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.

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has been encouraging me so far. You're all very sweet—and I really appreciate hearing your thoughts and insights. THANK YOU (worth repeating).

Special thanks to NoirCat for "proactive Gus" inspiration. :)

Reviews, feedback, thoughts and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. :)

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Chapter Five: Mercy Is Bad For The Vision, Ruthless Will Clear It Away

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# # #

Gus rapped on the door again, this time with more knuckle. He'd told himself, at first without shame, that a light tapping, light enough not to be heard over a TV or running water, was just as good as a regular knock.

He stole a look around him, noting the warm sunshine flowing through the tops of the leafy trees, the drops of morning dew still on the lovingly planted and tended flowers with feigned interest. He was in a suit, no tie, on his way to work; a vain curiosity had brought him here in detour (much out of the way).

No one was home. Must not be. Gus stared at the door, hoping to finally sort out what had been running through his mind as he not only made the turns to get here, but that which had led him out of his car, and up to the front door. There had to be a reason, a good reason.

He even had the perfect excuses in his mouth for what to do if the door opened. "Can't stay, will be late for work." He practiced the sentences as he rapped on the door again. But then . . . why had he come here?

Gus was puzzled by his own motivations; he had made the drive on auto-pilot, in spite of often using this subconscious function to get himself to the Central Coast building when it was time to refill his sample case or sit in on obligatory sales-rep improvement seminar. Truthfully, today, his route was waiting on him; he had no need to take a drive to Central Coast. The back of his neck itched.

I shouldn't be here, he thought, staring at the door, praying that it would not open.

It didn't. He was starting to feel foolish, and faintly disappointed. Gus frowned, but forced himself to turn around. Dejected, he walked down the steps. His hand was on his driver's side door before it struck him that Henry's truck was not in the driveway.

If Shawn had been here, he would have noticed that right away. Time could have been saved; or, knowing Shawn, he would have just himself in, Gus at his heels.

Shawn. His name broke over Gus with sadness. Coming here had been . . . the safest bet. Henry must . . . know something. Which direction to point Gus in; the last converted apartment Shawn had called "home" was now just another vacant space.

He had gone up to it, looked in the dusty windows. No sign of Shawn. Gus swallowed hard. He made himself get back into his car, and gave himself a pep-talk for his route. Henry was probably out on his boat; it was probable he'd be back at the house later tonight.

"I'll come back," Gus muttered, watching Henry Spencer's house grow smaller in his rearview.

# # #

Lassiter hadn't quite meant to let her "help" him, but he hadn't had the heart to shoo her off either, especially since he could do with another set eyes looking at the things he looked at so often. Juliet had come to his desk while he sat in his constant state of research, feigning innocent reasons for the visit. This was a day or two after her "innocent" visit to his apartment, where he had made accusations of her and then ripped open his insides as penance.

When, Carlton wondered, looking her over discreetly, when had his partner become so calculating and cool, while still possessing eyes of hot blue flame? He felt he should be more wary of her, of her intentions—even those good intentions—but pushing her away would just hurt him.

O'Hara handed him one of her small case file folders, asking him to go over the evidence, in spite of knowing the case was basically open and shut. Lassiter complied, pretending not to be unnerved as she leaned in to read his notes. Lassiter was tempted to shove the folder back in her face, demand what kind of crap she was trying to pull—only because he was curious at how she would react. He used to do this kind of thing to her all the time; worse, venting his angers and frustrations out on her when she never deserved it.

But it was too late; she was already drunk on his notes, staring at his crudely drawn maps and stark underlines and hard punctuations with heavy eyes.

Juliet wondered, not for the first time, if Carlton was seeing things where they weren't—making connections and inventing patterns between all of these unsolved deaths. Not all of them had the killer's stamp. She had—unbeknownst to anyone else but the coroner, who had offered to share his expertise—studied the markings on the corpses, going over every detail in hopes to find the connection between all of them. The connection, Juliet had determined, was that they had all been killed by the same person, killed in exactly the same way, with nearly all of the flesh sliced up identically, with the same knife.

Juliet had photographs of her partner's injuries; it would be a lie to say that holding them against the corpses hadn't been nearly impossible. Woody had even tried to take them from her, offering to do the "unsavory stuff" for her, but Juliet had shaken her head. "I have to do this," she'd whispered.

Grant had not cut the bottoms of Lassiter's feet; had only cut small, select areas of his face. Deepening the nicks along Carlton's jaw from shaving, pushing the blade against his hairline, cutting a slice in the back of his neck. The scar . . . it was almost the same color as his skin, but Juliet had noticed it anyway.

Grant had focused on Lassiter's arms, on his chest, before making seemingly haphazard cuts to his thighs and stomach, before opening a vein in his wrist.

The corpses had a smattering of other injuries; bruising, fractured limbs, internal bleeding. A single, forceful stab to the heart had been their ends.

Lassiter is not a corpse, Juliet told herself, focusing intently on the photographs. There were a few differences between him and the corpses—other than the death part—but it was clear enough to her that Grant was responsible for all of it. The investigation was still open, pending closure, until everything could be aptly proved—and the public put at ease, but Juliet just knew already it was done. The evidence "spoke" to her as if her gut was now rigged up with ESP. She'd frowned, recalling the vivid memory of Shawn at the station, clutching his side, his voice shrill. "He's not okay! She's showing him to me right now! He's in pain!"

Shawn, "communed" with one of the corpses, Juliet remembered, still frowning. The latest (known) victim—the young woman with the short, dark hair, with the one missing sandal. The bottoms of her feet had been slashed. So she would never walk again, without pain. Curious notion, Juliet considered in reflection.

Juliet sighed; she could hardly tell her partner that she knew an extra thing or two about Grant's victims. Especially not when he had actually let her stay at his work space, almost "inviting" her to help. Juliet focused on his voice as he launched into a lengthy theory about every unsolved murder across the Southwest being linked to Grant.

"He might have adjusted his patterns by state," Carlton insisted, "by year. You forget, this was supposed to be the year that—" He broke off, almost forgetting whose company he was in.

"Year that what?" Juliet prodded. She leaned over his shoulder, trying to see what he could see on the computer screen, as if the answer was there. Her partner was trying silence, as if she was going to forget. She jabbed him in the back with her pointer finger. "What?"

"Year that he was supposed to get his heart," Lassiter muttered. It had been a minor inclusion in his statement that the killer had threatened to cut out his heart, and he guessed that his partner had gotten her hands on his statement because he had been so tight-lipped. Lassiter had failed to include the detail that Saul had alluded to consuming his heart for strength in the same manner he'd failed to report that by drinking Lassiter's blood, the killer would become invincible. But the fact remained, in print—as well as witnessed to the grave shock of his partner—that Saul had tasted Lassiter's blood and had licked it from open wounds. Lassiter hated that Juliet knew that, that she actually seen it happening; he was humiliated by so much that Saul had done. This was not something he would openly discuss—maybe not even while under hypnosis; but there were many other things that might not hurt to get off his chest. She was here, and as she had stated, she was not going away.

Still, he had to deflect her now. She had not jabbed him again, but he guessed she was waiting for an—any—explanation. "I'm just considering that it seems like, from this patterning, if they are his patterns, that he went looking in small towns, maybe practicing, working up to—"

"This is about the heart?" Juliet asked. He listened for skepticism, waited for her pressure him, but her statement seemed to be neutral. He felt a little at ease that she wasn't asking for more from him regarding his experiences; she was, he reflected later, good about giving him space while still casting her net around him, just in case he changed his mind.

Juliet could not truly fathom the killer actually cutting out Lassiter's heart. He had made no attempts to retrieve the hearts of the corpses. But . . . none of the rest had had their wrists sliced open and suckled. She put her hand on Lassiter's shoulder, ignoring his flinch, as if resting her fingers on his jacket. In fact, she had no doubts in her mind that Grant wouldn't just have killed her partner the same way as he'd killed the others—then taken a garish care to arrange his body in a public place.

Juliet swallowed, recalling what Carlton had recently told her about Grant pressing a playing card into his mouth. None of the other victims had been found like this. No, the card had been proudly displayed, halved and held on with a red teardrop hat pin.

Lassiter turned his head, causing Juliet to let go of him. He looked sad. "I don't know that, not for one hundred percent," he told her quietly. He stabbed a finger at his computer screen. "But he was definitely up to something, O'Hara. Looking and killing, making his way here—" Lassiter clamped his jaw shut, feeling a blush sneak up on him. He was thankful that no one else was around to open up his head, take a look inside. He could churn thoughts with O'Hara right beside him and none would be the wiser. Distantly, he was grateful he also could not guess at what was boiling behind her stormy eyes.

There were bad times . . . bad dreams, he corrected himself, when he'd wake sharply after believing Saul had his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it, had his mouth to Lassiter's ear, whispering about dead murdered things and desert burials and corpses without hearts.

There was a . . . Carlton was ashamed to have these thoughts, but they were so tangled up with his other thoughts that right now, separation of any kind was impossible. He had a morbid sense of pride that the killer had . . . had coveted his blood alone as some sort of extraordinary gift. He hated that he liked the idea of it.

He knew he couldn't finish the sentence without indirectly implicating himself as somehow being "chosen" as "special". This was not a thing to speak aloud; was definitely not a thing to ever say to O'Hara for the shock value alone, or to Vick, who would yank his field clearance and dump his ass in some file room for the duration of his career.

"Carlton, he could have gotten to anyone, here," O'Hara said quietly, making Lassiter wonder if she somehow could read his thoughts. He felt dizzy with nausea, but pushed himself to listen to her. Her aggression was foreign to him; he had never known her to possess such emotions; secretly, he missed the softer parts of her personality—even the cheer that would not die. And now that she was offering comfort, he didn't want to tune her out. "I know . . . I know you are likely so sick of hearing people tell you how lucky you are, but . . ." Juliet hesitated, mainly because the notion seemed like in belonged in some tall tale instead of in their reality, but then she continued, "But that bastard was going to take your heart." Juliet's mouth screwed up. She couldn't hold the question back. "Do you know why?" she breathed.

So, he thought. She doesn't know. Lassiter forced himself not to nod, giving her no response at all.

A long silence between them; tension both could sense, if not be crushed by. The air was charged, but Lassiter wasn't afraid. He felt her leave more than he saw it; O'Hara took with her an angry determination, raking the air around her as if she were in water, making waves.

I just . . . can't, he told her silently as she retreated. Can't. Not yet.

# # #

Did I let him go too easily? Juliet pondered, a fist clenched at her side. Behind her was the shell of her partner; more of him left behind in that building, perhaps? She kept her pace, unable to pause at her desk. She could have been walking towards a wall of flame—but why, then, the coldness inside her, turning her limbs to solid blocks of ice?

Juliet kept walking; in time, she passed the spot in the hallway where she had learned the things that would set her fate in motion—where she had discovered that her gut instinct had not been way off. She quelled the urge to look behind her, be assured that he was okay—by telling herself she knew he wasn't. But he was there and she shouldn't dare ask for more.

"Do you know why?" It rolled around her head like pebbles; something was loose. Juliet headed for the double doors; she needed to feel the sun on her skin. In a way, she was miffed, or disappointed, but knew she had earned a remote triumph of progress. Too often, she found herself wandering into the complex maze of her partner's inner terror without so much as a small ball of yarn tethering her to the outside—marking her way in, and out. Juliet guessed she should consider a harness and full body armor for these "errands"—metaphorically speaking, of course.

And what if . . . what if what was in the center of the maze was much worse than a "Minotaur"? What if she entered . . . found the center . . . and then had no instructions or a path of how to get either one of them back to a place of light? Not without hitting a few walls first, running blindly like mice not well-versed in electroshock therapy. Could either of them take it? What if . . . what if they got separated? Juliet shook her head; this was all speculation; she wasn't even close to the center. But getting there was always on her mind.

"He was supposed to get his heart." Uttered so quietly that it was clear to Juliet the words were for their ears only.

Juliet dissected the sentence as she walked, ignoring the sharp glare that hit her eyes as she walked down the steps of the police station. The sun was hot enough for sweat to bead quickly at her temples. Why . . . how . . . did Carlton get so attached to Grant? she mulled over. Or was it the other way? She felt her breath come out chillily. Why was Carlton resisting her tug of war? Why . . . how . . . had there come to be a war of sorts behind them? Should she put more force into her pulling, or should she let go?

Juliet veered away from the parking lot, not trusting herself to get behind the wheel. Treading along a sidewalk, she told herself she just needed a few minutes to collect herself. She felt grateful for the sunny weather, the salty breeze coming off the sea, and the bright, cloudless sky. The only thing she wished it could do for her was clear her head completely—burn away, breeze away, shine away everything she no longer wanted to see.

Juliet wished . . . she smiled ironically to herself, glad no one was around to see. She wished she could get her hands on Grant, around his throat. If she knew the separations and definitions between Lassiter and Grant's "ghost", then she could grab the ghost and rip it off Lassiter.

She killed this ghost all the time; what was just once more?

# # #

Lassiter stood up. Now was as good a time as any. He took a deep breath and headed for Vick's office, hoping she wasn't already occupied. Halfway there, he wondered if he should have picked up O'Hara's case file, pretending this was reason for which he wanted to speak with Vick. Too late, he shrugged to himself.

He cleared his throat, and knocked.

When Lassiter knocked on her door, Karen was in the middle of deep consideration—weighing just how heavy the recent words of Detective O'Hara were when it came to her partner's well-being. This morning, she had stopped by to open up. O'Hara was just short of appalled that Vick was nearly clueless about the whole thing.

"He doesn't know I'm here, doesn't know what I'm about to say," O'Hara had said. She'd been as cool, but with more limited emotion, as when she stood before IAB a few months earlier—ready, if necessary, to offer up her badge in defense of Lassiter.

It wasn't that Karen doubted O'Hara was well meaning, but Karen couldn't quite understand how Lassiter could have been doing extended—and unauthorized—research about Grant right under her nose. Or maybe it was she just didn't want to believe it. O'Hara had voiced her concerns about his lengths and extremes tracking this killer to his past— "A man," O'Hara had told her exasperatedly, "who doesn't even exist."

By the time the Junior Detective left, Vick felt washed over with deja vu; O'Hara was not the first to come to her office with a say about Lassiter. "You just don't know," O'Hara told her sadly. Yet Vick had heard in her words the undertone of O'Hara's explanation about her actions in the killer's death: "I don't regret it. . . . I'd do it again. He was—barely human." Aloofness, a faux certainty. Or was it something else that Karen was blind to?

Where was the O'Hara who had . . . been worried that Lassiter's opinion of her would be forever altered? She was not here anymore.

Vick came out of thoughts when she saw Lassiter opening her door. "A moment, Chief?" he asked.

"Come in," she said, looking him over. He still bore stitches and a few visible scars; even his face, practically untouched, was a map of pain; Vick imagined the seams holding his insides together were just as battered, if not more.

"Chief," Carlton began after the office door was closed behind him, "I'd like to be granted permission for a leave of absence."

Vick knew it was unfair to expect her Head Detective to be immediately the same as he was following such a horrifying ordeal—one that he had nearly not survived—but inside her hopes plunged from a great height. She gulped silently, and repeated it. "Leave of absence?"

"Not too long," Carlton said, ironically trying to reassure her. "Um. Two weeks, maybe three."

"Why?" Vick blurted out. "Excuse me, I'm just surprised, Detective," she apologized.

Carlton looked away, his glance distant. Knowing she was already concerned, he briefly told her why. His voice was strangely soft, flat. "I want to go to New Mexico, Chief. I have come to believe Grant does have a living blood relation—and I think I can find him." He was testing this out on her first, gauging her reaction as to when and how much he should actually tell his partner—who might get physical. He could imagine a smack to the shoulder or even a fist to the still tender spots of his collarbone—a needed shock to his system that only she could provide. "I need to go to New Mexico," he repeated, amending his earlier word choice.

"You're not considering—turning in your badge, are you?" Karen asked softly, apprehensive that the man standing before her was too much of a different Carlton Lassiter altogether. She was slightly relieved when her Head Detective appeared offended at the mere suggestion. It comforted her to see him bare his teeth as if he were preparing to give her a mild tongue lashing as to why he would never willingly surrender his badge.

He shook his head curtly, swallowing what he felt was most unnecessary. "Chief, I'm sorry. This time I just can't throw myself into my job to forget. Please," he hissed through closed teeth, "please don't make me exchange my badge for what I have to do." After a few seconds of silence, he added, "I'm—I'm going to come back."

Karen was taken aback, raising her hand to press against her sternum. "Just where is this place you intend to go?"

"Norton," Carlton replied, "a small town, barely on the map. It's nearly 200 miles east of Albuquerque, if that helps your visual."

Karen gave him a sideways look, but he didn't budge. Instead, he added, "It's also about 215 miles north of Roswell. Norton's in Quay County. Would you like to hear its crime statistics?" She raised an eyebrow as a warning, annoyed by how much he seemed know about this remote area. He had already, she understood with dread, made up his mind about this, and what he'd come to do here was just a formality—another quirk which irritated her. The distant words of Officer McNab's worry crept up on her like fog.

Lassiter worked hard to hold his tongue; he knew, by memory, how many miles Norton was away from every place of interest he'd looked into regarding a possible connection to Saul. Any brutal unsolved crime around this cache of states could easily be his. Lassiter knew how far Norton was from Santa Barbara—1061 miles, a nearly 16 hour trek by car; but he'd already done all the tedious work of finding an airline and rental car service that would get himself within town lines. And because he wasn't flying internationally, or because he hadn't been striped of his badge, he was eligible to bring his firearms and other police issued weapons with him—as long as they were not included in his carry-on or carried on on his person. He had been practicing his patience in case of emergency delays, already anticipating the long hours to spend in uncomfortable airport chairs, biding time with his memories, questions and regrets until he could set foot in a place he needed to go to.

Vick gestured to a chair in front of her desk. Lassiter hesitated, rubbing his hands together. She wondered if he thought he'd just get away with asking her for such a thing without having to explain anything. She wondered if he'd considered the magnitude of what he was asking—financial conditions aside. Thanks to O'Hara's prodding, Karen saw right through the in-person next of kin notification. "What are you really asking for?" she said, raising an eyebrow while again pointing to the chair.

Lassiter sighed, and dropped into the chair. "Just what I said. And I—I want to do some retrospective investigating," he told her quietly.

"Oh?" Vick said, frowning.

When he started discussing, in detail, what he considered a pattern of unsolved murders across the Southwest, Karen realized he had thought this out too far. She realized also that she had to put a stop to it—and at the same time, give him his way, in a way. Or else risk losing him to . . . what? Some imaginary pattern? Lassiter wasn't going to rest until he saw this whole thing through. This could . . . kill him.

She put her foot down, in a manner of speaking. "I will not authorize you to go on some statewide or countrywide crime hunt, Detective." She sighed. "It's obvious that I have neglected making myself available, and I apologize, Carlton—but now we're going to talk."

Lassiter twisted his mouth. He'd already considered the difficulties of such a request; didn't everyone want a piece of him? Even after Saul already had taken . . .

Vick didn't wait for him to start. "Carlton, you didn't ask to be victimized, did you?" she asked, staring at the tightened muscles of his jaw and neck line; his head turned from her, facing a wall he was not seeing.

He made a noise under his tongue, then paused before answering with disdain, "Didn't I? I could have turned around, so many times."

"You did not ask to be victimized," Vick stated almost forcefully, changing her tactic.

"Even if I didn't 'ask'—" Lassiter began, his long fingers fidgeting with the edges of his suit jacket. He couldn't finish the thought, not out loud, not in his head. It had become commonplace to deconstruct his actions so that, no matter what, he always came out at fault. It was not Saul's fault—Carlton Lassiter was the only one to blame for his own misfortunes. "He knew me," he said instead, "so well." He looked down.

Vick started. She couldn't possibly say to Lassiter that his statement was untrue; he was the last person to converse with the killer one-on-one in a space of almost five incredibly torturous hours—no matter what she thought she knew about Lassiter's personality, how he "should" have been unshakable, unbreakable, in reality, she had not known what had gone on while Lassiter was held hostage.

"I need to understand why . . ." he began, trying to ignore the Chief's eyes boring into him.

"Why . . . you feel he knew you?" Vick repeated slowly. She felt as if she was being cut; it was one thing to hear from others about Lassiter—and quite another to hear from Lassiter himself.

It wasn't fair, that she could read him this way. He took in a breath, released. "Yes, but other reasons too." He sighed, then made another request. "Chief, I need to do this alone."

"Oh," Vick said, drawing out the word as the meaning flashed before her. She despised the mere thought of sending—allowing—her despondent Head Detective to go out into the New Mexican desert, looking for answers that might not be anywhere. But here he was before her, pleading, if not for understanding or acceptance then for permission. It went against everything she hoped for his healing to say yes.

"You know that I have enough vacation time saved up," he continued, as if she could deny this fact. In three and a half years, he had only used four days, pleading with her then to let him and O'Hara board a plane to Vancouver so he could track and hopefully catch a criminal on his personal "Most Wanted" list. He brought his eyes up to hers, made them lock until he said what he had to, until she heard it, until it registered.

"I'm . . . I'm no good to you here, not right now. I can't focus on any crime that was not his, that is not . . . my own. I mean, what was done. What I did to . . . end up there." He didn't let her tell him again that he was not to blame himself. He closed his eyes and waited for her to lose the urge to speak. "I can't do my job well. I . . . I . . ." He bit his lip, pausing. "I have unfinished business, Chief."

Karen took a deep breath. Their conversation was bordering on surreal, and she wasn't sure what to do about it—how to steer it back from the edge. "Carlton," she began firmly, "I meant what I said—you are not to pursue any unauthorized investigations. I see now that you have given this subject much scrutiny—so much so that it has apparently interfered with your open cases." Vick found herself getting angry at Lassiter—and remorseful for doubting O'Hara—but kept her words in check. "If I grant you permission to go to this—"

"Norton, New Mexico," Lassiter filled in quietly as she grasped for the small town's name.

Karen sighed. "Norton, New Mexico, it will be for the sole purpose of seeking Grant's relatives." She sighed again. "And, Carlton—"

He waited; she was relenting.

"For closure," she finished kindly.

Lassiter's body felt the relief before his mind did; she still had not affirmed his request. Admittedly, he had not been expecting anything even close to this from Vick. He waited in silence for her to rule.

Why wouldn't he argue with her? Vick pondered, feeling her throat constrict. She didn't imagine he would obey her to the letter; if he saw a trail in the dust, what would stop him from following it? She swallowed uneasily, wishing she could take back her words already. But she studied him as she had when he first walked in—and saw what might be a thin hope breaking through the pain so noticeably etched into his face.

# # #

He might, he contemplated, decline to tell her. Lassiter chewed the inside of his cheek. Detached, he imagined what it might be like to tell her, straight up.

"I'm leaving."

But it never got past that. Lassiter always flinched, aware now of O'Hara's likelihood to strike out, with fists. He could almost feel bruises forming on his jaw, his cheeks, under an eye.

It's best I go, he thought, then call her, with coordinates. It felt a bit cowardly, but he had to (almost) admit aloud that he was now in a business of self-preservation.

Besides . . . she was much too eager to . . . peel the Saul-side from him, to dig in her nails, to draw her own blood, and his, just to get it free. Lassiter stole a glance at her. She looked . . . almost the same—as before, as that night. He still had a clear image of her in his head, when she was leaning over him as he lay on the earthen floor, her mouth opening and closing without sound. Her eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hair out of place.

Then, she vanished, a magician having perfected the desired illusion with mirrors, smoke, misdirection. And her reasoning for doing so . . . it still didn't sit well with him. Lassiter carried it inside his body, a constant reminder that things were not quite what they seemed—and that he was going to have go back to it and confront her.

But now, he just didn't have the stomach nor the energy for it. Doing it meant also confronting . . . the ugliest notions caught inside his own head—the horrific remainders. Lassiter shook his head hard enough to feel dizzy. I'm not ready, I'm not ready, he thought.