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

Gus didn’t listen too closely. For one thing, he knew that Shawn would be repeating every syllable of it on a regular basis for the next few weeks. And while Shawn was too busy having all his prejudices validated to think it through, Gus couldn’t stop focusing on the huge problem this new development created for them. Their only hope for clearing Tara and thus themselves of Steele’s murder was to find the real killer. But they’d just promised their most promising suspect-their only suspect-that they’d prove her innocent, too.

As the Bentley dropped them off outside their bungalow office, Veronica promising to send Shepler back with a check as soon as possible, Gus tried to explain what a problem they were now facing.

“Either Tara killed Dallas or Veronica did,” Gus said. “And we’re working for both of them.”

“That’s terrific,” Shawn said. “They can’t both be guilty. So whatever happens, we’re coming out of this one with a win!”

Before Gus could begin to formulate the corollary of that theory, Henry Spencer’s pickup squealed up to the curb, and Henry jumped out.

“You must think this is pretty funny!” Henry said, grabbing Shawn by the arm and dragging him toward the truck. As Henry turned, Gus saw the seat of his khaki pants was striped green.

“I can see the humor in many situations,” Shawn said, pulling his arm away. “Those pants, for example.”

“That means a lot coming from a man in a dress, Father,” Henry said through clenched teeth. “They painted my lawn chairs. They painted every room in my house. They painted the exterior. They painted my house number on the curb. If I hadn’t driven away, they would have painted my truck.”

“I thought you’d taken care of that elf problem,” Shawn said.

“These elves were sent by your friend Dallas Steele, and they won’t stop until he tells them personally. Which he can’t, because, as I understand it, you hired a psychopath to kill him.”

“I did not hire her.”

“No, you just enabled her.”

“And she didn’t kill Dallas Steele,” Gus added, although he knew neither Shawn nor his dad would hear anything he said until their argument was over.

Henry pushed Shawn toward the truck. “Meanwhile, I can’t breathe in my house for fumes. I can’t step anywhere, in case they’ve painted the floor. They have taken over my home.”

“And I have two women to prove innocent of murder,” Shawn said. “Maybe after I rescue them both from the gas chamber, I can help with your interior-decoration issues.”

“Oops, phone’s ringing,” Gus said, more for the record than in any hope they’d notice. “I’d better answer that.”

He slipped away before either father or son could enlist him in his cause. Gus knew how their arguments ran, and he figured he had time to go inside, get out of the filthy jumpsuit, wash his hands, put on his street clothes, and maybe even catch up on e-mails before they’d finish. But as he stepped into the office, the phone actually did begin to ring. Gus hit the SPEAKER button as he unzipped his grave-digging uniform.

“Psych Investigations. Burton Guster speaking.”

“Guster, you and Spencer have to get out of that office right now.” Lassiter’s voice sounded even tighter than usual. “Come down to the police station. We’ll find a safe place for you.”

“Like a jail cell?”

“Unless you’d prefer a pine box. We’ve done some checking on Tara Larison.”

“So you’ve figured out she didn’t kill Dallas Steele.”

“If she didn’t, that puts him in a distinct minority. She’s left a trail of broken necks across the country. And most of them belonged to phony psychics.”

“Phony psychics?” Gus said, already feeling the vertebrae in his neck cracking. Then he remembered who he was talking to. “In that case, we’re perfectly safe.”

“Whatever. She meets a psychic, declares that she’s his mind slave, does whatever she thinks he wants. And then at some point she decides he’s betrayed her, and somehow he falls down the stairs or trips on a skateboard or crashes his motorcycle.”

Gus could practically hear the sound of his own spine snapping. Which proved that you could find good in any catastrophe. As terrible as Dallas Steele’s murder was, at least it put Tara in jail before she could turn on them.

Or did it?

“That, um, matches our findings,” Gus said. “But why are you warning us now? She’s in jail.”

“She never made it,” Lassiter said. “Somehow she managed to break out of the prison bus. She killed the driver and disappeared.”

“You let her get away?”

“The SBPD didn’t let her out. The idiots who handle prison transportation did,” Lassiter said. “If she comes back into our jurisdiction, we’ll put her away again. Until then, the chief feels you two need protection. Because if Tara was ever going to feel betrayed by a psychic overlord, it would be the one who sent her to prison. Do you need us to send a squad car to pick you up?”

Gus glanced out the window and saw Shawn still arguing with Henry. “We’re okay,” he said.

“Not as long as that psycho is out there,” Lassiter said. There was a click as he hung up.

Gus looked out the window again. Shawn and his father were still at it, arguing over something either of them could have resolved with a simple apology or kind word. If they knew how close Shawn had come to sudden, violent death, would they keep on like this? Gus took a step toward the door. He was about to find out.

Something grabbed Gus around the neck and yanked him backward. His heels dug for purchase on the slippery hardwood, but he couldn’t keep his balance. He was going down.

At the car, Henry glanced up to the bungalow’s window and saw Gus waving at them with both hands. “I think Gus wants to say something.”

“You know how he is,” Shawn said. “Can’t stand to see Mom and Dad fighting. Needs to make peace.”

Gus pounded the window with both fists, his mouth contorting as he struggled to pull a breath of air to his lungs.

“Poor Gus,” Henry said. “That soft streak is what’s always let you take advantage of him.”

“I don’t take advantage of Gus.”

Inside the bungalow, Gus was sliding back from the window. He grabbed the windowsill and tried to pull himself forward.

“If you want to make it as a priest, you’re going to have to learn to be honest with yourself,” Henry said. “Look at that poor kid. He’s got the same naive, trusting spirit he had when you were ten. The same bright, hopeful attitude.”

Gus slammed his head against the window, then was dragged back again.

“He didn’t always have three arms, though, did he?” Henry said.

Shawn looked at the window. Gus did seem to have three arms. But the new limb was tanned bronze and wrapped around his neck.

“It’s Tara!”

Shawn sprinted to the office and kicked the door open, Henry right behind him. Gus was bent over, trying to shake Tara off his back.

“Let him go!” Shawn shouted.

At the sound of his voice, Tara jumped back. Gus grabbed his throat, grasping for breath.

“She tried to kill me!” Gus wheezed.

“No, it was an accident,” Tara said. “He fell down the stairs and broke his neck.”

“This is a bungalow,” Shawn said. “There are no stairs.”

“And we saw you with your arm around his throat,” Henry said.

Tara backed away, tears forming in her eyes. “No, I’d never hurt anyone. It was an accident. Shawn, you have to believe me. Please!” Her last word extended into a howl of pain.

“I can see how she fooled you, Shawn,” Henry said. “No way I’d ever guess she was crazy.”

Shawn took a step toward Tara, holding out a hand to her. “It’s all right, Tara. We know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”