Psych: A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read

Chapter Three

“Gus, this is just one of those things that no one could have anticipated.” Shawn and Gus trudged along the endless stretch of chain link, heat radiating up from the melting asphalt and burning through the thin leather soles of Gus’ best dress Oxfords.

“No one except a psychic,” Gus said, staring through the metal links at the acres of cars. “Too bad neither of us knows one.”

“Gus, Gus, Gus,” Shawn said, “that would have been a truly cutting comment if I actually believed I had psychic abilities. But since we both know I don’t, you’ve got to dig a little deeper.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Gus said. “Almost as useful as the last bit you gave me.”

“I know you loved that fanny pack, but its day was over.”

“I mean about the street signs,” Gus said. “Specifically about the signs that said, ‘No parking-violators will be towed.’ Specifically that we should ignore the signs because meter maids would never patrol outside the courthouse.”

The day had been going so well. After Shawn’s triumph in the courtroom, they were mobbed by journalists. They spent two hours giving interviews that would lead to tons of free publicity. One of the reporters even asked who Gus was.

But when they finally got outside the courthouse, everything started going downhill. First was the shock of finding an empty curb where Gus’ Echo used to be. And then the greater shock of realizing that the curb wasn’t completely empty. Detective Carlton Lassiter was standing there, a grim look on his face.

That wasn’t the real problem. Detective Carlton Lassiter almost always had a grim look on his face. He was the lead detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department, and he took his job every bit as seriously as he took himself. Shawn’s easy attitude toward crime fighting had the same effect on him as a roll in a field of poison oak.

The real problem was that Bert Coules was coming up to Lassiter, and his look was anything but grim.

“Look, Gus, your car finally got its wish,” Shawn said. “It’s been turned into a real boy.”

“Close,” Coules said. “Not the boy part, of course. But the turning into what it’s always wanted to be. In this case, a heap of scrap metal.”

“You can’t,” Gus said. “My car didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It didn’t?” Coules said. “I thought it solved the Oliver Mason murder case and then withheld the identity of the real killer until it could be used to embarrass the entire Santa Barbara DA’s office.”

“My car would never do that,” Gus said.

“Be that as it may,” Lassiter said, “it was parked in a tow-away zone. You left us no choice but to tow it away.”

“Oh, there were other choices,” Coules said. “Personally I favor arresting you both for reckless endangerment. If there was a fire in this courthouse, that car could have been blocking the exits.”

“But it wasn’t!”

“I’d be willing to let a jury make that decision,” Coules said.

Lassiter stepped between them and handed Gus a ticket. “The police felt it was sufficient to write you up for a violation. You can collect your car once you’ve paid the ticket and the towing fee.”

“Better do it fast, though,” Coules said. “Hate to see them crush it for scrap by mistake.”

“Shawn, do something!”

“If we can’t get to a crime scene, how are we going to solve your cases for you, Bert?” Shawn said.

“I meant do something useful,” Gus whispered furiously. “Like apologize.”

“Oh, that,” Shawn said. “Sorry, Bert. I assumed you were capable of prosecuting the right person. I won’t make the same mistake next time.”

Gus groaned. “Please, if you have to punish someone, punish Shawn. The Echo didn’t do anything.”

“Tell it to the boys at the impound lot,” Coules said. “But you’d better start walking if you want to make it before they close. It’s about eight miles from here.”

“Walking?”

“You don’t have a car. And I wouldn’t even think about trying to hitch your way over there.” Coules gave Lassiter a significant look.

Lassiter sighed apologetically. “California Vehicle Code section 21949-21971, article 21957 specifically forbids soliciting a ride from the driver of any vehicle. And while I probably shouldn’t give away department secrets, I believe that all patrol cars have been ordered to step up enforcement of that particular provision today.”

And with one last wave, Coules stepped off the empty curb and headed across the street to the police station. Lassiter stood in the street, uncomfortably trying to decide if he had anything to say. Finally he decided against speech and followed Coules. Gus sank down to the curb.

“You’re not going to let him get you down?” Shawn said.

“I’m not letting him do anything,” Gus said. “He did it all without my permission.”

“He’s hazing us,” Shawn said. “It’s a sign of respect. Welcome to the brotherhood of crime solvers.”

“I hope one of the other brothers has a car, because we don’t have a way to get home.”

“What kind of attitude is that?” Shawn said. “It’s a beautiful day. We’re young, healthy, and strong. And Santa Barbara has been repeatedly voted best pedestrian city in the USA.”

Gus stared up at him. “Are you saying we should walk to the impound lot?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.”

“There’s no point in us both going. So I’ll wait in the coffee place on Anacapa. You know, the one with the waitress you think likes you but who really has a thing for me.”

“My car was towed because of you. You’re going with me to get it back.”

“Okay, okay. But we’re not going to walk. I’ll call my father and ask for a ride.”

Gus sighed, then got wearily to his feet and started walking down the street.

Shawn called after him, “Where are you going?”

“To get your phone. It’s in my glove compartment.”

Those were the last words Gus said to Shawn for eight long miles. Eight long vertical miles up a narrow, twisting road. Because the impound lot lay at the top of a high hill looking out over all of Santa Barbara and the bay.

On a cooler day, Gus might have wondered who would have been crazy enough to build a wrecking yard on a lot that could be developed into multimillion-dollar-view homes. But the heat of the sun made it clear why that had never happened. The canyon directly below the yard was Santa Barbara’s most active landfill, and the stench of rotting garbage made breathing almost impossible.

Now they were finally at the impound yard, and Shawn was still trying to get Gus to respond.

“So you really think this is my fault?” Shawn said. “You’re going to blame me?”

Gus grabbed the fence and pressed his face against the links. Autos stretched out across acres. In the middle of the lot, like the god the cars all worshipped, a yellow crane towered over the car crusher.

Gus searched the lot for a sign of blue.

“No,” Gus said. “I’m going to blame myself. You’ve been taking advantage of me since we were kids. It’s my fault for letting you.”

“Well, as long as you’re not blaming me,” Shawn said.

In the far distance, Gus saw a glint of blue metal. The roof of his Echo seemed to be calling to him for help.

“There it is,” Gus said. “It looks so lonely.”

“It’s got all those other cars to play with,” Shawn said. “It’s probably having a great time-won’t ever want to come home.”

Gus thrust his finger at Shawn’s face. “We’re getting the Echo now.” Without waiting to see if Shawn was following, he turned and marched down the fence toward the impound lot’s entrance.

A small tin building stood at the far end of the fence. A sign on the door designated it as the office, which was helpful since otherwise it might be mistaken for the punishment box at an Alabama prison camp. Gus pushed open the door and was met by a searing blast of hot air.

“Close that damn door,” a voice growled from inside. “You’re letting the air-conditioning out.”

Gus slipped into the shack, Shawn following him before the door could slam shut. As soon as the door closed, the temperature inside seemed to double.

“Now I know what one of those chickens feels like inside the rotisserie,” Shawn said. “I think I’ll wait outside.”

Gus didn’t answer, but the laser beams shooting out of his eyes welded the door shut. Or at least, that was the effect his glare had on Shawn.

“Or I’ll stay here and enjoy the steam,” Shawn said, looking around for a place to sit. Two drooping Formica chairs leaned against one corrugated wall, their molded plastic forms melting out of shape; a low table between them held a copy of Popular Mechanics jauntily promising that mankind would finally walk on the moon within no more than ten years. Across from this luxurious waiting area, its proprietor leaned on a sagging counter covered with dust-crusted plastic signs. At least Gus assumed this was the proprietor-it could have been a ton of potatoes sewn into a filthy jumpsuit.

As Gus and Shawn approached the counter, the potatoes stood up, leaving a man-sized grease mark on the scarred surface. Long hair drizzled from his scalp, tangling into a longer beard.

“Bathrooms are for employees only,” he growled, then settled his bulk down on the counter. “No exceptions.”

“I promise I won’t ask,” Gus said, trying desperately not to imagine what the employee restroom might look like. “I’m looking for car. It’s a blue Echo.”

“License plate?”

Gus pulled out his wallet and slid his vehicle registration across what little part of the counter wasn’t taken up by the attendant’s forearms. Heaving a sigh deep enough to rearrange most of the smaller spuds in his jumpsuit, the attendant leaned down and pulled a laptop computer out of a drawer, then typed Gus’ information on the keyboard.

“That will be six thousand dollars,” the attendant said.

“Six thousand dollars!” Gus heard the shriek coming out of his mouth before he could close it. “That’s not possible.”

“For that much money, you should just get a new one,” Shawn said.

“That’s a company car, Shawn. Do you have any idea what that means?”

“That you don’t even own it, so we shouldn’t care if it gets crushed?”

“Not exactly,” Gus said. “It means I’ve been entrusted with the responsibility to take care of a valuable piece of equipment owned by Central Coast Pharmaceuticals for use on my sales route. And that it’s my sworn obligation to return it to them in exactly the shape I received it, aside from routine wear and tear.” He turned back to the potatoes. “There must be some kind of mistake.”

“Yeah, and you made it eighty-seven times,” the potatoes said. “Parked in front of a hydrant at the corner of Anacapa and Cruzon.”

Gus pulled the laptop across the counter and stared at the screen.

“That’s where that coffee place is,” he said. “But I never park on the street when I go there. Why would I when there’s a huge lot right down the street?”

“Because you hate cold coffee,” Shawn said. “And when you’ve got to drive it all the way back to the office, every second of cooling counts.”

Gus turned to him, realization, then rage, boiling up inside him. “You did this!”

“Only because I care about your health,” Shawn said. “Once a cup of coffee drops below a hundred fifty degrees, all sorts of bacteria start growing in there. I couldn’t take a chance on giving you food poisoning.”

Gus pointed at the screen. “You parked there an average of twenty-seven minutes each time.”

“Do you think I just pulled that hundred-fifty-degree number out of the air? I was consulting with top coffee professionals.”

“You were flirting with the waitress!”

“Yes, but…” Shawn stopped. “You know, I’ve got no way of justifying that one.”

Gus turned back to the potatoes, his voice trembling. “I need my car. Please.”

“Six thousand dollars. Cash only.”

Gus glanced hopefully into the wallet in case multiple thousands of dollars had spontaneously appeared there. Inside he found the crumpled two-dollar bill he hadn’t been able to spend, since most cashiers had never seen one before and refused to accept it as real money, and a certificate that would have gotten him a free Frogurt Plus with only four more purchases if the store hadn’t gone out of business a year ago.

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.

“Now run!” Shawn shouted. Gus hadn’t waited for him to explain the rest of the cunning plan. He was halfway to the door before Shawn was on his feet. Somewhere behind him he knew the potatoes was pulling himself up on his spud feet and reloading the shotgun. Gus could feel the muscles in his back rearranging themselves into the concentric circles of a practice target, and he needed to put the bull’s-eye out of range.

In college, Gus had tried out for the track team to impress a girl his roommate had described as “fast.” With the sure, if completely mistaken, knowledge of a date with the most beautiful woman in the northwest quadrant of campus as his reward, Gus ran faster that day than he ever had before, missing the qualifying time for the four hundred meter by less than a minute.

If only he’d had a shotgun pointed at his back in college, Gus might have had a chance to learn just how little interest the “fast” girl actually had in runners. Because Gus was blasting through that qualifying pace. He could feel the hot asphalt slamming into his feet through the thin leather soles of his English dress shoes as if he were barefoot, and he didn’t care. His calves were coiled springs, propelling him violently forward with every step.

In the distance behind him, Gus could hear someone calling his name. If he’d stopped to think about it, he would have known it was Shawn, probably begging him to slow down a little to let him catch up. But he wasn’t going to stop for anyone, not even his best friend.

It wasn’t fear driving Gus anymore. Not completely, anyway. It was the exhilaration of the run-the sense of speed, of freedom, of life itself. He felt that if he could increase his pace just a fraction, he could achieve escape velocity, actually lift off the earth and into orbit. He’d be flying.

“Gus, stop!” Shawn was shouting somewhere in the far distance. Gus ignored him. Couldn’t Shawn see he was about to fly?

“Gus, car!”

When Shawn shouted, Gus was at least thirty feet in front of him. Since sound travels at seven hundred seventy miles per hour, it took his voice at least one-thirty-fifth of a second to reach Gus. Maybe a fraction more, since he was accelerating away from Shawn, and there was the Doppler effect to consider. Even after Gus heard Shawn’s voice, it would have taken at least another. 028 of a second for the meaning of the word to penetrate his brain. Even if he could have shaved a couple of milliseconds off, there was no way Gus could have altered his direction in the time necessary. He was in midstride, both feet off the ground. The best he could do was twist his trunk around so he could see down the length of road he was crossing.

So he could see the bright red Mercedes S500 slaloming down the street as its driver pounded the brakes. So he could smell each particle of rubber scraped off the smoking tires as they left sharp black skid marks on the faded asphalt. So he could appreciate the glint of sunlight off the shiny Mercedes logo heading straight for him.

For one second, Gus knew exactly what he needed to do. If he could somehow keep himself in the air, postpone his descent for just one fraction of a second, he could clear the car’s hood and land on its opposite side with catlike grace.

Gus squeezed his eyes shut and willed all his strength into his ankles. If they didn’t sprout small wings to keep him aloft like the Sub-Mariner’s, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.

A second passed, and Gus realized he hadn’t been smashed against the windshield like a bug. He opened his eyes and saw the car screeching to a stop behind him. He did it. He flew. He looked down at his ankles to see if the wings had sprouted there.

There were of course no wings. But that wasn’t the problem. He’d lived this long without feathered ankles. The real problem was the other thing he didn’t see down there.

The road.

Or any solid ground.

All he saw was the battered gray metal of the guard rail disappearing under his feet. And then the long, long drop to the garbage dump below.