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.
References made to a quite a few seasons.
Author's Note: Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Thanks for reading!
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Chapter Eight: Nothing Is Done Without Effect
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# # #
Shawn fingered the handlebars but was not quite ready to get astride his bike.
He relished, in spite of the sorrow he faced, the errand in which he'd gone to retrieve it, slipping silently, unnoticed, from his father's house and into a waiting taxi.
Honestly, Shawn didn't know what he would find. At the time, he hadn't thought to inspect for any damage, and couldn't separate the crunch of the fall to determine whether his beloved Norton had taken the brunt of it, or if it had been his body that had.
Hell, it certainly felt as if it had been his body; the real force of the aches and pains hadn't started until the next morning—the most cruel of daylight he'd faced since being school-aged, awoken too soon after late night covert under-the-blankets comic book reading to go to class for tests he never studied for and homework assignments that were never done.
Not quite ready, he'd told his body, but his eyes had still wrenched open as he lay on pillows spread across his father's couch. (He hadn't been able to do the stairs; not again, what if he fell?)
Everyone, gone. Rigid, Shawn felt pinned to the couch, a knitting needle through his belly button. The night's events flashed quickly, a sad, tired black and white with no sound. (The technicolor was to follow soon enough, the volume much too high. He'd had to grab his ears, put his head down, just ride it out.) Gus . . .
Gus had left him, Shawn recalled with pain, as if he was ever going to forget it. When he could check his phone he did. No missed calls, no texts, no voice mail. Just the dead silence of deep space. Of the grave. Shawn swallowed hard. He couldn't get off the couch, not without Henry's help—much to the nagging protests of his bladder.
His beloved Norton had barely been scratched—the left side mirror bent, some paint chipped off in the skid— but Shawn had, in the beginning, poured his heart into fixing its cosmetic damage—as soon as he had been able; much of the fixing had been in the middle of the night, a steady work while he was still wide awake.
Maybe it was the chrome and steel which had saved his life. The second time.
Where were they all going so fast? Everyone on the road had a motive, a secret agenda—reasons that kept them from constantly nearly running stop signs and lights, kept them from leaving a few car lengths for safety (of themselves or others). But thus was the way the world was, how people were—and they should be so lucky to not be in Japan, where the rush was expected, where bullet trains launched travelers as fast as they could from station to station, where bikes and cars and other forms of public transportation all moved quick as light in one immediate direction.
According to them, California was far behind—even chugging along at some peaceful, speed-walking pace.
Even himself—he was often going somewhere much too fast, pretending not to notice posted speed limits, pedestrians, or any kind of tailgating situation that would force him to idle, revving up his skin (and his engine) every few milliseconds because he was ready to be on his way.
That night he'd driven from Samarkand to the SBPD—he'd raced with his heart in his hands, tasting his own blood and muscles, his teeth chattering ceaselessly. He barely recalled the drive—even less so the trembling seconds when he'd lowered himself onto his seat, trying not to clutch at his squeezed, bruised throat. Shawn recalled most the swerve and the tumble—the skid of a lifetime, as he'd watched what little hope that had remained for redemption spill out and break into thousands of pieces, when he fell.
And with even less composure, he'd gotten up, aching and dying on his way up the stairs, his plan B rattling around useless in his head. But he had the show. The show was on his side—he could play up the theatrics, he could use it to slide back into his comfort zone.
Slide back, what a laugh. There was no going back.
He pointed the front wheel of his bike towards the road—the open road—but quivered senselessly with hesitation. Just . . . just what could be out there? he wondered. Nothing good.
# # #
Saul was no longer next to him when Carlton pulled into town; perhaps he had been bored waiting while Lassiter checked into his room, dropped off his bags, took a few minutes to splash water on his face and sit down, dazed, on the edge of his bed.
For a good few minutes, his body tried to convince him to lie down and nap; truthfully, his eyes and head were swimming, unfocused. The day was already a long one, having started when the sky was still opaque with nighttime. But now that he was here, he couldn't waste what little daylight this day still had in it.
It had to have been hours, he realized, since he'd eaten a thing, or taken more than a few necessary gulps of coffee or water. This could be the errand to get him up and into town, a guise of satisfying a basic need for food now that his shelter had been settled. Lassiter hoisted himself to his feet, retrieved his Glock .17 and a ammo clip and loaded it. He secured it in his holster which was covered as discreetly as usual by a suit jacket. He debated what to do with his badge; it might not do to have it showing, just yet. He moved it to the back of his belt so that it was also covered by his jacket. He wasn't intending to go to local law enforcement just yet; first, he wanted to get a feel for Norton, NM. Today, he would take the tour, get his bearings, at least what he could with maps for guidance.
Carlton went back outside. It was hot and dusty; he'd expected no relief, coming all the way here.
Recent times, every now and then, stopped him cold—thinking of throwing in the towel, when he was not a man who had given up on anything. A few years back, he'd come dangerously close to the edge, when a nearly unfamiliar hopelessness gnawed him—when his livelihood was nearly stolen, when his badge was taken. This, more than the murder accusation, and more than having to beg Spencer for help, was the worst moment of his entire life. Was—still very close, even after Saul—the worst moment of his entire life.
But he hadn't bled out, then—even his own soul remained intact, stuck to his ribs like good barbecue.
Lassiter unwillingly found his mind reading over the memories when he was conscious and when Spencer was present—somehow more agonizing moments than when he was first alone with Saul. He remembered, strikingly, Spencer's sober mug, the faker's lips moving before his voice materialized: "How long ago were you stabbed?" But Spencer had been uncommonly serious, almost uncomfortable engaging Saul in conversation, and had kept from pressing his fingers to his temple by making himself useful—putting pressure instead on Lassiter's two latest wounds.
He hadn't forgotten that Spencer had been there, part of the time, but Lassiter was loathe to think of it—his most degrading moments witnessed by someone who was still breathing. Certainly, his partner was exempt from these standards, only by the proxy of blurred images that registered as little earthquakes just under the skin on his face. She touched him and he was reeling, closing his body.
He stopped, keys in hand. He could see her, turning to him, a little perfect smile on her face. Carlton shielded his eyes; he could smell the heat and dirt—taste the sand, its grit between his teeth. There was no way she could be standing there, just a little ways from him, not a drop of sweat upon her in this glaring sun.
No. Juliet wasn't actually there. Carlton swallowed, feeling unease gather at the back of his throat. It couldn't be the heat; he was used to this kind of thing, and it hardly ever bothered him. But he was starting to think he needed to get himself inside, maybe sit down and take some long, slow sips of ice water.
Quickly, he got onto the road, already having studied the map. It was a short journey, less than five miles. He rode in tense silence, nearly holding his breath. He considered, as he pulled in, taking a driving tour—making a wide circle around at least main street—but he was having enough trouble focusing on the small sign which proclaimed welcome. He parked in a public lot and exited the car, checking the map for the nearest restaurant—or hell, nearest saloon. He wasn't on duty.
His intent was to keep focus, and edged along the sharp sunlight of the tiny blip of this unfamiliar town. After all, Old Sonora had prepared him in more ways than one; however, he'd reminded himself from a distance, Old Sonora had been a different kind of escape—and in the past when he was still young and stupid enough to keep hope like guarded secret in the palm of his hands.
Carlton took his time, doing his best not to look shifty, or too comfortable. He couldn't, however, look or act like a civilian; it was out of his nature and, as it had been pointed out to him rather harshly several times before, he was no good at undercover work. His guard was up—a neat, solid fortress, but he had a smile ready—strained, no, no, easy—for his lips. A smile . . . hers . . . in the dust. Nothing like hers. She could smile when she was crumpled up inside, a wreck.
That's not focusing, he chided himself. But still, it was hard to let go of her. She'd become the kind of shadow he minded the least to have follow him; it was a cold comfort to know she had his back.
He seemed to consider her when he was most apprehensive or when he knew he needed a second opinion—and hers was the only one he often trusted; she had been a presence, a little bit of light to hold onto, figuratively speaking, when he had to deal with Saul. And now . . . he was "seeing" her in the desert, her smile making his eyes water.
Lassiter refused to over-think it, dismissing the reasons—other than heatstroke—quickly. Still, there was now a niggling in the back of his mind—like the prick of a pin—that O'Hara had always been between this lawman and his would-be murderer. Lassiter shuffled through the heat, trying to ignore how cold his insides felt, how his knees were threatening to buckle. Of course . . . of course she would . . . "follow" him here. . . .
He felt sickest because he had just realized that he'd put her up like a barrier, used her like a shield, to steady himself and block or dodge Saul's assaults. Certainly, she hadn't been physically there for the duration, only manifesting when it was live or die—and he no longer had a say in the matter. She'd been . . . protecting him for a very long time, and he hadn't even acknowledged it. Memories careened through him; he had "conjured" her up like some goddamned security net, needing her to "take" the blows for him.
She hadn't flinched. Not once. She had not deserted him, though he'd played out all the versions of her hatred, of her disappointment, her anger—how she'd call him weak and demand a better partner. How she'd forget him immediately once he was dead.
Don't be stupid. He was going to kill you.
It wasn't her voice, just his, inside his head, but she could easily have said it to him. Sometimes, he needed to remind himself that she hadn't followed a single one of his negative thoughts regarding her. Instead, she'd placed unnecessary blame upon herself, convinced he'd find fault with her because she hadn't been there to protect him—in the physical—much sooner.
Lassiter still was incredulous over this; the whole thing was his stupid mistake. He had walked right into Saul's trap, and the only way O'Hara could have known was if she had tailed him to the warehouse, or if she were psychic—
He frowned bitterly, and chided himself; he didn't believe in psychics of any kind. The past pinched, with claws and tweezers. Spencer . . . Spencer had been there with him, for some of it. Lassiter fought a full body shudder. For a very long time now, he'd almost had himself convinced that Spencer's presence was a result of delirium, a symptom of blood loss—but, as he recalled, it had made little sense to wish for Spencer's help when his partner had police training and a gun.
Little by little, in fact, he remembered the flashes when Spencer had been present—finding him on the floor after Saul shoved the dirty rag into his mouth; Spencer's annoying insistence that they get up and go; his stunned incredulity at Lassiter's staunch refusal; Spencer literally trying to stand up to Saul (one too many times); part of the slap he'd taken for Spencer to the back of his head; waking, in and out of consciousness for a long time—low tones.
In the hospital, he'd tried hard not to remember all of it. Even then, he'd wanted to believe that that he'd dreamed up Spencer just like he'd dreamed up O'Hara—but then O'Hara returned to the hospital when he was finally conscious enough to recognize her . . . and he just hadn't been so sure. Lassiter had, after that, chalked it up to being figments. How could Spencer have found him?
Lassiter's eyes fell upon a dusty bench a few feet away. He wasn't going to make it indoors just yet and if he didn't sit for a few minutes he knew there was chance of passing out. O'Hara had even mentioned, offhandedly, that Spencer had been present during his rescue—and that he was the sole witness, besides the two of them, to Saul's shooting death.
Lassiter sank onto the bench, ignoring the rattling in his legs. Come to think of it, he hadn't even seen Spencer since he'd finally convinced the idiot to run off and get help. Lassiter rubbed a hand across his mouth. Saul . . . Saul had told him he'd killed Spencer—cut his eyes and his face and his throat, just like that. Obviously, Saul knew how to lie well. Must have practiced for years and years. Lassiter looked around him, as if the small, old border town knew the how and the why.
Why . . . why hadn't Spencer been around to tease and aggravate him? To rub it in that a man with a hunting knife had almost gotten the best of him? To brag that he was a hero—and that the only reason Lassiter was still alive was because of him?
That's not the only reason.
Again, Lassiter "glimpsed" O'Hara's face through the dust, the tiniest smile playing across her mouth. He'd seen her like that, so many times, in the hallways of the SBPD—just because, just because it was morning or afternoon, or after they'd brought a suspect in and got him or her to confess in record time. But now . . . now she seemed to him a ghost, and the entire image false. He'd never seen her. She wasn't really there to begin with.
At the back of his mind, a small sound, too soft and distant to be a human voice. Still, it brought him a few seconds pause; it was like a cry for help from someone else's dream. Another fit of coldness took his insides. Going back hours into this day, he had been in Santa Barbara, boarding the plane, and now he thought, strangely, that he'd been gone for much longer. Had he been gone so long as to forget where he'd come from—forget who he was? Or where he belonged?
You don't have to go back there, a cold voice reminded him. You don't ever have to go back.
This thought hadn't actualized within him—a lock clicking in place—until the plane's wheels touched down. Until that moment, he hadn't realized how badly he'd wanted to escape; this added an utterly sickening dimension to his long search into Saul's possible criminal history. And it made him glad, for the first time the entire flight, that he had been crammed up against the window in a row of what seemed like seating for children. No one could see his face—turned towards the runway, eyes heavy with what could be.
He'd felt a freeing terror, a pang of what might be loss. Anything could happen now.
But you're still the SBPD's Head Detective! a voice reminded him. It sounded suspiciously like it could belong to McNab. Before it could talk him into, or out of, anything, he replaced the vacant praise with doubt—his thoughts ghostly shadows of what had passed through his head as he waited to die at Saul's hands.
No one will miss me. They'll forget. It will be easy.
O'Hara. She'd slip in to his former role; she was geared up enough to be as high strung, type-A and ruthlessly demanding when he left, the place in between them unsettled. It'll be good for her, he thought. She likes to be drunk with power.
Lassiter swallowed dryly. He felt parched, as if he'd been without water for days. Maybe it was causing him harm—he was seeing things, thinking things, that were impossible. He started gasping for breath and closed his eyes. He leaned back against the bench, letting whatever mirage it was this time creak through him. He had no clue how to deal with these emotions.
Strangely, he had guilt; he guessed this came from his (somewhat conscious) acts of self sabotage. Sometimes it was easier to punish himself about the ordeal rather than work to sort out how he was supposed to feel now—not just feel but behave. He just hadn't felt like himself in a very long time.
He wished . . . before sneering the petty thoughts away—that he would turn his head and find O'Hara there, her face open, poised to listen to him.
When this moment passes, she might say, you'll still have the next. Then she would nod at him meaningfully, encouraging that he go on.
That's right, another voice interrupted. Lassiter stiffened, as if he could actually feel Saul's breath against his ear. All you got's this moment, going on forever, Lawman. This moment when I relieve your veins of its blood, and take all your strength into me—
In spite of the conflicting voices in his head, Lassiter ironed his face of expression, and forced his hands not to shake. I've been sitting here long enough, he told himself with resolve, though he questioned his own strength to move. It had not occurred to him that once he was here—in Saul country—that he might not know where to go from here. At home, the urge to put this to bed was stronger than anything—he wanted it more than sleep, food, and most of all, detective work. At home, Saul traced his footsteps like a shadow, following him from his apartment to the station. He never needed to sleep. This, too, hadn't occurred to him—that Saul would find him here, that he'd even think to look.
Maybe . . . the killer wasn't dead. Maybe he'd taken a good hit to the shoulder, but the damn doctors and their damn Hippocratic Oath had fixed him, another faceless sycophant, good as freaking new.
You know this isn't true.
The voice was sharp enough to almost hurt. Carlton shook his head slowly. No. It was better he was here alone. That he was doubting her—that he was seeing shadows and "hearing" stupid voices in his head—a shudder worked its way through him. She'd already seen enough of the before and after to last her an entire lifetime of therapy. Clearing his throat, Lassiter got to his feet.
He pushed in the doors of what looked like a mom and pop diner, almost knocked off his feet with the blast of cool air that hit his face.
The hostess, an older woman, looked up. "Just one, hun?"
Lassiter nodded, and followed her to a table. He was determined to stop wallowing and get to work, as soon as he was hydrated.
# # #
Henry waited in Vick's office for the Chief to return from her coffee break. Unable to sit still, facing her desk, Henry found himself standing at her windows, staring through the half opened blinds.
After a quick sweep of the hallway leading to the bullpen showed him little out of the ordinary, he ventured out, stopping at a corner to get a better look. His eyes were drawn almost immediately to Detective O'Hara—so focused at her desk she seemed almost obviously going through the motions. And Detective Lassiter wasn't seen, yet she was calm, almost angrily so, as she pounded her keyboard. Henry wondered if she knew anything about Shawn; if he got nothing to go on from Karen, maybe he could cozy up to Detective O'Hara, so to speak.
Juliet turned her chin—at this angle, it had a look of metal painted the color of flesh. Henry pulled back, unnerved, and headed back to Vick's office. Maybe not, he thought wryly.
She had the look, he decided, of a woman who'd had something happen to her—in a situation where she'd lacked control, or insight, where she'd acted out of instinct, and now no one had better cross her.
He considered, however foolish, cornering her so he could get a better read on her mental state; there might be, he thought, something still in there that wanted to help find Shawn.
Vick first, though.
After speaking with Gus at length, Henry felt he ought to take the matter to Karen—not to file a missing persons report, but to get what he could of another side of the story. He called and she had been friendly enough on the phone, telling him within the next few days she might be able to find some spare time.
"Tomorrow," Henry prodded, feeling, though he couldn't see, the lines on her face tighten. "I want to come in tomorrow."
"If it's been months, you think you can't wait a few more days?" Karen retorted in a business-like tone.
Henry rolled his eyes to the ceiling, imploring silently the card he was about to play wouldn't get the receiver slammed in his ear. "Because it's been months, and I just I got the information," he told her exasperatedly. "Look, I've been thinking about this morning and night for two days straight. If it was your daughter, would you want to wait?"
In the silence following, Henry could hear Karen's breath, hot and huffing. He wondered if some part of her had also found Shawn's extended absence curious. Certainly, like him, she might have been too busy to give it much real thought . . . he closed his eyes guiltily.
"Tomorrow," Karen relented, her voice like a slap.
"Right on time, I see," Karen said as she entered her office, holding a mug.
Henry stood up. "I know it's short notice, but—"
Karen hissed. "Don't waste my time on half-hearted apologies, Henry." She got behind her desk and sat. He sat back down too. "Now, you wanted to talk about Shawn. So let's talk."
Henry summarized what Gus had told him, and then told her about his last encounter with his son, which caused her to appear bewildered.
Recalling what Gus had told him of her demeanor, Henry found his thoughts turning to Detective O'Hara again, prowling fiercely out there like a big cat. He felt a tingling on the backs of his arms. "Karen," he said, after clearing his throat, "is Detective O'Hara all right?"
Karen swallowed, but pursed her lips. "Frankly, Henry, that's none of your business."
Henry sat back in his chair. "So you don't know." He raised his hand in surrender when she started to speak. "I heard you the first time." For a few seconds, he studied her, unable to make out if she was discomfited or just irritated, either with his presence or his questions.
It made perfect sense why she would hesitate to call in Shawn for a case after what he'd heard from Gus; what made less sense for Henry was Shawn's avoidance of this place. In recent years, it had been impossible to keep him away, as if the SBPD building was a favorite hangout, much to the chagrin of working cops.
Sighing, he asked, "Karen, can you please enlighten me with a short version of what transpired that night?"
Henry wanted to know as many facts as he could so he could objectively confront the situation. All he had now was the aftermath Shawn had left him with, and Gus's point of view. He reflected on Karen's hesitation—how she took time to either gather words or process it all in her own way—how she was guarded when she spoke.
"Are you looking only for the missing pieces regarding your son, or do you want to know more?"
Henry fidgeted; learning the bigger picture might delay him answers he wanted right now; however, he recalled Gus had included Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara as he related what he knew. Obviously, they were somehow bound to Shawn, and the three of them somehow bound to the dead serial killer he'd read about in the paper.
If he'd known more at the time, he would have tried to assert to Shawn that he keep his distance, especially since one serial killer had already taken a shine to him.
"More," Henry finally breathed. He listened without interruption as she gave him what he asked. As she spoke, her features strained, Henry felt an unusual empathy for her; though her officers were not her children, she still had a responsibility for them.
"I hadn't realized Detective Lassiter went unaccounted for until Detective O'Hara pointed it out to me several hours later. Hours which, I can only assume, were spent tracking the killer and then . . . becoming his prey."
"Was he tortured?" Henry asked quietly.
Karen looked away. She guessed that Henry had seen the newspapers—the stories the press ran about the mutilated corpses found up and down Santa Barbara (though no markers had been released for print). When it came down to it, she found herself unable to affirm that Lassiter had been slashed repeatedly, tormented mentally, and nearly bled dry by the sadistic man. She settled on a nod, still looking away. "He lost a great deal of blood."
In the silence while he waited for her answer, Henry considered these unaccounted for hours . . . hours where, somewhere along the line, Shawn had figured out something was wrong. Karen had mentioned that he and Gus stopped by a crime scene and she had seen Shawn exchange words with Juliet. But how had Shawn known where to go . . . and when did he know?
Henry thought about the cryptic text Gus had received; were these the moments that had clicked for Shawn, when he'd made a dangerous guess about a serial killer and a missing Head Detective? He wanted more than anything to talk to Detective O'Hara now; whatever she had said to Shawn he wouldn't have ignored.
Karen turned her head, sighing as if trying to relieve herself of a heavy weight around her neck. "Henry, I believe I was much too hard on Shawn that night. In retrospect, the information most vital was to save a man's life."
In retrospect . . . Henry fully understood these terms when it came to Shawn. In retrospect, it didn't matter Shawn could be a sullen child growing up, because he became a happy adult . . . in retrospect, it mattered less that he called himself a psychic instead of a cop, because he solved cases (in his own free-spirited way).
"Shawn stood right next to Detective O'Hara," Karen continued, biting her lip as if to stop herself from continuing. But then she gave Henry a sad smile smile. "Detective O'Hara was very upset that night, even before we got there."
Henry nodded, remembering from what Gus had related.
"Henry . . . she's the one who killed him. Shot him right between the eyes. Lassiter . . . he was close to death when we got there." Henry's eyebrows rose. "Shawn stood by her, took her hand and held onto her while we waited for the paramedics to do their work." Karen took a sip of her coffee, frowning at its tepidness. "The fact remains, Shawn was the messenger. And in our haste, all of us, I would guess, turned a cold shoulder. But he came to us to get us to act. His warning is the sole reason that we were able to get there in time."
# # #
Words often flew from Shawn's mouth in split seconds, making the utmost sense to him in the quick connect between his head and his tongue as he breathed life into them.
"Gus, don't be a gooey chocolate chip cookie." "Gus, don't be a rabid porcupine." "Gus, don't be exactly half of an eleven pound Black Forest ham."
Gus was in his thoughts a lot these days. Gus often called him on—though not always—his nonsensical analogies, even if it was just with one of his perfected looks, a mix of glaring and honest disbelief.
Gus was still innocent this way—in his continuation of honest disbelief of Shawn's often off-the-wall words and actions, spanning all the years since they had first met, up to the present when they opened a detective agency together.
"I'm sorry I involved you," Shawn whispered, closing his eyes and recalling Gus's hesitation outside the building; how his nostrils had prickled, presumingly accessing their superpowers. The strong odor of wet earth and blood, sweat and fear, the air moist and chilly and charged up. Not even the prelude of afternoon rain had overrode the scents within; they fell out with unfurled, silent fingers, rising up angry and purple as twilight to snatch at unsuspecting passersby. Shawn wondered if they had made Gus uneasy, wondered if he could already tell, before any explanation Shawn could give him, why his guts seized up with dread.
He remembered sitting in Gus's car afterward, rocking against his seatbelt as if his heart might burst. The thoughts came, unbidden, of his near death, then, his stomach knotted. If only he could have expelled it all when he threw up, as if somehow the physical act of being sick had an effect on mental sense.
Words, a flow of them or even just a few pressed upon the endless space before him, no longer did it for him. He could no longer talk himself out of it, or into it. In fact, when the rare occasion arose for him to talk through what he could see unfold as clearly as he wanted in his head, Shawn heard himself stutter, heard his own words twist and morph on his tongue.
Sometimes this, more than anything else previous, frightened him the most.