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

Gus turned to Shawn. “Do something!”

“Like what?”

“Like something you’d do if it was your car!”

“I really don’t think this is the right time to upgrade the sound system.”

“Shawn!”

Shawn gave Gus a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then stepped in front of him. He looked at the potato-shaped man behind the counter-and he saw. Saw the way he pinched the burning ash out of his cigarette before dropping the butt into the ashtray. Saw the calluses on his hand, permanently blackened by dirt. Saw the fading red scar around his wrist.

Shawn doubled over, clutching his forehead. Then straightened like a marionette wielded by a stroke victim. “I’m hearing something,” he moaned. “It’s a voice from beyond… and it’s singing to me.” As if controlled by a force from above, Shawn’s right arm drifted up, and his hand unfurled, leveling an accusing finger at the man behind the counter. “Singing to you.”

“I don’t want anyone singing to-”

“‘Gonna use my arms, gonna use my legs, gonna use my fingers, gonna use my toes,’” he moaned. “‘Gonna use my, my imagination.’”

“You’re gonna use your feet to get the hell out of my office, you know what’s good for you,” the potatoes said.

“Wait a minute,” Shawn said. “That’s the wrong song. They’re sending me a new one.”

“Maybe they could just send the six thousand dollars instead,” Gus said.

Shawn arms flailed around his head. “‘Such a drag to want something sometimes. One thing leads to another I know.’”

“What the hell is that?” the potatoes growled.

“Sounds like the Pretenders’ greatest hits,” Gus said.

Shawn jerked again. “That’s still the wrong song. They’re trying to tell me something, but they can’t find the right melody.”

“Maybe they should look at the back of the CD box,” Gus said.

“Yeah, like the Forces Beyond don’t have an iPod,” Shawn said, then reared back, as if hit by a psychic sound wave. “I hear it… They’re singing to me. Listen.”

Intrigued against his will, the potatoes leaned across the counter. “I don’t hear anything.”

Shawn sang unsurely, as if a voice beyond was dictating to him. “‘I found a picture of you, oh oh oh oh. What hijacked my world that night. To a place in the world we’ve been cast out of.’” He broke off and turned to Gus. “Little help here.”

“What?”

“I need backup!”

“And I need my car.”

“Just sing, damn it.”

“Fine. ‘Oh oh oh oh oh.’”

“‘Now we’re back in the fight. We’re back on the train,’” Shawn sang. Then he froze. He turned to the potatoes. “‘We’re back on the chain gang.’”

The man behind the counter stared at him angrily. “Concert’s over, punk. Get out of here.”

“The song doesn’t lie,” Shawn said. “You were on a chain gang. Which means you were convicted of a class-A felony in Arizona, the only state with an active chain gang program.”

Gus didn’t stop to wonder how Shawn had figured it out. He stepped up to the counter. “And now you’re working for a city-approved garage, which means you must have given them a fake name to pass the background check.”

“As the official psychic to the Santa Barbara Police Department, I have an obligation to turn you in,” Shawn said. “But you’ve been so kind to us, I hate to see you fired, maybe jailed for perjury. If only I’d never come here today, I never would have found out.”

“The only reason we came here is to get my car,” Gus said. “If we had it back, it’d be like we were never here at all.”

“It’s a big yard, must be thousands of cars here,” Shawn said. “No one’s going to notice if one blue Echo is missing.”

The potatoes thought that over. “It is a big yard, and there are thousands of cars here,” he agreed. “No one’s going to notice if one blue Echo has a couple of bodies in the trunk.”

“Good, then we’re-” Gus said, then broke off. “Bodies?”

The potatoes moved so fast they barely realized he was reaching under the counter before the barrel of the shotgun was leveled at them.

“Got a song for this, pretty boy?” the potatoes said.

Shawn and Gus dived below the counter as flame erupted from the shotgun and a rain of pellets tore holes in the corrugated wall.

“Okay, this is not how I planned things,” Shawn said.

“I’m certainly glad to hear that.”

“All he had to do was give you back your car,” Shawn said. “It wasn’t like it was his car. Hell, it isn’t even like it’s your car, technically.”

“It’s still my responsibility!”

“Exactly. Your responsibility, not his. So why is he trying to kill us? Because there’s something going on here. Something he’s willing to kill to cover up.”

Shawn was right-they had stumbled onto some major criminal enterprise. That was the only explanation for the potatoes’ behavior. As a detective, Gus knew he should care about this. He should be working through the clues, piecing together the puzzle, unmasking the mystery.

“I don’t hear any singing!” the potatoes said, slapping two more shells into the gun.

On the other hand, what good would solving one more mystery do for Gus if he was dead? “So let him cover it up. We’ll pretend we don’t know anything about his massive criminal conspiracy if he lets us live.”

“Think he’ll buy it?”

“He wouldn’t have to buy it if you hadn’t parked in front of a fire hydrant eighty-seven times,” Gus said. “I can’t believe I’m going to die because you wanted to flirt with a waitress.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Shawn said.

“It’s not ironic at all,” Gus said.

“Dude, it’s so like a black fly in your chardonnay.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that’s not ironic, either?”

“Rain on your wedding day?”

“‘Irony’ is the use of words to convey a meaning that’s opposite to their literal meaning,” Gus said. “That stupid song came out fourteen years ago, and we still have this exact conversation at least once a week.”

“Yeah,” Shawn said. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Gus threw his hands up in despair-and felt hot metal just above his head. A quick glance confirmed his fear. The shotgun’s barrel was pointing down at them. All the way at the other end of the gun, the potatoes gave them a cheery smile.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed having music in this place,” he said. “After I kill you, I’m going to buy a radio.”

Gus grabbed the gun barrel and pulled. He nearly screamed in pain as the blazing metal burned his hands, but he wouldn’t let go.

“Run, Shawn,” he said. “One of us has to keep on living.”

Shawn didn’t move. “I can’t leave you here to die. Not when it’s at least a small part my fault that you’re here in the first place.”

“A small part!”

“Okay, since you’re giving up your life to save me, I’ll let you have this one-it’s all my fault. Shake on it?” Shawn extended an open hand to Gus.

“My hands are a little busy here,” Gus said. Above them, the potatoes was yanking on the gun’s barrel, trying to get it away from him.

“I’m not leaving until we shake hands,” Shawn said.

“Then you’re crazy.”

“Let go of my gun,” the potatoes grunted, giving the stock a yank that nearly pulled Gus off his feet.

“Absolutely,” Shawn said. “Let’s shake on it.”

Gus stared at Shawn’s outstretched hand, baffled. The potatoes yanked at the gun again, and suddenly Gus understood. “Oh, shake on it.”

“If you don’t let go of my gun, I’m going to come around and beat it out of you,” the potatoes shouted, then gave the stock another hard pull. Just then, Gus clasped Shawn’s hand and gave it a hearty shake. Of course, to do that, he had to let go of the barrel first. The gun flew upward, blasting hundreds of tiny holes in the tin roof as the potatoes toppled over backward.