22 hours earlier… give or take

Lassiter was fuming, partly at Spencer and partly at himself for not noticing the issue earlier and heading it off. What in the world made the psychic think he could just waltz off with police property?

Now, instead of finishing up his own work and going home for some much-needed rest, Lassiter was having to track down Spencer to retrieve the missing casefile. Lassiter snatched his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number from memory. As soon as the phone call connected, Lassiter launched into his lecture. "Spencer, the SBPD is not running a public library, so I don't know where you got the idea that you can help yourself to confidential police files. You had better bring the Rogers case file back right now before I arrest you for theft of police property."

"But I thought the case was closed, Carlton."

Lassiter frowned. Spencer rarely called him by his first name, and he was clearly enunciating every word of the conversation. Lassiter couldn't put his finger on it, but something was wrong.

"It can wait until tomorrow morning for you to cross all your 't's and dot all your 'i's. You really need to lighten up." Spencer chuckled. "Tell Timmy to make sure you check out the pineapple fan though. I think there might be something dangerous going on there. Kind of time-sensitive, too, so you'd probably better look at that tonight."

Okay, that had to be some kind of message. Lassiter had no idea who this Timmy was though… He frowned as the thought finally hit him. Of course, it was stupid, but Spencer did usually call him Lassie, as much as Lassiter was not a fan of that nickname, and Spencer was overly fond of pineapples.

It was just crazy enough that it had to be Spencer trying to give him some kind of message.

"Spencer," he growled, half concerned and half annoyed at the other man messing with him, "what are you talking about?"

"I promise, Detective," Spencer said. "Would I ever lie to you?"

Lassiter snorted. "All the time, but fine. I'll check into it and get back to you."

"You're the best, Carlton! See you!"

There was a click as the psychic hung up.

Grumbling to himself and vowing that Spencer would regret it if this was just some elaborate prank, Lassiter grabbed his keys and strode out to the parking lot. He was almost tempted to call for backup, just in case there was indeed something "dangerous" going on. However, knowing Spencer, that was simply an exaggeration and Lassiter was not about to waste departmental resources on some weird words from their pet psychic.

As head detective, he'd had years of training, and if for some reason the situation was more than he could handle, he could always call for assistance.

Fortunately, the drive to Spencer's place was not extremely long, and he didn't quite speed to the point where he needed his siren, so he made it there in about five minutes. As he approached the old storefront, a dark sedan blew past him in the opposite lane. Lassiter glanced in the rearview mirror. As much as he hated to admit it, he was more concerned about Spencer than a car on a joyride at the moment, but he still wasn't about to let a speedster escape unpunished.

Unfortunately, the vehicle was moving at such a high rate of speed that it was already too far away for Lassiter to read the plate, let alone turning to give chase. He briefly considered it, but then swallowed that thought and turned into Spencer's driveway.

Hopefully he wouldn't regret this decision.

When he pulled in, everything was still and quiet. Too quiet, he realized. Lassiter couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something… off. Some sixth cop sense inside of him that was already somewhat on alert from the phone call suddenly shifted to high gear. Over the years, he had learned to listen to his gut feelings, so he quickly parked and drew his gun as he exited his vehicle. He shut the door as quietly as he could as something beside him caught his eye: tire tracks.

That's weird.

He knew Spencer drove a motorcycle, and these definitely belonged to a four-wheeled vehicle. Plus, they looked fresh, and they were too big to belong to Guster's car. Lassiter was no expert on Spencer's life outside of the SBPD, but he was willing to bet it was an odd occasion that anyone else was at Spencer's place at this time of night. The tire tracks just increased the gut feeling he had that something was definitely not right.

Lassiter quietly moved toward the front door of the dry cleaner's. He looked in the window next to the door and frowned. He couldn't see much, but as far as he could tell there was no movement inside the apartment. One dim light could be seen through the window, but there were no shadows or sounds of anyone moving around inside. While he wouldn't put it past Spencer, he was fairly certain the other man wouldn't have fallen asleep in the short time since they had spoken.

As he turned for the door, something through the window caught his attention. He had almost missed it, chalking up the shoe lying on the floor to Spencer's less than exemplary cleaning habits. Then he looked again, almost as an afterthought, and suddenly realized that there was a leg attached to the shoe. Lassiter's eyes narrowed as he double-checked his observation, and sure enough, there was a body lying on the far side of the coffee table from the window. He couldn't see a face, but those Converses were definitely Spencer's.

That was all Lassiter needed. He whirled on his heel and rushed to the door, trying the knob and thankfully finding it unlocked. A moment later, he was inside and rounding the corner of the table. Sure enough, Spencer was sprawled on the ground, still as could be, eyes closed.

"Spencer!" Even as Lassiter yelled the other man's name, he was taking in the scene quickly. His eyes narrowed as he saw the pill bottle on the floor near Spencer's hand and a piece of paper with scribbled handwriting on the table. "Spencer, this had better not be some sick joke!"

"Lassie!" Spencer sat upright so quickly that Lassiter had to take a step back in surprise. "You got my message!"

Lassiter crossed his arms and scowled at Spencer's grinning face. "Spencer, you had better tell me what is going… Oh for-" he interrupted himself as Spencer held up a hand and began to spit into it. Lassiter watched in something akin to a mix of morbid curiosity and revulsion. "What in the name of Sweet Lady Justice are you doing?"

In explanation, Spencer held out his now-slimy hand with two white pills lying in his palm. "I'm probably the only kid whose dad taught him how not to take medicine."

"I'm confused," Lassiter replied blankly.

"Okay, so, just before you got here, the bad guy left," Spencer started to explain. "I was just making sure he was all the way gone, and then you showed up."

Lassiter frowned. "I did pass a vehicle right before I got to your driveway. They were speeding, and I would have pulled them over if I hadn't needed to get that casefile from you more than I needed to issue a traffic citation at this hour of the night. Are you telling me that was a potential murderer I could have apprehended?" He was not pleased with this turn of events.

"Uh-huh," Spencer replied with a shrug.

"Okay." Lassiter sighed deeply, closing his eyes briefly before looking back at the other man. "Why did he try to kill you?"

"I don't know… Wait, that's a lie. Yes I do."

"Spencer!"

"Hang on, Lassie. I can't concentrate with these things in my hand," Spencer complained. "I think they're dissolving." He turned and hurried for the kitchen, where he grabbed a paper towel from the counter and wiped the contents of his hand onto one. Lassiter made a face but left it alone as the other man continued talking even as he finished wiping off the remaining residue on the seat of his jeans. "Anyway, so I was just minding my own business, planning to order some Chinese and settle in for that marathon of MacGyver that I've been waiting all week for - and am now missing, by the way," he added with a disappointed shake of his head.

"Can we please stay on topic?" Lassiter asked impatiently. "I need to get hunting for this guy."

"Right." Spencer nodded. "So, uh, let's see. I must have forgotten to lock the door behind me when I got home, because I came out of the bathroom to find him waiting on the sofa for me." He sighed sadly. "He said he'd killed Bradley Turner."

"Bradley Turner?" Lassiter blinked. "The other key witness in the Sawyer case?" He frowned as he thought that revelation over. "That must be why he was after you, too. They must be trying to eliminate all the witnesses in that case. Did he say who had sent him?"

Spencer shook his head sadly. "He was my twin."

"What? Who, Turner? Your… no, he was not," Lassiter snorted in disbelief. "Spencer, you and Guster were the only people who thought you two looked alike. Plenty of people are your same height, and brown is not a unique hair color."

Sighing forlornly, Spencer continued. "He was my brother from another mother. And father. Actually, another family altogether, although our psychic connection and dashing good looks could not be denied."

"Spencer."

The psychic still ignored him. "You don't just go murdering people; that's against the law!"

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Way to state the obvious, but if he wasn't a criminal he wouldn't break the law, and we need to catch him, so can we please stay on topic?"

"Okay, okay." Spencer put up his hands. "He said he'd dumped the body off of Stearn's Wharf and that he was pretty sure that no one would be able to identify it without DNA records whenever it surfaced. He also said that once news of my death hit the news, his money would hit his account and he'd be long gone. Then all he had left to do was disappear." Spencer shrugged. "After that, he forced me to take those pills, which I didn't actually take, obviously." He grinned, apparently quite pleased with himself.

Nodding, Lassiter thought aloud. "Okay, so we need to get you to the station and get a sketch of this guy and then we can-"

"No, we can't, Lassie."

Lassiter stopped short and glared at the other man. "Can't what?"

"Can't sketch the guy. He had a mask."

Why the man hadn't thought to mention this before, Lassiter had no idea. "Why would he have a mask if he already planned to kill you?" he asked.

"I don't know!" Spencer exclaimed. He looked offended at the question. "It's not like I said, 'Hey, big scary dude who wants to kill me, why do you have a mask on? Are you embarrassed of your face or something?'"

Lassiter just raised an eyebrow.

Spencer smirked. "Okay, that's exactly what I did, but he didn't answer me."

"Fine." Lassiter sighed. "Let's get you back to the station and figure out where to go from there."

"Wait, Lassie!" Spencer exclaimed. "I have an idea!"

Turning from where he'd started for the door, Lassiter cleared his throat. "Does this qualify as a good idea - by my definition, not yours?" he added when Spencer started to reply.

"Umm…" Spencer appeared to think it over. "Does faking my own death count as a good idea in your definition?"

That was definitely not what Lassiter had wanted to hear coming from the other man's mouth. "Spencer…" he growled.

"No, wait, hear me out, Lassie."

"I'm probably going to regret this, but fine. Convince me," Lassiter said, crossing his arms and waiting.

"Not forever, of course, just until we can catch the big bad guy behind the hits. Obviously this was just the hired hitman." Spencer grinned. "If word doesn't get out that I died, it's a pretty good bet that the baddie will send more people after me. Since we don't know who either the boss guy or the hitman are, and there's no way to trace either since we have no IDs, we're kind of limited on our options."

The thing that worried Lassiter the most was that he was actually tracking with Spencer's logic. "But how are we going to pull this off? It's not like we can fake you actually being dead from those pills. There are way too many people involved between the ambulance crew and the officers. Plus we don't know who our perps are, so how do we keep the secret from them?"

Spencer frowned in thought, then his eyes lit up. "We don't!"

"Excuse me?"

"We don't have me die from the pills! We pretend I was dumped off of the Wharf too!"

Blinking, Lassiter tried to catch up with the other man's thought process. It had suddenly jumped tracks, and he wasn't sure how they connected. "But he tried to poison you."

"Right."

This conversation was a mess. "And so if you pretend you got dumped into the ocean, he'll know something went wrong."

"You don't think this guy's going to admit to his boss when word hits the news that I died the wrong way, do you?" Spencer chuckled. "He's probably already skipped town anyway, and he's sure not going to be all, 'Hey, so I know you paid me, but I just realized that dashingly handsome psychic can't be dead because I didn't throw him off a dock. Please don't kill me for messing up.'"

Lassiter raised an eyebrow.

"It'll at least buy us enough time, and it'll explain away the lack of a body if I leave my bike and a note at the Wharf." Not waiting for a reply from the detective, Spencer bounced on his toes excitedly. "I can totally go hide out at my dad's house. We do that with clients all the time. It's perfect."

Lassiter wasn't so sure. "Are you sure Henry will appreciate us showing up at his house at this hour of the night?" he asked and rubbed a hand over his face. The very fact that he was even considering that Spencer's plan might have merits was concerning.

"Relax, Lassie," Spencer grinned. "My dad might seem all grumpy and perpetually constipated on the exterior, but - No, wait, I'm pretty sure he's grumpy and perpetually constipated on the interior too, but somewhere deep down inside, he does love me, or at least cares about me staying alive. I'm pretty sure he'll be fine with hiding me until you can catch the bad guy."

Frowning, Lassiter turned the thought over in his mind. There were worse ideas… "Fine, but if Henry refuses, we are going with my original plan of taking you to the station for the next few days. We are not forcing him to comply with your foolhardy plan if he doesn't want to."

"Fair enough," Spencer nodded. He clapped his hands together. "Okay, so that's what we'll do: we'll leave my bike at the Wharf with a note, you'll drop me off at my dad's house, and then you won't tell anybody what happened until you manage to find the bad guy." He started for the doorway to his bedroom. "Just let me grab my toothbrush!"

"Spencer!" Lassiter barked, stopping the younger man in his tracks. "What do you mean, I 'won't tell anybody what happened'? What kind of stupid plan is that?"

Spencer blinked "But Lassie, we can't let anyone in on what we're doing. By definition a secret can't be shared, and who knows who this guy is or how connected he might be! Didn't you just say we couldn't get too many people involved? Besides, you are always lecturing me about how we can't risk information getting into the wrong hands when I ask you for leads on cases."

"That's different," Lassiter growled.

Shrugging, Spencer looked Lassiter in the eye. "I mean, you have to tell Woody, but that's got to be it."

"But what about O'Hara?" Lassiter demanded. "You can't expect me to conceal something like this from my partner."

"It's just for a day, maybe two max," Spencer returned. When Lassiter started to protest again, the psychic looked at him seriously - perhaps more so than Lassiter had ever seen him before. "My life, my call. Jules will understand."

Lassiter sighed. He had to admit that Spencer had a point. They had no idea who had sent the goon after him, and they couldn't risk revealing his safety and current location if it had been an inside job. He massaged the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. "Okay," he said, opening his eyes. "But," he added quickly, cutting off the excitement he could see building in the other man's face, "if this starts to go south, I'm telling the chief immediately. We are now treading in a very shady legal area." He shook his head. "The things you get me to do."

"Aw, Lassie; we all know that nobody can make you do anything you don't want to." Spencer grinned at him.

"Just hurry it up, Spencer; we don't have all night."

Present day

"And that's what happened," Lassiter concluded. They were both standing outside of Sawyer's house, the perp himself cuffed in the backseat of the vehicle while the detectives stood outside in the night air talking. "Somewhere in the chaos, the man must have dropped his phone, but neither Spencer nor I noticed." He scowled. "And you'd better not tell anyone I just said that either."

O'Hara was staring at him, her eyes revealing the depth of her emotions as she processed everything he had just told her. "I… I can't decide if I want to slap you or hug you right now."

That was fair enough, he supposed. "I'm sorry, O'Hara. I did want to tell you."

The corner of her mouth quirked up at that. "Shawn was right. We all know you don't do anything you don't want to do. Somewhere, you agreed with his plan." She sighed. "I can't blame you, honestly; I understand where you guys were coming from."

"Okay-"

She raised a hand and cut him off. "That doesn't mean you're off the hook, though. You and Shawn are going to have a long way to go to make this up to me." She shook her head. "I can't even imagine what the chief is going to say."

She had a point. Again. Why was this becoming such a habit with his conversations lately? "Okay," Lassiter repeated, this time slowly and with a nod, "now that that's out of the way."

"I'm telling Shawn I know what happened," O'Hara decided, reaching for her phone. Then she paused. "Wait, he might not answer my call still… Let me use your phone."

"O'Hara-"

"Lassiter, you owe me this. Give me your phone."

He didn't bother trying to protest again. She already knew, and there was no point in hiding that from Spencer. It might do the man some good anyway; at least he might realize how stupid it had been to try to conceal something like this from O'Hara. He handed her his phone and watched as she tapped the screen in sequence to dial Spencer.

A moment later, her face suddenly grew pale. "Shawn? Shawn! What is going on?" She looked up to Lassiter with wide eyes. "We have to get to Henry's house. Now! I'll call for backup!"

Shawn supposed it was due to the years of dropping by his dad's house with random clients and suspects, but Henry had actually agreed with Shawn's plan to hide out at the house. Of course, that agreement had been prefaced by the condition that they had forty-eight hours to solve the mystery before Henry would personally drive Shawn to the SBPD.

"They have to wait that long before launching a missing-persons investigation, so you have that long to figure this out," Henry had said.

Shawn supposed he couldn't argue with that. Plus his dad still had that box of popcorn in the pantry from the last time Shawn had shown up, and there was a television marathon calling his name.

It was after approximately four and a half MacGyver episodes the next afternoon when Henry came rushing into the living room.

"Shh!" he put a finger up to his lips. "Shawn, you weren't expecting company, were you?" he asked in a low voice.

"What?"

"Shh!" Henry gave him a firm glare. "I'm serious, Shawn."

It was then that Shawn noticed the pistol gripped in his dad's hand. "Um, can you explain why you're toting a sidearm around the house?"

"But you're not expecting anyone, are you?"

Shawn reached over for the remote and muted the television. Glancing back to his dad, he realized just how dim the room had become since he'd started watching his show. It had been mid-afternoon when the marathon had started, and the sunlight had been streaming through the side windows. Now, night had fallen, and with it, darkness. The one lamp in the corner was the only source of light other than the flickering blue light of the television screen. By Shawn's count, it was probably about… 7:30, give or take a few minutes. Sure enough, a glance at the clock on the bookshelf told him he was only off by eight minutes.

When Shawn raised the remote again, Henry shook his head. "No, leave it on. If you turn it off, they'll know something's up."

"They might just think I went eat dinner," Shawn shot back, mindful to keep his voice at a whisper as well. He might jest with his dad about being paranoid sometimes, but if Henry was worried, then that was a good enough reason for Shawn to stay quiet. At least until the two of them got to the bottom of whoever was outside.

"Just leave it on, Shawn," Henry reiterated. His attention was already back to outside the window.

Shawn clambered off the couch and made his way over to where Henry was crouched under the sill. He made sure to keep his back hunched to stay out of the line of sight of whoever it was his dad had spotted. "What now?" he whispered.

Eyes narrowing, Henry tilted his head toward the hallway at the other end of the room. "You remember where I keep the shotgun?"

"Like I could forget," Shawn replied. "Teaching your 14-year-old son how to shoot a home defense shotgun is probably not under the category of the best parenting practices, by the way."

Henry rolled his eyes. "Shawn, you were plenty old enough to learn how to use it, and we were leaving you home alone more often; I wanted to be sure you were ready in case you needed to use it." He raised an eyebrow as if challenging Shawn to come up with a retort to his logic.

"Okay, fine, so get the shotgun. And then what do you expect me to do with it?"

Before Henry could respond, the sound of breaking glass echoed from somewhere in the back of the house. The two Spencers looked at each other, then Shawn jumped to his feet with Henry right behind him.

"Shawn, go! Quietly!" Henry hissed as his son started to run across the room.

Making a face, Shawn pulled up short with a dramatic wave of his arms, then he flashed a grin at his dad and did as he had been told. Unfortunately he hadn't quite reached the door before a shadowy figure stepped through.

"Ah. Shawn Spencer, I presume," the man greeted with a wide grin. "I've been looking for you."

"Stop right there!" Henry barked, aiming his pistol at the man's chest. "Don't take another step."

Shawn was only about ten paces from the intruder, a fact which he noted with great concern at about the same time he noted the large handgun in the man's meaty fist. He started to back away, only for the man to swing the weapon up right at Shawn's face. It was much too close for comfort, Shawn decided, even as he froze in mid-step.

"Don't. Move." The dark-haired man glared at Shawn, his extra three inches on the pseudo-psychic seeming very imposing when combined with his posture and the gun he was aiming Shawn's way. He moved slowly so that the younger man stood between him and Henry. "I didn't plan to hurt you, old man, but you are unfortunately going to have to go too. Maybe I can make this look like a murder-suicide if I play it right," he commented with a sadistic grin.

"Shawn, stay still," Henry breathed. Shawn knew his dad was trying to get a shot off, but he also knew that there was no way Henry could do so with everyone in their current positions.

And then, suddenly, Lassiter's voice broke into the standoff. "Spencer!"

Everyone jumped, and Shawn took that as his cue to lunge forward and grab the intruder's arm, forcing the gun up toward the ceiling.

"Shawn!" Henry yelled.

"Spencer!" Lassiter bellowed again.

"Dad, that's Lassie! My ringtone! Answer the phone!" Shawn yelled back.

The gunman grunted and pulled against Shawn with all of his might, and Shawn found himself barely able to hold onto the man's hand.

"Spencer!"

"Dad! Get the phone!" he yelled, just as the man managed to land a punch on his jaw. Shawn yelped in pain but still hung on. He kicked the man's ankles as hard as he could while still trying to keep the gun pointed away from himself - and from Henry. There was a tumble of arms and legs then as the man lost his balance trying to wrest his weapon away from him. Both men went down to the carpet. Somewhere in the chaos, the gun went flying, but Shawn had no time to celebrate the accomplishment before he found himself on his back with the murderous intruder on top of him.

The man definitely had an extra fifty pounds on him, and Shawn grimaced as his foe's knee dug into his side. Of course, that paled in comparison to the two large fists that were now wrapped around his throat.

Shawn lashed upward but barely managed to catch the edge of the man's jaw. Air was suddenly in very short supply, and Shawn gasped against the pressure. He tried to focus, tried to bring a knee up to get this brute off of him, but his vision was starting to cloud over and the edges of the room were going gray.

A moment later, there was a yell from somewhere nearby and the hands around his neck suddenly fell away, leaving him gasping desperately. He still couldn't quite see clearly, but he could hear thudding and yelling, and, even as everything faded away, he knew what had happened.

Hopefully his dad could pull this one off, because Shawn was going to be no more help.

"Shawn?" The voice drifted into his consciousness. "Shawn?"

He blinked, his eyes trying to focus on the fuzzy images around him. Was that… "Jules?" His voice came out raspier than he had expected. He grimaced and lifted a hand to rub at his aching throat, then frowned as his hand came into contact with something frigid.

"It's ice, Shawn, leave it alone," Jules told him. "You've got some nasty bruises there."

Shawn didn't quite feel like talking, so he just nodded his head and looked past Jules to the rest of the room. He was still on the floor at his dad's house, although the room was much more brightly lit than he remembered it just moments before. There were red and blue flickering lights dancing on the far wall coming, Shawn guessed, through the window from the driveway.

His dad's back was turned, talking to Buzz, and when Shawn looked to the door, he saw two EMTs entering. Lassie was right behind them.

The head detective noticed immediately that Shawn's eyes were open. "Spencer!"

His exclamation drew everyone's gazes to Shawn, who lifted a hand in a half-wave at all of the sudden attention. "Hey, guys," he croaked.

"Shawn!" Gus's voice rang out next as the man rushed inside through the open door. "Shawn, you're alive!" He pushed past the medical crew and ran to where Shawn and Jules were on the floor.

"Y'know, ev'ry'n seems t'be shoutin' at me," Shawn complained, turning his attention back to Jules. "M'head hurts."

She didn't look as sympathetic as he'd hoped. "Shawn, we were all really worried about you," she told him.

"No kidding!" Gus added indignantly. "What made you think faking your death was a good idea? And you didn't tell me? Your best friend?"

Before Shawn could reply, the lead EMT cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, but we need to check him out. Can you two give us some space?"

Reluctantly, Jules got to her feet. Gus looked a little less sure, but she put a hand on his shoulder. "There'll be time, Gus; don't worry."

Shawn supposed he should be grateful for the reprieve, but he couldn't quite bring himself to be happy with all of the poking and prodding and lights in his eyes that came with it. However, as the medics loaded him on the stretcher and rolled him toward the waiting ambulance outside, Shawn looked past them to where the small group of his worried friends and family were gathered. They were watching him with various expressions of concern, and Shawn offered a small smile and wave before he was carted out the door and down the sidewalk. He smiled to himself; years of running around the country on his own had its merits, but there was something to be said for coming home to where people actually cared about you.

He blinked up at the dark sky. There would be time enough for apologies and whatever legal repercussions would come. For now, he was content to know that everyone he cared about was okay and that the bad guys were behind bars.

Of course, he was going to miss the rest of his MacGyver marathon. That was a bummer. He'd just have to convince Gus to bring a laptop with Netflix to the hospital later.

Fin.