Disclaimer: I don't own Psych, To Kill a Mockingbird, or Harry Potter.

A/N: Happy birthday to me, and to you, for here is an early update, and it is a long one! XD Thank you so much for the reviews, follows, and favorites! The whump gets started in this one, but it's really going to amp up in the next few chapters, so get ready... As always, see the extended A/N and anonymous review reply at the end of the chapter! Enjoy, and please review! :)

The Finch and the Mockingbird

Chapter Five: Hang In There, Shawn (As If You've Got a Choice)

The first thing that Henry saw upon approaching his son's place of residence was that the door was cracked open. It wasn't because the police had come and forced their way in, either. Henry was closer to Shawn's place than the station, and he had gone ten miles over the speed limit – something he never did, in lieu of an emergency – the whole way there. Even if they used the sirens and lights, which he doubted they would, since they didn't know what was going on, or if Shawn really was in trouble, the police probably would still not have gotten there before him.

Henry knew that Shawn was in trouble, even if he didn't know exactly what was going on.

It wasn't just because of the overwhelming evidence to that fact – Shawn's being disconnected abruptly with Gus, all calls to his phone going straight to voicemail, the cryptic poem and pictures in Henry's mailbox, the sudden foreboding realization that there was no "Sylvester" leaving dead mockingbirds on his porch, but someone with ill intent – but Henry could also feel it in his gut, which was curling in upon itself, getting tighter and tighter the closer he came to the place his son had last been. He had good instincts as a cop, and even though he knew that his relationship with Shawn was far from perfect, he had nearly impeccable instincts as a father.

And his son was in grave danger.

What the heck kind of case had Shawn gotten himself into this time?

The police would be there within the next few minutes; he told himself that since he was retired and a civilian, that he should wait for their arrival before he ventured into the potential crime scene on his own.

He stood looking at the ominously open door swinging lightly in the breeze for all of five seconds before shoving the notion out of his head. He hurried back to his truck, opened the dash, and pulled out a box of disposable latex gloves that he kept in the vehicle at all times, just in case – old habits die hard, he supposed – and pulled on a pair of gloves so he wouldn't contaminate any possible fingerprints, though he seriously doubted this person was dumb enough not to wear gloves, and had a bad feeling that they wouldn't get anything by way of fingerprint analysis. He then made his way into the old dry cleaners, his heart hammering, afraid of what he was going to find once he flipped on the light switch.

This was his son, dammit, and he wasn't going to let anything, not even the protocol that he upheld and defended to this day, get in his way.

Chief Vick, followed immediately by a dark blue Crown Vic containing Detectives O'Hara and Lassiter, pulled up to Mimi's Fluff-n-Fold and parked. She jumped out of the car and hurried to the open door of the establishment, the detectives on her heels. She noted the familiar tan truck and blue Echo also parked in front of the building, along with the younger Spencer's motorcycle, helmet hanging from one of the handlebars. Mr. Guster and Henry Spencer had already gone in, two civilians breaking the protocol that they knew very well for the well-being of their loved one.

She had expected nothing less.

"Henry?" she said softly as she slipped through the open door. The overhead lights were on, revealing the scene set before her. Henry Spencer was sitting on the edge of his son's bed, holding something small and bright green in a gloved hand. Where'd he get the gloves? Karen only wondered for a brief moment, deciding that knowing Henry, he probably always had a pair of latex gloves on his person or in his truck just in case he happened to run across a crime scene. She wouldn't put it past him at all.

Once a cop, always a cop. And Henry Spencer had been, and still was, a damn good cop.

Mr. Guster was seated gingerly beside his best friend's father. Karen wasn't sure if he was more afraid of disturbing the evidence or of Shawn's father. Both men looked worried. Very worried.

The detectives hurried into the room behind her; Juliet's breath immediately caught. "Oh, no..."

There were definite signs of a scuffle. The moving clothes hanger machine, the kind that often inhabited dry cleaner's – Karen had no idea what those things were actually called – heavy as it was, had been moved several paces from its usual spot, as told by the dust ring twenty inches from whee the machine now sat. The Lodge portrait of the younger Spencer had fallen off the wall, the frame he'd had it set in shattered. A small but still terrifying streak of blood wandered down the wall, dried and ominous. More blood could be seen on some of the shattered fragments of the portrait's frame. A desk chair sat on its side. And the green object that Henry was holding? It was Shawn's phone.

Seeing Karen's gaze on the phone, Shawn's father held it out for the newcomers to see. "Found it on the floor, there," he said, and she followed the direction he'd pointed with his free hand. For the first time, Karen noticed a small 'X' marked on the floor with a couple of pieces of scotch tape. Henry hadn't missed a step, and once again she found herself wondering why he'd retired when he was obviously still at the head of his game. "It's been shattered. Useless."

"How did you even know anything was wrong?" Detective Lassiter asked, eyebrows furrowing as he regarded the elder Spencer and the subdued Guster at his side.

Gus answered the question before the older man could, miserably explaining, "I should have realized that something was wrong. Shawn's call with me was abruptly cut off, and I just assumed he was trying to get on my nerves. It wouldn't be the first time he's done it," he added urgently, his eyes pleading for them to understand that he hadn't meant to contribute to the disappearance of his closest friend, which he hadn't, but the chief could clearly see the guilt, misplaced as it was, in his dark eyes.

"Shawn has always been a bit unpredictable," Juliet offered sincerely. "You couldn't have known."

"But if you didn't think anything of it, then how did you figure out something was wrong?" questioned Karen.

Gus blinked. "Mr. Spencer called me about ten minutes after I last talked to Shawn. He wanted to know if I'd talked to him, when, and what had happened." He frowned. "I realized then that something bad had happened and I headed here right away, but... what made you suspicious?" he asked Henry.

Henry sighed heavily and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out an envelope simply addressed to "Henry" and proffering it to the chief. She quickly took it, trying to push back the worry that was trying to encroach upon her mind. Inside the envelope was a note, along with several pictures of Shawn as he went about his day, completely unaware that he was being followed and photographed by a stalker. She swallowed hard, passed the pictures to Detective Lassiter, who flipped through them quickly, looking a bit more concerned than he had upon arrival. Before she turned to the note in her hand, she heard Juliet's soft gasp and knew the detective was taking the situation hard.

She unfolded the note and read it out loud, not at all sure what the message of the ominous poem was – other than that Shawn was in terrible danger. Her confusion bled through her words as she read, despite her efforts to sound completely confident and in-control.

"I trust you found my mockingbird, and now my gift for written word. I'll be the Ewell to your Finch, and Baby Bird is in a pinch. His wing will break, but still he'll sing melodies of misery... be forewarned: This isn't the last you'll hear from me." She frowned, frustrated and utterly lost. "Henry, does this make any sense to you?"

"Only that it has something to do with the mockingbird I found on my porch earlier," he said.

"Oh my gosh," said Guster, sitting up straight, eyes wide and fearful.

"You know something, Guster?" Lassiter demanded.

Gus shook his head as if trying to clear it. "Shawn had it figured out," he said. A look of surprise, maybe even shock, took over his features for a brief moment. "Which meant that he actually did real research," he breathed, almost to himself. Then he turned back to the matter at hand, disbelief still evident in his voice. "He told me that this case had something to do with my favorite book, but I was so flustered at the time that I didn't get what he was telling me – I was thinking he was referencing my current favorite, not my lifelong favorite. But it was so obvious! He even said not to be Atticus from the book, in his own convoluted way! I can't believe I didn't catch that!"

"Gus, beating yourself up isn't going to help Shawn," Juliet gently reminded him.

"What book are you talking about?" Henry asked sharply.

Juliet, whose eyes were wide with understanding, answered before Gus had a chance to. "To Kill a Mockingbird," she supplied gravely. Karen vaguely remembered reading the book in high school, but nothing more than the title and the basic plot. Names and details were lost in years of college and police academy. "Bob Ewell was the antagonist in the novel!" Juliet breathed. "I can't believe we didn't see it right away!"

"Join the club; we have t-shirts," Gus remarked dryly.

"Okay, what are we talking about? And what does it have to do with Shawn?" the chief demanded.

"It's not just Shawn, it's got to do with Mr. Spencer. The note says that Mr. Spencer is 'Finch' and the bad guy is 'Ewell,'" Gus explained hurriedly. "Bob Ewell was angry with Atticus Finch for defending a black man in court, who had been falsely accused by him and his daughter of rape. And even though Tom Robinson was sentenced to jail anyway, and then later shot trying to escape the prison, Ewell was still really angry about the secrets that had come out because of Atticus during the trial about himself and his family. And so he went after what Atticus treasured more than anything in the world for revenge."

"His children, Scout and Jem," Juliet said, face paling. "He assaulted them on their way back from a festival of some kind and broke Jem's arm before Boo Radley came out of the house and stabbed Ewell before the man could kill the children."

"Broken wing," Henry recalled hoarsely.

"So, what – he's going to grab Spencer and break his arm like in the book for revenge because of something Henry did to him?" Lassiter didn't look convinced.

"No. He's going to kill my son because of something he blames of doing to him." Henry's face was grim. "And I don't have a clue who he is or what I did to anger him, but I can tell you one thing almost certainly: the only reason Shawn isn't dead yet is because this psycho is wanting to make a spectacle out of it."

"This is Yang all over again," moaned Gus, wringing his hands worriedly.

"Don't worry, Guster." She made eye contact with Shawn's father. "Henry, we'll find him." She reached for her radio to call for backup.

"Do you have any idea who we could be dealing with here?" O'Hara asked, her voice trilling slightly with anxiety, but she kept up her professional demeanor quite well, and Karen was silently proud of her for that.

Henry thought long and hard, and when he finally spoke, it was with the gravest of expressions on his face and a voice heavy with despair.

"I haven't the slightest clue, Detective. Absolutely no idea."

Shawn didn't know how long he stood – or hung – there in the faux courtroom, but by the time he heard something other than his own heavy breathing, erratic heartbeat and occasional, fruitless cries for help, his arms had gone completely numb, and he had been doing more hanging than standing, because his shaking legs kept slipping about on the surface beneath him, belligerently refusing to hold him for very long.

His eyes snapped open when he heard a faint sound coming from somewhere outside of his boxy prison. It was a jangling sound, like someone finding a key on a key ring. Never mind that there was no handle on this door. Or maybe there was a doorknob on the outside, or, more likely, another knobless lock that could only be opened with a key.

Something clicked inside the door. Shawn waited with bated breath. He'd been desperate for something to happen earlier, the suspense of waiting and hanging and the claustrophobia quickly taking over his mind, but now he willed the person at the door to turn back and go away – unless they were rescue, of course – because he'd had quite a lot of time to think and fret about his situation, and he'd definitively decided that whatever hell he thought he was going through right now, whatever his captor had planned was going to be far worse.

Not that hanging there helpless and subsequently starving to death would be that much better.

In his mind, he heard Gus's voice. Lack of water will kill you long before starvation does, Shawn, his know-it-all best friend's voice informed him. Great, now he was thirsty.

"Suck it," Shawn mumbled under his breath at his friend who wasn't really there, wondering if he was losing it.

The door began to swing inward. It glided open noiselessly, and Shawn was alarmed to see that on the other side of the now-open doorway, it was dark. It hadn't been that late when he'd been taken. He'd been gone for quite some time, he'd known, but it was just a big world of yawning black out there, meaning that it was well into the night. Surely someone would have noticed that he was missing by now.

And just as surely, anyone who noticed his absence wouldn't have the first clue about where to look for him.

For a long moment after the door opened, nothing happened. Shawn waited, heart pounding in his chest and echoing in his ears, pain thrumming through his body with every beat.

And then a man ran into the room. Or rather, stumbled. As if he'd been pushed.

Shawn blinked, taken completely by surprise at the sight that greeted him. Before him, kneeling in the floor, was an old man, maybe five or six years older than Shawn's dad. He had the kind of face that made it hard to tell exactly how old he was, though. It was also covered in blood, so that made it a little harder to tell, too.

The man caught himself on bound hands, his mouth covered with a wide strip of duct tape and his eyes wide and terrified above a swollen, bloody nose.

Shawn stared for a long moment, taking in the man's dirty, torn, but obviously finely tailored suit. The glimpse that Shawn had gotten of his shoes before he fell to his knees said they were expensive leather dress shoes, something that only successful, rich men would be able to afford. A gold watch glinted on his right wrist.

The man knelt there, panting, terrified, and Shawn managed to croak out, pain lacing his every word, "You okay, man?" It was barely louder than a whisper, but it got the newcomer's attention. His eyes shot up to find the owner of the voice, and his face paled when he saw the spectacle before him. He'd obviously figured out that his situation could get much worse. The man grunted behind the gag, a desperate cry for help, which was ridiculous, because Shawn wasn't even in a position to help himself, let alone this rich old dude.

After several long moments where the tension in the air was palpable, another figure entered the building, stepping purposefully and confidently into the room behind his newest captive.

It was the Iron Giant.

Or, as Shawn had put together after talking to the librarian earlier that day – it seemed like a lifetime ago, Shawn thought – it was... "Aaron Stevens," Shawn said, and his voice was much weaker than he'd have liked.

He hadn't been sure if his kidnapper had been the man Mrs. Moore had told him about, the homicidal schoolteacher. For all he'd known when he was being attacked by the guy, he could have been the hired help, the brawn to do the guy's dirty work. But now that the mask was off, Shawn was able to see clearly in the man's chiseled face and dark eyes a superior intelligence, a desperate thirst for something (revenge, or maybe Vodka, but Shawn was leaning more toward the revenge part at the moment, considering the circumstances), and haunting darkness, or was that sorrow? Possibly both.

He was tall, probably a good four or five inches taller than Shawn himself. He had tan skin stretched tightly over bulging muscles. His face was hard and worn, graying blonde hair growing close to his head and dark, stormy gray eyes studying Shawn almost curiously from within slightly sunken sockets. His eyebrows were thick and gave him the appearance of always being angry. Or maybe he just was always angry. His nose was large and hooked, like it had been broken several times. His high cheekbones and small chin almost gave his otherwise good-looking face the semblance of a skeleton with skin pulled tightly over the prominent bones. He was wearing gray jeans, a black hoodie, and mud (or was it blood?) splattered combat boots, steel-toed, it seems. He carried a dark blue backpack on his shoulders, and he had what looked to be a single oddly shaped key on a key ring in his right hand, what Shawn assumed to be the only way in and out of the room.

He looked like a pro-wrestler who had decided to make a career change to cat burglar.

He was most definitely the mastermind behind all of this, and whoever this Aaron Stevens was, whatever he had against Shawn and his dad (Shawn still hadn't completely worked out that part yet), he confirmed Shawn's words with an ominous, bitter smile.

"You are pretty good," he said, his voice low and gravelly as he closed the door behind him and pocketed the key. Shawn didn't respond, only continued to warily watch the man who had made his life so difficult for... well, the last twenty-four hours, at least. Wow, had that little time passed already? This guy must have been really motivated, or just really impatient, what with his moving his plans along so quickly.

"They weren't supposed to find the bird watcher," the man said, as if reading Shawn's thoughts. "I was going to take my time, draw this out, but then that damn tree-hugger saw me strangling one of those pesky mockingbirds and confronted me, and I had no choice but to kill him. And then someone found him, and plans... had to move forward. I barely even had time to drop your father off a little hello note after I collected you, but thankfully, the old man wasn't home and the mailbox was unguarded when I drove by." He smirked. "But that's okay. I've been eager to set this in motion for months, anyway."

Shawn felt his stomach clench even more at the confirmation that his dad was being targeted too. He tried to sound unaffected and only mildly inconvenienced when he responded to Stevens, but Shawn's voice was strained with thirst and pain when he asked, trying and failing for all of his usual cocky confidence to show up in his words and voice, "Months, huh? If you were so eager to–" he gasped slightly in pain as his legs shifted slightly underneath him and his arms were pulled, "–to enact whatever crazy revenge plot you've got going on here, why didn't you do it sooner?"

The man didn't answer, only asked, "Do you know who I am, Shawn Spencer?"

"Aaron Stevens," Shawn repeated dully. "I already told you."

"You know my name," Aaron said slowly. "But I want to know if you know who I am."

"Oh, like an eHarmony profile, right?" Shawn quipped weakly. "Long walks on the beach and strange eating habits? Tell you what, how about you cut me down from here and order us a pineapple pizza and a soda and I'll tell you what I've divined?" He really needed the pressure off of his arms. It was getting harder and harder by the minute to hold back gasps of pain at the waves of agony that seared through his stretched and beaten body and regular intervals.

"Sorry, Mr. Spencer, but you're here for the long haul. How about I don't let you down, and you tell me anyway?"

"Doesn't seem like much of a compromise to me," Shawn argued petulantly.

"Fine. You do your psychic magic on me, tell me what you've 'divined,' and if you impress me, I'll give you some water. Deal?"

Shawn thought about arguing, even though it would probably be the dumbest option in this situation, but his burning throat reminded it that it had been hours since that smoothie at the library. "Fine," he said shortly, doing his best to ignore another wave of pain shooting through him. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, bringing to mind every piece of evidence he had compiled during the past twenty-four hours or so. He mentally sorted through his cache of information, making connections and rapidly drawing conclusions.

Not rapidly enough, it seemed. "Hurry up, Psychic. I don't have all day."

Shawn opened his eyes and glared at his captor, who was still standing threateningly over the old man cowering on the floor. The rich old guy had something to do with this thing; he was as much of a part of Aaron's plan as Shawn and his dad were. Shawn just needed to figure out who he was and how he fit into.

"You cannot rush the spirit world," Shawn informed him icily. His right arm spasmed slightly and he grimaced. "But I think I have a pretty good idea." He took a deep breath. "You're a scholar. You worked hard in school, attended college, taught at a local high school, and were particularly interested in that book, To Kill a Mockingjay."

"To Kill a Mockingbird," Aaron growled angrily, confirming that he had a strong personal connection to the book.

"Don't interrupt, please," Shawn responded, mentally kicking himself for his big mouth as soon as he opened it, but Aaron didn't seem to be terribly interested in beating him into submission at this juncture, not that he'd had a problem with it earlier when he'd grabbed Shawn in the first place. "You weren't as interested in the bigger themes like your classmates. Instead, you were focused on the ideas of revenge and justice. Maybe because you always had a strong yearning for justice, right? I mean, whatever you're doing here says that you're trying to take revenge on us for some reason, probably in an attempt to restore some kind of justice.

"Your term paper that semester was loved by your teacher, but you refused to let her share your work with others. Maybe you thought that your work was just too great for public consumption. In your mind, you'd stumbled across a new way of thinking about the novel, and you weren't going to let just anyone get their hands on your research. And somehow that obsession with that book has bled into your revenge plan, because you're trying to replicate the idea of revenge and justice in the real world."

He paused, swallowing hard against a particularly painful cramp, and suddenly he remembered something he'd read when he was briefly scanning the plot of the book on Wikipedia. The man on trial had been falsely accused, and his prison sentence and death had been linked by many scholars to the killing of a mockingbird, which made no sense to Shawn whatsoever. What did a mockingbird have to do with a black guy being falsely accused by a bunch of racists?

Wait.

Falsely accused.

"No, you weren't always this obsessed with the book," Shawn slowly backtracked, and the man's eyes widened in surprise at Shawn's sudden change of course. "You enjoyed it, you wrote about it, and you saved your paper to perhaps expand upon later, but during your teaching career, probably within the first few years, you were accused of murder, found guilty, and thrown in jail. And that's when the theme of injustice really caught up to you, and you weren't going to let the people responsible get away with it. You were going to re-write the story to your own purposes, right?

"Man, that's... actually, I'm not sure what that is. This is a first for me, and I've proved that T-Rexes can still murder people from beyond the grave. Kudos for mixing it up, man, but do you realize that by doing this, you're only going to give them an actual reason to lock you up? Sure, 35 years in the system with no chance of parole until 25 is harsh, but if you keep this up, you could wind up spending the rest of your life in there. Hakuna Matata, Aaron, that's all I'm saying."

The man's face was white, his eyes angry and dark. "Get. On. With. It."

Shawn almost shivered under the harsh, threatening gaze but continued fearlessly... well, almost fearlessly, "You never killed anyone, did you? You were falsely accused, just like that Tom Riddle guy in the mockingbird book."

Aaron blinked. "Robinson."

"Sorry?"

"Tom Robinson. Tom Riddle is the bad guy in the Harry Potter series."

"Ah. Vladimir."

"That's Dracula. It's Voldemort."

"Irrelevant."

Aaron made a soft growl in his throat while the mystery-man at his feet looked on with wide, confused eyes. "Cut the crap," Aaron growled. He calmed a bit. "Impressive insight, Shawn. Can I call you Shawn?"

"I don't know; I normally don't pick up when there's a revenge-seeking maniac on the other line."

Perhaps that was too far. Eyes flashing in rage, Aaron approached the witness stand, stepping up onto the raised platform where Shawn's feet were barely touching the wooden floor. The stand was big enough for both Shawn and the big man to stand/hang, about seven foot by seven foot. He lashed out, landing a solid, rage-filled punch to Shawn's stomach.

Shawn gagged, his feet slipping off their purchase, his body swinging back violently, arms screaming in agony. He tried without success to curl his knees up into the debilitating pain, but he ended up simply swinging on the rope, his entire weight being held up by the rope around his arms. He flailed his legs, trying to get his feet under him again, but it took Stevens grabbing him by the front of his collar and stopping his momentum, nearly strangling his human pendulum in the process, for him to stop and stagger to his tip-toes, trying to relieve every bit of pressure on his poor, abused arms that he could.

Aaron was breathing hard when he brought Shawn to a screeching stop, shoving his face right into Shawn's, his minty breath spewing over his prisoner's face. "Watch your mouth, Psychic," he seethed. "I've tolerated enough of your crap, and it stops now. I lost twenty-five years of my life. Twenty-five years! I will enact justice, even if our very own court systems won't!"

He stepped back off the platform and made his way to the shaking old man who was fruitlessly trying to sneak toward the impenetrable door, bringing back a heavily booted foot and slamming it into the man's side. The old man yelled hoarsely beneath the gag as something snapped.

Shawn, pain still raging through his battered body, cried out in protest. "Hey!"

"Do you know who this is, Mr. Spencer?" Stevens glared down venomously at the man at his feet. "Stay," he ordered. He turned back in Shawn's direction. "If you knew who this lowlife was, you wouldn't be so quick to jump to his defense." Shawn waited. "Shawn, let me introduce you to Mr. O'Dell, murderer and scumbag extraordinaire."

Reply to Anonymous/PM-Disabled Reviewers:

To Guest: Thank you for your in-depth, amazing review! You always make me grin like an idiot! And I'll be honest... I've never watched Storage Wars either, but my stepdad and papaw watch them, so I kind of had an idea about it lol... And you're so right about Hobbits! So I hope you enjoy your present for my birthday! Thank you for reviewing! :D

To Squeegee Beckinhiem: Thanks so much for your review, and I'm really glad you're eager for more! Hopefully you enjoyed this one just as much! :) Your review and kind words are very much appreciated!

A/N: And the plot thickens... :) You'll want to make sure you stay tuned for the next chapter, because some things will explained, and the suspense will grow, and the whump will amp up, and the feels will explode. Haha - BOOM! ;)

Thank you SO much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: ZeDancingHobbit, Guest, Squeegee Beckinhiem, special agent Ali, Leahelisabeth, mushushy, fantomfaire, ChucKelise, Feather32 and Shamrock Ninny! You guys are fantastic, and if I haven't replied personally to you yet, I will ASAP! I've been super busy trying to get this chapter ready to post, so I haven't had much time for review replies yet! Also thanks to everyone for reading, following, and favoriting! You're awesome!

"Shawn and Gus Truck Things Up" killed me. I can tell they're starting to wrap things up, and while that episode was hysterical (and a 'fro-less Corbin Bleu was in it!), it also broke my heart, and there were some ample chances for whump/hurt/comfort, but they didn't expand upon them, which means that I probably will in the near future, lol!

Anyway, thanks so much once again! Please make sure to review when you're done; I kind of live off reviews, lol! I'll update with chapter six on Wednesday, so be on the lookout! Love you guys, and thanks again! (I know, I know, I'm gushing, but I just can't help it; y'all are so amazing! XD)

~Emachinescat ^..^