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Shawn was really quite disappointed that Mildred wasn’t there. She had easily been his favorite member of the FBI team from the last time they had been in town.
“You lost your Mildred privileges after Lindsay, right?” Shawn asked Ewing. He and Gus had walked into the Chief’s office to find a rather put-out looking Agent Ewing along with an older man sitting in front of the Chief in awkward silence, and Shawn had decided that it was high-time to break it. “They don’t give stenographers to agents who don’t notice that their partners are fraudulent villains, huh?”
Ewing grunted, refusing to look at Shawn, mumbling something about Mildred’s sudden retirement after their last case. Shawn snorted, realizing that he had been correct in his assumption—though he really should’ve been going a little easier on Ewing, after the harsh rejection Shawn had overheard Juliet give the agent just before coming into the office. Ewing clearly wasn’t having a great day, without Shawn taunting him.
“So, what’s this about?” Shawn asked, deciding to redirect away from Ewing’s embarrassment. “You guys in town for another case?”
Chief Vick raised her eyebrows at Shawn, looking from Ewing to the grandfather-looking dude to Shawn, once more. “Actually, Mr. Spencer, the FBI is here about you.”
“Oh my God, you guys want me to be a precog for the new PreCrime Unit, don’t you?” Shawn asked. “I’ll tell you something, free of charge: I won’t be your Agatha, man, I just couldn’t rock that shaved head look. Not for me.”
“I hate Minority Report,” Gus remarked to no one in particular. He paused. “Unless I get to be Tom Cruise.”
Shawn scoffed. “Gus, don’t be Robin Williams’ Genie-ripoff character in Artificial Intelligence. Obviously Lassie is Tom Cruise. You’re Agatha’s mother who gets murdered by Max Von Sydow. Chief”—here Shawn gestured to Chief Vick, who raised a disapproving eyebrow, and Shawn understood her silent message to wrap it up, Mr. Spencer— “is Colin Farrell, and Jules is the sexy old scientist with all the plants. Duh.”
“I promise you, Mr. Spencer, this program in no way resembles any Spielburg plot,” the old man chuckled. “This is simply the first real organizational effort made by the Federal Bureau to psychologically evaluate psychics hired by law enforcement. And after your recent experience with Ms. Leiken and Agent Ewing, we thought you might be more willing to cooperate with us in our early stages of evaluations than other hired psychics might be. You, after all, understand perfectly well the danger false prognosticators pose to their co-workers and to innocent civilians, as well.”
The old man raised one of his bushy eyebrows at Shawn, and he felt the hair on his arms rise. False prognosticators? This dude wasn’t playing around, Shawn could be sure of that. He might have to be—God forbid—careful around him.
“So, what do you say Mr. Spencer?” The old man asked, jovially grasping Shawn by the shoulder. Shawn stiffened involuntarily. “Will you join us? I promise it won’t take more than a few hours of your time, at most.”
Shawn looked more closely at the man in front of him, noting that the ring finger on the hand on Shawn’s shoulder was slightly green around his college ring—Yale University, Shawn thought he recognized the crest from that time he pretended to be a guest lecturer on Thomas Edison there a few years back (all that had really involved was making all the students build him a potato-powered lightbulb). He didn’t recognize the man in front of him from his time there, though Shawn had only “lectured” for a few weeks. Something about him—maybe that ring, maybe his ill-fitting suit—put Shawn on edge. But being on edge had never stopped him from jumping off a cliff before, so as long as he couldn’t think of a good enough reason not to. And Shawn knew that if this guy wanted to prove that Shawn wasn’t psychic, he had his work cut out for him.
“What would it be, a lie detector test?” Shawn asked. “Shall I prepare to bring some crystals? My tarot? Salt to call upon the spirits?”
“No need for any metaphysical materials, Mr. Spencer. Just a few questions to satisfy the Bureau’s standards, verify your psychic abilities. It’ll save you time and effort in the long run, when these licenses and verifications will be required for any psychic working with the law,” the old man said.
Shawn’s eyes flicked to meet the Chief’s gaze. She had been staring at him steadily, and he couldn’t quite tell if it was because she also didn’t trust the old doctor, or if she was suspicious of Shawn’s resistance to the idea of putting his psychic powers to the test. Though Shawn had always sort of suspected himself, that Vick knew exactly how much of a non-psychic Shawn was. But Shawn didn’t want to put the theory to the test.
Vick was watchful of him, in any case. “You’re not required to do the evaluations by any means, Mr. Spencer. It’s entirely up to you, though of course we encourage all our consultants to comply with federal agents.”
“Not an agent, Chief Vick,” the old man corrected. “I’m a consultant, myself. But Agent Ewing, of course, would be happy to verify the need for this evaluation.”
Ewing grunted in agreement, not looking up from the Chief’s desk. He still seemed pretty put-out about Juliet’s rejection.
“Sure, okay,” Shawn blurted out, ignoring Gus’ sharp gaze. “Name the time and place, Doctor Know.”
The old man grinned at Shawn, clasping his hands together in delight. “Oh, wonderful! How does 10:30 tomorrow sound, here at the station, if that would be alright with you, Chief? Oh, wonderful, wonderful! Should we go, Agent Ewing?”
The old man was more manic than Shawn when he was faking a psychic vision. Shawn was a little jealous.
“And Shawn,” the doctor said as he and Ewing prepared to leave, pausing to wink at Shawn. “Don’t be nervous. You’ll look just fine with a shaved head.”
Shawn and Gus exchanged a glance. Shawn was relieved that he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t tell if the old man had been kidding.
“That dude’s a super freak, baby,” Shawn said to the Chief and Gus after the federal agents had left.
Vick sighed. “Just be here by 10:30, Mr. Spencer,” she said, and pointed to the door.
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“Okay, so that dude’s a creep, Shawn,” Gus said as they left Vick’s office. “I really don’t think you should go tomorrow. I’m worried he’s a psychologist in the way that Hannibal Lecter is a psychologist. You know, so that he can find the people not to eat.”
“Well, if that’s the case, Gus, then I would have nothing to worry about. Though he did seem a little preoccupied with my head,” Shawn responded, loping ahead of his friend to reach Jules’ desk in the hopes of ending the conversation more quickly.
Jules was typing furiously on her computer, but smiled with real delight at Shawn and Gus. It was almost enough to make Shawn feel cleansed of all the weird psychic-evaluator juju.
“Shawn! Gus! How was that meeting with Ewing? What was that all about? Carlton’s going to be miffed that he didn’t get to sit in on the meeting with the feds,” Jules remarked, glancing over at her partner’s empty desk. Shawn vaguely remembered Jules telling them on their way to Vick’s office that Lassie was coming in an hour later than usual due to a late night doing paperwork the night before.
“Oh, Jules, you rended poor Ewing’s heart in two,” Shawn said, sitting on the edge of Jules’ desk. “Not that he didn’t have it coming, what with his misogyny and all. But still, the man pines for you.”
Jules winced. “Yeah, well…”
“The meeting was weird, Jules,” Gus interrupted, sitting on the edge on the other side of her desk. “Tell Shawn not to meet with Hannibal Lecter.”
Jules raised an eyebrow. “Well, that depends: did the Chief tell Shawn to meet with Hannibal Lecter?”
“No,” Gus said. “She left it entirely up to Shawn.”
Shawn sighed, making it as long-suffering sounding as possible. “The FBI is starting preliminary psych evaluations of all consulting psychics who work with law enforcement, after Lindsay turned out to be a fake. They wanted to see if they could start with me. Gus is being over-dramatic about the creep-factor of the psychologist, who, it should be said, does have a not-insignificant creep-factor.”
“Oh my God, they’re finally going to bust your fake-psychic ass,” a voice said from behind them. Gus nearly fell off the desk in surprise. Shawn rolled his eyes. “I’m gonna need a front-row seat to see that go down.”
Jules frowned. “Carlton, you’re not supposed to be here for another half an hour.”
Lassie frowned as he pulled out his desk chair to sit. “I came in twenty-five minutes later than usual. That is as much extra time in the morning as I could possibly need.”
Juliet raised her hands in surrender, turning back to Shawn. “Shawn, I think you’re right to get the evaluations done now, even if the psychologist is a bit of a weirdo. I mean, he’s working with Ewing, so he can’t be all bad.” Juliet paused, tilting her head in consideration. “Well, he’s probably not evil if he’s working with Ewing, at least.”
“Very reassuring, Jules,” Shawn said. “Gus, let’s blow this popsicle stand. I crave the most frozen of yogurts.”
Gus and Shawn shot finger guns at each other, and stood to leave simultaneously.
“See you tomorrow,” Lassie said. “Enjoy your last day as a psychic, Spencer.”
Shawn saluted Lassie as they left. If Lassie thought that was true, then he had completely forgotten one of Shawn’s most important characteristics: his ability to blow enough smoke up someone else’s ass to make it look like Hot Rod had just ridden into town.
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Lassiter supposed he should’ve expected Spencer to ace the lie detector test.
He knew that the psychic consultant was an expert liar, in the same way that he knew that Shawn was a good detective—and it had bothered Lassiter since the day Spencer had been brought in for questioning a year ago that he couldn’t figure out what Spencer’s trick was. It was a mystery that Lassiter wasn’t able to solve, despite his fifteen years on the force.
One thing that wasn’t a mystery about Spencer, however, was how much of a pain in Lassiter’s ass he was.
Spencer was currently spinning Dr. Knolls—who did seem a bit off, even considering their previous strange interactions with the FBI, mostly because he seemed so genuinely entertained by Spencer’s nonsense—some long-winded narrative about the first time he “communed with the Spirits,” after he saw the movie Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron starring Matt Damon as a horse.
Again, to Lassiter’s chagrin, Shawn didn’t flinch or hesitate while telling what was clearly a load of bullcrap—just as Shawn had done in response to all of the doctor’s previous questions about his psychic abilities and about previous cases he had consulted on. And Lassiter had been watching the detector the entire time—the needle had scarcely moved at all, though the machine beeped steadily. It wasn’t natural.
Lassiter growled, interrupting Shawn’s monologue, and making the doctor jump.
Shawn smiled benevolently at Lassiter, who stood leaning against the wall behind Dr. Knolls’ seat in the interrogation room, which Chief Vick had agreed to allow the federal agents to use for a few hours during Shawn’s evaluation. Vick had wanted him to stay behind the glass with O’Hara, Ewing, and Guster, but he hadn’t wanted to miss the opportunity to see Spencer flop. If only Spencer would flop, Lassiter thought to himself.
“Something the matter, Lassie-face?” Shawn asked.
Oh, Lassiter could show him what a face would look like after Lassiter had gotten done with it—
Lassiter started towards Spencer, but restrained himself, remembering he was in the presence of federal agents. Well, a federal agent and a consultant, but close enough for him to realize that he needed to compose himself.
He cleared his throat. “Nothing. Just a tickle in the throat.”
Dr. Knolls hummed sympathetically. “You’re free to grab some water, Detective Lassiter. In fact, you’re free to go do whatever you’d like—I’m afraid your presence isn’t required here.”
Lassiter felt his face burn red, and his barely-controlled temper flared again as Spencer sputtered a laugh.
“I’m—I’m where I need to be,” Lassiter managed to say after a moment.
Dr. Knoll smiled, turning back to Shawn. “Very well, very well. Shawn, I believe you were telling me about your first encounter with the spirit realm—quite wonderful, really. Though I’m surprised your gifts didn’t manifest sooner.”
Shawn leaned back in his chair, his head resting confidently on his right fist. “Yes, others have also expressed some surprise at my late blooming; I know I strike everyone as the ‘early bloomer’ type. And in every other respect, yes, certainly I was; but it’s quite normal for psychic energies to present themselves later in life.”
Dr. Knoll chuckled. “Oh, certainly, quite normal indeed, for many psychics.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “But I meant you, Shawn, in particular. Your mother made it sound like you were gifted from a much earlier age.”
Shawn froze, his confident demeanor dropping. For the first time (when not being held at gunpoint—and most of the time, not even then), Lassiter saw actual nervousness on Spencer’s face.
Lassiter would’ve basked in the glow of a stumped Spencer at any other time, but his own brow wrinkled in confusion at the mention of Spencer’s mother. He thought he remembered someone telling him that Spencer’s mother was a psychologist, herself, so he supposed that it wasn’t entirely out of the question that Knolls might know her in a professional setting. But it was strange that Knolls hadn’t mentioned his friendship with Spencer’s mother—and it seemed to have been at least more than a passing acquaintance, if Spencer’s mother had told Knolls of Shawn’s supposed “abilities”—much earlier than now. It felt...strategic, as if Knolls had been waiting to drop the bomb in order to ruffle Spencer’s feathers. Which Lassiter would applaud as a job well done, but...bringing someone’s mother into it? More personal than Lassiter was comfortable with.
“My mother?” Shawn asked in confusion. His eyes darted over to the two-way mirror, as if hoping to catch Guster’s eye through the glass.
“Oh, yes, Shawn, I can’t believe I had forgotten to mention this earlier—but Madeleine and I were colleagues, many years ago,” Dr. Knolls said.
“But I don’t remember you,” Shawn blurted out, and then drew up in his seat, as if he had let something slip—though if he had, Lassiter wasn’t sure what it was.
Knolls smiled knowingly. “Yes, well, it was a long time ago. And she loved to talk about you, Shawn, it was very sweet—how bright you were, how funny and charming you were, the trouble you got in. Getting to know you now, I can understand why she was so proud.” Knolls paused, smiling softly. “But that’s all water under the bridge, as they say—and I think that about wraps up our time here, Shawn. You’ll be happy to know that you passed the evaluation with flying colors. I can arrange with Agent Ewing to send you an official license in a few weeks.”
Lassiter couldn’t take his eyes off Shawn—Knolls wasn’t saying anything damning, yet Spencer looked nauseated, moving subconsciously away from Knolls as the doctor removed the blood pressure band from his arm. What was Lassiter missing?
Knolls finished storing away the polygraph equipment, and sighed, smiling good-naturedly at Shawn. “It was good to meet you, Mr. Spencer.”
He reached out his hand to shake. Shawn, still sitting and leaning away from Knolls, sat and watched the doctor for a moment, seemingly evaluating him. Eventually, Shawn stood and took Knolls’ hand.
“Good to meet you, Dr. Know,” Spencer said.
Dr. Knolls nodded once, and reached for his bag, before pausing once again. “I’m not sure if it would be something you would be interested in, Shawn, but my superiors at the Bureau will be quite impressed with your track record. I think it is quite possible that they might ask you to step in as a federal psychic consultant sometime in the near future.”
Lassiter felt a pang of—something. Not jealousy, but—they ask Spencer to work for the Bureau before they ask me?
He also didn’t understand the emotions on Spencer’s face—he looked angry and excited, as if Knolls had challenged him, rather than offer him a job.
“Well, you tell your superiors that I’ll pick up if they ring me.”
Dr. Knolls smiled and turned for the door, clapping Lassiter on the shoulder as he passed. Lassiter had to resist the urge to swipe the hand off his arm. “Thank you for your presence, Detective. I’m off to check in with your boss a final time before setting off with Agent Ewing.”
Lassiter didn’t deign to respond, watching the doctor leave with the same scrunched scowl that he had worn for the past few minutes.
As soon as Knolls was out of the room, Shawn’s rare bout of emotion had ended, his usual grin plastered on his face once more. “Oh, don’t be mad, Lassie. Third time’s the charm, they say, about getting passed over for FBI recruitment. You’ll get ‘em next time.”
“Shut up, Spencer,” Lassiter growled, glancing back at the door Dr. Knolls had just left through, still slightly unsettled about the strange dynamic between Spencer and Knolls.
“What is it? Are you disappointed that I got an A on my psychic test?” Shawn asked over his shoulder, his usual annoying swagger returning as he sauntered towards the door.
Lassiter reached forward and grabbed Shawn’s arm, preventing him from leaving. Shawn turned back to Lassiter in surprise.
“What was that?” Lassiter asked, his voice colored by its usual gruff anger.
Shawn’s eyes glittered with humor. “What was what? Me becoming a certified psychic in the eyes of the law?”
“That bit about your mother,” Lassiter replied. “You were...flustered. And you’re never flustered.”
Shawn recoiled. “I’ve never been flustered in my life, Lassie. Occasionally I experience a spot of bother. I am thrown into a tizzy quite frequently. But I am never flustered.”
Lassiter squinted at Shawn, leaning forward in what he thought of as his “criminal intimidation” posture, but which, of course, didn’t seem to faze Spencer at all.
“I’m going to figure out what’s the matter with you, Spencer,” he said in a low voice.
Shawn smirked. “Oh, Lassie, it’s good to know you care.”
And with that, Spencer left Lassiter alone in the interrogation room, with nothing but his confusion for company.
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“You’re playing with fire,” Gus tells Shawn when he comes out of the interrogation room.
“If by playing with fire, you mean I was on fire in there, you would be correct,” Shawn said, flashing a grin at Juliet, who smiled back, if a bit uneasily.
“You did great, Shawn. Congrats,” she said, though it didn’t sound quite as genuine as Shawn would have liked.
“You were passable, Spencer,” Ewing said to him, before turning to half-bow to Juliet. “A pleasure, as always, Detective. I must go consult with the Chief and my co-worker.”
Ewing walked swiftly away. Shawn, Gus, and Juliet watched him turn the corner.
Shawn sighed. “What a baffling, beautiful man,” he said, hoping to get at least a smirk from one of his friends.
He saw that that hope was fruitless, however, as Gus and Jules both folded their arms, frowning at him. He didn’t really understand why they seemed so disapproving: Knolls was definitely suspicious and definitely had something out for him, but that was par for the course, as far Shawn was concerned. He just needed some time to figure out Knolls’ game, and then he could publicly out him as a fraudulent villain, as he always did. Sure, Knolls’ knowing his mom—the fact that Knolls seemed to know exactly what Shawn’s “gift” actually was—had caught him off-guard. But the sooner he figured out Knolls’ game—the sooner he remembered which of his mother’s coworkers Knolls’ was—the sooner the issue would resolve itself.
“Shawn, are you okay?” Juliet asked.
“Jules, of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“Dr. Knolls apparently has a bit of a...reputation, in the Bureau,” Jules said. “Ewing was just telling me and Gus about how he is known for his obsessive and erratic behavior. Ewing said that when he found out this assignment was in Santa Barbara, he forced another psychiatric consultant to switch assignments with him.”
“You think something’s off about him,” Shawn guessed.
“She’s saying we know something’s off about him,” Gus said. “Ewing described him, and I quote, as ‘a total nutjob.’”
“You guys, all the man did was ask me some questions,” Shawn said. “He knows my mom, so what? He and Ewing are flying back to D.C. later today. You guys are sounding like Lassie.” He paused. “Actually, scratch that. You sound like my Dad.”
“Just...watch out for yourself with this, Shawn,” Juliet said. “That federal consultant offer that Knolls made was genuine, I think. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Oh he’ll be careful,” Gus said, his voice rising as he grabbed Shawn’s bicep and began pulling him towards the exit. “In fact, we need to go discuss just how careful he’s going to be.”
“Gheez, Gus,” Shawn said, fake-scowling. “See you later, Jules!” He called over his shoulder as Gus yanked him out the door of the police station, both of them squinting in the sudden sunlight.
“This is a problem,” Gus said anxiously as they entered the Blueberry. “A real, real problem. Don’t bother trying to tell me that that dude doesn’t know about you. And don’t bother telling me that that doesn’t make you nervous. I saw you in there. He caught you off-guard with that bit about your mom.”
“Gus, don’t be a downright silly goose,” Shawn said, buckling his seat belt. “We have nothing to worry about. It won’t be hard to figure out his history with my mom, and once we know that we can piece together that, we’ll know what he’s actually doing here. And, even if he knows, he didn’t say anything, so—”
“Well that’s exactly what I’m worried about, Shawn,” Gus said. He started the car, but then sighed, turning it off again to look at Shawn. “What does he want? To see you become a successful federally-sanctioned psychic? I don’t think so, Shawn. He’s going to blackmail us, or worse—”
Shawn sighed. “Gus, can we please just go back to the Psych office? I need to call my mom—AH!”
Shawn let out a high-pitch scream as he looked out the window to see his father, leaning over and tapping the glass to get Shawn’s attention.
“Gus, whatever you do, don’t roll down the windows. You know the rumors about daytime vampires. They’re way worse than the average nighttime vampyrs. They don’t need an invitation to come in. In fact, they’ll make sure to enter exactly where they are not wanted.”
Shawn’s father banged on the roof of the Blueberry. “I can hear you, Shawn. Now open the door,” his father said, his voice muffled through the glass.
Shawn looked at his best friend with pleading eyes, pushing out his lip for full sad-puppy dog effect. Gus rolled his eyes and rolled down Shawn’s window, leaning over to talk to his dad. “Hi, Mr. Spencer. Thanks for coming down here,” Gus said.
Shawn gasped. “Gus! A betrayal!”
Gus shrugged. “I called him as soon as Dr. Knolls mentioned knowing your mom. We need his help. I’m telling you, Shawn, I have a really bad feeling about this,” he added after a moment.
Shawn shook his head, unbuckling and opening his door with a more dramatic flair than usual, nearly knocking his dad into the pickup truck parked next to them. “Whatever, C-3PO,” he grumbled. “I’ll see you at the office later. I’ll get a ride with my dad.”
“Oh, will you, Mr. Federal Psychic Consultant?” His dad asked sarcastically, though he had already turned to walk towards his truck across the parking lot. “Shawn, what in the hell were you thinking, agreeing to this evaluation? Karen told me that she gave you a pass, and you didn’t take it. Are you trying to get yourself arrested? Because that’s what’s going to happen if the feds figured you out. You’re really, really lucky, is what you are, Shawn—”
“Lucky, or just trained from a young age on how to beat a polygraph test?” Shawn interrupted, though he knew his father had no intention of listening to him.
“—And what was the plan, exactly? Flaunt your brilliance? Get hired as a federal consultant? Is that what you want, to leave Gus and Santa Barbara and Psych”—and you, Shawn silently added, as he knew his father was in no way capable of admitting that he actually liked having Shawn around—“to galavant around the country, keeping up this charade until someone finally figures you out, or worse, when someone gets seriously hurt because of a mistake you made? The stakes are much, much higher in FBI cases, Shawn, and none of them are the swashbuckling adventures you think they’ll be.”
His father paused to take a breath as they got into the car, and Shawn dove at the opportunity to say his piece. “Dad, I don’t want to leave Santa Barbara, and I’m not trying to get a job with the FBI. I just had a little inkling that the FBI psychologist was a nefarious character, and I wanted another chance to test my hypothesis. Speaking of, do you remember any of Mom’s coworkers named Dr. Knolls?”
His dad frowned as they turned out of the parking lot. “Your mother never worked with a Dr. Knolls. At least, not while we were married.”
“Are you sure? It would’ve been when I was really little. Maybe while she was doing research at the Psych Department over at UC Santa Barbara?” Shawn asked.
His dad shook his head. “No, Shawn, I don’t remember that name.”
“Tiny guy? Bearded, like the grandpa in Jurassic Park? Went to Yale, or maybe pretended to have gone to Yale? Intense, really into the psychological connections to the paranormal? Someone she might’ve told about my memory?” Shawn suggested, hoping something would catch at his father’s memory.
His dad’s frown grew deeper. “Shawn, did you think this Knolls character knew about you?”
“I’d bet money on it,” Shawn said. “But I don’t really think that matters, as he didn’t expose me in front of the entire station, which he could have done if Mom really told him about me when I was a kid and he put two and two together. I don’t think that’s the point—I think he’s...up to something,” he finished lamely. “Something not about me. Maybe he’s trying to destroy the FBI from inside?”
“Shawn, be serious,” his dad said. “I’m beginning to see that Gus was right to worry. Maybe you should come home with me.”
“Dad, I need you to take me to the Psych office,” Shawn said. “There’s stuff I need to do there. I need to call Mom.”
“Shawn, you need to stay out of this,” his dad warned. “It’s possible that it’s all just one big coincidence, and that you just got away scot-free. But—”
“You have a bad feeling about this?” Shawn finished. “You and everybody else, Dad. I’ll be careful, I swear.”
They drove the rest of the way in uncomfortable silence, and his dad mumbled something about keeping him updated on the case—could it be a case if Knolls hadn’t even done anything wrong, and everyone just felt a little weirded out by him?—as Shawn got out of the car.
He should really call his mom first, Shawn decided as he let himself into the Psych office, hearing his dad’s pickup rumble away behind him. He had a feeling that once he talked to her, whatever was happening—if anything was actually happening, that is—would become crystal clear.
Shawn waltzed over to his desk, collapsing in a huff into his desk chair. He could really use some Cheetos.
Shawn pulled out his cell phone, at the same time as he yanked open his bottom desk drawer, hoping he had left some snacks in there. Something crashed to the floor behind Shawn, making him jump.
“Gus, dear God, what did I say about going into Jackal mode in the office? It always scares the—”
Shawn stopped himself mid sentence as he felt a needle plunge into his neck, making him gasp as waves of icy coldness flooded his veins.
“Shawn,” Dr. Knolls’ voice said brightly into his ear. “I was hoping we could talk some more about your gifts.”
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“Now, Shawn, there is no need to panic,” Dr. Knolls told him. “It’s only a mild paralytic—whatever it was that your friend carried around in that case of his. Tracium, perhaps? It’s just that this procedure would be so messy if you were wiggling around. And this is my first time doing it all by myself, after all.”
Shawn felt his limbs go heavy all at once, and slumped over his desk, his entire torso laying over the desk. He scrabbled at the edge of the desk, willing his increasingly heavily limbs to operate, though they ignored him and just kept getting heavier. Fueled by raw panic as he was, though, Shawn thought he might be able to muster up some energy to throw something at Knolls to distract him.
He supposed he could throw his baseball-shaped phone, but that was a collector’s item. There was the distraction stick that Gus had purchased for just this scenario, but Shawn was pretty sure that Gus kept it in one of his desk drawers. They would have to discuss better locations for the distraction stick later.
He managed to grab the receiver of his baseball phone and flung it at Knolls, who batted it away easily. Shawn, with a grunt, slumped to the ground, his body shoving away his chair. He lay immobile on the ground, his chest heaving rapidly. He tried to twitch his fingers and toes, to even try and stick his tongue out at Knolls, but it was useless. He was stuck.
Dr. Knolls tutted. “Oh, Shawn, so brave and full of bravado to the last. All part of your charm, right? Your fearlessness, quite amazing. Again, your mother sang praises of it—and some fears of her own, as well. Though I don’t think she could have anticipated this situation, specifically.”
Knolls moved behind Shawn somewhere, and Shawn could only guess at his location by the clanging noises behind his head. As soon as he’d disappeared, he returned, his grandfatherly face looking down at Shawn from above, upside down.
“The most remarkable thing she ever told me, about you, Shawn,” Knolls said as he stooped to scoop his arms underneath Shawn’s armpits,“was about your memory. Your mother’s echoic memory was remarkable—it was amazing just how well she remembered every single detail anyone ever said to her. Truly fascinating stuff. At first, she said, she and your father assumed you had inherited the same gift, but—”
Knolls raised an eyebrow at Shawn, a knowing glint in his eye as he dragged Shawn’s limp body along the floor of the Psych office.
“But you have an even greater gift, don’t you, Shawn?” Knolls asked. He readjusted his grip on Shawn, and with a grunt of effort, yanked Shawn backwards onto some sort of elevated surface. Shawn realized it was a hospital gurney, as Knolls cranked the lever to raise Shawn’s body up until it was level with Knolls’ chest. Shawn’s eyes tracked Knolls’ hand as it fumbled in his suit’s inner jacket, pulling out a set of handcuffs.
“Your eidetic memory, it was like a sixth sense, she told me,” Knolls said, latching one of the cuffs around Shawn’s right wrist, and the other on the sidebar of the gurney. “I begged her and begged her to let me study you, just a few harmless tests—you’re such a rare case, Shawn, you must know that—but once she found out about my...background, once I lost the funding, she refused to let me anywhere near you. Understandably, I suppose, but I’ve always wondered about what your mind might’ve told me—about sixth senses, about eidetic memory. And what utter happenstance that we should meet now, under these circumstances!” Knolls laughed, the sound manic and too-loud.
Shawn felt his stomach churn with nausea. Oh my God, he does want to turn me into Agatha, Shawn thought. He tried to vocalize the comment, but once again, his body failed him, only mustering a pitiful groan.
Shawn’s mind whirled, trying to think of his way out of this—but when he couldn’t talk his way out of something, let alone move any part of his body, that knocked out almost all of his options. And he didn’t want to rely on his dad or Gus or Jules to somehow, magically know the moment he was in danger and come swooping in to save him, despite their warnings against Shawn taunting the crazed doctor. Maybe he should have actually listened to them this time—Shawn had a feeling that he wasn’t going to like whatever procedure Knolls was talking about. He wanted Knolls to keep explaining his relationship with his mother, and what exactly about his background had repulsed Shawn’s mother so much, all those years ago. Shawn figured if he knew that, he’d know what Knolls was going to do with him—and, with a whole lot of luck, figure out how to outwit Knolls’, at least long enough until the cavalry did arrive.
Knolls stood, chuckling lightly. “Wonderful, wonderful.” He looked around the office. “Right. Should probably go about closing these blinds and locking the door, shouldn’t I, Shawn? I stalled your friend pretty successfully, and Agent Ewing thinks I’m suffering from a terrible bout of IBS in the police department bathroom. But since we’re doing the procedure here—it’s what’s easiest, Shawn, truly, and by the time they find you I’ll already be on a flight back to D.C.—it’s better to be safe, than sorry.”
He began moving around the office, closing the blinds tightly. Shawn’s heart raced—how had he stalled Gus? Shawn wouldn’t be able to handle it if Gus had been murdered by the creepy psychologist that he had tried so hard to warn Shawn about. Though, Shawn wasn’t sure he would have long to feel guilty about the loss of his best friend, judging by how Knolls was talking. Shawn needed a plan, and fast.
He tried once more to wiggle his fingers and toes, and wanted to scream with relief when he felt his left pointer finger twitch. Now, if he just could stall for a few minutes, he would probably be able to—
Shawn’s thoughts flew out of his head as soon as he glanced up to see Knolls’ grinning, holding a circular saw in both hands.
“Alright, Shawn,” Knolls said. “Let’s get cracking, shall we?”
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Lassiter wouldn’t say he was on a stakeout, per se.
It could hardly be called a stakeout, even if that was what he was doing—he had simply left the station at the same time as Spencer, and followed him and his father to the Psych office, where he had sat outside for the past five minutes. Stakeouts were hours-long, sleepless endeavors—this was merely a lunch break. And if he spent his lunch break following his nagging gut feeling that Knolls was the key to cracking Spencer’s secret wide open, then, well, that was Lassiter’s prerogative.
He wasn’t sure how to explain himself, however, when a breathless Guster paused right in front of his parked Crown Vic and saw Lassiter sitting there.
Gus frowned at Lassie, leaning against the hood of his car. “Lassie? What are you doing here?”
Lassiter stepped out of the car, straightening his suit jacket. “I was...going for lunch. Were you just running? Where is that hideous blue vehicle of yours?” Lassiter scowled down at Gus’ position seated on his car. “And get off of my car. Does it look like a chair to you?”
Gus stood, shooting a glare first at Lassiter, and then at the Psych office across the street. “Someone slashed my tire. The Blueberry is stuck further up the road. I already called Triple A, but I know it was Shawn, and he knows that it’s a company car, and so I ran down here to kick his ass. You’re here for lunch?” Gus asked, sounding disbelieving.
Lassiter paused, trying and failing to think of a good excuse. He was saved from having to think of anything to say by the sound of screeching tires, distracting both Gus and Lassiter from the topic.
It was the elder Spencer’s pickup truck, turning the corner with only two wheels on the ground. Lassiter watched Henry Spencer do the worst parking job he’d ever seen—seriously, Lassiter could write him up for that—outside the Psych office. Spencer flew out of the driver’s seat, leaving the door ajar as he stormed towards the office door.
“Mr. Spencer!” Gus called, jogging across the street to meet Shawn’s father. Lassiter followed him.
Henry, upon hearing Gus’ call for attention, stopped in his tracks, spinning to march over to meet them. The man looked frazzled (God, that was really Lassiter’s word of the day for the Spencer family), wiping his brow with the back of his right hand.
“Mr. Spencer, what’s the matter? Did Shawn do something stupid?” Gus asked when they reached the older man.
“Kessler,” Henry responded simply. “I didn’t remember Knolls because Maddie worked with a Kessler, not with a Knolls. I was about to call Maddie when I remembered in the car, and I realized I had just left Shawn on his own, and I had to come back—”
“Spencer, what in the hell are you talking about?” Lassiter interrupted.
Henry blinked at Lassiter, before nodding once, seeming to realize that he needed to suppress his panic in order to give them the context they needed.
“Knolls—he isn’t who he says he is. Years ago, when Shawn was a toddler, Maddie worked at UCSB, working on a study on the brain activity of those who were...sensitive to the spirit world. Kessler was always intense, Maddie said, but when we started seeing signs of Shawn’s...abilities, she confided in him, thought he would have advice on how to make life a little easier for Shawn. But then, he wanted Shawn to do all these tests, and we said no, and after a big disagreement, Maddie asked me to look into Kessler’s background.”
Henry looked between Gus and Lassiter, before settling his gaze on Lassiter. “Turns out Kessler got fired from three hospitals for advising unnecessary lobotomies to patients. It was all very suspicious, very hush-hush. And when Maddie confronted him about it, he disappeared, quit the gig at UCSB the same day.” Henry paused. “I assume Kessler created a new identity to regain some semblance of credibility.”
“Shawn did think Knolls was a fake,” Gus confirmed. “But there’s no need to panic. Knolls is at the station, with Ewing—and Shawn’s here. If Knolls is Kessler, then we beat him to his own punch.”
Lassiter’s cell phone chirped in his pocket, making all three men jump. He pulled it out. “It’s O’Hara,” he said, and punched to accept the call, turning as he put the phone to his ear.
“We should fill Shawn in,” Gus said to Henry, and Lassiter watched them walk up to the Psych office door.
“O’Hara? What’s up? I’m on lunch,” Lassiter said into the phone.
“There’s a problem with Knolls,” his partner responded, sounding serious.
Lassiter’s heart skipped a beat. “What kind of problem?”
“Well, he’s missing,” Juliet said. “He told Ewing he had to use the bathroom before they left for the airport a half-hour ago, but he just checked, and Knolls isn’t in there, and now their rental car is gone, too. Ewing’s at a loss.”
Lassiter whirled around to look up at the closed blinds of the Psych office, at Henry and Guster squabbling at the top of the steps about why the door was locked, and banging on the door demanding that Shawn let them in. Pieces of the puzzle slid together for Lassiter, his detective instincts kicking in.
“What color is Ewing’s rental car?” Lassiter asked, looking up and down at the parked cars along the boardwalk.
”Let me ask,” Juliet responded. After a few seconds, Juliet’s voice returned. “It’s an orange Jeep, he says.”
A few seconds as Lassiter’s eyes roved the city street, and then—there. Orange Jeep parked a block down the street.
“I know where Knolls is. O’Hara, I need you to send backup to the Psych office—I’m going in. Spencer might be in danger.”
“Shawn?” Juliet asked, worry and confusion in her voice. But still, she trusted him, which Lassiter was grateful for. “Alright, I’m calling it in. I’ll be there in seven minutes,” she promised, before hanging up.
Lassiter returned his phone to his pocket, and walked briskly over to Guster and the older Spencer. “Knolls just went AWOL from the station—and his rental car is parked down the street. Backup is on the way, but I need you two to stay here while I investigate.”
Both of the men in front of him began to protest, but Lassiter held out a hand, turning to Guster.
“Keys, Guster?”
Gus shook his head, his eyes wide. “They’re in the car, I left them on the visor for Triple A—we never lock the office—I thought Shawn would be here—”
Lassiter was already walking around to the back door of the building. Both men followed at his heels.
“Detective, if you think my son is in danger and that I’m not going in there with you, then you must be a damn—”
“You are a civilian, Henry, and you will wait outside,” Lassiter said, trying the door handle, which opened easily. Bingo.
So much for Lassiter’s hopes for cracking Shawn’s secret wide open.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Shawn really, really hoped that by “get cracking,” Knolls planned on using his circular saw to break the shells of some particularly hardened pistachios, and not removing the top of Shawn’s head.
This day, however, had not been aligning itself with Shawn’s hopes and dreams. In an ideal, dream-version of this day, Shawn would be making out with Molly Ringwald after she blew out her birthday candles on a pineapple upside-down cake. But no, he was stuck here, in a nightmare world, a deranged psychologist trying to find an outlet to plug his saw into so he could take out Shawn’s brain, while Shawn couldn’t move a muscle aside from being able to flex his hands and fingers a bit.
Knolls’ upside down face appeared above Shawn’s once more, the blade of the circular saw gleaming silver, far closer to his eyes than he felt comfortable with. “Now, Shawn, normally I would ensure my test subjects were comfortably unconscious for this next part—but, you know, we have to work with what we have. And you know, what I wanted, with all those lobotomies, was to see the brain. It was nothing personal. I just needed to see how they operated. I need to see how you operate.”
“An’ wha’, then you’d eat ‘em?” Shawn choked out, his words slurring together as they struggled to get out around his still-heavy tongue.
Knolls chuckled. Shawn felt the cold, sharp ridges of the circular saw rest against his forehead, and he felt blood well along his forehead from the pressure of the blade against his skin. He willed control to return to his limbs, but he still could only get his hand to open and close.
“I’ll miss your humor, Shawn,” Knolls said. “Though, soon, I’ll know exactly where it comes from.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This was a bitch of a situation that Spencer had found himself in, in Lassiter’s quickly formed opinion upon entering the office and seeing Spencer handcuffed to a gurney—how in the hell had Kessler even gotten that in here?—with Kessler leveling a circular saw against his cranium.
Lassiter’s weapon, already drawn, automatically angled at Kessler.
“Wai’, wai’—” Spencer was protesting, his words slurring. Lassiter assumed that Kessler must have dosed him with something.
“Drop the saw, Kessler,” Lassiter ordered, stepping around so that he could better see Spencer and Kessler. “I’m afraid I can’t let you cut open Spencer’s head.”
“Lassie!” Shawn gasped, though he didn’t lift his head up to glance at Lassiter. In fact, he didn’t move at all, either away from the saw currently resting (and causing blood to well, Lassiter could see) on his forehead, or move towards Lassiter. Alarm and—dear Jesus—concern flared in Lassiter’s chest.
Kessler frowned at Lassiter, not moving the saw from Shawn’s head. “Really? You sounded so frustrated with him earlier.” He looked down, longingly, at Spencer’s face. Lassiter felt nausea stir in his stomach. “It’s just, I’ve waited a really, really long time to see what the inside of this bastard’s head looks like.”
“Oh, wouldn’t we all like to know what the hell is going on up there,” Lassiter said, clicking off the safety. “But I’m going to need to ask you to move away from the psychic and stand with your hands against the wall.”
Kessler grinned at him, his small round glasses sitting crooked on his face. “Very well, Detective,” he said pleasantly, shoving the circ saw over Spencer’s head as he dropped it to the ground, backing away and raising his arms in supplication. Spencer cried out as the saw sliced him, leaving a shallow cut in its wake, blood smearing over his forehead.
Lassiter was alarmed that Shawn hadn’t even flinched as the saw cut him—Lassiter had only seen the psychic’s hand twitch. What had Kessler given him?
“Kessler, I’m placing you under arrest. Anything that you say can and will—” Lassiter said, reading Kessler the rest of his Miranda Rights as he approached the doctor. Kessler stood back from Spencer, against the wall, smirking with his hands raised half-heartedly. Lassiter reached into his pocket for his handcuffs, keeping his gun trained on Kessler, his eyes only twitching away for a moment to more easily unclasp the cuffs.
A moment was all Kessler needed, however, the old man moving more quickly than Lassiter could have anticipated. He tackled Lassiter to the ground, both men falling against Spencer’s gurney, pushing it into Gus’ desk. Lassiter’s gun went flying.
Kessler scrambled away from Lassiter as soon as they landed, which confused Lassiter until he realized what Kessler was going for. It was hard to miss the circular saw, that Kessler was slinging at Lassiter’s head.
Lassiter ducked, the base of the saw just clipping his head. He grunted and tackled Kessler, knocking the older man flat on his back, the circular saw going flying. Lassiter, still gripping the handcuffs, moved to straddle Kessler and flip him onto his back in order to cuff him.
Kessler squirmed, throwing his head forward so that it collided with Lassiter’s face. Pain exploded in Lassiter’s nose, blood rushing from his nostrils, and he reflexively reached to stem the flow of blood. Kessler twisted and dove underneath the gurney for where Lassiter’s gun had fallen.
“Agh!”
With a groan, Spencer’s body flopped over the side of the gurney, landing on top of Kessler, knocking the doctor into Guster’s desk.
Kessler's head struck the corner of the desk, and he collapsed, unconscious. Spencer didn’t seem able to shift himself from the ground once he’d landed, however, seemingly having used up his strength in hurling himself off of the gurney. His right hand dangled awkwardly over his head, still cuffed to the gurney.
Lassiter retrieved his weapon and cuffed the unconscious Kessler. Standing above Kessler with one foot planted on his back and his weapon aimed at the cuffed psychologist, Lassiter took in a deep breath, trying to restore his sense of control.
He locked eyes with Spencer, who looked exhausted, what with the disturbingly uniform line of blood across his forehead and his head leaning back against the gurney. His eyes were more vacant and expressionless than Lassiter had ever seen them. Lassiter wasn’t sure if he could attribute that to the paralytic Kessler had given Spencer or not.
“Alright, Spencer?” Lassiter asked, still trying to catch his breath.
Shawn only blinked rapidly at him in response, and somewhere in the back of Lassiter’s head, he thought, he’s trying not to cry.
Lassiter wasn’t really sure what to do if that were true; while it made perfect sense that this situation would be the one to crack Spencer’s wise-cracking veneer—even after so many years on the force, Lassiter had to admit that coming that close to having your head sawed open while you were conscious was. well, a lot to handle—Lassiter wasn’t sure what to do with a vulnerable Shawn Spencer. Usually, with Spencer, he could just yell at him until he went away. He never had had to consider Spencer’s feelings before.
For whatever reason, yelling at a near-tears Spencer felt like a bad idea. Lassiter had to actively repress the urge to say something comforting, which was alarming, considering he had spent the last year brainstorming ways to knock Spencer down a peg.
“You’re okay, Spencer,” Lassiter said, unable to continue watching the psychic’s vacant expression any longer.
Several moments passed before Spencer mustered up a response.
“Thanks,” Spencer said. He shook his head back-and-forth in an effort to conceal his emotions, managing to sit up slightly.
“The drug’s wearing off?” Lassiter asked. “What was it, a paralytic?”
Shawn half-nodded.
“Shawn!”
Shawn’s head turned as his father called his name, his face twitching at the sight of his father and best friend. Henry immediately knelt by his son’s side, Gus sliding across his desk to reach Shawn’s other side.
“Oh my God, Shawn, what happened?” Gus asked anxiously.
Henry hissed as he looked at the wound on his son’s head, his fingers lightly tracing the line of blood.
Shawn looked at his friend, then at the unconscious Kessler, and back again. His face, despite clear efforts to return to its usual smirk, still looked blank and disoriented.
“Uh…” he began, sounding as disappointed as he did surprised at himself for not thinking of a quippy one-liner in time, or so Lassiter had to assume.
“I told you two to stay outside,” Lassiter said, hoping to draw some attention away from Spencer’s emotional floundering.
Henry snorted in response, not easily deterred from his son’s wellbeing. “Shawn?”
Shawn’s eyes looked skyward, avoiding his father’s questioning tone.
“Oh my God, you’re freaked out,” Gus said, looking at his friend in awe. “I haven’t seen you like this since our fifth-grade science fair and you found out about how sharks weren’t mythological creatures that they made up for Jaws.”
As if the movie had allowed him to piece something together (or maybe he had noticed the bloody circular saw on the ground near him, Lassiter thought wryly), Gus gasped, his face flipping through a series of expressions before settling on horror.
“Oh my God. He tried to cut your head open, didn’t he? And why aren’t you being all twitchy? Did Kessler give you a neuromuscular blocker? I just got a new trial batch of Tracium last week. If it was Tracium, Shawn, it should wear off about twenty minutes after—”
“Gus, I think we need to go a little slower with the questions,” Henry said, sounding far gentler than Lassiter had ever heard him.
Shawn’s eyes were squeezed shut.
Gus paused, staring at his friend, struggling to emotionally read his friend. He looked up to meet Henry’s concerned gaze, both men stymied by Shawn’s silence.
Henry looked up at Lassiter, still looming above Kessler. “How close was it?”
Lassiter paused before responding, looking at the clearly-traumatized Spencer.
“It was pretty close,” he responded at last. “Kessler had the saw ready.”
Henry looked back at his son’s face, horror splashed across his features. He rested his hand on the top of Shawn’s head, stroking his hair. Shawn didn’t even twitch at the touch.
Guster seemed entirely unprepared to deal with an unresponsive best friend—Lassiter could understand the panic, considering his earlier predicament with the unnervingly quiet and perturbed Spencer. He could quite honestly say that this was the longest period of time he had spent with Spencer without the other man babbling incessantly.
“Shawn, it’s okay. I’m not mad you slashed my tire,” Guster finally said.
One of Spencer’s eyes peeped open. “I didn’t slash your tire, dude. It was Knolls.” Spencer let out a breath, his other eye opening. He seemed to only really register his friend, seemingly unable to acknowledge his father or Lassiter’s presence yet. “I thought he straight-up killed you, Gus. And then he was so totally gunna, like, eat my brains, or something.”
While Spencer's words were a weak attempt at a joke, the effort at humor was tempered by Spencer's uncharacteristically flat tone.
Spencer's uncuffed hand flew to his face, covering his squeezed-shut eyes. Guster tentatively put a hand on Spencer's shoulder, squeezing it. Shawn's shoulders, tight with tension, relaxed slightly at the touch.
"Hey," Guster said, his voice soft and low--Lassiter recognized it as the voice Guster usually used with distraught Psych clients. “Was he more of a Hannibal, or a zombie?”
Spencer's hand slowly lowered from his face, his hazel eyes--still cloudy with panic--looking contemplatively at his friend.
After a moment, however, Spencer and Guster spoke together: “Hannibal.”
“It’s the psychologist aspect, for me—” Gus began.
“He seemed a little too picky about his brains to be a proper zombie—” Shawn started at the same time.
Lassiter snorted. As if what Guster had just said wasn’t utter gibberish and proof he needed medical attention, rather than his injured friend.
“Carlton?” O’Hara called from outside the office’s front door, which, after a beat, Lassiter realized was still locked.
Lassiter heard the sirens, now, though he hadn’t noticed before.
“Oh, thank God,” Lassiter said. “Guster, can you—?”
“Yeah,” Gus said, already standing to go let O’Hara and the other officers in.
When he stood, Henry squeezed his son’s shoulder. “You’re okay, son.”
Shawn smiled weakly at his father, then. “You remembered Knolls?”
Henry smirked. “Well, it’s Kessler, actually…” He trailed off, launching into the doctor’s complex backstory with Shawn’s mother.
“Carlton.” Lassiter felt O’Hara’s hand on his shoulder.
He turned to look at her, and she winced. “Your nose looks broken.”
Huh. Lassiter had forgotten about the angry pulse of his injured nose, but as soon as his partner mentioned it, it returned with a vengeance. He put a hand to his nose.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll get it checked out after they load Spencer up.”
“Paramedics were only a little behind us,” she said, but less to Lassiter and more to Henry, Shawn, and Gus.
She moved to kneel next to Shawn. “How are you, Shawn?” She asked, her voice heavy with concern.
“Jules, I beg of you, don’t say I told you so,” Spencer replied, sounding more and more like his usual self as he went on. “I have heard it seven times in the last thirty seconds from Mr. ‘I Knew This Was A Bad Idea’ and Mr. ‘Shawn, I’ve Told You This A Thousand Times.’”
“Shut up, Shawn, I haven’t even said I told you so once, even though I totally did tell you so,” Gus replied, coming back over to kneel next to his friend.
“You literally just did say so,” Spencer replied, wincing as he tried to adjust his position by pulling up on his cuffed hand, his legs still not cooperating.
“I literally just said that I literally didn’t just say—”
The two began bickering quietly together, more intensely, so low Lassiter couldn’t understand, before stopping as suddenly as it began. Lassiter realized it was because Guster was helping—really lifting him, with assistance from O’Hara, at whom Shawn was now focusing all his attention—his friend up onto the gurney from his slouched position below it. Once Spencer was situated, however, Guster didn’t release his hold on his friend, his grip on his shoulders folding easily into a hug.
Lassiter watched the two men embrace, Spencer burying his face into Guster’s shoulder, and felt something akin to...fondness, for the two friends in front of him, for his partner trying to make Spencer laugh as she attempted to free his handcuffed hand.
Damn. Kessler’s crazy must have rubbed off on him.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital’s emergency room wasn’t particularly busy midday on a Tuesday, so Lassiter and Spencer were in and out relatively quickly. Lassiter had only had a broken nose and a small bump on the head—not even a mild concussion—while Spencer had the nasty cut across the forehead, which required stitches. But not even those took very long.
O’Hara had promised to pick him up after booking Kessler, but Lassiter wasn’t sure how long that would take. He had been sitting in the ER waiting room for twenty minutes waiting for her to arrive, trying to resist the urge to pick at the bandage across his nose.
It was then Spencer had entered the waiting room with his father and friend, a white bandage wrapped around his head like an injured cartoon character. Lassiter was sure that Spencer had already made several crass pop-culture comparisons in that same vein in the few minutes since getting treated. He wasn’t sorry to have missed that dialogue between him and Guster that Lassiter was sure he wouldn’t have understood, in any case.
“Lassie!” Spencer exclaimed once he saw him sitting on one of the waiting room’s plastic chairs. He approached, his father and friend trailing behind him warily, as if they expected Spencer to have a sudden psychotic break and begin destroying all the potted ferns in the waiting room. “I’m glad you’re still here. I wanted to thank you properly for being my knight-in-shining-Lassie today. Forreal, you were what stood between me and me becoming the Headless Horseman, of the lore of Ebenezer Scrooge and the legend of Star’s Hollow.”
Guster snorted. “Shawn, you know damn well that it’s Ichabod Crane.”
“I’ve heard it both—”
“Not to mention that Star’s Hollow is the town in Gilmore Girls, Shawn. Ichabod Crane was from Sleepy Hollow—”
“Really, Gus, considering how close I came to losing my head today, you’re lucky I remember your name, let alone remember every character’s name and hometown that Edgar Allen Poe created—”
“Washington Iriving wrote ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,’ not Edgar Allen Poe—”
“Anyways, Lassie,” Spencer cut in loudly over his friend’s protests. “Seriously, thanks. I owe you a smoothie. Any fruit flavor combo you can think of.”
“I was doing my job, Spencer,” Lassiter answered gruffly. “And I only suspected anything was wrong because you were acting like such a fruitcake around Kessler, so, congratulate yourself.”
“I always knew your irrational vendetta against me and your drive to see me refuted in the eyes of the law would come in handy someday,” Spencer said pleasantly. Lassiter was almost pleased that he was being as unfalteringly annoying as usual.
“Let’s head home, Shawn,” Henry said. “Your mother’s driving down from San Francisco to see you. We need to get the guest room ready for her.”
Spencer nodded in acquiescence, and turned to follow his father and friend to the exit.
Lassiter watched him go, before standing to follow.
“Spencer?” He called. Shawn turned.
“Yeah, Lassie? Do you need a ride?” He asked, grinning.
Lassie stared at the white bandage across his forehead, rather than meet the psychic’s eyes. “I will never say this again, and will deny it if you bring it up later,” he began. “But...I’m glad you’re here. And not with your brains all over the ground,” he amended.
Shawn’s face morphed from amusement to surprise and back again. “Aw, Lassie, you like me. You really like me.”
Lassiter snorted. “Get out of here, Spencer.”
Shawn shook his head incredulously as he backed away from Lassiter. “He likes me, Gus. He really, really, really likes me.”
“I’ll kill you, Spencer,” Lassiter growled, regretting his spontaneous impulse to return Spencer’s efforts to thank him.
“It’s okay, Lassie, you’re one of my favorite people, too,” Shawn said as he turned to catch up to his father.
And Lassiter was left speechless, wondering how he was supposed to reckon with a world in which Shawn Spencer, fake psychic and all-around nuisance, was actually someone who had made the short list of people he cared about. He already knew he didn't like that world, even if it was the one he was stuck in.