Chapter 3

The first coherent thought in Lassiter's brain was that it was too bright. The light that struck his face was also warm, indicating that it most likely sunlight. But he was certain that he was inside, due to the lack of natural sounds.

His mouth was also exceedingly dry. If he didn't receive water soon, he was sure to become dehydrated. He tried to lick his lips to glean some moisture, but found his tongue blocked by something that didn't taste too good.

His head hurt. A lot. Concussion.

He felt something strapped to his arms.

Lassiter finally deduced, with more than a little relief, that he was in the hospital.

But then he woke up a little more, and felt the hunger pangs, the pain in his head and limbs, and the chair in which he was sitting. Somehow he didn't feel so safe anymore.

The detective forced himself to remain calm and remember what had happened. His sluggish mind finally caught up: bar, kidnapped, basement, Spencer, Humphrey, fight, fail. Great.

Spencer.

At last, Lassiter jerked himself to full wakefulness, his eyes opening independently of one another. He quickly realized that his wrists and ankles had been securely roped to the arms and legs of the same chair that Humphrey had occupied before, and that he was no longer wearing his shirt. Directly across from him on the other side of the ruined table was Shawn, still slumped in his own bonds. There was a bit of blood drying on his right temple. He was also shirtless, for some odd reason.

Lassiter tore his eyes from the other man and searched his surroundings. The blinds over the windows had been drawn open, revealing that they were in the mountains, just as Shawn had guessed. He looked around, concluding that they had been, for the time being, left alone.

He took the time to start working the ropes loose, rubbing away another layer of tender red skin in the process. The detective frantically worked his ankles as well, knowing that any time he could save would benefit both himself and Shawn, who finally seemed to be coming to.

Shawn moaned, lifting his slightly before dropping it back down.

" 'pen'r." Lassiter cursed through the gag when he noticed it, but proceeded to unintelligibly call 'Spencer.'

Shawn, squinting, reared his head. It took him a moment to focus on the older man, but when he did he only appeared concerned and confused. "Huh?"

Lassiter tried his best to convey through his eyes that everything would be all right, that Shawn should try to work himself free, but Shawn's gaze had wandered about the room, occasionally stopping to stare intently at something before roaming away.

The detective cursed again. Even from his distance he could see the uneven pupils. Being concussed twice in the span of twenty-four hours could not have done the younger Spencer any favors. He redoubled his efforts, knowing that it was up to him even if he lost both his arms and a leg. He could hop Shawn to safety if need be.

Failing - again - was out of the question.

Just as Lassiter had resolved this, unfortunately, Humphrey and his three men made an appearance. He stilled with one final jerk, lifting his furious glare up to Humphrey, the leader and chief cause of his and Shawn's suffering.

Despite his confusion, Shawn finally seemed to understand that he and Lassiter were in severe danger, and began twisting his arms back and forth quietly.

"Good morning, Detective," Humphrey greeted lightly.

No response was expected, obviously, since the prisoners were so well gagged - Lassiter with his own tie, and Shawn with someone else's. It didn't belong to any of the men in the room, the detective was sure. It was too garish - yellow, with what looked like a phonebooth print. But then he forced the mystery from his mind as he prepared himself to be struck.

No hit came, as Humphrey had merely raised his hand to snap his fingers.

Lefty stepped up to Shawn and wrapped his hands around his throat, squeezing just enough so that Shawn had to tilt his head back to get a strain of air. Lassiter's face hardened, his gaze casting from the psychic to Humphrey and back.

"We considered simply killing him," Humphrey explained, slowly stepping around Lassiter to speak into his ear. With the crime boss behind him, Lassiter was given a front row seat to whatever Shawn would have to endure. It made him feel sick to his stomach. "But then I thought, well, why not let you suffer through your failure? It is, after all, your job to protect the innocents.

"Shawn here - Shawn, isn't it? Yes, Shawn here had nothing to do with me. It was all you. But then you just had to go around asking questions, getting the police involved. They found out you were missing much too soon, Detective. If you hadn't told anyone, then Shawn here wouldn't be here, now would he?"

As Humphrey spoke, Lefty had slowly and steadily tightened his grasp around Shawn's neck, cutting off his air. When Shawn began to choke, writhing in his bonds, Lassiter renewed his struggles, yelling furiously into his gag. None of his words were decipherable, though, and Humphrey didn't deem them important enough to warrant a removal of the gag.

Shawn's red face quickly began to turn blue, and Lassiter turned his head to shoot a pleading look at Humphrey, begging - begging! - for Shawn's life. Humphrey roughly grabbed Lassiter's scruffy face and forced him to witness the torture.

Just as Shawn began to go limp, making a horrible sound somewhere in his chest, Lefty let go and stepped back. Lassiter sagged in relief when Shawn coughed harshly and heaved lungfuls of air, his face returning to its natural color.

"Let's see how much he can take, hm?" Humphrey said behind Lassiter.

Grinning maliciously, Lefty stepped forward again, hands reaching. Shawn shied away, but restrained as he was could not escape. Lefty squeezed so hard that his knuckles turned white, and Lassiter could only watch in horror as Shawn struggled. The chair nearly tipped over, but one of the other men quickly righted it and held it still until the prisoner's strength began to sap.

Once more, Shawn was finally allowed to gasp and choke, and Lassiter released the breath he hadn't realize he had been holding. He tried to plead through his gag, but Humphrey was, as expected, merciless.

Twice more Shawn was deprived of breath, until the last time he hardly resisted. Humphrey, unwilling to kill Shawn just yet, bade Lefty to stop. For the time being, Shawn was left alone.

Perfectly fine with Lassiter, who was glaring daggers at Lefty.

"Now, Detective, don't worry," Humphrey said consolingly. "It'll be your turn soon enough. Tell me, how would you like to go out? A bang? An explosion? A splash, perhaps?"

Lassiter only stared defiantly, unblinkingly. His wrists stung horribly, and he didn't need to look to know that all his thrashing had drawn blood. He was sure that Shawn was in a similar state, if not a little worse off.

"Not that you have a say, mind," Humphrey continued, shrugging. "But I promise you it'll be good, Detective."

He cocked his head slightly, listening to Shawn's breathing.

"Well, that's enough of a respite," he said.

Lassiter's eyes widened, and he bit down on his tie. Humphrey smirked, as did Lefty and the other two nameless minions.

Shawn lifted his head as the youngest member of the gang approached, hands held loosely at his sides. He squinted a bit suspiciously, but mostly in pain as the dry air grated his abused throat and hit his aching lungs.

The pseudo-psychic flinched at the cold hand on his throat, but unlike Lassiter didn't realize that the hand was a distraction. Shawn was unprepared for the blow to his stomach, and he grunted, trying to double over against the agony. Winded as he was, Shawn was easily held at bay by the hand wrapped around his throat.

Three more hits came in quick succession, leaving Shawn breathless and writhing. Lassiter squeezed his eyes shut, teeth clenched. There was nothing he could do. Absolutely nothing.

Shawn gasped and coughed, whimpering in between. Even Lassiter's supposedly stone cold heart broke a little at the sound, though he didn't dare open his eyes. The other four men watched Shawn like a cruel, vicious hawk did its prey.

When there was no sound or movement except for Shawn's, Lassiter slowly opened his eyes to see that everyone was watching him. He quickly schooled his expression into an angry mask. Though acutely aware that Shawn was looking at him, he refused to return the gaze, scared of what he might see.

Shawn would be scared, hurt. Lassiter was sure that the younger man would hate him for not saving him, and he didn't blame him if he did.

The first one to move was the third man, who had not yet taken a turn inflicting pain. In one swift movement, he had wheeled around, striking Shawn open-handedly across the face. With a crack like lightning, Shawn's head was whipped to one side, though he didn't cry out. Lassiter, realizing that his glares were entertaining the men and giving them reason to hurt Shawn more, averted his eyes to the floor.

He heard the men chuckle, and though the sound lit the fires of righteous fury in the depth of his bowels, Lassiter remained submissive. Even if he couldn't save Shawn's life, he could at least save him more pain.

When he heard the tiny, sharp click of a switchblade, Lassiter was both terrified and glad. They were going to kill Shawn, finally. He squeezed his eyes closed, praying that it was quick for him.

Despite his voluntary blindness, the detective could still hear quite clearly. Shawn cried out - loudly, woundedly. The sound would haunt Lassiter for the rest of his very, very short life. At least Shawn didn't have to endure anymore.

But when the cry came again, more desperate than before, Lassiter's eyes snapped open and he raised his head in alarm. Shawn's back arched as the blade was drawn across his ribs for a third time, mouth opened in a silent scream. Lassiter jerked in his bonds, momentarily forgetting that he could not go to the psychic's aid.

Crimson blood trailed down Shawn's heaving sides, soaking into the waist of his jeans. He twisted violently, his only conscious thought, understandly, to get away from the pain, to self-preserve. With a chest-wracking sob, Shawn settled back into the chair, fixating his tormentor with a feverish glare.

The man only took a long drag on his newly-lit cigarette, smiling. He pressed the knife to Shawn's ribs again. When Shawn bucked his body, attempting to throw the blade off, it pierced him more deeply than intended.

"Damn it," the wielder of the switchblade said calmly. "Now we'll have to cauterize."

To Lassiter's horror, the man lowered his cigarette to the laceration and applied the burning end. Once again, Shawn screamed and miserably tried to jerk away, but to no avail. Lassiter renewed his begging, knowing that it would do no good, that no one could understand him - although that might as well have been a lie. His voice was nearly gone, sometimes only coming in hoarse bouts of air.

After wiping the blood from his blade on Shawn's pants leg, the man put away the weapon and dropped the reddened, dead cigarette onto the coffee table. Shawn heaved, letting out several sobs, and hunched over. Lassiter tugged absently at the ropes, unable to tear his gaze away.

They weren't going to stop. Shawn was going to die even more horribly than most of Humphrey's victims, and that was - that was saying something. And there was still nothing Lassiter could do to stop it, nothing he could say, nothing to trade.

And worst of all, Humphrey was right. All of this was Lassiter's fault. If he hadn't gone to the bar alone, none of this would have happened. Or, alternatively, if he hadn't told O'Hara where he had gone and why, this would never have happened. Lassiter would have already been dead before the SBPD even found a lead.

Suddenly Lassiter was hunched over as Shawn was, stomach heaving up sour bile. It dribbled past the gag, soaking it and Lassiter's pants. The rest of it ran into Lassiter's beard and dripped from his chin. An embarrassing moment of weakness, but Lassiter found he didn't care one bit.

He looked up to see that the men were guffawing. Then Shawn caught his eye, looking at him sadly. But somehow, through the sheer agony Shawn must have been feeling, and despite the gag limiting facial movement - Shawn gave him a reassuring smile. A blameless smile.

It took Lassiter's breath away.

He'd never noticed how selfless and kind Shawn was before then, and he didn't mean it in a love sort of way. It was as though suddenly Lassiter was in the presence of some deity, some holy figure who had stepped down onto earth to grace despicable humans.

And Lassiter had killed him.

Lefty left the room for a moment and returned with a gallon-sized white plastic jug, unscrewing the cap as he walked. The other men moved aside, one of them taking a seat. It wasn't until that moment that Lassiter fully realized that Humphrey had sat down several minutes ago, leaving him to antagonize himself.

Lassiter sincerely hoped that the jug only contained water. After all, it seemed the liquid inside the unlabeled container was clear. Water was clear, wasn't it?!

Shawn, however, clenched his mouth shut, pressing his lips tightly against the gag. He glared defiantly at Lefty, but it was clear as day how terrified he was due to his quick, labored breathing and trembling muscles. Lassiter's stomach threatened to purge itself again.

And then the odor reached him.

The detective had trained himself, much like a puppy in a K-9 unit, to recognize the smells of different chemicals, foods, and plants. This was one he never had trouble remembering - He used it on a daily basis.

It was ammonia.

The psychic obviously recognized it, too. He knew the deadly consequences of ingesting the chemical. As Lefty moved closer, Shawn squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips even more tightly, holding his breath.

But Lefty didn't seem to concerned about his face. He tipped the jug forward, spilling it onto Shawn's chest.

Shawn jolted in surprise, eyes flying open at the cold sensation. Then the ammonia reached his cut ribs, and he groaned loudly. The chemical seeped into his bloodstream. Even more dangerous than swallowing it.

After a minute of watching Shawn wince at the sting, Lefty poured another helping. Shawn cried out as more poison touched his already burning skin.

Before Lassiter's eyes, he could see the pink rash turn to red as the corrosive ammonia worked on Shawn's skin. Soon enough, blood blisters began to form, especially around the still weeping wounds on his ribs. The first agonized tears fell from Shawn's eyes as he gasped and whined, and to Lassiter, it spelled the end of the world.

He'd never wanted to see anything like this happen to anyone, let alone be the cause of it. Lassiter would have given anything, even his own kid sister, just to take Shawn Spencer's place at that moment.

A strangled sob forced its way from Shawn's bruised, raw throat as Lefty dumped the last of the ammonia over him. Dropping the jug to the floor, the man casually went to lean against the wall to watch.

All too suddenly, Shawn's head fell back, his body going rigid in the chair. The convulsions started, and Lassiter knew, without a doubt, that Shawn's suffering was nearing to an end. He didn't cry; he was relieved that Shawn was on the brink of death now.

Shawn slumped forward once his seizure stopped, head lolling onto his chest. His eyes were glazed over, bloodshot and unfocused. Lassiter knew that Shawn was no longer aware of anything, even if he was still awake. Shawn retched once, twice, three times. A dribble of frothy white substance oozed its way from his mouth, dripping down his stubbled chin.

Then his eyes slipped closed and his body went lax. A dark stain spread from the crotch of Shawn's jeans.

And then Lassiter knew he was dead.

He wasn't sad. He wasn't angry.

Lassiter just watched in morbid fascination as Lefty approached and pressed two fingers to Shawn's jugular, checking for a pulse. He motioned to the other two to unstrap Shawn from the chair, he himself going to the corner of the room and retrieving one of two large tarps. He unfurled it on the floor behind the chair.

The three men, as Lassiter and Humphrey witnessed, dumped Shawn heavily onto on end, then rolled him up in the tarp. Shawn's head and limbs flopped lifelessly, grotesquely. Lassiter wanted them to remove Shawn's gag, but somehow couldn't bring himself to find the right words. Humphrey said something, but Lassiter only heard it as a low buzzing in his ears.

Shawn, hidden in a blue cocoon, was lifted between the three of them and carried out of the detective's sight, out of the cabin.

Still Lassiter felt nothing as he stared at the abandoned chair where Shawn had been sitting only a few minutes ago.

Shawn was dead.

With that thought, everything hit Lassiter all at once, and he found himself falling into unconsciousness, ears ringing. Then everything was dark and silent.