William Rabkin - A Fatal Frame of Mind

“I assure you, our only previous meeting was in that barn,” Polidori said. “Although it’s understandable you might not recognize me. I am a completely different person when I trade my chapeau for a ski mask. I do hope you won’t force me to reintroduce you to that other chap.”

“And so the Cabal will claim another victim,” Kitteredge said. “I have only one request. And that is you let me see The Defence of Guenevere one last time before I die.”

Polidori exchanged puzzled looks with his helpers. “We don’t have the painting,” he said finally.

“You don’t?” Shawn said.

“We thought Professor Kitteredge stole it,” Polidori said. “It was all over CNN International. We assumed he’d destroyed it to keep anyone else from finding the clues.”

“I would never destroy a great work of art,” Kitteredge said, sounding like the accusation had wounded him more than the beatings.

“It’s true, Dad,” Chip said. “I tried to tell you.”

Polidori waved him off. “Yes, yes, you never tire of telling me how you knew him first. You are the great genius in the family.”

Shawn looked from one Polidori to the other, a light dawning in his eyes. Gus knew that look. It meant Shawn had figured out a large part of the puzzle-or at least thought he had. Gus thought back to the last few moments of the conversation and tried to figure out what he’d picked up on, but aside from a not-so-thinly veiled threat to start torturing them if they didn’t talk, he couldn’t spot anything of significance.

But Shawn wasn’t waiting for him to figure it out. “The tears!” he cried. “The rusty tears!”

The three standing men leaned in toward Shawn. Kitteredge would have, too, if he hadn’t been tied down.

“I see tears,” Shawn said again. “Rusting tears.”

“We’ve heard this part,” Polidori said.

“What is that you say, O spirits of the poem?” Shawn chanted to the ceiling. “Take the sword to the tears?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Polidori said.

“No,” Shawn moaned. “Not to the tears. At the tears. The sword lies with the tears!” Shawn’s body went limp as he slumped in his chair. Then he bounced back up again, or at least as much as he could while tied down. “What did I miss?”

Polidori gazed at him suspiciously. But Kitteredge was already working.

“The sword lies with the tears,” Kitteredge said. “What is a tear? It is water that runs from an eye.”

“Yes, obviously,” Polidori said. “But what does this mean? Whose tears? And how can they still exist a century and a half later?”

“It has to be a metaphor,” Kitteredge said. “It’s a location, after all.”

“Professor, what are you doing?” Gus said. “You’re helping Polidori find Excalibur!”

A wave of shame passed over the professor’s face. “I have to know,” Kitteredge said. “Don’t you see? Even if it means aiding my direst enemy, I have to see that sword just once.”

“He killed your friend Malko,” Gus said, outraged at this betrayal. “Murdered him in cold blood. He’ll do the same to all of us.”

“Our lives are but flickers of a candle flame,” Kitteredge said. “I would trade all my remaining years for one glimpse of the thing I’ve been hunting for so long.”

“And ours, too,” Gus said.

“Give it up, Gus,” Shawn said. “Excalibur is the only thing he’s cared about. He’s not going to give it up for you or me.”

Kitteredge looked away from him, ashamed. “We are looking for a place where water runs from an eye in London.”

The assistant named Leonard shot his hand in the air. “That’s it, sir!” he said. “The London Eye. It sits on the banks of the Thames.”

There was a long moment of silence. Polidori looked like he was trying to stop himself from hitting his head on the floor. “My sister’s boy,” he said apologetically. “Nice kid, but not really cut out for this line of work.”

“What?” Leonard said.

Chip smacked the back of his head. “The London Eye was built in 1999, almost one hundred and fifty years after the poem was published.”

“Maybe there was an earlier version of the Eye,” Leonard said stubbornly.

Chip was going to smack Leonard again, but Polidori waved him off. “The first Ferris wheel was constructed in 1893, still far too late to be our answer,” Polidori said. “William Morris had many talents, but I’ve never heard anyone claim he had psychic abilities. Unlike our friend here.”

“It would have saved him lots of trouble if he did,” Shawn said.

“So now that we have ruled out one eye, what is left to us?” Polidori said.

“Maybe it’s not a literal eye,” Chip said. “Could it be a famous observation point? A lookout of some kind?”

Polidori thought that over for so long that Gus thought his carnation was going to start wilting. Then his face lit up. “An observation point overlooking water is far too vague,” Polidori said. “But there is another kind of eye-and I know of one in London. One which stands by the water, and has stood there for almost two centuries.”

Kitteredge stared at him, trying to make sense of the puzzle. “It can’t be…”

“It must be,” Polidori said. “And I’m going to do you the supreme honor of allowing you to come along to watch me uncover Excalibur before your unfortunate death.”

Gus had hoped to be able to keep track of the turns in the road from inside the back of the windowless van, so he could reproduce the journey should they manage to get away from Polidori and find a policeman.

Two minutes into the trip, though, Gus was hopelessly lost. It wasn’t just the fact that they made some kind of turn every twenty feet, or that they seemed to drive around every roundabout four times before choosing an exit. It was that he kept being distracted by the gun that Leonard was pointing at him.

Gus tried to console himself with the thought that having a gun trained on him was better than being tied up again. The ropes had been sliced off back at the warehouse, and after several minutes of agony, his arms and legs even felt normal again. Of course, the advantage to being tied up was that if the van hit a pothole, the rope was much less likely than Leonard’s pistol to go off and put a bullet in his head. But he supposed that being shot couldn’t hurt any more than Kitteredge’s betrayal.

Shawn didn’t seem bothered by any of it. He sat on a wheel well and tried to engage Leonard in conversation. “I guess all the smart people get to ride up front,” Shawn said.

Leonard just glared at him and shifted the gun in his direction.

“No, I get it,” Shawn said. “The Polidoris would rather ride with someone who understands the same things they do. Gus has the same problem.”

“I do?” Gus said.

“Imagine what it’s like for poor Gus, being the only nonpsychic member of a psychic detective agency,” Shawn said. “He must feel like he’s left out of everything. You thought he was pathetic back in the warehouse when Kitteredge sold him out for a glimpse at an old sword? That’s what it’s like for him every day.”

Another betrayal, Gus thought. First Kitteredge, and now, for reasons he couldn’t begin to understand, Shawn was turning on him, too. But even as the notion crossed his mind, he rejected it, realizing that only his exhaustion allowed him even to entertain the idea. Shawn was planning something. Gus just didn’t understand what.

Then he caught a flicker of sympathy in Leonard’s eye. And Gus got it. “You keep telling yourself that,” he said defensively. “Not everybody cares about all your precious psychic stuff.”

“Not everybody,” Shawn said. “That’s my point. When I want to talk psychic stuff with my colleagues, you’d just be bored. It’s better if you don’t come.”