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He'd ended up calling the IT experts, though he now knew where to find the killer. They'd complained at the hour, but under the lash of his voice – which he didn't bother to control – they promised to come in and work immediately. As he ran to his car, his hands automatically checked to ensure that he had gun, badge, and keys.

His mind shut down, focusing on the current tasks at hand. Get into the car. Fire up the roof. Drive. His breathing was deep and calm. It felt as though his thoughts came from a far-off, chilly place, giving cool commands that filtered through his body and were obeyed immediately.

He didn't call for backup. He wasn't sure why. It probably wouldn't be necessary, for – though the killer had a gun – there was no reason for him to suspect that he was going to be caught. He would be off-guard and vulnerable. The iced-over part of Lassiter's brain gave no further thought to it, and he wasted no time worrying.

He entered the vicinity of Harry's at 12:39, and pulled into the same parking lot where he'd dropped Spencer off that first night. The streets were dark, with few people around – on Sunday night, even the commercial sectors of town were quiet. He ran between buildings for the few blocks until he reached the bar, ignoring the looks he got from the couple of people he met on the way.

The lights were off, the building empty.

Lassiter dropped back a few paces, scoping out the exterior. The shutters were closed on the large front windows, but he could see the deserted seating area through the glass doors. Only the exit signs were illuminated, throwing a faint red glow onto the empty room.

"Hey, what the hell are you doin', man? Bar's closed."

The detective whirled, hand on his sidearm. Any other time, the shock on the faces of the two college kids would have been immensely entertaining.

"Shit, sorry – uh, I didn't mean –"

"What are you doing here?" he interrupted, not removing his hand from the gun. He did not need this right now. The blond kid raised his hands placatingly.

"We were just hanging out," he said, indicating a few beer bottles on the sidewalk next to them as proof. "Um, Bill said the bar had to shut down, since that waitress got sick and started puking and stuff."

"Yeah," his friend said, nodding earnestly. "There's, like, a bug going around. Everybody's getting sick."

Lassiter looked back to the building. "Bill the manager."

"Yeah, man. He doesn't like the bar open if they're short staffed. The new guy – what's his name?"

"Oh, right, the gay dude. Jason something."

"Right, him – he left early, or something, so Bill said it was time to close. That sucked, 'cause Drew promised he was gonna give us a couple of free rounds at last call."

The detective glanced between their two honest, inebriated faces. "Why did Jason leave?"

They looked at each other, shrugging. "I dunno," the blond one said. "He was getting our drinks, and said he was going on break – didn't see him after that. It was, like, almost midnight. A couple minutes later Bill said we had to leave."

Lassiter looked at his watch – 12:44. Spencer hadn't been seen for at least forty-five minutes.

He sent the two on their way with an admonition about public drunkenness to which even he didn't pay attention. Another quick perusal of the building sent him down the narrow alley between it and the pawn shop next door to the trash-littered rear. One yellow light weakly illuminated the rank-smelling dumpster, some graffiti which had escaped the management's crackdown, and – Lassiter sent up thanks to whichever deities happened to be watching – a plain, wooden door.

It was the work of a moment to bust the flimsy thing down. Lassiter thanked more gods and all of the pure ideas he could think of when an alarm failed to go off. He stood in a red-tinted, dark hallway – the exit sign he'd seen through the front window gave him enough light to see that he was alone, at least. He edged carefully down the narrow passage, gun at the ready; the tiny kitchen and bathrooms were also empty. An archway opened onto the main room halfway down the hall, but then he saw something unexpected – another door, at the end of the hallway. This one was narrower and even older looking than the one he'd broken down; the cheap, fake brass handle turned easily under his hand.

A stairwell rose before him. Lassiter walked more carefully now, easing up one step at a time. At the landing, he found another door, this one with thin seams of light seeping around its edges. He didn't know whether to be reassured or not when he heard nothing from behind it, even with eyes closed and ear pressed against the cool, smooth surface. Gun steady in his right hand, he used his left to turn the handle as gently as he could – then swung the door open, sweeping around in an arc to cover the whole room. It, too, was empty.

He found himself in a tiny living room, barely furnished. A police-issue nightstick was on the floor at his feet, a spot of blood on the cheap carpet nearby. He took a step toward another closed door, directly across the small room from where he stood, but then –

A large laptop sat on the battered coffee table, a thick cord plugged into it snaking out from beneath the closed door. Lassiter felt his stomach turn over for the second time that night. On the screen, in vivid detail, was Spencer's face.

Lassiter found himself beside the computer, gun point sagging toward the ground. The video was actually a split screen: one half depicted the psychic's face, which (and Lassiter fought down nausea once again at the sight) was smudged with blood and bruising, bisected by a thick black gag. The other image was from a camera further away, carefully angled to show more of Spencer's body.

Lassiter was surprised to see that the other man had bothered to wear a condom.

Two steps brought the detective to the final door. Once again he pressed his ear to the fake wood, though the pulse hammering through his veins nearly blocked all perception. He managed to separate the heavy breathing coming from within from his own. Suddenly, a voice:

"You are beautiful, Jason." The man had a deep, pleasant, absurdly normal tone – he sounded as if he were talking about the weather. "I had to share this with you, share you with my friends. They'll all love you, too."

Lassiter heard another, more muffled noise. His hand tightened painfully around the grip when he identified it: it was Spencer, trying to communicate through the gag. He crouched, sent a brief prayer to anything that happened to be watching, and – as slowly as he possibly could – turned the door handle. It gave. Tamping down both nausea and emotion, he gently eased the door open the few centimeters necessary to see into the room.

Above the rising barrel of the gun, he saw the black-clad back of a tall man who knelt on the bed, hips thrusting languidly. He forced down the automatic reaction – shout, attack, shoot him, for the sake of all that's holy – when he saw another gun lying on the left side of the bed, too close to hand for comfort. Lassiter pushed the door open another inch, moving silently. Two cameras on tripods focused on the bed, where the man in black was unhurriedly raping Spencer. The psychic's body was forced into a snarl: his hips pulled forward onto the man's thighs, legs spread and pushed toward his chest, the bulk of his weight resting on his shoulders. His arms were restrained above his head, the wrists crossed and bound with more black cloth to the metal bar of the headboard.

"You are gorgeous, you know," the man said. He was bald, and Lassiter could see the layer of sweat on the white, bare skin of his scalp. "And aren't you enjoying this?"

Spencer made another feral noise around the cloth gag, under cover of which Lassiter slipped through the door, both hands steady on his gun and leveling it at the murderer's head. When he took another step forward and stood straight he'd be able to see Spencer's face.

Then the quality of the sounds still trickling through the gag changed, taking on a more urgent tone. "There," the killer said, breathing hard. "See how good this can feel?" Lassiter took the step.

Spencer's eyes were wide open and fixed on his assailant's face, the expression in them something Lassiter had seen only once or twice in his entire career. The ice flooded back.

No longer thinking, Lassiter switched his grip on his gun, now holding it firmly by the barrel. The other man slid his gloved left hand up Spencer's thigh toward the back of his knee, pushing the left leg further into Spencer's shoulder while the right hand did something Lassiter couldn't see. Another noise, this one rising toward a wail, burst from behind the gag.

No more bothering to wait for the perfect moment: Lassiter took a quick two steps to the side of the bed, squaring up. The killer's head turned to follow the movement in his peripheral vision just as Lassiter's Glock came around in a two-handed baseball grip and caught a solid blow to the side of his skull. The body slumped forward, collapsing onto Spencer.

Moving mechanically, Lassiter planted one knee on the bed and seized the back of the assailant's shirt, hauling the torso back enough to slide his right hand into the space between his body and Spencer's. He'd pulled an attacker off of a woman once before; he knew now to pull a man out of his victim very carefully. Still on autopilot, he ignored the slick squelch as he eased the man out of Spencer's anus, shoving the limp – though live – body to the floor next to the bed. Then, he cuffed the man's wrists behind his back, the connector chain passing behind the bed frame at the foot of the bed for extra security.

Not looking back at the bed, he pulled out his cell phone. He needed to make two calls: one to the Chief, explaining the situation, and one to the on-duty officer for a squad car. He figured he could only manage the second.

"…At least two black-and-whites to Harry's Bar, 1130 North Quarantina, with a forensics team for evidence. Get me a medical assist, too, as quickly as humanly possible." The phone snapped shut. Lassiter took a deep breath, and turned around.

Spencer's eyes were closed. In the few minutes Lassiter had been talking the psychic had planted one foot on the mattress, the knee of that leg pulled up for some semblance of privacy. Still moving more or less without thought, Lassiter went back to the bed, picking up the rapist's gun with a handkerchief and moving it to the armoire behind him before he helped Spencer. One rape and assault victim he'd semi-rescued had stolen his gun and shot her attacker as soon as he was restrained – that was something Lassiter could not deal with tonight.

Once again, he rested one knee on the mattress. It was only then that he noticed the plastic covering the white sheets; it rustled with a soft crackle when he leaned over Spencer to work at the knot restraining his wrists. The black, silken cloth was very dramatic, he thought sourly – it was also remarkably tough. Spencer's face was less than a foot away from his own, but the psychic still didn't open his eyes or make a sound. Lassiter saw that his shadow and eyeliner were still almost perfect, though smudged at the corners. There was glitter on his cheek.

The knot refused to give. Lassiter drew back for a moment, thinking. When his hands brushed across Spencer's jaw, he finally looked up. "I'm taking off the gag," Lassiter said quietly. Spencer's eyelids fell shut again, but not before Lassiter caught a flash of revulsion. The gag was also constructed of the black silken material. Lassiter's fingers slid when he found the knot at the back of Spencer's skull – a mixture of sweat and blood had slicked the short hair, dampening the cloth as well. When he finally released the knot and pulled away the binding, he gently pressed Spencer's mouth further open and pulled out a wad of soaked black.

"Where did he hit you?" Lassiter asked, looking at his red-tinted, wet fingers.

Spencer's voice was hoarse. "Living room." His eyes stayed closed. "Oh, wait – sorry. Back of the head, same as you did just now." While Lassiter carefully turned Spencer's head to one side, trying to see if a great deal of damage had been done, Spencer took a deep breath. "Uh, Lassie, do you think you could get my hands untied?"

"The knot's too tight. Backup will be here in five minutes. They’ll have something to cut it with."

A half-laugh wavered out, and Lassiter pulled back a little, staring at the side of Spencer's face he could see. "Hey, you should have just asked. There's a knife on the cabinet thing over there. Or is it a bureau?"

There was, indeed – a smooth black-and-silver number, surprisingly light and delicate. The handle was wet with something, and it was only when he'd arrived back at Spencer's side that Lassiter noticed the dark red gleaming on the blade. He pushed at Spencer's left shoulder, rolling him onto his right side to get better access to the knot. Then Lassiter saw his back. The tanned, perfect skin was striped with red – flaming crimson lines crisscrossed in small patches over Spencer's shoulders and spine. The shallow cuts had smeared blood across Spencer's back, which had settled in thick, cherry-colored blotches on the plastic sheet.

Lassiter sawed at the knot. The sharp sounds of snapping fibers were the only noises in the small room. When he finally got through, Spencer pulled his hands down to his chest, curling around himself with a slow, quiet inhale. Lassiter had already seen the deep purple bruising, though – like thick cuffs around his slender wrists.

Finally, he heard a piercing crash as the bar's glass front doors were broken down. The Santa Barbara police had arrived.

"Upstairs!" he shouted through the open door. There was a rustle behind him: Spencer was trying to sit up. When his weight came to rest on his posterior, Lassiter saw him flinch. Color rushed to his face and he hunched around himself, looking fairly pathetic in his nudity.

There was little time – Lassiter could hear his fellows' feet on the stairs – but he managed to shed his jacket and fling it around Spencer's shoulders, giving him an ounce of dignity, before the cops entered the room.

What followed was fast and forgettable. Two officers hauled the still-unconscious man, who Spencer briefly identified as Bill, the bar manager, downstairs and into the back of a squad car. Lassiter directed events efficiently and quickly. A photographer was called in to document the room before they started stripping it for evidence. Two more officers were sent around the neighborhood for questioning, Lassiter giving them a description of the two college students he'd spoken to as a starting place. As soon as the ambulance arrived, Spencer – now more-or-less covered up in Lassiter’s jacket and a blue sheet stolen from the miniature closet in the front room, since his clothes were nowhere to be found – was carefully lifted to his feet and ushered to a gurney at the bottom of the stairs.

"Which hospital are you from?" he asked. The young EMT paused, about to rush down after his partner. "I'll need to come around and get a statement from the victim."

"St. Francis, Detective," the kid replied. "I'll make sure the front desk lets you in."

Lassiter nodded and let them leave, turning around to continue his directions. He followed the photographer back into the bedroom as he worked, trying to settle himself enough to get into the mindset to call Chief Vick and give his report. The photographer crouched down, angling to get a shot under the bed, and Lassiter followed his eye-line: an obviously soiled dildo lay there, as though casually dropped and kicked out of sight after use. Abruptly, Lassiter got a flash of Spencer's face, as he'd left. He wondered how long it would take before he'd be able to forget the look in the other man's eyes. Not soon, he decided, watching as his own gun was bagged as evidence. The next step in the investigation was always the interview with the victim.

-----

Maybe it was only because he spent too many of his evenings there, but hospital waiting rooms always reminded Lassiter of long, unpleasant, and sleepless nights, stained with blood or simply made unbearable by monotony. He sighed, sitting self-consciously straight in the little gray plastic chair he'd selected from the long, miserable bank of its fellows. Never sick and only rarely injured, the detective nevertheless spent an unhealthy amount of time in these rooms: always a sickly white with the fluorescent lighting, always done in foul pastels – pale green, blue, gray. He hated them.

Now he shuffled the pages of his report. It would make a welcome addition to the file he knew still sat on his desk at the station. He hadn't yet had the chance to interview Bill McKinney, the man who had raped Spencer and undoubtedly killed the four women – he’d been taken to the hospital at Lompoc for an examination, having apparently woken up in the squad car. He had, unfortunately, found the time to call the Chief and detail the events of the evening. With a mental cringe, he remembered the quickly suppressed emotions in her voice as she'd asked the necessary questions and given perfunctory orders. Karen did an excellent job of pretending she possessed no vulnerabilities, but even the implacable Chief Vick blinked at some things.

"Mister… Lassiter?" A bored-looking nurse had entered the room, her eyes barely straying from the packed clipboard in her hand. "You've been given visiting rights for the assault in 116."

He stood and raised a cool eyebrow at her, though she didn't see it. "It's Detective Lassiter, actually, and I'm here to interview Mr. Shawn Spencer."

"Uh-huh," she said absently, long and tackily lacquered fingernails flicking through the paper on her clipboard. Lassiter sighed. It was too late – or early, he reflected – to try to impart manners to a person like this. "This way," the woman continued, going back the way she'd come without looking to see if he was following. He had to walk quickly to keep up.

As the two made their way down the long, pale pea-green corridors, Lassiter tried to square his shoulders and force himself to believe that he wasn't absolutely the worst person possible to perform the upcoming interview. After all, Spencer and he had never been on the best of terms with each other, though certainly their working relationship had lost a great deal of its animosity over the past few months. He had even – only occasionally, and without admitting the shameful fact to anyone – begun to trust the "psychic" hunches, if only because they were so often proved true.

While following the squeak of the nurse's white sneakers on linoleum, Lassiter focused on the positive aspects of the situation. He was head detective, automatically in charge of the case. The information would be coming to him in the end anyway. Also, as he'd already witnessed some of what had happened, it made sense that the gory details not be passed around the station for any and all to see. Spencer was in a bad enough position as it was – no need to compound the misery by allowing all of his pseudo-coworkers to see him at his most vulnerable.

The nurse stopped at room 116, checking the charts in her hand. Lassiter noticed that the blinds on the windows were lowered. "Here we are," she said, leading the way inside. It was a double-bed room – the one nearest the door was unoccupied. Portable curtains had been set up around the second: it was next to these that the nurse stopped, tapping the metal curtain rod with one fuchsia nail. "Shawn?" she asked, voice gone sugary. Lassiter noted with disdain that she had to check the chart again to remember his name. "Detective Lassiter is here to see you."

"Lassie? Send him in!"

She tugged the curtain, letting the metal rings rattle all the way to the end of the rod, and left without another word. Lassiter stood straight, doing what he could to appear as professional as possible at two in the morning.

For his part, Spencer looked quite cheerful. Lassiter stared at him, his planned speech derailed. He'd cleaned up, hair cleared of blood and the makeup removed from eyes and face. Though clad only in one of those horrible plastic-paper gowns, with black-purple bruises spread across temple, cheekbone, and throat, and his wrists swaddled in bandages, Spencer gave him a wide grin.

This was unexpected.

"Dude, earlier? That was totally awesome. The way you hit that guy – man, it was like Mark McGwire was saving me." Spencer paused, looking him up and down. "Except, you know, skinny and Irish."

Lassiter sighed. "Mark McGwire is Irish."

For the first time, Spencer looked off-put. "What, really? I'm gonna have to rework that cross-stitch I made, then."

"Do you really think this is the time or place for you to act like a jackass, Spencer?"

With his head on one side, Spencer gave him a look, one eyebrow raised. "Now, now, Lassie. Do you really want to talk about my ass?"

A shock of revulsion hit him in the stomach. After a moment, though, Lassiter recognized what was going on. "Spencer…" Both eyebrows rose, this time. "I have to do this interview. You realize that, right?"

Now Spencer rolled his eyes, shifting on the bed. "Yeah, Lass. I have been, you know, breathing near a crime scene before."

Lassiter took a deep breath, and dug his notebook out of the spare jacket he'd retrieved from his car. "I realize that some of my questions may cause you discomfort," he started, reciting the standard victim statement speech. "However, in order to compile an accurate report, every question must be answered. You are allowed to ask for a break at any time. When we're finished, I'll need you to read the account and sign it to confirm its accuracy. Do you understand everything I've said?"

He hadn't noticed before how bright the room was. A mixture of fluorescent hospital lighting and incandescent light from the lamp on the table by the wall fell across the bed, a mixture of gentle and harsh. Spencer examined the bandage on his right wrist. "Do we seriously have to do this right now?" he asked, picking at the gauze.

Lassiter dragged a doctor's chair over to the bed. The wheels were squeaky. "We do," he said, sitting down.

A moment passed. He heard Spencer take a breath, and glanced up to watch him grab something from the table – an ice pack, as it turned out. "Help me out, Lassie," Spencer said. Lassiter stood, complying only because Spencer's voice was so quiet. He waited while Spencer got the pack placed correctly against his wrist and held it out to Lassiter for re-bandaging – the bruise was almost blue.

When he finished, he sat down and pulled the pen from the top of his report. Spencer looked at the curtain for another moment before turning back to Lassiter with a smile.

"So, I was making this guy a Flaming Bob Marley…"