Author's Note: Thank you so much to all of my reviewers and readers and your continued support of this story! Thank you also for your patience waiting for the next update— my schedule got so busy! Hope the length makes up a little for the long wait. :) As always, reviews and feedback are welcomed and appreciated, and if you feel the need to criticize, please be constructive. Enjoy!
There are minor references to Season One's "Poker? I Barely Know Her" and Season Three's "Daredevils!" and "Lassie Did A Bad, Bad Thing" in this chapter.
Chapter Eight: Drop Him At The Border Breaking Point
"Hide, you idiot," Lassiter insisted.
"No," Shawn shot back.
"What you're thinking, it's suicide," Lassiter hissed, his worry evident.
Shawn frowned, wishing Lassiter hadn't said that. He was doing his best to be brave, though it struck him as comical that he really thought he could protect Lassiter without a loaded weapon of some kind— something other than his mouth.
"You see what he did to me?"
Shawn's hands trembled as Lassiter's voice broke again, ending with a frustrated sigh.
The faker cast a half glance over his shoulder, but didn't quite look at Lassiter; Carlton sighed again. He was furious at Spencer's stubbornness, an emotion that cost him in mental strength— and he knew he would have to waste valuable and limited physical strength to get Spencer out of harm's way.
Lassiter was too tired to try to understand Spencer's reasoning, what he thought he could accomplish by this asinine act. Instead, finger by finger, Lassiter peeled his left hand off his side wound, careful to keep his right tightly in place.
He swept his arm out behind him, knowing Spencer was close to his head though he could only see a little from the corner of his eye. Lassiter ignored the cost of the exertion, the movement straining every cut and ache and wound; he had one goal in mind and was determined to achieve it even if the cost was his consciousness for now.
His fingers grappled at air for too many seconds; a fear bunched up like air inside his cheeks. He stretched, emitting a low groan. He could hear Saul's footsteps echoing in his ears. Lassiter's hand closed around something solid, ankle or calf, he hadn't a clue.
"Lassie!" Spencer hissed, throwing his head back all the way this time. "Let go!"
His arm bent at the elbow at this awkward angle, Lassiter still gripped as tightly as he could, held on— and yanked; Spencer wasn't expecting such a quick pull, and his feet were not planted as stubbornly as he'd thought. Startled, Shawn could only open his mouth but not cry out as he stumbled back, losing his balance as he fell over Lassiter's arm.
Because Shawn landed on his back at the same time Saul hissed, "Low to the ground," Shawn missed it. Lassiter, however, did not. His body tensed, and he released Shawn's ankle, retracting it back to his wound.
"Why did you fucking do that?" Shawn grumbled, his eyes widening as they zeroed in on the finger print circle of blood around his leg. "Lass—"
"Shh," Lassiter hushed.
"I know you're athere, interloper. Not nothing is gonna make me let him go," Saul called from the shadows. "The Dee-tech-tive stays with me."
Shit, shit, shit. Quickly, Shawn scooted into a sitting position, then into a crouch. His eyes fell on the deep slashes just below Lassiter's collarbone; the blood glistened. Blood, pain, these were his motivations, along with guilt he couldn't imagine he could ever bury and allow it to stay buried. Shawn sprang to his feet, standing next to Lassiter this time instead of in front of him. Swallowing his fear in a dry gulp, Shawn called out, "So you know I'm here. I'm psychic, and I was drawn here to find you."
Lassiter made a choking sound. He grimaced, his face screwed up in a mix— then it went blank.
The man's voice echoed in Shawn's head; he had no idea what to make of the possessiveness of the killer's statements— but then, hadn't Lassiter just warned him?
Slow footsteps continued closer, but as yet, Shawn had not seen the man up close. He froze when there was a low chuckle followed by a sharp cough, then a word. "Unacceptable."
"Uh-hrr?" Shawn grunted, raising his eyes to the wall of shadows. Next to him, Shawn caught Lassiter relax slightly, in that he allowed his eyes to close for a few seconds.
"He doesn't want you— take it as a cue to get the hell away from this place," Lassiter said in a low voice, his head turned in Shawn's direction.
"I can't just leave you here," Shawn said through clenched teeth. Not now that I know for sure. He cleared his throat, or tried to; his mouth had gone dry again out of fear that he may not be able to talk his way— and Lassie's— out of this. As he fought for words, the killer broke through the shadows, standing about six feet away. He didn't know what he was expecting— especially since he'd already seen the killer once, crouched down, his bulky muscles straining his shirt. But the man looked stronger now at his full height. Shawn felt exposed as the man took obvious time looking him up and down; his focus stayed on the Bowie held point down at the man's side— its blade still wet with Lassiter's blood.
Saul shook his head slowly as his eyes drifted back up to Shawn's face. "Your heart's no good to me— no way, no how." He cocked his head to one side, taking a long look at Lassiter's prone form as easily he closed the gap of two feet, keeping his eyes on the detective until seeming to remember Shawn was still there. The killer stopped, and again took his time looking Shawn over inch by inch. Shawn squirmed under the scrutiny, wanting desperately to look away yet found himself morbidly intrigued to understand what the killer was saying about his heart and why it wasn't "any good". Since he was unable to look away, Shawn made himself observe the killer's form, looking for obvious wounds or a point of weakness. He noticed what may have been blood on man's right arm, just above the elbow; it was hard to tell because the flannel shirt he wore was also red— but then Shawn noticed that, even as the man stood still, he seemed to be favoring the arm in a subtle way. Inwardly, Shawn cheered, knowing that some kind of hand-to-hand combat must have taken place and that Lassiter must have been able to fight back. There were other signs of this too, small cuts on the man's face, his arms— but still the evidence chilled Shawn, because Lassiter looked so much more abused than the killer did.
There was a bit of red on the man's lips, and more caught in the start of stubble on the man's chin— red that couldn't be anything else besides blood and blood that looked like it was not caused by an injury. Shawn's breath stopped in his throat.
Now only four feet away, when the killer took a step forward, Shawn reacted by taking one back, wincing when he realized what he'd done. In truth, seeing the killer face to face, so to speak, had a yellow streak of cowardice running through him— and he wanted to bolt so badly, he wanted to save himself— but how could he just leave? He flicked another long glance at Lassiter, his eyes narrowing again as he took in Lassiter's hands pressed diligently to his side. Shawn swallowed hard, afraid of what the detective could be concealing.
It must be something bad.
Bad enough to make Lassiter turn over evidence to Shawn, to tell him repeatedly to run away, to resist Shawn's help? Icy cold flashed through Shawn's bones; he realized suddenly that he'd had no idea just what he was walking into— and that Lassiter probably had had no idea either.
Shawn stumbled backwards, gripping his head. In truth, his head was spinning fiercely and he had to choke back whatever he had eaten last that was threatening to come back up, but he'd decided in the heat of the moment that he needed to sell this, to buy some time before the killer got too close to them— before the killer had control again.
"I'm sensing, I'm sensing—"
"Granddad warned me about you traveling sideshow types," Saul said, lifting the tip of his knife to point at Shawn.
Shawn ignored him, fueled on by Lassiter's groan at his "act". "—I'm sensing you had a special woman in your life."
"'Old bones,' he told me once— 'but as naive as a newborn calf'."
Shawn froze as the killer's words seized him; he had the sensation of being lassoed around the neck, the noose pulled tight. . . . Still with his hands to his temples, Shawn risked a quick glance at Lassiter, to see the Head Detective's reaction to the words. Lassiter looked, if it were possible, even paler than before, stiffer, his lips pulled tight, his eyes closed. Shawn had only been here, in the presence of the killer, for less than five minutes, and he was scared shitless; inwardly, he congratulated Lassie for holding on this long— with what Shawn guesstimated to be three or four hours alone with this psycho. These broadcasts were obviously coming from hell.
He wondered suddenly why Lassiter was still alive. Taking a few shallow breaths, Shawn decided to run with it, abandoning his original non-theory of the hat pins' significance. "I'm sensing— that the detective is important to you— that you have— plans for him."
Shawn didn't miss either man's reaction to his words— the low sound of barely disguised fear from Lassiter or the low chuckle of appreciation from the killer. He ignored both, forging on, but inched his way closer to Lassiter, determined that if he could hold his ground with proximity to the killer's intended victim, then he could hold his ground in a fight. Shawn shuddered inwardly, hoping it wouldn't come to that. If that scenario were to come true, he could more than easily see himself screaming and dashing off without thinking about what was behind him; how many times had he done something similar to Gus, or even, that Gus had done that to him?
Shawn gulped. This was much different though, wasn't it? Gus wasn't here and the other person in this current scenario wasn't frightened of a little blood and a jittery suspect holding a gun.
"I got plans," Saul admitted, but his face was tight as he lifted the blade of his Bowie to the light.
Lassiter shivered involuntarily, though he wondered if the movement was subtle, because Spencer didn't turn his head. His mouth had gone dry again; he knew he had to let as little show on his face as possible, but both Shawn and the killer had already seen right through his efforts. A knot of horror tightened under Lassiter's navel, traveling up slowly and painfully until it rested beneath his Adam's apple— Shawn's presence here was making the situation 100 times worse. Lassiter found his lips wouldn't work themselves into the ironic smile he could feel inside his mouth: because, in spite of all of his own fear, he couldn't net his terror out to ensnare Spencer— and that hit him with a burst of shock. He laid there, feeling any remaining energy of fight seep out of him and into the floor.
"Hell, I do," Saul continued, taking another two measured steps towards them. "But I ain't owe you no explanation. You're not anything here but a god-damn interloper— low to the ground like a roadrunner." He raised an eyebrow slowly. "Granddad taught me well how to use your type for target practice— better than shooting at tin cans."
Lassiter felt sweat bead across his forehead; Spencer was eerily silent, seeming to not be able to find words to talk back to Saul. . . . And Spencer could never shut up. Lassiter shocked himself by wishing Spencer would say something, anything— anything— childish or mundane, just to prove he hadn't passed out and could possibly handle the least task of running off given even the slimmest of chances. When Spencer finally spoke, his tone was of a seriousness that Lassiter had rarely heard.
"You're the one that killed her, then," Shawn said, still looking at the killer studying him with creepy disinterest. "She— her corpse— came to me in a vision." Closing his eyes, Shawn unwillingly saw the young woman's body— and he recited aloud the details he recalled from the crime scene. Lassiter found himself stunned to hear it— and was uncertain as to how Shawn could have found out this information. Though, it was all too possible he was parroting the details of another victim's fate, changing some of the description for effect.
"She didn't have it," Saul broke in during one of Shawn's embellished stories about who the woman was before she was the serial killer's victim. "She didn't have what I wanted." A slow grin took Saul's lips, peeling them back to reveal straight, near-to-white square teeth.
The better to eat you with, Shawn thought out of the blue with a shiver. He forced himself to continue to speak. "The soles of your boots are covered with sand from the beach where you left her— and your clothes are probably coated with evidence of that particular area of salt sea air."
Saul stepped towards Shawn, who flinched, but managed to hold his ground. This man had been in Lassiter's face for hours; but then again, Lassiter was much more courageous than he was ever going to be. "Do you know how to spell blood in numbers, lawman?" Saul asked, tilting his head and eyes away from Shawn and in Lassiter's direction. Out of the corner of his eye, Lassiter's injuries glared at Shawn. Shawn wondered, with dull horror, if the killer had kept track by counting aloud as he sliced into Lassiter. "If I gave you an opinion in this matter— which would be mighty generous, considering— you say this little roadrunner here should live?"
"Numbers . . . mean nothing," Lassiter shoved out, causing Shawn to jump. "What matters . . . is . . . you've got what you want."
Saul tilted his head back, pondering. He touched the tip of the Bowie to his lips to help him think. Shawn's head spun as he tried to piece together what Lassiter had just said; his chest constricted with new fear.
"You've got what you want."
"The Dee-tech-tive stays with me."
It hit him with a rush of anger, and Shawn found himself biting his tongue hard to keep from repeating sarcastically, "Unacceptable." He gained a second wind, and willed himself to see the person before him as just a man— not the soulless killer that he actually was. He forced himself to do this because he knew with clarity that there was still a chance he could be the "hero"— that he had to be. Lassiter, though it would take some kind of miracle to admit it, was depending on him— or should be— to save his life.
Shawn frowned, sickened by the thoughts of the killer's convictions that he was in charge— and that Lassiter had been brainwashed and so badly assaulted that he was willingly sacrificing himself. Have to do something, he told himself, knowing he needed to do what he did best— use his words— his only weapons— against the killer— buy some time.
"Why— why him?" Shawn asked boldly, adding the spirits with whom he was communing couldn't answer this question for him.
Saul scowled, snapping his eyes back to Shawn. "I suggest you skidaddle," Saul said darkly, taking a possessive step towards Lassiter, gripping the handle of the knife tightly. The use of the word "skidaddle" made both Shawn and Lassiter flinch. Lassiter turned his head away, closed his eyes. Saul gave Shawn a wide berth, circling to the right side of Lassiter, standing just close enough to make good on his possessive stance. "No charge, no foul, one time only."
Shawn gulped, but held his ground. It worried him that Lassiter didn't look as frightened as he should, as if he'd accepted the horrible fate at the hands of this psycho. Then again, Shawn couldn't help but notice that it seemed a thin layer of Lassiter's spirit had broken; again, he took stock of the cuts across the detective's body, his arms and chest, on the hand he'd burned on the hot coffee earlier in the day, on his face. There were also red splotched bruises on Lassiter's face, as if he'd been slapped or punched repeatedly. He noticed other things too, several little bites across his neck, his damp clothing, the missing tie and the ripped up clothing.
When he took a step towards Saul, moving in the direction of Lassiter's feet, he heard Lassiter hiss sharply, and recognized a low curse. He stepped back, competing with his fears to hammer out a plan where he could distract the killer and somehow help Lassiter. He kept coming up short. "You'd just let me go?" Shawn asked finally, making his eyes roll dramatically.
"Just go," Lassiter hissed.
Saul flickered his eyes towards his captive, anger tightening his skin. Shawn's eyes widened as he saw Saul aim a kick at Lassiter's shin. He was in mid-gasp, fighting for a "No!" loud enough to startle the killer into pausing when the killer's steel toed boot connected. Lassiter's head jerked back, his shoulders hitching to his ears. His eyes squeezed shut and he bit his lip, but managed not to cry out.
Shawn stared at the detective in horror, little black dots of tension marching across his own shoulders and neck as it hit him that this was likely on the lighter side of pain which Lassiter must have been receiving for a while.
Saul chuckled, circling around Lassiter again, in the direction he'd come from, causing Shawn to back up. As if amused by some game, Saul pointed his knife at Shawn as he circled around again, pacing in front of both of them, a few long steps from Lassiter's feet, acting as if he were marking his territory— making a line that neither should cross. So much for letting me go, Shawn thought. A trickle of adrenaline made him brave, and he stalked towards Saul, not too close, but closer to Lassiter.
"Spenc—"
"Shh." Shawn motioned for silence with a finger to his lips.
Lassiter's eyes watered. He wished Spencer would just make a dash for it, but he was starting to worry that Spencer might end up with a knife in his back the second he turned around. This made his insides twist up further— wasn't it bad enough he'd ignored his instincts, training and every other alarm bell that told him not to come here alone? He deserved— deserved to be— but not Spencer. The kid might be a moron for coming here in an understudy role, acting as foolishly as he had, but he was still an innocent and shouldn't be killed over it.
Lassiter blubbered involuntarily, wondered if the sputtered sound was only in his head.
Shawn had glanced at the detective, raising an eyebrow at Lassiter's perplexing behavior. There must be a way to talk them out of trouble; Shawn took another step towards Lassiter, trying to ignore the savage look in which the killer was studying him. He looked like a wild animal with its claws out, frozen and tensed, ready to spring. As if he were guarding a stash of gathered food— or newly killed prey. The killer stalked back the way he'd come, pausing at Lassiter's right shoulder.
Shawn returned to his previous tact, though he wasn't certain he really wanted to know why Lassiter had been "chosen" to undergo such painful— and eventually— life ending torture. "You have special plans for this detective?" he asked again, staring at the killer across from him, Lassiter's prone body the only barrier between them. "You're— not going to kill him, like the others?"
"Not like the others," Saul repeated slowly; Lassiter knew Saul was enjoying toying with Shawn— the "roadrunner". Lassiter wondered if Saul wanted an audience when he committed his "final" act, or if he wanted his "business" to stay private. As terrifying as it was to admit to himself, a smart part of Lassiter's subconscious wished for the former— because it would buy Spencer more time at not only life but for escape. "He's— not like the others," the killer repeated, as if to clarify.
Sweat beaded under Shawn's armpits. It was impossible to ignore the way the killer had gazed in Lassiter's direction, hungry, as if he hadn't eaten in days . . . and a fresh kill was just at his feet. For a few seconds, the smell of earth and blood were too strong, clashing in scents and colors around his head. Shawn's view of the room reeled. He held his breath and took air in through his mouth, sickened the he could still taste the war of pain and color on his tongue. How . . . how had Lassiter managed to survive this . . . and still not be dead yet? Vaguely, Shawn could hear a barb from Gus, who was arguing with him over sentence structure and logistics— but it came with a sting: he might die here and never see Gus again.
Or if he didn't— then Lassiter might. "He's not," Shawn said quietly.
Saul licked his lips. "Not that you would understand, but his blood will bring me—" he stopped, his dark eyes flickering over Shawn. "Nah, you're none but a child and shouldn't be brought in on the games of ad-dults."
Shawn frowned and retorted, "You call what you do gamey— gaming? Murder is just another game?"
"Murder?" Saul chuckled. "For those bodies— just meat— a path to a promised land, that it was." He dropped his smile, his lips pulling tight. "Not a single of 'em knew how to suffer— and not a single of 'em had a single thing I wanted."
Lassiter felt his stomach tighten; Saul was being confessional with Spencer— a sure sign he was planning to kill Shawn. Yet, Lassiter took solace that Saul had not gotten close enough to Spencer to cut him; he shivered. He recalled what he'd seen earlier in Saul's eyes as the killer gagged him before vanishing into the shadows— how easy it would be kill this intruder, new and dumb like fresh meat. . . . So far, it seemed Saul was unaware that Spencer knew who Lassiter was; Lassiter chewed his thoughts to come up with a way to continue to dissuade Shawn from staying without tipping Saul off; the less the killer knew, the better.
"You don't think what you do is murder?" Shawn couldn't help but ask incredulously. Again, the woman's corpse from the beach flashed before his eyes. He turned his head sharply— and again smelled the blood in the air. A nightmare. Boldly, he took two measured steps towards the killer, who watched him with a mix of coy interest and mild disinterest. Lassiter squirmed.
"Fine," Shawn said, dropping it, but starting in immediately on something else. "Why don't we talk about your calling cards, then. The faintest traces of Old West cologne, those pathetic renderings of those suicide kings, or those hat pins?— which will it be?"
Saul's lips curled in a snarl. "Don't you say none bad about those cards— my granddad worked hard on 'em— he did." Saul flicked the tip of the knife in the air. "He was a cattle herder with long gone dreams of artistry." He sighed. "His hand wasn't as steady as it was in his youth. Those are what I carry of his— fittin' that they stay in death with those meat whose souls have passed."
Lassiter heard the red hot anger in Saul's breathing— he'd learned the hard way that the killer did not tolerate any mentions of his grandfather— ill spoken or not. He pressed his shoulder blades against the floor as he relived what had followed when he'd taunted that Saul's grandfather had abused him as a child. It was a common tactic he'd employed in interrogation— angering a suspect, defiling any legacy the suspect bore connection to, taunting until the suspect snapped— and confessed his sins. But Lassiter knew that he was not on his home turf, and that he was not in control of the situation. Still, he had gone for Saul's throat— and he would, given any chance at all, do it again. His fears tried to talk this irrationally down, claiming that being afraid was completely legitimate and forgivable in this situation— as well as in his severely injured condition. And he knew that his emotions would continue their war— but he resolved not to give in— not until Spencer was long out of sight and safe.
"Are you— listening to yourself?" Shawn blurted out. He actually stopped walking when he saw Lassiter jerk on the floor, caught a glare from the detective that he was more used to seeing.
"I ain't sure I like you," Saul's voice rumbled, fixing Shawn with a hard stare.
Please don't like me, Shawn prayed. Aloud he said, "I can see your grandfather's hand, trying to draw a sketch for those cards."
The killer growled. Shawn's heart slammed in his chest as he raised his hands to his head for the "vision", only daring to close one eye. "But each time, there was a certain and pronounced slant to each heart— amateurish. Nothing that would ever catch the eye of any—" Saul growled again; underneath this noise, Shawn made out a low warning from Lassiter. He ignored it— but shuddered inwardly as he watched the killer approach him slowly and carefully— like a predator stalking its prey. The look in Saul's eyes was not hungry but dark— unreflective. Shawn experienced a "vision" of himself impaled and flayed, pinned to the floor with the 8 mm hunting knife sticking out of his heart.
"N-now, don't be hasty," Shawn said in a high pitched squeak. He allowed himself to back up steadily, even though it was taking him away from Lassiter. The killer followed, also stepping away from the fallen detective. "I-I-I'm just stating a fact, dude."
"A fact?" Saul repeated, pausing in his gait to cock his head like a dog. "I'll tell you fact, charlatan." The killer jabbed the knife out into the air in the direction of Shawn's face. "You ain't nothing to me but too low to the ground. Your blood, from a drop to a pint, means nothing." The killer did a surprising thing then, pulling his knife away and sticking it into a well used casing on his belt. "You suppose it'd be easy for me to cut you straight through the throat, or open up a life ending flow with a simple jab to the femoral artery on your thigh?" It was framed as a question, but Shawn swallowed, knowing it was not. "But I don't need it— I got what I need, right here." He unnecessarily tossed a hand behind him, where Lassiter was still lying.
Shawn's throat dried again. "He's not," he repeated softly.
The killer didn't seem to take note that Shawn had spoken. "I don't need you sticking around." He flexed his hands, but Shawn saw that his right arm was stiff. "You ever choked any livestock into submission with your own bare hands?"
Shawn blanched; for a few seconds he had trouble gathering words, so he used the time to try to move back towards Lassiter as quickly as he could.
Not quite sure what possessed him to speak it, Shawn heard his own voice ask, delayed, "Dude, was that serious question?" just as he reached Lassiter's left side, thinking he'd given the killer a wide enough berth. He turned his back to the killer momentarily, barely registering the horror on Lassiter's face quickly changing to something else.
Shawn turned, shocked to see the killer in range to reach him. He gasped. Saul brought his hand up in a fit of fury to smack Shawn; Lassiter wasn't certain in the millisecond he processed what was about to happen if it was just meant as one slap or a beating by his open palm. If these were different circumstances, Lassiter may have gotten a perverse enjoyment out of seeing some criminal hit Spencer (okay, maybe just one time before he would have surely intervened), but Lassiter acted too quickly, telling himself during the action as well as after that he was only doing his duty to protect an unarmed civilian. He was up in a flash, right hand still pressed tightly to his side to contain his wound; he sidestepped, insinuating himself between Spencer and the criminal much in the same way Spencer had done earlier, separating Lassiter from Vick, and took the criminal's slap— Spencer's slap— to the back of his head.
Shawn gasped, his mouth and eyes widening at the same moment. "Lassie, why—?" he managed.
Lassiter shrugged, trying to ignore the force of the slap on his already battered head; Spencer was about to get it good. Lassiter could feel something wet on the back of his neck. "I— owed you," Lassiter muttered gruffly. "But keep yer mouf shutup aboutit." He narrowed his eyes for emphasis; ironically, it made him feel dizzy and the room they were in was tilting sharply to the left. Crap. He was going down, again.
* * *
Gus couldn't concentrate, and was unable to make it another solid ten minutes into the next half of the presentation before politely excusing himself. There could be plenty of time later to make some embarrassing excuses about Central Coast's latest venture into discount catering— hell, he could already hear Shawn shaping fifteen in rapid-fire succession— until Gus wouldn't be able to show his face around his colleagues without the disguise of a paper bag.
He'd known Shawn long enough to know well enough that there had to be something more to that text message— and that it had to somehow related to his friend's odd behavior since the crime scene visit. Gus frowned. He wished he'd been able to yank even one-tenth of a version of the truth from Shawn before he'd left the Psych office. Shawn must have done something bad— an act Shawn would likely find a way to wholly justify with his unique sense of reasoning. But what truly gnawed at Gus was that Shawn had implied he was "going somewhere" to "fix something"— and had left the notions vague. Bad things, it could only mean bad things.
Gus was halfway to the Santa Barbara Police Station before even realizing he'd gotten in the car. His brain had apparently decided to forego a trip to the Psych office— he wasn't going to find Shawn there. He recalled Juliet's apparent disconnection of his call, wondering suddenly if she hadn't had time to take it seriously. For a moment, he considered who she had been hoping he was instead of himself— and surprisingly, it wasn't Shawn.
"I'm sorry, Gus. I thought you might be Lassiter."
Gus furrowed his brow, but dropped the train of thought as Shawn's probable plans of destruction returned to the forefront. He felt a lump of dread in his throat, and wondered, as he pulled his Echo into parking lot, just what he could say to convince Chief Vick or least Juliet that Shawn was probably in trouble.
"Sometimes," Gus said aloud, "Shawn's psychic abilities transfer to me." He was trying the phrase to see if sounded as stupid aloud as it did in his head. He blew out a breath. Only Shawn could get away with that kind of lunacy— or Shawn had to at least be present so that Gus could.
At least he wouldn't have to fake his concern.
* * *
Vick released her breath, dismissing the odd bout of worry that had made threats to overwhelm her as ridiculous. Lassiter was fine, wherever he was. And he was slated for a serious reprimand if he didn't get his ass back here Asap.
Still, the matter of Lassiter's several unanswered calls filled her with unease. Their early conversation tugged at her. And before her was Lassiter's partner, her face blanched with obvious worry. This was new; O'Hara had never shown this level of emotion for her partner's well-being before— at least, Vick amended, not when it came to the matters of their jobs. They were both types who were highly trained and highly capable of taking care of themselves— and each other in the line of duty. And because of this, a mutual knowing and respect had risen between the partners, and Karen had witnessed it all from her own corner of the precinct.
She had also witnessed Juliet O'Hara's many early attempts to draw her stubborn, antisocial partner out of the cold, hard shell he'd wedged himself in, with every attempt short of grabbing him by the hair or the tie and forcibly dragging him out. That first year, it had actually been painful for Karen to watch— and difficult for her to grasp why Detective O'Hara would not give up and admit Lassiter was just a hard-ass— like everyone else in the department already had. (For some, numerous times.) She'd tackled even the most sensitive topics with care and glee, from planning a surprise party for his birthday to breaking the news gently that his love life was in need of a serious 911. At every opportunity, even when it backfired on her, she continued to rise to the challenge— and, to Karen's great disbelief, Juliet O'Hara's efforts were well spent.
Carlton had, Vick knew, come to rely on his sunny-faced and more-than-capable partner more than he would ever admit— and for more ways than just having his back and guarding his life in their daily life and death situations. He trusted her; knowing this small bit of information still bowled Vick over each time she thought on it. And because of this trust, Vick had observed Lassiter protect his partner— both in and out of the line of duty. More than once, he'd stepped in, just in time, to spare Juliet tongue lashings from authority figures such as herself, Vick recalled. He spoke to his partner conversationally, and had gradually become more friendly and even easy-going— though he still retained several aspects of his usual personality. Vick sighed. She couldn't imagine that going away any time soon.
So, if he trusted Juliet O'Hara's judgment, then shouldn't she also? If Juliet had reasonable doubt. . . .
"Detective," Vick began, the words she wanted to say not even fully formed before a loud, urgent set of footsteps interrupted her train of thought, followed by a familiar voice asking where Juliet and herself could be found.
"Gus?" Juliet asked, turning around. The question of his presence lined her forehead as she worked out the confusion; had he come down in person because of their recent phone conversation? A conversation about Shawn. Juliet frowned, annoyed that Shawn was causing a distraction when he wasn't even present— he was pulling the focus of her worry away from her partner's whereabouts. She had just waited expectantly for the Chief to come to the conclusion that something wasn't right about Lassiter's absence, and had tasted the anticipation of Vick's ghost words.
Gus didn't catch the light anger around Juliet's eyes as he strode up to them. His brow furrowed, as if he recalled something. "Where's Lassiter?" Gus asked after greeting them.
Vick frowned, considering answering that that information was classified, but instead, she felt her mouth go dry. She glanced at Juliet. "We don't know," she said, furrowing her brow.
"Oh," Gus said, the furrowing of his brow continuing. He looked at Juliet, surprised that her usual professional guise was a paler version of herself. He decided to dive right in. "I don't know where Shawn is either—"
"Mr. Guster," Karen cut in, groaning to herself that Burton Guster had come down to the station to bother her because his flighty friend— and her eccentric psychic consultant— had taken off without telling Guster first. "This hardly seems like a matter for the police," she chided.
Gus took it, shaking his head and pursing his lips. "You don't understand. He left me this weird message—"
Juliet bit her lip as she watched Gus retrieve his cell phone from his jacket pocket. She wanted to demand just who he thought he was today, cutting into possibly valuable time of figuring out whether or not Lassiter was actually missing— but she diplomatically let him speak.
Vick grabbed the phone, reading the text aloud. She rolled her eyes. "Mr. Guster, what is this supposed to prove?"
Gus threw up his hands in frustration. "I don't know, but I just . . ." He fought for words, knowing he couldn't say he "had a feeling" if he expected actual help. "Shawn was— really disturbed by that dead body on the beach today," he blurted out.
Vick and Juliet exchanged a quick glance. "What does that—"
"He's not usually," Gus continued. He explained briefly how he'd tried to get Shawn to talk about it— and felt his friend had been holding something crucial back. A horrible thought stabbed at his gut. "What if Shawn . . . got a vision of another murder while I was away?" Gus said in a whisper. He looked up slowly. "What if he . . . went off and tried to stop it?"
That did stop Juliet's thoughts about her possibly missing partner for a moment. But Vick, a voice of reason, cut in. "There's nothing about that in this message. The most we have to go on here, not that we will be going on anything," she clarified, "is that Shawn says he has to 'fix something'— 'something stupid'." She raised her eyebrows to Gus in a commanding manner. "Do you know what Mr. Spencer has to 'fix'?"
Gus swallowed, and shook his head. He wished Shawn had told him— anything, something, but Shawn had remained eerily silent while not teasing Gus to deflect him from talking about whatever it was he didn't want to talk about.
* * *
Carlton groaned, turning his head slightly to the left, and letting his eyes ease open. He was lying on his back on the hard floor of the room, stretched out. He shifted the smallest amount and pain stabbed at his side, up his chest, his wounds on fire. He felt a hand pressing him against the floor.
"Stay still," the voice instructed him.
He didn't listen, or tried to but failed, until a piercing cry escaped his lips.
"I told you," the voice said quietly.
"Was-its?" Lassiter clamped his mouth shut as he realized he had just slurred his speech. Against his better judgment, he opened his eyes, and found Spencer sitting Indian-style on the floor next to him.
"Lassie, how long ago were you stabbed?" Spencer asked him quietly.
Lassiter peered at him vacantly, trying to determine why Spencer's blue flannel shirt was missing. Spencer had been wearing it when he'd nearly been slapped— he looked cold in just the red spotted t-shirt. Slowly, Carlton found an awareness that some cloth had been bundled tightly about his wound; why the hell was Spencer always helping him? He felt the dormant shards of anger cutting into him. First, this morning, with those IA officers, now—
"—old ewe, Spwenstars—" This was no good; he hadn't been this tongue numbed before, had he? Cold sweat dripped off of his temples and he worked to suppress a shiver.
Spencer was squinting over him, trying to make out the words. "Lass—" Shawn shook his head, then forced out his first name. Lassiter blinked confusedly.
"—ewww help meh?" Lassiter barely managed, his eyes dipping closed.
"Dude, that's why I'm here," Spencer continued quietly, risking a glance towards their armed captor, who was pacing slowly— seemingly waiting something out. He turned his head back slowly, trying to ignore the small but growing pool of blood at Lassiter's right side. The older man's face and hair were drenched with sweat; the rest of his skin had a sickeningly clammy shine to it. Lassiter may have been fooling himself that he was fine before, but the smack had taken too much out of him.
Idiot, Shawn had thought, horrified instantly when he saw, straight in the path of the light, the open wound at Lassiter's side which had created a soggy bloom of red on his torn white shirt. His words were barely out of his mouth before he toppled forward, his limbs limp. Shawn had gasped again, unthinkingly catching the dead weight of Lassiter's unconscious frame. He had been appalled at the blood splattering onto his shirt as he struggled to get Lassiter to the floor without dropping him or further aggravating his wound.
"Oh, my god," Shawn had muttered, finally easing Lassiter to the floor. Now that Lassiter was out cold, he was no longer putting pressure on the bleeding. In the most non-threatening manner, Shawn had eased off his shirt, balled it up and pressed the fabric tightly to the wound. He tried to figure out a plausible reason why Lassiter had suddenly fainted, and with growing dread, slid his fingers into the hair at the back of Lassiter's head. His fingers came back wet, and red. Shawn forced himself to continue his blind search for a head wound. He gasped to himself when his fingers seemed to find more than one.
"What are you doing?" Saul had snapped, gesturing with an angry pointer finger.
"How hard did you hit him?" Shawn shot back.
The man's lips upturned. "It was meant for you— so, with all the force in my arms."
"Bastard," Shawn muttered under his breath. He turned away from the man, realizing he hadn't checked Lassiter's breathing or pulse. As he did that, he felt the killer watching him; it wasn't a comfortable feeling to have this killer's eyes on him. Lassiter wasn't out too long, but Shawn was alarmed, when Lassiter woke, by the slurring in the detective's words. He had a difficult time discerning Lassiter's level of awareness; his eyes were glassy, as if he were still sleeping.
Though, he found himself relieved by Lassiter's almost belligerent tone, even while the words were unclear.
"I'ma gonna make good on what I said, charlatan," the killer said. "The lawman's mine."
"Yours?" Shawn repeated. He thought, strangely, of Juliet and what she might say if she were here instead of him. He could picture her bravely stating that Lassiter didn't belong to anyone— unless it was to her. They had that way of acting like that around each other, though it wasn't be any means in a romantic way. No, both of them would laugh or make faces of "What, are you insane now?" if that was ever suggested. Shawn remembered how upset Lassiter had been when, after he'd been put on suspension following a murder accusation, Juliet had been assigned Drimmer as her new partner. Juliet, for her part, continued to refer to Drimmer as temporary and wouldn't even consider anyone as a replacement for Lassiter. Yes, this killer's words would make her furious, Shawn guessed.
"Callo'hara," Lassiter slurred.
It took Shawn a few seconds to sort out what he'd just instructed. He looked back sheepishly. "I can't. My battery's dead. Where's your phone, Carl—ton?" Shawn spoke deliberately slowly, though the detective's first name sounded funny coming from his mouth. Shawn had said it because Lassiter didn't seem to be responding to Shawn's nickname, which worried him. Both he and Juliet often seemed to take Shawn's nicknames for them with a grain of salt, offering annoyed looks (mostly Lassiter), but hardly ever correcting him. (It seemed, to them, a waste of breath.)
Lassiter's breathing was shallow. Shawn had torn some clean material from Lassiter's bloody jacket and had pressed the wadded up cloth to the back of Lassiter's head. With Lassiter on his back, and new bruising on his neck, Shawn had been leery about turning the detective's head too far in either direction, let alone lifting it to find the source of the blood. Instead, he'd resorted to putting pressure on the wound, hoping it would stop on its own.
"I— don'ttah know," Lassiter got out finally, trying very hard to steady and enunciate his words. A tiny jolt of panic had worked over his insides, and his mind was running rampant with bad thoughts. He couldn't just be lying on the floor like this, despite being hurt, possibly badly hurt; he had to get control back because now, it wasn't only his life on the line. He had already stood up for Spencer once— but the killer still— (he winced, slowly realizing his bad pun before he thought it) held all the cards. He guffawed once, causing Spencer to jump with alarm. The first thing he could get control of was his speech— he'd have to work on the rest at his own pacing. "I— lost-it." Dammit, so close.
"Lost it?" Shawn repeated, his brow furrowed with confusion. He was kind of counting on Lassiter to be the responsible one.
"Beena rough day," Lassiter mumbled. He tried to consider where his cell phone might be, though the location wasn't likely to help them even if he figured it out. Was it outside, during the storm, that he'd been trying to get a signal? That's right— he had been calling O'Hara— or at least, he'd had the intention to. "When I fell— um— hurt— my ankle," he explained.
"When you fell?" Shawn repeated, putting more pressure on the wound at the back of Lassiter's head. He looked towards Lassiter's feet to see if he was making sense about his ankle— Shawn remembered the mention from earlier but thought it was a lie. He eased his hand away from the wound at the back of Lassiter's head and risked a tug on Lassiter's pant leg, pulling the fabric up enough to get a better look at the injury. Lassiter's sock was torn; Shawn could see that his ankle was purple and swollen twice its size. Shawn sat back, feeling sicker than he already was.
"Mm-huh," Lassiter said, blinking until his eyes closed. "E pushed me. Mmm. Then, on the stairs— hit me—" The memory of falling down the metal staircase came back with a vengeance; he was there, falling again, recognizing the blood— of an innocent woman, he now knew— of someone hoping for escape. Hadn't he already been in that position, hoping for escape? He'd tried too.
Lassiter lost consciousness while Shawn and the killer exchanged words. Shawn monitored his breathing while keeping one eye peeled on the killer, who had not made any further attempts to attack Shawn since Lassiter had intervened. It seemed that, if Shawn was to be hurt, then Lassiter was required to be awake for it— as a helpless witness.
"He fights against me constantly," Saul muttered with admiration. "Such fire— his blood must burn— like a stiff shot of whiskey— but, by hell, it'll last forever."
The killer wasn't addressing Shawn, but he wasn't taking to someone who wasn't there either— but it still wasn't the least comforting to Shawn. The killer was shaking his fist in the air, a gesture of victory has if he'd already completed the necessary tasks. "Granddad, finally, a worthy bit of meat—"
Shawn swallowed, pulling his gaze away from the killer and letting it rest on Lassiter. His stomach was full of butterflies eating him from the inside; he was bothered though that he was experiencing what could only be a protective urgency towards the detective; it wasn't common and Shawn wasn't sure how to deal with it. Usually, he was the one cowering in front of a suspect with a weapon, waiting for Lassie and Jules to come to his rescue. (Though he would never admit "cowering." He'd use the words "stalling" or "bluffing" or even "monstrous fibbing" way before that.) And, it was one thing to imagine the glory (and the teasing), but to actually have to do the hard work, to get blood on his hands—
"Lassie, please wake up," Shawn pleaded softly, abandoning the notion that he was going to let Lassiter sleep for a little while. He was too scared to be left all alone with this killer.
* * *
When he woke again, he found that his tongue was back to normal after the momentary lapse. His thoughts were clear, and he was fully aware of what had happened— and that he needed to continue to work on Spencer to get him to get out of here.
Still, his head ached, and his side blazed though he recognized that there was pressure on the wound. He tried to think through the ways Saul had gotten to him, twisting up his state of mind until he was more paranoid than certain. Was it through the way the killer had introduced himself casually, then outlined his gruesome plans for Lassiter's fate, hardly sparing details? To himself, Lassiter shook his head. He'd been threatened before— numerous times, even though this current situation was incomparable to anything else. Could it be that the killer had tried to make him identify, insisting the two were more alike than Lassiter wanted to admit?
Lassiter shifted; this had grated on him, but it still wasn't the reason he'd let his guard down. He knew he was scared and that he didn't want to die— but knew that these were normal human reactions— for both police officers and civilians. Can't fault myself for being human, he thought miserably. But he could fault himself for being stupid, for acting like a cocky rookie who had something to prove. He could fault himself for not telling his partner directly where he was going and what he was planning. The Chief knew, in part, but even she did not know everything. He kicked himself repeatedly.
"Ain't no one coming for you. You ain't got no one." Lassiter froze as the memory of the killer's voice edged into him. This . . . this was how Saul had done it, worming his words into Lassiter's head through the weak spot: his awkwardness for social contact and interaction outside of a workplace setting, as well as his paranoid fears that he was still more like Goochberg than he had previously thought— and that he was undeserving of a rescue from the one person he trusted with everything. And he'd "allowed" the killer to bait him this way, unable to steel himself appropriately or "fight back" without giving Saul more firepower to use against him.
The repeat of these thoughts chilled him, leaving his body numb. Carlton opened his eyes, hoping to dispel the numbness by getting another good look at the nightmare so he could focus on the safety of Spencer, who was still sitting nearby, his expression pale.
If O'Hara were here, he could ask her to confirm or deny his worries and fears— she would tell him, straight up— but did he want to know? Could he tell if she were lying, if what she would say was a roundabout version, said in the way she sometimes had to prevent him further hurt? He was a good detective, but— sometimes she was better. O'Hara. Thinking of her absence caused the deeper wounds on his chest and arms to cry out— if she had been here, he might have been spared these pains, these thoughts. Much earlier in the day, he may have been ashamed to admit that he really believed in O'Hara that much, but Lassiter tried to swallow it now, uncaring if it stuck in his throat. He hoped that she was better— but as Saul's face leered over his thoughts, he understood that he was kidding himself:
O'Hara is not here. O'Hara is not coming. O'Hara doesn't even know you're gone, and what's more— she wouldn't even care. Or she's happy if she knows. The thoughts stung like a sharp pinch; they were loud enough in his head to almost make him believe that they had dripped from Spencer's lips, poison into his ears.
Poison. That's what Saul had "offered", when he wasn't cutting, kicking or beating Lassiter. Stabbing him.
"Who wouldn't be happy to know I was dead?" Lassiter muttered, not realizing he'd spoken it aloud, until Spencer snapped his head in Lassiter's direction.
"What the shiznits did you just say?" Spencer hissed, his eyes wild. He was been relieved to see Lassiter awaken, and to hear his words were well pronounced, but chilled to hear the defeatist whine to Lassiter's words. He sighed. "Man up, okay? The spirits and I are conjuring up a plan— a really good one."
Lassiter bit his lip; he felt stupid for saying things aloud, but now that it was suspended in the air, he thought it would be worse to leave it there all alone. "You would like to dance on my grave, wouldn't you?"
Spencer frowned. "Where is this coming from?"
"Admit it," Lassiter accused.
"Shut your mouth, right now," Shawn edged. "This isn't you— you don't give up, Lassie."
Lassiter was struggling to put the air behind the words, "Even O'Hara," but they wouldn't form. Instead, a wash of involuntarily saline spilled from his eyes. He turned his head carefully away from Spencer, hoping his emotions would remain hidden.
Shawn could see what was going on out of the corner of his eye. It was unnerving, and he had to work very hard not to question the detective about it right now, while they were both still in the presence of the killer. For all his black humor and sarcasm, Lassiter still wasn't the morbid type. What the hell had the killer done— besides what he could see— or said to Lassiter that could have triggered—?
Shawn experienced another wave of woe as he watched Lassiter fall apart. His usual Id tried to cut in to spare him blame and self-inflicted pain, but Shawn couldn't dismiss what he assumed was fact that what he was seeing before him was mostly his fault. Lassiter seemed a shell— the murderer just that savage, demented. Shawn forced himself to ask, pretending he wasn't seeing Lassiter on the verge. "What the hell happened here?"
"Just get out," Lassiter snapped, his voice thick. "What can't you ever just leave? Why do you always have to be such a horrible pest? You're not needed, or wanted here."
Shawn sat back, studying the detective. He was breathing hard— the exertion of forced anger had taken much from him. Lassiter's words didn't even sting, mostly because they were lies. Well, maybe not the "horrible pest" part— Shawn was more than willing to give Lassiter that one, free of charge.
Man up, Shawn. Lassie needs help, even if he'll never admit it.
Though, Shawn reflected, Lassiter had, in a way, asked for help. He'd tried to dissuade Shawn by telling him he needed another cop here— and then he'd gone as far to say her name. O'Hara.
His personality had an instinct to immediately tease Lassiter with this information . . . then he realized he could use it as a "psychic" advantage— not that Lassiter believed he was psychic. Shawn had to admit, to himself, that if he were in Lassiter's place, he could easily wish Jules knew where he was— and that she would know exactly what to do to fight and then bring him home. Shawn couldn't blame Lassiter, and he swallowed his useless teasing with shame.
Again, he wondered what the killer was going to do with them— and wondered again just what Juliet would make of the killer's words about her partner. Shawn could "sense" an image of her proposed fury, burning a line of determination from the SBPD to this very spot— if only she knew.