That curiosity extended to both sides of the table. Low had spent most of the meal picking at his food while he watched Shawn and Gus closely. When Malko came through to clear away the dinner plates, it was their host who asked the first question.
“While the two of you were freshening up, I had a chance to talk to Langston about you,” he said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met a psychic before.”
“You’d be surprised,” Shawn said. “We look just like everybody else. Well, not just like. We’ve got that healthy psychic glow that makes us irresistibly attractive to all who see us. But aside from that, we’re just plain folks.”
“Aside from that and your extraordinary talents,” Kitteredge corrected him.
Shawn shrugged modestly.
“I don’t suppose,” Low said, “I could ask you for a demonstration of your prowess.”
Normally, Gus would have been delighted at the opportunity for Shawn to show off his psychic bona fides. Whatever he might come up with, Gus knew it would be impressive.
But after their conversation in the bedroom, Gus was afraid that Shawn’s demonstration might be a little too impressive. He’d speak to a demon or read an aura or commune with the departed spirit of one of the roast chickens, and what he’d come back with would be an accusation of murder against Flaxman Low.
Gus couldn’t let that happen. Not only because it was an unspeakable breach of manners to call your host a murderer before dessert was served, but also because they were all alone on his massive property and nobody knew they were there. If, by some insane chance, Shawn was right and Low was behind the killing, it wouldn’t take a lot of work to do away with them in such a way that no one would ever know.
And if Shawn was wrong, it could be even worse. Because if Flaxman Low wasn’t the killer, then he might be their only chance at getting through a couple of decades without bars in front of them. If Shawn were to alienate him with an accusation of murder, that chance might disappear.
“I’d be happy to,” Shawn began. Gus kicked him in the ankle as hard as he could.
“But there are better uses of our time right now,” Gus said as Shawn’s mouth was too busy forming into an O of pain to utter the rest of his sentence.
“Better than an exploration of mysteries that have fascinated mankind through the ages?” Low said.
“It’s one thing to communicate with the afterlife,” Gus said. “But right now our top priority has to be keeping Professor Kitteredge from doing that in person. We need to figure out who killed Clay Filkins and how we’re going to prove it.”
Flaxman Low nodded thoughtfully. “It had occurred to me that the two tasks might be collapsed into one.”
“I think that could be arranged,” Shawn said. “Why don’t we start with the killer’s identity first?”
Once again, Gus’ foot made contact with the same spot on Shawn’s ankle with unerring accuracy.
“Which of course we can’t possibly know,” Gus said. “Because it’s locked in that painting. And we haven’t had a chance to talk about that yet.”
At the mention of the painting, Low and Kitteredge exchanged a look that could almost have been called wistful. “Ah, Langston, I can’t tell you how much I envy even your brief glance at that masterpiece,” Low said. “Even though it has come at such a cost.”
“No more than Adam and Eve paid for the gift of knowledge,” Kitteredge said. “And I’m sure they would have made the same choice if given the opportunity to do it all over again.”
“Yes, this certainly is fascinating,” Shawn said. “But maybe we should move on to another subject. Like the identity of the real killer.”
Gus kicked out again, but this time his foot sent Shawn’s chair skittering across the floor. He looked up to see that Shawn was standing and pressing his fingers to his temple in the way he used to signify the arrival of a vision from the beyond.
“And that identity is obvious to anyone who has ever read a book or seen a movie,” Shawn said. “Although the continuing acceptance of Dan Brown’s plotting skills by the worldwide reading audience strongly suggests that there are plenty of people who don’t fall into that category.”
“Shawn, don’t,” Gus begged.
“Let him speak,” Low said. “I am extremely curious about what he’s going to say next.”
But as adjectives go, “curious” didn’t seem strong enough to describe Flaxman Low’s level of interest in the subject. His voice had changed from the friendly, avuncular quality it had held into one of dark menace.
Gus cast a quick glance at Shawn to see if he had noticed the sudden change of tone in the room. Apparently he had.
“Of course, the simple fact that we could make an accusation based on experience with books and movies simply shows that truth is more complicated than fiction,” Shawn said.
Flaxman Low rose to his feet. Gus knew what was going to happen next. He was going to thrust both arms straight up in the air and summon a storm. Then, as thunder and lighting crashed on the roof, he would send energy bolts out of his fingers and hurl them across the dining room.
Of course, that too was drawn from Gus’ experience with books and movies. What Low actually did next was not nearly so dramatic-although to Gus it had essentially the same impact.
“The real killer’s identity is known to everyone here,” he said. “It is Shawn Spencer.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
For a moment no one moved. Then Kitteredge pushed himself away from the table.
“Flaxman, don’t be ridiculous,” the professor said. “These two saved me on multiple occasions.”
“Saved you from being recaptured by the police,” Low said, his fiery eyes never leaving Shawn and Gus. “When you might have alerted law enforcement to the real nature of the threat we face.”
“But they brought me to you,” Kitteredge protested.
“To find out who else knew about the Cabal,” Low said. “And then they could shut down all threats at once.”
Gus managed to pull his eyes away from Low to sneak a look at Shawn, hoping to see the cocky smile he wore when he knew he was in charge of a situation everyone else thought was lost. What he saw made him wish he’d never turned away. Shawn wasn’t even looking at Low. He was staring past his shoulder, toward the kitchen. Gus knew he didn’t want to know what Shawn was looking at, but his neck refused to follow his explicit instructions. It swiveled until Gus’ gaze matched Shawn’s.
The hunchback was standing in the kitchen doorway, the shotgun leveled at them.
“How do you even know who they are?” Low said.
“He sent me that letter,” Gus said. He turned to Kitteredge. “I showed it to you.”
“You sent someone a letter,” Low said to Kitteredge. “Do you have any evidence that this man was the intended recipient? Do you even remember a student named Burton Guster?”
Yes, Gus implored Kitteredge silently. Think back of all those times we had together.
“I’ve had so many students over the years,” Kitteredge said warily. “The doctoral candidates I get to know very well. But the undergrads come and go so quickly, a hundred at a time. I’m lucky if I ever match a name to a face.”
Gus felt his heart break a little, although he suspected the sensation was really just a preview of the effect Malko’s shotgun was about to have on him.
“And their story about how they came to help you?” Low said. “They got a fund-raising form letter and mistook it for a personal cry of distress? Could you imagine anything more ridiculous?”
Gus saw that this last question seemed to be having an effect on Kitteredge, who sank slowly into his chair.
“I can’t believe it,” the professor said, although his voice didn’t hold a fraction of the conviction his words were intended to convey.
“You’ve been set up, Langston,” Low said. “From the very beginning, this entire charade has had one purpose-for the members of the conspiracy to find everyone who knows about them and wipe us out.”