Chapter Five: You're Moments Ago, But Seconds Away

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* * *

She stared at the blood work run up from scene, disbelieving that it had a match— rather, disbelieving just who it had been matched to.

"It's him, he's the killer." Vick heard a retrospection of Shawn Spencer's voice of six months ago, upon walking into the station, picking Mary Lightly out of the crowd of officers and detectives. Emotion of some kind fluttered in her chest— in the fray of those moments, with riddle and the stopwatch at hand, a young woman's life in the balance, she and her detectives had quickly brushed off Shawn's psychic "vibrations" as conjecture— or misinformation from his— his non-corporeal "sources". Vick pressed her teeth together, feeling as if she were biting down on crystal— or ice.

They hadn't the time now to sort through all this— the why or the how. Was there a chance that she was jumping to conclusions? Could he be victim, forced to aid Yang? Her eyes narrowed, trying to see through this possibility. Karen sighed. It didn't make any sense to her, and she had a solid twenty years of experience to fall back on.

She ruled out the possibly that Lightly was some kind of innocent victim; if he had been, why hadn't he been mentioned by Dr. Williams as a third figure in the room, a cowering figure? She blew out a breath through her teeth.

It had to more than coincidence that Lightly was unable to be reached, that Yang had now taken an accomplice to her side— someone who had taken Dr. Williams from the parking lot, driven the car, held the camera. Alone in her office— since Detective Alexander had excused herself to continue narrowing down the motel search, McNab going also to assist her— Karen was unable to keep her hand from curling into a fist. Lightly had worked with them— helped them, going everywhere that her detectives went— what could have led him to turn on them? There was much they didn't know about the abduction— but they had enough pieces to recreate the scene. Now, with Lightly's blood and previous DNA sample— the many things he'd touched while in the SBPD HQ— at her elbow, Karen felt she had made a grave error misjudging the profiler with the high IQ and the blank expression; was it all just some kind of terrible but convincing act to hide his true— affection? for the Yin Yang killer?

She thought around it, trying to peer into the sheer drop off of six months prior, into the brief time she had spent with the man; since the events had unfolded in a 24 hour time span. Were there signs? Tells? Granted, she hadn't been focused on Lightly passed the point of expecting results from him; this could be why nothing about him, other than the general oddities— a quirkiness she'd let slide— stood out. And he'd come highly recommended, with accolades. She frowned.

He's become our enemy— The fist she had clenched earlier shook, shooting tension up her arm and neck, into her jaw. She couldn't spare anger; again, she needed someone who would deliver results— as soon as possible.

* * *

She had only thought, as she waited on hold, that there was a chance that he may not be available; her stomach twisted into a new, smaller knot. She waited with bated breath, with a schoolgirl nervousness; she felt she would never have an appetite again, and coffee was bound to make her so sick, but she was planning to live on it until—

"Come on," Vick hissed into the phone. Silence kept her company, or rather, heightened her worry. She was still thrown to discover that Mary Lightly had become Yang's new accomplice; it was as surreal as thinking over again that her Head Detective and his Junior partner had been kidnapped. But she had seen the pictures. . . . She could imagine worse nightmares, those which involved her daughter or her husband, or even her sister, but her officers and detectives were another story. They were a different kind of family— and Lassiter and Juliet had become— she sighed, not having the words she wanted. What she felt was less maternal but she couldn't deny that she harbored protective instincts.

Her detectives were holding up, it seemed, in spite of the situation. But it still hurt her with an almost physical ache to see them bound and gagged, pale with apprehension and doubt— and to hear from young Dr. Williams that though they both had injuries requiring of medical attention, Lassiter was by far the worst off. She wanted to be able to count on him to be a source of strength— but this felt unfair to O'Hara, who had come such a long way since her first day on the job at the SBPD.

As Karen waited, she began to formulate her plans; grateful that Shawn Spencer was fully on board, especially since they might not have much time. The games were different— Yang had shown them her face, they'd received proof of life, but Karen had no idea if this meant that they were given more time or less.

She was startled from her thoughts when a man's voice said, "Hello?"

"Yes, hello, this is Chief Karen Vick from the Santa Barbara Police Department. To whom am I speaking?"

The man coughed. "Chief Vick?" he repeated, "This is Adam Marks, retired Sergeant of the Los Angeles PD. How can I be of service?"

She licked her lips and swallowed a lump at the back of her throat. "I don't know if you recall, but we met about a year ago, following some trouble with your former SBPD partner, Detective Carlton Lassiter—"

Marks' breathing increased, the sound audible. "Yes, yes, I remember. Has something happened?" When Karen hesitated, he continued, "I'm proud, you understand, to say I had a hand in raising him in a way, shaping his path. He was always self-sufficient; even with the trouble he was in then I know I shouldn't have expected him to call. If you're contacting me, then—"

Vick took a sip from a paper cup half filled with cold coffee. "We have a situation here, and what I need is someone capable and trustworthy on our side." She sighed. "Are you at all familiar with the Yin Yang serial killer, Sgt. Marks?"

"Please, call me Adam," Marks corrected gently, before confirming that he knew of this killer. "I remember, about, what fourteen, fifteen years ago, a couple years before Lassiter was assigned to me, that the SBPD first received a Yin Yang and a riddle from that killer. John Fenich was Chief at the time." He waited with practiced patience for her to continue.

"All right," Vick said. Good to know. She put off telling about her detectives until she had said everything else she'd needed to— about Yang's escape and return, the profiler's changing of sides, the "deadly game" she was now forcing Shawn Spencer into playing, and other brief but necessary details.

He briefly asked her if these were the same people he had met in that day he showed up unexpectedly.

"Yes, that's right. The stakes are very high," she pressed on, "and I thought of you immediately because—" Now or never. "—Because Carlton and his partner, Detective O'Hara, have been abducted."

On the other end of the line, Marks gasped, stifling a cough. "By this killer and this profiler?" he repeated slowly, fighting, it seemed, as she had, for complete understanding.

"Yes," Karen affirmed. "Adam, I need your help— we all do." How much she wanted to comment on Shawn Spencer's being a wreck, but she managed to hold her tongue. Being her department's consultant, it was her job to keep him under the reins and not some outsider's, even though Marks was not exactly that. She sighed. "Those two are the best I've got— I need as much help as possible getting them back in one piece."

A shuffling of papers on his line. "I'm your man, absolutely, Chief Vick," Adam replied after only two seconds of thought. "I can be there—"

Karen heard the rustle of fabric, as if Marks were rolling up a sleeve to check his wristwatch. She bit her lip, not wanting to blurt out the tidbit about Carlton's being injured; she was only considering selfishly, because she wanted him to get here faster. She let her thoughts roll back to their one time meeting, in Carlton's hospital room— how quickly Marks had humbled the entire room of them with the insistence that he be called first— if trouble again reared its monstrous head. He obviously cared about Lassiter's well being, seeming to have a soft spot for her curmudgeonly Head Detective, which was some kind of miracle in of itself— but Marks was also honest and firm when need be, as she recalled. She hoped that he could be an anchor— for Shawn, especially, and began to experience minute relief that she had not only found a replacement for Lightly, but an unyielding ally, one who would bet his life on everyone coming home safely.

She didn't know how she knew all of this after one meeting, not even a full hour— and know even less about Lightly, who had been instrumental in— Spilled milk, let it go, she told herself.

"I'll estimate it at about two hours— but expect me in an hour an half."

Vick blinked repeatedly, unable to stop herself from asking aloud how he really expected to travel nearly 95 miles in a car in only ninety minutes. When there was a pause, she apologized, placing blame on the stress.

"That's why," Marks explained, with Karen filling in, because she could not see him, the lines across his forehead, a tightness to his gentle eyes. Karen rubbed a spot under her eye with two knuckles, shaking out the hand, previously clenched, when she was done. "Keep me up to speed with your progress?"

He had no need to frame it as a question; Vick was more than willing to admit that she had made a keen decision, but she partially wished he would just walk through the front doors right now.

"The killer has been in contact— we've been sent proof of life," she explained carefully. Again, she let the details of the accident slide, not yet mentioning Dr. Williams' unwillingly part in this game.

Marks cleared his throat. From the change of sounds, Vick guessed he was already outside, heading towards his car, or some sort of transportation. "Both?"

"Yes."

"Are they— holding up?"

Vick hesitated; the looks from their eyes had been mostly guarded, though intense emotions were still present. She had no way of knowing for certain, but she told him, "Yes," anyway.

* * *

They guarded the vending machines from other hungry predators, both Henry and Gus taking the chance to eat and drink something not so nutritious or appetizing. Shawn held the squished candy bar that either his father or Gus had handed to him, staring at its shiny blue-white wrapper, not thinking about it or making any moves to open it.

"You'd better go . . . she's not going to wait forever." A toss of curled blond hair, gracefully styled, brushing her bare shoulders as Juliet turned away from him, not even glancing back to see if he'd changed his mind. She wouldn't— couldn't ask, not again.

Shawn dropped the candy on the floor, bringing both hands to his face, burying his senses into the clammy scoop of semidarkness. He couldn't, however, flip off his mind, the thoughts continuing to spool. He and Abigail hadn't even— just that one last date, that night. He had been— much more shaken than he'd realized, or allowed himself to be during— and she— she'd been seriously weirded out at her police escorts all night. It had ended quickly, with Abigail doing most of the talking— she had been kidding about serial killer chasing as some "fun" hobby, while he'd been completely serious. He'd mumbled that it wasn't necessarily "fun", but she rushed on, telling him that the past was the past, and that she couldn't handle a present where she was involved with a PI who could put her life at risk at any turn.

"I'm selfish," Abigail told him, though she wasn't apologetic about it. He'd nodded dumbly, unable to form the obvious words, what, any other time, he might have blurted out, regretting them immediately. She was telling him he wasn't worth the risk— that whatever they'd almost had thirteen years prior really had died out there that night on the end of the pier, drifting through the moon's light over the ocean, passed the horizon— gone.

A mistake— I made a mistake. I chose the wrong one— Shawn pressed his palms tighter against his face. He felt cold inside. What if I— again? This time was much more serious than "simple" matters of the heart— this was literally life and death. "I can't choose," Shawn blurted out, his voice muffled by his hands.

Hands gripped his wrists; by the calloused pads of the fingers, Shawn recognized that Henry had him. Henry ripped Shawn's hands from his face, yanking his arms to his sides with that strength that had startled Shawn earlier. "Dad," Shawn muttered hoarsely.

"Buck up, kid, you're needed— like it or not," Henry said firmly, nearly nose to nose with his son.

"But—"

Henry shook his head, knowing at the same time that Shawn was going to continue to protest.

"But— but—" Shawn mumbled. "What— what—"

"Shh." Henry gritted his teeth, forcing himself not tell Shawn to "Shut it," forcing himself not to start yelling; this was the worst possible time for yelling. Shawn was still easily spooked, could bolt at any opening. Henry pulled back a little, still keeping a grip on Shawn's wrists. "You saw those pictures."

Shawn's eyes narrowed. "Is that a trick question, Dad?" he hissed. His lips parted again, likely to angrily rant that he couldn't stop seeing the images, now branded in all their Technicolor horror neatly behind his eyes. A blast of electricity shot from the pit of his stomach into his throat, burning him.

"Shawn," Gus said quietly. He tilted his head at Henry in a subtle signal.

Shawn turned his face away from Henry, noticing for the very first time how pinched Gus's features had become; much earlier, before all this started, Gus had been Gus— his usual best friend. It was much before either had been tainted by the knowledge of— Shawn closed his eyes. Still fresh, tender, it hurt to think about.

They looked . . . furious, through their pain, discomfort; there was, at times, unguarded fear in both sets of blue eyes. But Jules, Lassie, in spite of the tape on their mouths, their restraints— they looked okay. Not everyday okay, but at the very least, living-breathing okay. And angry. Shawn gulped. He felt he should be angrier— but there was still a terrible fear in his mouth.

"We beat her once, Shawn," Gus continued quietly, easing into Shawn's thoughts. "I know that— things are different this time around—" Shawn made an indiscernible noise in his throat, something between a guffaw and a croak and cough. "We can figure this out before Yang—"

"Kills them?" Shawn supplied, his voice pitching. "Kills both of them?" He shook his head slowly. "What if— what if last time was a fluke? Or a pass— like, the 'first time's "free"'?"

Henry pursed his lips. "That's not how Yang operates. He— er, she— has a specific objective in mind, a riddle or a game— the target must solve it, or—" Henry clamped his mouth shut, about to say "else"; this wasn't a detective or an officer his was briefing. His son was once again the target— and the pawns were this time well known to him. He released Shawn's wrists with an apology, aimed at Shawn's hands, which twitched once before refolding at the elbow, pulling back in towards his body, close. "You're the first one who ever—"

She's got a soft spot for me, Shawn thought with a wince. Because I did that well. He raised an eyebrow. "You asked about pictures?"

Henry looked over Shawn's face before he answered, noticing how tired he already looked. Though this wasn't, in his mind, the best time for sympathy, he relented, throwing his voice to speak what he hoped was the truth from his ex-wife. "Listen, your mother didn't blame you, for what happened." Henry raised his eyebrows as Shawn's face went blank. "She knows, and I know— and for god's sake," Henry dropped his voice, "Lassiter and O'Hara know— it's not your fault. It's the psycho's fault."

Shawn's blankness slowly molded into confusion, lining his forehead, drawing his eyebrows close to his befuddled eyes— which blazed with a brown-yellow flare. Is that what— what his father had seen in the pictures? His mouth soon joined the bandwagon; he had been certain a responsibility lecture was coming, how, if he were a real cop— He shook his head slightly.

"Did you hear me?" Henry asked, still in a low voice. "You aren't directly responsible for any of the abductions."

Directly responsible. Shawn's mouth twisted. There, there was Henry.

Gus's eyes widened, and he scratched the itch to clarify. "What your dad means, Shawn, is that you aren't responsible. Mr. Yang chose you, targeted you. You never asked for that."

Henry sighed. "Gus—"

Gus glanced at Henry. "I know that's what you were trying to tell Shawn, Mr. Spencer." It was utterly neutrally, but there was the slightest hint of challenge; it was too subtle for Shawn to catch. The lines around Henry's eyes scrunched momentarily, and then he managed a tight nod. "Right."

Shawn let his eyes slide to the floor. "She chose me," he repeated softly. And if I don't choose one of them, I'll have . . . blood . . . their blood— He sucked in breath when Gus squeezed his shoulder.

"Shawn, we can figure this out," Gus said quietly. "We can get both of them back."

Shawn nodded, lifting his head. That's what I want— what I need to do. "Both of them, or no deals," he mumbled.

Henry nodded, gesturing they had to make their way back. Gus let go of Shawn's shoulder as Henry's arm swooped in, draping itself awkwardly around Shawn's back and arms. "You're going to have to play this smart, Shawn," Henry told him as they walked. He made a face, sighed. "You're going to have to— get into her head, so you can find out what she wants. So you can manipulate it and earn your objective."

Shawn nodded, allowing his father's words to sink in. Though, over and over, he saw Jules' face, felt a blankness at the tape over her mouth. Still, it made him want to reach in to the photographs, brush the hair back from her forehead, kiss her cheek— gather her to him, protect her. His cheeks flushed hot. The look in her eyes was hard to ignore— a demand, an order. Through space, time, from its memory writ in light, captured on paper, sent to him, he translated the look loosely into words: "Find a way to save us both or never see me again."

* * *

Vick cleared her throat, deciding to launch into what she had to say without hesitation after the three returned, settling in their previous positions before her. It had been enough of a shock for her— they might as well learn what they had to as soon as possible. "Mary Lightly will not be joining us."

"Why not?" Gus asked, feeling Shawn's shoulder stiffen under his hand.

Vick swallowed, pressed her lips together, and pushed on. "It has been brought my attention that— that he is Ms. Yang's alleged accomplice."

"Excuse me?" Gus asked, his eyebrow and voice raising at the same moment. He glanced at Shawn, certain his hearing had just failed him. "Did you—?"

"Are you sure?" Henry cut in, confused.

"I wish I wasn't."

Shawn frowned, hearing their voices continue as he drifted through the past, from the introduction to the profiler to end of the evening, after Yang had been captured. Other than his initial judgmental impression of Mary Lightly, he hadn't managed to scrape together any reason that would make sense that Lightly could be involved with Mr. Yang. Lightly had seemed too dull to be a killer, let alone be associated with one, as an accomplice. He'd had no other hobbies or interests, apparently, other than tracking Mr. Yang for the past thirteen years. Well, that, and reading Men's Fitness.

He zoned out long enough to miss what Vick was saying about a replacement. Henry's voice brought him back.

"Adam Marks?" Henry repeated, sitting back in his chair with a look of concentration on his face.

Vick studied his posturing; he had trained her, after all. "You know him?"

Henry squinted, as if Marks were in the room, and then nodded. "I remember him, but I didn't have much contact with him." He nodded again. "About 1994, 1995? As I recall, he was a Senior Level Detective, and when I was a Sergeant, about to retire."

"He was assigned as Lassiter's partner in 1996— about six to eight months before they were invited into the Cavaliere investigation." She watched Henry's face sour at the mention of this name. She turned her attention towards Shawn and Gus. "Do you remember meeting him, about a year ago, after—?"

"Yeah," Gus said. "He was that older guy in Lassiter's hospital room, right?"

"I asked Lassie if that guy was bothering him," Shawn remembered with a nod. For the first time, he really let his thoughts dwell on Lassiter. Much had happened in a year, putting enough distance between the events and the two of them that they'd easily fallen back into their old roles— within seconds, it seemed, once Lassiter no longer coveted anyone's help dealing. Shawn suspected that Juliet had continued to keep tabs on her partner, even forcing her concern and natural cheer upon him whenever it seemed to her that he wasn't all right. He felt a smack of guilt, recalling the Head Detective's smile in the SBPD parking lot, the words admitted that he didn't have to— "Even it is, Spencer."

"You did not," Henry stated, though he raised an eyebrow— until there was a trace of smile on Shawn's lips, a stir of its ghosts in his eyes.

He shrugged. "I didn't— get the frequencies of the spirits clearly." He looked into Vick's eyes, noticing for the first time that their new Detective un-friend wasn't in the room. "So he's going to come in to help us?"

Karen nodded. "Apparently he's had some experience with the original case— the Yin Yang Killer's first strike." She left out that he had seemed to be confused over the actual year; it made enough sense to her that he should be frazzled over the phone.

"Good," Henry said. "That's two more on your side."

Karen's brow furrowed. "Two more?" She stared at him. "Henry, you're not—"

"I," Henry began sternly, "am not going anywhere." They exchanged a long glare, interrupted by a surprising, "Thanks, Dad," from Shawn.

The young Mr. Spencer's pitiful glance cut her to the heart— though she was in charge, and though she knew the dangers of involving yet another civilian— though at the very least, this was another experienced but retired cop— Vick knew she couldn't deny him. It had been a courtesy before, but she realized that she should consider all the willing help available— even if, in any other case, she would throw out the personally invested on a "conflict of interest". "Very well," she relented, still firm— with an unspoken warning that she could and would yank anyone from this at any time— with the exception of Shawn.

Gus licked his lips. "When will he be here?"

"Ninety minutes, give or take. He's coming in from LA. He was getting to ready to leave as we'd spoken."

As the news sunk in, there was a knock and then the door opened. "Chief," Detective Alexander said, sounding breathless, "we're ninety-five percent certain we've discovered the location of the motel." The three turned around, with Vick raising immediately from her chair. Detective Alexander had reserved a thin smile for Shawn. "Thanks to your tips, also, Mr. Spencer."

Vick gestured and Detective Alexander nodded and left. Shawn sprang out of his chair with the first burst of energy he'd had since trying to run away. He couldn't wait for instructions; his thoughts spun in a tizzy, though the pit of his stomach was tempered with dread. He was out the door, trailing after the red-haired detective, with everyone else behind him— tense that he would run again, or that they might just find their missing.

Shawn was worried though; he gritted his teeth as the red hair turned a corner. Always, always chasing ghosts.

* * *

The backhand raked her eyes with tears, a blow that knocked her to her knees. She'd tried anyway, even with the knowledge that the stun gun was being held at her partner's throat. She'd thought— tried to think, what would he do? What would Lassiter do, if not injured, or dazed? Fight back— shoot first, ask questions later?

Juliet was thankful, grateful, that they'd taken him first, releasing him from her— only to recuff their arms behind them— but not to the other. This was after they had been dragged from the bed by the restraints around their legs, both jarred at the descent as they hit the floor, both too dazed to struggle much as their captors pulled them apart. She could only make out the perceived actions from the corner of her eye, guessing by his straggled grunts that Lightly had jerked Lassiter upright by the neck.

Her heart had jumped up into her throat as they were moved; her eyes scurried around the room as if she could catch the attention of something that would have a power to make them stay. She did not want to go anywhere else with Yang and Lightly— and though they were not safe here, and though this place was not known, it still had more similarities of it than anywhere they had yet to go.

Yang was fiercely strong— much stronger than she appeared to be. She appeared as if she didn't know how to throw a punch, or how to block one thrown at her. Though, it hadn't been a punch, but a torso swing; Juliet was wobbly on her still bound legs. She hadn't even remembered getting to her feet.

She had not been as badly injured, but Juliet now found the room spinning, her grip on what she knew and what she had learned slipping, slipping. Wordlessly, Yang glared her hard brown eyes over Juliet, flicking away long enough to signal Mary. Juliet heard the jolt of the stun gun's electricity, then a muffled scream from Lassiter. She cried out, pivoting her body in time to take in the horrible sight of Lassiter's body jerking on the floor, of his eyes sliding closed.

She didn't have time to see anything else.

* * *

Even as they were racing there, running— Shawn already knew they were going to be too late. Yang wasn't in the business of making things easy for him; somehow, she and her accomplice would have been able to remove their hostages to another location within thirty minutes to an hour of their figuring out the name and location of the motel.

He almost didn't want to enter, knowing they wouldn't be here.

They weren't.

There were tells that the room had be occupied; the impression of two adults lying on a comforter on the bed closest to the wall; blood on the floor and in the bathroom, saturating towels. There were strands of blond hair on the pillow on the right, and on the left side, blood on the pillow, and a small pile of vomit on the floor. Shawn zoomed in and out quickly, but was unable to put on his usual puppet show with much finesse. It sounded wooden to him, as he desperately observed the room for signs of where his friends may have been taken.

There was the clue of on the wall, written in red:

Two Slow. Where Your Fear Will Grow.

And underneath this, a Polaroid duct taped to the headboard in a neat silver square. Someone had hands in their hair, jerking their faces towards camera. They had been here; this space held their smells, along with the sweaty trappings of trickled out fear, the metallic grimace of dried blood, and one other— stale popcorn.

Shawn gasped. This is what she'd smelled like that night, as if she used the movie butter as perfume, scenting the insides of her wrists and the nape of her neck. The salty, stale smell of overcooked popcorn was in her hair; Shawn reeled. Her exhilarated smile, her breathy, dreamy speech: "Be honest, I'm prettier than you thought I'd be." Chomp, chomp.

Shawn's mouth twisted. It was the first time since this whole thing began— well, this time, anyway— that Shawn was stabbed by anger, a long, thin needle that pierced him from belly button to spine, clean through. He studied the picture, holding this anger in his mouth as if it were a hot coal. Who the hell does this bitch think she was? Oh, right, a serial killer. And a kidnapper. In this room, where his— colleagues? team mates? friends? had been, where he could still "feel" them as if they were still near, Shawn made a promise to himself. A flicker went across his eyes, and the deal was sealed.

How had they managed, especially with Mary shot, (one of the details Vick had revealed to them earlier)? Lassiter and Jules bound together, either awake or asleep would have been a massive handful. "They were unconscious," Shawn fudged, with his eyes closed. "Dragged on the floor, out the door—" Then what? Without warning, he bunched a fist and threw it into the air, narrowly missing Gus, who managed to dodge. They were taken out of here like pieces of trash— pawns. Shawn's stomach twisted. His usual self didn't lean towards violence, but he knew that he would welcome a fit of rage now, allowing himself to pummel the inanimate objects in this room— crime scene— and then would also be satisfied to crumple on the floor, drained of energy.

Shawn opened his eyes. No. I can't. I can't do that. I need every ounce of strength available— because I've got to find them.