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

  At least that damage was confined to an abandoned corner of New Mexico. Shawn and Gus had also invested Steele’s money in a company called Urban Petroleum that planned to use their new low-footprint technology to drill for oil where no one had ever been able to drill for oil before. Their first well, a demonstration project, was set up inside a vacant storefront on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, right across from Rockefeller Center. That way, when oil started gushing the Today show wouldn’t have to go far to cover them. Unfortunately all they discovered was that there was a subway tunnel right under their drill, along with the main water, sewer, and electric lines serving all of Midtown. The only gusher they hit was a gusher of lawsuits.

  And then there was the Transformatrons, the Chinese toy boats that turned into battling robots. At first they were every bit as successful as Shawn had predicted. They might have taken over the entire toy business if only some of the consumers hadn’t insisted on immersing their toy boats in water. It seemed that the Chinese manufacturer had used a special glue, which, when wet, dissolved into a substance chemically identical to a powerful hallucinogenic drug.

  The rest of the investments failed less spectacularly, but not one of them had earned a nickel yet. Still, the huge financial disaster wasn’t the worst part. That was the joy Dallas Steele took in the loss. As Dal laid out the scope of their failure, his smile only got broader.

  “How can you be so happy?” Gus had finally managed to choke out after Dallas finished listing their disasters. “You just sat by and let us blow a hundred million of your dollars?”

  “He wasn’t sitting by,” Shawn said. “He was actively involved. Weren’t you, Dal?”

  Steele gave him an ironic bow. “I did preview some of the files before I asked Shepler to send them over.”

  “Preview and edit, I’d say,” Shawn said. “Removing key information that would keep any intelligent investor away.”

  “Oh, much more than that,” Steele said. “I took out information that would have scared off even you two. But you’ll be happy to know I’ve restored it all now, so if you try to claim you were framed, there’s plenty of evidence to prove you’re lying.”

  “But why?” Gus said. “It cost you a fortune.”

  “It would be worth three times that,” Steele said.

  “If all you wanted was to humiliate us, you could have just written us a check for fifty mil, and we would have done it ourselves,” Shawn said.

  Steele turned his blinding smile on Shawn. “As I told you, my wife was quite impressed with your work at the Veronica Mason trial. She thinks you’re some kind of miracle man. And I hated the idea of my beloved bride actually believing in nonsense like psychic powers.”

  Gus tried to make sense of what he was hearing. “You spent a hundred million dollars, you destroyed half of Midtown Manhattan, you blew a hole in Arizona—all to win an argument with your wife? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “As Shawn said, you don’t understand how rich people live,” Steele said.

  As the line of sunlight crept down the bowl, Gus tried to catch any glimpse of metallic red. His last sighting of Tara’s car had come hours ago when they were still driving up to the pass. It seemed almost impossible that she’d stayed up in the mountains waiting for them. And yet that impossibility was his only hope for any benefit to come out of their trip up here. It sure wasn’t coming from the press conference.

  The next two hours passed with the same mixture of tedium and anxiety as a death row prisoner’s final moments. There was the last meal of Gus’ favorite breakfast foods, which he could barely bring himself to nibble at. There were the hearty words of encouragement that it was all going to be over soon, and he’d be in a better place. Gus suspected that such sentiments would be no more convincing coming from a prison chaplain than they were from his oldest friend, even assuming that the priest wouldn’t keep interrupting his homilies to ask, “Are you going to eat that?” And then there was the heavy jangling of keys outside the cell door—or in this case, the trilling of Shepler’s cell phone as he fielded calls from reporters who’d gotten lost on the way to the press conference—followed by the long, slow walk down the last mile. In this case, the last mile was actually that, since they had to make their way down the twisting stairs, then through endless corridors until they finally arrived at Eagle View’s private theater, where the spectators were waiting for Steele to flip the switch on Shawn and Gus.

  During the entire endless march, Gus and Shawn hadn’t said a word to each other. Gus had barely looked up from his feet, while Shawn was lost in what some might have assumed was worry but what Gus knew was actually just his usual prenoon haze. Now that they were finally standing right outside the chamber, it seemed that they should have some kind of significant last words. Gus couldn’t find any. It was up to Shawn to say what they both felt.

  “Shep tells me there’s a bowling alley in this place,” he said. “After we’re done with the press conference, what do you say we do a couple frames?”

  Before Gus could answer, Shepler pulled open the great doors and ushered them through. “Enjoy the press conference, gentlemen,” he said. “I have to run the sound and the lights, so I can’t be with you. But I will be watching from the booth.”

  That there was no explosion of sound as the doors closed behind them was merely the failure of the world to live up to what was going on inside Gus’ mind.

  Gus always loved the idea of having an actual theater in a home. Not a wide TV with a popcorn machine next to it, but an actual auditorium with curtains and reclining chairs and lots of velvet. But he never dreamed of anything as grand as the room they found themselves in now. There was barely an inch that wasn’t covered in gold or silver; the gilded jaguars leaping out of the doorway seemed to have gemstones for eyes. The walls were covered with a golden frieze telling the story of God’s creation of Earth, His raising of Man from the muck, and His guidance through the great cultures of history. While some might have quibbled over minor theological issues—it’s not generally accepted that the Egyptians built the pyramids with help from a UFO-driving divinity—what would have upset many more believers was the notion that God was created entirely in Elias Adler’s image.

  Even through his fog of despair, Gus marveled at the theater. If only he had more time to study it, to examine carefully every gold-slopped inch of it, he’d devote his life to understanding this temple to one man’s ego. He might even be willing to convert to the Church of Elias Adler.

  Anything, as long as it would put off walking down the scarlet carpet to the front of the auditorium.

  Because the first three rows of seats in front of the slightly raised stage and grand gold curtain were filled with people who had turned to stare at him and Shawn. Gus recognized most of the faces, and a couple of them belonged to people he hoped he could still consider friendly despite the events of the last few days—Chief Vick was in the front row with the mayor who’d appointed her; Detective Juliet O’Hara was a row back with Lassiter.

  But most of the faces showed no sympathy at all. The assembled reporters, many of whom had been so eager for a quote after the Veronica Mason verdict they practically licked Gus’ hand, now gazed at them with the hungry stare of a diner making sure his waiter grabbed the meatiest lobster from the tank.

  It was the smiling faces that bothered Gus the most. He didn’t know what Steele had said when he’d invited these people to the press conference, but he must have suggested it wasn’t going to be a particularly pleasant experience for Shawn and Gus. Because the happiest smiles in the room belonged to people who spent a lot of time wishing them a hideous, drooling death.

  It wasn’t just Carlton Lassiter who looked like he was about to receive the pony Santa had never brought him. Three seats down from him was Ernie Farrago, a crime reporter for the Santa Barbara Times Shawn had embarrassed on a half dozen occasions. There were other happy faces Gus couldn’t quite place, but he was pretty sure that Shawn had done something to all of
them that would leave them eager to see him publicly humiliated. And then there was the biggest grin of all, plastered across the face of District Attorney Bert Coules.

  For one moment, Gus considered bolting from the room and disappearing into the bowels of Eagle’s View. It wouldn’t stop the press conference; even if he wasn’t there Steele would insist on having his revenge. But at least he could put off the humiliation until he got home. And who said he ever had to go home? Maybe he could stay in Eagle’s View forever. He’d haunt the place like the Phantom of the Opera.

  Gus was in the middle of designing his unique haunting costume when he glanced over and noticed that Shawn was already halfway down the aisle. Gus walked quickly until he’d caught up with him.

  “What’s our plan here?” Gus whispered.

  “It’s a little thing I call Operation Improv.”

  “Improv? Improv?” Gus had to fight to keep his voice from rising to a shriek. “You have no idea what you’re going to do.”

  “Really?” Shawn said. “We’ve had all night to come up with a plan, and you think I’m going to get up on that stage and wing it?”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course,” Shawn said. “But it will go much better if you can pretend we know what we’re going. These reporters are like bears—they can smell fear.”

  “Then they’re getting a noseful already,” Gus said.

  “Yeah, and it’s not just from you,” Shawn said. “Where’s our old pal Dal?”

  “I assume he’s preparing some kind of grand entrance,” Gus said. “It takes a long time to get a cauldron of oil to boil.”

  “Well, these people are expecting a grand entrance from somebody,” Shawn said. “Let’s give them one.”

  Shawn strode cheerfully down the aisle, stopping only to slap the occasional back or smile for the cameras that swung up to meet him. He stepped up in front of the heavy golden curtain and smiled out at the audience as Gus joined him.

  “Glad you could all make it this morning,” Shawn said. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why Dallas Steele asked you here so early.”

  “No, we’re not.” Bert Coules seemed to have sharpened his military buzz cut into blades for the occasion. “Steele said he was going to crucify you.”

  “Uh-huh,” Shawn said. “That sounds like old Dal. But I bet he didn’t tell you what he really meant by that.”

  A short man wearing a toupee that seemed to be fashioned from dog hair stood up in front. “He said he was going to expose you as a complete fraud, and then demonstrate the harm that your scam has caused the entire population of Santa Barbara County. After that there was going to be a light lunch.”

  “You fell for that?” Shawn looked incredulous. “And you call yourself a reporter.”

  “I don’t call myself a reporter,” the man said. “I’m Arno Galen, the owner of the Seaside Vacation Kennel. Or I was until you claimed that we were renting out the pets people boarded with us to an underground dog-fighting ring. Now I spend my days in court fighting frivolous lawsuits.”

  Shawn looked out at the man under the toupee, and he saw. Saw the strands of the pet hair clinging to his slacks. Saw the scrap of duct tape stuck to his blazer pocket. Saw the scratches on both hands and the splint on his left where the little finger had been broken.

  “And where do you spend your nights?” Shawn said.

  “That’s none of your—” Galen started, but Shawn held up a hand to cut him off.

  “Not you,” Shawn said, casting his gaze heavenward. “I want to hear from Fluffy.” Shawn batted the air with his hand, then drew it across his face, licking it, then using it to slick back his hair.

  “What’s this?” called a voice from the audience.

  “A kitten,” Gus said. “I’m guessing it’s Fluffy.”

  Shawn batted at the air again, then shrunk back in horror. “What’s that you say, Fluffy?” Shawn listened so intently the audience could practically see the sound waves entering his ears. “Meow meow meow. Mew mew. Meow. Raoar?”

  Shawn staggered backward, as if released by the spirit that had momentarily taken control of him.

  “This is ridiculous,” Galen said. “Do we really have to wait for Steele to expose this phony?”

  “I think you need to translate for these people,” Gus said. “They don’t seem to speak kitten.”

  “Isn’t there one educated person out there?” Shawn peered at the audience. No one volunteered. “Fine. What Fluffy told me was a tale that started with domestic bliss but ended in a fate worse than death. Actually, not worse than death so much as death, which is pretty bad on its own. He was always a happy kitten, content to while away his hours playing with a bit of string or cuddling up in his mistress’ lap. Then one day he slipped through an open door to see what the world outside was like. At first, it seemed like paradise, filled with—”

  “Even if we believed you could talk to dead cats, which we don’t, this is still moronic,” Galen shouted, pushing his way through the sea of knees to march down the aisle to the stage. “He said four meows, two mews, and a raoar. You can’t possibly get all this out of that.”

  “The cat language is very complex,” Shawn said. “If a cat had written the Harry Potter books, he could have gotten through the whole thing in fifteen pages, tops. And he would still have found the space to mention that Dumbledore was gay, if that’s what he meant.”

  “Perhaps you could take an example from your feline friends and minimize your word count now, Mr. Spencer.” Chief Vick looked like she hadn’t warmed up to them much since their last visit to her office. “If you have a point, this would be the time to make it.”

  Shawn gave her a cheery wave and turned back to Galen. “Once Fluffy got out, he was snatched off the street and stuffed into a cage. No matter how much he fought and clawed, he couldn’t get away. The kidnapper wrapped his mouth and paws in duct tape so he couldn’t bite or scratch, then threw him into a ring with a pit bull. He didn’t understand the concept, but he was being used as a bait animal to train the dogs to fight.”

  “That’s terrible,” cried a woman in the audience. “My poodle Baxter disappeared last month. Is it possible that he was . . . ?” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.

  Shawn looked up again, then let his tongue drop out of his mouth. He panted.

  “You’re wasting our time,” Galen shouted. “No one wants to hear this.”

  “Sure they do,” Gus said. “It’s just you who doesn’t. Why is that, do you think?”

  Shawn snapped out of his doggie trance. “Baxter tells much the same story. Although since he’s talking in dog, there are a few more digressions. Apparently dogs don’t really care if their snacks taste like bacon or not. The point is, he was stolen off the street and used to train fighting dogs. Who also didn’t care if he tasted like bacon or not.”

  The woman collapsed into her seat. “Poor Baxter.”

  “Now you’ve upset that poor woman,” Galen said. “I demand you apologize to her right now.”

  “Fluffy and Baxter think you’re the one who should apologize,” Shawn said.

  “Me!”

  “Your kennel was closed down, but that didn’t mean the dog fighters were willing to let you out of your contract,” Shawn said. “You had promised to supply them with a steady stream of bait animals, and they didn’t care where you got them from. I’ll give you credit—you tried to refuse.”

  Gus noticed Galen reflexively cradle his splinted fingers in his free hand. Score one for Shawn.

  “But they made it clear you were going to deliver on your promises, or they were going to use you as their next bait animal. So now you haunt the streets of Santa Barbara by night, stealing the innocent pets who are naive and loving enough to let you get close to them.”

  Arno Galen’s eyes had been getting wider through Shawn’s entire explanation, and now they looked like they were planning to set out and find a new home for themselves. He backed away up the aisle.
/>   “You’ve got no proof of that,” he shouted.

  “Except the testimony of two eyewitnesses,” Shawn said. “Fluffy and Baxter.”

  Galen turned and ran up the aisle, disappearing through the heavy doors as if they were lace curtains. “Somebody stop that man,” Gus shouted.

  “I don’t think so,” Lassiter said.

  “He killed my Baxter,” sniffed the woman in the audience.