Psych: A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read

by William Rabkin

  “We try to leave those heavy theological questions for the experts,” Gus said. “Are you saying that Aunt Enid is dead?”

  Tara sniffed back a tear. “I was with her until the very end. I think she was finally at peace.”

  “I’m sure she’d be happy to know you were driving her car.” Shawn’s face was alight with triumph. “Almost as happy as Gus.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Gus,” she said, sniffling. “She would have liked you a lot.”

  Gus didn’t know what to say. Again, he was feeling that same guilt at having misjudged another person. And it wasn’t fair. There was every reason to believe Tara had stolen this car. Just like there was every reason to make fun of Bobby Fleckstein’s glasses—they were thick black horn-rims, and they had made him look like a ’tard. Just once, Gus wanted the freedom to think terrible thoughts about other people and not feel bad about it afterward. The woman had hit him with her car, after all. She was a dangerous, delusional psychotic. And even so, Gus was nearly overwhelmed with the urge to sit in the nearest corner.

  Apart from the guilt, the revelation about Tara’s aunt freed Gus from his fear of riding in a stolen car driven by a remorseless psychopath, and as the road wound its way toward the top of the mountain, he began to enjoy the trip. He was finally going to see Eagle’s View. And for all of Shawn’s complaining, there was something particularly exciting about being summoned by one of America’s most brilliant investors. Maybe he’d give them some tips. Maybe he’d even give them some money. At the very least he was giving Gus something to think about besides the prospect of being arrested for murder.

  Gus spent the rest of the ride to the summit happily switching between thoughts of Eagle’s View and dreams of actually being paid enough to cover all the bills. Until he saw the gates flanking the road ahead of them and ordered Tara to stop the car.

  “It’s easy to call the house ugly,” Gus explained to Shawn and Tara as they looked down on the valley. “But that’s just the first, visceral reaction. Once you get past the initial impression, you can begin to appreciate just how momentous an architectural accomplishment it is.”

  “So when I call it ugly now, that’s ignorance,” Shawn said. “But if I go to architecture school and spend years studying it—”

  “You can call it ugly and really know what you’re talking about,” Gus said.

  “Then let’s get our education started,” Shawn said. “You know how much I hate an uninformed opinion.”

  Although they were no more than half a mile from the house, it took them another twenty minutes before the Mercedes pulled up in the circular drive outside the villa’s front door. There was no straight road from the summit to the valley floor; instead, the drive hugged the side of the bowl, running slowly down in three concentric rings.

  When Shawn and Gus stepped out onto the flagstone driveway, the house’s mammoth front door yawned open and a small man in a precisely tailored gray pin-striped suit stepped out, checking his watch. His razor-cut hair seemed to have been combed with tweezers, each strand placed exactly in the right location. When he walked over to them, he placed his feet so deliberately Gus found himself looking for the marks he appeared to be hitting.

  “You’re thirteen minutes late,” the man said. “The bulldozers were on their way.”

  “No point in wasting them,” Shawn said. “Maybe they could knock down this monstrosity while they’re on the clock.”

  “I am Devon Shepler,” the man said. “You must be Mr. Spencer.”

  “Or what?”

  Gus had gotten used to Shepler’s pauses on the phone, but to see one in person was unexpected. It was as if Shepler existed only on a DVD, and someone had pressed the PAUSE button. His muscles froze; his breathing stopped. Gus couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the breeze even stopped rustling through his hair as he decided on the appropriate response. Then, after a few seconds, Shepler came back to life.

  “Mr. Steele is waiting for you,” he said. “Come this way.”

  Shepler turned and marched toward the front door without checking to see if they were following him.

  “If Steele asks us to invest in his robot factory, we are so in,” Shawn said. “That thing is amazing.”

  Shawn and Gus followed Shepler through the door into a wide-open atrium flanked with ancient columns that reached up to the sky. A shallow still pool glowed blue in the sunlight.

  “This is based on the Villa Uffizi, the most famous house in Rome,” Gus whispered as if they were walking through a museum and a guard was glaring at them.

  “I guess they spent all their money on the pool, so they couldn’t afford a roof,” Shawn said. “And would it have killed them to dig the swimming pool a little deeper? I like to get in above my ankles.”

  At the end of the atrium, Shepler was holding another door open for them. They passed through into a wide corridor, its walls covered with elaborate tapestries. Their footsteps rang out on the gleaming marble floor.

  “This place would be a lot less noisy if they put some of those carpets on the floor where they belong,” Shawn said.

  Shepler stopped outside a stained oak door and rapped sharply on it with his knuckles, then swung it open. “Mr. Spencer and Mr. Guster are here,” he said, then moved out of the way to let them through.

  The room was the size of the international terminal at a major airport. All four walls appeared to be lined with antique books, but they were too far away for Gus to be sure.

  “Shawn! Gus! Great to see you!” The voice seemed to be coming from right next to them. Gus jumped, then turned in all directions. He didn’t see anyone.

  “You didn’t tell me Steele was a ghost,” Shawn said to Shepler.

  “It’s the acoustics,” the disembodied voice said cheerfully. “Amazing, isn’t it? The design was based on the fortress citadel of Golconda, the famous sixteenth-century Indian palace built by Ibrahim Quli Qutb Shah Wali. They said you could clap your hands at the main gate and they’d hear it at the top of the citadel.”

  “That’s a really useful invention,” Shawn said.“I mean, it would be if no one had ever invented the doorbell.”

  Gus squinted his eyes, and in the far distance, he was able to see the outlines of an enormous desk. There seemed to be a person behind it, waving at them.

  Shawn and Gus crossed the great expanse of office, finally reaching a mahogany desk the size of the Hindenburg. By the time they got there, Dallas Steele was coming from behind it, his hand outstretched in welcome.

  “Shawn! Gus!” Steele’s pearly teeth flashed in a warm smile. Gus could hardly believe what he saw. The years hadn’t just been kind to Steele—they’d been his best friend in the world. Somehow he’d become even more handsome now than he had been as quarterback and homecoming king in high school. “It’s so good to see you!”

  “Why?” Shawn said. “Need someone to tie your shoes?”

  Gus slapped Shawn’s arm. But Steele just let out another booming laugh. “Devon told me how you remembered that nursery school thing. What a memory you have! I’d forgotten all about it—but you were right. I cried my eyes out for a week after that humiliation.”

  “Some people would be bitter about things like that,” Gus said. “Some people can’t ever seem to get over what happened to them in school.”

  “Got to move on, right?” Steele said.

  “Possibly,” Shawn said.

  “Besides, there were no hard feelings. Especially not after I bought the company that made those shoes, drove it into the ground, and sent the CEO to prison on trumped-up embezzlement charges.”

  Shawn and Gus stared at Steele, who burst out laughing again. “I’m joking,” he said. “Not all businessmen are evil, any more than all psychics are frauds.”

  “Who’s a fraud?” Shawn said.

  “No one, no one,” Steele said. “That’s why you’re here, because I believe you’re the real deal. But let’s not stand around my crummy old office. Let’s go somewhere we can
be comfortable.”

  “Is it far?” Shawn said. “Because I forgot my hiking boots.”

  Gus hit Shawn again. “That sounds great, Mr. Steele.”

  “It’s Dallas. But to you, it’s Dal. Just like the old days.”

  Steele led them back across the office toward the door.

  “What old days?” Shawn whispered. “We don’t have any old days with this guy.”

  “Sure, back in high school—”

  “When he was the king of all he surveyed, and we were nothing. In four years of high school, did you ever once call him ‘Dal’?”

  “I don’t think anyone called him ‘Dal.’ The teachers used to call him ‘sir.’”

  “Exactly,” Shawn said. “He’s up to something.”

  Gus took one last look around the office as they stepped back into the corridor, trying to calculate just how much bigger it was than every place he’d ever lived put together.

  “Yeah, he’s up to about four billion dollars as far as I can tell.”

  “And how do you think he got all that money?”

  “His official biography says he took his inheritance and invested it in—”

  Shawn raised a hand to cut him off. “Does the phrase ‘massive criminal conspiracy that reaches into the highest echelons of Santa Barbara society’ mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, it does,” Shawn said. “I saw it on your face. Isn’t it suspicious that a day after we stumble across the Impound Lot Massacre—”

  “What massacre?”

  “Fine, the day after a refugee from a chain gang tries to kill us for revealing his identity at the impound lot and ends up murdered,” Shawn said. “Although I think Impound Lot Massacre is a lot punchier. Anyway, one day after that, Dallas Steele drags us up here for a chat. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “Not necessarily,” Gus said. “It could be a complete coincidence.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Exactly what?”

  “Exactly what Auric Goldfinger said: First time it’s happenstance. Second time it’s coincidence. Third time is enemy action.”

  Gus tried to follow the logic. “Then this isn’t even a coincidence. We’re still on happenstance. You know, I was prepared to share your prejudices and suspicions about this man, but I think he’s pretty clearly proved you wrong. He’s been nothing but friendly and welcoming since we got here.”

  “If you ignore the fact that we only did get here because he threatened to tear down our office.”

  “You can’t stand this guy because he’s one man who isn’t going to let you manipulate him. You can’t take advantage of Dallas Steele, so you have to find some way to say he’s a bad guy.”

  “I do not take advantage of people.”

  “Then why is there a delusional woman sitting in the driveway, spending her afternoon waiting to drive us back to Santa Barbara?”

  “Because it makes her happy,” Shawn said. “Just like it makes you happy to believe that this Dallas Steele is a great guy. And because I want you to be happy, I’m going to put everything I know on hold and treat him the way you would. I’ll give him every benefit of every doubt. And at the end of the day, we’ll see who’s right.”

  Steele stopped outside another door. “I thought we’d be more comfortable in the game room.”

  “Sure,” Shawn said. “If you need to relive those few moments of adolescent glory when you still played football, I guess a room dedicated to childish games is the place to hang.”

  Steele swung open the door and led them into the middle of a nighttime forest. At least, that was what it seemed like at first. It took Gus a moment to realize that the close-growing stands of firs were actually a mural painted on the walls of another huge room. The moon and stars that shone down were artfully designed electric lights, and the pine needles that crackled underfoot were woven into the carpet.

  “So which moments of adolescent glory do you think he relives in here?” Gus whispered to Shawn.

  “I’m not sure, but if he suggests we join him in a hunt, we’d better make sure he’s not using us as his target,” Shawn said. “There’s a long tradition in this country of rich people hunting the less well-to-do.”

  “That tradition only exists in Jean-Claude Van Damme movies,” Gus said.

  “Right, and the army isn’t resurrecting dead soldiers as zombie warriors, either,” Shawn said.

  Somewhere in the forest, Dallas must have flipped a light switch. The moon and stars winked out, replaced by a blazing sun of a chandelier.

  “Elias Adler, who built this house, loved to hunt,” Dallas said as emerged from behind the door and led them to a rectangle of four leather sofas in the middle of the room. “But he realized once he’d moved in that there was no game in this valley, aside from the occasional skunk or coyote.”

  “Or hobo,” Shawn muttered to Gus, who slapped his arm again.

  “So he commissioned this room, where he’d sit for hours, dreaming about the hunt. If you look hard, you can still see patch marks in the murals from when Adler forgot he was only dreaming and pulled out his rifle. I’m not much of a hunter myself, but I do like to sit in here and meditate.”

  Gus settled into a wicker chair the size of the Great Pyramid at Giza.

  “Comfy, isn’t it?” Steele said, dropping down onto a large leather sofa.

  The jungle door opened, and a waiter came in carrying a sliver tray laden with an ornate coffee service that probably cost more than Shawn and Gus had ever made in their lives. He placed the tray on the table, then stepped back and stood absolutely still.

  Steele reached for the coffeepot, then stopped himself. “I’m sorry. I should have asked if there’s anything other than coffee you’d like.”

  “Coffee’s great,” Gus said.

  “I guess it will do,” Shawn said. He paced around the room like he was looking for booby traps. “I mean, if it’s good enough for you, why would anyone want anything else, right?”

  “Whatever you want,” Dallas said. “We’ve got it.”

  “I’d love a Coca-Cola Blāk,” Shawn said. “But that’s probably something that never even crossed your radar, what with your being a multibillionaire and all. I mean, you can’t be expected to keep up with the popular culture when you’re sitting all the way up here in your eagle’s nest.”

  “Mr. Spencer would like a Coca-Cola Blāk,” Steele told the waiter.

  Gus heard a polite throat clearing behind him and turned to see that Shepler had materialized there. “Would you prefer the American version or the European? As I’m sure you’re aware, the American formula is sweetened with high-fructose corn syrup, aspartame, and acesulfame potassium, while the one made in France and sold mostly in Slovenia uses sugar and is said to be less sweet, but with a more pronounced coffee flavor.”

  “Why don’t we give him my special blend?” Steele said.

  Shepler signaled to the waiter, who disappeared without a sound.

  “I like to mix the two in a sixty-forty American-to-European ratio, which gives it the stronger coffee flavor while still providing the jolt of sweetness we all love in this country,” Steele said. “And then I top it off with a twist of Pepsi Tarik, a rival cola-coffee blend that’s all the rage in Malaysia. I think you’re really going to like it.”

  “I’m sure I will, Dal. I’m an easy man to please. I like to travel light, move fast, and keep myself from being burdened by too many possessions.” Shawn paced around the room as if demonstrating his freedom.

  “I envy you, Shawn,” Steele said. “People read about me in the press, and they assume my life is easy. And I’m not complaining. I know that I’ve got what most people can only dream of. But there are times when I’d throw it all away to live simply and peacefully again.”

  Shawn stopped. His hands gripped his temples. His eyes squeezed shut, then flashed open. “That’s why you called us,” Shawn said. “I see it all. You’ve planned your escape already. You’re going
to fake your death and assume a fictional identity you’ve created. But you’re not completely sure you’ve covered all the angles, so you need us to investigate the fake you and make sure there are no holes in the story.”

  “That’s a very intriguing idea, Shawn, but I have to say no,” Steele said.

  For a moment, Shawn looked like he was going to argue the point. Gus shot him a look, and he reconsidered. “Of course not,” Shawn said. “Because a man as famous as you can’t escape just by changing his name. You’ll always be Dallas Steele. The only escape for you is death. And one night, when the pressure was too much to take, you picked up that phone and dialed the number you’d been carrying in your wallet for months. The untraceable number. You let the phone ring three times, then hung up and dialed again. This time a man answered. You said no more than a dozen words, and it was all done.”