William Rabkin - Mind-Altering Murder

“How could you even imagine such a thing?” Chanterelle said. “Of course he didn’t. He believed in a peaceful future. He believed that the world could be a better place-but only if people were willing to put aside their differences and work together. Massacring a bunch of innocent schoolchildren because their parents happened to belong to the wrong church would hardly advance that goal.”

“So, what happened?” Gus said, relieved to hear that much at least.

“I don’t know, exactly.” Chanterelle turned back to stare out to sea.

“You don’t know?” Gus said.

“Not exactly,” she said, her voice muffled by the wind blowing off the ocean.

“They didn’t kill all the children, did they?”

“I told you, Bertie Murphy, Casey Reilly, and Daniel Flynn all lie in Shankill Rest Garden, and have been there for more than forty years now,” she said.

Gus was about to ask another question when the meaning of her words hit him. “He killed them? His own friends?”

“How many times do I have to say this?” she said. “I don’t know what happened, exactly. All I do know is that the massacre of the children never happened, my father’s three mates lie in Shankill, and Jerry Fellows emigrated to the United States in 1970, where he got a job in the mail room of Benson Pharmaceuticals, a job he’s held to this very day. And every day in that job he has done his best to make the world a better place. Is it to atone for what he did in his youth? I don’t know and he never talks about it. I only learned this much when he was in the hospital for an appendectomy and he talked when he was coming out of the anesthesia. But I do know he has spent the rest of his life trying to make sure that he leaves the world a better place than he found it. And you would deprive him of the chance to do that?”

Gus ordered his mind not to work. He did not want it to move in the direction it was heading. That wasn’t how titans of industry thought. It was strictly the province of detectives. It was murders and criminals and plots and all those things he had walked away from when he’d left Psych. It was the kind of thing that didn’t happen in the real world, to real people.

Which meant that this was all some kind of terrible coincidence. Just because Jerry Fellows had come from a violent background didn’t mean that he had grown up to be a serial killer. It was possible in the real world to be frustrated with the circumstances of your life without going on a murder spree to even things up.

This must just be jitters, Gus thought. He was about to be officially named president of Benson Pharmaceuticals, and the impending responsibility was freaking him out. That was all this was. It was all it could be.

Because if he was making the wrong choice here, if Jerry was everything his detective experience was telling him he was, then Gus would be dead before the morning was over.

This was the greatest moment of Gus’ life. He was seated on a raised dais looking out over the resort’s vast meeting room, and wherever his eyes fell he saw a member of the Benson Pharmaceuticals family staring up at him with love. Maybe even with a touch of awe.

There in the front row were Ed Vollman and Lena Hollis, who had, judging by the looks on their faces, decided that he was their natural leader. In the back he spotted Arnold from accounting, Lindsey from human resources and Dennis from facilities, all of whom looked like they were thinking back happily on the small ways they had helped him on his road to the top. And there was Jerry Fellows, beaming supportively up at him, his beautiful daughter next to him. What a ludicrous fantasy it was to think Jerry was some kind of terrorist out to take him down, almost as ridiculous as his certainty that Chanterelle had originally asked him out on the cliffs to declare her love. Jerry was the mail guy, she was the beautiful receptionist everyone dreamed about, and that was all they were.

Gus shifted his gaze and saw Shawn smiling up at him from the audience. That made him happier than the rest of it put together. His best friend was here to see him accept the job of a lifetime. For once Gus was glad that Shawn had refused to do what he’d asked him to. This ceremony would have had so much less meaning if Shawn had stayed away from the company. Instead he was one of the flock, who were all waiting to be led by their new shepherd.

And who could blame them? As Gus listened to D-Bob talk about his bold ideas and bright vision, he wished he could look up at himself with that same mixture of love and awe.

“And so,” D-Bob said, turning briefly to shoot a warm grin back at him, “I present to you all the new president of Benson Pharmaceuticals, Burton Guster!”

Gus felt himself lifted by the wave of applause and transported to the rostrum. He stood there mutely as his new followers cheered for him.

He had done it. He was the president. All he had to do now was make a short speech, bang the gavel that sat on a stand before him, and his new life would be complete.

His fingers clutched the gavel. “Friends, colleagues,” he started. They all looked up at him expectantly.

He had a speech all ready. He’d rehearsed it a dozen times. But now it was gone, leaving only nonsense phrases from old television commercials behind in his brain. He considered starting to talk anyway, hoping that the speech would come back to him, but he couldn’t take the risk that when he opened his mouth the only thing that came out would be “Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh, what a relief it is.”

“My friends and colleagues,” he started again, then forced his mouth shut before it could form the words “atsa spicy meatball.”

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he say the words everyone was waiting for?

It wasn’t because of what Shawn had told him the last time they’d spoken. He wasn’t afraid that he was going to be murdered as soon as he banged the gavel.

Was he?

Gus did a quick inventory of his vital signs. Heart steady, breathing slow and regular, skin cool and dry. If he was terrified, his body was doing one hell of a job of hiding it.

He reached for the gavel again, but his fingers refused to close around it. What was happening to him? Why couldn’t he perform this one small act?

He looked out at the audience. They looked back with a mixture of confusion and impatience. Behind him, D-Bob was fidgeting in his seat. He was losing his fans.

Except for Shawn. He was beaming and nodding in encouragement. Did he want Gus to take this job?

Gus felt a stab of betrayal. Shawn wasn’t supposed to encourage him to take this job. Shawn was supposed to be fighting against it. That was his duty-to drag Gus back to preadolescence whenever he started to act too much like a grown-up. Sure, Gus had ordered him to stop, but when had Shawn ever done anything he didn’t want to do?

That was the difference between Shawn and all the other people in the room. Look at them out there, gaping up at me like sheep, he thought. There’s only one reason they’re looking at me like that-because their boss told them to.

And he wouldn’t be any different. Sure, he would be the president. But once Gus took this job he would spend the rest of his life doing what was expected of him. That was what it meant to live in the grown-up world. And all the luxuries that came with it, the high-rise apartment and the fancy restaurants and the big office, they were all just markers that could be taken away if Gus didn’t behave.

Shawn’s world didn’t work like that. He did whatever he wanted and didn’t care who approved. That was why some people hated him-because he didn’t care. He was free.

Gus had been free, too. He’d thought he left that life behind because he was ready for something real. But he’d been lying to himself. What they’d had was real. They made their own world and lived in it.