I hope the holiday season has been treating everyone well, regardless of what you may be celebrating, if anything. Merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, and all the rest, as well as something more or less universal—happy New Years!
She first knew something was wrong when he didn't respond to her text after bowling.
He had no obligation to, of course. She knew that. But it was a pattern she'd noticed, since before they'd relabeled their relationship—when they were out after dark, he typically asked, either shortly before they parted ways or via text shortly after, that she let him know when she got home safely.
She could take care of herself, of course. And he wasn't exactly a worrier. But it was a sweet gesture, and she always complied. He'd say "Remember to let me know when you're home" (with or without a smiley face emoticon, depending on whether it was said out loud or sent electronically) and she'd typically text something like "Just arrived" once she had. And he never let it end there. He'd respond with a thumbs up emoticon, or a "Cool, see you tomorrow ;)" or an "Awesome, g'night!" And after they became official, it was more of "Can't wait to see you" and "Good, now rest up, I'm taking you to an undisclosed location tomorrow :)" et cetera.
That night, he let it end there.
It was such a small thing. She'd check her phone, as always, whenever the thought to do so flitted across her mind, and after twenty minutes she noted vaguely that he hadn't sent that response yet. He always did. Maybe he'd fallen asleep, she supposed, though he'd seemed just as high-energy as usual as everyone was saying goodbye. It didn't quite occur to her to worry. But something in her definitely wondered.
When she got up the next morning, she still had no new texts from him. The last message she'd received from him was "I had a dream last nite that the laws of physics were optional and all accessories were replaced w/ slap bracelets. I've never been able to picture a perfect world till now." That had been early afternoon the previous day. She hadn't responded because she'd been swamped with paperwork, gone straight from work to dinner with a college friend, and gone straight from dinner to bowling. Between turns, he'd described the details of the dream and made her laugh more in five minutes than she had throughout the entire day.
She texted Gus at some point during her break, asking if he'd seen Shawn. His response: "I was supposed to today, but he didn't show up for breakfast." Worry instantly shot through her, but she reminded herself not to be irrational; Shawn did as Shawn did, and it was quiet around the precinct; there was no particular reason for him to be around today.
Of course, in the following few days she came to give herself a lot of grief over not acting on those worries. After about a week of intense self-hate was when she was finally clued in on the fact that she wasn't the only one going through this. Gus seemed to have lost the ability to make eye contact with anyone when talking about Shawn and especially when being made to think about how he was the one to notice that he'd vanished. Carlton had immersed himself so deep into the search that sometimes he forgot to take his lunch break—not skipped it, just genuinely forgot—and almost on a daily basis he would growl something under his breath about how he could have found him already if he'd done this or that earlier or better. And Mr. Spencer… Strangely enough, he was the one being the most open about his distress. He still wasn't really outwardly emotional, but he kept no secrets regarding how worried he was, how determined to bring his son home, how much he regretted disregarding Gus' phone call the first morning Shawn was gone. He was doing everything he could.
She resolved then to stop being so selfish. Everyone was blaming themselves. There was guilt enough to go around.
It was a few days after that that a plateless station wagon was found overturned on the side of the road—with Shawn's phone lying on the passenger's side window, screen cracked. Everyone showed up on the scene as soon as they heard the news.
They'd been standing there for about three minutes when the engine blew to bits. It sent all of them to the concrete and most of them to the hospital, but it was she and Gus who got the worst of it.
In her case, it was a fractured radius, a concussion, and a gash where her head connected with the concrete necessitating fourteen stitches. Gus was facing away from the vehicle when it happened, talking with her—or so she's told, the event and the minutes leading up to it are a blur in her mind—so his body protected her from most of the shrapnel. Doctors were able to quickly remove it from his back but some pieces had been rather large and the scarring was significant. He'd also broken his wrist pretty badly as he tried to break his fall while also avoiding crushing her underneath him.
They were released from the hospital after several long and tedious hours of assessments and minor surgeries and prescriptions, interspersed with updates on the investigation. There was no logical reason or explanation for the engine to just come apart like that. Some officers were speculating that it had been intentional, but that was really all it was—speculation. As long as they couldn't find a cause for the explosion, every lead was only circumstantial. Even stranger, the vehicle, as it turned out, had been reported as stolen five weeks before, and since then, the plates had been removed and the original color, red, had been expertly painted over.
They tried to lift prints off the phone, with no success at all—the only ones they got belonged to Shawn. Try though they might, they could find no DNA samples at all in the vehicle; it had recently been meticulously cleaned. They had Shawn's phone now, but it was hardly a step forward.
Juliet was not alone in suspecting that the object had been bait, and they'd all fallen for it. But it really seemed that if that was true, whoever had planted it hadn't achieved his or her goal. And what could the reasons for that goal even be? What connection was there between kidnapping Shawn and harming or killing them?
Unless Shawn hadn't been kidnapped.
Unless they were already too late.
She was forced to call in sick the next day on account of severe stomach pains along with a stabbing headache, and she didn't get a good night's sleep for weeks afterwards.
When she finally did manage to, it was an incredibly hollow victory.
For the longest time, everything was hollow.
Her tears started as pricks in her eyes. Within five minutes they're flowing freely. But she doesn't truly cry until she sees him.
He's on the ground, dangling phone half-resting on his side. Out cold. A couple passersby are standing near him, looking concerned while doing nothing, but they scatter when the police cars show up. After Carlton puts the car into park, she wastes about three seconds just staring out the passenger side window.
His name falls, unbidden, from her mouth, and just saying it out loud, feeling the formation of the sounds in her mouth and hearing it echo in the air, is a pleasure she's unknowingly denied herself for too long. But there's far more that she's been denied these last months, and it's currently on the ground less than three yards away from her.
She pushes the car door open and stands, her knees shaking, but that doesn't stop her from running.
He said he wasn't hurt, and while he does appear to be physically sound and not in need of immediate attention, the sole fact that he's unconscious now means that he needs to be checked out. She knew this as soon as she saw him, but when she's actually standing next to his still form, all thought leaves her mind, and she falls to her knees next to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and holding him close, tears streaming steadily down her cheeks and dripping onto his strange jacket. She feels Carlton's presence right behind her, and after a few seconds the two officers from the second car reach them as well.
Neither of them protests when Carlton, after allowing Juliet a few moments, silently steps forward, takes Shawn from her arms, and pulls him up and over his shoulder, using the fireman's carry to bring him to the car.
Juliet goes ahead of them and slides into the backseat. Carlton compliantly hands Shawn off, laying him carefully beside her.
She takes his head into her lap and strokes his greasy hair with one hand, using the other to try to stifle her tears.
She recognizes nothing of what he's wearing, which makes sense, but doesn't make it any less jarring to see. An oversized grey jacket (whose pockets she checks, coming up with a buck fifty, a pamphlet from a visitors' center in Reno, a pad of paper, a large map, and a napkin with writing on it), khaki pants (completely different from any bottom pieces she's ever seen him wear), and a weirdly nice but ruffled grey button-down that she finds a moderate amount of blood splattered on when she partially removes the jacket.
"Carlton," she says automatically, pressing her hand against the stains. Completely dry. Days old, probably.
Her partner is looking back from the front seat, and asks, "Any wounds?"
Juliet, already on the way to answering this question, finishes unbuttoning Shawn's shirt and pulls it completely open. His chest and midsection appear to be unblemished, as do his sides when she adjusts him slightly to continue the check. As she does so, she notices that he's definitely thinner than he was the last time she saw him. It's probably no more than a ten or twelve pound difference, but it's noticeable, and she does her best not to think about it. "I don't see anything," she reports, trying to keep her voice level, as she pulls the shirt back together and starts to refasten some of the buttons. "Definitely not where the blood is, at least."
Carlton's silent. She looks up, and finds his eyes fixed on Shawn's face, mouth turned downward into an extremely grave expression that doesn't appear at all deliberate or conscious. "Any bumps?"
"Don't think so." She rubs some of the residue of her tears—already turning cold and clammy—from her cheek and runs her hand through his hair again, checking carefully this time, and shakes her head. "He said he wasn't hurt. I think that's right."
God willing, they both know the other is thinking.
Carlton nods, and turns back to face the dash again. "Right," he says. "Then it's somebody else's blood."
It's not that she hadn't made the connection before. It's more that she was trying to pretend she hadn't. She stares at his face, a flood of possibilities rushing through her head, none of them anything she wants to consider.
Shawn. Her Shawn.
Her Shawn may have seen somebody die in front of him. He may have had to kill someone to get away. And she doesn't know much about the 911 call; all she does know is that he didn't even give his real name.
He's noticeably paler than he was last time she saw him—again, not from blood loss, but from fewer hours in the sun. It's not as drastic as some escaped long-time abductees in the reports she's read and the few such cases she's worked, but it's there, and it makes her sick. His hair's significantly longer too, wild and greasy, and she's never seen it in so little order. His beard's the same way—longer than she's ever seen it before, maybe two inches and in no particular style. It looks like he just… hasn't cared. Which she has to understand, but that doesn't make it hurt any less to see.
Of course, that's not the worst of it, nor is any of it what any of them latched onto when they first took in his appearance.
It's his forehead.
She doesn't recognize the mark, and she knows they'll have to do some digging to figure out what it means, if it means anything. Well, hopefully Shawn knows. Hopefully he'll be able to tell them.
She imagines the circumstances under which one might get a tattoo against his will. Was he sedated? Coerced? Why would someone want to force this on him?
Where has he been all this time?
She doesn't look up at the click of the radio, or the sound of Carlton's voice confirming the acquisition of the victim and their intention to seek medical help for him. He uses all the proper codes and speaks with near-perfect calmness and authority, but the crack in his voice towards the end does not go unnoticed by Juliet.
His next call is to the hospital to alert them that they're coming. As he speaks, something occurs to Juliet that she knows could and probably should wait for later, but she's thinking of it now, and she doesn't quite trust herself to do that again later on. She's not able to think too far into the future anyway. She pulls her phone from her pocket, and starts dialing.
Gus gets out of the shower to be greeted by three new texts and a voicemail. He scans the texts first—all work-related and of no immediate concern. Next he goes to his voicemail inbox, and on seeing that the message is from Juliet, immediately drops the pajamas he was about to change into, and presses Play.
The hospital she names is halfway across Santa Barbara, and he has a meeting at 9 AM tomorrow. He immediately makes the call to cancel it. He knows he's not going to get much sleep tonight, if any.
He slips out of his bathrobe and into the first outfit he grabs out of his closet, and is quickly out the door to ask the officer sitting in his vehicle on Gus's curb to drive him to the given address. He'd actually felt pretty relaxed up until now. He was ready to curl up in bed with a glass of warm milk and watch TV till he fell asleep.
Somehow, with the reception of this news, his mind is being showered by stabs of guilt that he's actually starting to recall how to relax again.
A maelstrom of emotions rolls through his head throughout the drive, but for the first half all he can focus on is the physical evidence of this. How much his hands are shaking. How hard his heart is pounding. The knot in his gut that seems to worsen with every second he's aware of it. It's a good thing he doesn't have to drive.
Juliet said they didn't think he was hurt, but there was something else in her voice that absolutely terrified Gus. It wasn't the tearful, joyous relief it should have been.
It's not over yet.
Not over yet, but… but Shawn is back. Alive.
That alone is so much more than Gus has dared to hope for in these past months, and at least just for today he can convince himself that he's just imagining things and simply revel in the stunned joy the news initially brought.
He's carried on with police consultations, of course he has. No way was he going to back out on the investigation into Shawn's disappearance, and he'd proven himself to be pretty useful often enough to justify their asking him for help a few times—though obviously not nearly as often as before. However, also of course, he hasn't been able to do that consulting work in the name of Psych. With the ostensibly psychic half of the duo gone, the business couldn't stay afloat.
He's stubbornly kept paying rent for the office space, though, and only recently has he begun to actually consider stopping. He remembers the exact day and time it suddenly hit him that at some point, this had to stop. Telling himself Shawn was indubitably alive and would one day come back helped him maintain his sanity in the initial dark period after he vanished, and he was definitely not going to abandon all hope until and unless he actually saw a body, but continuing to prepare himself, every day, for Shawn's imminent return was becoming unhealthy. Not to mention expensive.
He didn't let this sudden undeniable revelation change the way he conducted himself. It just festered in the back of his mind, suddenly springing to the forefront in idle moments and frequently planting a deep frown on his face without his awareness. Until finally, he started forcing himself to check his phone at gradually decreasingly frequent intervals in an attempt to break the incredibly distracting and oftentimes rude habit he'd developed of looking at it at least every ten minutes. He cut down on his pointless visits to the Psych office just to sit where Shawn sat and do paperwork and take unplanned naps on the couch. He no longer allowed himself to avoid going to certain restaurants and bars and movie theatres just because they reminded him of Shawn.
He still wasn't ready to talk about it. Not up until the moment he pressed Play on that message. Which he was vaguely aware meant that no real healing had taken place.
But… he wouldn't have gone on paying that rent much longer.
He was this close to giving up on Psych. He really, truly was. And now, now that knowledge makes him sick to his stomach. It wouldn't have even been an irreversible thing; he told himself a few times that if—when Shawn came back and was ready to return to work, they could reopen fairly easily, and it wouldn't necessarily have to be the same location. But it wasn't about the thing itself. It was about what it represented.
Try as he might to convince himself that deciding not to waste money did not mean he was giving up on Shawn, he never was able to manage it.
All he can do is thank God for delivering Shawn back home just in the nick of time. Now he can pretend that none of those thoughts ever occurred to him. They'll catch whatever bastard is responsible for taking him away from them, help Shawn in whatever way they can, and after all this blows over, they will officially reopen Psych and everything will be exactly like it always has been.
He might even be able to get himself to believe this, if he hadn't heard the tone of Juliet's voice.
Lassiter can't remember why he used to hate Spencer so much.
That's a lie. He remembers. He has to, in order to fulfill his weekly quota of insulting remarks regarding the definitely fake psychic. It takes a surprising amount of effort, more and more as time goes on, and it's not at all rewarding. At best his comments are met with a gentle "Carlton…" from O'Hara, and at worst, Chief snaps at him to remain professional and then nobody will willingly make eye contact with him for the remainder of the day, sometimes even longer. The worst was probably the three-month anniversary of Spencer's disappearance (nobody commented on the date but everybody knew everybody else was thinking about it): Strode was acting even stranger than usual, almost manic as he stood over a body and animatedly explained to them why its kidney reminded him of his ex-wife, all the while eating pie out of a surgical dish, until Lassiter growled, "Dammit, Strode, if you're laying on the crazy extra thick today to make up for Spencer being gone, you can stop; with my luck I'm sure he'll be back any day now." The coroner only stared at him, eyes wide, in response, until Lassiter snapped, "Just give us the report in a professional and rapid manner or so help me I will put you on the missing persons list too, all right?"
He swears he saw O'Hara's hand twitch, and she might have actually gone through with it and slapped him if Guster hadn't entered the room just then, drawing everyone's attention away from him. But O'Hara didn't speak to him for the rest of the day, and at one point he was certain he saw tears shining in her eyes.
He's treaded more carefully since then, trying to find the fine line between silence and total irreverence, but he has to keep it up. This is what he's always done. When it came to Spencer—either of them, really—he never minced words. Everyone at the precinct came to expect it. And if he stops now… it would be like admitting defeat.
It would be like refusing to speak ill of the dead.
So of course he remembers why he hates the man. He reminds himself every day. But he has reached the point where there is no feeling behind his biting remarks anymore. No hatred in his hatefulness. On a logical level, the reasons behind his animosity remain crystal clear: the man was—is immature, rude, distracting, unpredictable. A loose cannon who has no respect for common decency and even less for police protocol. And there is absolutely no end to Lassiter's frustration at his constant knowledge of things he should not be able to have knowledge of.
But the more time passes, the less any of that feels like grounds for hating someone.
O'Hara is onto him, he's pretty sure. He's seen the sad smile, the tired understanding in her eyes after he makes a snide comment about her missing boyfriend. But she never says anything about it. He wishes she would. She hasn't spoken of Spencer except to comment on the case on the rare occasions a new theory or possible lead arises since a matter of weeks after he disappeared, and Lassiter hasn't known what to do to help her.
He was one of the first to hear about the phone call earlier today, and his heart didn't start beating again until he'd finished listening to the recording. At which point for a split second the notion of not telling O'Hara crossed his mind. Spencer had said nothing about his location or condition during the brief call. He could very well have been in immediate danger, the last words anyone would ever hear him say being "Did you hear what I—?"
It was never a genuine consideration, of course. Even if what Spencer said hadn't implied that their lives were in danger. He called O'Hara as soon as he'd gotten the entirety of what little new information they had.
"This is Shawn Spencer. I—you—they're all in danger. That's why—why the shooting, and the car engine, and—post guards, be on the lookout, he'll be there soon—"
Officially, they couldn't know who "they all" were, but on hearing the mention of the shooting and the car engine, the connection in Lassiter's brain occurred instantly. It was the same guess he'd formulated directly after the related incidents, but it was never anything more than speculation. That car engine inexplicably coming apart, what happened to O'Hara and Guster and then to Henry—all of it had something to do with Shawn.
And apparently, the danger wasn't over yet.
Though Lassiter had to ask himself the rather troubling question of why Spencer hadn't simply called them by name.
Quite unsurprisingly, O'Hara completely missed the "it's likely that somebody's out to get us" implications of the message and zeroed straight in on the "Shawn is alive" bit. Lassiter felt what he believed was his first smile of the week curve his mouth as he listened to her laugh.
Then, of course, he had to drop the "We're pretty sure the guy responsible for abducting him is now after us" bombshell, which sobered her up something fierce.
It was his idea not to tell Guster. Not yet. They would send an officer over to keep an eye on him and tell him something vague, but if he knew… it would just get his hopes up, and they could be sure they'd see him showing up at the precinct and just standing around getting in the way as he waited for news. It was true that his pharmaceutical expertise had been useful a handful of times since his best friend had vanished, but there really was no excuse to get him involved in this. If they had any substantial leads they could actually do something about, he'd be the first to know, but until then, best let him be.
And then O'Hara had, mere hours later, come storming across the precinct, and the most appropriate descriptor he could think of for her manner was "frantic," and when he started to say her name she cut him off with the simple words "He's in Santa Barbara."
He put on the same urgent but professional air he'd adopt for any case, but it took more effort than usual. He wasn't sure whether it helped keep O'Hara calm, as was part of his intent, but it became clear that that job would be much more complex than he'd thought when she said just as they got on the road, "He gave the operator a different name."
He took a moment just to work through the possible meanings of this. "A different name," he repeated, brows drawn together. "For whom?"
"For himself."
His blood ran cold.
"He said it twice," O'Hara continued, voice carefully modulated. "It was a weird name, but the operator was pretty sure she'd heard it correctly."
"What was it?"
She hesitated, but spoke clearly: "Arashk Ronaldo." Nothing in his mind clicked. The name was a strange one, to be sure, and not one he'd ever heard before. He saw her glance over at him in his peripheral vision, and she asked, "That mean anything to you?"
"Not a thing," he murmured. "Hold on—how did the operator know it was him then?"
"Yeah, she's pretty new, but she said he mentioned being 'the psychic' and I guess she's heard people talking about him. And… and by some stroke of providence I was pretty near the room when he called. Another operator came to get me. I spoke with him, Carlton. However briefly… it was him."
Her voiced cracked on the final word, and she covered her mouth and said no more. Lassiter didn't press her—just the gas pedal, as hard as he reasonably could.
But there was a helpless question hanging in the air between them, and they both knew the other had no answers. The only way to acquire any was to keep driving.
There is a still shape buried under a large grey jacket underneath the payphone when he pulls up next to it. The only tools Lassiter has by which to identify the person are common sense and the color of his hair. Its length, the clothes, even the person's apparent size… none of it seems to match up with the person that they know this must be.
Fear instantly shoots through him as he processes the sight before him, considering everything that might be wrong with the man. And before he knows it, his mind is inventing all sorts of extreme scenarios in which Shawn dies before they make it to the hospital.
His fists tighten. He can't fail to save another Spencer. He won't.
Lassiter notes, as he carries the man to his vehicle, that he definitely feels significantly slighter than he should be. And when O'Hara discovers the substantial amount of blood splattered on his shirt, he endeavors to turn off the emotional center of his brain entirely.
He's not as successful as he'd have her believe. Not that he ever really is.
He radios it in, he starts the engine, and he realizes that he can't even figure out how to feel, much less what to say. Spencer is alive. But there's some disturbing evidence that he might be in pretty bad shape. And not physically; that would be easier to handle. No, this is more like "possibly not knowing his own name, having recently gotten into a bloody fight and at some point been forcibly tattooed" territory.
It's right when he's getting onto the highway that there's a slight shifting sound in the seat behind him, and moments later Spencer starts screaming.
