William Rabkin - Psych - Mind Over Magic

“Eternity is ticking away,” Lassiter snapped. “Every time I talk to you. And where is he going now?”

“More importantly,” Shawn said, moving to block Lassiter’s view of Gus, “what the heck were those alien things doing at the end? I thought I’d fallen asleep and another movie had started while I was napping.”

Lassiter shoved Shawn aside. “Guster, stop!”

Gus was robo-walking across the street toward the Cape Cod’s door, head swiveling and forearms rising and falling with every shuffling step. He’d always liked robo-miming, but he’d forgotten just how satisfying it could be to transform himself into a mechanical device, to feel the weight of two imagined C batteries nestled in the small of his back, to know only the sensations of the servo motor. He was so caught up in his robotic self that he didn’t notice the detective shouting at him. He’d stopped caring that he was walking toward a crime scene, or even that there might be a live bomb inside the house he was approaching.

“Come back, Gus!” Detective O’Hara shouted.

Gus kept shuffling forward.

“Get him back here!” Lassiter commanded Shawn.

“But that’s within the crime scene perimeter,” Shawn said. “Civilians aren’t allowed, not even those who frequently do excellent work in collaboration with the Santa Barbara Police Department.”

Robo-Gus hit the first of three low steps with the tip of his shoe, then shuffled back a couple of inches. He stopped, swiveled his head back and forth, then moved forward again. This time when he reached the stairs, he stopped, lifted his knee until his thigh was parallel with the ground, then placed his foot on the first step.

“Stop him now!” Lassiter yelled.

“Yes, sir,” Shawn said, and ran across the sidewalk to join Gus, who was walking in place, his chest pressed against the front door. “It’s okay; you can stop aerobosizing.”

Gus took a couple of seconds to wind down, shaking the life back into his joints. “What are we doing here, Shawn?”

“Blowing this case wide open,” Shawn said. He reached for the door handle.

“Stop!” Gus hissed. “You may be blowing us wide open. Or up.”

“Only if there’s a bomb inside.” Shawn grabbed the doorknob, gave it a sharp twist, and pushed the door open.

As they closed the door behind them, Gus and Shawn could hear the shouts from the police outside-and another, more ominous sound. police

“Something’s ticking,” Gus said. “It’s the bomb.”

“It’s a grandfather clock,” Shawn said, walking toward the timepiece in question, which was the only thing moving in the dusty living room. “But even if it was a bomb, I wouldn’t be too worried.”

“Because being blown up is such a lovely way to spend an afternoon?”

Shawn came back to the entry hall and grabbed Gus’ arm, pulling him into the living room. “Because the first one didn’t seem to have any effect at all.”

Gus gazed around the sparsely furnished parlor. The couch was old and beginning to sag in the middle; the upholstery on the arms of the two big chairs was worn down almost to threads. The wallpaper had begun to peel off at the corners. The room was tacky, dated, and unappealing, but the one thing it definitely wasn’t was exploded.

“You heard what Major Voges said,” Gus said. “They set off a small bomb to lure the first responders in, and then get them with a bigger one. We’ve been lured.”

Shawn sighed heavily and disappeared through a door. After a moment, Gus heard him cry out.

“What is it?” Gus called, dreading the answer.

“Come here, quickly,” Shawn said. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

“You found a timer, didn’t you?” Gus froze in place. What does it feel like to be blown up? he wondered. Is it painful? And if it is, do you feel the pain in all the various pieces scattered around the room? Or is there more of a central agony? “Is it counting down in big red numbers? Do we have less than a minute left? Because I’ve got a lot of life to flash back on before I die, and I’m not sure a minute will be enough.”

“There’s no timer,” Shawn said. “Now get in here.”

Gus didn’t want to. He wanted to turn around and tiptoe to the front door. After all, if they were both blown up, who would come to visit Shawn’s grave every day for the next eighty years? He owed it to Shawn to leave, to stay alive to pay him the homage he was due.

“Gus!” Shawn called. “Now!”

Fine, Gus thought. If that’s the way he wants it, let his grave go unvisited. Gus walked slowly to the doorway Shawn had disappeared through, and found himself in a long corridor. Shawn was at the other end of it, waving at him. As Gus followed, Shawn retreated into a room. When Gus reached it, he found himself in what must have been Balustrade’s den, a wood-paneled box furnished with a worn leather couch and a television that could almost certainly receive color broadcasts.

Shawn was in the middle of the room, and he was leaning over something that didn’t look like any bomb Gus had ever seen.

As he got closer, Gus could see that it was the tuxedo-clad body of the magician who’d slipped the card into his sock at the Fortress of Magic. He was sprawled out on his stomach, the crowbar that had been used to shatter his skull still lying beside his head.

“Is he dead?” Gus asked as he got closer.

Shawn didn’t bother to answer, and as Gus moved into the room, he could see that it was a foolish question. Gus gestured down at the crowbar. “How hard would you have to hit someone with that to kill him?”

“Not so hard it would sound like an explosion to anyone except the guy getting hit,” Shawn said. He was staring down at the dead man’s hands. Even in death, his fingers were immaculate. Except for the ring finger on his right hand. There was something dark underneath the nail.

“Car keys,” Shawn said, and Gus handed them over without even thinking. Shawn used one key to pry under the dead man’s fingernail and eased out a thick piece of rubber, so dark green it was almost black.

“What’s that?” Gus asked.

“More to the point, what’s this?” He used the key to pry open the magician’s left hand, which was locked into a fist. Inside, he was clutching an old clicker-style TV remote.

“I think that’s what they used to change channels back when they had only three of them,” Gus said.

“Not much of a weapon, though,” Shawn said.

“Good point,” Gus said. “That’s probably why he’s dead and the guy with the crowbar isn’t.”

“No, think about it,” Shawn said. “You’re about to die; there’s nothing you can do about it. Why would you pick up the TV remote as your last act?”

“So no one would find out you were watching The Mentalist?” Gus said. “I mean, really, who could believe a show with such an idiotic concept?”

“To send a message.”

Gus stared down at the remote in the dead man’s hand. “And that message is what-I’d rather die than go on watching this show?”

“Exactly,” Shawn said.

Shawn was about to pick up the control when they heard the front door bang open. “Police!” Lassiter yelled from the entry. “Come out with your hands up!”

“I’m in the shower,” Shawn called back. “Can you just slip it under the door?”

Gus probably didn’t hear Lassiter’s muttered curse, but he knew so precisely what that curse would have been, he might as well have. After a moment, Lassiter and O’Hara burst through the door into the den.

“What kind of twisted game of Russian roulette are you two playing?” Lassiter said. “Don’t you realize you could both have been killed?”