Disclaimer: I don't own Pinky and the Brain. Minor references to Season Two's "65 Million Years Off" and Season Three's "An Evening With Mr. Yang".
Author's Note: Worlds of thanks to the remaining supporters/ reviewers of this story. Thank you for giving me that much desired boost and *squee* to dive into writing the next chapter. You all rock. :) I wish I could more consistent with updates, but a new busy schedule has been challenging me. Reviews, feedback, and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. Thanks and happy reading!
Chapter Nine: You Think About That, What You Believe In; I'm Taking It, What You Believe In
* * *
Chief Vick's face hardened to Gus's stalling. She crossed her arms, pulling her whole body into a stiff, straight line. This posturing usually had no effect on Shawn Spencer, but Gus's reactions were far different. He reacted with a humble shame—he knew he was wasting valuable police time with his vague ramblings, knew that there were other people out there that really needed help from the cops, yet he kept returning to the thoughts that his friend was in some kind of trouble. He backed up a few steps, as if the past held some comfort he could get back into, an ease that would allow him to confess his fears convincingly enough to get action. Gus also reacted with an emotional war; he abandoned the ploy, stepping back up, fumbling with his arms. His expression stayed frozen between shame and struggle.
"Haven't you ever just known?" Gus said softly, staring into Vick's eyes.
In the hiccup of Vick's unavoidable SBPD explanation between the flailings of gut intuition and their daily practice of investigated fact, Juliet made a sound in her throat that almost contradicted the code that she and Vick had sworn to follow.
* * *
The man still hadn't attempted to hurt or even come near Shawn since he'd parked himself at Lassiter's side. But every now and then, the killer would stop pacing to stare at his victim, each time working his two of his fingers down the middle flat part of the blade, almost as if he were caressing fabric. It was among the many unnerving quirks Shawn picked up on in the killer's behavior—but each action or small tic brought him no closer to solving the riddle of this man—or why he had latched on to the SBPD's Head Detective with such exacting rage filled admiration—Shawn tried his best to ignore the latest crop of goose bumps on his arms.
The killer seemed to forcefully ignore Shawn's identity—and existence—denying, Shawn felt, that he was anything to Lassiter besides a stranger. Shawn picked this up in the subtleties of the man's behavior—in scowls that masked angry thought, flicks of looks out of the corner of his eye in Shawn's direction. Was his presence, Shawn wondered, causing some scheme of the killer's to unravel? It was hard to tell for sure; it could be as simple as that the man despised being interrupted while he was playing with his food.
Shawn's mouth dipped; it disgusted him that he allowed himself to go there, but he couldn't help but remember the blood on the man's chin. Out of decency, he shivered, and tried again to formulate a plan.
Talking to the killer was almost out of the question; the first attempts had almost deflated Shawn's self-confidence as he fumbled through the lies of making his "visions" tell the truth—not to mention that nasty slap the killer thought he deserved. Four or five times now, Shawn had almost formed the words to start another "vision"—but then he'd come up short, the memories of the first conversation and Lassiter's latest injury still too fresh. Besides, the man's responses were nearly all nonsense, at least to Shawn. So instead, Shawn talked to Lassiter while the detective continued down the path of emotional self-destruction, until Shawn finally got wise to what the detective was playing at—though not all of it, Shawn figured, was for show. In a knee-jerk reaction to the discovery, Shawn absentmindedly smacked Lassiter's shoulder.
Lassiter's face pinched with anger, snapping his head towards the fake psychic with a snarl to his teeth. "What the—"
"I know what you're trying to do," Shawn blurted out, raising the hand he'd just hit Lassiter with to his temple. "You're trying to play dead so that I won't—" When Shawn saw that Lassiter had paused mid-growl with a look of blue emptiness passing through his eyes, Shawn had the decency enough to redden, and cough, "Uh, bad choice of words, buddy?"
Lassiter shook his head, an angry smile dissolving. "True enough." And wasn't it going to happen anyway? Dead? "Ouch!" Lassiter gasped, raising his eyebrows once before arching them darkly towards Shawn, who had just flicked one of the cuts on his hand. "Do you have a death wish?" he spat out without thinking, then nearly choked on his own phrasing. Shawn was staring back with hard eyes, an action that would have nearly made Lassiter wince if he'd been caught more off guard. But an angry Spencer he could handle right now.
"You are not dead, you jerk," Shawn ground out. "You're lucky I'm here instead of Jules—though I think I might pay thousands of dollars to see her slap you for saying it."
Lassiter experienced a flood of longing, a prickly, nameless wish that flowed under his skin and left him gasping, that she really was here to slap him and bring him back to reality. He could imagine her doing it, too, impulsively and without remorse—for a few seconds afterward, anyway. His face took on a sneer, covering his inner flailing with a quip, "By you paying, you mean Guster."
Shawn pursed his lips. "I bet Gus would like to see it too. Or with a bribery of fine desserts, he could be persuaded." His eyes narrowed. "You're not getting out of that one so easily, Lassafras."
"'Course I'm not," Lassiter mumbled over the ridiculous nickname.
"But seriously, dude? Self-sacrifice? For me? How hard did he hit your head?"
"Which time?" he mumbled.
"What?" Shawn ground out, incredulous.
Lassiter studied the ceiling, ignoring Spencer's question. "It's in my job description to protect civilians. I took an oath to serve and protect. Even the likes of you."
"Uh, huh," Shawn mumbled, unconvinced. "You're injured; you're just not thinking clearly. So I'll have to be your brain. The Brain, Brain, Brain, Brain." Shawn cut himself off mid-cartoonish chuckle to give Lassiter a sideways look. "Guess that makes you Pinky. Though you're really not pink, not usually. More pale. Paley." Shawn shook his head. "Doesn't have the same ring, does it?"
Lassiter's mouth arched downwards, forming a look up to his eyebrows that said he'd like to wring Shawn's neck. He didn't want to exert strength contradicting Spencer, or tell him to shut the hell up. Huh. Maybe on a better day.
Shawn didn't like that, seeing an angry look slip away into a fit of pain. It gave him chills, realizing again that he really was Lassiter's only hope. It just figured, didn't it, that, like all other days, he had to be irresponsible with his phone? He knew what Gus or his father would have to say about that—Shawn feigned a deep breath. His father would bitch that Shawn could have prevented this whole thing by not being such a jackass and playing around with people's lives in the first place.
"Lassie, did you try to call for back up?" Shawn asked, his eyes suddenly unable to stray from the burn on the detective's hand, which now had multiple thin vertical cuts across its surface, each having had lines of blood drawn.
Chagrined, Lassiter tried to think of how to appropriately answer. The journey into this place seemed like days, or years, ago, rather than hours. Bits still pinched with a clarity he wished he could forget—especially the long glance from the interior of his Crown Vic. He had tried, hadn't he? Right before he'd been pushed, he'd been on the phone to O'Hara. Eventually he nodded, walking Shawn through the incident that got him inside, broke his phone and twisted his ankle. He left things out; Spencer didn't need to know everything.
"Tried to fight," Lassiter said, looking away. "He might be stronger."
Though Shawn didn't know if this were really true, he put himself in charge, momentarily, of trying to cheer Lassiter up. "Come on, Lassiesaur, stronger than you? If he had some advantage, it was probably that he just wasn't hurt."
"Think I shot him. His right arm." Lassiter fixed his eyes on Shawn's. "Go for his arm, Spencer. Then run like hell."
Holy shit, back to this again? "Why do you really want me to run away?"
"Need . . ." Her face, in his mind, was tight with seriousness; he could see lack of sleep during long stakeouts hollowing out her eyes. Surely . . . she couldn't be worrying that much now? "Shh—" She'll know what to do. Pain coursed through him. "Freal help."
"'Freal' help?" Shawn repeated, confused. "What is that?"
Lassiter's vision blurred for a second. He forced his words to separate. "For. Real." He panted. "Her. Get her."
Shawn raised an eyebrow. "Who? The Chief? Officer Sanchez? Ooh, Claire Danes? Jennifer Grey?"
"O'Hara, you ass," Lassiter hissed with his eyes closed. Sleep was pulling at him; he wanted to go with it.
Shawn caught the detective's eyes slant. He seized Lassiter's shoulder again, shaking firmly until he was met with a watery version of Lassiter's usual glare. Breathing a sigh of relief, Shawn nodded. He'd take that. "Okay, so you want Jules. Jules, right?"
Lassiter sputtered, his mouth trying to shape his partner's last name, until he gave up with a nod.
"You can't go to sleep again. What if you're concussed?"
Lassiter's eyes performed a trick, stealing the usual derision from his tone when he usually addressed Shawn. It was less than he wanted; he wanted to yell at Spencer in small words that the kid might actually be able to understand, that Carlton actually and desperately needed Spencer to leave. His eyes slid in the direction of his many cuts and wounds, trying for that speechless illustration; he was so tired now. Lassiter knew he shouldn't be this tired still in the presence of Saul, who would certainly not be above kicking him in the head or the side to "wake him". And, as horrifying as it was being here, all alone with Saul, what scared Lassiter even more was that Spencer was going to talk himself into an equally nasty stab wound or worse. I can't protect him. I tried. I tried, and look what happened.
Shawn held his hand up in a halfhearted attempt that would use it to smack Lassiter if the detective tried to close his eyes again. Everywhere his eyes went, Shawn zoomed in on another new wound, cut, or bruise, or blotched spot; it seemed the Head Detective had taken much more abuse than anyone should have to handle. Shawn lowered his hand, curling his fingers into a loose fist as he watched Lassiter dully watch his movements. "It's your lucky day," Shawn said nonsensically, "where you could have almost arrested me for assault."
"Lucky?" he repeated. For a moment, Lassiter looked like he wanted to laugh, but his expression fell fast. He tried to turn his head. "Please," he hissed, more whisper than word. Do something right. Carlton fought hard to get sound into O'Hara's name, insistent that Spencer was going to pay attention.
A few minutes passed quietly. Lassiter abandoned his pleas for Shawn to actually follow his orders momentarily, asking instead, "Spencer, what's he doing?"
"Pacing," Shawn whispered without looking up. The killer had taken to pacing the line of shadows just out of Lassiter's line of sight.
"Did he try to—"
"What?" Shawn whispered.
"Attack you? While I was out cold?"
"No."
"Don't you dare let him get that close to you again," Lassiter hissed, fixing his hard blue eyes on Shawn's face.
In spite of the situation, Shawn cracked a smile. "Lassie, you care." Shawn, who had again removed his hand from the ruined fabric resting at the back of Lassiter's head, patted his heart until he saw the detective flinch. He heard the killer say, "Your heart's no good to me," and again wondered what this strange statement meant.
"I'm serious," Lassiter continued. He winced, then back pedaled to regain some shades of his usual anger.
"He's highly muscled and scary," Shawn dismissed. "I get it."
"No," Lassiter snapped, "you don't."
"Then explain to me why—"
"I ain't liking this charlatan, lawman," Saul said conversationally from his line of shadow. He arced his eyes over Lassiter's prone form, studying him. "He stinks of fear, but he ain't worth a thing—dead or alive."
Shawn frowned. "Way to make judgments on people you don't even know," he blurted out ridiculously. "I'm a world renowned—"
"Shut up," Lassiter growled dangerously, flicking his leg towards Shawn in a useless effort to get him to stop.
"I can be modest," Shawn continued, nodding in the direction of the killer, who was looking through him. "I'm actually best known in California, Hawaii, Guam, and Puerto Rico, and sometimes in that Belgium slice of France—Brazil."
It was the killer's turn to growl. "He made the worst mistake of his life," Saul continued, "coming here. Walking in as fool, thinking he can talk his ghosts into saving his petty life." Again, Shawn witnessed the killer addressing a phantom cause; his eyes had turned away from both of them to face forward with purpose.
Breath escaped from Shawn's lips; Lassiter risked a longer glance, and was relieved to finally see unguarded fear on Spencer's face. Shawn laughed nervously. "You think—you think your ghosts are . . . your ghosts . . ." He tried to finish the thought but the end wasn't there; instead, a trail of thought led him back to the comment about his heart. And Lassiter's increased discomfort over any gesture regarding the heart. Shawn saw the murdered victims, knowing that in each the cause of death had been a stab wound to the heart. Could this be "all"? Lassiter figured that he was going to become the man's latest kill?
"Lassie, he's not going to kill you," Shawn said thinly, so only Lassiter could hear. He said it with his rare "scared little boy" voice, the one usually only Gus and Henry knew about and heard on occasion. Weakly, he raised his free hand to his temple. "He's not going to stab you through the heart—"
Carlton raised an eyebrow, and in spite of himself, he replied to the voice with a thin mocking smile. "You don't know the half, Spencer," he said.
Saul grumbled; Lassiter suspected the killer was stockpiling a rage for Spencer's interruption to either use on the faker or on him—in the final straw, when the blade went deep with carnal care, severing arteries, veins, sinew, muscles until his blood ran freely. He was still dismayed at how difficult this was for him to deal with; it was inevitable, wasn't it?
"Spencer," Lassiter began, his breath coming out in little huffs. He must be 'delirious' to even ask such a question, but a small part of him thought he might not make it out of this, and he felt he needed to know.
Shawn leaned over him, his hazel eyes filled to their brim with a soppy worry. His lips moved, but Lassiter was instead focused on the cold sweat tickling the back of his neck to make the words out. He cut in, "What did you—tell." His voice dipped to a low whisper, but he forced himself to continue.
"What?" Spencer asked, fidgeting.
"What did you tell Internal Affairs—so that they—" Lassiter unwillingly flashed to his prickly treatment of Spencer outside of Vick's office. Spencer breathed out a shaky sigh, seemingly coming to the same conclusion that he had just moments ago.
"Lassie, you're not going to—you'll be fine," Spencer mumbled. For a few moments, he held up his hand, considering checking Lassiter's pulse again, but balled it into a fist and dropped it back to his side.
"Tell me," Lassiter insisted, not even noticing Spencer's movement. Shawn was unnerved by how soft and raspy the detective's voice had become. He bit his lip, and stole a glance at their captor out of the corner of his eye.
"Um," Shawn fumbled. He took in a shallow breath. "The spirits told me you were about to have a big break——in the King of Hearts serial killer case."
Spencer's voice bore a serious hush—the only other time Lassiter had heard this tone was the moment the Spencer had discovered the Yin Yang serial killer's possession of his mother. Carlton felt his mouth try to shape an ironic smile. For once, the faker had been telling the truth. The smile fell as he coughed, and Spencer gasped sharply as he noticed Lassiter had been biting his lips hard enough to draw blood.
"Lassie," Spencer muttered. "Oh, god."
"So you knew, then," Lassiter continued. "About the tip."
Lassiter's words cut into Shawn, filling in the wound with stinging remorse; he felt stupid with guilt at the part he'd played in this whole debacle, and as it should, it gnawed at him. His half-assed plans usually only backfired on him (and more often than not, Gus too) leaving him (them) in some kind of trouble or hassle. But this—he'd never meant for something like this. But he never, ever thought things all the way through, considered the consequences, figuring everything would work itself out. Shawn ran a hand across his forehead, trying to gather his words for something, a confession, an apology, some humor or a spattering of hope. He'd opened his mouth to speak when Lassiter interrupted, as if he'd been struggling very hard to gather his own words together, but out of pain rather than regret.
"Bastard told me," Lassiter said, staring at the ceiling for a moment, then shifting his eyes towards Shawn. "He said"—here, Lassiter attempted an ironic smile, another painful paper cut to Shawn's guilt—"he'd called in the tip—himself. About himself."
"Lassie—I—he—he what?" Shawn questioned, his eyes widening. He was breathless, reverting nearly and neatly to his old ways; seeing the loophole, he knew he should jump through it without hesitation.
"Yeah," Lassiter confirmed softly, still trying to smile. It looked like it hurt. The attempt slipped as some dormant anger mingled with his serious tone. "O'Hara was—she was going to come here. She was so damn insistent." His eyes had filled with something, but Shawn wasn't certain if it was sadness or some sweat from his forehead. "That would have killed me," Lassiter told Shawn confessionally; he left the rest hanging in the air as his eyelids drooped.
Shawn shook his shoulder, selfishly unwilling to panic again if Lassiter went to sleep again and left him here with the killer. "That would have killed me." So, was this alternative, in Lassiter's opinion, Shawn wondered, the "better" one? Because this might actually kill—Shawn shook his head. "Goddammit, open your eyes," Shawn demanded, shaking Lassiter's shoulder fiercely.
Lassiter complied, not responding to Shawn's words. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes so still that Shawn panicked. "Dude!" he hissed, his heart thudding in his ears as Lassiter's eyes shifted towards him, holding some clarity.
"Spencer, I'm going to—tell you one last time," Lassiter coughed. "Run." He felt the deja vu as he repeated his entire speech to Spencer again.
Shawn sat back, staring, looking as resistant as before.
"I can't—go," Lassiter whispered, feeling weighed down by Saul's earlier words that he was never going anywhere again. "Hurts, don't it?" Saul had laughed. "You—get help." It hurts, it hurts so bad. To have to ask you for help—but get me help. Lassiter's mouth moved but these words he didn't say aloud. "I'll distract him, and then you go."
"Distract him, how?" Spencer hesitated. "You can't even move." Lassiter debated on a sneer, trying to shape the mean words that were usually on his tongue whenever Spencer came to mind—why don't you run, it's what you do best? You're not a cop, you're a barely functioning and useless civilian—you're—you're—not O'Hara. Oh. His partner. These were easier words to say, something that he wouldn't have been able to admit earlier in the day. And because it bore repeating, "Get O'Hara." I need her. "Go." His voice was fading.
Shawn looked over his shoulder. He glanced back to Lassiter. As cowardly as he felt complying, he reminded himself that Lassiter was in need of a doctor or maybe a team of them, a hospital, bandages and antiseptics and meds—probably stitches and a cast or a brace too. "How are you going to distract him?" Shawn pressed.
Lassiter pressed his head back against the ground. He felt a thin anticipation that his words were finally sinking into Spencer's thick skull and were going to be taken seriously. He'd been lying about the distraction though; at best, he could pretend that he was going to get up; he imagined that would rile Saul up. He mused that he could get into a verbal war with the killer; this might be more Spencer's speed anyway. "Doesn't matter—you need to promise me you aren't going to look back. 'Kay?"
Shawn wrinkled his nose at 'Kay?'; it was unlike Lassiter. He sighed, deciding to ask for a promise of his own. "Lassie, you need to promise me that—" Shawn bit his lip, unable to conclude his sentence with "you won't die". He waffled.
Lassiter squeezed a few drops of annoyance into his words. "Spencer, get out of here."
"Jules will be upset if you're not—just try not to get worse, promise?" Shawn hedged out, kicking himself for being unable to finish the thought. Without saying anything else or really thinking clearly, Shawn got up, determined that he would keep Lassiter from further aggravating his wounds.
"The spirits are sending me a vivid premonition about you," Shawn announced loudly, bringing his hands to his head. He looked in the killer's direction; he was keeping a good amount of space between them. "You're not going to go on forever like this. And not just because you'll die one day," Shawn added as an afterthought. "I see—swirls of red-blue lights and hear shrill sirens. I see—lots of Santa Barbara's Finest with hard expressions, guns loaded, drawn and cocked—all coming for you. Tonight."
Saul frowned, bunching a fist at his side as if he wanted to use it on Shawn. "You're none but a lying sacka waste," Saul snapped. He fingered his blade as he advanced from the shadow, closer to the light where Shawn and Lassiter were. Shawn, instead of backing up, or pivoting himself on a good angle to tear off, stepped towards the killer. He heard Lassiter protest weakly, but ignored yet another warning.
"Am I?" Shawn taunted back.
"He ain't got—" the killer broke off, catching himself with a frown, as if by even addressing Shawn this way he was lowering himself to the ground. Noise rumbled in his throat.
Shawn's courage was actually sitting at the soles of his feet, poised, he'd like to believe, for the inevitable chase. He knew he had to get a head start, even just a few seconds; to do that, he was going to have get into some physical altercation with the killer—and risk the pain that was sure to come when the two clashed.
"I've got a predilection that you'll be denied—"
"Big words for such a small mind," the killer muttered, staring flatly at Shawn's head. "You're wrong."
Shawn shook his head. Now that killer was giving him his full attention, Shawn found it terribly unnerving. He felt himself swallowed up in the man's dark eyes which had a cast a net around his body, reeling him in like a latest catch. He hated feeling like a fish squirming out of his safe zone, trapped like this without breath.
"The Dee-tech-tive is dead," Saul said, nodding sharply at Shawn as he continued to advance. "If you were more than a panhandler that's what you'd be seeing." He also continued to hold Shawn in the path of his dark eyes. "You'd also see exactly how you're gonna die—and when."
Lassiter was silent, listening with horror, knowing Saul was not telling lies. He wished he could side with Spencer, who was "predicting" the arrival of several officers tonight—but Spencer had been wrong too many times before.
Shawn hissed under his breath, but somehow managed a bright and snappish, "That's why I'm the psychic and you're not. The spirits are obviously not talking to you."
Saul chuckled, a harsh, rasping sound that almost had Shawn losing his nerve for the umpteenth time. He remembered what Lassiter had told him earlier about going for the killer's damaged arm. He was worried about how to maneuver so he could miss as many potential blows with the killer's knife as possible. It would be counteractive if he was also stabbed too deeply, if an artery was nicked, if he bled out before he could make it back to the door—a vain fight. Shawn gulped, realizing that Lassiter's stab wound may be the result of one of these previous scuffles between the men—vain escape attempts. What was hardest to understand was how Lassiter came to be at a disadvantage; usually, he was the go-to-guy when it came to apprehending a suspect—even when the opponent didn't play fair.
Wouldn't there be time for questions, for introspection, later? He still mused over it, indulging for a few seconds in the truth that the actuality of "later" was still up in the air—both for him and for Lassiter. Shawn shook his head hard, feigning another vision. He imagined Juliet's face now, tight and pale, a mess of mascara and other eye products trailing down her cheeks—what he couldn't imagine was the person she was crying over.
Swallowing his fear in an air-filled gulp, Shawn rushed forward wordlessly and lunged at Saul with his head and ears buzzing, his chest on fire, repeating the mantra so he would continue forward motion and not jump back: Do it for Lassie, do it for Jules. For Lassie, for Jules.
The killer hadn't expected Shawn so soon—or at all—though the look in his eyes barely flickered. Shawn's highly trained eyes zeroed in on the killer's right arm, where the blood from the bullet graze was still wet. He aimed his short nails for the wound, smacking both arms through the air, bringing them down hard—gouging. Do it for Lassie, do it for Lassie. Jules. Jules.
Saul's eyes bulged with pain—twisting his cold features, though Shawn only caught a few glimpses as he dug in sharply, holding on even though he found it gross. "You obviously forgot about the claws on roadrunners," Shawn sneered, whipping his knee to Saul's groin just as the killer maneuvered his knife's point under Shawn's bare forearm. Just one touch—yet a clean, half of a centimeter line of red pulled open—and Shawn jerked away with a cry. It was barely a pinch, and he wanted to feel more embarrassed for yelling out, but it hurt. In his haste, Shawn elbowed the killer's chin—and Saul lost his grip on the hilt.
He jumped back further, forcing his arm to his side as he brushed it against his jeans. With inexplicable cocky dread, Shawn enjoyed the killer's momentarily weakened state, basking in a victory of dealing the killer a taste of his own pain. But Shawn's easy smirk at Saul's doubled over condition began to falter as the killer straightened; he faced the unsettling possibility that nothing could fell the man. "Talons," the killer snarled, looking up with angrier eyes, "that I'ma gonna enjoy ripping off one by one." He dipped at the knees, his hand searching the floor for the Bowie.
Lassiter hissed—the word clear enough, especially since the detective had repeated it at least fifty times since Shawn had arrived here. Shawn inhaled a dizzying breath, pulling the air down his throat and against the muscles of his stomach, swearing he would not exhale until he was safely outside—or at the very least, to the cover of the darkest shadows. He risked one last glance at Lassie and then finally obeyed, bolting from them as quickly as his legs and brain would move him.
* * *
Carlton couldn't see Shawn's progress running away, but he was satisfied by the hard footfalls which grew softer and softer—he's getting away, he's getting away. He took the seconds of relief, forcing himself to believe that Spencer was going to get out of here and that, at the very least, the faker would survive. It was too much to feel for the thread of his own survival; it hurt too much to waste energy on that kind of hope.
Saul wasn't down long, but Lassiter couldn't help but notice the killer's cursing and stiff movements. He thought back to their own fight, where they'd exchanged kicks before lashing out at each other with their own held weapons. Must have been the adrenaline then, Lassiter thought idly, that made the killer recover so quickly. For Saul, it had been . . . coveted to be in a fight like that, he reasoned. Fight with hapless, intelligent prey. Lassiter made a sour face to himself, hating that he knew the killer's first name and that it was in his head, existing in his thoughts.
"Jules will be upset if you're not—just try not to get worse, promise?"
That stayed with him, long after Spencer must have been swallowed by the shadows, how much pain he was going to bring his partner when—if—she saw him—like this, or worse. Carlton felt new guilt; this train of thought hadn't even occurred to him, what O'Hara might feel when she took in all his injuries. He groaned inwardly, unhelpfully picturing her with some tears—no, she wouldn't really cry for him, would she? . . . No. He felt foolish for thinking she would—he would be lucky, if he survived, if she would even look at him again, let alone speak to him.
What if she requested a new partner following this? The thought left him cold, as cold as he been earlier when Saul had outlined his plans for Lassiter's fate. Carlton felt stupid for this emotional attachment—that his actions had been so severely bad that not only would it cost him his gun, possibly his badge, his general respect and admiration and his field duty, but also his partner. And not just his partner, but his—his only friend.
Slowly, he remembered how O'Hara had been sad and disappointed right along with him when his streak of solving case after case and getting twelve or more suspects in a row to confess had come to an abrupt end. She had been proud of him, excited at his success rate, and loved to drink in his glory as much as he liked to go after it. But she had not been saddened that the glory was done but that his pride and confidence had taken a huge hit—a thought which now stunned him with its clarity. O'Hara will be upset . . . . if anything hurts me, Carlton finished slowly, realizing that he had changed enough to address the situation likewise. He had not been delirious when he said what he'd said to Spencer about O'Hara's want to come here. "Hurts, don't it?"
It did—more than he could ever form into words.
For now, he was stuck. If she should come—and he did need this "girl"—he would—beg for her forgiveness. Or should he apologize first? Or express with words and not just a look in his eyes or a smile how much she meant as his partner and friend? The thoughts made him dizzy; he was unable to choose which one he should say first—that was, if he could still speak by the time—if—she arrived.
Carlton found it funny that he was considering these uncharacteristic thoughts—but, he amended, they were okay to be so lavish because he might be about to die. Or close, very close.
A partnership was about give and take, and theirs, he felt, had been much of him taking while she gave tirelessly. Though, they had both grown, Carlton reflected, and he had learned the value of sharing and playing well with—well, sharing. That was a good start, right? It was funny, and he almost laughed, but couldn't, when he thought that O'Hara played well with others while he ran with scissors, and yet they were partners.
I can't die until she's—until I call tell her—what she, how much she means, Lassiter thought, resolved to fight for that goal.
The killer—Saul—rose to his full height, an inhuman growl rumbling in his throat. He brandished his weapon, holding it next to his face, but wasted precious time throwing his anger in Lassiter's direction. Though it sickened Carlton to know that Saul had bonded with him—even one-sided—he made himself hold Saul's eyes to buy Spencer more time in his fumbling escape. Before Spencer's footsteps had gone out of range, Lassiter had made out Spencer's scared huffs of breath; as if, Lassiter thought sardonically, Spencer didn't know the future, as if what was in store for either of them was as uncertain as the killer's patterns. He was surprised at himself then, realizing slowly that not all of him had been taken and manipulated by the killer. He told himself that he was going to hold onto that little bit left—hold on until Spencer got help and his partner arrived on scene. The hope did cost him; Lassiter closed his eyes, too overwhelmed to move.
When he was finally able to open them, still dizzy, Saul was gone. It took Lassiter a few minutes to realize that Spencer's wadded up shirt was missing from the wound at his side. He couldn't recall Spencer snagging it before running off, but he couldn't see it still nearby. Lassiter moved his hands back towards the wound, hating that he couldn't get up and run off too.
He'd fucked up. And trying to be noble about it—trying to make himself believe that it was okay because the killer was here, hurting only him and not some other near innocent—had taken an enormous toll. In these moments, not even he couldn't fathom the actual end, but could already feel the edge of the knife piercing him, ripping his skin, not stopping, going deeper, deeper, until it would be too late. He felt lightheaded, as if his body's last drops of blood were already seeping out, or rushing, this time rushing, this pain the most excruciating, this pain making it too much to empty out his voice into the world, his last breath.
Gasping shallowly, Carlton forced himself to come back to his body, forced himself to keep his eyes opened widely, to wait alertly. Saul was going to come back, no doubt. And then he'd have Lassiter all to himself, just as he'd wanted it.
* * *
Shawn's head start turned out to be little more than twenty seconds. Then he heard the killer behind him, in chase, and once or twice close enough to hear the killer speak.
"I don't care what he said, no roadrunner's gonna kill a rattlesnake," Saul spouted cryptically through the layered shadows in pursuit. Shawn ran almost blindly, his fear making him believe he could feel the killer's hot breath on the back of his neck. The sick feeling he'd barely suppressed looking and looking at Lassiter's injuries was now making him weak—the killer could catch him and he could die, just like that. Saul didn't want to "play" with Shawn—and now he had even more reason to stop Shawn from leaving. Shawn's mouth fell open, stringy drool working itself from under his tongue to slip out of his lips.
Shawn picked up his pace, his footsteps hard and violent on the partial earthen ground. His escape was required—or Lassiter was doomed. Shawn ran with his heart's increased thudding drowning out all other sounds, including his own footsteps, the killer's breathing, his own. In his terror, Shawn was unable to gauge the killer's progress behind him—the sounds swallowed up, everything lost but this last hope, this very last hope that he get free—so he could truly save Lassiter's life.
He knew he could find his way out, even in the dark, because his memory would guide him. But his feet were distracting with their constant stumbles, his breath coming out fast. There was need in that quick glance he'd caught when he'd looked towards Lassie last—an upswing desperation; Lassiter did not want to die. When it came to death, he was just like any other man—the bravado was all talk.
Shawn was begging with his huffs of breath, please, please, please. He too was afraid of dying, and actually wished himself less stupid in the future, begging again with his breathing that he was still a living player in the landscape of the future. Behind him he was again starting to make out another set of stumbling footsteps, even though he zigged and zagged as he had been taught. Please, please, please.
As he ran, a part of his active mind couldn't help but piece together why the killer really wanted Lassiter—and just what part the killer's grandfather played. After all, the suicide kings were a huge part of the killer's ritual—just what message was he trying to send? Shawn knew he may never know; many criminals were psychopaths with counterfeit realities, their "reasonings" personal, secret, but much too "real" to not act out on urges. Shawn couldn't figure out why, if the man's MO was to slice up his victims' faces until they were unrecognizable, Lassiter's face had been practically untouched. Why his feet were still covered with his shoes, the soles unbloodied, and the most important why—why wasn't Lassiter yet dead?
Likely, if the police had been involved sooner, they might have said that a detective, and the Head Detective of the SBPD, who was not on a known case or appointment, who was only "missing" for less than four hours couldn't—wouldn't—be missing. Or be missed. But if Juliet had been informed much sooner— Shawn knew he'd done an unforgivable thing, sitting on that text message meant for Juliet, though he hadn't meant to bring pain.
O'Hara, checking out the tips—
Tips, it had said "tips". Tipzzz. That was another questionable why—why had the killer called in? Shawn wished his best friend was here to smack him in the head; he rolled his eyes, discomfited all over again. It should have been quite enough, a little voice told him, once Shawn realized what KOKH (even with some letters out of place) meant to spurn him into slightly more immediate action. He replayed his conversation with Lassiter in what already seemed like a lifetime ago about the killer's "logic" about tipping off the police about himself. And Shawn had clamped his mouth shut, unable to confess what he'd done. Partially, he'd been anxious a confession would garner no reaction at all; he thought it ironic that he was more disturbed with this than getting charged with "his part" in this crime.
Shawn couldn't remember what he'd last eaten, not even as it was coming back up in thick chunks. His body insisted he stop and pay attention to its sickened reactions, but Shawn made himself keep moving, relieved to be able to retch outside under the evening sky in puddle of standing water. There was a lot; it kept coming as he crawled on his knees and elbows away from the door he'd originally gone in, long before he'd known. Known what he was getting himself into, known what his actions and non actions had cost. This wasn't something stupid that he could forget easily, he reminded himself sharply as he fought his way back to his feet in the onset night.
Motion, then muted color, blue-red with the sharp odor of metallics flared to his left. Shawn gaped, still fighting for balance after his vomiting episode. He heard the low, furious growls of animal, surely a bear or a panther readying for a violated defense, close behind him. Shawn was shocked the killer had tracked him so well, had caught up while he'd laid on his face, wallowing in guilt. He tried to turn, tried to scream, tried to flail or lash out his arms in his own clumsy defense. Too familiar red splattered blue fabric billowed out, then went taut against his throat without a word. Shawn felt it tighten as the killer pulled it against his Adam's apple and twisted the ends at the base of his neck.
Shawn's eyes bulged as he choked, his hands clawing at the noose, going tighter, tighter. No. God, no. The killer's pungent odor went up his nostrils; there was an odd mix of excitement, triumph and sweaty fear, though, Shawn speculated quickly, the fear could very well be his own. He felt cheated, painfully sucking in breath through his nose, getting dizzier while the man held on. No. Can't. No.
Wildly, Shawn pulled against the killer's hold by throwing his body from side to side, pretending he was only playing his "boneless game" with Gus. The killer was not speaking, but now his hot breath sat at rest on the back of Shawn's head. He grunted at Shawn's flailings, but still refused to utter a word to remind his victim he was human. Shawn saw huge black spots as he rocked; the man was too strong, wasn't he? He had attacked and taken Lassiter and now he was—
Shawn gulped. He couldn't die, not here, not now. He gave in, letting all his weight tip his body to the left, where he'd first seen the movement. Tears sprang to his eyes; he was faint with lack of oxygen but he made himself keep pulling, determined to rip the killer off his feet. Has to work, has to work, has to wor—
Instead, the fabric around his neck slackened enough so he could slip out. By now Shawn's vision had blurred; he didn't have the time to move his arms up to protect his body his weight sailed him to the ground. No . . . no, he thought groggily, both in the first half second into the fall, and then after, crashing hard enough to knock the small air left in his lungs out of him. Can't . . . bad . . . ground . . . Shawn's eyes streamed and he gasped for air quietly while lying face down. Bad . . . bad . . . get . . . no.
Breathing shallowly, Shawn worried through his blur of pain and tears that killer was standing over him, scraping his boots near his head, readying himself to plunge the hunting knife straight into Shawn's back. "No roadrunner," the killer mumbled then with amusement. Shawn's body jerked, then he fell still, holding in the very tiny breaths. When the killer's boot caught him on the left side, Shawn stayed still as the fire of the kick shot through his skin. Another kick followed, the pain erupting like a set of fireworks around his body, then another, the violence increasing with each blow. Shawn didn't make a sound; he took the pain without moving though between his abused side and his neck, he thought he might die. He was grateful for being face down; he was having a hard time catching his breath from being strangled. After the third kick, the killer paused above him; the silence deafening in the wait. Shawn didn't know what to do; worse, there were dots in front of his open eyes and he knew then he was blacking out. Something heavy fell against his back as he was going under into dark darker than the night wrapped around them.