Well, I had more time to myself this weekend...

I own nothing. Well, I own this computer and I own some CD's and...oh, wait, I mean, I don't own anything from Psych. If I did, I'd have Shawn Spencer getting smacked around a lot. Just saying.

"Morning, Carlton," Juliet called to her partner, watching him take his jacket off in a startlingly graceful motion and hang it on the back of his chair. He sat down, scooting to his desk and flipping through his messages. He looked…well-rested, while also a little fatigued.

"O'Hara," he finally answered, reading quickly and snatching up the phone when it rang. "Lassiter. What? No. Really. Uh…that would be wonderful…but also a little inappropriate, and there's cameras all over the place, so…er…" He glanced at his partner, cleared his throat. "I'll call you later. If I can get out, we'll have lunch. Yeah. Okay. Bye." He hung up and went to loosen his tie, but he wasn't wearing one. He shuffled the papers around and logged in, then scratched the back of his ear.

"Lassiter, O'Hara," Vick said, gesturing from her door. "In here, please."

The two detectives trailed into the chief's office and took their seats across from her. She took a deep breath. "Woody just called and informed me that six bodies were just brought into the coroner's office, all from a wooded area near the park on Chatham."

"Six?" Juliet gasped, astonished. "Oh my God…"

"All were under the age of twenty-one…and two were…under fifteen." She swallowed. "We're still trying to ID them, but decay and…predation by…animals have made that very difficult. We seem to have serial killer on our hands, and he's targeting children."

"And how long were they there?" Carlton asked, his voice clipped.

"The…oldest…that is, the one that had been there the longest, was there about two years and is giving us the most trouble with IDing. She was fifteen. The most recent one has only been dead four days. We're just starting to go through every missing-child report for the area in the past year…"

"Then we need to go look at the crime scene, right?" Carlton nodded.

"Exactly."

A group of schoolchildren had found the first body. The rest had been found by the CSI's as they investigated the woods. Pieces of clothing were found, but the woods were littered with trash of every imaginable kind, along with lots of small animal bones that were found to be mixed with human bones…and even some teeth. Carlton read through Woody's report and winced when he saw the words 'human teeth marks', with regard to findings on the most recent body.

A group of CSI's were walking abreast through the woods, looking for anything of interest. The places where the corpses were found had been carefully processed, and left as undisturbed as possible. Juliet, having changed into more sensible shoes, followed her partner as he walked around each spot. He watched as a CSI dropped a Styrofoam cup into an evidence bag, and caught the woman's eye – it was Melissa Hardwicke again, and she stood up when she recognized him.

"Detective Lassiter. Detective O'Hara. I wish we were meeting under less horrible circumstances."

"Anything of note?" Carlton asked mildly, still looking around.

"There's a lipstick stain on this cup. We don't know if it means anything, though."

"Right."

Juliet stood beside her partner, gauging his reactions. He was scowling, which meant that he was thoroughly pissed that a serial killer was violating the most innocent of lives. He turned to Juliet, and started to say something, but his expression got even colder when he saw Spencer and Guster standing at the top of the hill.

He looked at Juliet. "Thanks for the cyclamen, by the way."

"Oh. Oh, yes. I'm glad you liked it!" she said brightly.

"Marlowe thought it was really pretty."

"Right." She glanced at his neck and caught a brief glimpse of a hickey but said nothing about it.

"What about Pedro?" she finally asked, when they were well out of earshot of Melissa Hardwicke and particularly of Shawn and Gus."

He only eased one slow, bemused look in her direction, as if he were nudging her out of the way in the line at the donut shop (she tended to stand too long at the 'donut viewing box', daydreaming about fattening crullers and bearclaws), and she caught a tiny light flash in his eyes, indicating amusement.

"Marlowe thinks it's kind of…er…cute, too," he finally said.

She had never heard him use the word 'cute' before. Not even when he had been introduced to her cats. Then again, when she had questioned him about the cuteness of Mr Peepers playing with a ball of yarn, he had agreed – without saying it – that it was cute, but had indicated – out loud - that if Mr Peepers had choked to death in the ball of yarn, it would have been hilarious. That had earned him a smack on the arm.

"Really?" she raised an eyebrow. "Hm. How was your Christmas?" she finally asked. The CSI's had moved off and Shawn was tromping down the hill with Gus, to start looking over the scene.

"It was good," he nodded.

"Good?" She hated it when he was evasive.

Shawn came stomping back up the hill, looking disgruntled. "Hey, Lassie, how was your Christmas? Was it Marlowetastic?"

"Spencer, Guster," Carlton answered, acknowledging them but otherwise refusing to rise to the bait. He walked away, toward a group of CSI's, all of whom greeted him with their notes and observations. He stood with them, reading through each hand-written report, his scowl deepening, and finally he looked up again. "Have the kids been questioned…just to find out if they've ever seen anybody around here that looked strange?"

"We did ask a few questions, but their parents were all pretty freaked out, and so were they," Hardwicke told him. She brushed her hair back from her face and looked Carlton directly in the eye, her head tipped back a little, exposing her neck to him, perhaps subconsciously. Juliet recognized those signals – whether she meant to or not, the woman was practically screaming 'Take me! Take me now!' and as usual, her partner was totally clueless. He gave her a terse nod and began scribbling in his notepad.

"We'd like to talk to them, and then do a little talking to any other kid that frequents this park. One of them has to have seen something, or someone, that didn't look right. Creepy guys that hang around playgrounds, for instance, would be something to start on." He began writing again, and Juliet walked over, touching his elbow.

"A word?"

Carlton's shoulders slumped a little, but he stepped away with her.

"Well, several words, actually: first, that woman will eventually try to stick her tongue down your throat if you're not careful, and secondly, I'm not sure we want to start off by freaking out a bunch of kids."

He studied her, blue eyes paling to almost white, which she had never seen before. He took a deep breath, and she realized he was horrified. "You're probably right," he finally strangled out, his jaw tight.

"About…?" she queried, uncertain.

"The second part. No…uh…no use freaking out a bunch of kids. But maybe we could at least…talk to the parents, see if the kids ever said anything? Any recent memories of little Bonnie shrieking, 'Mommy, Mommy, that creepy man offered me candy and he smelled like tapioca', and so on?"

"Right," she nodded, eyeing her partner and noting his unease.

He glanced over at Hardwicke. "She…wait a minute…I don't…I told her…"

"Well, some people don't catch on as quickly as others. And really, she's not scary or anything. She's just…interested." Juliet studied the cut of his suit jacket, his tie-less neck and his healthy glow and couldn't blame the brunette CSI for that.

"My God!" he hissed, eyes widening as he seemed to recall something particularly appalling. "The bathtub? She had to have been kidding! She had to be!"

Juliet stared at her partner, bewildered, before shaking her head and continuing. "Calm down. It's all right. Just be honest…" She tried to soothe him, keeping her voice low. Shawn and Gus were moving closer, and she knew he had to be as calm as possible now.

"Oh, right…" He rubbed his face. "Oh my God…that woman must think I've got my donkey tied to every bedpost in town…and I don't! I don't even have a donkey!" He looked utterly panicked then, yet also aware that he was babbling, and he wound down, taking a deep breath.

"Carlton, you don't have your…wait, what?" She shook her head to clear it and hoped to get him off his current Crazy Train. "Listen. Just make it clear that you're attached and in a committed…it is a committed relationship, right?…relationship and that you're out of…off lim-…that you're no longer in…er…play?"

"In play?" Carlton snapped. "What is this, dodgeball? For God's sake, O'Hara…" He stuffed his notepad in his pocket. "Never mind about that. Never mind! We are searching for a serial killer…who is killing kids. Kids!" He whipped around and looked at Spencer, who had sidled up behind him, a grin forming on his face. "I don't want to hear jokes, Spencer. No cute references to obscure eighties films and actors and video games, or snide comments directed at me or my personal life or my hair. We've got six dead kids on our hands and for once in your pathetic, egocentric, fraudulent existence, try being serious and respectful of the dead and the people who are trying to find a freaking serial killer!" He turned back to Juliet and barked, "Set up those interviews!"

She nodded and wrote the order down on her notepad. She looked at Shawn, who for once kept his mouth shut.

He didn't get home until well after midnight, and was so tired he barely made it to the couch. He turned the TV on and kicked his shoes off, and looked around the dark, cold room. For a little while, he stared at the screen, watching Twilight and deciding that somewhere in Hollywood there was indeed a computer that, every year or so, spat out another idiotic screenplay about vampires. One of his life's ambitions was to go to Hollywood, locate that computer, and destroy it with an axe.

Carlton didn't jump out of his skin when Marlowe slipped her hands over his shoulders and bent down to kiss his cheek. He only exhaled, closing his eyes, breathed in her soft, light lilac perfume, and looked up at her as she smiled down at him. "Hi."

"I hope you don't mind that I decided to stay here tonight," she said softly, slipping around the couch and taking her seat next to him, nestling up against him, her head on his chest. He slowly drew his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. "My roommates are watching a 'Worst of Richard Burton' marathon and I prefer to remember him at his best, thank you."

"Why would I mind?" he asked.

"I dunno…maybe you think we're moving too fast?" she smiled softly.

Faster. Faster, Carlton. Harder…oh, God…yes…harder…oh…

He looked at her, remembering every minute detail of her body and her voice and her scent and the way she felt underneath him, and on top of him, and beside him. He had been immersed in her, drowning in her, and he didn't want to come up for air. Ever. He hadn't said the words yet. He was still looking out of the corners of his eyes, still tensing sometimes, waiting for her to tell him she was tired of him. Even after having spent the entire weekend together – mostly in bed – he was still insecure. He wasn't sure how he would ever get over that. But God in heaven, he wanted to.

"I had a pretty rough day," he finally said. She touched his cheek, gently smoothing his brows and sliding her fingers through the gray hair at his temples.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault. And I'm home now, and work's at work."

Marlowe gently brushed her lips against his, then slowly stood up, pulling him up off the couch. "You need to sleep."

"I do. Right…"

She took his hand and lightly kissed his fingertips. It won't always be this way, he told himself. She'll get tired of you. She'll get sick of your hours and your temper and then she'll just…leave. He swallowed. He was a novelty, he supposed, for someone like her. An experiment. Maybe even a charity case.

"Carlton?" she said softly. "Stop looking that way."

"Wh-what way?" he asked, snapping out of his miserable self-prophecies.

"Like you're waiting for your execution."

He looked down. "It's a long ride in that cart, Marlowe. Up the steps, apologize for stepping on the axeman's foot, kneel down, adjust a bit, say the final prayer…then…whump…and the crowd goes wild…"

"That was vivid…and you actually think I'm going somewhere?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Everybody else does."

"I'm not everybody else," she said gently, but with a firm implacability that he was just starting to get to know. "Now come on to bed. I kept it warm for you. I think I identified one of those carvings, by the way."

"Oh?" his brow furrowed. "Which one?" He followed her up the stairs, pausing in the hallway to kiss her, warmth spreading through his cold, worn-down bones as her body lined up against his. She was unbuttoning his shirt, then his belt, and he was kissing her more deeply now, craving her. Needing her. More than he'd ever needed anything. He had been able to lie to everyone for years, about being a lone wolf, and of being able to survive on his own and not needing any help with anything. Now, he was sure he would just fade away into nothing if he was left alone again, and if she left him, he wasn't sure he'd survive at all.

"That one that looks like a cross between Napoleon and a griffin? Remember? I think it might be Benedict Arnold!"

He pursed his lips and stared at her, then at the picture on the wall, beside her, of an uzi shooting out floors, before looking at her again, taking in her lovely, excited smile.

Okay, so she's a little on the goofy side.

He could definitely live with that.

It was almost dawn – he could just see dark outside. Which was a ridiculous thought, but it was less darkness within the darkness, so therefore, it was only dark he could see. Sort of like how white wasn't even a color, but merely color without color, and how Secretariat wouldn't have been Secretariat without the blood of Princequillo and Nasrullah combined to create perfection. It either was or it wasn't dark out there. Just dark gray dark as opposed to dark dark dark.

Marlowe was snuggled against him, her leg over his hip, her arms around his waist. He suspected her arm, under his ribcage, was probably numb. He gently shifted away from her, and was gratified when she whimpered and tried to moved into his arms again. He was firm, but very gentle, as he extricated himself from her and moved onto his back, looking up at the ceiling fan. The room was warm, and he could see water droplets on the foggy windows – they had made love so many times, and so vigorously, that the windows had steamed up.

"Mmm…good morning," she whispered, stretching like a kitten, and snuggling over to him again, putting her head on his chest and sighing, running her fingers through his chest hair. The old sternum bush, he thought with a snicker.

"Morning."

"What time is it?" she asked, yawning.

"Almost…five," he answered, glancing at the loathed alarm clock on the bedside table.

"Le sigh," she said with a soft laugh. "Mm, tickly…" She nuzzled his chest. "I like all that salt and pepper. I have to go to work at eight."

"I have to be at work at seven."

"Damn…"

"Naughty girl, cursing in bed."

"Naughty just for cursing?" she whispered, tipping her head up and kissing his chin. "And what about you? You were saying a couple of things last night…and this morning…"

"Things I don't say in mixed company," he said.

She sat up suddenly, giving him a breathtaking view of her delicious, bare breasts and her soft pink and white skin and her smooth, comforting shoulders. "I loved my Christmas present, Carlton. It was so beautiful."

"Uh…good. I'm glad you liked it," he answered distractedly, unable to stop looking at her, feeling like that shy, awkward seventeen-year old who had learned so much from an older, experienced woman so many years ago. Helena hadn't been some cradle-robbing slut, either. She had been a young widow, her husband killed two years before in a car wreck, and her affair with Carlton had actually turned out to be helpful to them both. She had moved on and married another man. He had gone to college, much more sure of himself. The affair had ended amicably and without a trace of rancor or even regret between them. He even got a Christmas card from her, every year, sans the typical cheerful family newsletter about her and her husband and their kids. Just a general update (her oldest daughter had just gotten her drivers' license!) and best wishes for his good health and happiness and please don't get shot.

Marlowe was wearing the delicate silver bracelet, with its tiny threads of gold, and had sworn she'd never take it off. On the clasp was a tiny 24-carat gold heart, which he had jokingly said was about the size of his own and the Grinch's, which had caused Marlowe to remind him that the Grinch's heart had grown three sizes larger after he'd rejoined the Who race (or something – he couldn't remember now, as they had been drinking a little champagne at the time). That had lead to a tickling match and a particularly passionate lovemaking session on the floor in front of the crackling fire.

When he had told O'Hara that his Christmas had been 'good', Carlton had not been kidding. It had been the best damned Christmas he'd ever had. She had given him a solid-gold handcuffs tie-tack and a can of spray-on bikini. She definitely knew what he liked.

"What's for breakfast?" Marlowe asked, getting out of bed and walking over to the chair, where she got his shirt and slipped it on, slowly buttoning it up, just to make him crazy. He got up quickly – a little too quickly - and remembered that old adage about how love makes the world go around, and how his grandmother had amended the saying with 'and so can standing up too fast'. He wavered a moment, knowing his brief bout of dizziness was from having not eaten since yesterday afternoon and from too much sex. As if there could ever actually be too much sex, but…there you were. He did need to eat something.

He pulled on his sweatpants and followed Marlowe downstairs. The heater had kicked on, set at a comfortable sixty-eight degrees (which they both agreed was perfect for daytime, but that they didn't need the heat to be on at night so long as she was in his bed), and the house was warm and cozy. He paused in the living room, seeing her standing there, looking confused.

"You turned the TV off last night," she said.

The TV was on. I Love Lucy was just coming on. He scratched the back of his head, not wanting to let her see the rush of panic on his face. He had turned the TV off.

"Hm."

She turned and looked at him. "You did turn it off, didn't you?"

"I'm sure I did. Yes."

The channels started changing then. Marlowe jumped back against him, alarmed, and even more so when Martha Stewart's face came on the screen. "Good Lord, I hate that woman!"

"It's just some issue with the satellite company. I'll call and tell them to stop fannying about and they'll fix it. Don't worry." He started toward the kitchen.

"But the satellite company wouldn't turn the TV on, would they?"

"Maybe I set a timer or something. That remote control – it weighs almost three pounds. I swear I could use it to open the garage door. God only knows what it does when I'm not around."

"Carlton!"

"Listen, Marlowe – it's okay! It's just a TV and why is there a pot of water boiling on the stove?"

"Will you just calm down?"

Carlton was at his desk, looking at six coroner's reports on six murder victims found in a wooded area near a playground. All the bodies had been placed in random spots in the woods, mostly pretty much just left there, their bodies exposed to the elements, wild animals and crows. Two had been somewhat buried, under leaves and wattle. One had some rocks over it. Four of them had their eyes cut out, which made his stomach lurch. One had teethmarks on it, and all had been mutilated. All six were girls. None had been ID'd yet, which was driving him, O'Hara and Vick crazy.

Marlowe was a little freaked out. He was too, actually. Finding a pot boiling on the stove at five-thirty in the morning had been a definite 'WTF?' moment for them both. At least it had only been water, and not a rabbit. He couldn't think of anybody who would pull such a prank – not even Spencer was quite that sick and demented, and besides which, he doubted Spencer knew how to boil water.

"I can't calm down!" Marlowe responded. She was at work, on her lunch break. "You don't walk into the kitchen and find a pot of water boiling on the stove at five thirty in the morning, when you know you didn't get peckish in the middle of the night and decide to boil eggs!"

There hadn't been any eggs. Just water. Boiling. He had examined the kitchen carefully, and even thought about calling someone discreet from the station to come down and fingerprint the place. He wondered if Glenn Close's prints were on file with CODUS…

But he hadn't. His rational mind was still trying to think of some scenario where he would leave a pot of water boiling on the stove overnight and not remember having done it, and where said water would not eventually evaporate and the pot would not catch fire and the house would not burn down while he was upstairs making the headboard thump so hard against the wall that said wall was going to need to be re-plastered.

The carving on the bed did look like Benedict Arnold, actually. He had studied the carving of the Roc, however, to help concentrate. Somehow, traitorous Revolutionary War generals were far less conducive to romance than legendary beasts found in his old childhood copy of The Arabian Nights. Of course he hadn't needed to use the mythical bird for long – Marlowe's moans and whispers of encouragement had been more than enough, and then she had been the one with the better view of the carvings…

He coughed and dragged his mind out of the gutter. "Okay. I'll keep looking into it. How's your day going?"

"Fine. We're doing splicing today. It's about bears."

"I would think it was illegal to splice bears."

"Very funny. It's a documentary. PETA sponsored it. Here's a wonderful spoiler - one of the PETA reps got eaten. I haven't laughed so hard in months. I guess I'm out of luck on the notion of having lunch with you today, huh?"

"I'm afraid so. Sorry."

"It's okay. I'll have lunch with some of my friends, but it won't be nearly as fun. Bye, sweetheart."

He smiled, his peripheral vision not catching O'Hara coming around the corner with a stack of files and looking agitated. "Bye, babe." He hung up and looked up at his partner, who plunked half of the stack of files on his desk.

"Fifteen kids between age twelve and eighteen went missing in Santa Barbara in the past ten years, but only six have yet to be found, and they all disappeared in the past two years."

He nodded. "Then let's start digging, Wojciehowicz."

"Indeed, Detective Fish."

Author's note: Nasrullah and Princequillo were both great Thoroughbred stallions, and are the grandsires (paternal & maternal) of Secretariat. Read Secretariat by Bill Nack if you really want to understand how important they were (and are). Yes. I am a racing fan and a pedigree geekess. What of it? :D