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

“I guess they’re expecting a big crowd,” Gus said.

“Give the people what they want,” Shawn said. “Now get digging.”

Gus glanced at the temporary marker lying next to the open grave. “I don’t think Mrs. Lancashire is in any great hurry.”

“No,” Shawn said. “But that guy is.”

He pointed down the hill, where an aging pickup truck was hauling a load of white folding chairs toward them. Gus snatched the shovel and jumped into the grave as Shawn piously crossed himself. If the maintenance man driving the pickup thought there was something odd about a priest blessing an empty grave while dirt flew out of it, he didn’t stop to investigate. Shawn watched as the truck crested the hill, then chugged down toward the site of Dallas Steele’s eternal repose.

“Isn’t he gone yet?” Gus called from the grave after a few minutes had gone by.

“Better keep digging, just to make sure,” Shawn said.

The truck puttered to Steele’s site, and the maintenance man got out, unhooked the chain, and drove up to the open grave.

“If I dig any farther, I’m not going to be able to climb out,” Gus said.

“At least you’ll have Mrs. Lancashire to keep you company.” Shawn stepped out of the way as a dirt clod flew up at him. Down below, the maintenance man got out of the truck again and opened the tailgate. He pulled one folding chair off the stack and set it up directly in front of the grave.

“What’s he doing now?”

“Setting up the chairs for the memorial service.”

There was a strangled curse from the grave. “And you want me to keep digging all that time? It’s going to take hours.”

“Maybe not.”

The maintenance man shook the chair to make sure it was on level ground, then climbed back into his truck and started up the hill toward them. As soon as the sound of its engine faded away, Gus pulled himself out of the grave and looked down at Steele’s site.

“Wow,” Gus said. “When they said it was going to be a private service, they really meant it.”

“At least we don’t have to worry about picking the wife out of a large crowd.”

“Or being inconspicuous in one.”

Shawn and Gus watched the maintenance truck drive back toward the office. Gus nudged Shawn and pointed to the cemetery’s main gates. They were swinging open to admit a battered Honda Accord.

“I thought the entire cemetery was closed for the private service,” Shawn said.

“Maybe that’s Mrs. Steele.”

“If that’s her car, no wonder she killed her husband,” Shawn said. “Get back in the grave.”

Gus pushed the shovel at him. “You get in the grave.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all.” Shawn pushed the shovel back at him. “What would a priest be doing in a grave with a shovel?”

“What would a maintenance man be doing in a grave with a shovel when there’s a backhoe parked six feet away?”

“Maybe his driver’s license was revoked for a DUI and he can’t drive a backhoe. Maybe he’s mentally retarded and they don’t trust him with the keys.” Shawn shoved Gus toward the grave.

“Maybe the priest is actually a phony in a rented costume.” Gus shoved Shawn toward the grave.

“At least he’s not a drunken, retarded phony.” Shawn shoved again.

Gus grabbed Shawn and tried to drag him to the edge of the hole. Shawn dug in his heels, but felt the wet grass slipping under his feet. His big toes were just sliding over the lip of the grave when there was a discreet beep from behind them.

Shawn and Gus sprang apart to see the Honda idling beside the grave site. The window cranked down, and a cherubic pink face peered out above a priest’s collar.

“Excuse me, Father,” the priest said. “I’m a little turned around. Can you give me directions to the final resting place of Dallas Steele?”

Gus pointed down the hill. “It’s right-”

Before he could finish, Shawn butted him out of the way. Arms cartwheeling for balance, Gus took one step backward and fell into the grave. Shawn leaned into the Honda.

“Now why would you be wanting to know such a thing?” Shawn said in the brogue he’d learned through careful study of Tom Cruise’s accent in Far and Away.

“I’m supposed to be performing the memorial service,” the priest said, reddening even further. “I’m afraid I’m running a little late.”

“Sure and the service doesn’t start until ten,” Shawn said.

“That was the public announcement to fool any reporters who might want to crash the ceremony,” the priest said. “The real service begins, well, almost immediately.”

Gus glanced down the road and saw the main gates swinging open to admit an immaculately polished hearse. Right behind it was a familiar black Bentley. Shawn knew that car well, having ridden in it up to Eagle’s View. Suddenly the middle step in his three-step plan became clear.

“Sorry, Father, but your services won’t be required. I’ve been sent to replace you.”

The priest goggled at him. “Sent by whom?”

Shawn reviewed everything he knew about the hierarchy of the Catholic Church. Since the vast majority of his knowledge came from repeated viewings of Britney Spears removing her Catholic schoolgirl uniform in the “Baby One More Time” video, that left him plenty of time for staring blankly at the priest.

“Begorrah,” Shawn said.

“Excuse me?”

“Erin go bragh?” Shawn tried. “Shillelagh?”

A voice floated up from the grave behind him. “Tell him it was the cardinal.”

“The cardinal,” Shawn said.

“Which cardinal?”

Shawn thought. “Excuse me for one moment.” He took two steps backward to the grave and whispered down into it, “He wants to know which cardinal.”

“There’s more than one?” Gus said.

Shawn stepped back to the car and leaned in. “Stan Musial?”

The priest glared at him, then shoved the gearshift into reverse. “I’ll be speaking to the archdiocese about this.”

The Honda executed a neat three-point turn and sputtered back the way it had come. Shawn reached a hand into the grave and pulled Gus out.

“I appreciate your help,” Shawn said, “especially after the whole ‘knocking you into an open grave’ thing.”

“I didn’t do it for you. I did it so I wouldn’t be sent to the gas chamber,” Gus said. “But if I’m called to testify against you, you’re on your own.”

The gate had finally opened wide enough to admit the Bentley. “Let’s go,” Shawn said.

Shawn and Gus sprinted down the hill to the site of Steele’s memorial. Gasping for breath, Shawn positioned himself between the open grave and the sole folding chair. “Quick, get in the grave,” he said.

“They’re going to put the coffin in there.”

“Hey, you were the one who wanted to get close to that phony.”

“Not close enough to spend eternity with him,” Gus said.

“Fine,” Shawn said. “Go maintain something.”

That was harder to do than it sounded. The section of the cemetery Steele’s widow had chosen for his burial was reserved for the richest of the rich. Service fees were double here what they were everywhere else, and the grounds were immaculate. There were no weeds to pluck, no grass that needed reseeding, no trash to pick up. As the hearse led the Bentley up to the grave site, Gus turned his back to the cars and started polishing the chain that surrounded the plot.

Gus heard the hearse pull to a stop. After a moment, doors opened, followed by the rear gate. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched two men dressed in black carry an elaborate mahogany coffin to the grave site and lay it across bands of nylon attached to a metal frame fitted over the hole. The two men got back into the hearse and drove slowly away. A minute passed, and then Gus heard the driver’s door of the Bentley open.