones that were usually 99.9% his fault, not Gus's.
"Hey, you coming back in?" Gus startled when one of his coworkers patted him on the shoulder, tilting his thinning blond hair towards the conference room.
Gus forced out an amiable smile. "One second, Doug."
"I'll save you a seat," Doug said with too big of an excited smile. These types of meetings were never exciting to Gus, but he attended because it was required of him for advancement in his day job. He craved the stability and order it brought to his life; and he was a pretty charismatic and persuasive salesman, if he did say so himself.
But, this second job that his orderless, restless and still often shiftless best friend had brought into his tidy (ahem, boring) life had been a welcome change, though Gus had been hard pressed at first to regard it as anything but another throwaway whim of Shawn's, something he'd tire of in five minutes flat.
So Gus had certainly been stunned to find out that Shawn had actually signed a lease on the building that was now their private "psychic" detective agency office, after the major and unexpected success of their first police commissioned case. The homicide had been solved by the skin of their teeth and with some cleverly executed slight of hand and had convinced at least one very experienced and superior police officer that Shawn was psychic. Eventually Gus had become almost comfortable with this role of partner to his fake psychic friend, knowing as well as Shawn did that this was one thing Shawn could not worm his way out of, not with a bright charming grin or jokes or some witty turns of phrase. It was this, Shawn had realized, or jail. Though they had the Chief of Police cutting them some slack, Detective Lassiter was not likely ever to be fooled into believing the charade.
Gus paused in his reminiscing. He recalled that Juliet had been upset when she'd answered, and had been hoping that it was Lassiter trying to get in touch with her. She hadn't said anything more, but it was obviously some kind of big deal. Gus tried to ponder it the way Shawn might, as a detective and with Juliet's interests at heart. Gus frowned; he didn't know why he should care. But he could recognize that the detective's day hadn't been going well, as if the entire universe wanted a hand in his demise. Gus had been there many times . . . though shockingly, many of his bad days were the result of Shawn's scheming gone horribly wrong.
Gus shook his head. Shawn. What kind of shit could his best friend be getting himself into now?
* * *
Dreaming, or floating, just skimming the underbelly of the surface of waking. He didn't want open his eyes, so he allowed his thoughts to run like a roller coaster set on its track, ready to go.
Pain swirled around his body, making itself aware in tight little icy knots. The small blows, kicks and cuts— the burn, the aches sustained from falling, the wound at the back of his head where he'd been hit, the swollen ankle— everything stung and bit, except his side, which burned— why, why did it? He let himself slip back underneath, not quite asleep but thinking of the past— the faraway one and the more recent.
Why hadn't O'Hara— responded to his message? He had come to count on her, trust her— but all this wasn't her fault. It was his, for sauntering in here, playing up his invincibility, as if he never needed anyone's help, as if he could always go it alone. I'm . . . I was wrong, he thought with lament, struggling to banish the "s" words on the tip of his tongue, of apology or fear. Sweat or something equally wet trickled down his skin. I need—
He was always drilling into O'Hara, though she didn't need to be told, that these kinds of situations were easily avoidable— but he had never said that if you wanted to be stupid and make an ass of yourself what would happen to you. Abducted by a killer, bashed in the head, tied up, threatened, cut, kicked, taunted, sickened and stabbed— no, none of these had ever come to him as useful examples. Instead, he had used the words "gunpoint" or "knife point", even offering her the story of his mistake as a rookie in hopes that she would never unwittingly put herself in a similar situation.
She hadn't asked him if he had been scared, only listening with anticipation as if she didn't know how the story was going to end. She had even seemed relieved when he'd told her that the standoff had been cut short by the quick thinking of his then partner and that he hadn't been hurt that badly. Lassiter remembered his fear of that night quite well, the idiocy of being grabbed as a hostage hitting him directly following his rescue, but he didn't share these things with O'Hara. He also left out the part about being teased mercilessly for months following the incident by his fellow officers and even some of the detectives— though his own partner never uttered another word about it, grateful, it seemed, to still have his young partner alive. During the lecture, Lassiter's partner had told him, "You need to live long enough to make Detective, so don't you dare make a fool out of me by not doing that. Understand?" Carlton remembered nodding, blushing furiously with humiliation and shame, though he'd felt lucky to be alive.
Now, he felt didn't want to make a fool out of O'Hara, by not living long enough to see her go up in rank. They'd never spoken of this; it was sudden, hitting him as he'd just remembered his former partner's words. I have to get out of here, he thought, peering into the long shadows that were far from his reach. Somehow. I have to.
Now that he was thinking of her, it was starting to hurt. He didn't know what was hurting at first, but some force was urging him to open his eyes. He stayed in the drift, letting her overrun his subconscious.
O'Hara's persistence to learn small facts about him— her excitement, before his birthday their first partnered year together, when she had discovered he didn't like mint, that he was, in fact, allergic to it, still had a way of flooring him. Why, why did she even care? He was a private man; believing it best to keep to himself (though, he had to admit, it was getting harder and harder to keep as many secrets with the blond crowbar's cheerful prying). And what was more, he found himself offering his opinions, both deep and superficial, to her mostly willingly; it was an unnerving occurrence yet strangely and gradually welcome to the lonely persona he had once been.
Even stranger was that fact that as he became more aware of her attempts to draw him out, (at first staying closed off with a long string of grumbles or glares), he began to mind it less, less. And when he sensed her tiring of it, as if she'd reached the end of her rope and accepted that he had withdrawn his long neck back into that hard turtle shell, he found himself making more of an effort, giving her tidbits, or more, about himself. Sometimes he was ashamed of himself that he cared whether or not Juliet directed her smile to shine on him, but he couldn't help but do it again and again. Lassiter tried to dredge up an image of her smile; it was easy enough, but it faded quickly. His insides twisted. He feared he was never going to see that smile again. . . . But I have to, he urged his thoughts to arc positively.
Almost as if she were there now, like a bright ray of sunshine, resting a cool hand on his cheek.
* * *
Carlton, when he came to, couldn't judge how long he'd been unconscious for. Dizziness waved over him; he felt his lips tremble involuntarily. A groan that shook his ears. Some of the thoughts from his dream state muddled around his head, trying to clear it; he fought hard not to reel back into the grogginess and go back under. All he knew, immediately upon awaking, was the pulse of fire in his side— where he'd had his skin cleaved apart. He shivered, aware suddenly that his clothes were still damp from the rain, small things that made him aware that he was lying on his back, but that this time, he wasn't bound.
He doesn't think I will— Lassiter thought, moving his hands from his stomach where they'd rested to press against his side. He was sickened to discover the blood was still pumping out of him somewhat steadily. He doesn't think I can—
Even if he had ever believed in vampires— other than in the form of mosquitoes— Carlton realized slowly that he would have never imagined one who looked like this. And, according to this madman, his own blood was the supposedly the very last score— the golden blood, the blood he'd live on forever. Was that right? Or was the color different? Had the killer said it would last? Lassiter closed his mouth tightly, worried that the screams he'd been saving up had extinguished, gone.
"You're a wild card, that you are, lawman," Saul said huskily, breaking into Lassiter's silence. Lassiter couldn't see his captor and guessed that he was standing behind him or in one of his blind spots. He didn't look very hard; he lacked the desire to focus on Saul, especially not after what he remembered the killer doing after cruelly jabbing him with the Bowie.
"You make me sick," Carlton rasped, pressing the wound harder. He moved his head to get a look at it, pulling his fingers apart so he could look in. Though the wound was still active, the flow of blood was sure but slow— he'd been lucky; the blade must have missed an artery, and with any other luck, there wasn't any nerve damage. So, there was still a chance that he wasn't just going to bleed out here. It was a— slash, not a stab, he told himself with tempered relief. It hurt badly and was going to need medical attention, but his thoughts slowed for a moment to the tempo of the blood rushing in his ears— then to the path of red that had stained his fingers— that he was doing his best to keep within. The warmth he experienced was less of comfort and more of an unwelcome jolt that because his wounds plagued him with pain, he was still very much alive and not about to just slip away should his eyes close.
Saul chuckled. "Suppose I would," he drawled, his boots rocking on the floor. He coughed. "'Specially to a righteous sort like you. But what you got, right there in your veins, is more precious to me than gold— anything with monetary value. Just that little bit I—"
"Stop it," Lassiter interrupted, jerking his head from Saul's voice.
"I get it, you're sensitive about your given worth," Saul said in a placating way. It irritated Carlton. "Suppose I might be too, if I was in your pos-iss-zition, lawman." He moved so that he was standing over Carlton, to the right side he'd slashed. "Don't change nothing, though. I will still have your heart."
Lassiter frowned at his dark eyes, his stomach curdling with new disgust. Saul had said that last sentence in a way eerily similar to a the way his ex-wife Victoria had, in their early days of conquest, shy dates and clumsy kisses. Long before anything had been foreseen to crumble. Lassiter swallowed hard, again turning away from the killer to peer in the opposite direction. It would be just as disturbing if Saul meant it in some oddly romantic way— but he of course didn't. Instead, his meaning was a literal threat— he intended to cut through Lassiter's skin and bones, pry his heart loose from its sinew, veins and arteries . . . and eat it.
It was useless to plead for his life, or even his release— Saul had proven to him that he was willing to do anything to keep Lassiter here as his hostage, until the given time. Lassiter's thoughts drifted back to the words Saul had uttered before their skirmish, the thing about Saul "not playing with his food" really sticking in his throat.
This was look, then, that Lassiter had initially read off of Saul when the killer had first appeared and introduced himself to his intended victim— that he, Carlton Lassiter, was food— was something tasty to eat. Or, in this case, drink. Lassiter wanted to yell, but his fears of what would happen next kept his lips pressed closed. He hadn't wanted to believe it, and had tried to seek out some other explanation that the killer would be studying him that way, but having already seen the serial killer's victims, he should have known better. It was, though, not obvious when looking over the bodies what exactly Saul's intentions had been. Carlton could see it now that he was here and in Saul's clutches, listening to his strange confessions and stories. It seemed that Saul did not have the kind of "appreciation" for his other kills as he had for Lassiter, though he'd still kept a little something from each as if he needed to be reminded that they were unworthy of transforming his weak conscience. With Lassiter, he wouldn't need a material souvenir, because he would have the detective's heart. . . .
Oh, god.
Needing to distract himself, Lassiter slowly moved his head back to Saul, focusing on the knife whose blade was now a brownish-red. He noticed quickly that the killer had removed both of his gloves, and had cuts on his fingers from Lassiter's jabs. His eyes left the weapon, landing on the right sleeve on Saul's shirt, noticing that, in the middle of the outer forearm, was a color two shades darker than the red plaid. He lifted his head to get a closer look. He couldn't make out a bullet hole but figured the point of entry might be the triceps; he stared blearily, trying to determine if the shot had pierced or if it was just a graze. Saul's fingers on his right hand twitched, and he shook them out. He was disappointed with himself; in spite of this bad situation, his aim should have been on point. Though, he hadn't really aimed so much as squeezed the trigger in an attempt at self defense while they had rushed at each other. (If this had been the movies, Lassiter would have killed him, point blank— but may have ended up stabbed much worse— bleeding out before he could even crawl ten feet away.) He sighed to himself. Carlton had to lower his head after fifteen or so seconds; any movement seemed to remind him that he had been cut open— almost gutted, like a fish. Well, not quite, but it certainly ached.
He tried to suppress an unwelcome image of the aftermath of fishing with Henry, but the cleaning and gutting of their catches was suddenly turning his stomach. Henry had been diligent on land as well, graciously instructing his guest on the basics as if Carlton had never fished, cleaned or cooked his own catch a day in his life. One more activity he would likely never do again— not out of his choosing not to go, but because he was going to d—
He pressed the wound harder, closing his eyes. It's only going to make it worse if you think that way— think like a cop, damn it. You're going to make it. This was not his own "inner voice", but a combination of scolding from a few of his partners, a serious demand that he hang on. As if "they" knew something he didn't.
He let his thoughts wander to his captor, wondering if it were possible to crack the semi-enigmatic shell of this man— or if Lassiter should even attempt such a task. It should seem obvious that Saul had touchy subjects he didn't want to discuss and was more than willing to cut or punch or kick the crap out of Lassiter to shut him up.
Now that he thought about it, Lassiter realized that there was an extra layer of gruff to Saul's speech, more harshness to his teases, as if his breathing were labored. Carlton hadn't paid much attention to the way he'd been holding his arm, if the movements were jerky or if it had hung more limp against his side. He focused to think back, as if anything Saul had done or said stuck in his mind— though this time for another purpose. Were there more layers, was there pain?
"We had ourselves a nice little fight, didn't we?" Saul asked, making Lassiter's shoulders hitch against the ground. He groaned. "Get it outta your system, lawman?" Saul was grinning, though it was easier to see that that grin was strained; the right corner of his mouth seemed to emphasize, pulling its downward towards his shoulder. Lassiter tried again to guess the trajectory; at that angle, he must have at least clipped Saul's outer arm, not enough to become a gusher, but still enough to hurt like hell. He recalled the burst of blood he saw as he charged the killer, the tiny explosion of red splatter in the fortuitous half seconds before Saul left his mark. But even a nick, that could still work to Lassiter's advantage.
He'd nearly forgotten about the blood, his own blood pumping against his fingers, and when he connected the liquid as his, he was momentarily paralyzed by fear. To help himself, he conjured up the image that he'd deemed as his salvation, whether it was just an unhelpful distraction or useful tool in the search for possibility. He needed hope, so he held onto it. The image waved, fading sometimes like a crackling radio signal, but he fought to keep it in place. It was a bright light, brighter than the panic he'd felt before, (well, almost, he amended), a light with the strength of the sun. It kept him grounded, surprisingly blocking off any other light source that he might be tempted to go towards should anything get so bad as— being stabbed.
The skin around the cleave hummed with pins and needles, though the skin just an inch or two back from this had a numbness. At the center, the wound was pumping its fiery, molten heat against his palms. He continued to apply the pressure, and did his best not to be too scared. It was getting harder and harder.
"So, this is all— after me, you're all done?" Lassiter asked, the rush of pain making him braver.
"What's this noble talk now, lawman?" Saul asked gruffly. He knelt down, close enough to touch Lassiter but angled so that he was well out of the detective's reach, should he still possess some fight.
Lassiter had to catch his breath and hold it into his cheeks before trying another sentence. He pressed his fingers harder against the wound. "After you kill me," he repeated slowly, "you won't ever kill again?"
Saul's top lip curled into an amused sneer. "Well, Dee-tech-tive, isn't that nice? You still thinkin' you're the hee-ro—"
"Shut it," Lassiter forced out, more air than words. He was silenced by Saul resting the heavy blade of the hunting knife against his lips. Lassiter breathed shallowly, waiting.
"'Course you won't be my last, lawman," Saul mumbled, pulling the blade from Lassiter's mouth to use it caress Lassiter's cheeks. Lassiter gathered moisture from under his tongue and when he had enough, spat it Saul's direction.
"Now, now," Saul continued, wiping away the spittle from his nose with his free hand. "I see you're jealous— you needn't be. You should be honored— honored that since you chose me and I chose to accept your willing sacrifice." He glowered at Lassiter's scowl. "Once I've got all your strength I will be able to enjoy each kill from this day forth— no more seeking— no more desperation."
Lassiter's chest rose and fell quickly; he tried to banish his panic, but Saul's being so close into his personal space wasn't helping him regain his own air supply. Amusement left Saul's features. He dug the knife into Lassiter's still damp hair, brushing his scalp. "You need to show me you're still a man about dying— even though not no'ne wants it."
Lassiter fought back with anger of his own, resisting the cringe when Saul yanked then cut his hair, and then strung curses at his captor until the man sat back with a wicked grin. "F—"
Air rushed from his lungs as Saul caught his cheek with an open palmed slap. "Watch your mouth, boy. I got me half a mind to—"
"Boy?" Lassiter snapped. "You can't be ser—"
"My blood''s older, my kin, my kind."
"Your— kind?" Lassiter repeated, his voice soft. He'd barely registered the slap, and even wondered now why his cheek felt seared. It was hard to think along these lines, even though Lassiter found it more than plausible that Saul's "kind" were killers— if he really did have a murderous ancestry. But the way Saul used these words, "kin" and "kind", made far-reaching suggestions of more than just simple beliefs in mythologies. And the way the killer behaved— as if he believed in this rabid lone wolf theory or even that his acts were like those of fanged, bloodsucking bat. . . . It was too unreal, but it still brought on a stretch of chills.
"As old as dirt, as sand." A smile flicked across Saul's face, like striking a match. The glow of the flame wasn't even lost; it glowered from within on the killer's tanned cheeks. He chuckled, a low sound, then coughed it out. "Shows how much I like you, lawman— you're gittin' me to talk." He raised an eyebrow, staring appraisingly at Carlton with that too familiar hungry look in his eyes. "Musta been good at what you did— interra-gattin'— gittin' those big bad sons-a-bitches to confess."
Lassiter flinched when the flat of the blade was pressed to his cheek again in a gesture of caress. "Musta been good at what you did—" The killer drew out his words, soothingly; they carried the weight of finality, of convincing— Lassiter shook his head though the action only dizzied his thoughts. The killer spoke as if he were already dead.
"Let's talk about you, lawman," Saul drawled out, continuing the knife's caress down to Carlton's jaw line so he could take another jab at one of the smaller cuts he'd already reopened. "We got time, plenty."
"Thought you already knew everything," Lassiter sneered, gritting his teeth as he felt the blade slink down to the long cuts starting at the crook of his elbow. It didn't seem to bother the killer that Lassiter hand both hands on the wound at his side; Saul made no trial to move them and only worked around this awkward position. Lassiter continued to speak even as the killer poked the blade under his flesh with a gesture of removing the skin from a chicken thigh. "That you— needed to know—"
"I don't know none of your secrets, though. Your desires— the Machismo strength that makes your blood into its worth." Saul kept his eyes mostly on the cutting, going slow, sometimes jerking the blade and at times easing it as if drawing it through soft butter. Every now and then he tilted his head to Lassiter's face.
Lassiter's eyes remained shut mostly, though spent seconds at slits; he was reduced to biting his lips to keep from howling. The noise pressed his cheeks, wanting to be free.
"Come on now, Dee-tech-tive, don't you wanna share some with your old pal, Saul?" the killer asked with a hard grin, pausing in his ritualistic blood play. "I could make it so it hurts ya so much less. . . ."
Right, like he'd made it hurt so much less for all the people he'd already killed? The ones he'd viciously tortured, before stabbing them through the heart? For them, Lassiter felt a surge of anger. He knew he was pushing his luck— hell, he'd been pushing his luck since this morning, and it was all bad anyway— but in his only option of fighting back, Carlton spat out, "Eat shit."
He flinched as the blade cruelly dug deeper into him before retreating. Another flinch as he saw Saul ball a hard fist, lift it above Lassiter's face and start to drop it into what he was considering a lip splitting or teeth shattering blow. He snapped his head to the side, regretting the movement, but the painful blow never came. Lassiter glanced up a few seconds later; Saul's fist was still poised above his face, but the muscles in his hands, arm and neck had tensed. The killer flicked his head like a canine towards the shadows beyond them as if he possessed a super sense of hearing.
Silence, like the small pool of dim light that surrounded them grew in wider and wider concentric circles, until the only other sound besides their breathing was of footsteps, one set, alternately thudding the half dirt, half wooden floors. Carlton's chest tightened with surprise, his eyes leaving Saul's fist and looking back as far as he could tilt his head, in search. A tiny cry escaped his lips— the scream, the one from long ago, reduced to this.
Saul's muscles unclenched, and he shook loose from his frozen position, as if remembering he had a captive he needed to keep hidden. His mouth dipped at Lassiter's cry, and then he moved.
Carlton was working up another cry, louder, longer, less breath and hiss, his eyes still tilted away from his captor. He caught the movement only when Saul was on him, both hands on his shoulders, one hand still tightly gripping the knife. Saul winced, baring his teeth at the gunshot wound on his right shoulder, before whipping his head back towards Lassiter and ducking low. He muttered some curses under his breath.
Saul, Lassiter noted with some lightheadedness, acted like a wolf guarding his food from other predators. Lassiter wasn't sure he could move; there was still a slow ooze of blood coming out of his side, despite the pressure of his palm over it. It was the best for now— should he ever get out of here, he needed to go straight to the ER. If, if, if.
Carlton hissed sharply as he was jerked from his prone state on the floor; the tip of the blade angled at his throat just above his Adam's apple forced anymore voice down to hover trapped under his knife held at his throat. As Saul's hand clamped down over his mouth, Lassiter realized that this was the first time Saul had shown any fear— were they about to be discovered? Moving hurt like a bitch, but it wasn't impossible. Lassiter now wondered if he could move, should he have to, and could stand, and even run— or hobble— to get away from his captor. Or, he knew he could try those things. The pain in his side was blinding; he had both hands pressed to the wound, aware that Saul was holding him in an awkward and uncomfortable position, but still smart enough to know he needed to salvage any strength. Now was not the time for attempted heroics— with the Bowie— the murder weapon of at least three others— against his throat.
Lassiter's upper back was against Saul's knees, his head nearly in Saul's lap; he realized that Saul hadn't managed to pull him up fully into a sitting position. He didn't do this, carry his victims around until after they were lifeless— he got them quickly immobilized and then played. Or maybe the bullet's graze had hurt him enough to weaken the muscles in his right arm. He couldn't have this, his game threatened, or his food— Lassiter shivered, his thought uncompleted as a distant voice challenged the reign of the silence.
Cold terror— there was no other appropriate word, since fear did not even begin to cut it— shot into Lassiter's throat, then immediately dropped the lead weight of its implication into the pit of his stomach when Lassiter heard the voice call out its "Hello?" for the second time. At first, he thought his ears might have been playing tricks, but why they'd chose that voice to tease him with a possible rescue— made no sense.
Lassiter was sure Saul could feel the increased tension in his body; they both listened to the slow footsteps and the voice call out again, but they couldn't see anyone yet. Lassiter had his eyes glued to the darkness in front of them, praying that his ears were really playing tricks on him, because he wondered what kind of protection this unarmed civilian could offer; he was more likely to end up as the King of Hearts killer's next victim— well, after KOHK had finished with him.
Lassiter wondered if he had both the strength to pry Saul's dirty hand from his mouth and yell out to the approaching figure to run and get help. He decided to try, no longer worrying over the knife as much as he slowly made his move, releasing his left hand from its support on his wound and rising it towards Saul's arm. Saul wasn't stupid; he dug the knife harder against Lassiter's skin.
"Don't you dare try anything funny, lawman," Saul hissed in ear.
Even moving the one hand from the wound had left Lassiter with a dizziness; he told himself he could steady the sudden tilting by grabbing Saul's arm, which he did, and then grunted when he felt the Bowie pierce his skin.
"I said, do as your told," Saul warned angrily. He'd kept his voice low, but the footsteps had paused.
Spencer, please, Lassiter silently pleaded, turn around and run. He had enough on his plate already, and wasn't sure if he'd be capable of keeping Shawn safe. After all, he was doing a bang up job with himself.
* * *
He'd wandered for a while; it was hard to tell in the dimly light, shadowy inside, even with his penlight as guidance. Though it had been terribly difficult, Shawn had managed to mostly refrain from speaking to himself as he'd walked, knowing he should keep his ears open just in case. It paid off, though he had only been able to make out once voice— unfamiliar as it was, it seemed to be speaking to another, one who wouldn't or couldn't answer.
Shawn moved towards this voice carefully, sticking to the shadows, starting to become afraid at what he might find once he stepped into the full light. He covered his penlight with his fingers, keeping it on just in case but trying not to give himself away. The shadows seemed to offer a wall of protection similar to a two way mirror— he could see out but no one could see him. Just where the hell was Lassiter, if he really was here? Goose bumps rose on his skin. This space seemed vast; Shawn had seen the stairs and had considered climbing them but decided to check the ground area first. He paused, close to a "break" in the shadow wall, where it was darker. He strained his eyes, trying to make out if he was really seeing what—
As soon as Shawn's eyes adjusted, his breath iced— he could see two figures, one crouched, gripping tightly in his right hand the dark gray hilt of a Bowie hunting knife and pressing its tip against the Adam's apple of the other figure, who was propped up half in a sitting position. The man with the weapon was also holding his left hand across the mouth of the other. The blue eyes of this second figure, which had glared at Shawn thousands of times with hatred, disgust, skepticism and myriad other expressions— which included a reluctant admiration— were sweeping the shadows with an alert apprehension.
Shawn wasn't close enough to determine if the sweat and paleness on Lassiter's face were there out of some kind of fear, or because of some pain— but it was likely a tie. He could see some slashes of red that shouldn't be there on the detective's body, and winced. He could also see that Lassiter knew someone was there in the shadow, and had dropped the guard from his eyes and tried to use them to speak. There was urgency, but Shawn couldn't accurately read the warning. From his vantage point, Shawn scanned the way Lassiter was lying on the floor, the detective's long legs draped from his body as if he were relaxed, one hand clutching the arm of the hand over his mouth and the other clutching his right side awkwardly.
The muscles and veins in the killer's arms bulged, but he looked out into the shadows, tensed for a different reason. To Shawn, it seemed like the only way he could get Lassiter in such a vulnerable position was that he'd someone managed to seriously injure the detective. Otherwise, even with weapon to his throat, Lassiter would be more in control, muscles taut, poised for fight or flight. Shawn suppressed a chill. Something was very wrong, but at the least, Shawn couldn't make out many cuts on Lassiter's face, though it seemed his chest had been sliced into pretty damn badly, as well as his arm and hands; it was difficult to pinpoint where all the blood on Lassiter's white shirt could have come from. Shawn winced, lurching forward within his own head. This was worse, much worse, than he could have ever— except death. But the detective was still alive.
The fingers of Lassiter's right hand came loose from the killer's wrist, uncurling as if in slow motion, sliding down the man's arm to drop to Lassiter's stomach. Lassiter's forehead pinched, and he squeezed his eyes closed tightly. When they opened again, Lassiter had to fight for a similar alertness he'd had before, it was very strained. The message had changed from "run" to "help", though Shawn still couldn't "read" these "words".
No, this did not look good. Not at all.
The air was charged— both men were waiting for the intruder to appear; Shawn receded, this time biting his tongue. Had he made a key mistake by calling out, "Hello?" Well, he couldn't take it back now. What he needed to do was cause a distraction that would require a look-see; Shawn knew he had to get the man— which he deduced, with a cold spike of fear, was none other than the mysterious serial killer— to let go of Lassiter. Even if Lassiter was hurt, Shawn knew he was in charge of getting the both of them out of here safely.
He didn't know if he could— but he knew he had to do something, and soon.