William Rabkin - A Fatal Frame of Mind

“That’s an interesting observation,” Shawn said. “That the man who claims some museum employee was murdered in Santa Barbara by a centuries-old cabal dedicated to finding King Arthur’s sword and taking over England is actually insane. How would you ever come to such a conclusion?”

Frantically Gus thought back over everything Kitteredge had said to them-and that he’d believed. Piece by piece, everything hung together. There was not a single flaw anywhere in the internal logic of the conspiracy theory.

But it was ridiculous. And Gus had been so interested about seeing where every new piece would lead that he never stopped to consider the thought that he shouldn’t be letting Kitteredge lead in the first place.

“If everything Kitteredge has been saying is based on a fantasy, then we can’t trust any of the assumptions we’ve been working under,” Gus said.

“That’s a good point,” Shawn said.

“And if he really is crazy, then…” Gus trailed off, unable to bring himself to finish the sentence.

“Then it’s possible that he’s the one who killed Clay Filkins,” Shawn said. “And we’ve helped a murderer flee the country.”

Gus let that horrifying thought bounce around his brain. There had to be a way out of this disaster. There had to be. He just couldn’t begin to think of one. “What are we going to do?”

“Plead guilty,” Shawn said.

If Shawn and Gus had ever been in a situation that called for a complicated plan to get out of, this was it. They were ten thousand miles away from home with no passports, with no return ticket, and suspected of helping an accused murderer escape justice. To make matters worse, those suspicions were almost certainly correct.

Unfortunately, there was no time to formulate a complicated plan. During the few moments before Kitteredge emerged from the lavatory and the plane began its final descent, they might have been able to rough out the basics of a simpler one. But Gus’ mind couldn’t focus on planning because something else had driven everything else out.

“You’ve believed all this time that Kitteredge was crazy,” Gus said, checking to make sure the professor hadn’t stepped back into the main cabin.

“You didn’t?” Shawn said.

“You know I didn’t,” Gus said.

“Well, here’s a handy hint, then,” Shawn said. “When someone comes up to you in the supermarket and says that all those jars of Best Foods are actually alien eggs, and one day they are all going to hatch into ferocious monsters that will explode out of refrigerators across the West Coast-the East is safe because labeling them Hellman’s destroys them-and kill everyone, and he’s the only one who knows, you want to err on the side of assuming he’s not operating at one hundred percent.”

“Professor Kitteredge never said anything about mayonnaise,” Gus hissed angrily.

“It’s not the condiment that matters,” Shawn said. “Unless you’re making a turkey sandwich, and then you really want the sweetness you only get in Miracle Whip. The point is, whenever you hear that magic phrase ‘and I’m the only one who knows,’ it’s time to head for the hills.”

“But you let us follow him,” Gus said.

“I let you follow him,” Shawn corrected.

“You’re in the same private jet I am.”

“True,” Shawn said. “And wearing the same clothes as you, too. But this was your case, so I thought we should do things your way.”

Gus glared at him, the truth only now hitting home. “You’re saying this is all my fault?”

“I hadn’t actually thought it was necessary for me to use those exact words, but if you’d like me to, all right,” Shawn said. “This is all your fault.”

“I didn’t hear you presenting an alternative plan,” Gus said.

“I had an excellent alternative, which would have wrapped up our role in this case ages ago.”

“And you didn’t think it might be a good idea to mention it to me?” Gus said.

“I begged, I pleaded, I urged,” Shawn said. “But no matter what I said, you refused to call off your doomed trip to the museum and come with me to the C. Thomas Howell Film Festival.”

Gus was momentarily struck speechless. Even when he regained the use of his tongue, he found it impossible to do anything but restate the obvious. “You allowed all this to happen just because you didn’t get your way.”

“Sometimes words aren’t enough,” Shawn said. “You need to give a concrete example so the lesson is learned. Next time, you’ll listen to me.”

“What next time?” Gus said. “We’ll be lucky not to spend the rest of our lives in jail.”

“But if we don’t, when I tell you that the Ralph Macchio Film Festival starts next month, you’ll be first in line for tickets.”

Before Gus could respond, the lavatory door opened and Kitteredge shambled his way back to his seat. “I want to thank you gentlemen for accompanying me on this adventure,” he said as he buckled himself in. “I know we’re not arriving in ideal circumstances, but soon we will be heroes to the world. We do have some work to do first.”

“Yeah, fifty years of it,” Gus said glumly. “Breaking rocks.”

The meaning of Gus’ words seemed to fly right over Kitteredge’s head as he leaned over to pick up a small notebook that had slipped out of his pocket. He flipped through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. “It’s just one more puzzle, and then we’ll have our answer. We simply need to understand the meaning of this phrase: ‘Let not my rusting tears make your sword light! Ah! God of mercy, how he turns away! So, ever must I dress me to the fight.’ Any thoughts?”

Gus had one, but it wasn’t going to be much use. He turned away, hoping to hide his rapidly approaching panic attack, and saw that the ground was rising even more quickly. But it wasn’t like any airport approach he’d ever seen. The countryside below was a patchwork of varying shades of green, each one bordered by darker green hedgerows. He couldn’t help but compare it to the gigantic corn and wheat fields he’d flown over when he traveled across the United States and think that it looked magically antique, as if their flight had gone off course and they were landing in the outskirts of Fairyland.

But if they had been landing in an enchanted place, there would have been some mystical way to put the plane on the ground. Right now, Gus would have been thrilled to see the few clouds in the bright blue sky form into a giant hand that would snatch the jet out of the air and set it down.

Because there didn’t seem to be any place for their plane to land. There wasn’t a field that stretched longer than a few dozen feet before it was broken by a hedgerow, and the roads barely seemed wide enough for a compact car, let alone the jet’s wingspan. Gus tried to comfort himself with the thought that it looked like this only because they were so far up in the air, but if that was the case, then the sheep grazing below had to be forty feet tall.

And then he saw it-just what Shawn had predicted. A long, unbroken stretch of field bisected by a straight road that led to an oversize barn.

“We’ll be landing in just a minute.” Malko’s voice came over the intercom. “Please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened. This may get bumpy.”

Gus braced himself for a hard landing, but Malko was apparently a much better pilot than he gave himself credit for. The wheels touched down with a whisper, and the jet braked easily as it traveled down the asphalt road. It purred down the tarmac and then through the wide doors into the barn.

Kitteredge had his seat belt off and was standing by the door as soon as the engines shut down. Gus was rising to follow him when Shawn grabbed his arm and pulled him back into his seat.