A Fatal Frame of Mind

by William Rabkin

“Professor?” he called.

  There was no answer.

  “Professor Kitteredge?” he said again as Shawn stepped down next to him. “Langston?”

  “I’m afraid Professor Kitteredge can’t talk right now,” a man’s voice said from somewhere in the darkness.

  “Did that sound like Malko to you?” Shawn said. “Because I don’t remember him speaking with an English accent.”

  “Who’s out there?” Gus called. “Where’s Professor Kitteredge?”

  “Who I am is of no importance right now,” the voice said, sounding much closer to James Mason than to Malko. “As for the professor’s whereabouts, you can see for yourself.”

  A row of fluorescent lights across the barn’s ceiling flickered on. Gus blinked against the sudden illumination, then opened his eyes. They were standing in what appeared to be a traditional wooden barn, aside from the substitution of the private jet for a stack of hay bales. One wall was covered with farm tools hanging from hooks, and the other was hidden behind a series of stalls.

  It was the nearest of those stalls that caught Gus’ eye. Because Professor Kitteredge was standing in its doorway. And behind him was a man in a pinstriped, three-piece suit. A man whose face was completely covered by a black ski mask.

  And he was holding a gun to the professor’s head.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Lassiter was shocked at how easy it had been to get in to see Hugh Ralston, the museum’s executive director. He and Henry had spent twenty minutes talking about what to do if they were asked to produce a badge, and the closest they got to an answer was a mutual agreement to improvise.

  But Ralston’s secretary didn’t ask for any identification. She took one look at the men standing across from her desk and hit the intercom to let her boss know that there were two police detectives to see him.

  If only the next part of the interview had gone as well. Not that Ralston wasn’t cooperative. He seemed almost desperately eager to please.

  It was just that he didn’t know anything. They’d started out by asking standard questions about Clay Filkins—friends, enemies, home life, financial troubles. All the things that Juliet O’Hara had undoubtedly already asked in the course of the official investigation. Ralston didn’t have any objections to answering them again; he just didn’t have any information to give the police. They’d worked together for a couple of years, and Ralston had held Filkins in the highest regard professionally, but they’d never spent any time together outside of work, and all their conversations in the office had been strictly business. Not that they objected to speaking personally; it was just that there was so much about the museum they both found fascinating that there was never a need to change subjects.

  “What about the deal with the painting?” Henry asked. “That sure sounds funny to me.”

  “It sounded funny to everyone here,” Ralston admitted. “But some things are too good to question too closely. Clay insisted it was legitimate, and his word was sacred around here. So we took the deal, even with the strict rules about anonymity.”

  “I’m sure you can see how those rules can’t stand anymore,” Lassiter said. “Your donor’s instructions matter much less than a human life.”

  “I agree entirely,” Ralston said. “I’d break the confidentiality in a second if I could.”

  “If you could?” Henry said, his face reddening. “My son is being hunted by the police because he’s trying to clear Langston Kitteredge’s name. If you have information that can help him, I won’t leave you alone for a second until you hand it over.”

  Ralston threw up his hands defensively. “I’m sorry; I said that badly,” he said. “I mean I would give you any information I had. I just don’t have any. I went into Clay’s office, I broke into his private files, and I dug out everything he had on this picture. This is it.”

  Ralston picked up a file and handed it across his desk. Henry flipped it open. It was empty. “Somebody stole his files?”

  “Or he never kept any paperwork at all,” Ralston said. “Or he hid it at his home. I have no answers. I have nothing.”

  “Come on,” Henry said. “There must be some other way of tracking down this donor.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Ralston said, his voice close to cracking. “I have nothing. All I’ve ever wanted was for this museum to thrive. Because it’s so much bigger than I am. I couldn’t even make my ex-wife happy, but this institution can touch the lives of generations. And look what I’ve done for it. Thanks to my brilliant financial skills, we’ve lost two-thirds of our endowment in the markets. Now one of the best people who ever worked here has been murdered in one of our galleries, and the painting he spent his last months acquiring for us has been stolen. Could I have done a worse job?”

  If there was one thing that Henry—and every cop Henry had ever known—hated, it was whining. When you saw as many terrible things as a rookie saw in his first year, it was just too hard to listen to anyone moaning about how tough he had it. Henry would never tolerate it from Shawn, and he hated when he heard it in an interview. He glanced over at Lassiter to confirm that the detective shared his disgust. But to his shock, Lassiter seemed to be listening sympathetically. And there was something bright and shiny in the corner of his eye, which—if Henry hadn’t known better—he would have sworn was a tear.

  “It’s the hardest thing in the world,” Lassiter said, “to love a job, to love an institution, and to know you’ve let her down.”

  “Yes!” Ralston said in a voice that was perilously close to sobs.

  “When you’d do anything in the world for that place and those people, and all you bring them is shame,” Lassiter said.

  “Oh, God, yes,” Ralston said.

  “And you think there’s nothing you can ever do to wipe that stain away,” Lassiter said, his voice taking on a dreamy, distant quality. “Sure, for a while you want to crawl into a hole. You want to disappear and never show your face to the people whose trust you’ve violated. But you keep on going. Do you know why?”

  “Why?” Ralston choked out.

  “Yes, Carlton,” Henry said. “Tell us all.”

  “Because that’s what a man does,” Lassiter said. “He takes the beating, he makes his mistakes, but then he gets up and keeps working. Because if he’s a real man, he knows it’s not about him. It’s about the institution he’s sworn to protect. And if he’s failed her once, then it’s up to him to work twice as hard to make sure he never lets her down again. And to be proud he’s been given a chance to serve.”

  Ralston looked at him, tears streaming down his face. “Do you really think so?”

  Lassiter reached across the desk and gave his hand a firm squeeze. “I know so,” he said. “It’s what we do.”

  “Thank you,” Ralston said. “Thank you.”

  For a moment, the three of them sat in silence. Then Henry got to his feet. “If you come across anything you think might be useful in the interrogation, you be sure to let the police know.”

  Ralston nodded wordlessly. Henry walked to the door, Lassiter right behind him. Neither man spoke until they were out of the museum.

  “That was a waste of time,” Henry said as they walked down the steps to the street.

  “Really?” Lassiter said. “I thought it was tremendously useful.”

  “He had no information,” Henry said incredulously. “We didn’t learn a thing.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’ve learned a lot from this experience,” Lassiter said. “And now if you’ll excuse me, we need to take up this investigation some other time.”

  “Some other time?” Henry sputtered. “What about right now?”

  “I can’t right now,” Lassiter said. “I have an appointment with a kindergarten teacher. And I think I just learned how to tie my shoes.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Gus pulled against the ropes that bound his hands behind his chair. He’d seen so many movies in which the hero was able to str
etch them just enough to slip his wrists through. But all that was happening to Gus was that the rough cord was scraping the flesh off his bones.

  “Keep it up,” Shawn whispered. “If you keep bleeding, maybe you’ll make the ropes slick enough you can slip them off.”

  If Gus could have twisted his head around to shoot a killing look at Shawn, he would have. But Shawn was behind him in the stable, tied to his own chair. Gus had seen two more masked men, less well dressed in workers’ coveralls, tie him there while the suited man held the gun on him. Then it was his turn.

  “We’ve got to save Professor Kitteredge,” Gus said, hoping that this was indeed still the case. After they’d been captured, they’d heard noises from another stall that sounded like unspeakable things being done to human flesh, accompanied by screams from the professor. In the past few minutes, though, the sounds had stopped.

  “Save him from what?” Shawn said. “I thought you said all this conspiracy stuff was insane.”

  “You said that,” Gus said, feeling an additional surge of outrage. “You essentially said I was an idiot for ever taking him seriously.”

  There was a long silence from behind Gus.

  “Oh, right,” Shawn said. “I knew it was one of us. But just because I said something, that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to listen to me.”

  Gus knew that was as close to an apology as he was ever going to get from Shawn, so he chose to accept it.

  “Besides,” Shawn said, “we have no idea who these guys are. Just because some thugs in black masks take us hostage when we step off the plane, that doesn’t mean they’re part of a centuries-old global conspiracy.”

  “It seems like a pretty good sign to me,” Gus said.

  “Think it through,” Shawn said. “This might not even have anything to do with the professor, or with the painting, or with us.”

  “Mighty big coincidence if it doesn’t,” Gus said.

  “Really?” Shawn said. “The plane belongs to the world’s biggest smugglers of looted artworks.”

  “Now Low’s the world’s biggest?” Gus said. “Where do you get that from?”

  “His henchman has a union contract,” Shawn said. “Do you have any idea how much that must cost over standard hunchback myrmidon pay scales? And that’s not even including benefits.”

  Gus filed that away with a million other things he meant to argue about later. Right now there was something more important to discuss.

  “Okay, fine, he’s the Donald Trump of smugglers,” Gus said. “So what?”

  “So a guy like that is going to make a lot of enemies,” Shawn said. “And then there are his friends. I mean, how can he ever know if they really want to be his BFF because they like him, or because they’re waiting for him to accidentally mention the location of the barn in England where he ships all his best stuff out of? I think we’ve all had that kind of problem before.”

  Despite the hopelessness of their situation, Gus began to feel a little better. Particularly about Professor Kitteredge. If these men were really after Low’s treasures, the awful noises he heard were much more likely to have come from Malko. Not that he wished the man any harm, but he was clearly a lot tougher and more accustomed to violence than Kitteredge. And as Low’s pilot he was undoubtedly involved in the smuggling scheme, which made him much less of an innocent victim than a soldier in a war between criminals.

  “Do you really think it’s possible that these are just smugglers or crooks?”

  “You have to ask yourself, which sounds more likely?” Shawn said. “And if you find yourself answering ‘an international conspiracy with tentacles reaching into every area of life led by some mysterious unseen figure with a name out of a Tintin book,’ you’re listening to too much talk radio.”

  Gus did ask himself, and the answer made him feel much better. “So if these guys are just crooks, what do we do next?” he said.

  “Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot, so my disguise must be able to strike terror into their hearts,” Shawn said.

  “What?” Gus said.

  “Look around,” Shawn said. “Do you see anything that looks like a giant bat costume?”

  If Gus had been able to find a giant bat, he would have hit Shawn over the head with it. “That’s not helping.”

  “Ask the citizens of Gotham City,” Shawn said. “I think you’ll find they disagree.”

  Gus was about to answer when there was a sound from across the barn. After a moment Malko appeared in the entrance to the stall, accompanied by the man in the pinstriped suit. Gus studied Malko closely but could see no signs that he’d been abused in any way. It was still possible that he’d been beaten in places that wouldn’t show bruises, but that didn’t seem likely. What did was that Shawn’s hopeful theory was completely wrong, and they were in the hands of the Cabal.

  “What am I supposed to do with these two?” Pinstripe said.

  “The one in back is some kind of psychic,” Malko said. “He helped figure out the clue in the painting. If Kitteredge won’t talk, he may be able to help you.”

  Pinstripe man ignored him. “And the other one?”

  “He might be even more useful,” Malko said. “He’s an old and dear friend of Kitteredge’s.”

  There was a time when that description would have made Gus’ day. That was back when friendship meant getting together for lunch every now and then, not submitting to unspeakable torture as leverage to force the professor to talk. “More of an acquaintance, really,” Gus said. “Former student, dropped out after a couple of weeks.”

  “Who was willing to risk his own life to save Kitteredge from the police,” Malko said. “It might be worth your while to see what the professor would be willing to give up to save him.”

  “You don’t have to torture anybody,” Gus said. “We’ll tell you everything we know.”

  “Which won’t take long, fortunately,” Shawn said. “Then we can all go on our separate ways.”

  Pinstripe turned toward Shawn and raised his gun. “Perhaps we won’t be needing this one after all.”

  Gus struggled frantically against his ropes. If he could get one hand free, he could bat the gun out of the masked man’s hands—if he could also free his feet so he could cross the space separating them. But if the rush of terror was sending a jolt of adrenaline through Gus’ body, it wasn’t enough to give him the kind of super-strength he needed.

  Gus squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the gunshot that would end Shawn’s life, grateful at least that he wouldn’t be able to see it. But instead of a gunshot, he heard a strange moaning coming from behind him.

  “The tears!” Shawn wailed. “Tears of rust. Flow my rusty tears.”

  Another two seconds passed with no shots. Gus opened his eyes. Pinstripe still held his gun on Shawn, but he was staring at Malko. “Does he know what it means?”

  “Maybe the spirits told him,” Malko said.

  Shawn wailed again. “I see the tears,” Shawn cried. “Rusty tears. Red tears. Tears for fears. Tears in baseball—oh, wait, there aren’t any.”

  “This is his process,” Gus said quickly. “He gets messages from the spirits, but they’re vague at first. Sometimes it takes a little while before he can understand the precise meaning.”

  “Tears of a clown,” Shawn wailed. “As tears go by. Summer kisses, winter tears.”

  The gun in the man’s hand wavered for a moment; then he lowered it. “We’ll take all three of them,” he said. “There might be some use to him.” He turned toward the back of the barn and called loudly. “Leonard! Chip! We’re going now.”

  “Chip!” The name burst from Gus’ mouth before he could call it back. The only Chip he’d heard of in the past few days was the one who had been Kitteredge’s student. Chip Polidori. Which meant that everything the professor had told them was not a paranoid delusion, but was hideously, horribly true.

  If Pinstripe noticed that Gus had spoken the name, he didn’t show any signs of it. He waite
d silently until a windowless van pulled up around the plane and the other two masked men got out.

  “We’re taking all three of our guests back to London,” the leader said. “Load them in the van.”

  The two men started to move into the stall, but Malko stepped into the stall entrance, blocking their way. “I allowed you to question them for free,” he said. “But if you’ve decided to complete the transaction, I’m going to need my payment now.”

  “When we have the sword,” Pinstripe said.

  “You don’t understand me,” Malko said. “I don’t work on consignment. I have betrayed not only my employer but a man who considers me a friend. For that, I expect to be paid exactly what I deserve. And to be paid in full. Now.”

  Pinstripe seemed to think that over, then nodded slowly. “When you put it that way, I can’t disagree,” he said.

  “Good,” Malko said.

  Pinstripe raised his gun and fired three times. Three tightly grouped red spots appeared in the center of Malko’s chest. Then he crumpled to the ground.

  The well-dressed man shoved his gun in his jacket pocket. “Let’s hurry this up,” he said. “We’ve wasted too much time already. Arthur’s sword is waiting for us.”

  Chapter Forty

  The trip in the windowless van was a smorgasbord of pain. First, one of the masked men had cut off Gus’ ropes, and the blood flowing back into this veins seemed to be made of Liquid Plumber. Then his arms and legs had been retrussed, and with no furniture to absorb some of the ropes’ pressure, he could feel his flesh being flayed from his body. The three were gagged and blindfolded and tossed onto the bare metal floor of the van, where they bounced around helplessly for what felt like hours. The only positive was that every once in a while Gus would be bounced across the van and roll against Shawn or Kitteredge, and both of them responded with grunts of pain. So at least all three of them were alive and conscious.

  After a journey that felt longer than the plane flight, the van slowed and stopped. Gus could hear the front doors open and close, and then he felt a blast of cold, fresh air as the back was thrown open. Four hands grabbed him and pulled him out, then steadied him on the ground.