Chapter 1

The first thing Shawn noticed when he woke up was the pain in his leg. It was sharp and burning, not the kind of pain he could ignore. It occurred to him that maybe something set his leg on fire, or perhaps frozen it in ice while he was sleeping.

He opened his eyes to see what was causing the pain, only to discover that he couldn't see anything – which ruled out fire, but that was little comfort. Wherever he was, it was pitch black. That didn't seem like it could possibly be a good thing.

Shawn reached forward to see if his leg was frozen in a block of ice. It wasn't. It was, however, wet and sticky. It didn't take a brilliant mind to figure out that the pain was from a nasty cut, and that the cut was still bleeding. "It gets better and better," he muttered as he scanned his perfect memory and tried to recall what had happened—how he'd gotten there.

He remembered Juliet's cousin's wedding, Juliet in a bridesmaid dress, a brash and ridiculous challenge to Tim, the tall groomsman which, thankfully, Tim ignored. He remembered every word of each bland but affectionate toasts. He remembered that the coq a vin had been under-seasoned, but the raspberry cheesecake wedding cake had been perfect. He remembered insisting that Juliet grant him one dance before they left the reception. He'd said it was to keep up the 'dating' cover story. They both knew that wasn't the real reason.

He remembered the slight weight of her hand on his shoulder and the soft and subtle curve of her waist. He remembered feeling his heart skip a beat as she slipped her hand into his. He remembered the thrill she gave him every time she laughed at a joke. He remembered the smell of her perfume, like roses and sugar-cookies . . . and he realized he still smelled it.

"Jules?" He asked cautiously. His voice echoed off the walls surrounding them. Wherever they were, it was small.

Juliet didn't answer.

Shawn pushed himself up, so he was sitting. The floor beneath him was plastic, textured and vibrating.

He tried to grope out and learn more about their dark prison, only to discover that his right hand was handcuffed to a ring on the floor. His deep foreboding quickly turned to panic as he yanked on the cuffs. They didn't budge, but he did bruise his wrist.

He closed his eye and tried hard to remember what had happened. The dance had ended. Juliet made the rounds hugging aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews, and cousins. Shawn had been ordered to stay by the bar and wait for her. To pass the time, he flirted with the bartender, a rail-thin 52-year-old woman with a gravely voice and breath that smelled of cigarettes.

Juliet didn't let him drive home. She'd actually counted how many drinks he'd had and deemed them too many. Shawn considered it a compliment that she paid so much attention.

"I can't thank you enough for coming tonight," Jules had said as they left the reception hall. "You really saved me."

"From the lecherous Tim?" Shawn had asked as he basked in his role as savior.

"Tim?" Jules had laughed dismissively. "No. If it came to it, I would have broken his wrists if he tried anything. I meant with my grandmother, and great-aunt Cici. They have been dogging me for years to meet a nice man and settle down."

"Jules," Shawn had said with his false sincerity. "You know I wanted to ask your father before we announced our nuptials to your family. And at your cousin's wedding . . . it's a little gauche, don't you think?"

She'd laughed, which made Shawn smile. "If I hadn't brought a date they'd think I wasn't trying. But, of course, this wasn't a real date, I just meant . . ."

"A decoy," Shawn had supplied. "Yes, it's very important to deceive them—I see that now."

"I didn't actually lie to them," Juliet had insisted. "I just . . . failed to mention some things."

Shawn hadn't had a clever come back for that. Everything he'd thought of somehow referenced the fact that he had rejected her.

Juliet's mind must have been following the same path because she quickly changed the subject. "I'm sure you lie to your family sometimes," Juliet had insisted.

And . . . . and that was all Shawn could remember. He felt sure he'd had a clever comeback—he usually did. But he could remember what it was, or if he'd said it. And he had no idea how they'd gone from driving from Ballard to Santa Barbara on CA-154 to handcuffed in what appeared to be the back of a van.

"Jules," Shawn said again reaching around with his left hand, trying to find anything, a door, a window, a tool—but hoping to find her.

Nothing.

"Jules," he said louder. He'd been knocked out, maybe she was too. Maybe he could wake her up. "I know your there. I can s . . ." He almost said 'smell' but caught himself just in time, "sense you. You're in pain." It was a guess, but it seemed probable. "Please, just let me know you're ok."

There was a horrible silence. Then, softly, off to the left "Shawn?"

"Jules," Shawn said excitedly, scooting as close to her voice as his handcuffed hand would allow. "Are you all right?"

"My head . . ." she muttered. "I'm so cold."

"I'd come and help you, but I'm cuffed to the floor," Shawn said. "Can you move?"

"My hands are cuffed together," she answered. "But I think I can get over to you." She made a sound that was something between a grunt and a moan and communicated deep pain. "It hurts."

"I know, Jules," Shawn said empathetically. "I know."

"Do you know what happened?" Her voice was strained.

"I don't remember," he said, reaching towards her voice. "If you can reach my hand, I'll pull you here."

"Can you sense . . ." she started, but her voice gave out.

In the darkness, her hands found Shawn's. "I've got'cha," he said, wrapping his hand around hers, which were cold and felt so small.

He pulled her towards him. She gasped with pain and Shawn winced. But he knew they'd be better if they were together. He drew her to himself, pulling and arranging her limp body, still clothed in the beautiful pink gown—though it was probably torn and dirty by now—until her head was resting on his lap, and his free hand was running up and down her bare arms, trying to transfer warmth.

"Thank you, Shawn," she said once she was situated.

"Do you feel better?"

"No," she said. "But I'm not as scared."

"Well, that's good," Shawn said. "Because I was counting on you to get us out of here."

"What happened?" she asked.

"I told you, I don't remember," he said, trying not to sound worried. Juliet shouldn't have forgotten that.

"But, can you feel . . . ?"

"Feel?"

" . . . what happened. Can you sense it?"

"Sense," Shawn said with a dry laugh.

"Are the spirits telling you anything . . . or, or the vibrations . . . or . . ."

"No," Shawn said, his voice cracking.

"Why not?"

Shawn's mind raced. He considered, for a moment, coming clean. He was not a psychic; he'd never been psychic. He was just really, really good at noticing things and remembering details. It wasn't special, it wasn't magic, it was just natural intelligence and obsessive training by an overbearing father. But, it seemed cruel to break the foundation of her faith in him now. She was hurt and trapped—he would do anything he could to keep her from being hopeless too.

"It's the pain," he said, because it was the only thing he could think about besides Juliet. "My leg is all sliced up and . . . and the psychic energy your pain is causing . . . it's cacophonous. I can't hear the spirits."

"I'm sorry," Juliet said softly.

"It's not your fault, Jules," Shawn assured her. "Whoever it is that did this to us, it's his fault."

* * *

"Hey, Detective!" Gus said as he ran up to Lassiter on the steps of Santa Barbara police station. "Have you seen Shawn or Juliet today?"

"No," Lassiter replied, annoyance in his voice and gaze. "Why would I?"

"Well, Juliet is your partner."

"She has off today," Lassiter said. Adding, with Dragnet dramatic emphasis, "I'm walking the beat alone."

"So, you haven't seen or heard from her."

"No. When Detective O'Hara takes the day off, she doesn't come in to work. It's irresponsible, I know, but she . . ."

"It's just that Shawn wasn't in the office this morning."

"So?"

"We were going to go to breakfast."

"I fail to see how this had anything to do with O'Hara's day off."

"They were together last night."

"What?!" Lassiter said, stopping and turning to look at Gus for the first time. "Why would she . . ." He froze, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, "I really don't want to think about that." He opened his eyes, shook his head, and started walking to his patrol car again, double pace. "You, know, I don't even want to know. It's none of my business anyways."

"No!" Gus said defensively, as soon as he realized what Lassie was thinking. "It's not like that," he insisted as he ran to catch up with the detective. "She asked him to escort her to a family wedding. She didn't want to be the only bridesmaid without a date."

"So she took Spencer?" Lassiter said, with obvious disgust. "She couldn't find someone better at a bar, or, I don't know, in one of the holding cells."

"He did it as a favor," Gus continued. "But now, Shawn didn't show up for breakfast, didn't go home last night, and their phones just go to voicemail. I'm telling you, something's up."

"Look, they probably just drank too much and decided to get a room somewhere."

"They would still answer their phones," Gus insisted. "It's almost noon. How much do you think they drank?"

"I don't know. Was there an open bar?"

Before Gus could admit that he didn't know either, Chief Vick yelled. "Detective Lassiter!"

Both men turned to see the woman running down the steps. She had a single leaf of paper in her right hand, and she looked worried.

"What is it, chief?" Lassiter asked, walking towards her. Gus followed.

"Thank goodness I caught you," she said as she handed the paper to Lassiter. "This just came in—a courtesy fax from our colleagues in the sheriff's office.

"O'Hara's car was found in a ditch near Ballard," the Cheif explained as she handed the fax to Lassiter.

"Ballard?" Gus said, craning his neck to see what was on paper. "That's where the wedding was."

"But the car was abandoned," Lassiter said as he read through it.

"See!" Gus said, "I knew something was not right."

"What are you talking about, Mr. Guster?" The chief said, acknowledging Gus's presence for the first time. "And, for that matter, why are you here?"

"Well, as I was trying to tell the detective, I think something happened to Shawn and Juliet."

"You think Mr. Spencer is missing too?"

"He didn't show up for breakfast this morning. And you know how he loves his pancakes."

"I think I should go check this out," Lassiter said. "Show the boys out in the boonies how it's done."

"Go," the chief said. "But remember, you are an observer. I don't want to get a call from the sheriff's department saying one of my detectives is out-of-line."

"She's my partner, chief," Lassiter said, once again milking the drama out of the words. "I'll find her."

"And Shawn's my partner," Gus said, breaking the tension Lassiter wanted to create. "I should go, too."

"No," the detective said, his voice low as he tried to hold onto the mood. "It could be dangerous."

"It's a car in a ditch, detective," the chief said flatly. "I don't see why you couldn't take Mr. Guster out of professional courtesy."

"Professional courtesy!" the detective said, his low voice dissolving into a whine. "Chief, he's not even the fake-psychic; he's the fake- psychic's sidekick."

"I am not Shawn's sidekick," Gus insisted. "We're partners."

"Take him," Vick said sharply. Then her expression softened, as she ordered, "and bring them back."

To be continued . . . .