Roads go ever on and on.
Carlton Lassiter furrowed his brows as the quote popped into his head, surprised by its sudden appearance despite its relativity to the situation he had found himself in. The Hobbit had been one of his favorite stories as a child…at least before his father had reprimanded him for reading "unrealistic bullshit" and, after calling him a wimpy geek, had forced him to read novels that were based in reality. After that, J.R.R. Tolkien and his mystical world of Middle Earth had been sullied for him and he had not thought of Bilbo Baggins or his nephew Frodo in almost thirty years.
His feet, perhaps protesting the idea of a never-ending road, gave a nasty throb and Lassiter winced. He could feel the blisters forming on his feet and they burned relentlessly whenever his shoes came into contact with the ground. Henry, godlike in his fevered search for his missing son, felt no pain at all and carried on ahead like some kind of wrinkled, sun-tanned Hercules.
"Hey," Lassiter called wearily. "Slow down, Spencer."
Henry glanced behind him once, rolled his eyes, and continued forward, slowing enough that the younger detective could painfully catch up to him.
"Thanks," Carlton said with a huff of exertion. "I don't know how you do it, Spencer."
"My kid's life is on the line," Spencer replied quietly. "I don't have time for old age, Carlton. But, apparently you do."
Lassiter stopped, surprisingly hurt by the older man's words. He was trying, wasn't he? It wasn't his fault Shawn had stuck his nose in matters it didn't belong in…like he always did. It wasn't his fault that the pseudo psychic decided to go in alone instead of calling the authorities…like he always did. And it certainly wasn't his fault that the younger Spencer had kept him in the dark about the case…like he always did.
"I'm doing the best that I can," Lassiter said angrily. "I have always done the best I could with what Spencer gives me, Henry."
"What's that supposed to mean," Henry snapped, turning on the younger man.
"It means that I have spent four years chasing after your son," Lassiter snarled. "I have spent four years trying to keep up with his hair-brained schemes and keep him alive. I don't know if you noticed, Henry, but your son has a tendency to jump without looking. And who's there, every damn time, to clean up whatever mess he gets himself into? You're looking at him, pal. So yeah, he's your son. I get that. You're worried, but don't take your frustrations out on the guy who keeps your kid safe, Henry."
"Bang up job you did," Henry said coldly.
Lassiter opened his mouth to reply, jagged words that could never be unsaid waiting at the tip of his tongue. He wanted to wipe the look of cold indifference from Henry's face just as he had wanted to wipe it from his father's as a child. He opened his mouth, but was stopped by the look in Henry's eyes. The worry for his son Carlton saw reflected there.
Henry was not his father. Henry Spencer, despite his flaws and…unconventional parenting methods, was a man who was entirely devoted to his son. James Lassiter was a two-timing prick with an inferiority complex the size of a double decker bus. Or, as old Hank Mendel used to say, he wasn't fit to shoot at if you wanted to unload and clean your gun.
"We're going to find him," Lassiter said instead. "We'll find him and bring him home, Henry. You have my word."
Henry stared at Lassiter for a moment then nodded and turned his back on the junior detective, offering no apology for his words of anger. Of course, Lassiter had never really expected one.
"We've got to hurry," Henry said grimly, looking at the long stretch of road ahead of them. "I don't think Shawn has much time."
"How could you possibly know that, Spencer?"
"Just…just a feeling that I have. Come on, let's get going."
The elder man began a brisk jog up the road and Lassiter groaned, his feet screaming in protest at the idea of running. It was clear, however, that Henry was not going to wait for him and it was either run or be left behind. And so, gritting his teeth against the pain, Carlton jogged behind the veteran cop, trying hard to keep any groan of discomfort from his lips.
As he participated in the marathon of pain, Carlton couldn't help but curse the day he met Shawn Spencer. It certainly wasn't the first time he had such sentiments, nor would it be the last, but on that particular day, in that particular moment, his great dislike of the young man was exceedingly strong. He imagined all the horrible, gruesome ways he could make the psychic pay for this little romp from hell. Although, he conceded, it might be wise to allow him some time to heal. Unless...well, unless Spencer was dead.
Lassiter frowned, glancing up at the back of Henry's head as they jogged. Even if they found Shawn alive they had no idea what sort of condition he was in. Gunshot wounds were serious regardless of where they struck and could cause any number of death inducing side effects. If Spencer had an artery nicked he would bleed out in minutes. Granted, there had not been enough blood at the crime scene to warrant such an assumption, but one could never be too prepared. Besides, even if blood loss was not an immediate factor there was always the very likely possibility of shock.
Carlton had to remind himself that Spencer had been lucid enough to send his cryptic text and the likelihood of a grievously injured man maintaining enough wits to type out a message on a phone was unlikely. Still, there was always the possibility of a gut shot and—
The bile rose in Lassiter's throat at the thought. An old instructor affectionately termed 'Old Iron Hide' at the police academy had been gut shot. The wound had forced him to retire from duty early and he had been assigned a position at the Academy shortly after his resignation. Lassiter had asked the man about his experience and the old beat cop grimly informed him that it was the most painful thing he'd experienced in his lifetime.
He didn't want to entertain the possibility of such an injury, but he owed it to both the Spencer men to do so. It was entirely possible for a gut shot man to remain aware enough to send a text like Shawn had. After all, a person could survive up to thirty hours before the wound finally took its toll, agonized and bleeding.
How would he react to that, he wondered. He had seen Shawn bruised up slightly, seen him limping about with a brace on his leg, even seen him concussed and ready to drop. But, seeing the man shot? Seeing him writhing in pain, screaming for the agony to end, and not being able to do a damn thing about it? He shuddered at the thought. And, Henry—Jesus, no father should have to see their son in such hell. No man should—
Lassiter's phone rang and he looked down at it in relief. His thoughts had taken him to a place he would rather not dwell for very long.
"What?" he snapped into the phone, jogging beside the elder Spencer.
"Lassiter," Juliet said breathlessly. "I just spoke to Shawn. He's alive. He—he was trying to give me clues about something. I didn't understand—none of it made sense. He was talking about going back…and wind chimes…wind chimes he got me for my birthday, but he never got me anything like that, Carlton. Does that mean anything to you? Because I am drawing a blank on this one and I don't know—"
"What," Carlton gasped. "Juliet…wait…slow down. Going back? Wind chimes? No, that doesn't mean anything to me."
"Woah," Henry said, spinning around and placing a hand against Lassiter to stop him. "Wait, woah, woah, woah. He's back at the gas station!"
Lassiter stood there staring at the blacktop in shock for a few seconds. The gas station? How could Shawn possibly at the gas station? There had been no signs, no—Jesus, Henry had wanted to question the clerk more, but, like a fool, Carlton had forced them onwards. What if Shawn was dead now because of his idiocy? What if the young man had died while he was wasting time in these godforsaken roads?
"Come on," Henry shouted, sprinting back the way they had come. "Come on!"
"Alright," Lassiter gasped out, spurred into action. "Juliet, make it up to Mariposa and take the exit off the 166. There's a gas station two blocks up."
"Yes," Juliet said. "Yes, that was right around where the robbery was going to take place. I'll explain when we get there."
Lassiter flipped the phone shut and drew in a giant breath of air. His energy suddenly seemed to double and the blisters on his feet no longer pained him. He knew where the son of a bitch that had hurt Shawn was hiding and had him clear in his sights.
I'm coming, Shawn, he thought. I'm coming.
