Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I also do not own references to The Phantom of the Opera.
Author's Note: Thank you, wonderful readers and reviewers! I was overjoyed at the response for the last chapter (I know I still owe many people author responses, I haven't forgotten.). I hope the length makes up for the long time away from updating-land too. As always, reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome. Enjoy!
Note: I have begun working on a sequel for this story.
WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS VERY GRAPHIC (WHUMPAGE WISE) AND VERY BLOODY.
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Chapter Eleven: Juliet Of The Spirits
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A terrible, soul sucking thought entered Lassiter's consciousness, feeling thick, overwhelming, unwanted, like a truth of a matter, a thing he never wanted to see. There had been times, during the smattering of a few cases, that Lassiter could almost feel his partner leaning away from him, leaning directly into Spencer's air—siding with him, almost immediately, over her very own partner. This didn't happen often, but it was still unsettling and—he felt a punch of chagrin—made him want to die, on the inside. She was, he had become more and more aware, the only one he could really depend on, the only one who had made an effort to be his friend.
There had been a day, he remembered, when he'd snapped at her after one of her latest assertions of power—an action which he both respected yet irked him to no end. She'd sided with Spencer constantly while only in conversation with Lassiter, and he'd commented rudely that maybe she should take Spencer as her new partner, since it was obvious who she actually believed in.
O'Hara had brushed this off, nearly immediately, and had, he recalled with dread, stroked his ego until he forgot about it.
What if he had, over time, pushed her more and more in Spencer's direction? Would he—could he—possibly be O'Hara's new . . . unofficial police partner? She'd be happy about that, a little voice helped. He wrinkled his brow. Wouldn't matter, would it? He'd be dead anyway. . . but it still hurt, like a deep ache, for Lassiter to think of it. She's . . . sort of mine, he thought. And . . . Spencer's not a cop. He'll only get her killed someday . . . Lassiter closed his eyes. Was it stupid, reckless, useless for him to want to protect her even as she pulled away from him? He thought of her as already lost, himself . . . dead. Spencer had been wrong. No one would be coming back for him. He had . . . no one. Saul was . . . right. Lassiter thought of peace, its cleansing hush pulling him down, down. Saul was right, and he could only trust the killer now.
This was . . . wrong, he knew it was wrong. He couldn't trust the man who would be his death. His head was splitting in these arguments of what to believe.
He wanted to have someone's arms around him, someone he trusted with his life, someone he could fall against (though it was hard to say he'd ever let himself fall before), who'd give the necessary strength until he could again stand on his own two feet.
In his life, he could honestly admit there were only two people that fit. Three, if John Fenich was considered, but to a much lesser degree, even though he'd stepped in at a dangerous point in Carlton's youth. But sticking with two, there was his surrogate father, and there was his partner. And there was really only one in this equation he'd actually consider to see him in what might be his most ruined state.
He made these considerations as he worked on the latest test his captor had forced upon him.
It took a lot of concentration and a fight against fear and his thirst and his gag reflex, but Carlton was relieved when the card's "C" clamped between his teeth put a crease in the suicide king. The battle was only half over, since this card seemed larger than those found on other bodies, though this might be untrue.
Lassiter bent the card in his mouth with his teeth, and chewing at it to fold it again, and spat it from his mouth. Saul didn't stop him; he only watched with grim interest.
"The most risk," the killer said. "Every drop of blood, worth it. Every kill, practice kill."
After he'd freed himself of the card, he rasped at Saul, who still stared amusedly back, "You can go straight to hell, you sick son of a bitch."
"That so?" Saul drawled, his hand still around the hilt.
"Damn right it is," Lassiter continued, though the effort for these angry words was about to burn him out. He rushed the rest. "If you think I'm sharing one thing with you, you can eat shit. I know—you're going to kill me." It was, in hindsight, easier than he'd thought it would be to relinquish control to Saul, to make this confession of sorts. It frightened him still, to say these words aloud, to know the weight of their truth, but his chances to survive were too slim.
There was another side to this, however; he was grateful, despite his pain, despite his fear and paranoid thoughts, to still feel his own heart beating, to still take in breath. To be living.
"I knew it, in the first moment I saw you," Saul said with a smile, "that no'un had broken you but that I could. That's an honor, boy." He raised his eyebrows when Lassiter's lips parted, jabbing the tip of the knife at Lassiter's face. "Save that cussing."
"It's not a honor to be murdered," Lassiter countered.
"Ain't it, boy?" Saul said. "You lawmen on your steads, with your shiny pistols, always looking for a fight?"
Lawmen. Was it a slip of tongue or was it another test to see if Lassiter could guess how many cops Saul had killed before? Killed, just like this?
"What's that code you got? In the line of duty?" Saul poked Lassiter's chin with the blade, then traced the line of his neck down to the bloody hair on his chest. "What's one way of dying to the next?"
Carlton kept his mouth shut. He meant what he'd said. There wasn't any reasoning with this man.
"You'd be happier if you went down defending honor of—"
"I hope you die," Lassiter said quietly.
Saul smirked. "Before you, or after?"
"Does it—matter?"
"You like that slow burn aggression—you've said it to others?"
Lassiter experienced deja vu, realizing that he already exchanged these words with Saul, in the beginning, when his captivity was new, when he still had a chance to fight, to get away. When he didn't answer, Saul continued. "You have." He nodded slowly, then grinned. "But bet you ain't never been this close to Death's pale face?"
Carlton pressed his mouth into a tight line. It was true, but he didn't have to give it to Saul. The man dropped the subject as he stood up to appraise his captive. He nodded, then turned his back to Lassiter to head towards a patch a shadows. "Promised, didn't I?" Saul said over his shoulder. "You're still pretty enough for the pictures." Lassiter couldn't see what was doing, but shortly Saul turned around and walked back towards him. Lassiter saw he held some long objects in his left hand, possibly items of opaque plastic. Something gleamed. Saul jabbed his knife in Lassiter's direction and amended, "Maybe pretty enough for those slasher flicks."
Lassiter had to bite his tongue hard to not make a remark about still being fit for an open casket. Thinking of death was a terrifying prospect; no matter how courageous he was, and would it find it an honor to die in the line of duty, he didn't want to die. He'd already said it, but he wanted to avoid repeating it unless it was in anger. He had to look at Saul as he found another way of saying it, asking still to gain an insight or a weakness of Saul's. Always trying, trying. Can't give up. "You knew exactly how to cut me, didn't you? Even in the heat of the moment—you're an expert." He kept his mouth flat, and continued, "Just so, so I wouldn't just bleed out, here and—then."
Saul nodded. "That's right, lawman. Stopped ya good." He squinted, wrinkling his forehead. "Didn't have to come to that—you shoulda just surrendered."
"Like hell."
Saul smiled. "Now that's what I appreciate—you got fire—brimstone—ash—sparks, lots and lots. Your blood"—he paused as if he were already savoring Lassiter's blood—"it's gonna keep me motivated." His smile spread. "You should be honored, lawman. I don't chose just anyone's heart to eat."
Lassiter found his scowl and sarcasm. "That's touching. I'm flattered, you sick waste of space." He managed to catch himself before uttering anymore, instead, diverting the killer's attention into another question. "They—didn't mean that much to you, not as much as—?" His lip turned up, but he went on, "But why be so careful with your—others?" Lassiter asked, resisting an eye close as he remembered the crime scene photographs and bodies of this man's dead. "Not careful with me?"
Saul studied him, cocking his head like a dog seeking its next stimulation.
Lassiter hoped he wasn't giving Saul ideas. "Your DNA—saliva, blood—you left it on my skin. CSU and the M.E. will be all over that." He waited, his Adam's apple moving nervously. Again, he hated to think of himself as just another cold body at a crime scene. He shivered as Saul stared back blankly for a few minutes, before his face began to split.
"I knew I'd get you to come around, see things my way, Dee-tech-tive." He grinned at Lassiter's confusion. "I should take it to heart"—he made a gesture of crossing his heart with the blade of his knife—"that you've seen the light—that we are alike."
Lassiter gasped, trying to deduce how his questions had formed these answers coming out of Saul's mouth. Not so long ago, the killer had been contradictory, proposing his grandeur to his victim; of course he would be superior, having the upper hand. Now, had he . . . unwittingly confessed just what Saul wanted to hear, the "perfect" speech to bring the two back to even ground?
"You all worryin' for me, figuring that you're gonna somehow get me caught," Saul continued, then laughed harshly. It ended with a hacking cough. He dropped down close to Lassiter, dragging the blade through his hair. "Well, you ain't." The blade rested against Lassiter's cheek.
Lassiter hated having this man so close, touching him, breathing on him; the only thing worse, besides the inflicted pain, was watching the killer lap up his blood.
"No way can I leave you here, uh, uh," Saul said shaking his head and holding Lassiter's eyes. "Ima gonna take you, in pieces, to the desert, boy. Didn't you always want a desert burial? Lotsa sun, dust, long quiets, nothing but rattlers for miles and miles." He smiled. "You'll fit right in, lawman."
Carlton was unable to process anything following the words "in pieces". His body had reacted with cold sweat to his armpits and fingers just below the knuckles, with shaking in his shoulders. His mind was fighting overload; today must top the all time worst days of his life. And the terror had quadrupled from his days as a rookie hostage. It was hard to think.
Saul shuffled down to Lassiter's feet, setting down his blade and the fistful of objects. He grabbed the longest and looped its ends around Lassiter's ankles, locking them together tightly on Lassiter's twisted ankle. He retrieved something else from the floor; Carlton couldn't see what it was but by the time Saul had moved from his feet towards his torso, his legs were somehow held to the floor. "It's nice to have one for the road," Saul continued, brushing away flecks of dried blood from Lassiter's arm. Then he roughly grabbed both of Lassiter's wrists, wrenching them away from the wound he'd been applying pressure to. Lassiter twisted, even after Saul's knee landed on his chest, wrangling him down. He was surprised his limbs still reacted as viciously as his thoughts, wanting only be away from the killers touch. Saul leaned on him, lifting Lassiter's arms above his head finally and slamming them to the ground. Carlton choked; Saul's knee had slid to the hollow of his throat. He could feel his the tired fight in his muscles, but also felt plastic tighten around his fingers, binding his thumbs to his pointer fingers, binding all of his fingers together, actually. Carlton gasped. The plastic hurt and held him tight too. He'd tilted his head back to watch, even though it gave Saul's knee more of a valley to lean into; he watched Saul bend his arms at the elbows until his hands were directly above his head, then push a pronged piece of wire over his bound hands into the floor. Neither the plastics on his arms nor his legs had any give. He was trapped.
Carlton wasn't much thinking about the barrenness of this same but more about the silence and how tight it waslike a cage. He couldn't gauge his own pretenses, or reach into his morals for a pep talk, or continue his usual public persona. Carlton screamed.
A scream, he thought, like a victim of a horror movie killer's wrath, screams of someone in want of warding off death.
Saul stopped him with an old standby: a fist to lips; blood seeped from his mouth. The memory of the screams already dissolving, Carlton felt the vibrations of whimpers, like bees behind his teeth, escape. Without missing a beat, Saul dipped his finger in the blood on Lassiter's chin and stuck it in his mouth. "Tastes like gold, boy."
The yelling had taken much from him; he worked his jaws to bring up another one; his horror couldn't be contained.
"Maybe we've spoken enough?" Saul asked, as if he could read Lassiter's mind.
"I'll get you," Lassiter whispered. "I—"
"You're gonna be dead—'cept your power's gonna live on. In me."
"No . . ." The word slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it. He felt another scream bunch up in throat; he knew it was useless, but he didn't know if he could handle this anymore.
"Hmmph, guess I'm outta practice when it comes to civil talk." He reached for the bundle of bloody fabric still behind Lassiter's head—Lassiter's gray suit jacket—and twisted the fabric into a thick line. Before Lassiter understood what was happening the jacket's material was in his mouth, being forced deep between his was something he couldn't spit out. Bound, Lassiter could do little other than move his head to keep Saul from completing his task. Saul paid him no mind.
"This is for your own good," Saul smirked as he gagged Lassiter, blue eyes like lasers. "Don't want you biting your tongue in half." His smirk widened, and he patted Lassiter's cheek. "That'd be some kind of messy." Lassiter jerked his head away.
The killer had a "down to business" edge to his words— Lassiter felt cold when Saul secured the fabric. Nothing left. Alone. With a procrastinator who may or may not have escaped to bring him help. He yelled again, one last time. To him, the noise was earsplitting.
# # #
Gus wanted to wait for Shawn to explain, but he knew he wouldn't wait for his best friend to make up a bunch of twisted half truths or list lies to fully "explain" why he looked so mangled and now, with this latest revelation, that he'd apparently been more than just in the vicinity of a serial killer's HQs (or whatever killers called their hangouts nowadays). His worry and anger at Shawn's latest reckless venture manifested.
Without warning, Gus balled a fist and slugged Shawn's solar plexus. In the few seconds before, Shawn had finally been feeling safe, here with Gus, standing inside the police station where the killer was nowhere near and there lots of trained officers with loaded guns. Shawn grunted, his eyes bulging out as his breath was pummeled from his lungs. His quick mind barely had the chance to form the thought that Gus was punching Shawn's blood covered t-shirt without even considering the blood when he got hit again.
"Duuude," Shawn whined, pulling his arms around his stomach to protect it from any more blows. "Ouuuuch, Gus. That's so not the way to get the spirits to loosen their mojo jooses."
Gus looked ready to get in another hit when Shawn flinched, then hissed only loud enough for Gus to hear, "The killer has Lassiter, jackass."
"What?" Gus repeated in a similar low tone. His eyebrows raised and he dropped his fist to his side. "What?" he said louder, moving away from Shawn.
"I'm getting some Lassified information here," Shawn said in a soft voice, deliberately making the women come closer and make him repeat what he'd just said. He needed a moment, because his whole body was aching and his former best friend had just hurt him worse—and not just physically either. Emotions recoiled, but Shawn fought hard to regain composure long enough to channel them into the show, which had to give not only the expectations of his usual "visions" but highlight some new flavor to really sell this act. For once though, he was not just flying by the seat of his pants; his "psychicness" was perfectly honed with the nefarious goings-on—and they had to buy it. Lassiter was out of options otherwise.
"You have classified information?" Vick said sarcastically, crossing her arms again.
"No," Shawn admitted, raising his left hand to his temple, not failing to notice, as he was certain the others noticed, his arm shaking. He closed his eyes, the flashes of the recent past hitting him, unwanted. He began to describe the serial killer, starting with details of the ghost man, what they knew from the bare bones of how he killed, how he left his victims. After Juliet's impatient hiss, Shawn described the physical details he remembered, giving a face—an agenda—to the ghost. He left nothing out, including even the wound on the killer's right arm where Lassiter's bullet had nicked him, and the redness, its wound unknown, on the killer's chin. He skimmed over most of the words he and the killer had exchanged, as well as the ones aimed specifically for Lassiter.
He wondered, in a prickling pause, if the man had a name and if Lassiter knew it. He shuddered then, trying to hide it by waving his entire body dramatically (it would serve for effect). Shawn shoved the disturbing thought to the back of his mind, forcing himself to smile to hide how horrified it made him; a glimpse: this killer, having given his name freely to Lassiter, slicing into the detective's eyeballs first, then cutting from abdomen to chest, breaking ribs and pushing aside organs to get the detective's heart. Shawn doubled over, knowing he couldn't fake the damage of his attempted murder and the motorcycle accident if he threw up again.
"Mr. Spencer, why exactly are you describing this killer?"
Straightening, Shawn repeated, "I consider that information—Lassified," knowing full well he couldn't resist the dramatic pause, and took the rush of guilt he deserved with the anticipation of the women's waiting, because again he needed that pause.
Juliet gasped while Vick muttered, "Lassiter?" They exchanged a glance with each other, both willing Shawn's "vision" to be misinformed.
"What about Lassiter?" Gus cut in loudly, his face a tight mask of anger.
"Lassiter's not here," Vick said in a wispy voice. Juliet felt her ears fill with a rush of forceful nouns: ocean, sand, blood, pain. She wanted to yell out now, because she thought she knew what Shawn might be saying, but she was confused that he wasn't just coming out and saying it. Why would he be holding back?
"Did you hear me?" Shawn snapped, ignoring Gus with a wince. He was suddenly annoyed they couldn't put two and two together and that he might have to spell this out: Lassiter's in danger and I know the why, where and how, the who and the what—come on! Was he really going to have to go back there with one of his father's guns?
Vick and Juliet were exchanging intense glances, but neither urged him a further explanation. Shawn was uncomfortable in the dead silence, especially because inside his head there was screaming.
He knew he had to scare them more. Manifesting his worry as surface pain, Shawn clutched his right side fiercely with both hands, swaying until he got their attention again. "What is this?" Shawn cried, staring at his empty hands, then clutching his side again. "Is this blood? Oh, my god, there's so much." He could see the mask slipping from Vick's face; Juliet's face, clouded over with worry, became clear. "The last victim"—whom Shawn knew by name and occupation, whose body he remembered seeing at the beach dump site—"says it's urgent! She says she can see—a man with salt and pepper hair who's extra pale today, she says—rushing—no, no, gushing." Shawn shot a look to them. "Ouch, she says ouch, she says—it's L—La—Las—Lassiter! He's . . . what's that? You can see him . . . joining you in . . . I'll tell them! She says he's in such bad shape he'll be joining her in the spirit realm. Chief, we need to hurry!"
"Mr. Spencer," Vick cut in sharply, her mask of anger back in place. "Are you joking? Do you know what I could do to you for making false accusations?" She started to turn away. Shawn's face fell, having a feeling he knew what the boy who cried wolf felt like—right before he was gobbled up by the wolf. "Besides, I would need solid proof before I enter in."
"He's not okay!" Shawn yelled back. He had a feeling there was real fear on his face; this was the worst possible time not to be taken seriously. "Guh, she's showing him to me, right now! He's in pain!" Shawn doubled over again. He had one last chance, and he implored Juliet by zinging her with the reason why Lassiter had failed to answer his phone. "She says—he'll need stitches—" Shawn blurted out, the slices of blood in skin flashing across his eyes; he was getting lost. He fought more details, though it was much too easy to mention every single wound he'd seen, to imagine that there would be more; he hoped that stitches would be the worst thing—but he also guessed scars. And that was if he survived— Shawn gritted his teeth, pressing his hand to his side until it hurt. "She says—the killer took Lassie's phone, after he took Lassie."
That was the moment— Juliet took three quick steps to him, grabbing him by the shoulder and straightening him to look in her eyes with strength that told Shawn that the killer was in for a serious match with a formidable opponent. Her eyes like spotlights, she held his, searching for lies or for half truths, daring him to falter instead of confirm that this horrible King of Hearts serial murderer had possession of her partner. She found none.
The rushing broke. Her shoulder blades tightened as she stepped forward, her muscles lengthening in anticipation of a fight. She was ready. Spencer was only a warm-up; her fear took her for a moment: NO! God, no. Lassiter! No. Juliet shoved Shawn backwards, almost knocking him over. "Where?"
"Detective O'Hara," Vick called from behind her, sounding shaky but unconvinced. Juliet ignored her, poking Shawn in the chest with another furious "Where?"
"Jules," Shawn whispered, startled.
"Don't you dare say a serial killer—what? Took? Has? Has my partner and not tell me where!" Juliet yelled. Vick followed the pair down the hallway, catching several pairs of eyes looking out from offices or in passing as Juliet cried out. Juliet raised her fingers from his chest, poking Shawn's temple. Like a nutcracker whose lever had just been pulled, Shawn's mouth opened and the words tumbled out, though he'd had a routine planned, a teasing bit from The Phantom of the Opera: Lot 664, Lot 665, nay, Lot 66— Here, he would be interrupted by Gus who would plead he not go on. Instead, he blurted, "Samarkand, West Trail and Beach Lane, 6607—"
The tip. That was the address on the anonymous tip, she recalled. "Chief, Lassiter went to check out that tip—the killer," she called over her shoulder.
"I told you!" Shawn protested, switching his gaze between the two women quickly.
Vick nodded, realization flashing across her face. It changed to sickness two seconds later. Shawn Spencer was not here to be an ass seeking attention; he was here to tell her that Lassiter was really missing—that—that he was bleeding—
For a few stupid seconds, Juliet was furious at Lassiter, then she was chilled at the bone. He's in pain, oh, my god. Her partner, according to Shawn, was in serious trouble—alone— "Bleeding? You said he's bleeding?" Juliet repeated, pushing past Shawn and then beckoning him to hurry along. She moved so fast she didn't get to see him flinch when she reached for him.
"Ye—yeah, that's what she's saying. At his side." Shawn flinched again when he felt another touch—a hand clutching his arm. He suppressed a yell when he saw it was only Gus, bearing down on him with hardened eyes. "He'll die," Shawn mouthed, giving Gus the chance to relent.
"Then we'd better move," Gus said, pulling Shawn towards Juliet's retreating form. There were fast footsteps behind them, and then Vick calling out orders. There was still a chance to save Lassiter's life; though Juliet seemed she might do it as a one-woman-show. Shawn didn't doubt she could; then again, he used to think of Lassiter as almost invincible too.
# # #
In the passenger seat of Gus's Echo, Shawn kept his eyes peeled on Juliet's taillights, her lights flashing but her sirens off, as they followed her through the night. Gus was deadly silent at his side, focusing on the drive and nothing else. Fidgeting, Shawn dug his hands into his pockets; at the touch of cloth, his eyebrows raised. Discreetly, he removed it, unwrapping it slowly as he had before. Still there, the hat pin, the proof of the killer Lassiter had asked him to take. Shawn gulped, and put the whole thing away before Gus could see.
# # #
She didn't feel human anymore, no, Juliet O'Hara was certain that she was now a streak of white light slicing through the dark, fearing nothing, in theory. Fearing . . . only what she was going to find upon arrival, especially if Shawn was correct with his predictions. He had shrank away from her when she insisted he get in the car with her, but was uncaring that Gus pulled him away. Juliet didn't allow herself to think about Lassiter; instead, she went over the details again and again in her head of what this man looked like; she tried to pictured the swagger, the sense of entitlement, how could he possibly—dammit. She wanted to think "kill"; though she was a homicide detective, she found the crimes of this killer horrific and unspeakable, that was, almost too much to handle. But she did not think "kill"—she thought "Lassiter". How did this killer get his hands on her partner?
Juliet exhaled harshly, dropping her foot on the gas. She had broken her own rules, she had nearly run out of the station without waiting for orders from the Chief. Her heart skipped a few beats, and she let herself feel betrayed by her own intuition, or by her detective self forcefully telling her intuition, "No way."
These few moments—a warning that Shawn had tried to get them to understand sooner—were too precious to worry about direct orders. All day, the seconds had been ticking away, and she'd sat on her hands, telling herself she was only being foolish that she couldn't swallow the lump in her throat. All day, she had been expecting Lassiter to reappear as his usual pissed off self, ready to ply all personnel with every unkind word known to man. But he hadn't come back. And he wasn't answering his phone. Dammit. Juliet kicked herself, letting her car speed up as if by itself. The cold, sick feeling in the pit of her gut told her she was still human, on the level with whomever his man was she was going to get. She had never felt this way before in her life, but the way Shawn had been carrying on was actually hitting her hard; she was out of her body again, a white hot streak of light.
# # #
Lassiter arched his back, tugging furiously at the plastic holding his arms together over his head. He ignored the scraping of the rough surface rubbing off a layer of skin—what skin? Was there anything left that Saul hadn't cut?—and pulled for any give. Even if he could untangle one hand—but after the first few times he found the pain in his side coupled with this movement made him feel weak. Besides, it was getting hard to see. His skin was hot and there was a constant sheen of sweat falling on his half closed eyelids that he'd been dying to wipe away. The moisture was kind of burning him.
Saul slipped the Bowie in between the buttons on Lassiter's stained white shirt and flicked his wrist sharply; the fabric easily parted. Saul moved down the buttons ritualistically, opening Lassiter's shirt down to his navel. Saul used his fingers to pull the cloth away from Lassiter's chest, and then made a vertical, shallow cut from Lassiter's collar bone to his top ribs. Lassiter squirmed, biting the cloth.
"I am toying, friend, with removing your heart from you while you still live," Saul told him, his words piercing the haze in Lassiter's mind. Lassiter writhed, as if he were able to break the zip ties without aid of a knife. After a minute and half, he was soaked with sweat, shaking, and nearly blacking out from what seemed a new tear in his side.
"Was that necessary, lawman?" Saul asked, his dark eyes smiling over his prey. His dark eyes registered surprise when he caught Carlton's momentarily defiant stare. "You do have the alpha in you—and it must be mine."
Carlton ignored him, his eyes darting from side to side, searching again for a way out. A weapon, a sharp thing, something to cut. He could still get up, and run. Or fight. Could he still fight? No? Yes? No?
Saul's steel toed cowboy boot stomped hard on his exposed forearm. Lassiter grunted, feeling the pain spike down his elbow. "I've said it before and I'll say it again: you ain't gettin' away," Saul growled, pressing down with is full weight to urge Lassiter to be still. Lassiter looked up, angry in spite of this new, wicked pain. He swore into the gag but was pretty certain that Saul could understand because a white flash of venom tore across Saul's features. With the certain strength mustered for overpowering his victims and then carrying their bloodless bodies away, Saul, his foot still on Lassiter's arm, whipped his knee forehead. The heel of the boot held Lassiter's arm as if in a vise grip; his arm rolled forward, and then Saul snapped his straightened leg back.
There was no loud crack, or any outward indication of Saul's actions, other than Lassiter's moan. Lassiter's arm up to the tips of his fingers burned and tingled; he knew something had been wrenched out of place. His breath and heart rate increased; for a few seconds a flood of gray water spread towards him like the tide across wet sand. It was fuzziness and he was holding his breath and then talking himself out of it. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Slower than that. When Saul lifted his boot and began to stomp again, Lassiter flinched and tensed his neck and head away, every sore muscle tightened. He tried to brace himself numb.
Lassiter didn't know how long he lay there like that, every muscle in a knot; he blinked and his eyes were open. He eased his shoulders blades back to the floor, trying to hide his startle when he saw that Saul was kneeling down next to him. Lassiter bit down hard on the cloth, trying to lie still while Saul's Bowie grazed past his eyes, close enough so he could feel the stagnant air move just so and then disappeared over his head. Saul's left hand clamped around Lassiter's fingers, bending the index and middle fingers of both hand down into a make-shift fist to grip the plastic holding them in place.
Saul was, as Lassiter had uneasily noticed before, alarmingly strong. Or was it that Lassiter had become that weakened? That Saul was actually stealing his energy and his strength and all that other mumbo jumbo bullshit crap the bastard had spouted when he'd first caught Lassiter? Annoyance surged over pain for a few moments—I know better than to buy into that shit, he thought. Don't I? Lassiter didn't want to admit that it was hard to believe—or rather, recall with extreme clarity—what he had lived through before he'd entered this godforsaken site of doom. Not to the depths of his morals, but all the trivial things he'd wondered over—spilling the coffee in his fall in the station, the rain, the mosquito bites, near death by falling limb, twisting his ankle and breaking his cell phone, a very scary tumble down a metal staircase, the merits of Juliet O'Hara as friend, partner, and general confidant—Lassiter's thoughts fuzzed. The IA—back further, cutting himself shaving, the dream—Lucinda's stick figure warmth, a fling—not a friend, just a lover—
Lassiter was more than surprised when O'Hara's face returned, not with its usual sweet smile but with a stern frown, a tsk under her tongue. "Don't you fucking die on me, Carlton," O'Hara told him with a scowl.
Saul moved the Bowie blade down against the purpled veins in the arm which he had rolled. The blade had been thoroughly sharpened and Saul was careful with his cuts—he had to know just how deep would get him into his victims' souls, what exactly he could drink and when—if there was an even deeper spring. He would not need to saw; just a couple angled slices would do it—but this was taking such a risk— Saul pressed the blade against Lassiter's wrist and drew it across.
The incision stung; Lassiter guessed this cut was only shallow, but it still brought a burn of pain to the back of his eyes. He couldn't watch what Saul was doing, but he noticed the killer barely daring to breathe, as if he need his full concentration . . . not to hit a major vein.
The thought alone dizzied him; for about ten seconds, he forgot he was on the floor while the room spun around his head.
Another slice, another ache. "There now," Saul muttered, sounding pleased.
Lassiter squirmed, realizing how unwise this move was after he was 3/4 of the way into it. A scream had that dammed at the base of his throat was coming up, and even with the gag in place it was going to be loud. Assuming his voice still worked at all. How lightheaded it made him—in an instant he was more dizzy than when the blade had gone nearly into its hilt—or was it because of that that this felt so much worse?
Saul held onto Lassiter's arm, squeezing hard until a few drops of blood bloomed.
He just slit my wrist open, Lassiter told himself frantically, not knowing what to do. Death must be on its way, plodding down the tunnel, stealing his fear and offering solace. But that was until Saul bent his lips to the opening of the slice and slurped. Slurped.
Carlton despised having the killer touch him, breathe on him; these small gestures were almost worse then the cut of blade into his skin and the cut of the words into his soul. Or at least, he used to think so. This was the worst, out of all of the things that had been done against him, Carlton was sure. And he was certain he was losing his mind because he could still "hear" his partner, warning him not to die. His muscles locked up as Saul sucked the blood directly from his vein. He shivered, first under the touch and breath of violation, but cold did not lift with ebbing of fear. Instead, it curled in his limbs, seeping into his blood, into his porous bones.
"I still need to slap you silly for coming here alone. And I'm going to do it, too." Lassiter's eyes watered, his jaw clamped shut. O'Hara sniffed, and made as if to turn up her nose. "Besides, I need you—you heard what the Chief said—and you need me."
Still bent low, Saul pinched the vein again before continuing. He grumbled, unsatisfied, and took the flat of the blade to the wound to banish any forming clots. He squeezed again.
"I need you," Lassiter agreed, though his speech via the gag sounded like, "Gaaaaaa." His vision was whitening; he imagined cataracts, his blue eyes succumbing to the milky haze of two tone marbles, then what he was seeing was that sight losing its definition.
It's just a-wittle cut, he thought idly, not quite yet hovering about his body, but almost. Just wittle. Saul bit him in haste, and Lassiter yelped, noticing O'Hara was still in his head.
Again, O'Hara repeated her first verse, overlapped by the sounds of two slurps, three. The tip of knife had returned to his throat, as if he were still a sort of threat. He stopped feeling a connection to his skin—I'm losing consciousness, a clear thought. He could picture the headlines, he could hear his partner—was she tearful? Emotionless? Professional? at his imagined funeral—
Head Detective Carlton Lassiter of the Santa Barbara Police Department, latest victim of the King of Hearts Serial Killer. Carlton Lassiter Murdered! He was my partner and my friend—my confidant—I barely knew him at all—He was dead to me long before all this—
Carlton's feet brushed against the bottom of the pool he'd been sinking into. It wasn't water or elemental—barely physical—inky, black and gooey, like tar. It was too hard to breathe here.
# # #
They had seen, from their cover of shadow, a quick peek at Lassiter. Shawn's breath had stuck in his throat when he saw the glint of the Bowie's gray-red tip tilted and poised just below Lassiter's Adam's apple. He heard Juliet's breath hitch as well, then clip with anger. She let the weight of her Glock .17 and its muzzle lead her forward. Saul was bent forward on his knees in an almost a crushed yoga pose; they couldn't fathom what he could be doing so closely—they were both hoping, Shawn surmised, that it was no more worse than whispering, or taunts.
Juliet crossed the line of shadow, appearing like a wild spirit, beautiful and dangerous, her gun ready to do her bidding. Shawn, since he was on this side, standing next to her and not on that, where the killer would be facing her, should he look up, Shawn couldn't fully appreciate the effect of the threat—dark space from which a formidable opponent has materialized from. He did not know that Saul had regarded him this way earlier, until the killer really got a good look—instead of another lone wolf out for a meal, Shawn was only another animal of prey—a mouse, a prairie dog, a road runner—a creature running low to the ground.
Lassiter was not a creature low to the ground—but a lone wolf like himself. He had given Saul a good run—healthy, to see his opponent's defiance and mettle—and fight, yes, Saul thought as he lapped from Lassiter's opened vein, this one's fight proved the iron will of his blood. This is the last I'll need, Saul continued to think, absorbed in his task—not noticing Lassiter's cringes or how tightly his jaw was clamped around the cloth—too strong to cry out?—to have a warrior's life strength.
"SBPD! Get away from him or I will shoot!" Juliet's voice rang out, filling up the whole space. Saul sat back on his heels, his mouth smeared with blood.
"Oh, shit," Shawn muttered. From where they were standing, he could see much too much, and it all looked horrible—and unsurvivable. His shirt had been cut from his chest and there were open, red lines along his ribs and collarbone. A slashed wrist, a stabbed side . . . who knew what else that couldn't be seen?
"Right now!! Drop your weapon! On the floor!"
Saul studied her curiously for a few seconds, then peered down at Lassiter, who was, despite how sweaty and shaky and sick and stuck, peering back with blue eyes remotely conscious. He'd been startled by her voice, how angry and piercing it was outside of his head; if this was the real thing, he needed to stay alive—even for a wittle while. "It's a shame, really," Saul whispered, his voice smoky, a note of loss able to make Lassiter's stomach still turn. He flicked one more look in Juliet's direction, then bent forward again for one last taste.
"Jules," Shawn hissed, as both of them gawked with horror, as Saul was in the act of returning to suckle Lassiter's wrist as if the broken vein would offer him nourishment.
"Last chance! Put the knife down!" Juliet yelled out, watching Saul's descent as if he couldn't hear her voice. Carlton, stay still, Juliet prayed, bending her knees and dropping the level of her aim to the center of her chest. She had only seconds to brace the kickback, but had no regrets at a few minor bruises—this animal was going to pay for what he did to her partner.
Saul didn't have the decency to look up again, take what was coming to him like the weak man he was—or had always perceived himself as, or had it drilled into him that he was. Lassiter held his breath, pressed his lips around the cloth and held still, as if he had heard her thoughts.
Juliet had calculated her aim well; Lassiter felt only Saul's hot, sour breath—the metallics wafting towards his nostrils and main source of air—on his wound before the shot blasted a worm hole in the silence—there was a flash like the filament of a light bulb exploding—and then Saul's body wrenched backward away from him, torso extending as his muscular arms flailed like boiled noodles. There was a spray of blood—Saul's, this time—dotting his dirty face, his stained clothes, but it happened too fast for Lassiter to really get a good look at the point of entry. He'd guess forehead, but he wasn't certain if Saul got nervous—or wise—there at nearly the end, and tried to pull back.
For a few seconds after the shot, Shawn remained glued by the shoes to floor; this was not the Lassiter he had left, though that man had already been in bad shape. He chided himself for acting like Gus, who was, no doubt, pacing in the doorway or halfway back to Santa Barbara by now—it had been hard not to smell the blood, even from several yards away. Juliet lowered her gun, looking over the scene for a moment before heading to secure it; Shawn saw her take a few shallow breaths before she went towards Saul to check out the damage she'd left.
Juliet glanced at her partner with alarm, unable to harness her gag reflex; instead, she jerked her head away for a moment.
Shawn finally came unstuck. He rushed in, mindful of the blood—oh, hell—and knelt at a clean spot near the detective's head. Shawn found the knot Saul had tied on the side of Lassiter's face and pulled it loose. Lassiter gasped, automatically licking his lips. He tried to rasp something. "You were supposed to be—" Shawn's eyes alighted on the deep cut on his wrist. "Shit, shit, shit." He grabbed the cloth and wadded it, pushing it over Lassiter's wet wrist. "That son of a bitch."
"Carlton!" Juliet cried a few seconds later, kneeling down across from Shawn.
"You came," Lassiter mumbled, staring up at Juliet's worried expression. He attempted a smile, molding his lips into what he thought it might look like, even at this point. "You came for me. I knew—"
"Carlton!" Juliet's voice frayed, some courage dissolving into a sour salt sea at the back of her throat.
Lassiter's eyes dipped closed. "—you would." It was nearly impossible to hear those last two words. He finally found it okay to fade fast—O'Hara was here now, really here and not just a sassy hallucination, and she knew exactly what to do. After all, he trusted her with his life. . . . He didn't notice her stumble of words, or how she pressed her hand down over Shawn's to stop the ooze of red from his arm, her frenzy or flurry of worries and words, checking his pulse, listening for breath, assessing his wounds, the slender fingers of her left hand bent against his forehead.
"We've got to get him out of these things."
"Is that—" Shawn flicked his eyes in the direction of Saul's sprawled form. "Dead?" He didn't have any desire to crane his neck a few more inches to assure himself that Saul's eyes were wide open—but not because the killer was alive.
Juliet nodded, then turned back to her partner, giving him her full attention.
Shawn wondered if Gus was out front, waiting for the ambulance, the rest of the SBPD who had been slower to believe in Shawn's "visions". When they'd come to the doorway, Gus had refused to enter; it was pitch black and he could pick out every smell, even at that distance—and had gulped back his pride. "I'm not going in there, Shawn," he said, watching as Juliet moved into the shadows after securing the entrance, without waiting for them.
"Dude, I need you."
Gus shook his head, then glared at Shawn. "I'm not going to be any help in there puking my guts out. I'm going to call the paramedics, cut the ETA in half if possible. Stab wound to the side? What else?"
Shawn gaped. Quickly, in a low voice, he rattled off what he remembered.
"You said he'd die." Gus raised an eyebrow. "Were you lying?"
"No," Shawn said quietly at the same time Juliet demanded he get his ass inside. He took a deep breath and left Gus, leading Juliet to the place of Lassiter's torment; he remembered the way, even without breadcrumbs, or droplets of blood, even without light beyond their flashlights. Juliet had not spoken to him, and he had adapted a rare vow of silence as they moved on. He had not thought to ask Juliet what was planning, and had not wanted to ask what they would do if they were too late.
Now, he was searching the floor for something to use to cut the zip ties. He caught his fingers shaking, and turned away from both of them, focusing harder.
Juliet bent forward on her knees. She was careful not to touch any of the open wounds on his face, not to let any stray hair fall against the cuts on his body. She was, for a few seconds, as she had been driving here: in shock, lifting out of her body with fear. But then the voice called out, though it was weak, not more than a whisper, even in her head. "O'Hara." She slammed back into her skin, and found an unblemished area of his arm on which to lay her hand. He was cold to the touch.
"Stay," she breathed over him. "Please, please, stay."