Lassiter adored silence. O'Hara was constantly trying to needle him into allowing the radio to play quietly in the background of his car, but he always squashed the idea. There was something primal in the quiet, the way his brain kick started and allowed thoughts to flow through that had previously been hindered by the sound waves of everyday life.
Humanity feared silence almost as much as they feared the dark. It was a subconscious terror, he supposed, and one that was rarely thought about on a conscious level at all. It was in the way mankind reached for the radio knob when the car went quiet, the way background noise filled the various spas and massage parlors. It was the desperate need to fill gaps in conversation and the lullaby that mothers crooned to their sleepy children. Silence allows a man to hear his heart beating within his chest and the blood rushing through his veins and in that moment he becomes something capable of dying.
Lassiter, however, was not like most men. His mother had been telling him that since he'd been a toddler and though it sounded cruel she had meant it well. He was more than happy to pass the time between one destination and the other going over the facts of Shawn's case. Henry was not so keen on the idea and wouldn't shut up. Lassiter was once again struck by how similar father and son actually were.
"Is your first aid kit up to date," Henry asked nosily, peering behind him in the backseat to eye Lassiter's emergency kit dubiously.
"Yes," Carlton sighed. "I restock it every month, Spencer."
"And your radio," Henry demanded. "You sure you have it on the right frequency? We don't want to miss any emergency transmissions, you know. Someone could have found Shawn."
"Henry," Lassiter growled between grit teeth. "Everything is going to be fine. Just relax."
"Relax," Spencer scoffed with a snort. "Don't tell me to relax, buddy. The moment you have a son and he's out there hurt, possibly dead, and you're able to keep it cool then you can order me around, but until then don't you dare tell me to relax."
Lassiter huffed out a frustrated breath and gripped the steering wheel tightly. He liked the feel of the leather as his fingers squeezed and he imagined the supple hide stretching beneath his powerful hands. The soft squeak it made reminded him of his days at Old Sonora, hitching horses with callused hands and slow, patient movements.
He stared at himself in the rearview mirror and could almost see the young man who had made the Old West his home. He had been twelve the first time he'd ever set eyes on the western town and he'd fallen in love with it right from the very start. When he was there he could forget about the screamed arguments and brutal name calling that had taken place in his parent's bedroom the night before. He could forget the sight of his mother's tears as she sat hunched over in the corner of the living room, mascara streaming down her face like black ooze, shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs.
In Old Sonora there had been a man who cared for him in a way that Lassiter's own father never had. He was a rough man, to be sure, but he was the kindest, gentlest soul Carlton had ever met. He never looked at Lassiter with disappointment in his eyes, never called him names that stung like physical blows, and never pretended he didn't exist. The old man listened with an open mind and an open heart and taught Carlton the values that truly mattered in life.
Lassiter snuck a glance at the elder Spencer and frowned at the worry written all over his face. He'd never had a child and didn't have much experience with children in general. Victoria, his ex-wife, had constantly argued with him about having a baby and when he had scoffed at the idea at the time she had thought he meant never. This wasn't the case, of course, but he couldn't help but wonder what kind of father he would be.
"Listen," Carlton began. "I know you think that you are doing the right thing for Shawn, but maybe—"
"Carlton," Henry said evenly. "If I were you I wouldn't finish that sentence. You have no idea what is right for my son. Hell, you barely even know anything at all about him. So keep your opinions to yourself because they aren't welcome."
Lassiter wanted to scream at the man. He was trying to help, for God's sake! Couldn't anybody see that? It seemed like everywhere he turned he was looked at as the villain that hated Shawn. Why couldn't anyone see that Carlton was just as desperate to find the stupid psychic as the rest of them?
He gripped the steering wheel again as they rounded the bend and he was relieved to see that they had arrived in the general proximity of their destination. A cheery yellow sign to the right of him asked him to reduce his speed, but Carlton merely stepped on the gas pedal, raising a figurative middle finger at the command.
"Alright," he said refusing to look at Spencer. "This is the area. There's construction for the next six miles."
"There's our peace sig," Spencer muttered.
Lassiter looked out and found another sign informing him of a possible need to stop. The alarmingly yellow metal was stained by a spray painted peace sign with little speed drips of white paint spattering down its sides.
"It's a peace sign," Lassiter said in disbelief.
"That's what Shawn saw," Henry agreed.
"Woah, woah, woah," Henry said, pointing down the street. "A yellow reflector."
"Orange cone," Lassiter pointed out, heart thumping against his ribs in an excited rhythm. They were getting closer and the veteran detective prayed that they would find the young man with as little blood shed and tears as possible.
"Stop the car," Henry yelled suddenly. "Stop the car right here!"
"Why?"
"Just stop it!"
Lassiter slammed on his brakes, a grim smile curving his lips as the brakes squealed in protest. The car came to a sudden stop with an almost angry jerk in the middle of the road.
"God, I love new breaks," he crooned, whipping his car into park. "Alright, what are we looking at?"
Henry made an automatic beeline towards something lying on the side of the road and Lassiter craned his neck over the man's shoulder to see what it was. His brow furrowed in confusion at the tiny, red piece of plastic that had obviously once belonged to a taillight.
"This was from the car Shawn was in," Henry said confidently, turning to show Lassiter his discovery.
"Henry," Lassiter argued. "There's accidents up and down this highway everyday and—"
"No, no," Henry pressed, holding the taillight into Lassiter's face. "This is Shawn."
Lassiter's stomach sank. This was exactly what he'd been worried about. Henry had gotten himself so worked up over his son's disappearance that he wasn't thinking clearly.
"How can you be so sure," Carlton asked, trying not too offend the retired cop anymore than he already had.
"Because I'm the one who taught him how to do it," Henry said quietly.
"What?"
"Listen," Henry explained. "When Shawn was a kid I taught him how to survive in situations like these. I schooled him on the best way to run when trying to avoid a captor. I taught him how to slip handcuffs and most importantly I taught him how to kick out the back of a taillight if he found himself locked in a trunk."
Lassiter stared at the man for a long time without saying a word. When Henry had informed Carlton about Shawn's training earlier he had assumed that the older man meant simple life skills and helpful tricks to surviving outdoors on his own. He had not expected Henry's life lessons to involve running from criminals and getting out of handcuffs.
"You didn't actually lock him in the trunk, did you?"
"The best way to teach is by using practical application," Henry replied. "My father taught me that."
"Sure," Lassiter said quietly. "But, Jesus, Henry. That's…that's taking things a bit too far, don't you think?"
"It worked, didn't it?"
"I guess, but—"
"But?"
"I don't know," Lassiter finished lamely. "If it's saved his life then I suppose I can't judge you on how you parent."
"That's right," Henry growled. "You can't. I did what I felt was best for Shawn and maybe I was a bit harsh, but even if only one of my lessons helps him in life then I can die knowing I did something right by my kid."
Lassiter didn't have anything to say to that and was secretly grateful when his phone rang. He flipped it open and felt relief flood through him as their heated, uncomfortable conversation was replaced by the cool efficiency of the job.
"What have you got for me, O'Hara?"
"Not much," Juliet replied honestly. "But, it's a start. Garth Lawnmower died all the way back in 1954. Whoever this guy is he is certainly up to no good."
"Alright," Carlton said. "So we don't know the guy's name but he's definitely our bad guy. Have any leads?"
"All we got was that he was last seen driving off in a vintage 1970 Plymouth Roadrunner, yellow with black racing stripes. Have you seen it?"
"We may have seen part of it," Lassiter answered, glancing reluctantly at Spencer senior.
"Yellow reflector is the last clue that Shawn left," Henry said pointing up the road. "Which means that he must have escaped from the trunk somewhere around here. He's close."
"Alright, O'Hara, listen," Carlton ordered. "Tell McNab to get another uniform and come pick up my car. It's off 166, just past mile marker 8. Tell him that if he touches anything other than the door handle and 10 and 2 on the wheel I will personally visit his nightmares for all eternity. Copy?"
"Copy that," Juliet said with an exasperated sigh.
"Because," Lassiter sighed. "Spencer and I are going in on foot."
He hung up the phone with trepidation and looked back at his new car sending a quick prayer to the automobile gods for her safety. McNab would wish he had never been born if he so much as dirtied her pristine frame.
"Let's go find my son," Henry said quietly before taking off into the nearby line of trees.
Lassiter followed him rather haphazardly, his dress shoes not really coexisting with the mud that squished around their soles. He tripped on a protruding tree branch and nearly fell flat on his face, cheeks burning pink as Henry cast him a scathing glance.
"I was a boy scout," he said as if that gave him an automatic pass.
"And that makes it better," Henry inquired wryly, glancing back at him as he stepped over branches and rocks without so much as a teeter.
"It's been awhile," Lassiter snapped defensively. "I'll have you know that I received my Wilderness Survival badge before any other member of my troop."
"Good for you," Henry barked sarcastically. "How long did it take you to get your Walking and Talking Achievement patch?"
"It's like working with Shawn," Lassiter muttered beneath his breath.
"What's that?"
"You and Shawn are more alike then you think."
"Don't tell him that. Comparing him to me would be the most offensive insult you could possibly give him."
"I pretty much gave up on insulting Shawn a long time ago," Carlton panted. "The man has a thick skin, I'll give him that. He doesn't bother easy."
"Bah," Henry said. "Don't let his annoyingly cheery attitude fool you, Carlton. He's got feelings the same as any man and he can be hurt the same as any man. God knows I've done my fair share of tearing him down. You to, believe it or not."
"Me," Carlton asked in surprise. "You've got to be kidding me, right? He doesn't give a rats ass what I think."
"Your wrong," Henry argued, shaking his head. "Kid respects you more than you realize."
"Funny way of showing it," Lassiter muttered.
"That's Shawn for you. The bigger pain in the ass he is the more he probably likes you."
"Why?"
Henry stopped and looked at him strangely.
"Isn't it obvious," he asked softly. "If he gives you an automatic reason to dislike him then he never has to be disappointed when you reject him. It's a wall, Carlton, simple as that. The real Shawn is a lot more levelheaded then you think he is."
"The whole thing seems like a big joke to him," Lassiter said. "He comes in wriggling his fingers around and making cracks at my expense, but people have died, Henry."
"He knows that," Henry snapped defensively. "You have no idea, do you? Shawn has put his heart and soul into helping you solve crimes. Did you know that he has never stuck with a job for this long in his entire life? His whole career was spent bouncing around from place to place with absolutely no direction and no focus and then Wham! Suddenly, my son has something to get up for in the morning and he's proud of what he's created.
So, yeah, he cracks a few inappropriate jokes and basically gets on everybody's nerves, but he's there when you need him. He disappeared from my life for nearly two years. I didn't get a letter, a phone call, a text, nothing. He and Gus barely spoke and when I ask him about what he did in that period of time he refuses to talk about it with me. I think something bad happened to him, something life altering, but he's not sharing and I won't push. Not on this.
What I am trying to say, I guess, is that he cares more than you realize. He's been through more than his fair share of trials and now that I see him flourishing with a real smile on his face I can't help but be happy for him, even if he didn't travel down the exact path I had intended him to. I love my son, Carlton. And I know him better than he thinks I do. All you need to know is that he respects you in his own way and would do anything you asked of him if it meant helping you out of a bind. Don't forget that."
Carlton opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't find the words. In his speechless condition, Lassiter could hear his heart beating rhythmically but instead of his own impending doom coming closer with each knock of muscle it was Shawn's.
