Chapter Seven: I'm Not Sure Who's Fooling Who Here

Author's Note: Billions of thank you's and hugs to all my reviewers! :) Thank you for your continued support, means the world! Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are still welcome and greatly appreciated.

* * *

"Detective O'Hara," Vick called as she approached Juliet's desk. Juliet looked up expectantly; ten minutes ago she had set up the tracking on Lassiter's cell phone GPS, and had just finished the difficult call of notifying the young woman's family of her death. The woman's sister Juliet had spoken to had launched into hysterical sobbing for a stretch, promising through shaky words that she would be down soon to make an ID; Juliet needed some good news. Her worry had not abated, though her plan of action helped to steady her nerves.

This was the perfect opportunity to ask the Chief if she knew anything about Lassiter. Before she could form her thoughts, Vick continued, "Do you have any idea where your partner is? I've tried his cell phone three times—"

"Straight to voice mail?" Juliet interrupted. She used the arms of the chair to help her stand.

"Well, yes," Vick said, falling back a step. She arched an eyebrow, waiting.

Juliet hesitated, wondering suddenly if she should cover for Lassiter in his absence— they did occasionally cover for each other, but this was— different. She cleared her throat. "No, I don't, but I'm running a trace on his GPS."

Vick frowned, tapping her foot. Juliet saw on her face that Vick was considering her actions a waste of manpower; after all, Vick clearly didn't find cause for worry after only trying Lassiter's cell phone three times.

"Last time I saw— or heard from him, Chief," Juliet steered Vick towards her reasoning, "was when you told me to leave his office so you could speak privately with him."

Vick sighed. "Detective . . ."

"It could be nothing," Juliet broke in gently, "but it's not like him not to pick up." She allowed the unspoken question to hang in the air, curious as to just what their Chief could have said to him that may have chased him off.

Now that the words were said to her directly, Vick actually noticed his absence with a small throw of breath. Lassiter was a staple at this precinct— bad day or not. The last time she had seen him he'd been eager to please— a level he didn't usually stoop to, but had known there were things of the day he'd needed to compensate for.

So, with that in mind, didn't it make less sense for him just to disappear without telling anyone?

Karen allowed her mind to wander back to their earlier conversation, staying sharp for clues or tells. Her Junior Detective waited, biting her lips to keep herself from speaking. As Karen mentally sorted through her exchange with Lassiter in the Head Detective's office, she realized how good it was his partner had already taken an initiative to locate him. It could be nothing, Vick repeated to herself quietly, but then again, there could be something there.

* * *

Shawn's need to act pitched him forward, mentally, pinching him hard on the back of the neck. It was all he could do to keep from crying out, a thrill of anguish. Crumpling his fist as if it were a used hamburger wrapper, Shawn pressed his fingers against his teeth. The recent past filtered in, the flimsy excuse he'd used to get himself— and Lassiter— into this mess while the scene before him remained suspended, both men "frozen", as if they were going to stay like that. As if the slashes on Lassiter's arms didn't hurt, and instead were merely paint, or red dye #3.

"Hello? SBPD tip line?" He'd disguised his voice, pulling it back into his throat, speaking in short puffs. He thrown in the stutter at the last moment, thinking at the time it added to the effect of 'crazy person calling in ludicrous and 97.2% unreliable tip.' "I wanted to notify you— I think I know where that-that, uh, 'Hearts Cards' killer from the news is-is-is hiding out. Describe it? Uh, well, sure. Creepy. Creeeepppeeee. Do you uh, need me to spell it out for you?" He'd argued a little with the officer, whom he guessed was Dobson, but had finally managed to eke out the address. "I'm serious with this one. Got a gut feeling, sir. Think it's the one."

He'd been thanked flatly, and had assumed that it was likely nothing would come of it. There was only the slightest chance that he was right; after all, he hadn't seen anyone go in or out of the building.

But seriously, did the IA have to know that? Certainly not, especially if there was a chance Shawn could sweeten the deal by making Juliet happy, making her more open to flirting with him later on or for the next time he needed a favor. He didn't understand it, but Juliet really looked up to Lassiter proudly, seeming to mostly dismiss his grumpiness as "part of the package". As if whatever she considered Lassiter's "good side" made up for all the rest. Maybe because the two had to spend so much time together, she could easier empathize with her partner's moods. If Lassiter was upset— angry or downtrodden, then eventually her sunny side dipped or dimmed for the day. She snapped more frequently during these moods, was harsher, unlike herself. Oddly, Juliet's mood had little effect on Lassiter, who mostly remained, in Shawn's opinion, "sunny side down", with the unlikely chance that there really was a "sunny side" unless it was locked up in a box in some secret, undisclosed location that Lassiter would never tell another living soul about.

Except Shawn had witnessed the most impossible— Juliet drawing out Lassiter's impeccable smile, his laugh. During these times, Shawn had been torn from staying still out of shock, or running up and somehow ruining the moment; as much as he liked to see Lassiter scowl, he hated to see Juliet follow suit. It was always tough; the few times he'd been there as it first unfolded, he'd slid in gently, pretending to join in before starting to mock. He would prep Juliet so she would still fall to his charms, before trying to make Lassiter as miserable as possible. Sometimes it worked.

If you don't do something, you idiot, you'll never get another chance to piss off Lassie again, a voice scolded him harshly from within. Right, he'd come here to help, fix things if they'd needed to be fixed; he should have brought the appropriate tools. All he had on him that could be useful was his cell phone— and the pen light from his keys. Think, think. Pulling further back into the shadows, Shawn quietly pulled his phone out while keeping his covered pen light at his side. The battery was lower than before; this wasn't the best location to call from anyway. He put his phone away and backed up further, still keeping an eye on the pair. There had to be a way around them, right?

Shawn pushed his arm out behind him, groping for structure. This place was not at all what it appeared to be on the outside; the shadows might quickly give way to a pillar or a wall, and he couldn't risk making any sounds this close to them.

He backed up and groped his way back to the stairs, vacant and more well lit. He went to the first step, staring up as far as the first landing; his stomach flipped when he caught a downward zigzag of spotty blood drying on the steps. There was more of it on a railing five steps up, and an untidy puddle at the bottom, centimeters from Shawn's sneakers.

He bounced on his toes, electing to take a few wide steps backwards. Shawn glanced to right, observing the gray shadows layered with brown and charcoal from the direction he'd probably come from. His stomach flipped again, and without thinking the plan through, he took a running leap towards the stairs, landing loudly on the second step. His weight clanked the metal; he jumped up the rest of the stairs two at a time, the entire time keeping one eye peeled towards the shadows.

Shawn's breath caught as he listened, leaning towards the further shadows of the first landing. There were more stairs, but he wasn't sure if he should try to go higher. What am I going to do if— Shawn pressed his shoes against the stairs for traction; if Lassiter was no match for this man, how was he going to fair?

I should have— gotten here sooner, he thought miserably as he waited for reaction to the noise he'd created. Shawn swallowed, torn between an excitement of actually finding Santa Barbara's latest known of serial killer, and a chastisement that he found thrill in something this rotten. After all, the victim this was not merely a stranger, a person he had no connections to whatsoever. It'll be okay, Shawn willed.

As soon as he could make out footsteps , Shawn grabbed the railing on the left side of the stairs and swung himself over in the shadows below. He held on, though his arms shook, so he could lower himself and close the distance to the ground before he dropped into the dark space. He prepared to land, proud to say he was a like a cat who always landed on its feet, though the landing jarred him up to the top of his head. Shawn listened, holding his breath; footsteps getting closer. In the darkness, he spared a grin— Lassiter had been left unguarded. This was his best chance to help the detective— really help him this time. He got to his feet and sprinted away from the stairs, retracing his groping through the darkness that had brought him here, hurrying to beat the killer back.

* * *

The sounds of commotion reached them, though the clanging had dulled by then. Lassiter's shoulders had knotted further; he became less aware that Saul was holding onto him as his mind drifted; why can't that idiot just go? He's no good at heroics.

Saul grumbled under his breath. "Someone's still here with us," he informed Lassiter, as if he didn't know. Saul let go of Lassiter, easing Lassiter's shoulders to the ground as he rocked back onto his feet, still in a crouch. Lassiter barely dared to breathe as the blade backed away from his throat, though he was more than glad that the killer had released his mouth.

Digging around in his pocket, Saul retrieved a kerchief he'd already used a few times to wipe Lassiter's blood— perhaps others' as well— from the Bowie's blade. Balling it quickly, he forced Lassiter to accept the cloth; Lassiter grimaced as the metallic taste of still wet blood hit his tongue. Getting to his feet, Saul leered over the unbound detective, his wolfish grin of satisfaction molding quickly to a frown, the only prelude before Saul's boot caught Carlton's sternum hard enough to knock the back of his head and shoulder blades hard against the floor. Lassiter groaned. "Thought I told you not to try anything funny— 'cause you still ain't going nowhere," he drawled, casting a long glance at his captive.

Lassiter cursed at him through the wad of cloth, glaring back with hard eyes.

"Be good, lawman," Saul hissed with a small chuckle, holding the glance on his prisoner with an unspoken warning— how easy it would be to stab this intruder dead in a few seconds flat, feeling nothing. This intruder, like fresh meat. . . .

Lassiter flicked his eyes away until he heard Saul's retreating footsteps, going backwards into another clump of shadows— likely with an intent to cut off whomever was out there— he closed his eyes at the unwanted pun. Selfishly, he worried that he would be blamed for anything bad that should happen to Shawn Spencer— because, even as a prisoner, he was still the officer of a the law and therefore would/ should/ could be held responsible. He sighed, breathing through his nose. He didn't dare move his hands away again from his side; the loss of blood had already made him lightheaded enough.

No doubt, Saul wouldn't be gone long. Lassiter had already attempted escape three times— was it two? Or more than three? Leaving Lassiter alone certainly didn't mean there was trust involved; the killer knew that— that I can't run away.

He didn't dare— especially not with both Spencer and Saul out of sight.

* * *

Shawn materialized from the shadows slowly, quietly, hold a finger against his lips as he walked towards Lassiter. "Shh," he mouthed, as if Lassiter had become agitated by Shawn's sudden presence and was trying to cry out.

The closer he got to the fallen detective, the harder Shawn had to force his feet forward; not that he wanted to ran away, per say. This man he was going towards was different than the angry, slightly humiliated bundle of limbs and death glares Shawn had seen in a puddle of hot coffee this morning. But it was the same man— Head Detective Carlton Lassiter— wasn't it? Shawn found himself nodding at his own stupid question; though it was blatant— in spite of the physical damage he'd already sustained (that Shawn could see)— that other things were very wrong. The closer he got, the guiltier Shawn felt; he did not like towering above the prone detective. Shawn felt goose bumps on the back of his neck; the cloth had not been secured in the detective's mouth, yet Lassiter had not made one attempt to remove it.

In spite of any differences— hell, of the many differences— between the two, Shawn would have bet on his own life that the day would never come that he would see with his own eyes Carlton Lassiter scared in this way, as if he were facing a void, or a death, after having something crucial to his essence violently stolen. This was the cause of the emptiness on Lassiter's face, Shawn was certain, and not because the detective had been injured physically. Shawn suppressed a shiver; this was a temporary situation; all Shawn had to do was get Lassiter far away from here. He formulated a plan quickly, skimming over chinks in the armor; just get the detective back to his Crown Vic where they could call for help via police radio. Shawn envisioned the safety of this vehicle, holding them against the killer's wrath until help arrived.

Lassiter remained still, watching Shawn move towards him; every so often he cocked his ears and flicked his eyes in the direction that Saul had gone. Instead of trying to speak, he gingerly moved his head from side to side, cursing that Spencer was not able to "read" what he was saying. He prepared a boat load of expletives he hoped to spout in a low, threatening tone— with enough of a twist to send Spencer on his way fast.

But he feared there would be too much strain in his voice to be accurately convincing.

Shawn gasped aloud when he saw how deep the cuts were across the detective's chest and down his arms. "Oh, my god," Shawn muttered. Glancing at the shadows beyond, he dropped to his knees and reached for a corner of the fabric that was sticking out of Lassiter's mouth. He tugged carefully; Lassiter kept his eyes on Spencer the entire time, working on his best angry glare. (He also feared these may have all been spent on Saul.)

There was a strange, unreadable mix of emotion in Lassiter's eyes— some were obvious, no doubt. Pain, worry, anger— Shawn felt special relief to see that so clearly. "Lassie, the spirits told me, um." Lassiter kept his eyes pinned to Spencer's face until Spencer pulled the whole handkerchief from his mouth. "They told me—"

His mouth free again, Lassiter worked his jaw a couple times while Spencer continued to gape. "What the—" he broke off, gasping. The blood was still sour in his mouth. "What the hell are you doing here, Spencer?" He turned his head carefully to spit, though gave up when he realized he didn't have enough saliva available to moisten his tongue.

"What am I?" Shawn repeated, staring. He was unnerved at the rasping in Lassiter's tone. "Geez, awesome gratitude for your rescuer, Lassie."

He frowned, looking over all the cuts again; it was irrelevant to ask if Lassiter had been hurt. He noticed that the earlier blemishes from Lassiter's mishaps this morning at the station had been further assaulted; his eyes strayed to Lassiter's hands, pressed against his right side. Both palms were hiding something; Lassiter's eyes were pinched and he looked as if he'd aged a few years since the last time Shawn had seen him. Even more disconcerting to Shawn was that he could see Lassiter's anger was an act— the detective was fighting very hard for this emotion to be prominent, to fool Shawn into being cowed. "You know, I could ask you the same thing."

Lassiter grimaced, unsure if his face fell into a flush or went paler. That's none of your goddamn business. He went on, according to plan, minus the long string of expletives he had wanted for emphasis. "You need to get your ass out of here, pronto." He tried not to wince, but carrying on in his usual tone— forcing his annoyance to show— was also pulling on his wounded side. Against the ground, he moved his head back and forth. "I'm serious, Spencer. He's smart— he'll be back soon— he can't find you here."

"Who can't?"

"The serial killer, you moron," Lassiter growled, wincing immediately. "The one expert human carver."

Running a hand through his hair nervously, Shawn took a long look into the shadows surrounding them. He could no longer hear the man's footsteps, but figured he didn't have much time before he returned. Doing his best not to hyperventilate, Shawn got closer to Lassiter's left side. "Come on, we have a limited window here."

Lassiter shook his head carefully, still working to hold his trademark glare steady. "I can't."

Why was Lassiter resisting? He fidgeted, not prepared for Lassiter to take up a tactic such as this. Worst case scenario, Shawn had thought, was that they'd be caught in the act of escaping by the killer. "This is the worst time to be stubborn, Lassie," he snapped quietly. "This—"

"Go without me."

Shawn's mouth dropped open. "What the hell? You want to stay here?"

The anger stretched across Lassiter's face; he winced at the jaw. "'Course not." He took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts and speak quickly to avoid any trembling speech. "Look, Spencer, once you're a safe distance away, call backup and— EMTs," he added with a hush.

Shawn frowned. "Take it easy, Lassie."

The more Spencer looked him over, apparently taking in all the of his injuries, the angrier Lassiter grew. "You aren't listening. He's got a knife— and a 2x4. He's got my guns." Lassiter closed his eyes for a moment. He's got my life. He felt ashamed, now that there was another person here, and that it was Spencer no less, seeing all of his mistakes up close. The memory of Saul licking his blood off the tip of the Bowie came unbidden. Lassiter hissed. "If you stay, you'll be putting yourself at an unnecessary risk—"

As Lassiter spoke, Shawn became transfixed by the blood, both dried and fresh, covering Lassiter's neck, arms and chest. Lassiter's long fingers still hadn't crept away from his side; Shawn's eyes narrowed as he continued to stare.

"And for as much as you are"— he stopped himself before he could utter 'thorn in my side'— "a childish, incompetent pain in the neck, Spencer, I would never wish this on you. Now do yourself a favor and make like Guster at the sight of blood."

Lassiter's words hit Shawn with more guilt— obviously, Lassiter was a captive, injured and apprehensive— but he was still playing the role of good and stubborn hard-ass cop— and trying to act as a shield. "I would never wish this on you." Shawn gulped, wondering if he could feel more low than this moment right now.

Lassiter frowned at Spencer's stubborn hesitation. His eyes flashed. "Leave. Go. Skidaddle." He knew he flushed at the word 'skidaddle'; it was one he'd picked up, of what Saul might say. It caused a ripple of shiver at the back of his neck. "You aren't listening—"

"No, you aren't," Shawn shot back. "I know that—"

"I can't move, okay?" Lassiter deflected. His nervousness was returning, full force. Saul was going to come back any second, he just knew. "M-my ankle—"

Shawn's eyes narrowed. Lassiter had just stuttered; he never did that. "Lassie—"

"Please, Spencer," Lassiter whispered, his voice so soft Shawn had to lean in to hear. When Shawn was close, Lassiter snapped, "What the hell is wrong with you? Go get some fucking help."

Shawn's mouth dropped open again. The detective's orders were not as effective as he'd intended— his voice was thick with pain, breaking across several words. "I'm it, you ingrateful bastard," Shawn retorted. "I'm here to help."

"Spencer, you're not a cop," he shot back bitterly. "Forget about helping me— you're just not capable."

When Shawn picked up the nervous whine in Lassiter's words, he grabbed the detective's shoulder with purpose. He hoped Lassiter hadn't begun to identify with his captor; though Gus might say this was impossible in such a short time— but then again, Shawn didn't know for certain how long the detective had been here.

Lassiter's blue eyes fixed Shawn with tightness— fear, it was fear, Shawn realized. "Way to give a productive and super effective murder solving psychic detective credit, Lassie," he quipped sarcastically, waiting for the blue eyes to roll away in their typical annoyance from him. Lassiter only blinked.

"Pshaw, Lassie," Shawn continued nervously. "I can't believe you'd really think I'd just leave and throw you to the wolves, just because I'm not a cop."

Lassiter choked back an involuntary sob, loosing a guttural sound that made Shawn fall back. In doing so, he noticed ligature marks on the detective's wrists. Lassiter had been restrained; why was he not now? "He untied you?" Shawn asked, kicking himself for not seeing the marks sooner; the open bloody wounds were, however, distracting.

Carlton sighed. He thought about falling silent, but figured from experience silence would only make Spencer more obnoxious in his pursuit for information. "No. I— I was trying to get away. We were fighting—"

"Trying to get away," Shawn repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Then why can't you let me help you? Don't give me that 'not a cop' bullshit again—"

"Look, in my inner jacket pocket," Lassiter cut in with an awkward jerk of his head towards his right side, "there's a— a pin wrapped in a cloth."

"Okay," Shawn said. He saw Lassiter made no attempt to move his hands from his side; Shawn's eyes narrowed again. The smell of blood was sharp, almost canceling out the musky odor of sweat. He gulped. "But you didn't answer my question."

Lassiter frowned when Spencer didn't move. He jerked his head again towards where he'd put it. "Get it, and take it to the Chief."

"What? Me?" Shawn asked dumbly, finally let it sink in that the detective expected him to retrieve the pin. He knelt forward, carefully peeling back the jacket by a small sticky button. Lassiter held still, waiting until Spencer had the wad of cloth in his hand before gritting his teeth, snarling, "Get the hell out and get some real help," he ordered.

Shawn pulled back the corners of the cloth slowly; it was so white and clean compared to that rough, gray and bloodied fabric that had been shoved into Lassiter's mouth. Shawn swallowed, his heart picking up a few extra beats when his saw the prize at the center— a 20 cm long silver hat pin with a red Art Deco style teardrop topper. "Where did you find this?" he asked.

"There was a box— filled with them," Lassiter provided, turning his head. He had no idea where that room was; too much had happened and he'd long ago lost his sense of direction. "Didn't think— one would be missed."

"Can you stand? I know you said your ankle was— what?" Shawn asked.

"Twisted— long story. Too long. You need to go."

Again, Shawn pretend not hear. "I bet you can stand all right." He pursed his lips at Lassiter's warning glare. "Careful, Lassie, your face will freeze like that."

"Shut the hell up," Lassiter whispered angrily.

"Let's try it, dude. You can lean on me, okay?"

Echoing footsteps resounded chills through both of them, the call from the shadows in a deep, rustic sounding voice almost made Shawn pee his pants. "You behaving yourself, lawman?"

Shawn tensed, his arms shaking up to his shoulders, which tied themselves in knots. Lassiter froze, tensing as well. "God, will you go? I can't protect you so well," Lassiter hissed. "He just wants me. That means you still have a chance to save your own hide."

Shawn didn't register Lassiter's latest words. He bit down to keep his teeth from chattering; how much time had passed to allow the killer to return this soon? He cursed his bad attempt at a distraction. There was a flash of steel in the man's husky tone. Shawn foolishly ducked his head as if this action could serve to hide him from the approach.

"Get out of here before he sees you," Lassiter pleaded for the hundredth time, his tone thin. "Run."

The combination of these two voices, one built up and one, the important one, so reduced, made Shawn's head spin; he wanted to run away very badly but he knew in his gut he couldn't be chickenshit and leave Lassiter alone with this man again. Shawn inhaled and exhaled as deeply as his racing mind would allow, then plastered a smile onto his face for Lassiter's benefit.

"He's possessive, dangerous, murderous," Lassiter mumbled, not liking that Spencer had the nerve to smile at a time like this. "He will kill you."

"Relax, Lassie," Shawn said softly. "I've got a plan. A good one." He nodded as the detective stared back, clearly horrified. Carefully, Shawn got to his feet, facing the direction of shadows where he'd heard the footsteps coming from. He heard them again, getting closer. Shawn took two steps towards these shadows, making of himself a paltry shield between Lassiter and the returning killer. Shaking like a leaf in a strong wind, Shawn ignored Lassiter's whispered curses, and waited to come face to face with the King of Hearts Serial Killer.

He knew this was a mistake, and that Lassiter was still the adult in the situation, even in that terrible condition. But he also knew he had to do this, scared shitless or not. I made this mess, and now I have to clean it up, even if I only have bargain brand paper towels to do it. Shawn shot a glance over his shoulder at Lassiter, hoping to strengthen his determination to stay. Instead, the glance made him want to scream. From this angle, he could see a thick, red stain fanning out in small dots from under Lassiter's hands. Forcing himself to look away, Shawn took a deep breath. He was going to have to make this face off count— no matter what.