Chapter 2

"So, my thought is that we've been shanghaied into the underground formalwear modeling circuit," Shawn said, mostly to hear the sound of his own voice.

The van had been still for a while—it was hard to say how long. Juliet was slipping in and out of consciousness. Shawn could feel dried blood in her hair, so he knew she must have received a blow to the head. He was terrified that she'd fall into a coma and never wake up. Shawn was trying very hard not to fall asleep himself. He was helpless enough, chained to the inside of a van with a throbbing, broken leg. He didn't to give their kidnapper any further advantage. Not that the kidnapper had shown himself yet. They'd been driving around for hours—or what felt like hours. Then, finally, the car stopped. For a while, Shawn and Juliet screamed at the top of their lungs, hoping to attract help—but no one responded.

So now they were just talking. Shawn sat with his back against the side of the van. His mangled right leg stretched out in front of him, his left leg, slightly bent, was a pillow for Juliet. His left arm was her blanket.

"I hear it can be vicious," Shawn continued. "Poor, devastatingly attractive people, forced to peddle designer knock-offs on the runway."

"I'm thirsty," Juliet muttered.

"Have you ever tried to walk in a knock-off Gravati?" Shawn asked, because it was a lot easier then telling her that there was no water. "They're murder on the arches."

"Because that's what I'm worried about," Juliet said. "My feet."

"Well, if I were you, I'd be worried about being sold as a model bride."

"A model bride?"

"Forced to parade knock-off Vera Wangs before cheap New-Jersey mothers."

Juliet laughed softly. "What do you think?" she asked. "Really."

"Really," Shawn said with a deep breath. "I think you looked stunning in that dress."

"Shawn," she protested. She was the kind of girl who always preferred a straight answer to a compliment. So few women were like that—he adored her for it.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I've asked the sprits, but . . . I can't hear their answers."

"Could it have something to do with a case we worked together?"

"We've worked a lot of cases together," Shawn said. "I don't get a sense that this is related to any of them."

"None of them are going to court soon," Juliet continued, thinking through the problem. "And I don't think most of the criminals we've put away would have the clout to pull off something like this."

"You're wrong there," Shawn said. "This abduction is clever, but not complicated. It didn't take clout, it just took planning."

"What do you mean?"

"We were unconscious, just a few people, or one strong person, could have dragged us out of the car and put us in here. After that, it only takes one person to drive a van around."

"But who?" Juliet insisted. "What could someone possibly gain form holding us?"

"I'm not sure," Shawn said, seriously considering her question. "This doesn't feel like a revenge kidnapping. I mean, first of all, why kidnap? Why not just kill us? They obviously had the opportunity. For the kidnapper to get what he wants, we need to be alive."

"So what could he want?" Juliet asked. "Ransom?"

"That doesn't feel right either," Shawn admitted, adding cavalierly, "my collection of Speed Racer memorabilia is impressive, but my father would never negotiate with kidnappers."

"I don't have any money either," Juliet said. "It just doesn't make sense."

"I'm serious, Jules," Shawn said. "Underground modeling. It's the only explanation that fits the facts. Why else kidnap us in formal wear?"

"Right after my cousin's wedding," Juliet said. Her voice started to sound excited. "The kidnapper could have know we'd be there . . . or at least that I would be there," she reasoned. "The 154 is the best road from Santa Barbara to Ballard, and it has a lot of rural stretches . . . the car won't be found till morning, which gives the kidnapper hours to make his escape."

Shawn listened and his mind raced. She was right. And he was right—he'd been right from the beginning. It was about Juliet in the dress. He was an after-thought, a mistake, or possibly decoy. What the kidnapper wanted was Juliet.

"That makes sense, doesn't it?" Juliet asked.

"Yeah," Shawn said, trying not to let his disturbing revelation show in his voice, hoping he could distract her before she figured out how much danger she was really in. "Perfect sense, like a scene from Ruthless People."

"Shawn, why do you do that?"

"Do what, agree with you?" Shawn asked. "Because your brilliant. And if my extensive travels have taught me anything, it is to always defer to someone smarter then yourself. Which, coincidently, is why Gus does all the baking, the man is a genius with baking powder. Or, maybe, baking soda. Or, possibly bicarbonate of soda . . . to be honest I don't know the difference."

"Why do you say ridiculous things when you should be serious?"

"I . . ." Shawn stuttered, "I don't know what you mean."

"Carlton said it's because you don't want to be taken seriously. He said, this way, if you fail, no one is surprised. He says it's how you protect yourself."

"Well," Shawn said, licking his lips nervously. "Isn't Lassie the budding psychologist?"

"He said your mother told him that."

"She would know . . ." Sawn muttered, trying not to sound as annoyed as he was. If he'd been her patient, her penetrating analysis of his character would have been private. But, because he was her son, she apparently had no qualms broadcasting his insecurities and cooping mechanisms.

"I'm sorry, Shawn . . . " Juliet said. "It was really stupid of me to bring it up."

"Don't worry about it," Shawn said, hoping that the conversation would end.

"It's just," Juliet continued. "We're trapped in here, and I feel dizzy and nauseous and it hurts to breathe. I'm trying to keep it together, keep a clear head, but it's so hard to think. And I know you always make jokes and stuff, usually I like it, but," her voice broke. Shawn couldn't tell if it was from emotional or physical pain, nor could he think of any way to make either one better.

"I need you here, Shawn," she said eventually. "Right now, I need to know that you're here, with me. Not reliving a movie, or in some sort of psychic vision, or daydreaming about your childhood. I'm here and . . ."

"You're stuck in a moment you can't get out of," Shawn said. "And you don't want to be alone in it."

"Yeah," Juliet said.

"U2 references aside, I'm right here."

"Thanks, Shawn," she said, as she affectionately squeezed his forearm, which was draped across her chest. "We'll get through this together."

"You bet," Shawn said, with a confidence he didn't feel. "You and me. We'll get through this."

* * *

"We want the files on the Crystalline case, or the psychic dies," Gus read, as dread filled his chest. "Go to the computer room of the main branch of the Santa Barbara public library at 3:30 on Saturday, March 14th. Shred the files and you'll know where to find him. Don't try anything smart. We'll know, and he'll die."

The note was very carefully printed on a piece of paper from a yellow legal pad. The writer had obviously attempted to hide his or her handwriting by creating very precise block letters, all caps, and all 3 lines high. The note was written with a back marker, probably a Sharpie. For a handwritten note, it didn't seem to offer many clues.

Gus put the ransom note, carefully preserved in an evidence bag, back on the hood of the car, which was covered with maps of the area and other bits of evidence from the car crash, including one of Shawn's shoes, messy with blood, both of their cell phones, smashed beyond repair, and Juliet's badge and gun.

It appeared as if a car had driven Shawn and Juliet off the road and careening into a tree. According to the M.E., there were two people in the car, and both were injured. The passenger's leg must have been badly cut, if the blood and the ripped pants were any indication. And the crack on the driver's side window indicated head trauma.

"As you can see, it's a kidnapping," Deputy Cheznick, who had discovered the car, said. "I've called the Feds in from L.A.—but with this timeline, I don't know if we can wait."

"Three-thirty," Lassiter said, checking his watch. "That's only two hours."

"And it'll take us an hour to get there," Gus added. "We should leave now."

"We cannot destroy evidence," Lassiter said. "But if we can figure out which case they're talking about, we can smoke them out. Now, I don't remember any victims or suspects named Crystalline . . . but it sounds like it might have something to do with a meth lab. A quick search through the SBPD files . . ."

"It's not in the SBPD files," Gus said. "It's in the Psych files. Or it would be, if we kept files."

"What?" Lassiter said. "You mean this is about Spencer?"

"Looks like," Gus said, as the dread in his chest manifested into a mixture of horror, guilt, and fear. Horror, because it was just a matter of chance and timing that kept him from being the one with the crushed leg or head trauma, taken to God-knows-where for God-knows-what reason. Guilt, because Juliet had taken his place. And fear, because Shawn ran psych, and Shawn had a perfect memory. He didn't see a reason for keeping files, so—other then the necessary receipts and documents for tax and payroll, no files were kept. And Gus doubted that the kidnapper was that interested in destroying the deposit slip for The Crystalline Temple's $5,000 check.

"Then kidnapping Detective O'Hara was just an after thought," Deputy Cheznick said. "Or a mistake."

"I knew Spencer was trouble," Lassiter muttered.

"You knew that being with Shawn would get Juliet kidnapped?" Gus asked, skeptically.

"I knew it would lead to no-good," Lassiter asserted.

"This is not Shawn's fault," Gus said hottly. "The evidence show's he wasn't even driving!"

"Gentlemen," Deputy Cheznick said forcefully as he stepped between Gus and Lassiter. "We've got a tight deadline. I think you'd better tell us about the Crystalline case, Mr. Guster."

"Fine," Gus said, taking a step back and a deep breath. "But I don't understand what it could possibly have to do with all this."

"You don't have to figure it out," Lassiter said, "Let the real detectives do that."

Gus threw Lassiter a spiteful look, then he began to explain. "Last month, The Crystalline Temple of Spiritual Enlighten hired us to find out if someone was trying to destroy there church, or . . . temple building, I guess. There had been several small fires, which any number of members could have started."

"The Crystalline Temple of Spiritual Enlightenment," Lassiter muttered. "Sounds like a cult."

"They're basically a group of burned-out hippies. It turned out, the eight-year-old son of one of the members was starting the fires. He was bored during their services, or séances, or meeting . . . or whatever, and he just wanted the smoke detectors to go off so they'd have to evacuate."

"So there was a budding arsonist and you didn't contact the police?" Lassiter said angrily.

"There was a bored kid whose parents swore he'd never do it again. The temple leaders were happy. That's was it."

"Obviously, you didn't dig deep enough," Lassiter accused. "A real detective would have gotten all the facts."

"Shawn did get all the facts," Gus insisted. "It just so happens that the facts are boring and don't add up to a kidnapping." It occurred to Gus that Shawn would not have used the word 'kidnapping'. He'd undoubtedly say 'copnapping' or 'psychnapping.' Suddenly, Gus didn't want to argue anymore.

"Guys, guys," Deputy Cheznick snapped, looking scornfully at both of them. "There's a time issue here. Now, I think we need to divide and conquer. Guster, do you have any qualms giving the kidnappers your files?"

"I'll give them what we have," Gus admitted. "It's not much."

"Good. We'll hedge our bets by tracking down anyone and everyone connected to The Crystalline Temple of Spiritual Enlighten," Cheznick continued. "If you don't get them at the drop, we'll get them where they live.

* * *

Shawn was startled into wakefulness when the van jerked into motion. They were moving again.

"Jules," Shawn said hoarsely, between two very parched lips. They'd been captive for a long time, maybe even a day, with no food and water. The hunger and thirst were almost as bad as the constant burning pain in his leg. "Something's happening, wake up."

She didn't stir.

They drove for what felt like ten minuets, while Shawn tried vainly to wake her. Then they stopped.

Shawn knew they could be anywhere, at a stop-light in downtown Santa Barbara, or San Diego or L.A. for all he knew, or they could be out in the wilderness breaking for a bear crossing the road. In any case, his only hope of rescue was to be noticed.

He banged on the wall with his free hand and yelled, "Help! Help!" as loud as his hoarse voice could manage.

He stopped yelling when he heard the clack of a lock releasing. Shawn hoped it was someone coming to save them, but he knew it was probably the kidnapper, showing his face at last. Either way, Shawn had to see everything and he had to protect Juliet.

The side door of the van slid open, and Shawn was blinded by the sterling light of an afternoon sun—but he didn't close his eyes. He forced them to focus on the dark figure silhouetted in the doorway. Whoever it was, he was large. He was at least six-two, with broad shoulders and a thin waist. Shawn knew immediately that this man hadn't been at the wedding, he wasn't a guest or part of the serving staff. He was wearing a black turtleneck, black leather gloves, dark blue jeans, and a ridiculous mask.

"Nixon?" Shawn asked as the man climbed into the van. "How clichéd. Clinton, I would have been original. Reagan or Carter, I would have respected. But tricky-Dick? I can't take you seriously wearing that."

"I'm here for the girl," the man said. His voice was muffled and indistinct, as if he were talking through a medical face mask as well as a molded plastic head of the 37th president. The kidnapper obviously didn't want his face or voice to be recognized, which meant that he was probably someone they knew.

"You can't have her," Shawn said, pulling Juliet, who was still unconscious, closer to himself and wrapping his arms around her bare shoulders. "She's a democrat."

"Give her to me and I won't hurt you." Since Juliet was the target, it seemed likely that it was someone Juliet knew, but Shawn didn't think it was someone she knew now. He was sure she would have mentioned a stalker or menacing neighbor.

"I'm not so much worried about me," Shawn said.

"You should be," the man insisted ominously as he pulled a handgun from behind his back. He was probably someone from her past, and someone who knew her family well enough to know about the wedding. That excluded all criminals and casual friends.

"What, you're going to shoot the guy with a mauled leg and a hand cuffed to the wall. That's sporting."

"Let go of her." This was an old family friend who hated Juliet, but didn't want to kill her . . . . which, Shawn realized, meant the kidnapper might just love her too.

"I see now why you needed to kidnapped her," Shawn insisted coolly, even though his palms were sweating and his pulse was racing. "You're a coward. She knows it, and she rejected you. But the thing is, nothing you will ever do can change that. So, even if she didn't hate you for kidnapping her, and whatever other twisted things you have planed, she'll hate you for that."

Shawn's accusations hit a nerve. The man lunged forward, slamming the but of his gun into Shawn's temple.

Shawn screamed; he couldn't help it. Nor could he keep his hands from flying to protect his head from a second blow, which left Juliet unprotected.

Shawn felt the kidnapper pick Juliet up and start walking to the door. He flailed with his left leg, trying to kick the man, but his world was spinning and he couldn't connect. Soon, the van door slid shut. Shawn was alone in the dark and, even worse Juliet was alone with her kidnapper.

To be continued . . . .