William Rabkin - Psych - A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read

Gus studied Tara closely to see how she’d react to the mention of the scene of her crime. She didn’t seem to notice at all. At least, the small lock of her hair Gus could see poking around the headrest didn’t. From his position, he couldn’t see the rest of her. After a quick check for police vehicles, Gus sat up and tried again.

“You remember what I’m talking about, don’t you, Shawn? The Enid Blalock case?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Gus realized he’d made a terrible mistake. If Tara was as crazy as he feared, what was there to stop her from driving them right off the edge of this twisty road, sending them all plummeting down to a fiery death? Gus didn’t know the odds against surviving two cliff plunges within a twenty-four-hour period, but he didn’t want to test them.

“I’m sorry, Gus. I couldn’t hear you over the all the subtlety flying around in the car,” Shawn said. “What was that name again?”

“Enid Blalock.”

“Not the Enid Blalock,” Shawn said.

“It’s hard to imagine there could be more than one,” Gus said.

“I wonder if Tara has an opinion on the subject,” Shawn said.

Gus realized he didn’t know what he was expecting from Tara. A stern denial, possibly, or a look of fake incomprehension. Or worse, a look of real incomprehension, which would suggest pretty strongly that she’d never learned the name of the woman whose car she had stolen. And of course, that long shot in the back of his mind: the terrifying plunge off the cliff after she deliberately missed a turn.

The one thing he definitely didn’t expect was what he saw-one tear running down her cheek.

“What’s wrong?” Shawn asked.

“That name,” Tara said. “It reminds me of my own aunt Enid.”

“Aunt Enid?” Shawn shot a chiding look back at Gus.

“She was so kind to me.” Tara sniffed. “When I needed a place to live, she helped me find an apartment, even though she specialized in houses.”

“So she’s a Realtor?” Shawn said, barely trying to hide the victory in his voice.

“She was,” Tara said. “She got her license after the divorce.”

“That is something new and different,” Shawn said. “Where is she now?”

“I hope she’s in Heaven,” Tara said. “I mean, I know they say gluttony is a sin, but do you really think someone would get sent to Hell just because she could polish off a pound of See’s Soft Centers for breakfast?”

“We try to leave those heavy theological questions for the experts,” Gus said. “Are you saying that Aunt Enid is dead?”

Tara sniffed back a tear. “I was with her until the very end. I think she was finally at peace.”

“I’m sure she’d be happy to know you were driving her car.” Shawn’s face was alight with triumph. “Almost as happy as Gus.”

“That’s very kind of you, Gus,” she said, sniffling. “She would have liked you a lot.”

Gus didn’t know what to say. Again, he was feeling that same guilt at having misjudged another person. And it wasn’t fair. There was every reason to believe Tara had stolen this car. Just like there was every reason to make fun of Bobby Fleckstein’s glasses-they were thick black horn-rims, and they had made him look like a ’tard. Just once, Gus wanted the freedom to think terrible thoughts about other people and not feel bad about it afterward. The woman had hit him with her car, after all. She was a dangerous, delusional psychotic. And even so, Gus was nearly overwhelmed with the urge to sit in the nearest corner.

Apart from the guilt, the revelation about Tara’s aunt freed Gus from his fear of riding in a stolen car driven by a remorseless psychopath, and as the road wound its way toward the top of the mountain, he began to enjoy the trip. He was finally going to see Eagle’s View. And for all of Shawn’s complaining, there was something particularly exciting about being summoned by one of America’s most brilliant investors. Maybe he’d give them some tips. Maybe he’d even give them some money. At the very least he was giving Gus something to think about besides the prospect of being arrested for murder.

Gus spent the rest of the ride to the summit happily switching between thoughts of Eagle’s View and dreams of actually being paid enough to cover all the bills. Until he saw the gates flanking the road ahead of them and ordered Tara to stop the car.

“It’s easy to call the house ugly,” Gus explained to Shawn and Tara as they looked down on the valley. “But that’s just the first, visceral reaction. Once you get past the initial impression, you can begin to appreciate just how momentous an architectural accomplishment it is.”

“So when I call it ugly now, that’s ignorance,” Shawn said. “But if I go to architecture school and spend years studying it-”

“You can call it ugly and really know what you’re talking about,” Gus said.

“Then let’s get our education started,” Shawn said. “You know how much I hate an uninformed opinion.”

Although they were no more than half a mile from the house, it took them another twenty minutes before the Mercedes pulled up in the circular drive outside the villa’s front door. There was no straight road from the summit to the valley floor; instead, the drive hugged the side of the bowl, running slowly down in three concentric rings.

When Shawn and Gus stepped out onto the flagstone driveway, the house’s mammoth front door yawned open and a small man in a precisely tailored gray pin-striped suit stepped out, checking his watch. His razor-cut hair seemed to have been combed with tweezers, each strand placed exactly in the right location. When he walked over to them, he placed his feet so deliberately Gus found himself looking for the marks he appeared to be hitting.

“You’re thirteen minutes late,” the man said. “The bulldozers were on their way.”

“No point in wasting them,” Shawn said. “Maybe they could knock down this monstrosity while they’re on the clock.”

“I am Devon Shepler,” the man said. “You must be Mr. Spencer.”

“Or what?”

Gus had gotten used to Shepler’s pauses on the phone, but to see one in person was unexpected. It was as if Shepler existed only on a DVD, and someone had pressed the PAUSE button. His muscles froze; his breathing stopped. Gus couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the breeze even stopped rustling through his hair as he decided on the appropriate response. Then, after a few seconds, Shepler came back to life.

“Mr. Steele is waiting for you,” he said. “Come this way.”

Shepler turned and marched toward the front door without checking to see if they were following him.

“If Steele asks us to invest in his robot factory, we are so in,” Shawn said. “That thing is amazing.”

Shawn and Gus followed Shepler through the door into a wide-open atrium flanked with ancient columns that reached up to the sky. A shallow still pool glowed blue in the sunlight.

“This is based on the Villa Uffizi, the most famous house in Rome,” Gus whispered as if they were walking through a museum and a guard was glaring at them.

“I guess they spent all their money on the pool, so they couldn’t afford a roof,” Shawn said. “And would it have killed them to dig the swimming pool a little deeper? I like to get in above my ankles.”

At the end of the atrium, Shepler was holding another door open for them. They passed through into a wide corridor, its walls covered with elaborate tapestries. Their footsteps rang out on the gleaming marble floor.

“This place would be a lot less noisy if they put some of those carpets on the floor where they belong,” Shawn said.

Shepler stopped outside a stained oak door and rapped sharply on it with his knuckles, then swung it open. “Mr. Spencer and Mr. Guster are here,” he said, then moved out of the way to let them through.