For a moment, Lassiter felt the blade’s pressure ease on his throat. Then it was jammed back into place.
“I can’t trust anybody,” Kitteredge said. “You might have planted the knife.”
“But I didn’t,” O’Hara said. “What can I do to convince you of that?”
“Don’t convince him,” Lassiter said. “Shoot him.”
“Quiet, Carlton,” O’Hara said. “Professor Kitteredge, I swear to you that I am no part of any conspiracy, and neither is my partner. I will do whatever it takes to make you see that as long as you don’t hurt him. So tell me now, before things get ugly—what is it you want?”
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Kitteredge said. “You’ve got to let me go.”
“Don’t do it!” Lassiter shouted.
“You won’t get far,” O’Hara said. “Every police officer in this city will be looking for you.”
“At least this way I have a chance to find out the truth before they get me,” Kitteredge said.
Lassiter stared at O’Hara, mentally sending the order for her to shoot. Astonishingly, she managed to ignore it. Instead, she did the one thing Lassiter dreaded more than anything else in the world. She nodded.
Then she held up a hand to the officers. “Weapons down,” she commanded. Some of the officers complied immediately. Others just stared at her, keeping their guns leveled at Kitteredge. “I said weapons down!” she said. “Now!”
This time there was no questioning her intent. The other officers stood down.
“Let him go and run,” O’Hara said.
“Other way around,” Kitteredge said. “I take him with me, and I leave him in a safe place once I know I’m not being followed.”
“Don’t do this, Detective,” Lassiter said.
She thought it over for a moment, then nodded again. “If anything happens to him—”
“Then you’d better find the moles in your own department,” Kitteredge said. “Because I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
He took a step toward the front door, then stopped, waiting to see if anyone was going to come for him. But the police officers were frozen in place. He took another step, dragging Lassiter with him, then moved swiftly toward the front door. He kicked it open and disappeared through it.
Chapter Ten
“Okay,”Shawn said as Gus piloted the Echo back to the Psych office. “From now on, we’re going to have a few rules. To start with, I choose the evening’s entertainment.”
“We didn’t go to the museum for fun,” Gus said automatically. He had no interest in the conversation, but he knew if Shawn didn’t receive a response he’d keep repeating his original statement until he did, or until they were both dead. “We went on a case.”
“That’s rule number two,” Shawn said. “I choose our clients, too.”
A dozen different arguments flashed through Gus’ brain. He could, for instance, have pointed out the times Shawn had agreed to take on a client who turned out to be guilty. Or the instances when Gus had brought in a case that turned into a great success for the agency.
But Gus didn’t have any strength left for arguing. He barely had any strength left at all. If it hadn’t been for the Echo’s power-assisted steering he might have simply kept going straight down Santa Barbara Street until he’d driven into the ocean.
It wasn’t just the fact that they’d been up for more than twenty-four hours that had sucked all the energy out of him. Although it wasn’t as easy as it had been when they were teens, Gus and Shawn still routinely pulled all-nighters when they were working on a case. And it wasn’t the grueling interrogation they’d received from Detective O’Hara after she’d allowed Kitteredge to escape with her partner as a hostage, or even the huge sense of relief when Lassiter had been found half an hour later locked in the trunk of a stolen patrol car, furious but unharmed and definitely alive.
What had worn Gus out so completely was his sense of utter failure. Professor Kitteredge had reached out to him, reached out to the one person he had thought could help him, even though they barely knew each other. And not only had Gus been unable to help; he had stood by as things had gotten immeasurably worse for his old professor. Gus didn’t know exactly what Kitteredge had wanted help with, but whatever it was it couldn’t have been as bad as his current problem. He was a wanted fugitive, hunted not only for a cold-blooded murder but for taking hostage a Santa Barbara police detective. His career was ruined, his life changed forever—that is, if he managed to survive this day. Santa Barbara’s police were professional above all else, but when they were chasing a criminal who’d dared hold a knife to one of their own, Gus knew that following the letter of the law would not seem as important as bringing down the felon.
“Rule number three is a no-brainer,” Shawn said after checking to make sure that Gus was actually awake to hear him. “No cases that require formal wear.”
Gus briefly considered responding to that, but he decided to allocate all his available strength to turning the steering wheel sufficiently to execute the right turn that would head them in the general direction of their office.
“Now, rule number four might seem a little controversial at first,” Shawn said. “But when you think it over, I’m sure you realize it makes sense. If you ever get French fries when we break for food on a case, you have to give me two for every one you eat, even if I’ve got my own order. And if there are any soggy fries in my bag, you have to let me trade them for your crispy ones at a rate of three of your crispies for every one of my limps.”
Of all the rules Shawn had laid down, that struck Gus as the one that he’d most likely insist on, ludicrous as it sounded. If he didn’t object now, he knew, Shawn would not only bring it up on every case they worked in the future, but find ways to build on it so that he’d be entitled to every bit of food Gus ever ordered. Still, he couldn’t get up the energy to argue. “Whatever,” he said.
Shawn eyed him suspiciously. “You’re making this too easy,” he said.
“You could stop,” Gus said.
“When I’m getting everything I want?” Shawn said. “Like that’s going to happen. I haven’t even gotten to the most important rule yet.”
Gus didn’t know what that rule was going to be, but he knew his partner well enough to imagine. No doubt Shawn was going to insist that Gus donate all his income from his pharmaceuticals sales route to Psych, or demand that Gus call him “sir” whenever they were in public, or let Shawn use his legs as a pillow if he got sleepy on a stakeout.
If he’d had any more energy, Gus might have once again muttered “Whatever.” Instead, he shrugged. Let Shawn make any rule that amused him. They’d be in force only as long as Gus stayed with Psych, and after tonight’s fiasco he wasn’t sure how much longer he wanted that to be. He’d been playing at private detective for a few years now, and he’d been having fun. He’d even done a pretty good job from time to time.
But now he saw that whatever successes they’d had were nothing more than luck. He clearly had no idea what he was actually doing, and when his luck ran out he had no way to compensate for it. People got hurt. Maybe people even got killed, all because they trusted in him.
“Okay, here it comes,” Shawn said. “The most important rule of all. The one that’s going to change Psych forever, whether we like it or not.”
“Why?” Gus was surprised that his tongue had bothered to form the syllable, but apparently some of his reflexes were even more powerful than his exhaustion.
“Why what?”
“Why will it change Psych forever, whether we like it or not?” Gus said. “There’s no one at Psych besides us, so if we don’t like one of your rules, we can simply ignore it.”
“You can’t just ignore rules,” Shawn said.
“You do it all the time,” Gus said. “And when I hesitate before breaking a rule, you get mad at me.”
“That’s completely different,” Shawn said. “Those are other people’s rules. Man-made rules. I’m talking a
bout the laws that are set out by the universe, like gravity or entropy or the way it’s impossible to get the last bits out of a shampoo bottle no matter how hard you shake it.”
“Okay, fine,” Gus said. “Let’s have it.”
Shawn started to speak, then turned around and reached toward the backseat.
“What are you looking for?” Gus said.
“A couple slabs of granite,” Shawn said. “Marble, if you’ve got it. It just seems like the kind of thing that would sound better if it was carved on stone tablets. Although if you don’t have any stone, I guess we could use aspirin tablets, as long as one of us can write really small.”
“Shawn . . .” Gus said, hoping that a good set of ellipses would convey all the words he was too tired to use.
“Okay, fine,” Shawn said. “Here’s the most important rule: When one of our clients flips out and takes Lassie hostage with a knife because he believes that there’s a global conspiracy out to frame him for murder to keep him from discovering the truth of their evil cabal, even though he’s incapable of explaining what they want or why they want it—”
“I get it, Shawn,” Gus said. “I was stupid to take Professor Kitteredge seriously. You don’t have to make a big deal about it.”
Shawn held up a finger to stop him. Gus briefly considered yanking it off his hand and throwing it out the window, but that seemed like far too much effort.
“Anyway,” Shawn continued, “back to that rule. When all that stuff happens that I just laid out and don’t feel like going through again, then it is our obligation to find that client and solve the murder before the police get him.”
It took a moment before Gus could make sense of the words. He’d so completely expected to hear Shawn say the exact opposite that at first his brain simply wouldn’t process the new information.
“Find him?” Gus said finally. “You mean Professor Kitteredge?”
“Unless you’ve got another client who took Lassie hostage and you haven’t told me about him,” Shawn said. “In which case, this would probably be a good time to bring it up, so we can prioritize.”
“But you said he was crazy,” Gus said.
“I said he was boring,” Shawn said. “Which he was when he was droning on and on about subjects no one could ever possibly pretend to care about.”
“He was talking about art,” Gus said. “And history and literature.”
“Exactly,” Shawn said. “But it’s amazing how much less boring he became when he held a knife to Lassie’s throat, started screaming about a global conspiracy, and escaped.”
“Even I thought he was crazy then,” Gus admitted. “That’s what made you like him?”
“There are three kinds of people who believe in conspiracy theories,” Shawn said. “The first kind is the average guy who listens to George Noory when he should be sleeping and has decided that there are aliens in Area 51, trilateralists in the government, and Illuminati in the drinking water because it’s much easier to blame all your failures on a vast global network that exists only to keep you down than it is to accept that maybe you’re just a loser. These are the guys you get stuck next to when you’re waiting in line at the post office and they recognize the Garfield T-shirt you pulled on because everything else was dirty as a secret welcome sign between believers. They will talk for hours about the dark forces arrayed against them, but they’re completely harmless. If they actually had the gumption to do anything in the first place, they wouldn’t be the kind of loser who has to blame faceless conspiracies for their own lack of success.”
“That’s not Professor K,” Gus said.
“Definitely not,” Shawn said. “Then there’s type number two. This is the hard-core conspiracy freak, the guy who knows exactly who killed Sonny Bono and why.”
“Sonny Bono?” Gus said. “I thought he skied into a tree.”
“That’s exactly what they wanted you to think,” Shawn said. “And it worked so well they did it to Natasha Richardson, too.”
“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” Gus said.
“Not to you or me, but to him,” Shawn said. “This kind of conspiracy nut can take seemingly random bits of information from anywhere and weave them together into one long narrative. And it will always make sense—at least, to him. Once you expose it to real-world logic, it falls apart. But these people see real-world logic as another part of the cover-up, and they accuse anyone who tries to talk them out of their delusion of being part of the plan.”
“So you’re talking about crazy people,” Gus said.
“Not just crazy,” Shawn said. “Crazy and dangerous. These are the ones who are so convinced they’re right that they’re willing to act on their beliefs. They’ll do anything to fight off the conspiracy, including committing violent acts.”
“You’re not saying that Professor Kitteredge is one of them?” Gus said, trying to imagine his old teacher crouching in a basement rec room wearing a tinfoil hat to keep out the mind-rays.
“No, because these people are so paranoid they’re completely incapable of functioning in normal society,” Shawn said. “You can’t spend your days finding ways in which Brandon Lee’s death is connected to the space shuttle explosion and the mysterious two-year disappearance of Wonder Bread from Southern California grocery shelves and still convince a university to let you talk in front of teenagers. Unless you teach economics, of course, and even then the tenure committee is going to look at you funny when you come up for review.”
“You said there were three kinds of people who believe in conspiracy theories,” Gus said. “I guess that makes Professor Kitteredge type number three.”
“That would be my guess, too,” Shawn said. “These are people who are on the surface indistinguishable from you or me. They seem intelligent, well-spoken, thoughtful. They’ve got meaningful jobs—or even careers. They’ve got rich, full social lives and the respect of their peers, and they seem to be normal, or better than normal, to the outside world. But one day they stumble on a piece of information that doesn’t make sense to them, and unlike everybody else, they decide to follow it. And so it leads them to another piece of information and another, and soon they’re weaving them all together into a grand narrative of dark deeds.”
“Wait a minute,” Gus said. “How is that any different from the last guys you described?”
“Because these people,” Shawn said solemnly, “are brilliant. And the connections they come up with are brilliant. So brilliant, in fact, that any intelligent person who hears them could immediately see how they might be true.”
The words hit Gus like a fist. “Are you saying that Professor Kitteredge really has stumbled across a global conspiracy and they’ve framed him for murder to shut him up?”
“It’s possible,” Shawn said. “In the same way it’s possible that the car we’re in could actually be an alien transforming robot and you could be Megan Fox. But either way, he’s a danger to himself and everyone around him. Because his belief is a black hole that can suck in everything in its path.”
For the first time in hours, Gus felt strength flowing back into his limbs. He could actually do something to help his old professor. Better yet, they could do something.
Except for one small problem.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Gus said. “I’m thrilled that you’ve come around to this way of thinking. And I’m delighted that you’re willing to help Professor Kitteredge. But how are we going to help him when we don’t have any idea where he is?”
“You mean when you don’t have any idea where he is,” Shawn said.
“You do?”
“I know exactly where he is,” Shawn said. “And if you turn this car around, I’ll take you to him.”
Chapter Eleven
The lemon–poppy seed cake was even better than it looked. The citrus flavor was mild, yet sharp enough to ameliorate the richness of the huge amounts of butter. The black seeds scattered not only on top of the icing but throughout the crumb provided a
n appealing crunch with every bite.
The only problem with the lemon–poppy seed cake served by the café in the Santa Barbara Museum of Art, as far as Gus could see, was that it provided no clue to the whereabouts of Professor Langston Kitteredge.
“Tell me again what we’re doing here.” Gus leaned across the small table until his mouth was almost pressed against Shawn’s ear. “Because there’s no way Professor Kitteredge is going to stop in for a sandwich when every cop north of Los Angeles is hunting for him.”
Shawn ran his fork through the last traces of chocolate icing on his own plate and licked off the tines. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said. “It’s a pretty good sandwich. Just look at this place.”
Gus glanced around the room. The café was certainly popular. Every table was filled with art lovers here to check out the collection of European paintings, young parents eager to expose their small children to the joys of culture, and tourists determined to see every last attraction in the Santa Barbara area before they headed back to Minneapolis.
Even in this large crowd, however, Gus couldn’t help feeling conspicuous. Because while the room might have been reaching its fire department–sanctioned occupancy limit of one hundred and twenty-nine people, only two men in the entire crowd were wearing tuxedos. And every one of those hundred and twenty-nine had taken a moment to stare at Shawn and Gus as they’d walked past carrying their trays.
“I have been looking at this place almost as much as this place has been looking at me,” Gus said. “It’s hard to be inconspicuous when you’re the only one wearing formal wear in an informal setting.”
“We don’t need to be inconspicuous,” Shawn said. “The police aren’t looking for us. No one is.”
“What about that guy?” Gus said. Across the room, a burly man in a “Ski the Big Potato” T-shirt and khaki shorts that strongly suggested he lived in some area that rarely saw the sun kept looking up from his mousy wife and two squabbling toddlers to stare at them.
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