Fic: "Vacation (6/10)" - PG-13 - Lassiter/Spencer
Title: Vacation (6/10)
Author: drovar
Pairing: Lassiter/Spencer
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are property of USA Network and the writers and producers of "Psych." This work is not for profit and is not a challenge to those rights.
Notes: Lassiter goes cruising, and Spencer invites himself along.
Yellow Knife turned out to be about what Lassiter expected. A genuinely interesting historic site surrounded by a bunch of tourist trap junk with a small town around that. Yellow Knife Fort itself was a large wooden fortress complete with palisade dating to the earliest fur-trading days, back when the Russians and the British were still arguing over who owned just what bits of what would become Alaska and British Columbia.
Their guide was petite, blond and pretty. Lassiter didn't quite catch her name, Jean Marie something. She spoke in a lilting French-tinged accent that wasn't exactly like anything he had ever heard before. Lassiter fully expected to find her making gooey eyes at Spencer before the day was done; it was inevitable.
Lassiter listened with interest as she described the history of the fort; its day-to-day operations, the local Indian tribes, and what changes finally led to be it being abandoned. He felt a bit like a foolish tourist snapping loads of pictures of nearly everything he saw, but his digital camera could store a lot of photos, and he had extra flash cards ready in his bag.
Even Spencer, who was well behaved for a change, seemed to be enjoying himself. He listened patiently with no "psychic visions" as the Jean Marie whatever went through her spiel. He didn't even flirt with her, Lassiter noted with surprise, or any of the other reasonably attractive young women who crossed his path. As the morning progressed Lassiter realized that most of his photos featured the fake psychic. Keeping Vick's "Photos, or else" command in mind he had Spencer take a few shots of him posing at various points along the tour. He did his best to appear relaxed and rested, which actually wasn't difficult; he felt more at ease than he had in a long while, possible psychic stalking murderer aside.
By the time they broke for lunch Spencer seemed to be his old self again. A bit more attentive to what Lassiter was saying perhaps, maybe a little less sarcastic than usual, and possibly a little less spastic, but basically what passed for his version of normal. He was certainly a long way from the stuttering fool he'd been by the ship's pool earlier.
When Spencer offered to pay for their meal Lassiter was too surprised to object. He had just finished off his coffee when Spencer returned to the table with a laminated map of the town in his hand. The map was cartoony with oversized signs showing various local interest sites and lots of fast-food joints.
"I think we should pay 'Madam Zella's Palmistry and Herbalist Shop' a visit, just as part of our tour of the colorful local town. It's just a hop-and-a-skip away, we won't even need a cab," Spencer said. He held up the map and indeed, his finger was pointing to a location just a couple of streets over and a few blocks down.
"And how far away is the Police Station, for when we get arrested for breaking and entering?" Lassiter asked, only half joking. "You realize there's probably going to be nothing to find, the Police, or Mounties or whoever will have picked the place clean by now."
Spencer tapped his temple. "You forget Lassy, psychic."
"Yeah, that'll work." Lassiter said. He refused to admit that it actually probably would.
The walk to the shop was pleasant enough. The town was quaint and only a little tawdry. The weather was cool, but with the sun shining brightly, it felt almost warm. Lassiter even found their conversation less annoying than usual. At one point Spencer stopped to examine a completely ordinary looking shrub next to the sidewalk. Lassiter stood by, baffled, and saw Spencer casting glances back the way they had come. He joined Spencer at the hedge and looked surreptitiously in the same direction, trying to see any sign of what had Spencer's attention, and saw nothing. He was about to ask what was up when the fake psychic straightened up, mumbled something about some spirits being real botany buffs and continued to walk. Lassiter just shook his head.
The shop turned out to be a bust. The victim's sister had taken over the practice, cleaned the place up, and reopened for business. With all the traffic and normal cleaning there was simply nothing to be found for clues. And even with Spencer's best efforts there were no psychic impressions to be had. He muttered something about residual energy and the spirits not caring for the scent of foxglove and amaranth before declaring the shop clean of lingering malevolent spirits.
Lassiter tried not to roll his eyes too hard as Spencer went through his shtick.
They returned to find the tour of the rest of Yellow Knife already well underway. Rather than join late Spencer suggested they check out some of the more remote areas still under reconstruction. Seeing no signs saying, "Don't go this way!" Lassiter agreed. Soon the two men found themselves deep in the crumbling fort. There were clearly marked paths but some areas were roped off and blocked. Work was obviously still being done and bales of straw, used to cover the muddy floors and paths, were stacked everywhere.
Wandering around the ruins Lassiter began to appreciate in a real way what life would have been like back in the early days. The rooms were cramped with low ceilings and little ventilation, with an earthy smell of old wood, rot and soil. The houses were built more for protection against hostile enemies than for comfort. There were gun sights and arrow slits everywhere. The doors all showed remnants of heavy iron bolts and locks; windows were rare, glass was almost non-existent. They ended up at the edge of the settlement. It was a remote area surrounded by scrub woods. Piles of straw bales formed a rough stairway down to the woods some 30 feet below.
Lassiter was soon ready to turn back. It was getting late and they had a bit of a walk to get back to the ship, and he had to admit his back was starting to act up. He wondered if he could convince Spencer to do a rerun of that massage. Lassiter had just turned around when he heard a distinctive click off to their left. He was moving before he could consciously grasp the danger. His right arm wrapped around Spencer's chest and pulled. As he did so his mind settled on the source of the sound, a small caliber handgun, easily concealed, likely untraceable and easily disposed of. With a firm grasp of the other man, Lassiter pitched backwards. The world turned upside down, sky, forest, and ground spun around them, and straw flew everywhere, as they tumbled over and over down the straw cliff.
He vaguely heard Spencer yelling, and a muffled "thup" from above, as they rolled and fell. The two men landed in a heap at the base of the straw. They lay there entangled and dazed for an instant, Lassiter atop Spencer, hips to hips, with his hands outstretched on either side of the other's head. Lassiter shook his own head clear and looked down as he felt Spencer struggling beneath him. The younger man was desperately trying to put some space between them.
Winded, Lassiter rolled off and felt shooting pains in his back as he staggered to his feet. "Ah geez," he said and put one hand on his lower back. There was another muffled retort of gunfire and a small puff of straw and dirt where the bullet struck, close. Lassiter flattened himself against the base of the straw mountain and felt Spencer slam into the straw next to him. Bundled straw didn't offer a lot of protection against a lucky shot but the shooter would at least have a harder time hitting what he couldn't see.
"Are you alright?" He decided to leave questions about the freak-out for later, if there were a later.
Spencer was breathing heavily, from the fall, or the gunfire, or both. He looked down at himself and nodded. "No bloody gaping wounds … yeah, good enough. You?"
Lassiter breathed slowly twice, other than the flexing pain in his back he didn't seem injured. "Fine, for now," he replied.
Another bullet hit the dirt nearby. It was closer, and at more of an angle. The shooter was maneuvering for a better shot; they didn't have much time before he had it.
Lassiter turned towards Spencer. Their faces were almost intimately close. He was more than close enough to see the other man's green eyes grow large. Spencer gave an "eep" and bounced back several feet. Lassiter stared at him for a second then dismissed it as simply more of Spencer's on-going insanity.
"Can't you do something?" Lassiter asked once Spencer had settled down into more or less one spot.
"What exactly did you have in mind Detective?"
" Like … use your mojo on him?"
"Mojo?"
"You know," Lassiter said, and made a snatching motion with his right hand. "Telewhatever … grab the gun out of his hands."
"Lassy, I am a psychic medium. I communicate with the spirits of the dearly departed, and sometimes little boy cats." He repeated Lassiter's grabbing motion. "That's telekinesis, a totally different branch of the sweet science."
"That's boxing."
"What is?"
"The sweet science; that's boxing."
"Seriously?" Spencer asked. "Boxing is two guys hitting each other. I totally don't get that." He shrugged.
"Never mind that now," Lassiter said and took a sideways step toward Spencer.
The fake psychic to an equal hop backwards.
Lassiter shook his head. "Look, I'm going to edge around you and head over to that earthworks." He nodded, indicating a somewhat worked piled of rocks and dirt about 10 yards to Spencer's left. "If I remember right there's a stairway carved into the hill on the other side. I can climb up that way and try to take him out."
"Try to get yourself killed, you mean."
"You'll have to create a distraction. Keep his attention long enough for me to get up there."
"Distraction, like what?"
"I don't know," Lassiter said and waved right hand around. "Do what you usually do, yell, hop around, go into convulsions, throw some straw, whatever. Just keep his attention, stay under cover and try not to get shot."
Lassiter took another step forward only to have Spencer hop back again. "I can get around you a lot easier if you stand still Spencer." The other man hesitated then nodded. Lassiter eased his way forward, keeping as close to Spencer and the protective wall of straw as he could. Their bodies brushed against each other as he squeezed by. They were nose to nose when another bullet shot through the straw bales a few feet to their left. Both men gave an involuntary jump. Lassiter thought Spencer might have thrown in a small gasp as well, and then he was past.
Still nursing his back with one hand Lassiter turned. "Okay, now."
"Now what?"
"Now distract," Lassiter said and jabbed a thumb toward the top of the straw bales.
"Right, yeah, okay, distract, right."
Spencer began what Lassiter considered the hammiest death scene performance in the history of death scenes. By the time Lassiter got to the stairway on the other side of the earthworks Spencer was yelling something about being wounded and was in the throes of agony.
Lassiter looked up the dirt stairwell, almost expecting to find himself face to muzzle with a silenced pistol. There was no one at the top, so far so good. He carefully edged up the stairs, wishing again for the familiar weight of his gun in his hand. He could hear Spencer shouting,"I'm bleeding! Oh God! It's everywhere!" and variations on that theme as he reached the top of the stairs.
Lassiter steeled himself against the very real possibility of being instantly shot and killed, and looked up over the edge of the dirt wall. He felt a rush of relief and an odd frustration. There was no one there. Lassiter carefully climbed to the top and looked around. There were tracks all around, mostly his and Spencer's, and a few that had to belong to the shooter. Those tracks were from a plain-treaded deck shoe; they were common aboard ship and could have come from any one of a thousand people in town.
"We're all clear up here Spencer," Lassiter called down. Minutes later the fake psychic appeared holding a sock in one hand. "Bullets," he said giving the sock a shake. He quickly combed the scene, looking for any clue to their attacker's identity and having no better luck than Lassiter.
"I totally do not understand this guy," Spencer said at last.
"How's that?" Lassiter asked. He was staring off into the fort. There was no trace of the shooter in sight. "He wants us, or rather you, dead. He shot, he missed. What's to understand?"
"Exactly, he wants me dead," Spencer said. "A few more steps and he would he would have been in position for a clear shot. I was toast."
"Maybe he got scared off?" Lassiter replied. He stroked the back of his neck and looked around again.
"See anyone within a quarter mile?"
Lassiter had to admit that this part of the enormous fort was completely deserted. If anyone had seen or heard anything it wasn't apparent.
"Could be a loss of nerve." Lassiter said, not really believing it.
"He's killed twice already that we know of," Spencer said. He stood up and joined Lassiter in looking out over the ruins. "What sort of serial killer gets spooked when he has his preferred victim in a vulnerable spot? It doesn't make sense."
Lassiter didn't have an answer.
"We should head back to the ship," Spencer said after several more minutes of fruitless searching.
Lassiter nodded in agreement. The sun was nearing the horizon and wandering through an unfamiliar town in the dark, where a killer could lurk unnoticed in any doorway or alley until it was too late, was not a pleasant thought.
"What about the locals, shouldn't we tell them they have a killer on the loose?" Spencer asked.
Lassiter considered that for a moment and then shook his head.
"I don't think he's in town. I'd guess by now he's making his way back to ship. And the locals aren't a target, you are."
"Psychics," Spencer agreed with a nod.
"If we call in the local cops and try to flush him out now, he'll just meld back into the ship population, crew or passengers."
"Probably crew," Spencer said.
"And, in a couple of months, at some other port, or on some other cruise, there might be another 'accident'."
They walked on in silence. Lassiter could tell Spencer was on edge, growing more quiet and withdrawn, as they approached the ship. Probably just a reaction to finding his life threatened in a very real way, Lassiter assumed. He was walking a few feet ahead, eyes forward, not looking around and keeping space between the two of them. He seemed to be working himself up to something, and by the time they reached the ship Spencer sprinted up the gangplank and was gone without so much as a wave.
Lassiter sighed. "Psychics …"