The adrenaline and Red Bull had kept him going for awhile, but as Shawn dazedly made his way down the dark road back towards the Hottie Tottie Tavern, his body was starting to rebel. His knee was aching with every step, and his eyes kept slipping shut for a few minutes at a time.

He was trying to hold the image of James Clavor in his mind. He was pretty much the way Shawn had described, and that meant he was easy to forget. He was listing his features as he walked, mumbling them aloud to himself. In addition to the cobra there was a thorny rose and a Queen of Hearts, barbed wire drawn around both wrists. Tattoos were a little like barcodes, it made people easy to identify. They were the only remarkable thing about Clavor other than his above-average size.

Shawn could see the flashing neon signs as the Hottie Tottie Tavern came back into sight. A naked neon woman was bending over in the window, offering a drink, and while 'Hottie' flashed pink, 'Tottie' went blue, and Shawn blinked his eyes in the garish glare of it before reaching the payphone that had been set up beside the back exit.

He leaned his head against the grimy metal side and grabbed the phone, before scrambling around in his pockets looking for a quarter. All he had left were the M&Ms, so he'd have to call collect.

Now it was just a matter of who he should call.

x x x x x x

Lassiter was staring at the chalkboard, going over the information again and again. He should have been more forceful when he had Spencer on the phone, he should have pressed the reality of the situation home. The problem with Spencer was he didn't take anything anything seriously, even when he'd been sitting on Lassiter's couch, bruised and about to be killed, there'd been that resistance to acknowledge the situation with anything but his strange sense of humor.

He was so distracted, that he didn't even glance at the caller-Id when his cellphone rang. "Will you accept a collect call from 'I-got-away-come-get-me'?" a woman's voice asked cheerfully, Shawn's tired voice coming through in the part where he was supposed to say his name.

"Yes," Lassiter said urgently. "Spencer, where the hell are you?"

Henry and Gus both appeared almost instantly at his side. Henry was twitching to take the phone out of Lassiter's hands, and Guster was just twitching.

"I'm lost in Summerland," Shawn told him tiredly. "I just got pushed out of a moving vehicle and I was being shot at."

Lassiter held his hand over the mouthpiece. "Somebody trace this call!" he shouted, before putting the phone back to his ear. "Are you alright?"

"Maybe you missed the part about being shot at, and shoved out of a moving car?" Shawn asked him, before laughing. "Yeah, fine. I'm fine, but he drove off with all my Red Bull."

"Spencer, I need you to tell me exactly where you are," Lassiter said.

"The Hottie Tottie Tavern," Shawn said.

Lassiter paused. "Come again?"

"It's a real place," Shawn said defensively. "Coincidentally, so is James Clavor. I mean, he's a real person, not a real place, but you probably figured that out."

"We'll be there soon," Lassiter said, glancing at Henry. "Your father wants to talk with you. I want you to stay on the line, okay?"

"You told my father?" Shawn demanded. "That was the one thing I asked you not to do."

Lassiter didn't bother respond, just handed the phone off to Henry and started shouting orders. "Do we have a location yet?" he demanded. "I want to send an ambulance just in case, he sounds out of it."

"Shawn!" Henry shouted. "What happened? How badly are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, I told Lassiter," Shawn said. "But it's not as cool as it looks in the movies, you know. Jumping out of cars."

"You jumped?" Henry demanded.

"Jumped, pushed, it was kind of hard to tell the difference," Shawn said. "I think I'm gonna go lay down now."

"Shawn, wait, I want you to stay on the phone—"

Henry cursed as the call was ended, and then rushed to follow Lassiter, with Gus close behind him. "Did you find him?" Henry demanded.

Lassiter nodded as he started down the steps towards the parking lot. "Yeah, it's a strip bar just between Santa Barbara and Summerland. We're closer so they're giving jurisdiction to us."

Juliet came speeding up to the curb in a police car, the lights and sirens already blaring. "Get in!" she shouted.

Lassiter climbed in beside her, and Gus and Henry got in the back. Juliet hit the gas and took off at a starting point of about sixty miles per hour. Lassiter itched to be in the driver's seat himself, but they didn't have that much time to waste. The cars ahead of them kept pulling out of the way, but Juliet didn't slow to wait for them. Her eyes were straight ahead, and she determinedly barreled ahead, as though she intended to go through them if she had to. Lassiter decided after a moment that actually he couldn't have done it better himself.

The ambulance came around the corner to line up behind them, and Lassiter tapped his fingers along the door, keeping track of it in the side view mirror.

"He's probably fine," Gus was saying. "Right? What did he say? Didn't he say he was fine?"

"Yeah, that's what he said," Lassiter said.

Lassiter was caught between wanting to grab Shawn and hug him or grab him and shake him once he got his hands on him again, but when they actually make it to the Hottie Tottie Tavern (in record time, by the way, with Juliet's driving they even beat the ambulance), all he can see is Shawn laid out on the sidewalk, caught in the glare of the headlights, the knees of his jeans stained with almost as much blood as there was on his hands.

Henry made it to Shawn's side first, with a paramedic jumping out of the ambulance behind them coming in a close second. Lassiter's heartbeat was stuttering a little as he followed them more slowly, Juliet and Gus easily passing him by.

"Is he okay?" Guster demanded.

The paramedic looked confused. "He's . . . just asleep," he said.

"Come again?" Henry snapped.

"But I don't want anymore hot chocolate," Shawn murmured, sighing deeply and arranging himself more comfortably on the sidewalk.

"Shawn?" Henry snapped, reaching out to lightly slap Shawn's cheek. Shawn winced, but only turned away instead of waking up.

"Sir, please," the paramedic, whose nametag read Darius, said. "Give me some space to work." Darius rolled up one of Shawn's sleeves and gave him a once over. "He's got some cuts and abrasions," he said, as he reached out to take Shawn's pulse. "Possibly a minor tachycardia. Any idea what's wrong with him?"

"You want a list?" Henry asked.

"He hasn't been sleeping," Gus stepped in. "And he's been living off Red Bull for the last three days."

Darius nodded. "That would do it," he said. "I want to take him to the hospital for an IV and observation for the night, but I think it's safe to say he'll be fine."

The other paramedic came over to join them, laying a gurney out beside Shawn. Henry got to his feet and stepped back, running a hand down his face before sticking his hands in his pockets and watching as his son was shuffled off into the back of the ambulance.

Lassiter came to stand beside him, and he felt very odd, strangely like a weight had been lifted.

Almost as if he'd been terrified all this time and only now was realizing it, almost as if he actually cared about annoying, meddling, insane Shawn Spencer.

"Is someone going to ride with him?" Darius asked, leaning out the back of the ambulance. Inside Shawn was talking on his sleep, protesting that the marshmallows were far too big.

Lassiter bit down on his lip. Even if he didn't have work to do here, even if Henry weren't the obvious choice, it wasn't like he had any business holding Spencer's hand.

"I'm his father," Henry said roughly, pushing himself into the ambulance without further ado.

Gus was right behind him, but Darius barred his way. "Only one can go with him, sir," he said.

Henry reached out to stop the progress of the closing door. "He's family," he said. "This is my other son. I think we can make an exception, don't you?"

"Uh—" Darius trailed off, unsure what to say. "Your son?"

Gus met the paramedic's eyes smugly. "You go something to say?" he asked, and then crawled into the ambulance. "You know that's right."

Juliet let out a breath as the door shut behind Gus. "Thank goodness," she said. "I really thought—"

She didn't finish her thought, but Lassiter knew what she'd been thinking. He'd been thinking the same thing.

"Is that Shawn!?"

The ambulance was just starting down the road when Lassiter heard the shout, and he turned around to see a barefoot, half-dressed woman charging straight at him. He tried to stop her as she ran by, but she was all covered in oil and slipped right out of his hands.

She stopped in the middle of the road, tripping and catching herself with the palm of one hand on the ground, before regaining her balance and turning back around. "Is he alright?" she demanded.

"I'm sorry," Juliet said politely, stepping forward. "Who are you?"

"I'm Houston," she said, glancing back at the retreating ambulance. "That was Shawn, wasn't it? Is he okay?"

"How do you know Spencer?" Lassiter asked her. "And what's your real name?"

"Amelia Emerson," she said reluctantly. "Shawn was in the Tavern, earlier tonight. He's not in any trouble, is he?"

"Shawn was taken hostage by the fugitive Cyril Riner," Juliet explained. "We've been looking for him. The paramedics said they think he's going to be fine."

Lassiter gave her a censuring glance for giving so much away, but it had the right effect on Amelia, who nodded and calmed down almost at once. "Cyril?" she repeated. "He didn't look like much of a hostage taker to me."

"You saw him?" Lassiter demanded. "Is he still here?"

"No, he left with Shawn," Amelia said. "But Shawn didn't—" she stops herself from saying anything more, suddenly worried that it might not look too good for Shawn to say he'd been going with Cyril willingly. "He was fine when he left. Then we heard a gunshot, and when we came out they were both gone."

"Do you know what they were doing here?" Juliet asked.

Amelia nodded. "Yes," she said. "They were looking for Dave."

"Dave," Lassiter repeated wryly. "And does this Dave have a last name?"

"I don't even think Dave is his first name," Amelia said.

"That's helpful," Lassiter said, and Juliet discreetly hit him with her elbow. Lassiter winced and held his side, because her elbows were surprisingly pointy.

"Was this the first time you had met Cyril Riner?" Juliet asked.

Amelia nodded. "Yes," she said. "Shawn too. But Dave comes here all the time."

"Do you think you could describe him for a sketch artist?" Lassiter asked.

Amelia pulled her arms around herself and fought back a shiver, before glancing back at the road. "If it'll help Shawn," she said after a moment. "Can I go back inside?"

Juliet nodded. "We'll send someone down, will you still be here in a few hours?"

"My shift doesn't end until 4:00," Amelia told them, and then went back inside.

Lassiter shook his head disbelievingly. "Spencer makes the oddest allies," he said.

"And the strangest enemies," Juliet said softly, and Lassiter couldn't figure out why she was looking at him.

x x x x x x

Shawn woke up abruptly, sitting straight up with a strangled gasp and reaching out blindly to tear at whatever was piercing his arm. Someone reached and caught his wrist before he could pull out the IV, and Shawn glanced around blearily to see his father sitting in the chair beside the bed.

"Leave it alone," Henry said quietly.

Shawn took a deep breath to orient himself and then noticed that Gus had fallen asleep splayed across the end of the bed, snoring rather loudly and clutching at the sheets with both hands. There wasn't a clock in the room, but when he glanced out the window it was already bright. It had to be eight or nine in the morning at least.

Henry slowly released the grip he had on Shawn's wrist, before leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, staring him down. Things were coming back to Shawn kind of blearily, and he slowly remembered getting into the truck with Cyril, being thrown out of the truck by Cyril, and being locked in a room and forced to drink nothing but mug after mug of steaming hot chocolate.

But that last part was probably just a dream.

"I hope you're proud of yourself," Henry said.

Shawn placed a hand to his head. He could feel a migraine coming on, piercing and blinding. He felt like he'd taken too much cold medicine, like in that commercial where that woman's head floats away like it's a balloon. "Do we have to do this now?"

"I'm sorry, is now a bad time?" Henry asked. "Maybe I should wait and give this lecture at your funeral, would that be better for you?"

"Actually, that would be awesome," Shawn said. "I think you're onto something with this. If you save your lectures until I'm dead, you still get to entertain your favorite pastime, but I don't have to listen to them."

"Unfortunately, that would defeat the purpose of them," he snapped. "Since what I'm trying to do is keep you alive."

"I'm fine," Shawn protested weakly.

Henry snorted. "Yeah, right. This is just like that thing with Drimmer. You never think, Shawn. You never stop and think."

"You're never going to let that go, are you?" Shawn demanded.

"It was two weeks ago, Shawn," Henry yelled.

Gus bolted up from the bed, startled awake, and his eyes were wide and kind of frazzled. "What? What happened?" he shouted.

"Everything's fine," Shawn reassured Gus.

"No, it's not," Henry snapped, getting to his feet to glare down at his son. "Gus? Why don't you go get yourself a coffee."

Gus looked between Shawn and Henry for a moment, before reaching out to grab Shawn's arm and give it a slight squeeze. "I'm glad you're alright," he said. "I'd lecture you but I think Henry's going to do it well enough for the both of us, so I'll just be in the café if you need me."

"Gus, I'll give you a million dollars if you don't leave me here alone with him," Shawn said.

"Someday you're going to have to learn it's pointless to try and bribe people with Monopoly money," Gus told him, and then went out the door.

Shawn felt stripped down and vulnerable sitting in the hospital bed in the stupid flimsy green hospital gown, with his father looming over him. Shawn hated being vulnerable, and he always fought dirty when he was cornered. "Can we do this later?" he asked. "I don't feel well."

"No, Shawn, we can't, because if we don't do this now, you might not have a later," Henry said. "You could have been killed, do you even get that? Is it even registering with you?"

"I was never in any danger!" Shawn protested. "Cyril wasn't ever going to hurt me."

"He threw you out of a moving car!" Henry shouted.

Shawn glared at him, and crossed his arms. "You're taking that completely out of context!"

Henry turned away. "Let's get to the point," he said. "I want you to get rid of your little business. You're done, Shawn. It's gone on long enough."

Shawn was incredulous. "Excuse me?" he asked. "I'm not going to do anything of the sort."

"Yes, you will," Henry said, "because if you don't, I'm going to tell them the truth."

"You're not going to do that," Shawn said.

Henry leaned against the wall, looking back to glare at Shawn. "Oh, I'm not?"

"No, you're not, because you'd be guilty of perjury too, and anyway, it would be your word against mine," he said. "It isn't my fault my own father doesn't believe I'm gifted. You can't actually prove I'm not psychic."

"I could make a pretty damn good case for it," Henry countered. "I just need to tell them how you do it, I just need to tell them everything I taught you."

Shawn felt a little sick. He knew that if his father really put his mind to it, he could do just that, and pull Shawn's life right out from under him in the process. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done it. "Why are you doing this? I thought this was what you wanted. Wasn't it? Isn't this what you trained me for?"

"No, Shawn, it isn't! You could have done anything with what I taught you," Henry snapped.

"What does that even mean?" Shawn demanded. "I didn't want to do anything, I wanted to do everything. You've been from Santa Barbara to Miami and back again, but I made all the stops along the way. I've lived my life!"

Henry pushed himself away from the wall in agitation. "And what do you have to show for it?"

"Show who?" Shawn demanded, choking off the end with a bitter laugh. "Is there a tally? Some cosmic scoreboard? Mr. Lieson's kid has one up on me cause he's got a pension plan and works nine to five?"

"Maybe he does," Henry snapped.

"If that's how you really feel, then I'm sorry for you," Shawn said. "Because I don't live my life worrying about what other people think."

"That's obvious, kid," Henry snapped. "Because if you cared at all what I thought--"

"What?" Shawn asked. "What, dad? I would have been a cop? I'd be miserable just like you?"

"I did what I had to," Henry said.

"Yeah, you did," Shawn said. "And what is it that you have to show for it that's so great? A wife that left you? A son that resents you? Or is that badge the only thing that ever meant anything to you?"

For a moment Shawn thought Henry was going to hit him, and half believed he'd deserve it, but what Henry actually did was worse. He just gave a little laugh and shook his head, before walking out the door without another word.

Shawn felt short of breath, and he reached out to grab the rail along the right side of the bed, gasping in order to take in air. It had been a long time since he had let his father get to him this way, and it had been years since one of their fights had this kind of edge to it, like maybe it was going to be the last one they ever bothered to have.

The last time they'd had a fight like this, Shawn had been gone for five years.

He closed his eyes, and breathed deeply until he wasn't feeling light-headed. Then he ripped out his IV now that there wasn't anyone to stop him from doing it, and stumbled to his feet. He was never overly fond of hospitals to begin with, at least not when he was the patient, and combined with his father's accusations, he was feeling suddenly claustrophobic.

He found his clothes on one of the shelves in the closet. He forced his ripped, blood stained jeans on and then threw his shirt over his head at the same time he forced his feet into his shoes. He was aching a little bit everywhere, but his hands hurt the most. They had been wrapped in gauze and had stopped bleeding, but the skin had been worn raw from where he'd tried to break his fall.

But his anger was like morphine—it drove him on. He started for the door, turning back only to glance at the sign on the wall to see what floor he was on. He was glad it was only the first, and followed an exit sign arrow to the left.

He was still pulling on his hoodie when Gus came around a corner, holding a cup of coffee. His eyes went wide, but Shawn didn't stop to wait for him. "We're leaving," Shawn told him.

"What happened?" Gus asked, setting the coffee on a medical tray before jogging after him. "Where's you father?"

"He left," Shawn said, looking both ways to see which way would take him out. One way went to the maternity ward, so the other way it was. "Is your car here?"

"Yeah, they wouldn't let me stay the night, so I took a Taxi home and came back this morning," Gus said. "Not that I got any sleep."

"That's kind of ironic, huh?" Shawn asked. "I finally get some sleep and you can't."

"Yeah, it's hilarious. Would you slow down for a moment?" Gus demanded. "You haven't even been released."

"That's kind of just a technicality, isn't it?" Shawn asked. "I'm fine. I slept and everything."

"You were practically comatose," Gus protested. "You had a minor tachycardia!"

Shawn paused for a moment, and frowned. "Really? Is that the medical name for getting pushed out of a car?"

"It means you had a rapid heartbeat," Gus explained.

"Oh, well, so what?" Shawn said, and started heading again for the exit. "That's probably just because I had two cases of Red Bull in 24 hours."

"That's exactly what it was, you idiot!" Gus said, finally reaching out to grab Shawn's arm and pull him around when he wouldn't stop. "What happened with your father, Shawn? I haven't seen you like this since before the last time you left."

"It wasn't anything new," Shawn said. "He's not happy with the way I'm living my life, so he thinks it's his job to force a new one on me. Only this time it's not going to work. This time I'm not giving up, I'm not running away. Not even if that's what he wants."

"That's not what he wants," Gus said. "He's probably just scared. I know I am. We thought you were dead, Shawn."

"I'm not, Cyril isn't even a killer," Shawn said. "I was safer with Cyril than I am when I go to the Laundromat."

"I've told you this before, Shawn, your Laundromat is not run by vampires," he said.

"Then why do they only come out at night?" Shawn asked. Shawn turned back around, walking faster now that he had the exit in sight. "Well, regardless, my point stands. Cyril isn't dangerous. I know people, you know that, so I thought that at least you would believe me."

"Even if I did, it doesn't change the fact that it could have gone very differently," Gus said. "We didn't know where you were, what was happening to you, we didn't know if we were ever going to see you again. Maybe we could have handled it better if we hadn't gone through the same thing just a couple weeks before."

"Drimmer doesn't have anything to do with this, I don't know why everyone keeps bringing him up," Shawn said. "Cyril's case is entirely different, and that's why I need to get out of here, so I can prove it to everyone else."

"You have to wait a minute," Gus said, trying to catch up to him. "We can't just leave, Shawn, there's—"

"Sure we can," Shawn said, pushing out the doors. He stumbled a step back as camera flashes started going off like fireworks, and placed a hand to his already throbbing head. There were about three media vans and five newscasters, each of them surrounded by camera men, video guys, all of them holding out a microphone and speaking all at once.

"Mr. Spencer, how are you after your harrowing ordeal?!"

"Did Mr. Riner hurt you? What were his reasons for holding you hostage?"

"How did you get free? Why were you in the hospital?"

Shawn glanced over at Gus. "I tried to tell you," Gus said. "They've been standing here waiting for you almost all night."

"Well, let's not keep them waiting any longer," Shawn said, before stepping into the center of them all. "If you could hold your questions, please, I'd like to make a statement."

The news people went silent with anticipation, and Shawn paused for a moment, letting the silence linger just a beat longer than necessary. "I was, briefly, taken hostage by Cyril Riner, but he is not a murderer and I was never in any danger from him. As a psychic, I feel very strongly about this, the spirits are quite certain. Riner is only on the run to prove his innocence, and I intend to help him do so in any way I can."

The crowd went wild, uproariously demanding explanations, and Gus grabbed Shawn and started running. They managed to make it to Gus's Echo without being trampled by rabid reporters, if only barely. Gus sped out of the hospital parking lot, looking nervously in the rearview mirror the whole time, like he suspected some crazed news anchor to jump onto the back of the car.

Shawn glanced behind him at the mass of reporters they had left in their wake. "That went pretty well, I think," he said. "I'm a natural at this. I should have gone into television."

"What the hell was that?" Gus asked.

Shawn was about to answer him when Gus's phone rung. He picked it up. "Uh huh," he said. "He's right here." Gus tossed the phone into Shawn's lap. "It's for you."

"Hello?" Shawn said.

"Spencer!" Lassiter yelled. "Did you just tell the media that Riner was innocent?"

"You saw that, huh? How did I look? I hope you couldn't see the blood stains," Shawn said. "How embarrassing! If I'd known I was going to be on television I would have worn my Goonies shirt. Knight Rider is so 1983."

"Spencer!" Lassiter snapped. "You can't go around telling the media that Riner is innocent because of some 'psychic' vision!"

"But I've already done that. That's what we've just been talking about," Shawn said. "I think the problem here is that you're confused about the definition of can't. I suggest you look it up. Gus is always singing the praises of the Oxford English Dictionary, but if you aren't able to get your hands on one then any old Webster will do."

"It isn't in the dictionary," Lassiter snapped. "Can't is a contraction, not a word."

"That's the right attitude!" Shawn said. "Can't isn't in my vocabulary either. My first grade teacher always told us to turn can't into can do. Isn't that adorable?"

"Focus, Spencer," Lassiter said. "The people need to know that Riner is dangerous."

"I'd agree with you if Cyril actually was dangerous, but he's not," Shawn said. "Maybe you missed the part in my press conference where I explained this? The spirits have spoken. Cyril Riner is innocent. Problem solved."

"It wasn't a press conference, you're not that important," Lassiter told him. "And for the record, you looked awful."

The dial-tone sprung up as the call was ended, and Shawn stared at the phone in disbelief for a moment, before turning to Gus. "He hung up on me!"

Gus tilted his head back haughtily, which Shawn knew always meant a lecture was on the way. He glanced out the window wistfully, but jumping out of two moving vehicles in two days was a little much even for him. "I'd hang up on you too, if I could," Gus said. "What were you thinking?"

"Cyril is innocent," Shawn explained. "The people have a right to know."

"What evidence do you have, Shawn?" Gus demanded.

"I asked Cyril if he was innocent and he said he was," Shawn told him.

"I'm surprised the police didn't think of that," Gus said dryly.

"I know, right?" Shawn said. "It makes you wonder what they're doing in interrogations these days."