Hey, new chapter new situations. I brought back another character from Psych history. I hope you like her.
Anyway, thanks for the support last chapter, let me know what you think for this one, and I'll catch you in the next chapter.
I own nothing
Bye…
Psych
"Shawn if you get this call me," Juliet said after getting Shawn's voicemail for the fourth time. She threw her cell onto her desk, running her hands down her face.
"Still can't reach him?" Buzz asked, stopping next to her desk carrying two cups of coffee. He handed one to Juliet, getting a nod of thanks in return.
"No," Juliet responded around a small sip of hot coffee. She cringed at the bitterness of it, realizing it wasn't a freshly made pot. It was probably made that morning, late last night. She hated old coffee, but she needed something to do with her hands so she drank it anyway.
"Maybe his phone's off," McNab suggested with a small shrug.
"No, that's not like Shawn." Juliet couldn't remember the last time Shawn ignored a phone call from her. It had to be years ago, unless she counted the time he ignored her because she told him she didn't like Thunder Cats. It was their first fight as a couple, and it only lasted fifteen minutes because Juliet handed Shawn a snickers and he forgave her. Or forgot what he was mad about, Juliet never really figured out which.
"Maybe Gus knows where he is," Buzz said taking a sip of his own coffee with a shudder.
"Maybe," Juliet muttered pushing herself to her feet. She trekked across the station, down the stairs toward interrogation room B. She didn't know why Steinberg insisted on keeping Gus in the smelly room, he wasn't even questioning him. It didn't make any sense…
Juliet's train of thought drifted off when she noticed the fire exit was ajar. Eyebrows furrowed, she switched directions to the open door. Outside it was cooler than normal; a few clouds were threatening to overtake an otherwise clear day. Ignoring the weather, Juliet let her eyes roam across the ground looking for anything remotely unusual. It took a few seconds, but she finally noticed the red stain on the sidewalk. She crouched next to the stain, getting a closer look, only to bound to her feet and race back inside.
Psych
Vick sent the blood to be tested, requesting a rush order on the results. She had told Juliet it was unlikely Shawn's blood. "Several officers and detectives go out there for a break, O'Hara," loosely translated, it meant they went outside to smoke, "and it could be any one of theirs."
Juliet highly doubted that, but still tried Henry's place when Vick suggested she do so. His phone rang once, twice before he picked up, "Shawn I swear if you are pranking me again..."
"Henry, it's me," Juliet said quickly feeling her heart sink slightly. It didn't sound like Shawn was at his father's, but a part of her had to be sure. So, she continued, "Have you seen Shawn?"
"No Juliet, why? Is he in trouble?" she hadn't been intending to worry Henry, but with one question she did just that. She was no stranger to the fact that Henry Spencer did not like what Shawn did. Yes, he was happy his son was working with the cops, and had a successful business (mostly). But most of the time Shawn ran into situations without backup, and a lot of the time he was held at gunpoint, or knife point, or 'any other weapon' point. She did not want Henry to storm into the police station. That would not bode well for people-especially if Shawn did just have his phone off. So Juliet hurriedly said, "No, I think he's just avoiding me. I have been hounding him about this wedding stuff, you know?"
"Yeah, he's mentioned it," Henry replied skeptically. "Are you sure he's okay?" Juliet was caught in a lie, she knew she was. Henry wasn't called 'the human lie-detector' for nothing. Of course, he wasn't sitting in front of her, he couldn't see her ticks or her eyes, but it had to be something in her voice. Because he knew she was lying, a big liar, liar pants on fire.
"Juliet, where's my son? What's he gotten into?"
"Uh…" she was a junior detective damn it, she had to have a better answer than 'uh', but for the life of her she didn't.
"I'll be right there."
"Henry wait…" he had already hung up, the dial tone a dull buzz in her ear. Shutting her phone off, she tossed it back on her desk and leaned back in her chair. Shawn, where ever the hell you are, you better not be in trouble, she thought wearily awaiting the arrival of hurricane Henry.
Psych
Light spilled through a huge, plate glass window. It nearly blinded him when he peeled his heavy eyelids open. A spike of pain awoke in the back of his head, his eyes slamming shut once more. Shawn tried to move his hands, hoping to rub his aching cranium, but they were held steadfast against two arm rests, each tied by one of those zippy tie things.
Curtains were drawn seconds later the sound of footsteps following, stopping sixty-six steps from the window. The orange glow from the sunlight vanished from behind his eyelids. With the eye stabbing light gone, he was able to open his eyes. Shawn blinked the stray balls of orange away before he was able to take in the room.
He was in an attic. Boxes were stacked against a wall, half of them labeled Yard Sale in black marker. Odd place to stash me, a family home, Shawn thought but still filed it away for later. There was an old desk chair across from him, the back broken, two of the wheels missing. An old reading lamp sat on the floor, the light bulb missing. The cord long since chewed away by something. There was a bare bulb hanging above him, the only source of light, leaving him in a makeshift spotlight. You always want to be in the spotlight, Shawn thought, now it's actually happening. Just not in the way he liked.
A floorboard creaked behind him, the footsteps coming to mind, causing Shawn to try and see who it was. Only, moving his neck brought back the pain. A hiss escaped his lips, enough to warrant a soft chuckle from the person behind him. Okay, moving is not so good.
"You know," he started keeping his eyes locked on the empty desk chair, "most people who hate me shoot at me not knock me out." He waited for a response, a part of him anticipating a knife, or bullet, to the back.
"Then be glad I wasn't the one who snatched you," a feminine voice said; a very, very familiar feminine voice.
"I thought they put you away for good," Shawn commented fighting off memories that were threatening to invade his head. A motel room, another fake psychic, a dead body, army time being so damn confusing, Juliet's strange infatuation with an FBI agent…
"I escaped," she whispered in his ear, her brown hair settling on his shoulder, her warm breath tickling his neck. He could smell her perfume, some fruity brand Juliet wore once-before he threw it out.
"And you decided to pay little old me a visit. I am really touched."
She chuckled but didn't respond as she stepped around his chair, meeting his eyes. She hadn't changed much. Her hair was a bit longer, her complexion a tad paler, and a crude scar ran the length of her face. Regardless of the changes, she was still the same psycho that held him at gunpoint in front of a private plane, the same psycho that was overthrown by a little old lady.
"Hello Lindsay."
"Hi Shawn…"
Psych
Lassiter could still hear Henry yelling as he exited the police station. It wasn't until he closed the door did the retired cop's voice finally cut off. Peace and quiet washed over Carlton, calming his overworked brain for just a second.
The results had come back, the balding coroner faster than sending it off to a lab, about half a minute after Henry walked into the station. It was all the confirmation the officers needed to honestly say Shawn had drawn blood. To O'Hara, Henry, and a few other officers that meant Shawn was in peril. Carlton, however, needed more proof before he allowed himself to believe Spencer had been taken. Yes, the jackass was a trouble magnet, no one would contest to that, but there could be a plausible explanation to Shawn Spencer's disappearance… Carlton just had to find it.
Sometimes Carlton sat in his car and wondered why he had become a cop. It was something he began doing when he and Victoria started arguing over his job. He had done it less and less in recent years, but sometimes he still sat behind the wheel and brooded. Except today apparently…
Danny was leaning against his car, arms crossed, staring at the ground. Lassiter froze, hoping to back away without being seen, but was too slow. His brother caught sight of him, pushing away from the blue Crown Vick and closing the distance between them.
"What?" Carlton questioned meeting his brother's eyes. The whole point of avoiding someone is to NOT be seen by them, he thought bitterly.
"I've been trying to call you all day," Danny said. "I'm starting to think you're avoiding me."
"Nope," Lassiter lied, "just trying to solve this case. So, what do you want?"
"I… Look, Mom told me to tell you this. I had asked her to do it for me, you know, maybe you'd take the news better if a third party…"
"Danny what?"
"I'm moving to France."
"That's it," Lassiter said with a slight shake of his head. "You pay for a ticket, fly out here from Florida, just to tell me you're moving. It's called a phone for a reason, Daniel."
"I thought you'd like to know this in person," Danny said color rising across his pale cheeks.
"Well, thanks for the update." Carlton turned to leave, keeping all emotions from his face and voice.
"Why do you always storm away when I tell you stuff," his brother snapped. Lassiter stopped in his tracks, spinning on his heels to face him.
"I storm away? I storm away?" he had to really stop hanging around Guster. "Danny, in case you've been keeping track, you leave a lot more than I do. When Grandma Maggie died you left, when Mom finally came out and told you Dad wasn't coming back we didn't see you for three weeks, when I told you to buckle down…"
"I didn't ask for a list of screw ups, Carlton," Danny spat throwing his hands in the air.
"And I didn't ask you to screw up, either Daniel. Now, I have a case to work. Be sure to lock my front door when you leave." And with those words hanging in the air, Carlton turned and strode toward the station, again. He shouldn't have said any of that stuff, their mother was probably going to call in about three hours, but right now he didn't care. He'd much rather concentrate on the potentially missing 'psychic' and his friend's false accusations. At least one, or both, would be grateful for his help.
Something caught Lassiter's eye, pieces scattered under a bush. Lassiter trekked forward, crouching next to the shrub. He pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket, pushing the pieces around to get a better look. It wasn't until he noticed the lime green cell cover-replaced by Carlton after he broke the first one-did he realize what it was.
"Crap," he whispered hanging his head. He was wrong, O'Hara and Henry were right, Spencer had been taken…