1995

For the first time in his life, Shawn Spencer was staring at iron bars.
Okay, well, maybe not iron; they could easily have been steel, or maybe nickel or titanium, or some kind of cool alloy. Or, knowing the SBPD and Henry’s complaints about budget cuts, they were probably made out of whatever substance was the cheapest.
But the chemical makeup of the bars didn’t matter to eighteen-year-old Shawn.

What mattered was that they were the bars of a jail cell, the holding area of the police station, right next to the drunk tank and some nameless faceless guard’s desk---Mr. Beanpole, or something else stupid that his dad had called the poor guy during his tirade of self-righteousness.
What mattered was that those jail cell bars were here to enclose Shawn, to lock him in, to rob away his freedom and his basic human dignity.

Because Shawn had been arrested.
Because Shawn had been arrested for stealing a car.
Because Shawn had been arrested for stealing a car to impress a girl.
Because Shawn had been arrested for stealing a car to impress a girl---by his own father.

“Gee, thanks, Dad,” Shawn scoffed bitterly. “I don’t care that I’ll never be able to be a cop now, but going to college might have been nice.” In spite of himself, he started to feel his eyes welling up. He blinked rapidly, flustered, trying to squelch the feeling away.

Shawn had known for a long time now that his relationship with his dad would never be the same as it used to be, would always be strained, always be tense. But never had he expected that his own father would do this to him.

Grand theft auto? He was going to bring the car back! He borrowed it, just for the night! The owner wasn’t even going to use it. What kind of father could do this to his own son? And just days after his high school graduation?

Shawn’s hands pounded into his eyes as if he could push back the sticky heat encircling the rims of his eyelids and burning into the corners, and he was swallowing hard to stop the hiccuping convulsions of his throat. There was no way he was going to cry. Not here, not now, not ever. He was a man, an adult, as Henry had pointed out, and he wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction.

He sensed the shadow, felt rather than saw it, when the shadow fell over his form huddled in the little iron cage. He uncovered his face and looked up.

The shadow’s owner wasn’t the nameless faceless guard. Instead, it was a man in a black leather jacket, around 5’8” with a slightly-outdated/slightly-timeless Euromullet, a dull silver death’s-head ring on his finger. “What are you in for?” the man asked.
British. Very English.

Shawn was confused. “I borrowed a car to impress a girl. Who are you?”
“That’s not too important at the moment, Shawn. May I call you Shawn?”
Shawn shrugged. “Sure.”
The man smiled, but his face looked cold. “You have a very impressive record, you know. Top of your class---could’ve been valedictorian, if you’d tried. You possess a remarkable set of skills for someone so young, and it shows. You should be proud.”
“Try telling that to my father,” Shawn spat.
“Perhaps I will,” the man mused. “Or perhaps we could do it together.”
Shawn scoffed. “Yeah, right. You’d have to get me out of these bars first.”
“My dear boy, that’s exactly what I plan to do.” The man’s smile never wavered.

Shawn eyed him. “Did my dad put you up to this? Is he trying to get something out of me?”
“Absolutely not. I’ve never met your father and I have no desire to. Quite frankly, he seems rather boring, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I do, actually.” Shawn laughed mirthlessly for almost a full second. “So how do you plan on getting me out, and what's the catch? Do you want me to confess or something?”

“No, nothing like that,” said the man. “I’ve got much bigger plans in mind. I want you to come work with me.”
“Work for you? Doing what?”
“I said work with me, not for me. My agency has requested ever so politely that I find a new recruit...and you’re the perfect young man for the job. We can discuss the particulars of it later, but trust me, the skillset required would be right up your alley. With a bit of polishing up and some on-the-job training, you could end up becoming the very brightest star that my employing organization has ever seen.”

Shawn thought about the man’s offer for a long moment. “Would it get me away from my dad?”
“Of course,” the man replied. “You’ll be travelling all over the world, seeing and doing and experiencing things that most people could only ever dream of.”
Shawn nodded and stuck his hand through the bars. “I’m in.”
As the man’s black-gloved hand shook his, Shawn said, “Would you mind telling me your name, so I can call you something other than ‘Mysterious Shadowy Figure?’”

“Why, certainly,” replied the man with a self-satisfied smirk. “You may call me Murdoc.”

********************

1995

“Your deductive skills and observations continue to impress me, Shawn, but now we’re going to see how effective you are when it comes to weapons,” Murdoc said, gesturing for Shawn to move closer to the firing range. He offered Shawn one of the two identical, shiny silver pistols in his hands.

“I’ve fired a gun before,” Shawn said. “My dad started teaching me and taking me to the range when I was twelve.”
Murdoc nodded by tilting his head a fraction. “Very good, then. That’ll save us some time. Why don't you go first? Show me what you can do, and we’ll go from there.”

Shawn shrugged and stepped forward a little more. “Do I need earplugs?”
“No. These weapons have silencers, don’t you see?”
Shawn nodded. “Oh, right.” He shrugged again and fired off six shots at the paper target in front of him.

All six managed to hit vital areas: head, heart, lungs...just as Henry had taught him. One bullet had even struck the dead center of the target. Shawn grinned. “Bullseye! Beat that, Murdoc!”

Murdoc shook his head. “Let’s see if I can, shall we? Let me try.” Casually, he fired off six rounds in quick succession, barely glancing at the target.

The paper outline of a human waved against the rush of air, but other than that, the target was unchanged.

Shawn’s grin stretched wider in triumph. “Ha! You missed!”
“Oh, did I?” Murdoc said dryly. “Let’s take a closer look, shall we?”

Shawn’s grin morphed into shock when he realized that Murdoc’s shots had fit perfectly into the bulletholes of his own. “Are you going to teach me how to do that?”

“Absolutely, my boy. Absolutely. And so much more.”

*********************

1996

“Welcome to your first meeting of HIT.”

Beneath his Ultimate Warrior mask, Shawn’s eyes boggled. The mansion was huge, extravagant, and spooky-looking---and not just because of the Halloween decorations. There were people in costume going in and out through the massive double doors in the front, and he could see hordes of party-goers inside the grand hall. “This is it? It’s huge!”

Murdoc’s chuckle was muffled by his skull mask and heavy black cloak. “Quite the spectacle, isn’t it? I’m afraid the novelty of it wore off for me a long time ago. A costume party is the perfect idea for a secret meeting: all of us gathered in one place together, but all identities are completely concealed.”
“Not to mention that it’s totally awesome!” Shawn added with a grin.

Murdoc chuckled again and led Shawn inside. “The Board of Directors will be meeting somewhere around here. And in the basement is a---sort of training ground for new recruits. You’ll get to see it someday, when your training is complete.”
“When will my training be complete? I want to see everything! Will we meet the Board of Directors?” Shawn’s questions came out in an excited stream.
“Not for some time, but be patient, Shawn. I doubt that we’ll have the chance to face any of them tonight, but...who knows? At these meetings, anything is possible.”

Murdoc’s voice sounded distant, almost bitter. Shawn didn’t pry.
He was too busy trying to soak in every single detail. He never wanted to forget a single moment.

“Are you ever going to tell me what HIT actually stands for?” Shawn asked, craning his neck to get a better look at a woman in a tigress costume.
“That’s on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t yet need to know,” Murdoc replied. “Excuse me for a moment.” Murdoc vanished into the throng of the costumed crowd.

As Shawn filled up a punch glass to offer to the tigress, he glanced up to see his mentor in a conversation.

More than a conversation: things were getting heated.

Frowning, Shawn set the glass down and took a step in their direction.

Before he could take another, the man broke away from Murdoc and stalked for the exit. He was the only person there with no costume; he wore only plain black, no mask. Steel-colored irises shot a glare at Shawn as he muscled his way past Murdoc’s protege and out the front door.

Quickly, Shawn paced to Murdoc. “Who was the guy whose face was ugly enough to be its own mask?”
Murdoc’s lips were set into a tight line. “No one you need to concern yourself with.”
“He looked mad.”
“He was mad...in more ways than one. He came to confront me. He thinks that I helped convince the Board of Directors to finally cut their losses and terminate him.”
“Uh, terminate as in fire him, right?”
Murdoc’s eyes glinted. “Of course. He’s been released from his duties and forbidden from further business with HIT. Naturally, I told him that I had nothing to do with the Board’s decision.”
“Were you telling him the truth?”

Murdoc’s hesitation lasted for less than a nanosecond. “No.”

*********************

1996

Most of the time, Shawn understood the things that Murdoc asked him to do as part of his training. Other times, he thought that maybe Murdoc was a little too much like Mr. Miyagi. Shawn may not have been waxing cars, but checking the contents of the target’s refrigerator while Murdoc was rigging up his cameras seemed like an unusual task.

“What exactly am I looking for?” Shawn called.
“What do you see?” Murdoc replied.
“I don’t know. Some apples and stuff. It’s all health food! I don’t even know what half of it is.”
Murdoc popped into the room, gun on his hip and twirling an oversized knife in his fingers. “Hmm.”
Shawn looked up at him. “Why am I checking the fridge, exactly?”
Murdoc stared at Shawn as if the answer should have been obvious. “Because I’m hungry. I didn’t get a chance to eat breakfast this morning.” He reached for a green apple and bit into it. “Mmm.” He shut his eyes and his head tilted back, face eased into an expression of bliss. “This is good.”

Shawn broke out laughing and didn’t stop for a good five minutes. All the while, Murdoc was looking around and asking, “What? What is it?”

“We’re trained professionals who broke into someone’s apartment to assassinate them and---and we’re eating snacks out of the fridge!”

Murdoc blinked. “Yes. So what?”
Shawn grinned. “Never mind. I want one, too!”

*********************

Later that night, Shawn was sitting in the bar next to their hotel, listening to some bad karaoke and nursing a glass of something that looked fruity and tasted like paint thinner. His lone travel bag was packed, ready for the trip to Argentina for the next mission, and a pair of Seattle postcards addressed to Gus and Henry were already dropped in the mail.

He didn’t really know why he’d decided on a whim to send another postcard. Since he didn’t actually have an address, he had no way of knowing if they ever got the assorted cards and trinkets that he sometimes sent. And he’d always felt that he’d cut his ties completely when he’d left Santa Barbara. He had wanted it that way, just wanted to break free and run and leave it all behind for this mysterious life.

Especially since his new career was dangerous and full of travel. Staying unattached was the best thing for everyone.

So why---despite the excitement and the sightseeing and the experiences and the girls---why did he sometimes feel so lonely?

He heaved a sigh and pushed his glass away.

“You’ve looked better.”
Shawn jumped when he heard Murdoc’s voice. His mentor smiled and settled onto the bar stool next to him, perched on the edge like a cat.

“Hey.” Shawn didn’t know what else to say.

“I have something for you,” Murdoc said, touching the rim of Shawn’s glass with one tapered finger. “You won’t be able to use it quite yet, but once we’ve gotten back to the States, well…”
Shawn perked up, curious. “What is it?”
Murdoc stood and adjusted his black leather jacket. “Come with me.”

*********************

Shawn’s eyes widened and he fell to his knees in front of the rental unit.

“You---you got me a motorcycle?!”
He half-screamed in delight, and legs that were now dampened by the wet pavement jumped up again for a happy dance. “You found me a motorcycle! I’ve always wanted one! I can’t believe this!”

Murdoc laughed quietly. “It’s all yours. Here are the keys. I knew we’d be here for this mission, so I arranged for it to be shipped and stored here. We can retrieve it after Argentina.” Murdoc tossed the keys to his protege and laid a hand on the shiny black metal. “I’m pleased that you like it. Norton vehicles have always been a particular favorite of mine.”

He was still in midsentence when Shawn plowed into him, throwing his arms around his mentor for a hug. Murdoc had only moved enough to touch Shawn’s shoulder when just as quickly, Shawn bounced away to look the 750 Commando up and down.

Hands in his pockets and eyes fixed on his companion, Murdoc smiled a genuine smile for the first time in what felt like years.

*********************

1997

“Your training is almost complete, Shawn,” Murdoc said from behind the Manila file he was poring over. “I’m very pleased with your progress. I have to say, in spite of some of the scrapes and rough patches along the way, you’ve probably been the best student I---”

Murdoc’s eyes narrowed in annoyance when he glanced up and saw Shawn flipping a wrench in his hand, twirling it between his fingers like a color guard baton. “Are you even listening to me?”

Shawn’s hazel eyes met his, bearing an expression of legitimate confusion. “Sorry, Murdoc, did you say something? I wasn’t listening.”
Murdoc frowned. “Your attention span moves faster than the shutter on my cameras. I was about to tell you that you’re ready to face Death Row.”

The wrench clattered from Shawn’s fingers. “The obstacle course? The---the final test before I become a full agent of HIT? ...You really think so?”
“Of course I do. I’ve taught you everything I know.”
Shawn raised an eyebrow. “Okay, we both know that that’s not true, and also, didn’t you tell me that the last guy you personally trained didn’t make it out?”

Murdoc shrugged. “He wasn’t you. Over the years, I’ve become adept at judging potential, you might say. You have the capability to do it… But only if you apply yourself. Death Row will test you in ways that you’ve never been tested before. It’s the ultimate show of skill...and it’ll also be the ultimate judge of how you’ll react to situations in the field on your own. You’ll be completely alone, Shawn. I won’t be there to guide you, nor will anyone else. What happens when you go out into Death Row, and into the field, is between you---and Death.”

After a long silence, Shawn finally nodded. Then he glanced at the file in Murdoc’s hands. “You’ve been looking at that for like twenty minutes. What’s our next mission?”
Murdoc shrugged and tossed the file into his open briefcase, snapping the metal clasps shut. “Nothing important, just routine.”

“Great, then let’s go.” Shawn grinned. “And when we get back, I’m going to beat your record for Death Row.”

Murdoc chuckled as he swept out into the dark evening, briefcase in hand and protege in tow. “Perhaps you will, my boy, perhaps you will.”

*********************

Shawn was disappointed. He’d wanted to be the nurse, but instead Murdoc had dressed him as the candy striper.

“Let me check your voice,” Murdoc had said as he’d adjusted the blonde wig over his head.
“How does this sound?” Shawn replied in a high-pitched, feminine voice.
“Hmm, a bit pitchy, but it should be fine. You won’t be doing much talking anyway. Are you ready?”
“Absolutely.”
A quick check of his lipstick in the mirror, and Murdoc nodded to Shawn. “Let’s go.”

As hospital personnel, the two of them slipped into Derek Lassiter’s hospital room with ease. The man was sleeping peacefully, and since visiting hours were over, he was all alone. Dutifully, carefully, Shawn removed the syringe of Murdoc’s special cyanide concoction from where he had concealed it in his dress and injected it into the target’s IV.

Death was almost instant. From beside Shawn came a camera shutter’s whir and click as Murdoc captured the moment on film.

They escaped through a window, abandoning their disguises to a homeless man’s fire.

*********************

“Why do you always develop two photos?” Shawn asked, head tilting in curiosity as he watched Murdoc sealing up two envelopes. “I always noticed you doing it, but I never knew what you did with them. I guess I just always figured you kept one.”
Murdoc wrinkled his nose. “What use would I have for that? Use your mind. I’m sure you can already guess where one copy goes.”
Shawn nodded. “It’s proof that the mission was completed successfully, right?”
“Yes. And the other goes to the Phoenix Foundation.”

Murdoc was used to Shawn’s constant, relentless stream of inquisitive and sometimes ridiculous questions. After two years of training the younger man, conditioning him to be a HIT ‘field agent,’ and thereby spending nearly all of his time with Shawn, Murdoc had become well accustomed to his protege’s endless foibles.

Puzzled, Shawn said, “Isn’t that some kind of charity organization?”
“Close. It’s actually a think tank. Or something like it, anyway.”
“So why are you sending a death snapshot to a think tank?”
Murdoc’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “There are several of my enemies working there. One in particular, my greatest rival.”
Shawn thought for a moment. “Are you talking about that one guy you were telling me about, the one with the duct tape and the Swiss Army knife? MacIceberg?”
Murdoc stared at Shawn. “MacGyver. Yes.”
Shawn shrugged. “I’ve heard it both ways.”
“No, you certainly have not. But regardless, this photograph is bound for him. I enjoy letting him know that I’m not dead, despite his repeated attempts to kill me.”

Shawn’s eyes widened. “You mean he actually tried to kill you? But I thought he was the one who helped you through Death Row that one time, when you went up against the Chairman of the Board of Directors. Did he turn bad? Did he try to double-cross you? Was he secretly a spy working for the glory of Mother Russia? C’mon, man, gimme details!”

“I will if you’ll be quiet enough for me to get a word in edgewise!” Murdoc snapped. He paused for a moment to regain his composure. “Yes, MacGyver’s tried many times to kill me. Obviously, he’s never quite succeeded. Thanks to him, I’ve been forced to escape from all kinds of unpleasant scenarios. Trapped in an imploding building, blown up in a moving truck, thrown off the side of a mountain, electrocuted and shoved into burning hot water, shot at, fallen down a mine shaft, rolled off a cliff in a Jeep…” Murdoc trailed off, watching as the look of horror on Shawn’s face grew in exponential increments the longer he spoke.

“He really did try to kill you,” Shawn said when he’d regained his voice. “I can’t believe you made it through all that.” He hesitated for a moment. “Is that why you sometimes wear that metal leg brace? ...and why you’re always wearing those latex mask things over your face?”
Murdoc stiffened. “So you did notice the masks. I wondered if you would. I’d thought I’d done a better job of disguising them.”
Shawn shrugged. “I mean, they look fine, you can’t tell. Your face looks normal. It’s just… I don’t know. I saw it.”
Murdoc nodded slightly. “That’s what will make you such a fine assassin, Shawn. That attention to detail… It’s crucial. It’ll help you survive Death Row.”

Shawn’s face lightened a little then. “So, why does MacBlinder---”
“MacGyver.”
“I’ve heard it both ways. Why does he want to kill you so bad?”

“So badly, Shawn,” Murdoc corrected gently, “although I’m sure you really have heard that one both ways.” He brushed some imaginary dust off his jacket lapels as he replied, “And as for MacGyver, who knows what goes through a mind like his? There are some men in this word who simply don’t want to face the facts. The world we live in is flawed, and men like the two of us must correct it, put it back in balance. We’ve got to do what must be done, because no one else will. But MacGyver and those like him can’t stand the idea that things aren’t exactly to their liking. For MacGyver, it’s his way or the highway. Even when we worked together to survive Death Row, he insisted on making the whole ordeal much more difficult than it needed to be.” Murdoc sighed. “But enough of that. It’s time for you to face the ultimate test.”

“The Kobayashi Maru?”

For that question, Murdoc had no response.

*********************

1997

The obstacle course was much harder than Shawn had expected.
And since he had expected it to be potentially fatal, well…
Let’s just say it was difficult.

Murdoc had been right. As Shawn sat there, hunched in a facsimile of a Main Street market square with a dozen motion-sensing guns trained on him, he realized that every single movement had to be precise, cold, calculated. He couldn't falter or be complacent for a single second, because even one slight slip-up would mean death.

No wonder Murdoc had trained him so vigorously---and no wonder Murdoc had let him go without tools or help so often in the past six months. Out in Death Row, Shawn realized, he couldn’t rely on having a weapon or any kind of backup. He had to be independent and quick-thinking, able to survive all on his own.

For a guy who’d just turned twenty a matter of weeks ago, that was a lot of pressure. But part of Shawn loved the idea of the challenge.

He glanced around the mock-up of an alleyway. There was a totally unrealistic fruit cart in front of him. If he could shove that towards the first shop window, take out the two fake gunmen inside there, then he could barrel-roll underneath the fake car and work out the next step of his plan from there. He gave the cart an experimental nudge.

It was way too heavy for him to move on his own. Time for Plan B.
Shawn glanced around. What did he notice?
Two of the gunmen were almost directly across from each other. If he could get one to face the other, get them perfectly aligned with nothing between them, then the motion sensors would trick each other and both targets would take each other out. But how?

Then he noticed the pineapple sticking up from the center of the cart and grinned. “How about one for the road?”

When Shawn threw the king of fruits into the air, two motion-detecting targets with rifles followed the arc of motion. As the two lines of fire met, the targets shot each other---and sent the pineapple exploding all over Shawn’s face.

“That was awesome!”

*********************

From the viewing gallery high above the obstacle course, Murdoc watched with pride as his star pupil looted one of the ‘deceased’ targets, claiming the automatic rifle for himself and plowing down the rest of the targets without a second thought.

There was a strange mixture of emotions welling inside him at that very moment. Emotions that he wanted more than anything to not experience. Nostalgia, wistfulness, residual fear, grief...shame.

He could still visualize in photographic clarity the chair where Ashton had been strapped to electrodes, the chair that had been placed just beyond the reconstructed snake pit. Murdoc kept the snake pit closed and the barred gate up, having decided in advance not to force young Shawn to experience that particular trauma.

If he closed his eyes, Murdoc was still able to relive the sensation of being carried across that horrific pit on MacGyver’s shoulders…

He snapped his eyes open. No time for casual reminiscing. Regardless of the shame he felt at being forced to crawl back to HIT time and time again, he had a student to look after now.

And he wanted to be sure that this one didn’t die.

Some students had that special something, that spark that turned a good assassin into a great one. Others did not, and were relinquished to the confines of mediocrity.

Murdoc was certain that Shawn had that special spark…or at least he hoped Shawn did as his student entered the jungle combat section of the obstacle course.

“Please… You’ve got to make it through.”

Murdoc never even realized that he’d spoken. He was too distracted by the image of his sister’s face floating through his memory, from the earliest days of her life to the very last, from childhood to womanhood, from MacGyver to avalanche…

*********************

When Shawn finally emerged on the other side of the obstacle course---or rather, the murder course, as Shawn would forever think of it---he looked like he’d crawled out of a swamp, rolled through a desert, and slept in a foxhole, but he was alive and triumphant. He carried the two halves of the now-broken automatic rifle over his shoulders.

The first words that came out of his mouth were, “Did I beat your record?”

Murdoc’s face was expressionless. He stared dead ahead into Shawn’s eyes with an intensity that made the younger man flinch. “No, you didn’t, as you well know. You held back.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Don’t lie to me, Shawn. I taught you how to lie. I know when you’re lying.”
“But I---”

Abruptly Murdoc grabbed Shawn by the shirt collar, dragging him close, holding him so that they were standing throat to throat. “Do you think that this is funny, Shawn? Do you think that Death Row is just some test that you’ve got to pass? This isn’t an exam, Shawn. It’s not your graduation. This is my assurance that you’re going to survive when I leave you here on your own. There are dangerous people you’re dealing with, dangers everywhere, and I don’t want to see your face on the ten o’clock news, do you understand?”

Shawn’s eyes were wide. “Wait, you’re leaving me?”

Murdoc’s grip went lax and he took a step back from his protege, clearing his throat. “Yes, I am.” His voice was calm. “You’ve got to put aside all fear, and all sentimentality, too. If you want to win the game, you’ve got to have ice in your veins, Shawn. Feelings are the enemy of efficiency, Shawn, repeat after me.”

“Feelings are the enemy of efficiency, Shawn,” Shawn echoed in a (surprisingly close) approximation of Murdoc’s English accent.
“Shawn.” Murdoc’s warning was the sound of striking flint before a flame.
“Feelings are the enemy of efficiency,” he blurted, this time playing no games with the familiar HIT mantra.

Murdoc nodded. “Good. Now, you’re going to try Death Row again. You’re going to beat my record with flying colors. Only this time… This time, you’re not allowed to use any of the weapons from the targets, like you did last time. In fact, the only weapon you’re allowed to use---apart from your mind---is this.” Murdoc reached into one of his jacket pockets and offered Shawn a single grenade.

Shawn accepted the grenade and stared at it. “This is it? Just one?”
Murdoc rolled his eyes. “All right, fine, you can use this, too.” From another pocket, he produced a red-handled Swiss Army knife.
Shawn took the knife. “You really expect me to beat this obstacle course---all of these guns---with just one grenade and a knife?”

Murdoc stared steel into Shawn’s eyes. “Of course I do. You already took out two of those guns with nothing more than a pineapple. Don’t underestimate yourself---or the world around you. I expect you to destroy this obstacle course this time---including the snake pit.”
Shawn made a face, but showed none of the abject horror that Murdoc felt toward reptiles. “And if I survive and beat your record, then I’m in? I’m a full member of HIT?”

Murdoc nodded. “That’s right. And if you don’t---” He lifted a silver pistol from the holster at his hip and cocked it to prove to Shawn that it was loaded. “If you don’t, I’ll kill you myself.” His grin was as mirthless and cold as a skeleton’s.

*********************

Murdoc was funny about lying. Shawn never could tell if Murdoc was telling a lie or not, and that disturbed him. Ever since he was young, his father had taught him how to discern the truth from a lie, and how to uncover the truth when it was hidden, even through partial truths and lies of omission. From a young age, Shawn had learned tricks of body language, tells, tones---all the different ways to spot a liar from a mile away. And Henry had, after all, been the one to reach Shawn the secret to fooling a lie detector machine.

But when Shawn had proudly revealed this to Murdoc during his training, the old assassin had simply laughed in Shawn’s face.

“You have to understand,” Murdoc had told him, “that it’s one thing to trick a machine, but tricking another person is more difficult, especially in the long term. To be a truly good liar, you have to do more than just believe the lie. You’ve got to make everyone else believe it, too. Your lie has to become the truth. Everything that you do---every word, every action, every gesture---everything has to be calculated to reveal the lie as being honest, as being genuine. Because that’s all that a good lie really is---it’s just another form of sincerity.”

Thus it was that, with much practice, Shawn had mastered the art of the lie. Henry may have taught him how to see the truth, but only from Murdoc had he truly learned to deceive.

And so far, the student had never yet surpassed the master.

Which was why, as he stared at his reflection in the barrel of Murdoc’s gun, Shawn had no way to know if his mentor’s threat was the truth, or a lie.

He decided to behave as if it were the truth.

Obediently, he set forth, unarmed, back into a fully reloaded Death Row… Knowing that, one way or another, he was walking through the basement of HIT headquarters for the very last time.

*********************

1997

The pineapple trick worked for several of the targets in the street-like area of Death Row, and it worked just long enough for Shawn to vault over the low brick wall and into the combat zone. Unfortunately, he had no idea what to do next.

Surrounded by motion-sensing machine guns, Shawn pressed himself against the wall and stayed as still as his jittering muscles would allow, willing his mind to think.
He still had the single grenade, but he couldn’t waste it right now. He’d never be able to take out all the guns with just one blast, not when they were spread so far apart, and besides, he didn’t have anywhere to run.

He’d be better off saving the grenade for the snake pit, he realized as he thought of the times that Murdoc had told him the story of that Halloween night when he fought and won against the Board of Directors. Maybe that was why Murdoc had told him the story in the first place---to give him a hint.

“This was Murdoc’s plan all along,” Shawn said to himself, the epiphany shaking him with a jolt. He could picture his mentor behind the window somewhere back there, watching his every move, waiting to see what Shawn would do next.

As the recruit preparing to step into his full role as a HIT employee, Shawn knew far in advance that as long as he survived the obstacle course, he was in. There were no rules or regulations stipulating how a recruit had to survive; the only requirement was that you win.

Shawn had won once already. He hadn’t done it in the same way that Murdoc had, nor had he done it in the same amount of time, but still---he had won. He had beaten the obstacle course, cheated Death. Shawn had proven himself as a worthy agent, to everyone… Everyone except Murdoc.

So by sending Shawn into Death Row for a second time, and virtually unarmed, Murdoc was either planning for Shawn to die, or---

“He knows I can do it,” Shawn breathed. He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them of the fog that was draping itself across his mind. He had to stay sharp. “I can do it. All right. You want me to show you? I’ll show you.”

*********************

Murdoc kept one eye on Shawn and one eye on the stopwatch.

His protege had left him disappointed in the first section; a repeat of the pineapple thing and several very, very near misses had sent Shawn off to a shaky start. But now… Now, it was as if Shawn had come alive.

Sneaking up on one of the machine guns, cutting the wires to the motion detector from behind… Then distracting a second gun with a rock to buy time to combat-roll around it, and using a bamboo pole to knock the sensor away from the third.

Before long, Shawn was at the snake pit. Murdoc held his breath. He could almost sense the snakes writhing, twisting in the darkness, a mass of gleaming scales and dead eyes and flicking tongues and sharpened fangs.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled deeply to keep himself from throwing up. He had to be ready to close the iron gates behind Shawn when his protege stepped through the entryway…

Shawn walked forward and Murdoc’s ring-adorned hand smacked down on the little button that controlled the gate. There was no going back now---both figuratively and literally.

The protege looked between the bars of the gate, peering back at the plate glass windows, looking back to the master.

“You’re doing fine, Shawn, keep going,” Murdoc muttered---not quite to himself, but almost like a prayer.

The protege's hand slipped through the iron bars, grabbing the bottom of the burning torch beside the entryway. He examined his find, bringing the torch just close enough to his face to waft the vapors. Shawn made a face and put it back. Not kerosene as he’d hoped, to ward off the reptiles---but citronella. Absolutely useless.

Shawn slowly turned back to face the snake pit. Yards and yards of snakes---and then, the end.

Murdoc shuddered with a fear that he couldn’t define.

*********************

Shawn shrugged. “Well, I’ve got one life to live. I’m not wasting it here.”

The HIT mantra rang through his mind like the vibrating clapper of a cathedral bell---feelings are the enemy of efficiency.

Shawn wasn’t sure he believed that, but fear? Fear, he could do without.

Looking dead ahead, Shawn stepped off the strip of raised concrete and into the pit of snakes.

*********************

When he heard, felt, and saw the explosion, Murdoc knew that Shawn had tossed the grenade over his shoulder on the way out. A surge of pride for his trainee rushed over him at the ruthless and cocky way that the young man had so casually destroyed that entire sea of serpents.

He just hoped that the fool hadn’t blown himself up along with it.

Switching off the power to everything in the HIT basement except the lights, Murdoc rushed down to the obstacle course, prepared to either greet his new mercenary as an equal...or to retrieve his corpse.

*********************
Shawn held up the scratched and dented Swiss Army knife with a triumphant grin as he clambered over the remains of the snake pit, stumbling through the now-opened gates to meet Murdoc. He was covered in dust and coughing from the smoke, but he’d never felt better.

“You did it, Shawn,” Murdoc said at last, staring at his recruit with an undefinable expression. “You survived...and you finally beat my record. If somebody had to do it, then I’m glad it was you.”

Shawn couldn’t remember ever having a greater feeling of pride. “You knew I could do it.”
“Of course I did. I trained you, after all. Whenever anyone needs something done, some mess cleaned up, they always come to me. They come to me because I am the very best. ...And I wanted my replacement to be even better.”
“Your replacement?” Shawn said slowly. “So---you weren’t training me to be your partner.”

Murdoc placed his hand on Shawn’s shoulder. “No. I needed you to step up and be the man that I can’t be anymore. The torch is yours, Shawn. It’s time for you to take it and run with it, and it’s time for me to retire. This time for good.”
“But, Murdoc, you---you can’t just leave. I mean, this is your life!”

“It was my life,” Murdoc replied, “Or one of them, at least. You know, I’ve died and come back to life so many times that people have told me that I’m like a cat with nine lives. But I’m not an immortal, and I expect that this life will be my last. I’d like to spend it in my own way.”
Shawn nodded. “I understand, I guess. But won’t your life be boring after this? I mean, what are you going to do?”

Murdoc smiled. “Go fishing. Play some golf. Maybe I’ll go back to writing my music...maybe I’ll try to reconcile with a beautiful woman that I used to know. It’s been so long since I had a quiet day all to myself...Who can say?”

Shawn’s throat tightened, and not from the smoke and dust. “I’m gonna miss you, Murdoc.”
Murdoc laughed. “Why, I’m just retiring, Shawn, not dying. I’m still just a telephone call away. Drop me a postcard once in a while, will you?”
Shawn grinned, feeling a little relieved. “I will.” He held out the knife to his mentor. “Here. I guess this is yours.”

A mysterious smirk crossed Murdoc’s face. “Oh, it was never mine. Keep it. Think of it as a graduation present, or---something.” Shawn slipped the knife into his pocket, and Murdoc nodded his approval. “Goodbye, Shawn. Try to not die.”

Murdoc turned to leave, and Shawn watched his mentor walk to the door.

Just before he left, Murdoc looked back one time. “I’m very proud of you, Shawn. I know you’ll keep making me proud.”

Shawn smiled to himself and flipped his motorcycle keys in his hand.

It was time to celebrate the newest agent of HIT---and the retirement of the very best.

*********************

December 31, 1999

“I really don’t want to do this, Penny,” Murdoc said, forcing himself not to back away from the beautiful woman who was currently wrapping a flamboyant bow tie around his neck.
“Sure you do!” Penny Parker replied. “It’s going to be great fun!”
“I really don’t think that it is. I’m not any good at parties.”
Penny’s smile never wavered. “You’ll be fine! Just tell them that joke that you told me yesterday, you know, the one about the grenades.”

Murdoc tugged at the tie. “That wasn’t a joke, Penny. That actually happened.”
“Oh. Well, it was still funny.” Penny expertly re-tied the knot that Murdoc was trying so hard to undo. He felt like she had him in a chokehold.

“Do I really have to wear this? I look ridiculous.”
She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Of course you do! You look great.” She giggled. “Oops. Lipstick!”

He couldn’t deny that he loved every second of Penny tenderly wiping away her lipstick from his face with a napkin. But there were still a lot of other things that he had on his mind. “Penny. Won’t you at least let me…?” His voice trailed off as he gestured to the burn scars on the side of his face. The scars that would never truly heal.
Penny ran her hand from the top of his head down to the bottom of his chin and pressed her palm against his ruined cheek. “You don’t need those awful mask things anymore, Murdoc. Not now that I know who you really are. You don’t have to hide from anybody.”
“But, Penny…” Murdoc was almost pleading with her now. Almost. “I look like a monster.”

Her wide and innocent eyes gazed into his without fear or faltering. “But you love me, more than anyone else ever has. And I love you, too. Always. I’ll love you forever.”
“I guess that settles it, then,” Murdoc said quietly.
Penny pressed her kiss to his lips this time, then bounced off to get something from the next room and left Murdoc to remove the lipstick himself. He took his own sweet time scrubbing it away.

Penny popped her head back into the room. “Oh, and another thing, I invited MacGyver and Pete and that sweet little guy that you used to talk about, what was his name? You know, the one you introduced me to that one day? The one who gave me those flowers! He seemed so nice and I found his address on one of those letters that you got, the one from---was it Haiti or Brazil? You know the one that I’m talking about, right?”
Murdoc rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Shawn Spencer.”
Penny beamed. “Yeah, that’s the one!” Her head disappeared and Murdoc could hear her footsteps moving through the apartment.

He sighed. “Why did you have to invite him? ...And why Pete Thornton? Isn’t it bad enough that you invited MacGyver? You might as well have invited Jack Dalton, too.”
Penny’s radiant smile reappeared before Murdoc as she held up a white dress. “Oh, of course I invited Jack! How could I forget?”
Murdoc groaned. “But why?”
“Because they’re my friends, Murdoc!” She laughed.
“But what about Shawn? You hardly know him.”
“But he’s your friend. It’s good for you to have friends.”

“I’m not his friend,” Murdoc huffed. “I’m his Judas.”
Penny’s beautiful face shadowed in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I sold him out,” Murdoc replied. “I trained him for HIT, turned him into a top-level assassin, and then I just left him there. When I first found him, I only picked him as my replacement because he was an easy target and he didn’t seem like he would die. But after a while…”

Penny’s dark eyes were wide and her voice was breathless. “Oh, I know what happened. You fell in love with him!”
Murdoc could only stare at her. “Penny!”
“Ooh, not like that!” Penny exclaimed. “Not the way you fell in love with me. I only meant that you started liking him, that’s all. As a friend, I mean, and not like a replacement.”
Murdoc nodded slowly. “I suppose I did get a little...attached to him. He was my student, after all. ...Like a puppy.”
“Awww. That’s so sweet.”

Murdoc rolled his eyes. “Not really. I still abandoned him to HIT so that I could get out. Not very much of a friend, am I?”
With one arm still holding her dress, Penny’s free arm squeezed around Murdoc in a hug. “You’ll have plenty of time to be a great friend at the party tonight.” She jumped back with a smile that made her eyes sparkle. “And speaking of that… I was planning on wearing this. Do you remember this dress?”

Murdoc touched a corner of the delicate white fabric. “Of course I remember,” he said softly. “I only wish that our first date could have gone a little...less murderous.”
Penny whispered in his ear, “You can make it up to me tonight.”

Murdoc’s embattled heart nearly stopped beating. “Do you think it would make a good wedding dress?”
Excited and curious, Penny said, “Sure! But who’s getting married?”

Murdoc sank to one knee. “You are, if you want to be.”

*********************

Together, Murdoc and Penny spent a lot of time wiping away lipstick before the New Year’s Eve party started. Penny rang in the year 2000 with Murdoc’s ring on her finger, and throughout the night---and well into the early morning---the smile of the millennium never left Murdoc’s face.

*********************

January 2006

Shawn’s eyes burned, not just from the cold, as he huddled in a South Carolina alleyway, sitting on an old lemon crate with his back against a brick wall. He dialed the number.

“Yes?” came the voice over the line. French-accented these days, but Shawn still would know it anywhere.
“I need to know what HIT stands for,” Shawn said. The sound of his voice surprised him. He’d began training for this career when he was just eighteen, just a kid, and now he was a grown man, a trained professional assassin for the past eleven years. He was a grown man who was on the verge of crying like a child.

To his credit, Murdoc never even hesitated, never hedged his answer. “Homicide International Trust. I apologize, Shawn. I should’ve told you a long time ago.” He must have been alone, or at least with someone he trusted, because he dropped the French accent and spoke plainly with his former protege.

Shawn choked up. “Why didn’t you?” A hot tear rolled down his face unbidden and felt like a flame on his cheek against the frigid air.
“At first, to keep you from walking out. It was easier to mislead you than to explain. And later...to protect you.”
“Protect me? From what?” Shawn’s grief lit a small candle of rage inside his chest.
“From your own conscience.”
Shawn wanted to fan the flame. “You had to know I’d find out eventually.”

“I did, Shawn, you’re right,” Murdoc said. “I knew that this call would one day come. But I played the coward. I couldn’t look you in the eye and tell you what I’d really gotten you into. You were only supposed to be my scapegoat when we first started---my sacrifice, so to speak---but by the end of it…” He trailed off. “I was wrong, Shawn. …Do you remember what I told you, after you finished Death Row?”

“Before or after I beat your record?” Shawn asked.
Murdoc chuckled for the briefest of seconds. “Do you know, I don’t recall.”
In spite of himself, a corner of Shawn’s mouth lifted. “I remember what you said, Murdoc. I know what you’re talking about.”
“I was wrong about that, too. ...What brought you to realize the truth? If I may ask.”

“I met MacGyver.”

Murdoc was silent for a long time and the only sound coming over the line was his uneven breathing.

“I didn’t want to tell the whole truth about him, either,” Murdoc said finally. “You’re too much like him. Clever, resourceful. ...That’s why I chose you to be my recruit in the first place.” He scoffed quietly. “He’s one of the good ones. And you are, too.”
“So are you,” Shawn whispered.
“No,” Murdoc replied. “Maybe once, a long time ago. But that was a very, very long time ago.”

Shawn took a deep and shuddery breath. “So, what do I do now?”
“That’s up to you.”
“How do I get out?”

Murdoc was silent for a moment. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you.” Shawn sniffled a little bit and hoped that Murdoc couldn’t hear the sound over the receiver.
“Shawn?”
“Yeah?”

“Please. If you can. Forgive me.”


“Murdoc. Of course I do.”

*********************

Shawn received a call from the old man a week later to congratulate him on his retirement. He knew that the Board of Directors wouldn’t have been pleased with the request. He knew that Murdoc likely had to agree to something during the negotiations, but he never asked.

He didn’t want to know.

*********************

Shawn’s motorcycle rolled into Santa Barbara a month later.

The first postcard he sent to Murdoc was postmarked the day before he became a psychic. The only words he wrote on it were “thank you.”
The picture on the front was of the setting sun glowing over the ocean horizon.

*********************

February 14, 2006

Murdoc sat on the steps in front of the Phoenix Foundation building. He had an unlit cigarette between his fingertips. No masks, no disguises. He was just sitting there, in the open, exposed and vulnerable. For once, he didn't really care. And apparently, nobody else did, either, because everyone---passersby, security guards, and Phoenix employees alike---just stepped around him and continued on their way, walking up and down the streets, footsteps on the sidewalk. No one lifted their eyes to see Murdoc just sitting there, waiting.

Because he was waiting. He was taking this risk and hoping it would pay off.

How long had it been, now? Months? Even years?

The exact moment that he learned of Penny Parker's death was frozen in Murdoc’s memory as the absolute worst and most painful day of his life, but the rest of that entire month was a blur. The only thing that he really remembered of the funeral service was touching Penny's hand one last time, touching her hair, touching her face, before the coffin lid closed and he lost her all over again.

He knew that the man he was waiting for had been in attendance at the funeral that day---knew that there was no way on Earth that this man would have ever missed it---but somehow he had no conscious memory. Had they seen each other? Had they spoken? Shared condolences? He didn't remember. Couldn't recall.

Ah, how he hoped that it wouldn't make things awkward. Even more awkward than they were already going to be.

He twirled the cigarette between his fingers.

"Those things will kill you, you know," MacGyver said as he sat down on the concrete step next to his greatest rival.
Murdoc chuckled just for a second. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a light handy?” MacGyver nodded and held the flame of a lighter out. Murdoc touched the tip of the cigarette to the fire, but didn't bring the other side to his lips. He just continued to hold it between his fingers as MacGyver slipped the lighter back into his jacket pocket.

"I'm surprised that you didn't have that thing attached to that stupid Swiss Army knife of yours," Murdoc remarked.
MacGyver shrugged. "Guess all I'd need for that is a little bit of---"
"Don't tell me," Murdoc interrupted. "Duct tape."
MacGyver stared at him. "I was actually going to say twine or a zip tie, but that works too." MacGyver's head tilted upward, brown eyes looking at a gray sky. "Why are you here, Murdoc?"

"Do you know what day it is?" Murdoc asked.
MacGyver lifted an eyebrow. "Valentine's Day, but it doesn't look like you've brought me any flowers."
Murdoc shook his head. "No, I guess not." He tilted the cigarette in his hands, shaking some ash onto the pavement. "It's a month today that you got my replacement out of the murder business."
"You're not gonna hold a grudge against me over that, are ya?" MacGyver asked.

Murdoc supposed that MacGyver was trying to be funny. "You know, I don't find that very amusing, MacGyver. You don't know what I had to do to convince HIT to let him go."
"Okay, Murdoc, I'll bite. What did you have to do?"

Murdoc's eyes were fixed on the dwindling flame that was slowly consuming the cigarette. "Oh, nothing important. I only agreed to die."
MacGyver's eyes flew wide. "You agreed to die?" His blond hair bounced around as he looked all over, checking for hidden assassins. "They're not going to kill you now, are they?"
"Oh, no no no," Murdoc replied. "No, they're going to want to drag this out as long as possible. They're going to want to make me suffer. So they’re going to wait as long as they can, make me live every day always looking over my shoulder, always hiding. And then, once they think I’ve finally moved on and forgotten them---that’s when they’ll come for me. It's better that way, as an assassin, if your target hasn't seen you coming. When you’ve got an element of surprise."
"How do you know that?" MacGyver asked cautiously.
Murdoc shrugged. "Because it's what I would do." The flame at the tip of the cigarette was coming a little too close to his fingers now. "I'd expect that they're going to ask Shawn to do it."
MacGyver's face wore a look of disbelief. "Surely they wouldn't do that."

"No, they will."
MacGyver, looking into eyes that were filled with years of darkened memories, couldn't deny that. "You're right. They will. So what are we going to do about it?"
"Nothing," Murdoc said.
"Nothing?" MacGyver echoed.

Murdoc nodded. "That's right. Nothing."
"But---why?"

Murdoc flung the ruined cigarette to the ground and smashed it beneath his shoes. "Because I have nothing left to live for, MacGyver. Now, don't get me wrong---I don't plan on dying tomorrow. I'll fight to the last minute." His throat grew tight and he coughed the feeling away before his rival could hear. "But when the time comes, I have no problems with accepting Death. .......especially so that I can return to Penny."

Slowly, MacGyver nodded. "I miss her, too, you know. She was always like a sister to me."
"Spare me," Murdoc spat.

MacGyver heaved a sigh as he looked at the man who'd been his foe for years and years. The man in the black leather jacket and the skull ring had once filled him with dread, but now he only felt...something else. Pity? Sympathy? Compassion? He'd never really been good enough with emotions to tell. But maybe Penny Parker would have known.

"You know, in some ways, I'm kinda jealous of you, Murdoc."
Murdoc couldn't believe his ears. "What did you just say?"
MacGyver's head tilted forward in the barest of nods. "I've never agreed with you and I know that we never get along---and I don't think I can forgive you for everything that you did---but I have to give you credit. You always knew what you wanted, and you always stuck to it. You always committed to it and never let go. ...You always stuck by Penny and you looked after her, and I have to say thank you for that."

Murdoc was silent for a very long time. His mind was reeling. MacGyver's was, too.

"We should never discuss this again," Murdoc said finally. "It's making me very uncomfortable."
"For once, I actually agree with you," MacGyver replied. "So, come on, Murdoc. Why are you really here?"

Murdoc looked down at the ruined cigarette at his feet, dampened paper and ash and brown grains of tobacco staining the Phoenix Foundation's plain gray concrete. "When the time comes, MacGyver...look after him. The way you always looked after Penny."

Slowly, MacGyver nodded. "I will."

Murdoc got to his feet and vanished into the crowd without another word.

MacGyver never saw his enemy again.

*********************

November 2010

“Are we there yet?” Shawn asked for the fifth or sixth time as Juliet drove down the road, bound for the City of the Angels.

The old man had always scoffed at the name, insisting that Los Angeles was full of everything but angels. But Shawn had always seen the secret love shining in his eyes when he talked about LA. It was the same feeling Shawn had for Santa Barbara: it was home.

“No, Shawn. We’re not there yet,” Juliet said. “I’m not even sure that I know where I’m going.”
“It’s not far now. I think I recognize this road. Right here. No---or maybe that one.”
Juliet glanced at him with a smile. “You’re so excited over this. It’s just a play. I never even knew that you liked theatre.”
Shawn shrugged. “It never hurts to get a little culture in your life.”
Juliet laughed, so beautiful and feminine that the sound made Shawn ache just a little bit. “It’s nice to hear that my new boyfriend is so well-rounded.”
Shawn grinned. “You’d be amazed, Jules. My powers go well beyond the psychic realm.” Then he shrugged as he looked out the window, peering at street signs. “I also know the playwright.”

Juliet’s curved eyebrow lifted. “Really? That explains how you were able to get such good tickets. You know this show sold out in six hours? Jacques Leroux is the hottest playwright of the decade. His last three musicals have gone straight to Broadway.”
Shawn’s chest puffed out a little with pride that he really didn’t have the right to feel. “I know. He’s pretty amazing.”
In the reflection of the rearview mirror, she caught the pleased glow in Shawn’s eye. “You really do have friends everywhere, don’t you?”
“Not everywhere, Jules. But yeah, Jacques means a lot to me. I hope you’ll get to meet him tonight.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. Isn’t he supposed to be pretty reclusive?”
“Yeah, ever since his wife died,” Shawn confirmed. “She was the one who got him talking to people. But Jacques and I---we go way back. He’s kinda like the dad I never had.”
“But you do have a dad, Shawn.”
He shrugged, contemplative. “Yeah, I do. But it’s not the same. I mean, I love my Papa Bear, and things are better now, I guess, but--- C’mon, Jules, you know. You saw how we were.”

Juliet was quiet for a moment, listening to the car idle in the stoplight traffic. She could see bands of sweltering air radiating from the shiny silver hood in waves, rippling and twisting the air like a mirage.

“I guess I can understand the way you feel,” she said. “Even now, I don’t like to talk about my father---you know that---and even though I love him, I’ll never really be able to get along with him. It’s just hard for me to hear you talk about your dad that way, because it’s obvious that he loves you so much. I mean, sure, Henry’s not perfect, but at least he was there for your entire childhood, good and bad.”

Then it was Shawn’s turn to be silent. “Yeah, he was there, but it wasn’t like he understood me at all. I just wanted him to listen. Like…” He paused, eyes narrowing as he tried to decide how to explain. “It’s like we never really communicated. We talked, but we never got anywhere. And even now, I still don’t really know whether or not he’s proud of me, if he’s glad to have me as a son. All he ever talks about is how I’m a failure. But Jacques---Jacques would never treat me that way.”

Juliet smiled, but there was a hint of sorrow in her eyes. “I have to say I’m a little jealous of you, Shawn. You got two good dads, and I never even got one.”
Her hand reached for the air conditioner controls, and Shawn’s hand covered hers.

“Jacques is going to love you,” Shawn promised.

*********************

As if by magic---or psychic powers---Jacques found his way to Shawn after the show. Shawn’s frantic waving and flailing from across the crowded theater lobby brought a smile to lips that were overshadowed by a thin gray mustache.
Shawn settled down some as the old man steered his wheelchair towards them, but he continued jabbering excitedly into Juliet’s ear.

“Shawn Spencer!” Jacques said, voice heavy with a French accent that hadn’t ever diminished over the years. “How glad I am to see you. And who is your companion?”
Beaming, Shawn slipped an arm around Juliet’s waist. “This is Detective Juliet O’Hara.” And then, for the first time in his life when speaking to the old man, he added, “My girlfriend.”

The playwright’s eyes widened a bit in surprise and understanding. “I see. Congratulations, my boy. And a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle.” Jacques reached for Juliet’s hand, trapping her fingers and bringing them to his lips. Juliet blushed and the bright fluorescent lights glimmered on the death’s-head ring affixed to Jacques’ right hand. With a pang of sadness, Shawn observed the pale gold wedding band on the old man’s other hand. He’d never once taken it off.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Leroux,” Juliet said, flustered. “Shawn, you never mentioned that your...um...friend was such a charmer.”
Shawn grinned. “C’mon, Jules, I sure didn’t learn my way with the ladies from my dad.” He waggled his eyebrows to make Juliet laugh.
Jacques smiled wistfully. “Won’t you join me tonight? There’s a bottle of champagne on ice in my office, and I can think of no one better to share it with.”
Juliet surprised Shawn by answering first. “We would love to, Mr. Leroux, thank you.”

“Please, call me Jacques,” the playwright said with a rakish smirk. “Any friend of Shawn’s is surely a friend of mine. Come now, I’ll lead the way.”

As the two of them followed the old man down lavish and twisting hallways, Shawn couldn’t help observing him. In the past, he’d tried to avoid seeing too much about him---he respected too much to invade the old man’s privacy---but with the way his mind naturally worked, and the way he’d been trained, he really couldn’t stop himself from noticing a few things. Like how nimble the old man was in that wheelchair, from years of practice; the telltale signs in the legs and knees that showed just how much he truly needed the chair now; the old scars beginning to peer through age-thinned skin on his arms; the scruff of silvered stubble that gave away a long work week; the excited twitching of the hands and lips; the faded burn marks on one side of his face; the haunted look of a widower’s eyes.

Shawn saw it all.

Juliet stepped through the door to Jacques’ office first while the old man held the door for her.
“Ladies first, hm?” Jacques teased.
Shawn smiled and pressed his hand against the door. “Age before beauty.”
Jacques flashed the younger man an eyeroll, but entered without any remarks. He maneuvered behind the small wooden desk taking up the center of the room and reached for the champagne. “Will you get the glasses, Shawn?”
“Sure,” he replied and looked into a cabinet in the corner, picking out three delicate glass champagne flutes. He made a huge show of nearly dropping one, and Jacques laughed.

Shawn grinned. “We should do this more often.” He knew that it would never happen.
“Indeed, my young friend,” Jacques replied, knowing the same. “A toast, then?”
“To the success of the play?” Juliet suggested.
“To world peace?” Shawn said in a flamboyant mockery of a beauty queen.

The old man just smiled. “To love.”

“Amen,” Shawn said, and downed his glass.

*********************

December 2010

Shawn stared up at the face of Mr. Yin, watching the shadows around the man’s eyes. He’d seen that face before, he realized suddenly---only once, from across a crowded room. But he’d seen that face before. A sense of clarity crystallized in his mind. He had never quite understood Yang’s motives---but he might, now, understand Yin’s. Defiantly, he stared into his captor’s deep-set eyes. “Why did you pick me in the first place?”

Shawn suspected that he knew the answer, but Yin’s reply was evasive: “Because you were pretty good. You were interesting. You had a black sidekick, and that felt fun.”

That was the kind of answer that Shawn himself might have given if he were in Yin’s place, but he wasn’t going to buy any of it. “No, it was more than that. You’ve been obsessed with me since I was a kid.” Ever since I graduated high school, probably...

Yin’s face was contorted into a look somewhere between disappointment and disgust. “No, Yang. Yang was obsessed with you, Shawn. Yang. I didn’t even know who the hell you were until you started doing this shtick. Yang took notice of the pre-pubescent you, and developed an unhealthy crush. Feelings are the enemy of efficiency, Shawn. She betrayed me to save your mother, and that threw a serious wrench into the cogs of my career plans. She broke my trust, and she broke my heart, and for that, I blame you, and now it’s time to die. Satisfied?”

“Absolutely not,” Shawn answered stubbornly. “No, I’m not satisfied. You’re leaving out a big part of the truth, aren’t you? Yang may have taken notice of me when I was really young, but you’ve seen me before too, so don’t use her as a smokescreen.” Shawn’s eyes narrowed in anger, all the previous jocularity of his stalling mode gone. “You may not have known my name before I got involved with the police as a psychic, but you have seen me before and you can’t deny it. You know exactly who I am and I know exactly who you are.”

Yin smoldered with a rage that he didn’t bother to conceal. “You’re right. I do know who you are. And you know what? Right now, you should be thanking me. I’ve been in this game long enough to have learned that the kind of death I’ve got planned for you---even the death I’ve got planned for your friend here---why, it’ll seem like a mercy killing compared to what you’ll get in the end. I can promise you that.”

“I don’t believe you and I never will,” Shawn hissed. In his peripheral so, he could sense Gus frozen in his seat, tense and terrified and confused. A spasm of guilt rippled through his nerves. Gus truly was innocent in all of this. Shawn hadn’t been kidding when he’d said that he wanted to die first; couldn’t bear to watch someone he loved die right before his helpless eyes.

Yin’s lips stretched in a tight smirk. “Good, because you won’t have to. You’re not going to be leaving this room after tonight---except in a body bag.”

Just then, Yang shuffled into the room, taking all three men by surprise. “Hi, Daddy…”

*********************

Despite shrugging off the trauma with some “yeah, yeah, yeahs” (and despite the gentle restorative powers of the sweetest moment of his life with Juliet O’Hara in the interrogation room later that night), the memories of Yin continued to haunt Shawn’s nightmares for years afterwards.

What truly terrified Shawn more than anything were Yin’s last words, just a gurgle, a quiet strangled sound, barely heard over the voices of Yang and the police: You’re not so different from me...Shawn...you’re next.

*********************

December 2013

The invitation to visit the old man’s home for Christmas was completely unusual, but not completely unexpected. It was, after all, a very important time for everyone.

Shawn brought flowers, a pineapple, and champagne. He and the old man were the only two present at the party, but the old man had a table full of food anyway, and he’d decorated the house with holly, spruce, and pine. Red ribbons and sweet-scented candles were tucked into little alcoves and corners, and the entire home---small and warm---was filled with the scent of cinnamon. Three chairs and three places were set at the round kitchen table. One of them was empty.

Everything was exactly as his wife would’ve wanted it.

The dinner conversation was lighthearted and Shawn felt better than he had in weeks. Both of them were able to speak openly, to be honest. The relief of not having to hide made Shawn reconsider his feelings about honesty at the moment. The old man asked questions about Shawn’s family, about Gus. Shawn overloaded him with questions about his newest rock opera, wanting to know every detail about Supernatural Lovers, and the old man was happy to oblige, humming snippets of the score and conducting himself with two fingers waving in the fragrant air.

Many jokes were exchanged that, had either Penny or Juliet been present, would’ve earned both of the men hearty slaps to their smirking faces.

After the dishes were washed, the pineapple was cut, and the champagne was poured, the two men migrated to the living room. The space was furnished with a green loveseat and matching armchair, a wide oval rug, and several oak bookcases. The old man began to maneuver himself into the armchair, and Shawn helped him despite his protests.

“We should do this more often,” Shawn said, settling into the loveseat next to his chair.
“What?” replied the old man. “We should have you manhandling me against my will? Sure, that sounds perfect. Let’s set an appointment for six months from now.”
Shawn rolled his eyes. “I meant that you should let me see you more often. You never invite me anymore, and I know that not all of it is because Penny isn’t here to insist anymore.”
“It’s safer for both of us if we don’t,” said the old man, and the two of them fell silent for a short while.
Shawn gazed down at his blue jeans and Converse, wondering where to start in asking his companion for advice.

“I can sense that something is on your mind,” the old man said, English voice soft as he looked past Shawn and out the window, into the starless city night.
“Yeah,” Shawn said. “Something is.” He looked down at his hands and sank further into the green loveseat, grabbing a throw pillow and pressing it against his chest. “A couple weeks ago… Well, it was after---” He paused. “Juliet broke up with me.”
The old man’s eyes clouded over in sympathy. “Ah.”
“She caught me. I had to come clean and tell the truth.”
“About what?”

“Not about that,” Shawn said hastily. “About being psychic.”
The old man’s lips rounded into a silent ‘oh.’ His look grew contemplative. “So she left you because you lied.”

“Yeah. Basically.”
“What do you plan to do about it?”
“I don’t know.” Shawn rubbed his eyes. “Nothing, I guess. I mean, I don’t think there’s anything I can do, Murdoc. You should’ve seen the look on her face. ...and things have been getting better, I guess, because she didn’t get me in trouble and we can still work together, but…”
“But what?” the old man prompted gently.
Shawn sighed. “We ended up spending the night together. Um… It was after a case. And then---well, long story short, the day after, we all had to work together to keep from getting accused because Gus and I kind of accidentally messed up a crime scene.” He held up a hand. “And yeah, I know you taught me better, but believe me, this place was totally cursed.” He smiled wryly before looking down. “And anyway, afterwards, she told me that the whole thing was a mistake. And I don’t think she really believes that, but…”
“But it isn’t helping your case any,” the old man finished.

“Yeah,” Shawn said, burying his face into the throw pillow. “I screwed it up this time, Murdoc. I just--- I didn’t mean to--- I never wanted this, you know? The psychic thing wasn’t even supposed to happen in the first place, but I couldn’t tell them the truth. They wouldn’t have believed me! And---and by the time I realized that I love her---it was already too late. I never meant to hurt her. But how can I make her understand? I screwed it up so bad.” Shawn’s voice turned bitter. “I never loved anyone the way I love her. And now I lost her, and I can’t even fix it.”

“Shawn.” The old man’s voice was stern.
Shawn looked up.
“If there’s one thing that I ever learned from Penny, it’s that there is nothing in the world that you can screw up so badly that you can’t fix it. ...Even if you’ve got to use duct tape.”

Shawn rubbed his face. “You really think so?”
The old man leaned back in his chair. “If Penny were here, she’d tell you the very same thing.”

Shawn’s lips began to twitch their way into a half-smile. “Yeah. I miss her a lot. I know you do too.”
“Every day of my life,” the old man replied, fingering his wedding band. He reached over to the end table beside his chair and lifted a framed photograph of a beautiful brunette woman in a sheer purple dress, surrounded by laughing faces. “Do you remember this day?”
“Yeah,” Shawn said with a grin. “I took the picture while I was waiting for you to come from backstage. You never showed up, so she ran back and grabbed you.”

The old man scoffed. “Yes, she grabbed me. That’s literally the word for it. She pulled me out there, and I didn’t have a choice.”
“Dude, you’re famous. You should try to meet your adoring public at least once in a while.”
He shook his head. “I’m really not suited for that sort of thing. Now, Penny---she could just talk, talk, talk…” When the old man laughed, it seemed that the years of his life were rolling back like a curtain to reveal the set stage of a happier time and more carefree days.

Shawn laughed along. “Remember that time she and I had a contest to see who could talk the most?”
“And she won, hands down. I was a rich man!” The old man smiled openly now. “Do you recall the time that we convinced her that her car needed a gallon of blinker fluid?”
Shawn convulsed into another laugh. “And she believed us! Like that was even really a thing!”
“If it were a thing, she’d need it, because I don’t think I ever saw her use the turn signal a single time in my life.” The old man chuckled as he ran his hands over the photograph of Penny one more time. “She was my muse. She and my sister. I never had anyone else in the world---well, apart from you, of course, but you came later. Before Penny, I never knew what it was to smile. Not to smile and really mean it.”

“I can’t even imagine what that must be like,” Shawn said quietly.
The old man shrugged. “Some things are better off being left in the past where they belong.” His fingers caressed the edges of the frame, thumbs brushing the image of Penny’s face, frozen in time, forever smiling and radiant. “Dazzle and Stretch.”
“That’s still my favorite of all your shows,” Shawn said. “The opening number is the best. And the dance!”
The old man smiled softly. “Penny was made for that role. No other woman could have done it so well. She was the queen of the Broadway starlets.” He tapped the photo. “And that opening night was truly spectacular. Lightning in a bottle.”

Shawn grinned. “You remember that a couple years afterward, the musical was put on by the California Theater, back in Santa Barbara?”
“I recall.”
Shawn couldn’t suppress a snicker. “The girl who’d been cast to play Penny’s role---”
“Penelope.”
“Penelope. The girl who’d been cast to play Penelope turned up dead---”
“Oh, yes, I recall you telling me about that case.”
Shawn huffed. “C’mon, Murdoc, you’re not letting me get to the best part!”

“Right, right, sorry.” The old man lifted his shoulders in an apologetic shrug and pantomimed zipping his lips.
Satisfied, Shawn continued, “Anyway, while I was trying to convince the police that she’d been murdered and not committed suicide, I happened to see her name in the headlines of the paper. The article was about Dazzle and Stretch and how she was playing the lead role and stuff. So to act out this vision---” He paused to laugh before finishing, “To act out the vision, I did the dance from the opening number, and I totally---I totally ended up in this detective’s lap. This hard-boiled alpha male kinda guy with an Irish hairline, and here I am sitting in his lap singing one of your show tunes!”

By that point, both men were howling with laughter, tears flowing down their faces.

After a few moments, they quieted into a companionable silence, lost in memory.

Of course, Shawn was the first to break it.

“You know, Murdoc… We finally found out what happened that night.”
“The night of…”
“The fire. At the Santa Barbara Playhouse, back in 2005. I---we finally found out the truth.” Shawn swallowed hard. “The, um… The director and the producer, Uh---Miles Thornton and Ben Skyler. They started the fire. It really was arson, but they started it, not Z. They killed the critic in a panic, to try to save the show. And then---they set the fire to save themselves.”
“To save themselves,” the old man murmured.
Shawn nodded. “When Z figured it out, he couldn’t get anyone to listen to him because everyone thought he was nuts, so he escaped, and when they found out---Miles committed suicide, and Ben… Ben kept fighting until the end, but we caught him, Murdoc. We got him. We---we got her justice.”

To Shawn’s surprise, one solitary tear squeezed from the corner of Murdoc’s red-rimmed eyes. “Closure, perhaps, but not justice. Taking innocent lives, scarring dozens more---cutting down such a beautiful woman in her prime, someone who had never harmed a single soul---nothing but injustice in that, Shawn. And for what, to save a show? Something so trivial, I---” The old man fell silent, fingers locked into claws, knuckles whitened by taut skin and stretched veins.

Shawn clutched one of the old man’s hands with both of his own. “She didn’t deserve that. Nobody did. But at least now, the men who caused that fire are being held responsible for what they did.”

The old man jerked his head in a nod. “I saw it in the papers, when you closed her case. I kept a copy. To remember.” His voice was almost strangled. “It should have been me. If one of us were to die, I should have died before her. She only took the part in Ripper! because I was too slow in getting my script for Antony ready. I just wanted the part to be perfect for her. I was almost finished, but Santa Barbara was just an hour away, and Zachary’s story showed so much promise at first…”

“It’s not your fault, Murdoc,” Shawn said, hazel eyes pleading. “There was nothing you could’ve done, and she wouldn’t want you beat yourself up like this. Besides, we found out what happened, not just for her, but for everyone who wasn’t able to escape the fire.” He paused. “Like Elisa.” He glanced away, eyes saddened as he thought of the woman who’d died because of someone else’s mistakes, still bearing the scars of the same inferno that had taken Penny’s life.

…Scars that weren’t too dissimilar from the ones still visible, pearly pink and faded, on Murdoc’s own face.

Shawn could no longer meet the old man’s eyes.

After a moment, the old man found the strength to put his free hand on top of Shawn’s. “You’re right, of course. This is a good thing. It’s good that---that after these long years, finally this tragedy has been put to rest.”

“Absolutely,” Shawn said, desperate to lighten the mood. “Although, you know, I proposed the idea of Psych: The Musical to Z and---”
The old man snorted. “Tell me you didn’t.”
Shawn grinned. “I did.”
The old man chuckled. “Of course you did. And what did he say?”
“Well, he said no. And also, something about life rights.”
“He really said no?”
Shawn shrugged. “I know, man, I couldn’t believe it either. I thought it was a great story. Made even better by the fact that, c’mon, it---it actually happened!”

The old man stroked his chin, which was covered with short and whitened stubble. “You know what, Shawn?”
“What?”
“I’ll write that show for you.”
Shawn’s eyes popped wide open. “Will you really?! That’s the best Christmas gift ever!”
The old man nodded. “I will, Shawn, on one condition: you’ve got to make things right with the woman you love. For me, that would be the best Christmas gift ever.”

Shawn quieted down, confused. “Why?”
The old man squeezed Shawn’s hand a little tighter. “Because she’s the love of your life. I can tell…because I can see in your eyes that you love her the way I love Penny.”

*********************

Later on, when Shawn sent the old man photos of Juliet’s engagement ring, he received a package through the first-class mail in reply. The package contained the final manuscript of an unpublished musical.

Santa Barbara Skies became an instant hit.

*********************

2017

Shawn loved to get cards from the old man. He hadn’t wasted any time in sending along his new address with Juliet in San Francisco---along with a wedding invitation. The old man hadn’t come, but he’d sent along some flowers a week later. Black Hellebore---the old man’s favorites, and the ones he’d always sent to his late wife. Shawn had sent some photos of his special day in reply.

They’d been going on like this---sporadic mail exchanges, on-and-off, but always in contact---for years now. Maybe even a full decade, by this point.

Those years seemed so far away now, so distant. With every day, his new life with Juliet took up more and more of his focus.

Not that Gus and Psych weren’t still a huge part of his life. (Despite the fact that Psych had a friendly rivalry going with San Francisco’s “other consultant.”)
It was just that for once, Shawn felt like maybe...he was finally growing up.

And maybe...he was finally okay with that.

It was a good feeling.

Wedding photos, house photos, buying-our-first-car-together photos… The picture of Shawn’s 750 Commando in the corner of the garage with his other “man cave” items, Juliet’s window garden, her cats curling up on his lap… Shawn had taken more photographs than ever in the past few months and he was developing enough of them to almost tie the record he’d set while he’d done a stint as a Wal-Mart Photo Center manager back in ‘97.
But he just couldn’t help himself. The old man loved photography, and more importantly, he loved Shawn. And Shawn couldn’t wait to share his new life with somebody, so why shouldn't the old man have been the first to receive the good news?

The last card Shawn had sent was for the old man’s 69th birthday. He’d included a photo of him standing in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, with one arm around Jules and the other around Gus, with fog swirling and pooling around their legs, making them look almost like ghosts. The old man’s reply was the same kind of card that he usually sent: plain, simple, and elegant. This time, the old man had enclosed a picture of himself at his piano, and Shawn immediately tucked it into his wallet. Sometimes, instead of a photo, he’d enclose a newspaper clipping or two---usually of something Shawn had done or some big case that Psych had closed---or he’d send a pressed flower, a ribbon for Juliet’s hair, a cassette tape that Shawn might like… Once in a while, he would send Shawn tickets to a play or an opera or a musical that he had written, composed, or directed.

Always, the caption was the same: “I’m proud of you.”
Always, the card went unsigned.

For a moment, Shawn had a feeling of wistfulness. It had been years since he’d last spoken to the old man. He attended the old man’s theatrical productions religiously, but he could count on one hand the number of times that he’d had the chance to catch even a fleeting glimpse of his friend, even if he waited long after the very last curtain call.

Then Juliet came through the door, breaking the moment and Shawn’s attention span.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” she huffed breathlessly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’ve gotta go, I just came by for---”
She cut herself off as Shawn massaged her shoulders, rubbing deep circles into her skin with his thumbs. “Hey, it’s okay, Jules. Just take a second to breathe, okay? You’ve got plenty of time.”
Juliet exhaled slowly and took a deep breath. “I really don’t, but that feels so good…”
Shawn grinned. “Don't worry, Jules, because Gus and I finished up early today, so that means that your little Stepford husband is going to be cooking for you tonight.”
“You can’t order a pizza, Shawn, that doesn’t count.”
“Don’t worry, Jules, I’ll cook for real. Scout’s honor.” One of his hands wound up through her silky blonde hair.
“I love you, Mr. O’Hara.”
“I love you, too, Detective Mrs. Spencer.”

As Juliet was walking across the yard, storm door swinging behind her while Shawn looked on in silent thankfulness, his cell phone rang.

*********************

2017

“Hello?” Shawn answered the telephone without bothering to check the number.

“Spencer,” said a calm and emotionless female voice.

Shawn’s blood froze in his veins. He could almost feel his cells like individual spikes of ice cutting him to shreds from the inside out. He glanced down at the telephone screen. A blocked number. He hadn’t heard that voice since…

“Ms. Chairman,” he forced himself to say.
“I hope you’ve been enjoying your retirement.”
Shawn stared straight ahead, unseeing, at the storm door and the empty street beyond. He had to push himself to take even a short breath. “I have. But somehow I don’t think that’s why you called.”

A short pause. “The Board of Directors has one final assignment for you.”
“What? But---I’ve been inactive for over a decade now, I can’t---”
“Spencer, allow me to remind you that HIT does not allow resignations or early retirements. Yours, therefore, came at a price. This is that price.”

The world began to fuzz into a haze before it tilted and spun. Shawn remembered to suck in a breath, and things came back into focus...somewhat.
“Who’s the target?”

“I’m sure you already have an idea.”

“Who’s the target?”

There was no pause or hesitation from the Chairman this time.

“Murdoc.”

*********************

Shawn threw a duffel bag into the passenger seat of the Gooseberry and buckled himself into the driver’s seat with shaking hands. (The Blueberry had been left behind long ago, and the only other affordable Echo that Shawn and Gus could find had been a silvery, metallic green.)

Before starting the little Toyota, he lifted his cell phone, mechanically dialing Juliet’s number. He got her voicemail.

“Uh, hey, Jules, it’s me. Listen, I’m not---I’m not going to be here when you get home. I’m going to LA. It’s about Jacques. I can’t tell you what’s wrong yet and it’s nothing for you to be worried about, but I need to go see him. This is something that I have to do. Look, don’t---don’t tell my dad or Gus about this, and don’t follow me, okay? I’m going to be fine and I’ll be back soon. Don’t come unless I call. And Jules---I love you, okay?” He swallowed hard. “Bye.”

He turned the phone off and threw it in the backseat as he sped down the road, beginning the six-hour drive to the old man and the City of the Angels.

*********************

2017

Shawn’s instinct told him where to find Murdoc.

The surname on the gravestone was “Leroux.” Beneath that, there were two other names: “Penny P.” and “Jacques M.” Carved between both false names was a cross inscribed with their wedding date. The only thing left to be added to the stone was the date of Jacques’ death.

Shawn didn’t want to be the one to make that particular addition.

The old man was in his wheelchair beside Penny, tenderly brushing dust from the top of the granite slab, twining his fingers in the greenery and purple flowers that he always left behind.

Shawn stopped two yards away from him, feet frozen in the grass. He couldn’t speak. From that distance, the sunlight turned the metal pieces of the wheelchair into tongues of silver fire. When Shawn blinked, dark purple splotches stained the inside of his eyelids. When he opened his eyes again, the old man was looking over his shoulder.

“Step closer, my boy. It’s rude to hover,” Murdoc said.
Shawn obeyed without a word.
“Her birthday will be next week,” Murdoc murmured.

Shawn sat cross-legged on the ground next to the old man’s wheelchair. “You still love her, after all this time.”

“Of course,” the old man whispered. Sighing, he looked at Shawn. “I know what’s happened. I know why you’re here. But first…” His fingers brushed a bit of spiderweb that was clinging to the fissures in the stone. “I need reassurance that you’ll take care of her after I’m gone. Even if you’re only caring for her half of the grave---that’s good enough for me.” Murdoc chuckled.

“You know I will,” Shawn said. “But you’re not dying yet. You---you’ve got nine lives, remember? You can’t die.”
Murdoc paused. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot lately. It’s been so long---I don’t even know if MacGyver is still alive. Him or Peter Thornton. I wonder what MacGyver would say now, if he could see me like this.” He chuckled again. “Probably something about paper clips and duct tape.” One of his hands stroked his chin as he talked. “In a way, I almost miss him now. Isn’t that funny? Our little chases always made me feel so alive...even during all the times that I nearly died.”

In his mind, Shawn privately acknowledged that he understood the feeling. He would never trade his life in San Francisco for anything, but things hadn’t been the same as they were in Santa Barbara, where every day there was something new and outrageous to discover...like Yin and Yang.

“He used to keep in touch with Penny,” the old man continued. “Telephone calls, mostly. Every year, on her birthday. Special occasions. MacGyver told me once that she needed looking after. He was right. ...I never spoke to him again, after she died. I never wanted to. We were enemies until death, especially without her to keep peace between us. But now---now, I almost wish that I had.”

“I understand,” Shawn said quietly. He plucked a piece of clover from the ground and twirled it between his fingers. MacGyver could and would find a way to save Murdoc from HIT. Shawn, too. There had to be a way to fix this thing, to save something of the master and his protege from the wreckage, to rise from the ashes… Shawn was sure that there was a way out, if only he could find it. There was always a way out.

Murdoc shifted in his wheelchair. It took Shawn a moment to register what was happening. When the moment clicked, he scrambled to his feet and braced the old man’s body against his.

“Murdoc, what are you doing? You shouldn't be standing---”

“I’m not useless!” Murdoc snapped. “My knees aren’t what they used to be, that’s all.” He inhaled deeply to cover a hiss of pain as he forced himself to his feet, using as little of Shawn’s help as possible. His fingers, still strong from constant and vigorous use, checked that the metal leg braces he’d snapped on that morning were still tight around his knees. Then he shoved Shawn away. “I’ve never lived like an old man, and I don’t plan on dying like one.”

Shawn’s face paled. “Murdoc, you’re not dying. We’ll make it out of this one.”

With deft, short movements, Murdoc slipped the silver skull ring off of his right hand and produced a derringer from a hidden pocket. His eyes bored holes into Shawn’s as he cocked the gun. “One of us will.”

*********************

2017

Slowly, Shawn lifted his hands.

“Now, Shawn, why are you bothering to do that?” Murdoc taunted. “You know it’s not going to save you. I’m a cold-blooded killer, remember? Always have been.”

“We both know that that’s not true,” Shawn replied, lowering his hands. “Murdoc… We can’t kill each other. You won’t kill me. I’m---I’m too much like you, man, and that’s all I ever wanted. I just wanted to be like you, from day one. ...Day one-ish. I mean---everything that you ever taught me, I use it every day. Every day, for---for years now, man. Decades, almost! C’mon, I---I use it to do good. Haven’t I done good? I went back on HIT and on this life, and I made something new out of it. Just like you did! We don’t have to do this. We don’t have to do this just because HIT says so!”

“We don’t have a choice,” Murdoc replied. “We don’t have a choice, and I’m fighting until the very end. I won’t die without my dignity. ...Whatever shreds of it I’ve got left.” An abrupt laugh escaped his lips. “You know, despite my alleged longevity, I never thought I would live to be this age, let alone die at it.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” If they were being honest, it was a miracle that both of them had survived long enough to see this day. Shawn’s mind flashed back to every near-death and every narrow escape, from the time he’d been shot to the time that he’d been strapped to a chair by Yin.

And finally, Shawn realized that, all those years ago, Yin had been right. What the deranged killer had planned for Shawn---watching his best friend die before suffering himself---really wasn’t any worse than what HIT had been setting up for Murdoc and Shawn all along.

Because now, either the student would slay the master, or the master would murder the son.

Regardless of which scenario played out in this graveyard, Shawn didn’t think he could bear it.

“You know, Shawn, you’re wrong.”

“About what?” Shawn tried and failed to keep his voice from shaking.

“You’re nothing like me.” Murdoc’s voice was venomous and Shawn’s face looked like a hurt puppy. “You’re nothing like your father, either. And not Penny. ...You’re just like MacGyver.”

After all this time, Shawn still wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a criticism.
So he handled Murdoc’s statement the way he handled most of his problems: by ignoring it and changing the subject.

“Please. Why won’t you let me help you? You---you never let me help you. I can do it. I can---I can get us out of this. We can do it, together. It’s not too late.” Shawn was pleading now, but he wasn’t ashamed. He would have begged, wept, done whatever was necessary to save himself and Murdoc from HIT---and from themselves. His throat suddenly began to close in on itself and that familiar burn was stinging his eyes. “I love you, Murdoc. Let me do something good for you. Please.”

Inch by inch, Murdoc lowered his pistol. This time, the words were gentle. “My dear boy. You already have.”
Relieved, Shawn took a single step closer.
The pistol went back up, aimed at Shawn’s heart.

How fitting.

“I never miss.” Murdoc’s words were a statement of fact, not a threat.
“Except for MacGyver.” Shawn’s words were also a statement of fact, but Murdoc didn’t take them that way.
“Except for MacGyver,” the assassin hissed.

Then, to Shawn’s surprise, he began to laugh.

He laughed and laughed.

Until he began to cry.

Shawn rushed forward, ignoring the gun. He grabbed the old man’s shoulder and gripped it tightly. “Murdoc.”
The barrel of the pistol pressed a circle of steel into the flesh of Shawn’s belly. Shawn ignored it; he was close enough now to see that the safety had been switched on.
“Murdoc.”

Murdoc’s free hand shoved Shawn backward with a strength that surprised his protege. “In the pouch at the back of the wheelchair, there’s a camera. Get it.”
Without question, Shawn obeyed. He recognized the camera as one of Murdoc’s old Polaroids, one of his favorites.
“There’s enough film for two shots,” Murdoc said. “One will go the Board of Directors as proof of death. Now, Shawn, where does the other go?”

“I don’t know,” Shawn said stubbornly.
“Don’t lie to me.”
Shawn’s shoulders sagged. “To the Phoenix Foundation. But why? Why now?”
“It’s for old times’ sake, you might say.”

“I’m not doing this, Murdoc.” Shawn dropped the camera. It bounced once as it hit the ground and tipped over into the grass, rolling close to Penny’s side of the headstone.
“Shawn,” Murdoc’s voice was soft, “you have to.” His fingers flipped the safety off.

“If I kill you, then who’s to say that the Board of Directors won’t send somebody after me next?” Shawn shouted. “Do you really think this is gonna save me? Or are you gonna kill me to save yourself? They’ll just get us both in the end if we don’t stand up to them!” Tears rolled down his face, just as they did on the day he’d called Murdoc to help him escape HIT. “You did it once. You stood up to them. You won. We can do it again. I know we can. Nobody has to die.”

Murdoc shrugged. “Everybody dies, Shawn. Everybody. Even me. My nine lives are up. I’ve cheated death for the last time. Perhaps you have, too. Who can say?” His eyes glittered in the setting sunlight. “There’s only one way to find out. Pick up the camera.”

Shawn clenched his jaw. “No.”
“I told you to pick up the camera, Shawn!”
“And I said no! What are you gonna do about it, Murdoc? Huh? Are you really gonna shoot your own son?”

Both men froze as Shawn became aware of what he’d just said. The words that had just come out of his mouth, the final admission of what they’d both felt to be true. The truth that could never be taken back.

“No,” Murdoc said finally. “I won’t.” The silver pistol slipped from his fingers. “Pick up the camera, Shawn. Please.”
Shawn picked it up.
“Give it to me.”
Shawn did.

Murdoc ran his hands over the Polaroid, making adjustments and attunements to counteract the effects of the fall. “Have I ever lied to you, Shawn?”
Shawn thought for a moment. “Honestly? I don’t know.”
Murdoc chuckled. “Good.”

The sound of the shutter blocked the hydraulic swishing of the dart, and the tranquilizer concoction plunged through Shawn’s system before he could even register what had hit him.

Painfully, Murdoc sank back into his wheelchair, smiling grimly as the hidden compartment in the side of the camera closed. “Yes, I will shoot you, Shawn.”

*********************

2017

From his place at his wheelchair, Murdoc readjusted the camera and placed it into Shawn’s limp hands.

“I’m sure that you resent me right now,” Murdoc said, “probably thinking that I’ve betrayed you. Maybe you’re right, but do you really think that I would let you kill me? I would never do such a thing.” He paused. “Of course, I won’t let HIT kill you, either. No, it’s time that this long, long game is finally brought to an end.”

Shawn was meant to be unconscious, but unbeknownst to Murdoc, he actually (though he would never have admitted it) had gained a bit of weight since his mentor had seen him last, which threw off Murdoc’s usually precise calculations. And since the dosage was off, well...whatever set of chemicals that Murdoc had pumped into his student’s system hadn’t fully knocked Shawn out.

Shawn was floating, drifting---dully aware, but locked into place, helpless and unable to move. Like a lucid dream. But no, not unconscious. He tried to speak, but the only sound he produced was a soft groan.

Murdoc continued the process of setting everything up just right, explaining as he worked just like always, despite the fact that he had no way to know that Shawn could actually hear him. “The camera shutter is attached to the trigger of the gun. When I pull the trigger, you’ll take the picture. Since I’ll actually be the one doing the honors, the police will count it as a suicide, even though HIT will count it as your kill.” Murdoc’s grin was huge and manic, and Shawn was utterly terrified. “Be excited, Shawn. Don’t worry. All you have to do is sit absolutely still.”

Rapidly, Shawn blinked his eyes, sending his lashes in a dark flutter, frantic to attract Murdoc’s attention. Since he had no way to communicate in this drug-induced paralysis, he was just relieved that something, anything, on his body was responding to his commands.
The way Murdoc jolted backwards gave away his new knowledge of Shawn’s semi-awareness. “Shawn…”

Shawn blinked again.

Murdoc coughed and straightened himself up, adjusting his clothes and pushing himself up to sit taller in the wheelchair. “Well, since you’re awake, this must be my cue to say my goodbyes. You really were the best student I ever had. We made an excellent team. Getting attached to you like this was never a part of my plan---but for what it’s worth, I’m glad that it happened. After all, if I have to die for good---and obviously, as a mortal man, I do---then I’m glad that it was you.”

With the last of his strength, Murdoc pushed himself to his feet again, tugging at the hem of his black leather jacket. The silver pistol was in his hand, silencer at the end and safety switched off. “Don’t be sad for me, Shawn. Don’t resent me. And don’t, under any circumstances, try to get revenge on HIT. Just cut your ties completely. Live your life. If this is a sacrifice---which it isn’t---then you should at least make it worth something by not running off to die.” Murdoc shrugged. “If nothing else, think of it this way: I’m finally going to be with Penny again. Penny...and my sister, too. My mother and father… I haven’t thought of them in years. Isn’t that funny?”

Shawn blinked as fast as his eyelids could go, straining just to twitch his muscles. It wasn’t funny at all; none of this was. He was desperate to yell or scream, to tell Murdoc not to go, to jump in front of the bullet if necessary. But he was trapped there on the ground with Murdoc’s favorite old Polaroid camera between his fingers.

The old assassin heaved a sigh as he tossed his ever-present skull ring onto Shawn’s prone body. “Well, I think I’ve had enough sentimentality for one day. Goodbye, Shawn. Make me proud.”

Then Murdoc pulled the trigger.

*********************

2017

Shawn stared down at the casket in the small Los Angeles funeral home.
Why did they call them funeral homes, anyway? This was nothing like a home.
The casket was closed and the only flowers were a bouquet of black hellebore. The only people present were the funeral director, Shawn Spencer, and Juliet. The public visitation to honor “Jacques Leroux” was over, and Shawn was grateful, because he didn’t think he could handle any more innocent well-wishers asking him about the old man’s mysterious suicide. And he definitely couldn’t handle all the people who claimed to know Jacques so well, who thought that they honestly knew the man beneath the casket lid.

None of them had any idea.

But now the final visitation was underway, and soon the private funeral would be, too. At last, Shawn could have some peace to say goodbye one last time.

Juliet touched his arm. “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you, Shawn. I’m so sorry. I wish that I could have been there for you when it happened.”
“No, Jules. No, you don’t.” Shawn took a deep breath. “Can I tell you a secret?”
Juliet nodded. “Of course.”
Shawn looked at her. “You have to go to the grave with this secret. Nobody else can ever know.”
Juliet’s forehead creased and she was perplexed, but she nodded. “I promise.”

Shawn looked back at the shiny black lid of the casket. “His name wasn't Jacques Leroux.” He double-checked that the funeral home employees weren’t hanging around before finishing, “His name was Murdoc.”

Juliet must have seen some kind of emotion or telling expression in his hazel eyes, because then she asked, “Would you like a moment alone?”
In grateful silence, Shawn nodded and Juliet slipped into the lobby, leaving her husband to say goodbye to Jacques---to Murdoc---one last time.

The place had been deserted all morning, so the detective was surprised when she ran into someone else.

“Hello,” the man said. “I’m here for Murd---uh, I mean, Jacques Leroux, sorry.” His smile was open and sheepish.

Juliet tried to place him in her mind as she looked him over with a detective’s eyes, but she didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t anyone that Shawn had introduced her to, and she was certain that she’d never seen him before. “In there,” she said, gesturing to the door from which she’d just emerged. “My husband’s in there with him. I thought he needed a moment alone.”

“You must be Mrs. Spencer,” the man replied, offering a handshake. “I know Shawn. Not well, but we’ve been acquainted before. My name’s MacGyver.”
Juliet accepted the handshake politely. “It’s Detective Spencer. Thank you for coming. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”

She watched from the lobby as the man walked through the door.

*********************

Shawn was lowering the lid of the casket when MacGyver walked in. He glanced over his shoulder to see his mentor’s former rival coming closer.

“I got the picture you sent.”

Shawn suddenly became very interested in the flowers. “He asked me to.”
“I know.”
A long pause.
Then MacGyver added, “It was hard for me to believe that he could really be dead.”
“Me, too.”

Looking at the closed casket, MacGyver heaved a sigh. “I’m not good at this sort of thing.”
Shawn chuckled for a split second. “Neither am I. I’ve---I’ve never really lost anyone, you know? I mean, I---I nearly lost my dad a while back, and that was probably the worst feeling that I ever had in my entire life up til then, but this?” Shawn shook his head and his voice was strained. “This is worse.”
He forced himself not to cry. Not here and not in front of someone else.

“I understand.” The inflection in MacGyver’s voice, the way that the pressure of his hand felt on Shawn’s shoulder---Shawn knew that MacGyver meant it. He did understand.

The quiet sound that precedes a sob escaped from Shawn’s lips. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut. After a moment, he recovered. “I just can’t believe that I’m never going to see him again.”

“At least he’s with Penny now.” The condolence sounded a little too hollow for Shawn’s ears.
“Maybe it’s selfish, but I wish he was with me.”
MacGyver shook his head. “It’s not selfish. It’s human nature.” He paused. “It was always hard for me to believe that he really loved her. And hard for me to believe that he cared about you, too. But I guess he really did.”

“He did.” Shawn’s voice came out as a whisper. “He did.”
This time, when he looked away, he became very interested in the reflection of the rose-colored lights on the death’s-head on his right ring finger.

“You know, the morning of---you know, the day that it happened---I got a box that was delivered to the Phoenix Foundation.”
“Oh, yeah?”
MacGyver nodded. “Yeah. It had a lot of, um...personal belongings in it. I think it’s supposed to be for you.”
Shawn looked up, gaze meeting MacGyver’s brown eyes. “I want to see it.”
“Sure. It’s in my car.”

*********************

Hovering around the ‘57 Chevy Nomad in the funeral home parking lot, Shawn bounced anxiously on his toes as MacGyver unlocked the trunk and lifted the lid open. Careful hands unfolded the top of the cardboard box and Shawn leaned forward to peer inside, comforted by the sight of Juliet beside him in his peripheral vision.

The box was full of all the things that Shawn remembered most about Murdoc. Every card and postcard, every photograph and knick-knack that Shawn had ever sent. Stacks of newspaper clippings bound with paper clips or rubber bands. Copies of newspapers from Santa Barbara and LA about the Ripper! fire. Playbills of musicals and theatrical productions. Penny’s music box. Crumbling remains of pressed flowers, purple ribbons, a leather-bound diary, black leather gloves. A pouch containing Penny’s slim golden wedding band. The big oversized knife that Murdoc used to carry around and twirl between his fingers when he was thinking about something. And at the top of the stack, the framed photograph of Penny, the one that Shawn had taken at the opening night of Dazzle And Stretch, the one that Murdoc had kept close by until the day that he died.

Shawn held the picture frame in his hands, running his thumbs over the photographed face the way the old man once had. “This was his favorite picture of her.” One of his fingers felt something off about the top right corner of the picture frame. He flipped it in his hands to look. “There’s something stuck in here.” His fingers curled around the white corner of the barely-visible slip of paper and tugged it free of the frame.

It was a photograph. One of Shawn and Juliet’s wedding day. The photographer had been standing behind the altar, snapping a photo of the happy couple in front of all their guests seated in rows. Juliet’s tartan-clad relatives vastly outnumbered the handful of Spencers and Gusters, but Shawn had never cared until this moment. This moment changed everything, because looking down at this picture, Shawn saw a face that had been circled in bright red marker. A man in the back, among the multitude of O’Haras, disguised with a Scotsman’s beard and kilt.

Shawn’s jaw dropped. “I don’t believe it.”
“What?” Juliet asked, tilting her head to get a better look. “What is it?”
“He came to our wedding, Jules,” Shawn replied, eyes misting over. “I should’ve known he wouldn’t miss it.” He laughed a little to himself. “And even I didn’t recognize him. He really is a master of disguise. I never was any good at it. Not really.”
MacGyver smiled a little, one hand resting on the side of the car. “My friend Pete used to say that he was part chameleon and part rattlesnake.”

Shawn laughed. “He would’ve liked to hear that.” Out of curiosity, he flipped the picture over and looked at the back. In the same red marker, a caption had been written:

Much love,
M

Hoping that MacGyver hadn’t seen, Shawn quickly tucked the photo into the breast pocket of his blue shirt and tried to cover up the action by passing the photo of Penny to Juliet for a better look. He knew that Murdoc wouldn’t want his last words to be seen by his rival-turned-ally-turned-rival-turned-something-else-again. But he wasn’t sure that his tactic had worked.

“I always thought that I had Murdoc figured out pretty well. But you and Penny both brought out things in him that I never got to see,” MacGyver said. “I guess you can’t really know somebody at all.” After a slight pause, he added, “You should tell me about him sometime. Tell me about what I never had the chance to know. ...If you want to, that is.”

Shawn glanced at the box of Murdoc’s effects and smiled. “I’m free for fro-yo on Tuesday.”

MacGyver smiled back. “Tuesday it is.”

*********************

Shawn and Juliet carried Murdoc’s box back to their car and returned to the funeral home to finish laying Murdoc to rest as MacGyver’s Chevy Nomad drove away.

Windows rolled down to take advantage of a warm breeze, MacGyver pulled off at a gas station to fill up the tank and grab a newspaper before heading home. As he idled in the checkout line, a motion out the window caught his eye. For a second, surprise jolted through him. He thought he saw---

But no.
It wasn’t him.
Not today.
And anyway, that was impossible.
Not this time.

He sighed and returned his gaze to the newspaper, reading the obituary of Jacques Leroux one last time. The accompanying photos---one the image of Murdoc as a young man, one of him a little older---smirked back at him until the pictures blurred and became one in his mind.

As MacGyver folded the newspaper back up, he put the images to rest. Murdoc’s ghosts wouldn’t haunt him anymore, now.

There would be no nightmares, no bad dreams.

Just---at last---a sense of peace...

...Serenity.