The apartment was empty. Not just empty but cleaned out. He'd cooled his heels for five minutes while the slumlord who managed the rat hole dug around to find the right key. Only after Lassiter had shouldered the door open and stepped inside had the man thought to share that Rollins had checked out two hours ago.
He wanted to kick the walls. He wanted to kick the slumlord too, that spongy son of a bitch. Mostly, though, he wanted to kick himself. And not in some figurative, emotional way but with a literal size twelve to the ass. He never should have dropped his surveillance to just a few days a week! Now that bastard was in the wind and more than likely had booked a ticket to the first tequila stocked watering hole in Tijuana.
The only question was, did he have any stops planned on his way to the airport?
His phone was out and partner dialed before he'd exited the apartment. He'd take whatever backlash the Chief threw his way for going behind her back but right that moment, he had to act.
In moments, O'Hara was searching all flights out of the country. He had no solid reason to think that Rollins would be on the run – no reason he should be if he was actually innocent. But there was a stench about this that Lassiter couldn't shake free from.
His next call was to Henry.
“I was just heading out, detective, what can I do for you?”
Lassiter didn't question the motive for his destination. Whatever transparent phantoms communed with Spencer, they had nothing on the creature roaring in Carlton's gut.
“Is Shawn with you?”
A pause that was filled with the rustle of cloth.
“I was going out to look for him now. Kid keeps wandering off and, God help me if I sound like a fuddy-duddy but I don't like the idea of him outside after dark.”
Carlton turned down the last street – the red and white house at the far end of his low beams, the outside light flipping on as he neared the driveway.
“I'm almost there. I'll go with you.”
He saw Henry stepping out of the house as he pulled up – phone still held against his ear.
“Carlton, what's going on?”
0o0o0o0
The blunt shape he assumed was a gun only nudged him once, when he stumbled through the sand walking ahead of the other man. Rollins. John Rollins.
A week ago his memory had begun to return.
Speckles. Pieces. Fragments. Triggered by anything or nothing. He'd remembered the chair and the tape. He'd remembered running, gasping, through the forest with Bigfoot's only slightly smaller brother puffing after him. He'd remembered the bullet cutting through his shoulder and the feel of hard dirt as his body had collided with the ground.
His father had tried to help him remember more. He hadn't told him to close his eyes. The trying had hurt. The migraine always throbbing in his neck had ripped through his temples when he'd pushed too hard. Felt like blood vessels bursting under the skin. He'd remembered only a little.
Now... now he remembered it all.
Rollins had one hand on his arm; not so much to steady him, though. The hand was gripped in a claw, would leave narrow bruises along his bicep. Would... if he didn't die.
He was going to die.
Rollins had tried once and failed. He meant to try again and succeed, and then move on with his life. Take care of an irritation. A nuisance. A bump on his road to happiness. Shawn wondered if he'd dust off his hands when it was over. He wondered if he'd feel the bullet before he died. He wondered if he'd see his life flash before his eyes – to finally see again right before it all ended.
YOU ARE READING
Paint it Black
Фанфик"I want you to imagine a bullet coming from that gun, penetrating your skin, and lodging in your brain. You know how easy that would be for me?" But Shawn doesn't have to imagine it... because he's about to experience it.
