Keeping one eye on the cops, Gus pulled the letter out of his pocket and unfolded it. “Dear Mr. Guster,” he read. “These are dark and difficult times. Events are conspiring to bring an end to those things which we hold most dear. And there is only one way out-if you are willing and able to help. Together we can find a way to make it through the dangers that face us. I will be appearing in your area in the near future, giving a lecture on the occasion of the unveiling of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s The Defence of Guenevere at the Santa Barbara Museum of Art. I would be happy to speak further about these issues if you would like to see me there. Thank you so much for your kind consideration. Sincerely, Langston Kitteredge, PhD.”
Gus held the letter out to Kitteredge and then to Shawn, to see if either of them wanted to check the accuracy of his reading. For some reason, the professor’s face was a mask of contempt. And even Shawn was staring at Gus like he’d reported for work wearing footie pajamas.
“What?” Gus said. He looked from Shawn to Kitteredge and back again. “What? He’s asking for our help. He’s practically begging for it.”
“He’s asking for money, Gus,” Shawn said. “It’s a fund-raising letter.”
That couldn’t be right. Gus read the letter again. And again. “But ‘dark and difficult times.’ You ask for my help right here.”
“And the help of every other person in the Santa Barbara area who ever passed through the doors of my classroom,” Kitteredge said. “I sent out similar, albeit slightly altered, letters to former students in fourteen other geographical regions.”
“You said there were dangers,” Gus said, his confusion turning to irritation and veering perilously close to anger.
“There are,” Kitteredge said. “The state legislature keeps cutting the funding to the University of California system. Student fees have been raised much more than they should have been, and still there isn’t enough money to keep all the departments open. We need the alumni to open their hearts and their wallets if we are going to survive as one of the nation’s great public institutions of education.”
Gus read the letter again, and this time he finally saw it for what it was. A plea for cash. How could he have been such a fool?
Shawn saw the despair on his friend’s face and stepped in. “Still,” he said, “you might not have needed the help of Santa Barbara’s finest psychic detective agency when you wrote this letter, but it’s hard to deny you’re in trouble now.”
Kitteredge turned his withering stare on Shawn. “Psychic?” he boomed.
It’s an interesting thing about conversations in public places: sometimes two or three people can talk for hours at the top of their voices about the most intimate subjects and no one will notice. And then at other times one of the speakers will utter one simple word and the entire zip code will overhear.
That was the effect of Kitteredge’s exclamation. Everyone standing on the steps around them swiveled to see what the commotion was about.
“Maybe we should keep our voices down a little,” Gus whispered, pulling Kitteredge down the stairs.
Kitteredge allowed himself to be led, but he didn’t take his eyes off Shawn. “This is a psychic detective agency?” he said, his volume still well above what any mother would consider his inside voice.
“It is for now,” Shawn said. “But in about two minutes it’s going to be a psychic inmates’ association.”
He pointed down the steps to where the two policemen had been directing traffic. But now the cars were hopelessly snarled as drivers tried to jockey their way through the crowd of pedestrians with no one to give them direction.
Because the cops weren’t paying attention to the cars any longer. They weren’t standing on the curb.
They were heading up the stairs toward Kitteredge.
Chapter Twenty
When he first joined Shawn in the business, Gus had often felt embarrassed at telling people whose respect he craved that Psych was a psychic detective agency. The work they did was excellent and their solve rate was the highest in town, but for so many intelligent, educated professionals the word “psychic” invoked so much skepticism that all they could hear afterward was “fraud.”
That might not have bothered Gus so much if it weren’t for the fact that they were, indeed, frauds. Shawn wasn’t the slightest bit psychic. He simply had astonishing powers of observation and an amazing ability to interpret the tiny details that only he noticed. Gus had spent weeks trying to get Shawn to give up the pretense of supernatural powers and to simply take credit for his great skills.
But Shawn had insisted that being psychic was their brand. More importantly, it was fun. Shawn took great pleasure from the fact that so many people assumed he was a phony. That way, when he solved the case his audience would be doubly astonished.
Over the years, Gus had come around to Shawn’s way of seeing things. He, too, relished the skepticism that inevitably accompanied the announcement of Shawn’s psychic abilities, because he knew they’d leave the cynics desperately grasping to explain how Shawn had solved the case without the aid of the spectral world.
But as he guided Professor Kitteredge through the throngs of people clustered on the museum steps, Gus felt that old embarrassment flooding back. Kitteredge was a noted intellectual, one of the foremost scholars in the world. Of course he’d see through the ludicrous notion of a psychic detective agency. This hadn’t seemed important to Gus before-after all, he’d been operating under the assumption that Kitteredge had turned to Psych for help. Now that he knew the truth, he was doubly humiliated. He’d mistaken a form letter asking for cash for a personal plea for aid, and he’d been exposed as the kind of lowlife phony who preyed on the weak of mind.
“So you’re a psychic?” Kitteredge said as Gus maneuvered him around a clutch of Danish teenagers and the mountain of backpacks surrounding them.
“Not me,” Gus said. He yearned to tell Professor Kitteredge the truth, to explain that the psychic claims were just a marketing gimmick, that behind the false advertising there lay a great private detective agency. But he couldn’t-and he wouldn’t. “Shawn’s the psychic. I’m just a detective.”
“It’s better that way,” Shawn said. “You don’t want two psychics in the same room. It’s like having two homeless guys begging for change on the same corner. The spirits don’t know which way to turn.”
They reached the sidewalk. All they had to do now was get across the street to the parking lot and make their way to space forty-nine, where the Echo was waiting for them.
Except that wasn’t exactly all they had to do, Gus realized as he risked a glance over his shoulder. They had to make it to space forty-nine before the two policemen caught up with them and beat them to the ground with their nightsticks. And the rate at which the cops were closing the distance between them made that prospect seem increasingly unlikely.
“You don’t have to believe that Shawn’s psychic, Professor,” Gus said desperately, trying to get Kitteredge to increase his pace. “Just have a little faith that we’re your friends and we’re trying to get you out of the serious trouble you’re in.”
“At least that’s what the spirits are saying,” Shawn said.
To Gus’ horror, Kitteredge did the worst thing he could possibly do. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
“If you’re psychic, then tell me one thing,” Kitteredge said.
“When you were seventeen,” Shawn said.
Gus could feel himself dying a little inside. The fact that Shawn was almost inevitably right, both about the question people-well, men anyway-would ask to test his prowess and about their age when they lost their virginity, did nothing to keep him from dreading this moment. Not every male human being thought exactly the same way, and someday Shawn would run into a man who had a different test to assess his powers. There was a good chance that Kitteredge would be the one.