Lassiter had briefly toyed with the idea of becoming a marine. After all, he often thought of himself as a young Tom Highway from the Clint Eastwood classic Heartbreak Ridge. The order and discipline of the marine life also seemed to fit him perfectly, but in the end he had devoted his time to catching killers within his own homeland.

Of course, now that he thought about it he was sort of glad he hadn't signed his name on that particular dotted line. He was sure that being a marine required a great deal of walking and Lassiter honestly believed that if he took one more step his feet were liable to fall off and lay there, bruised and battered in the street. Every step he took sent shards of pain searing up his heel, through the toes, and into his ankles. Spencer, of course, seemed like he could walk another hundred miles without even a grimace.

"You think you could pick up the pace," the elder man called behind him. "Mr. Viability?"

"There was an excellent chance I was bitten by a tick back there," Carlton panted, as if that excused him. "I could be going through the beginning stages of Lyme Disease."

"Man up, Detective," Spencer mocked, glancing down at Carlton in disgust.

"What is it," Carlton said. "Steroids, right? You're juicing aren't you? I knew it."

Henry was ignoring him, which Carlton was secretly grateful for. Steroids, he thought. Really? And what was with the tick excuse? Somehow the older Spencer managed to turn him into an idiot. Like father like son.

Suddenly, Henry noticed something off to the right of them and Lassiter followed reluctantly to find out what it was. A piece of blue fabric was tied to a tree, perhaps missing from the bottom or sleeve of a shirt, and Henry fingered it grimly.

"He went this way," he said, jogging onward.

It wasn't until Lassiter got a close look at the piece of shirt that he noticed the dark blood staining the fabric. He frowned at it and tried to convince himself that the uncomfortable tightening in his belly had nothing to do with his worry for Shawn and was more likely some side effect of the tick bite he may or may not have actually received.

"Hurry up," Henry called again. "I told you I was younger than you, Lassiter."

"I have dress shoes on," Carlton snapped. "I wasn't prepared for running."

"That was one of the first things I taught Shawn," Henry said quietly. "Always be prepared."

"Well good for Shawn," Lassiter snapped. "You want to know the first lesson my father taught me, Spencer? Get the hell out of his way."

Henry stopped and peered back at Carlton with an unreadable expression on his face. For the first time in a long time, Lassiter refused to me another man's gaze and looked down at the leaf covered ground as if searching for something he might have dropped there. Your dignity, he thought. You dropped it in front of this man and now you'll never get it back.

"I made a lot of mistakes when it came to Shawn," Henry finally said. "But, he always knew he could come to me with his problems. A kid needs that, I think. He needs a man he can trust to guide him when life gets rough and save him when it becomes damn near unbearable. But, you know what?"

"What," Lassiter whispered.

"A kid needs a man to do that for him," Spencer continued. "But, he doesn't have to be his father, Carlton. That Hank Mendel? He's a good guy and he cares for you a great deal. Don't let that go to waste."

"Yes sir," Lassiter said quietly, finally looking up at Spencer gratefully.

Ok, so maybe the father wasn't exactly like the son. At least Henry had the emotional capacity to be serious for a single goddamn minute, whereas Shawn couldn't remain serious for a single second. Maybe, Carlton thought, maybe the Spencers get better with age. Like cheese or wine or…oh, who was he kidding? Shawn would never be anything other than what he was and though the kid drove him nuts a good percentage of the time, Carlton decided he wouldn't have it any other way.

Shawn had heart and guts and that was something Lassiter could admire even if it came in an undisciplined, disrespectful, and colorful package. Shawn Spencer was like Christmas, Lassiter decided. He was boisterous and in his face, loud and jubilant, a hectic, chaotic mess, but when the time was right, he could be a surprising force of nature. He was the spoiled nephew he would never admit to having but still buying heaps of presents for, the shock and awe of the presents he received after ripping off the too bright wrapping paper, the familiarity of Christmas dinner as it cooked and simmered on the stovetop.

"Christmas," Lassiter said, flushing when he realized he'd said it out loud.

"What," Henry asked, still watching him closely.

"I said thanks," Carlton muttered. "That's all."

"Right," Henry nodded. "Sure, that's what you said. Let's keep moving. I think I see a gas station up ahead. We can ask if anyone has seen him there."

"Good idea," Lassiter panted. "It'll be good to stop for a second anyways."

"Baby," Henry muttered and Carlton glared at him.

They reached the corner of the forest and the gas station Henry had been referring to came into view. It felt good to have an actual task again. Stumbling around in the woods on a mindless search had been fun and all, but Lassiter was ready for something he was actually good at.

It was a well-known fact around the department that Carlton Lassiter could make a person in the interrogation room break within minutes of his arrival. Of course, he knew that wasn't always the case, but he never refuted the awed glances or words of respect that the rookies of the department sent his way. A man needed a good morale boost wherever he could get it.

Perhaps, if he played his cards right, he could impress the retired cop striding purposefully up to the gas station door. He could prove to Spencer that he was every bit the cop the old man had been and that he was a force to be reckoned with.

They passed the old dilapidated pumps and the orange towing truck that had certainly seen better days. A faded sign hanging over the pumps boasted GAS and Lassiter smiled slightly at the ragtag bunch of tools tinkling softly in the wind. Best idea for some wind chimes he had ever seen.

"Alright," Lassiter said as they made their way to the door. "Now, you let me do all the talking, you got it?"

Spencer hadn't even let him finish his sentence before he was turning around to gripe at him.

"I got it," he muttered, turning back to face the man who had come from within the gas station.

He was a greasy looking fellow. Of course, Lassiter allowed, you would be greasy to if you spent the majority of your day underneath the hood of a car. The man's lank brown hair was down to his shoulders and he sported the mechanics suit that Lassiter had only ever seen in the movies. All the mechanics in the city wore designer jeans and V-neck T's.

"Howdy," the man said in greeting. "Can I help you gentleman?"

"Yeah," Lassiter began—"

"We're looking for a yellow vintage Plymouth," Henry interrupted. "You seen it?"

Lassiter glanced over at the older man in annoyance but decided to let the first interruption go on account of the man missing his son.

"Oh yeah," the man said, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. "As a matter of fact, I have. You don't forget a car like that. Pulled in about ten minutes ago looking for gas, but we haven't sold gas in years. I told him he had a broken taillight in back. Me and my partner got a nice little mechanic business—"

Lassiter wanted to ask all sorts of questions, the first being why hell the man hadn't taken down his damn gas sign if he hadn't sold any in years. The second would have been something about the direction or time or something along those lines, but before he could change thought into words Spencer overrode him again.

"Did you happen to see who was driving?"

The man looked from Carlton to Henry in confusion, but focused his attention back on the older man.

"Yeah," he said after a moment's hesitation. " I got a look at him. Big, oafy looking guy. Not sure he had all his marbles, kind of stupid if you ask me. I sent him up the road four miles to the next station."

Lassiter watched as Henry fumbled around in his wallet, hands on his hips in annoyance. The older man pulled a faded picture of Shawn from its depths and held it up to the greasy mechanic. It was picture from the paper, or perhaps some magazine, and Shawn stared out at them with that stupid look he got whenever he knew someone was watching him. Pouty lips, one eyebrow raised in some sort of 'Who me?' expression. Lassiter rolled his eyes.

"Was this guy with him," Spencer asked, holding the photo out for the mechanic to look.

"Uhhh, no," the man said. "That guy wasn't with him, no. Why? Is that guy wanted or something?"

"Yeah," Henry replied, folding the picture back into his wallet. "You could say that."

"Alright," Lassiter started. "Well, thank—"

"Well, thank you for your time," Spencer interrupted.

"About four miles," Lassiter tried again.

"You said that was about ten minutes ago," Spencer said loudly.

Lassiter grit his teeth. Nope, he was right the first time. The two Spencer's were exactly alike. The mechanic man looked at them like they had gone crazy.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

"Thank you," Spencer breathed.

The two men left the station and Carlton glared daggers into the older man's back.

"What the hell was that all about," he snapped, pulling out his phone. "I thought I was going to ask all the questions."

"Old habits," Henry sighed, repeating the detective's earlier excuse.

"Cut it out, alright," Lassiter growled. "I'm in charge of this investigation. God, it's just like working with Shawn."

He put his phone to his ear and listened in annoyance as McNab's rather girly ringback tone tinkled in his ear. The young man answered with a cheery hello and Lassiter felt the urge to punch him in the face.

"Yeah," Lassiter huffed. "McNab, put out an APB on the Plymouth and alert all authorities to patrol the 166 to the Horse Creek exit."

He hung up then realized that Spencer had fallen behind him. He turned back and found the older cop looking back at the station as if he found something distasteful about it.

"What," Lassiter snapped. " You got more questions you want to ask? Come on, Chatty Kathy, we're wasting time."

"You want me to carry you," Henry spat, blowing past him without a second glance.

Lassiter rolled his eyes and limped along behind him, cursing himself with every painful step for not having running shoes in his car.