Sorry about the long update time, really I am. I've been having a writer's block of sorts, and the lack of reviews for this story have been very uninspiring. I do, however thank Pineapple2000 for reviewing. Thank you so much, and I am VERY sorry about the long time in between updates. Like I said, completely uninspired to do anything. Anyway, this is a short chapter, but I felt I had to post something since I hadn't posted in a while. I didn't want to completely abandon the story.

Spoilers: None

Disclaimer: Don't own Psych, never had, never will. Well, maybe I will someday. All part of my plan for global domination.

Warning: Lassie-whumpage in this chapter. Nothing to dramatic, just a warning. I like to abuse characters in my stories if I really like them. Is that weird? Wait, don't answer that. Or do, if you want to. I don't really care.

Chapter 9

When Carlton first came to, the first thing he realized was that he was tied to a cold metal operating table, and he couldn't move. The couldn't move part took precedent in his brain as he struggled to move even one muscle. However, it seemed that none of his appendages were working.

Carlton tried to think about the events that had led him up to this situation. He had been in a hospital... Was he hurt or injured? No, he recalled, he was undercover, pretending to have an inoperable tumor to catch a serial killer who had been performing surgeries on his victims. Then he winced. Of course, the serial killer must have claimed him as his next victim.

He vaguely remembered the last images he had seen before lapsing into unconsciousness. A tall, dark figure approaching his bedside. Naturally, Carlton had been suspicious. Four years in the police academy had taught him to be exceedingly cautious while undercover, this case was no different. He had lain there, waiting for the man to make his move, while fingering the gun stashed under his pillow. But it had happened so quick, and Carlton wasn't expecting him to move like that. And then the chloroform, which, in hindsight, Carlton probably should have expected. After all, the murderer had to subdue his victim's somehow.

"So, Detective, I see your awake," said a disembodied voice.

Carlton jolted out of his stupor, moving his eyes wildly around the room to see where the voice was coming from; however, he couldn't move his head so he was forced to be kept in the dark about the visual identity of his kidnapper.

Crap, he realized. He knows I'm a detective. But then, why did he take me? Surely he knows they'll be looking for me even harder. Maybe's he's not worried about getting caught because he knows he won't. Carlton shuddered at the thought, well tried to shudder. His paralyzed body wouldn't let him move at all. But Detective O'Hara will find me, I'm sure of it. Plus, she has Spencer on her side and as much as I hate to admit it, he's my best chance.

"Detective Carlton Lassiter," purred the voice once more. Suddenly, Carlton found himself staring into a pair of bright blue eyes. The man was now standing over him, a maniacal grin plastered on his face, like only a psychopath could accomplish. His face was covered with a medical mask, as a matter of fact, he was in full surgery uniform from what Carlton could see. "Or more precisely, Head Detective Carlton Lassiter? You've been trouble for my plans. Trying to catch me by going undercover? But I saw through your story. I've been following the case closely, and I know who you are. And now, for slowing me down in my attempt to help people, you will pay. I will make you useful. All my previous patients have been suffering from some sort of cancer, so their bodies were weak, unclean. But you are a strong, healthy specimen. I've seen your true medical records, and save for your recent flu, you've been healthy. Top in your physical exams for the police department. You will indeed be an interesting specimen."

Carlton looked at the man with as much disgust as he could muster, and it was quite a challenge considering his face muscles were mostly paralyzed. But as he tried harder, he realized that with some effort, he could speak.

"Why would you do this?" he rasped out, as the drug began to wear off. "Why are you killing these innocent people?"

"Oh, I'm not killing them, I'm trying to help." said the man. "They're going to die without getting their various cancers removed, I'm just giving them a chance to live. Sadly, most of the tumors are extremely hard to remove without killing the patient, but I do my best."

"But why are they conscious when you do it?" whispered Carlton. "Why put them through the trauma?"

"Ah yes, sadly, that cannot be avoided," said the man in a tone that sounded close to regret. "Curare is the only drug I can get on a short notice that's cheap enough. Everything else requires more money, or provides less discretion. This drug I can buy in bulk and it is untraceable."

"You know, you will get caught," said Carlton. "And the punishment for kidnapping an officer of the law will be much harsher. If you just let me take you in, we can work out some kind of a deal."

The man's features, or what Carlton could see, hardened. "You think I'm a fool, Detective? I know what the plea will be in order for me not to get the death penalty. Insanity plea. And I'll have to cooped up in some asylum. I'm nor crazy, Head Detective, I'm trying to help these people. Furthermore, I won't be able to continue my experiments if you arrest me, and I can't have that."

Carlton was hardly listening. He had slowly regained feeling in his fingers and wiggled them slightly, praying that the man wouldn't notice.

"Well then, why are you doing this, I mean, what started it?" asked Carlton, desperate for time. He needed to regain feeling, and fast, and he couldn't have the man operating on him anytime soon. He needed to buy his partner and Spencer time.

"My mother," answered the man, mournfully. "She died of an inoperable tumor, but she could have been saved. It wasn't that inoperable, she would have had a chance if they operated, but they refused. Said they didn't want a lawsuit, they said there was a 75% chance that she wouldn't make it and that was too big a risk. I didn't care, I wanted them to operate, but it was no use. Then, I tried to operate, I was a surgeon then, but they wouldn't let me. They said I was too emotionally invested to be able to make any judgements with a clear head. I just want to give other people the chance my mother was denied. A chance to live."

"So you kill them," stated Carlton. He knew he was repeating himself, but he didn't care. Feeling was spreading all throughout his body and it was all he could do to stop his body from twitching as it was able to move again. He slightly clenched his fist, so the man wouldn't see, and was surprised at how easy the action was. Now, if only he could get the man to leave the room for a little bit, the straps were not too tightly fastened.

Just then, it seemed as though his prayers were answered. The kidnapper looked at the IV drip attached to Carlton's arm.

"Looks like we've run out of curare. I'll pop upstairs to get some more. You be good," he laughed, in a creepy, crazy-person kind of way, as he turned away and walked out of Carlton's line of vision. Carlton waited with bated breath for the telltale open and shut of the door.

When he heard it, the detective immediately got to work. He pulled as hard as he could at the wrist-straps. They were not on too tight and after a bit of painful struggling, he was able to loosed them enough and slip his hands free. He then sat up, but was forced to steady himself on the table as the blood began to move inside his body. After shaking away the spots that appeared in his vision, he moved to untie the straps on his feet. His movements were slow and sluggish, most of the drug was still in his system. He slowly swung his legs off the table and leaned against it for support as he attempted to stand. Nearly falling, he managed to tighten his grip on the autopsy table. Putting his bare feet against the cold tile floor gave him the feeling on pins and needles, like someone would get after trying to walk on a foot that had fallen asleep.

As his head was clearing of the muddled thoughts, he began to look about the room. It was dimly lit on the outskirts, the only source of light being the bright surgical light that hung over where he had been laying.

A phone, he thought. I need a phone. And a gun, but I doubt that's going to happen.

He stumbled towards a cluttered looking desk in the corner, shifting through the various junk, looking for a knife, gun, anything to defend himself until he could contact the SPBD. Finding a rusty old fishing knife, he grabbed it and stumbled over to the door as he heard the footsteps of his kidnapper descending the stairs.

He readied himself with his knife, and the moment the door opened and the man walked in, he jumped behind him and grabbed him in a chokehold, knife at his neck.

"Detective Lassiter," rasped the kidnapper. "I was not expecting this. I guess the hospital records I hacked were wrong. Surprising to see you get over the drugs so quickly."

"Yeah, well I've always been a fast healer," snarled the detective.

"I can see that now," replied the kidnapper.

"Now get me to a phone and tell me where we are," said the detective, his grip tightening around the man's neck.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," said the kidnapper, smiling slightly, although Carlton couldn't see. Then with a swift movement, he grabbed Carlton's arms with his hands and flipped the detective over his back. As Carlton lay gasping on the floor, he saw the man look at him, an ugly smile appearing on his face a dangerous glint in his eyes. There was a thin red line from where the knife had been pressed.

"You forced my hand detective," he said. "I had wished you would be more cooperative, but now I see you won't. I'll have to do something to you that will be permanently incapacitate you."

Then he pulled a gun from his belt. My gun, damn it, cursed Carlton.

"I've always wanted to operate on a patient with a bullet wound. Now where shall it go? Shoulder? Chest? Oh, I know." he smiled, even more crazily than before. "How about the stomach? Always heard those are the most to bleed. Let's just hope I can patch you up again, ay detective. Doesn't matter for you. Either way, your dead."

"You sick bastard," choked out Carlton. The man just looked at him, smiled, then pulled the trigger.

So, good? bad? You hate me because of this? Please don't. I don't believe in character deaths, not for this show anyway, so I can assure you he will survive. So stop sharpening your pitchforks. And remember, if you want updates faster, good, inspiring reviews!