Author's Note: Thanks to Egorstandish and Texasartchick for some help with inspiration of this chapter. Thanks also for my wonderful reviewers' continued support. *HUGS* Reviews and feedback are greatly appreciated and constructive criticism is welcome. Thanks and enjoy!
Minor references to various episodes/seasons in this chapter.
Chapter Ten: You Ask Me To Say What I've Done, I Told You Just Like I Told Everyone
* * *
When Saul returned, his gait slow, his expression was locked up tight so Lassiter couldn't tell if he was pissed off at losing one or if he was satisfied with his latest kill. Lassiter kept his own expression guarded, refusing to move his eyes towards the killer expectantly, for answers. Doing so would be harmful in too many ways—and the killer was already too consumed with power as it was.
Spencer had torn Saul's shirt while he'd lunged; Lassiter had watched the scene with dizzy horror. Saul's forearm had been exposed by a loose flap which was still hanging on by its fibers. It looked, Lassiter thought with a tiny gulp, like a torn piece of skin.
The killer took his time, his gaze burning Lassiter even at the distance; it magnified on him the closer Saul got. For a short time, even though he forced his eyes to study only the killer's body language and not his face, Lassiter felt singed from the inside out; he hoped a stray cough from Saul wouldn't cause his ashy organs to come apart like dust.
In the face of that "fire", Lassiter shivered suddenly, an action hitting him from top of the head to his toes. He didn't know if the shiver was out of varied fear, or if it was a physical reaction to the blood loss he'd endured. There was another tiny shiver, this one Lassiter suspected could only be fear—he knew, he just knew, that now that Spencer was out of sight, the killer could pick right where he left off with cutting. He bit his lips, tasting the blood that had arisen earlier, and silently begged to somehow be spared.
"Miss me, lawman?" Saul asked, the blade at his side catching some spare light. "I knew you'd be right where I left you. You got a destiny."
Lassiter refused to speak. Half of the jumble of words were wadded up in his mouth like the dirty cloth Saul had gagged him with earlier, and he couldn't sort out anything remotely coherent to refute the killer with. Besides, what if he did . . . no. No. NO. If Spencer were still here, even a silent admission of this would have meant a flick to one of his smaller cuts. Spencer might be a pain and a pest but he had also been an unwelcome but necessary voice of reason for Carlton—who may have succumbed much earlier to Saul's words, which sometimes cut into him more than the killer's knife. Saul circled around him, standing in front near his feet, gazing out, occasionally, into the shadows behind Lassiter's head.
The scars, the scars he was going to have if he survived. If . . . if. . . . As if he weren't acutely aware of it before, Carlton found himself even more stunned that he was once again alone with the killer . . . and that he was alone. More than before, he longed for human contact—for her, and for the rest of SBPD to be here—because he couldn't stand being alone.
The room reeled, or if it didn't, he did; he forced himself to choke back bile because all he could smell now was his own blood and hard earthen floor that was likely to be his grave after all. He wanted to yell, to wail, he wanted someone to hear him and call—
"You're wrong," Lassiter ground out, his response much later than it should have been.
Saul frowned over him, his nostrils twitching. "That fool get a little into your head, did he, Dee-tech-tive?" The frown turned into a slow, wolf-like grin that left Lassiter almost gulping for air. He wanted to shake his head, to claim a draw; Spencer's being here had caused a stay in his mind for the time being . . . but what was going to happen if he allowed himself to be consumed by a new crop of toxic words from the killer's mouth?
Lassiter's breath shuddered from his lips. There wasn't any preventing this, should it happen again. He couldn't put up much of a mental wall because it hadn't worked the first time. There was only so long he could consider his own strength, and the likelihood of Spencer's escape and the appearance of O'Hara in double gun blazing glory. He'd come accustomed to her beating him to identification when they came upon a suspect, her loud, stern, "SBPD! Drop your weapons!" And no matter how foolish it was, he wanted to hear her say it aloud, even if it was only one last time.
"Tell me, something, lawman," Saul began. "You ever been hurt, real bad?"
Lassiter's eyes darkened, and he sneered, but maintained his silence.
Saul smiled with his mouth closed. "Now I mean sometime in the sands of the past, not in time to this little dance of ours."
Lassiter cursed, unable to stop. "Fuck you."
The killer chuckled. "Now, there you are. I knew it, I knew that little fire in you ain't gone out yet." He waggled the knife in Lassiter's direction, then raised an eyebrow. "Let's put that little question on the back burner. Tell me why you got between me and that charlatan."
Carlton scowled.
"That was a nasty hit; would about smacked the soul right outta him, if he had any. But of course not outta you. Why?"
His nostrils flared. He hated that the killer was actually waiting for an answer, that he expected Lassiter to continue to play along until . . . Inside, another batch of fear edged in. This was . . . all . . . too much. He couldn't do this, not anymore. Saul plunked himself down near Lassiter's right side, close enough to jabbed Lassiter's hands, still wrapped diligently around his side, with the tip of the blade. "You ain't got a choice, lawman," Saul warned dangerously. "You better get that jaw of yours open and start talking to me."
"Or what?" Lassiter shot back. "I'll get killed sooner than you promised?"
In the hiss of his anger, the killer laughed. "I like you." Carlton froze. He watched Saul watch him as the fear slid across his eyes, as he perspired further. "I can already taste your fire in my mouth. fueling my core—you're gonna make me the strongest man—" He cut himself off. "But you're still gonna talk to me now." He jabbed Carlton's fingers again. "Pretty soon you're gonna be seeing stars as it is."
Lassiter swallowed dryly, wishing he had the tiniest amount of saliva still left. He told himself that he'd stalled as long as he could by not talking; he had to now keep the killer talking as long as he could; he had to do everything he could not to piss Saul off too much, though the man's moods were difficult to predict: He couldn't guess what would or wouldn't set Saul off, get him a fist or slap to the face, or get him sliced and diced further. He swallowed again, a wave of panic coming up that he could only be stalling for nothing; no help was coming; that Spencer might even be dead. "I'd . . . I'd do everything in my power to protect anyone from you," Lassiter offered belatedly, unsure of Saul's reaction.
"That so?" A flick, like something discarded. Yet he did not added to Lassiter's mountain of pain.
"Yes," Lassiter confirmed. "It's why I came here . . . why I stayed." He could get away with these half truths; unless the killer was inside his head, seeing everything. "I . . . found the shoe."
Saul grinned, and Lassiter knew immediately, as he should have known when he'd laid eyes on the shoe, that he was walking straight into a trap. It hadn't mattered who—man or woman—was coming into towards him, all that mattered was that someone were coming. It was pure speculation that the person would be an officer of the law; yet he'd been expecting, via the tip he'd called in, that the visitor would be a cop. Strangely, Lassiter worried over beat cops on a routine patrol, like the ones who had found the seventeen year old's body in the Dumpster—what if they—or one—had come here? What if it had been McNab? His chest tightened, and he wasn't clear on a why other than what he had admitted to Saul about protecting the innocent. McNab didn't have enough years under his belt to deal with a thing like this; hell, he was a relatively hardened man and still, this might actually kill him. A little voice yelled at him from within to stop being an asshole.
"You should have played your hand wise, let me take him out right then," Saul advised.
Lassiter felt a cold prickling migrate from the back of his blood soaked neck to his shoulders, then to his spine. He had to know. "He got away," Lassiter hissed. "You can't take anything from him."
"Did he, lawman? Get away?" He winked, an action which twisted Lassiter's knotted gut further. He's just trying to scare me—he's . . . lying about this.
The killer leaned over him then, drawing close enough to put his mouth against Lassiter's ear. Lassiter flinched with extreme discomfort, leaning away in the limited position Saul that trapped him in. "Shhh," Saul hushed, pressing the tip of the blade into the hollow of Lassiter's throat. He began a crass whispering with the sound so low and inhuman that Lassiter was nearly convinced by disquietude that the thin words were merely the noise the wind made as it weaved through dry branches. Except the words were too heavy to be only the wind; there were too many dead voices speaking through Saul's as he described, in horrific detail, Spencer unconscious after a kick to the head, and each simple, deep slice to Spencer's face and eyes before the killer took mercy on the charlatan's sack of meat and slit his throat.
"You ain't gotta be jealous, lawman, I didn't take in no taste. After all, his blood ain't worth a cent to my conscience—wouldn't do a damn thing to bring me any strength."
Through the entire speech, Lassiter had forced himself to hold still, and had willed himself not to listen but he'd gone and heard every word. Saul spoke it like he knew, like he'd done the kill with a loving hand—and that it was real. He barely had any shallow breath, but he fought for the little bits in the space Saul gave him as he drew back, back, with a toothy smile on his mouth. He's lying . . . has to be, Lassiter willed with desperation. But terrible thoughts had him assuming that Spencer wasn't a viable match for the killer, that it was all too plausible that he'd been—
"Now talk to your old pal," Saul cut into Lassiter's wild thoughts. "I want to know every which way you've been hurt. Ain't talking no scraped knees, you understand, no tiny drip of shame. All the big stuff. These things I gotta know, so I ain't make the same mistakes as you."
Carlton's thoughts, out of the blue, strayed to Lucinda—her spindly body turned from him after the brief passion they'd shared, a few strands of hair clinging to her forehead, her mouth pulled into a tight line that may have been considered a tiny smile. He blinked, but no matter what angle he looked back at her, at what they'd had, he could never imagine Lucinda offering him a platonic hug, or inviting him to her apartment for Christmas festivities with the bulk of her visiting family. Or offering, out of the misguided goodness of her heart, to him set up with a good friend of hers after having a chat with their Chief about the level of his aggression in the workplace, or having a mostly friendly competition with her over a few points on the DET exam. No, this was not Lucinda.
If he was going to be honest to himself, there was no better time than this. On the other side of things, he felt skeevy even being an unwilling participant in his dream—nightmare—about O'Hara last night. He could never imagine embracing O'Hara in anything more than a platonic manner, and he certainly could never imagine kissing her, not even on the cheek. Platonic was a funny word, a nearly alien one to his vocabulary; but even funnier, since he was becoming more accustomed to it, it had been easier to fall in, accept it. Besides, O'Hara had not made the cut for his "last man, last woman on earth re-procreation plan"—something he'd devised on one of his many lonely nights after he'd finally gone home.
Also, in all honesty, Carlton knew he had much less experience when it came to friendships than he did with romantic and intimate experience. Since early on, he'd been more of a solitary man, though he didn't seem to have a problem attracting desirable women to him. But, what if he had been "waiting all his life" not to meet a true love but a true friend—waiting to meet someone like O'Hara, who would—cheerfully and tirelessly—teach him the real definition of the word "friendship"? He breathed in and out quickly, hoping with seriousness the warmth dotting his skin was due to this realization and not a bodily symptom of his blood loss.
Lassiter, for now, took the former road, continuing his thoughts. Their partnership had been strengthened by their bond as friends—something he could not see with any of his previous partners, at least not since he'd entered detective territory. But he knew also that he had been too driven, too consumed by his own ambitions to focus on anyone but himself. He did the job well, certainly, but had not even considered what a partnership could be outside of work—other than his momentary lapse in judgment with Lucinda. A mistake.
As if the killer could read Lassiter's thoughts, or noticed the faint blush standing out under his eyes, he chuckled. "You tangoed with Lady Luck—you get your last kiss out there?"
Lassiter cursed softly.
"What's that, lawman?" the killer teased, his eyes dark and open. Lassiter flicked his eyes away. "You got some sweetheart out there who's gonna cry buckets if she ain't never see you again?" Saul's face remained loose; he knew as well as Lassiter that there wasn't anyone. He leaned forward to poke one of the shallow wounds at the back of Lassiter's head. He jabbed until Lassiter answered, "No."
Saul pressed the flat of his blade to the left side of his chest, and scrunched his expression mockingly. "Some'un unrequited love . . . maybe she who loved you but you didn't even know?"
Angrily, Lassiter repeated, "No."
"I gotta tell you," Saul continued, moving his hand from Lassiter's head to under his chin, "that is breakin' my heart. Good thing I got a backup in you." His eyes had gone darker, gleaming like two shotgun barrels aimed point blank at Carlton's face. Carlton tried to jerk his head free, uncaring of the consequences, but Saul stopped him, squeezing his chin and jaw tightly. "I ain't done with you, lawman, not for a second."
Lassiter heard the words tumble from his mouth, even though the killer had him by the jaw. Saul's eyes lost their loaded tension as his eyebrows raised, as if daring his ears to believe what they had actually heard. He released Lassiter's chin, rocking back on his knees, waiting. "What did you just say to me?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.
"I said," Lassiter growled fiercely, sounding more grizzly bear than man, "that she is going to kick your sorry, ugly, perverted, murderous ass from here to hell and back."
Saul frowned, listening to Lassiter's declamation, pondering, from the look Lassiter saw flash across his eyes, if it could be true. At the end, he nodded tightly to himself and slapped Lassiter with his open palm. Carlton's head slammed against the floor. "It ain't true," Saul hissed, as much to himself as to Lassiter. "It ain't true. You ain't got a soul."
* * *
His eyes opened, but he didn't know where he was at first.
He'd run, as if, as if—no, it was please. A groan; his neck aching at this angle. He'd run as if . . . there was a killer chasing him, as if he were the protagonist in a horror movie, the attractively masculine well-coiffed male lead, the costar to The Final Girl, the one who was guaranteed survival at the end of a horror movie. Of course, sequels were out when it came to rate of survival. . . .
Shawn jerked. His left side protested; was it already bruised a black-purple? He pushed up on his elbows, about to gather his knees to him when he was struck with clarity—he was alive. And . . . and still outside by the rain cooled temperatures of the night. Shawn's lip trembled; as he got up, an object slid from the middle of his back to fall against the back of his legs. He flinched, but reached towards his back, checking for the obvious stab wounds that told him he was actually dead or in a fit of phantom pain he couldn't feel. He felt nothing, not even a cut in the fabric of his t-shirt. Shawn gasped, then moved a hand back to his throat, and coughed. Before him, the building which he'd run from loomed—and he remembered the reason he'd run.
"God," Shawn hissed, jumping to his feet. He reeled unsteadily, his vision casting around for the object that had sat on him while he'd slept. Slept for how long? How long? Oh, god. At his feet, he saw what it was, and reached for it, incredulous that it had been left behind. Shawn gathered the bloody fabric to his chest, both appalled to have it and yet slightly grateful because it was cold and damp out here. But still, wouldn't it be weird to put the shirt that had almost strangled him back on? The shirt, he told himself shakily, hadn't actually done the deed; it was merely the tool.
"Why did he just leave me—alive?" Shawn croaked, puzzled, his voice scratched. "Why'd he leave me with this?" He tightened his fists around the shirt, mimicking what must have been the killer's hold on the cloth. Yelling out into the night, he shook the shirt out and pulled it on; it was sticky with blood. He stumbled as he picked up his frenzied pace from before, when he'd . . . when whenever had happened happened to stop him.
His running erased a torrent of inner torment about this most recent event; he couldn't let himself think about getting killed. He ran towards the shape of his motorcycle, hoping it was still real to the touch. He almost knocked over his bike as he jumped onto it. He didn't realize until he was riding away that he was shaking; he gripped the handlebars tighter, tighter.
He rode with some violence under his nails, the ire of a patient murderer still clutching his throat. He let his mouth fall open, let the air rush at him as he cut his way through the night recklessly, knowing how precious the last bits of time were. No way, absolutely no way was the man going to allow Lassiter to live. Shawn gunned the engine, taking the empty back streets so he could avoid slowing down, or stopping.
He'd learned, in the fifteen or so odd years since he had learned to ride a motorcycle, mostly how to avoid wiping out—to hug the shoulder when traffic was too thick; to grip the handlebars and ease off the gas in heavy rain. But he could count with two fingers the number of times his body had shaken this badly while he straddled his bike, fumbling with the kick start. Shawn found himself partially giddy at surviving the fumbling through the darkened maze of interiors and exteriors to escape the terror chamber, but any momentary relief he experienced was tempered by a cycle of worry and fear at what he had left behind—and by what he still had to do.
The killer hadn't stuck around after—Shawn was struck suddenly with the memory of Lassiter telling him early on that the killer had taken all of his guns—guns that almost always seemed to be firmly affixed in the detective's shoulder or belt holsters, if not in his hand; why, why hadn't the killer used one of the Lassiter's guns on him? Shawn was certain he'd given himself away several times in the chase by how heavily he was breathing—or because the fear rolling off of him stunk up the already musky air. Why had he waited until Shawn had crossed the threshold; was it a lull of false security that had egged the killer on?
Either his brain or his bike knew just where to go, and he pushed the barriers of speed, even when on the highway. Time passed; he rode and rode. When the road was most familiar, he took a simple right turn too sharply with a squeal of tires; rubber burned as Shawn's heart lurched into his eyeballs; he was terrified of death. He braked hard with shower of sparks, but the bike skidded. The thoughts of the unfairness that he was really trying to do the right thing this one time and was going to die before he could bring help came after the three seconds of weightlessness as he was dumped from his seat. The air rushing into his mouth took his screams, even as he skidded like his tires had across the pavement, feeling the denim of his jeans fray and shred from mid thigh to calf on his right side. At least now . . . he could explain why he had blood on his shirt.
Dazed, Shawn laid in a heap, searching for even shallow breath; he wheezed until then, slowly gathering up his wits enough to realize he was not dead, and that, even though his right leg and entire right arm felt on fire, he was okay and he still had a chance. Twice, maybe three times, tonight he'd escaped death. Shawn coughed, carefully turning his neck, then unfolding his legs from the fetal position he'd curled into. For how long? So much time, slipping. He groaned, jerking his left hand to his stomach, which was still twisted from all that he had run away from. The hand moved from his stomach to his head with the intent to smooth out his hair; he was mildly surprised he'd managed to put on his helmet. He groaned again, drawing his knees in again before easing himself onto his back. He was not paralyzed, but he wasn't looking forward to standing. Shawn glanced at the damage on his arm, holding his regained breath furtively between his teeth. He thanked the fleeting smarts that had allowed him to pull the shirt around his arms; some cover was better than absolutely none. He winced, hoping he'd spared his skin some force feeding of gravel, road tar.
As he gingerly rocked on his tailbone, he noticed something else. He'd peeled out, to his luck, in the turn into the SBPD parking lot. Shawn cursed as he climbed to his feet, standing there for a few seconds to get his bearings. He felt like a lost child.
He could feel wet blood under the right knee of his jeans, knew before even looking down that his denim was torn enough so he looked like he'd been in a bad accident. Whatever he'd done in the seconds of tipping over, however he'd folded his body had worked; he'd been spared the possible horrors of a motorcycle crash: compound fractures, paralysis, coma, death. He was almost walking away without a scratch. He might have chuckled, since this wasn't entirely accurate, but felt a sensation of standing in a pool of blood up to his knees . . . wading in it. Shawn whipped off his helmet and tossed it near the fallen bike, stumbling as he tried to walk forward towards the station doors. His head buzzed crazily; a small voice urging him to drag the bike out of further "harm's way", but he continued to stagger forward. He had to free himself of the blood . . . the blood that was not his . . . the blood of a colleague, still partially his blame.
He had a good excuse, leaving it where it was. It was an accident he had to report immediately—plus, he'd had the accident because he was engrossed suddenly in a "vision"—a "vision" he was going to force them to hear in graphic detail whether or not they liked it.
Shawn's stomach pitched as he walked, not because it had more contents to empty out, but because he was suddenly afraid those inside those doors ahead of him would be as stubborn as Lassiter—unwilling to go anywhere, even though he was right here, pleading.
If they didn't listen, there was always his father's gun . . . But Lassiter really didn't have that kind of time. Besides, Shawn knew he could not go back there alone, without reinforcements. This man, this killer . . . was much too bad. Absently, Shawn rubbed at his neck, groaning over his latest injuries—little annoyances, he told himself—from bike's toppling, and wincing at the fire still twisting his side from where he'd been kicked.
What . . . what could the killer be doing to Lassie right now? Shawn quickened his pace, ignoring the moisture that made his eyes look wet with a spill of rain water.
* * *
Juliet wasn't sure when or how it happened, but the civil conversation between Chief Vick and Gus had broken out into an dialogue a few beats short of heated arguing. She found herself a prisoner between them, unable to find her voice or the words to halt their speech. It was dizzying, both to have Vick on her side and to hear Gus's passionate defenses as to why he felt Shawn was in some kind of danger. But she found herself sweating, the muscles in her stomach tightening further with every sentence. What Gus had said about a "feeling"—intuition—had her seriously twisted.
Again, she chided herself for her worry, for caring so much about the man who had made her first year at this precinct difficult, and for trying so hard to force him to be friendly—an action nearly against his nature. But she had committed herself to their friendship and working partnership, no matter how volatile or rocky both continued to be—besides, it wasn't all bad.
This was a thing that, she was certain, if she were wrong about her "intuition", her partner and her Chief and the rest of her fellow officers and coworkers would never let her live down, would compromise her diligent hard work as a mere junior detective then to her partner's equal now, and would put her, likely, at Shawn Spencer's wishy washy level. True, there were many officers and detectives, herself included, who had faith in Shawn's abilities (no matter if he was sometimes way off with his predictions), but she understood that her position as a police officer could not come from a place of faith or otherworldly directives alone.
Juliet took the chance of damning herself in public, admitting that she might be mistaken, but her apprehension had bound her like a corset; she would need help getting out of it. "Something is very wrong," she said aloud. "And we need to do something about it now."
Neither heard her, or acknowledged that she'd spoken. Working herself up again to be louder, more forceful, she stopped when she caught from the corner of her eye movement—a stiff turn towards it revealed the officer she'd directed to trace the GPS in Lassiter's phone.
"Detective O'Hara," he said, and they walked towards each other, meeting in the middle.
She waited, expectant, but felt the corners of her mouth turn downward as she noticed his stone-faced expression.
"Bad news," he told her. "I tried."
"What?"
He shook his head. "Couldn't get a location on Detective Lassiter's cell. The GPS is either turned off or damaged. And I checked the one in his Crown Vic too."
"Don't tell me," she whispered, knowing the answer already. Her heart jumped into her throat, a thick, bloody lump she knew she wouldn't swallow—until she had a plan.
* * *
As the killer, displeased with his captive, brought his knife towards Lassiter's collar bone, and poked at the end of one of longer cuts, Lassiter couldn't help but enjoy his subtle victory. He allowed it to guide him away from the pain for a few moments; Saul had slapped him because he'd been taken aback—and he was having a hard time reiterating to himself that Lassiter wasn't as alone in the world as he had thought.
Saul hadn't even asked who "she" was, who "she" could be. Lassiter wondered what had possessed him to blurt something like that out—but directly before, he'd experienced an ireful warmth that had burned his throat like a strong drink. And it wasn't just talk; he felt it, he felt it strong in the blood still flowing through his veins.
It was only a tiny flap of skin, right? Removed, peeled back from the rest—much more, still attached. But why, why did it hurt so badly? He trembled, squeezing his eyes shut against the killer's knife, his laugh, his eyes—each with their own sinister penetration into him. His scream was cut short with the killer's loose fist to his mouth.
"You're gonna make me shut you up, lawman," Saul warned, retracting his fist slowly. "And I want to keep up our talk." Lassiter forced his eyes closed again because he'd tasted blood again with that punch—and he didn't want to watch the killer taste whatever blood that might now be on his fist.
"Thought . . . thought we're . . . alone," Lassiter whispered, hating how lonely the last word sounded in his mouth, how barbed and empty it was, how hopeless.
Saul laughed again, sounding eerily jovial. He pulled the knife from Lassiter's collar bone and placed it on the floor out of Lassiter's reach. The killer made certain to keep it just in Lassiter's line of sight, as a tease of how close it was, yet also how far. He knew as well as Lassiter did that his prisoner could no longer move about freely, could not stand as he could before. To prove his own point, Saul sat back on his haunches and smacked Lassiter's damaged ankle with the back of his hand, keeping his eyes affixed to Lassiter's face. A shock wave rocked Lassiter's body, leaving the surface of his skin tingling enough so he felt he might be floating away, checking out. He was sure he must have cried out, because he could make out Saul's growl through the hum of hurt in his ears.
Lassiter returned slowly, shaking involuntarily, and realizing that, the closer he got to full consciousness, he was cold. Not the discomfort of his still damp clothing stuck to him in this dank space but because he was in a losing battle—losing blood, devastated by other injuries—dependent on phantom help that would likely never arrive. But there was still, the thing that pulsated, blinked, winked like an eye or a star. She. Her. No matter what, he knew he couldn't give that up. Even if he lost the name or label that went with it, because these words could save him.
Saul was watching him come back, seemingly ignorant to Lassiter's inner concern about how long or little of his life was left.
Lassiter stared back dizzily, running his tongue around the inside of his parched mouth. He found himself bone dry thirsty again, and unsatisfied by the trickles of sweat from his temple sticking to his cheeks. He looked for words to assault his captor with, empty threats like, "I have nothing to say to you," or "You can't make me talk," or "Why won't you just kill me already?" but physical things were getting much too hard. Even thought, only to himself, was getting tricky. He was terrified of dying . . . but he was more terrified of showing his complete fear to Saul . . . and letting the killer take it all.
"You in want to know why you ain't got yourself no Lady Luck out there?" Saul asked, rubbing sweat from his upper lip with his the sleeve of his right arm.
Lassiter hated himself for allowing an image of Victoria, specifically her back as she let herself out of Gerard's doors and left him forever, appear to him as Saul spoke. The ache was much less—that ache, hers, what she had left in him—now than when it had been then.
"You ain't got yourself a soul because you got a mind just like mine—and no'un can be your equal."
"I am," Lassiter hissed. Saul only laughed.
"You ain't my equal, lawman—you're my sacrifice. Every small thing I've done till you was worth it—every little drop and spill of blood. Worth it."
"Thought you said . . . I was . . ." Lassiter felt sick repeating the words, hating that there could be even an ounce of truth to them. "Just like you."
Saul raised an eyebrow, considering what his prisoner said. "It ain't true," he finally said slowly. "You got it backwards. I'm just like you."
Lassiter gulped, confused and nervous as Saul drawled on and on about lone wolves, rangers and sentinels—warriors; at the bare bones, the killer told him, he was a hunter, taking only 'Justice' as his mistress and 'Law' as his wife. "There's a coldness about you, lawman, that I strive for. Will too, after I take in your heart, your blood, your strength—I'm a-gonna have it all." He laughed again, and Lassiter felt faint with cold; goose bumps raising on his neck, under his damp clothes.
Saul sat back on his heels, studying his victim with the uncomfortable intensity that had become much too common. "You should be sat-is-fied, lawman," he said, boring his eyes into Lassiter's face. "Grateful, even."
Lassiter tried to gather enough laughter together for a guffaw, but the sounds were only the panting of breath in his ears, echoed by a furious racing of his heart. What—what is he talking about now?
"For the first time in the long desert highway stretch of your life, Dee-tech-tive," Saul continued, "some'un wanted you. Wants you." Saul grinned ferociously, and Lassiter shivered to himself, unwilling to fully comprehend what he was being told. They're . . . lies . . . don't believe his lies! As if unable to resist, the killer slowly laid his hand on the side of Lassiter's face that wasn't cut; Lassiter forced himself to remain still, though he wanted to wince, squirm, jerk away. The gesture's meaning was obvious to him; he was merely the latest—and shiniest—possession in what may be an even larger, unknown collection of bodies, of blood trails in the dust. "Ain't it nice to be wanted?" Saul repeated in a lulling hush. Lassiter unwillingly breathed in the venom of this hush, grateful—how ironic, he thought—when the killer's hand slid off his skin. It had all started with that . . . Lassiter frowned sharply. With the killer's tongue on the back of his neck. The first assault, never mind that on his fall down the stairs, the killer had confessed to smashing the back of his head with a 2 x 4. Or that he'd bound Lassiter and stripped him of all weapons, his badge, taking even his name to spit it back without a shred of respect.
When Lassiter opened his mouth, Saul threatened him. "You better not be tossing no more cusses my way, you understand, boy?" He breathed in through his nose. "Don't want to end this too soon." His mouth turned up. "I ain't ever had this kind of fun."
"You're lying," Lassiter challenged right away.
"What did you just say, boy?" His hand snaked out and got Lassiter by the chin.
Lassiter frowned. "You're a liar," he repeated. "I heard in your voice when you spoke of 'your last's blood' on the stairs." Lassiter gritted his teeth hard on "your last's". Saul released him.
"Shoot, you think that was fun for me? Reaching into an empty shell for a prize that ain't there, ain't never there?" His eyes glinted with steel. "'Bout to give up hope. Then there was you."
"Stop it! Stop it!" Lassiter yelled out, regretting the emotion, regretting how open he'd left himself. On top of that, it hurt him everywhere to cry out like that.
"Am I scarin' you?" Saul drawled, deliberately slowly. "Or you finally showing me the gratitude I deserve?" He pointed the a finger towards Lassiter's face. "Giving me respect you should have been showing me since the second I took your blood into me?"
"You're sick, you're a sick, sick bastard—" Carlton bit his lip, knowing, even as they spilled from his mouth, that they were useless words, and they only feed the killer in some way, if not for his rage then for his laughter—both which brought him power. He squeezed his eyes shut because he didn't know what direction to take when it came to this man and his demented logic. He hated this, every second of it.
"What you think you're gaining by holding out on me, lawman?" Saul asked. "If I'm anything like you, then I know you'd got a wounded world festering in your gut, an ache you gotta release." He raised an eyebrow as if to allow the statement to sink into Lassiter. "Maybe your brother, or your father, some other blood relation or friend to your kin laid into you, beat you to the ground? Broke your spirit while trying to break it in?"
Lassiter listened as the killer spoke, wondering if he added "grandfather" to the list he'd see those stars that Saul had promised him. The killer prodded with further, more sinister implications, but Carlton refused to be baited. Either Saul was trying to vindicate himself and his actions with a "heartfelt" confession about his own past, or he was trying to dig his hooks into Carlton to be assured his victim was entirely helpless to stop whatever it was that was coming before death.
Unwittingly, Carlton's thoughts turned back to his partner, the edges of her face a blur; she was getting harder to see, but he thought of her on the first day they were introduced—how insulted he'd been at first to be paired with someone so young, so green, an out-of-towner and a female. But he'd already gotten himself in hot water with the new Chief, also female, with his off-color remarks and indiscretions with his former partner. The new Chief was not about to allow him any leeway, and certainly would snap off his wagging tongue should it fall too far out of his mouth.
This was something, he could now admit, that he actually had come to respect about Vick; after all, she'd earned her title for a good reason. He could confessed ashamedly that, in the beginning, he'd briefly flirted with the idea of having his new junior partner look up to in such a way that had a romantic slant, because he'd wanted, as the man he was then and not as the man he was now, something of importance to lord over her—a means of control to keep her line, and beneath him in position and advancement. These were thoughts that made him redden now; he knew how much of a jerk he'd been. The wounds of Lucinda's transfer, which she had facilitated, had still been raw and he had wanted to use his new pretty partner as an excuse to boost his ego.
That was the plan, until she had laughed in his face. And grimaced, as if she couldn't believe such an idea had crossed his mind. She had almost seemed repulsed, as if he smelled bad or was in some other way that unattractive to her.
He also had to admit that his little stunt, which he'd brought upon himself with zealousness, was one of the reasons he'd stayed relatively sour to his new partner in the beginning—because she'd bruised his delicate ego. It was pathetic, trite, and he despised himself for not knowing how he'd existed, behaving so awfully for years. Then, there was her . . .
Not only her, but a combination of factors that had brought his errors to light. The Chief had helped, and he'd be loathe to ever say it, but Spencer's and Guster's forced presences on the unusual cases had helped shape and change the dynamics of how cases were worked out, analyzed, processed, thought about, solved. Solved.
Pain brought him racing back to the surface of his thoughts, breaking with a mournful groan. Saul drew the blade several times across the material of Lassiter's slacks, up and down his left thigh, until the fabric severed. Saul traced the lines he'd made, except this time he sliced a bit into Lassiter's skin. He stopped before it got too deep, enjoying the revival of pain, the tight lines, onto Lassiter's face. "Just a little reminder you're mine—ain't no one gonna stop me from takin' from you—takin' everything." He stopped once Lassiter's attention was fully back on him. He smiled at the anger breaking through Lassiter's pain.
"Now, I want to hear it from you, lawman. You ever been hurt?"
Everything from his past paled in the bright light of this torture, of this colossal failure, but through the red shades of this newest pain, Carlton gasped. The killer wanted something raw, real. But would he know one lie from another? I'm damned either way. "I don't—I don't know what you want me to say."
"I'm gonna teach you something, lawman—the price you pay for keeping that silence, wanting to take your secrets with you into the grave." The killer reached into a front pocket of his flannel, producing a long hidden suicide king with the flourish of a Las Vegas table dealer.
Lassiter gasped out loud, keeping his eyes on the card. His insides flashed with hot, cold. Cold. Had the moment of his death arrived? He thought he'd prepared; he had to keep stalling. "Wait," he said thinly, "wait."
Saul's dark eyes were upon him, pinning him to the floor. Like a magician on stage, Saul curved the card in his palm into a tight "C", taking extreme care not to put a crease in the middle. Pinching the ends of the "C", he held the card with one hand while he clamped the other around Lassiter's jaw, prying his mouth open.
Lassiter struggled, twisting his body until he saw spots. He had a horrible fear that Saul knew how to break his jaw and would do it, but he was just as scared when he felt the folded card against his tongue, the roof of his mouth, inside the back of his teeth, in. Saul released his jaw. His eyes bulged, and he ran his tongue over the foreign object, pushing it away from his throat, closing his jaw hard to make the card crease. It was a harder task than it seemed it would be. Lassiter moved his eyes around the room, trying to swallow panic while holding onto his breath.
Saul was watching, amused. He held his weapon, clutching the hilt, seeming to be waiting for the perfect moment to strike, going for his victim's heart.
* * *
Shawn took a spill climbing the stairs, a feat usually only awarded to Gus in his most brilliant (awful) falling maneuvers. His head pounded badly, and he couldn't decipher if this was out of pain or fear or anticipation. He kept walking, though all he wanted to do was crawl onto one of couches in the Psych office and sleep.
He was starting to doubt himself, as he had in the parking lot; he hadn't been convincing against the killer; could he still be convincing enough for the police? He raised his hand to his head as he walked the SBPD halls, not to fake a vision but to steady his thoughts, his nerves. He was unaware of the gasps around him at his appearance, oblivious to how much blood was actually on his shirt, how torn his jeans were. None of the cries penetrated the fortress he'd created as he tried to come up with a proper and persuasive argument. His plans for speech, as before in the presence of the murderer, came up short. He sighed. As always, he'd have to make up something on the spot.
The first person he actually heard calling his name was Gus—his second voice and first conscience, the one person to stick with him, see him through, put up with him—forgive him for anything.
* * *
Gus, who'd had his back to the entrance where Shawn was coming in from, had been startled out of his "discussion" with the Chief by the cries of disbelief, the mutterings and offers sent out to get some help. He had no idea at first who they were talking to, or about, but a 180 degree whirl brought him face to long distance face with the reason for the noises of horror.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Juliet O'Hara jump.
He watched as Shawn shrugged on his best "business" face, even though Shawn looked like he was in too much pain to do anything but lounge around the Psych office and demand Gus make multiple 7-11 runs for snacks refills.
"Chief!" Shawn called out, picking up his pace. Gus noticed, with a gulp of worry, that Shawn was limping; he took in the bloody clothing then, and fell back. "Chief!"
"Mr. Spencer?" Vick asked, her concern obvious. She took a step forward, dropping her hands to her sides.
"I just had a vision," Shawn called out, jogging the rest of the way towards them. Quickly, he took in how pale Juliet's skin was, how hollow she looked; he was certain she "knew" something, without actually knowing "what" it was.
"Shawn, a vision?" Juliet broke in over Gus's voice. She froze, suspicious. "You're covered in blood! What happened?"
Shawn attempted a placating smile. "It's nothing, Jules, just wiped out on my motorcycle. It's in the parking lot." He dropped the smile. "The vision was so strong I got shaken from the physical plane."
"What vision?" Vick cut in, slightly ashamed she wasn't doing much to acknowledge Shawn Spencer's ragged appearance.
As Shawn began to explain the contents of his "vision", Gus found himself thoroughly confused. He wondered if there was a solid reason why his processing abilities were lagging; maybe Shawn had ceased speaking English? Later he would swear he heard mentions of the serial killer dubbed "The King of Hearts" by either the police or the media, but right now, he couldn't be sure. Before he could get his bearings, be the straight man to Shawn's general silliness (a condition voided from this "vision"), Shawn said, "And I was there."
"There? Where is 'there'?" Juliet asked at the same moment Vick and Gus demanded, "What do you mean, 'you were there'?"
Tightly, Gus nodded to the Chief out of privacy, then stalked towards Shawn.
"In spirit," Shawn clarified, ignoring Gus coming straight for him. He continued to describe the location, and the building both inside and out, not sparing them the details of smells of earth, of blood. Foregoing his usual "hand to head" motion, Shawn used the intensity of pain in his latest injuries to his advantage, clutching at his left side before remembering that Lassiter had taken a stab to the right. There, he concentrated his "pain", and moaned and howled like a child who'd just stubbed his toe—as if it were the end of the world.
Gus blocked the view of the women, standing tensely in front of Shawn's form. "What the hell do you mean, Shawn?" he spat in a low voice. "What are you saying? What did you do?"
Shawn flicked his eyes to Gus's, nearly shrinking at the unusual fury there. In an aside to his friend he whispered the truth. "I was there, Gus—with the killer."