Psych: A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Dead Man for the Defense

  Shawn kicked open the courtroom doors.

  Veronica Mason gazed at Shawn with new hope. The spectators in the gallery looked like they were at a football game and Shawn had run onto the field just as the home team was about to score. Behind the bench, a graying Jerry Garcia look-alike in black robes stared openmouthed at the interruption.

  “I object!” Shawn shouted.

  The judge pounded his gavel so hard his small gray ponytail bounced up and down. “What do you mean, you object? Who are you?”

  Shawn glanced at the judge. And saw. Saw the crystal pyramid holding down a stack of papers. The leather thong around his neck disappearing under his black robe.

  “I’m Oliver Mason, and I’m here to say my wife did not kill me!”

  OBSIDIAN

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, January 2009

  Copyright © NBC Universal Inc. Psych is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. 2009 All rights reserved.

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  For Carrie

  Prologue

  1988

  The morning was perfect. A cool breeze blew off the bay and tempered the warmth that was already radiating off the sun-soaked hills. In a few hours the coastal fog would burn off, and the heat would force Henry Spencer to put down his tools, pick up a beer, and spend the rest of the day in the comfort of his air-conditioned living room watching the Dodgers blow another easy one. But for now he couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to spend this glorious day doing anything besides painting trim, patching rain gutters, and performing all the basic house maintenance that had been put off during the long, wet winter.

  There was a crash of paint cans from the open garage. “Are you all right, son?” Henry shouted. He got a muffled grunt back in return.

  Henry knew his boy didn’t share his enthusiasm for the day’s tasks. Shawn had begged him to put off cleaning the garage for another week. Fishermen had caught an enormous great white off the Santa Barbara coast, and it was on display at the pier today only. Shawn was desperate to get a look.

  But the boy had to learn—work first, play later. He’d already put off this task three weeks running, and Henry finally put his foot down. Shawn accused his father of ruining his life, but Henry knew he was actually saving it. Shawn was so smart and so charming at ten years old, it would be all too easy for him to skate through the rest of his adolescence without ever accomplishing anything. He needed to learn good work habits now if he was ever going to become a man.

  Henry picked up the paint scraper and bent down to attack the peeling woodwork above the foundation. As he turned away from the garage, he caught a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye. He jumped up just in time to see a bicycle tearing up the driveway toward the garage. Shawn’s bicycle. And though the rider had a baseball cap pulled down to hide his face, Henry still managed to recognize his own son.

  “Shawn!”

  The bicycle sailed into the garage. Henry ran over to the driveway just in time to see Shawn’s best friend, Gus, hurriedly taking his place on the bike as Shawn jammed the cap over his head.

  “Hi, Mr. Spencer,” Gus said. “I just got here. On this bicycle. With this cap on my head. In fact, that was probably me you saw riding up the driveway just now.”

  “Was it?” Henry said.

  “Oh, yes,” Gus said. “Because Shawn’s been here all morning, working away. Look at the excellent job he’s done stacking your paint cans.”

  Gus pointed to a stack of cans. Henry had to admit it was meticulously shaped.

  “If you just got here, how do you know what Shawn’s been doing?” Henry said.

  Gus froze, searching for an answer. Shawn pulled the cap off his head and put it on his own.

  “Fine, you caught us,” Shawn said. “Gus was cleaning out the garage while I went to see the shark for both of us.”

  “I’ll deal with you in a minute,” Henry told his son, then turned to Gus. “You wanted to see the shark as bad as he did. Why would you let him take advantage of you like that?”

  Gus looked puzzled. Apparently he had never thought of it that way. “Shawn said if he went, he could describe the shark to me in su
ch detail, it would be just like I saw it myself. But if I went, all I could say was it was great. And white. So this way we both have the experience.”

  “And Gus gets to improve his valuable can-stacking skills,” Shawn said. “I’m not taking advantage of him if we both win.”

  “So you get to do what you want, and Gus gets to do what you don’t,” Henry said.

  “Exactly,” Shawn said. “It’s a win-win.”

  Henry sighed. Military school. That was the ticket. A few years of strict discipline might teach Shawn the lessons he resolutely refused to learn from his father. The only thing that stopped Henry from picking up the phone and enrolling him today was the fear that a few years with Shawn might end up undermining the entire military.

  “You are grounded for the next four weekends,” Henry said.

  “Dad!”

  “I don’t care if the Loch Ness Monster is hanging at the pier. You will spend the next four Saturdays and Sundays working around the house under my direct supervision,” Henry said. “And you’re going to start right now. Not only are you cleaning out this garage—I want you to scrub the oil stains off the floor.”

  Shawn stared down glumly at fifty years of accumulated grime, searching for a way out. A quick glance at his father’s face told him there wouldn’t be one. Not today, at least.

  Gus gave Shawn a consoling pat on the shoulder and started toward the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Henry said.

  “I guess I’ll go see the shark,” Gus said.

  “I guess you’ll stay here and help Shawn with the garage,” Henry said.

  “But you just said Shawn was taking advantage of me,” Gus said.

  “He was,” Henry said. “And he’s going to keep doing it until you learn to stand up to him. Think of this as your first lesson.”

  Chuckling, Henry walked out of the garage. Behind him, he could hear the two boys arguing over whose fault this was. As he picked up his paint scraper, the arguments were drowned out by the sound of boxes being dragged out onto the driveway.

  The day was perfect. The sun was hot, the breeze was cool, and Henry had two boys cleaning out his garage. Talk about a win-win.

  Chapter One

  The speed was exhilarating. Intoxicating.

  The plastic letters on the hatchback spelled out TOYOTA, but as Gus piloted the blue Echo down State Street, it might as well have been a Ferrari. He stomped down on the gas and felt 105 horses galloping under the hood. The four cylinders screamed like an F/A-18 Hornet in a Blue Angels formation. Gus knew if he cracked down the window, the blast of wind would blow his hair right off his head—if he didn’t keep it buzzed close to his scalp just for such an occasion. At the very least, it would whip his Donald Trump Collection power tie out the window. God only knew if the clip-on would be strong enough to keep it in the car.

  Even so, Gus was tempted. It would be worth the risk to face the primal force of nature’s fury. But to crank down the window meant taking one hand off the wheel, and ahead in the distance, he saw danger.

  Danger that would require all his driving skill.

  As the light changed from green to yellow, a flock of schoolkids stood on the corner, waiting for the WALK sign. If they spread out in the crosswalk, there would be no way to avoid plowing into them. Gus took his foot off the gas.

  There was a strangled scream from the seat beside him.

  “It’s okay, Shawn,” Gus said. “I see them.”

  Under his perpetual one-day stubble, Shawn Spencer’s face was turning red. He seemed to be having trouble forming words. Extreme speeds work like that on some people, Gus knew.

  “The light just turned yellow,” Shawn said. “You can make it!”

  “You mean run the light?” Gus said.

  “You don’t need to run it. You can walk and still get through before it changes.”

  Gus’ foot hovered over the gas. Shawn’s hand shot across the gear shift and pushed down on Gus’ knee.

  “A woman’s life is at stake. Punch it!”

  Gus struggled to keep his foot airborne. “Don’t touch the knee.”

  “Then speed up.”

  The hand pressed down on his knee. Gus had to risk taking one hand off the wheel to pry it off. But Shawn’s fingers were curved around his patella, and he couldn’t peel them away.

  “Do you have any idea how fast we’re going?” Gus said.

  “Yes. Thirty-three miles an hour.”

  “Eight miles over the legal limit. If there’s radar working, we’re in trouble.”

  “We’re already in trouble. That’s why you need to speed up.”

  “First, take your hand off my knee.”

  Shawn scowled, but his hand retreated back to his side of the cabin. Up ahead, the light changed to red.

  “We could have made it,” Shawn said.

  “We’re not going to be able to help Veronica Mason if we’re killed in a car crash,” Gus said.

  “She’s not going to care if we’re dead if we don’t get to the courthouse before the jury comes back.”

  “Maybe you should have thought of that when we got the call, instead of watching TV all morning.”

  “It wasn’t TV—it was HBO,” Shawn said. “More specifically, it was Into the Blue.”

  “Jessica Alba is not taking off her bikini no matter how many times you watch that movie.”

  “Are you sure? Because I’m thinking there might be a bonus every tenth time.”

  “You explain that to Veronica Mason when she’s sitting on death row. Maybe you can watch it with her in her cell,” Gus said.

  “They don’t give you a TV on death row. You get a Bible, and if you’re lucky, you can train a rat to be your friend.”

  “She’s already got a rat for a friend.”

  “Really?” Shawn said. “You’re going with the rat thing?”

  The light changed to green and Gus hit the gas. The car chugged through the intersection and began to pick up speed. Shawn’s hand hovered over Gus’ knee, but after a stern look, he pulled it away.

  “You promised a month ago you could prove she was innocent,” Gus said. “Now she’s about to be found guilty, and you haven’t done anything except play Centipede.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. In the weeks since Veronica Mason first stepped into the beachside bungalow that housed their psychic-detective agency, Shawn and Gus had pored over every shred of evidence against her. They’d gone undercover as plumbers, pizza-delivery drivers, and piano tuners to question other suspects. And besides, Shawn wasn’t just playing Centipede. He was competing. He’d finally beaten Donald Hayes’ world record of 7,111,111 points, even if that had involved adding up the scores of a dozen separate games and then multiplying by eight.

  “I was trying to get into our client’s mind,” Shawn said. “Centipede was the first arcade game ever written by a woman, and still one of the few to appeal to a female audience. Now would you please speed up?”

  Gus glanced down at the speedometer. He was already thirty percent over the limit. But one look at Shawn showed him how much his partner was worrying about this case. Maybe it was worth the risk of a ticket.

  When it started, it all looked so promising. Gus and Shawn were luxuriating in the glow of a string of successful cases. Which for Gus meant celebrating by rearranging their extensive DVD collection, moving from standard title-based alphabetization to a more intricate breakdown by genre, star, national origin, and release date. Shawn was busy studying the bra ads in the Santa Barbara Times. As Gus wrestled with the thorny question of whether Mannequin 2: On the Move should be filed with the Kristy Swanson collection, the “inanimate object becomes a hot chick” section, or the “sequel so bad it killed the franchise” area, the door opened. Gus looked up and saw a dollar sign standing in the doorway.

  Actually, it was a young woman. In any other circumstance, Gus might have noticed her fiery red hair, blazing green eyes, and flawless skin, her long tan legs, and perfe
ct shape. He certainly would have noticed the way her blouse hung open at the top, one button too many left undone. But after their unbroken string of solved cases, Gus was waiting for the Big One, the high-profile wealthy client who could put them at the very top of the local PI pyramid. This woman was obviously what he’d been looking for. He hoped that Shawn saw her the same way.

  “Is this the detective agency?” the woman asked, her voice trembling.

  Gus jumped out of his chair.

  “Welcome to Psych,” he said, holding out a hand. “Come in. I’m Burton Guster.”

  With a sinking heart, Gus saw her take a quick glance around the office at the frat-boy-with-a-credit-card decor: the leather armchairs, the wide flat screen, the comic books scattered over the coffee table.

  “This is a mistake,” the woman said. “You can’t help me. No one can.”

  “Many people think that before they come to us,” Gus said. “Before they meet Shawn Spencer.”