“No!” The word was out of Gus’ mouth before he could stop it.
Shepler wheeled around. “Who said that?”
Gus tried to stay absolutely still. Shepler watched them all carefully for a moment, then shrugged. He turned back to Veronica, raising the gun to her head.
Gus dived for the ground and grabbed the only weapon he could find. Before Shepler could aim the gun, Gus hurled the glass directly at his head. The throw was perfectly aimed, the force was enough to take his head off his shoulders. Unfortunately, before it connected with its target Shepler stepped out of the way, and the glass sailed past him, shattering against the far wall.
“That was a special Baccarat pattern made solely for Mr. Steele,” Shepler said as he aimed the gun at Gus. “Now I can only have two hundred forty-nine people over for dinner.”
Shepler’s finger tightened on the trigger. Gus rolled along the floor until he could scramble to his feet. He bolted for the door, but the handle wouldn’t turn.
“Don’t you remember? Shawn asked me to lock you all in.” Shepler leveled the gun at Gus.
“Don’t you want to explain your master plan?” Gus said, still trying to make the door work. “Or maybe make me watch you execute all my friends before you lock me in the dungeon to suffer for hours with the memory burning in my brain?”
“Because I care so much about what you think? Are you always this arrogant?”
Shepler was moving closer. Not so close that Gus had any hope of grabbing the gun, just near enough there was no chance of missing.
Gus only had one prayer. Shawn. Maybe he was coming out of his trance. Maybe he’d been faking all along. Maybe he could be sneaking up on Shepler as they spoke.
Gus risked a glance in his direction. He wasn’t. He hadn’t. He couldn’t.
But one part of him was moving. Shawn’s eyes were shifting back and forth urgently. Gus followed his gaze and let it lead him to the harpist.
“He doesn’t even want to give a speech. He’s not going to go for a flashback,” Gus said.
Shawn’s eyes widened slightly and shifted quickly back toward the harpist. Now Gus saw what he was indicating. The harp case stood open behind her.
Shepler took another step toward Gus. There was no chance he could miss from this distance. “I’ve seen that movie, too. You pretend to talk to someone, I turn around to see who it is, blah blah blah.”
“Shawn?” It was Tara’s voice. She was blinking slowly, as if trying to focus.
This time Shepler did turn his head, and Gus took advantage of the moment. He dived to the ground, sliding across the slick marble like a puck on an air-hockey table, crashing into the harp and toppling it with a musical crash. As bullets smashed into the wall behind him, Gus rolled over and pulled himself behind the open case. He crouched down, wishing that Shawn had brought someone who played an even bigger instrument.
“Do you really think they make harp cases bulletproof?” Shepler said. “It’s not like there’s a big demand for them in war zones.”
There were three shots, and three holes appeared in the top of the case. “Nope, not bulletproof,” Shepler said. “Let’s see if you are.”
There was nowhere to run. There was nowhere to hide. There was only one chance, and it was as slight as they come.
“Tara!”
“Gus,” Shepler said wearily, “when a drugged-out zombie is your only hope, you might as well pack it in.”
“Tara, Mr. Shepler put pickles on Shawn’s burger!”
Gus pulled his head down to his knees and waited for the impact of the bullet into his body. And waited.
There was no gunshot, just a muffled crack, and then a thump. And after a moment, Tara’s pleading voice.
“Gus, I think Mr. Shepler fell down the stairs.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Santa Barbara chilled under a blanket of fog. Across the city, smoke was pouring out of fireplace chimneys, furnaces were roaring for the first time in months, and the homeless who had moved here for the weather were bundled in multiple copies of the Times.
Somehow, however, the impound office was as hot as ever. It seemed to be made out of a miraculous new kind of tin that would let heat in but never allow it out.
Of course that could be partly due to the fact that it was crammed full of people. The day after the Eagle’s View affair, when the hallucinogen’s twelve-hour effectiveness had worn off and all its victims had been released from the hospital, Bert Coules demanded that Shawn be arrested for his outrageous accusation. Chief Vick wouldn’t accede to that, since there was no law against maligning public officials. But she did strongly urge Shawn to either prove what he’d said or take it back before Coules found some statute to hold him on.
Gus thought this showed a good deal of ingratitude. After all they had solved the murder of Dallas Steele and had helped bring his killer to justice. Or, if not exactly justice, death. Either way Shepler wouldn’t get what he’d been planning on, which was complete control of the Steele estate once it passed to the Dallas Steele Foundation, of which he had been the executive director.
Tara had been captured, and was undergoing observation at an upscale spalike psychiatric hospital where she’d probably spend the rest of her life, thanks to Veronica Mason Steele’s generosity. If she ever stood trial, she might easily be sentenced to multiple centuries in prison. But it would be hard for even the toughest prosecutor to find her sane enough to stand trial when she honestly seemed to believe that the dead podiatrist in the trunk of her stolen car had ended up there by falling down a flight of stairs.
Even so, the police refused to take Shawn’s word that the city’s district attorney was also a murderer. So Shawn had arranged a demonstration, and because of-or maybe despite-the results of his last gathering, this one was well-attended. Chief Vick had brought Detective Lassiter, Detective O’Hara, and several uniformed officers, while Coules had come on his own. Henry Spencer was there with a large scrapbook in one arm and Mindy in the other. And of course, Alicia the harpist had set up her instrument in the corner. Arno Galen was nowhere to be seen since, as Shawn cheerfully admitted, he’d only had him brought to Eagle’s View to annoy him.
“Before we start,” Shawn said cheerfully, “who wants a beverage?”
The others glared at him. Even Gus struggled to find the humor.
“Get on with it, Spencer,” Coules growled.
“Okay, but I’m warning you, we’re going to need flashbacks. Are you ready, Alicia?”
From the corner, she let loose a series of glissandos.
“That’s enough.” Shawn held up a hand to stop her. “We’re only going back a few weeks. Now I need a volunteer from the audience.” He scanned the crowd packed into the tiny space, then pointed at Lassiter. “You, sir, step up behind the counter, please.”
Lassiter didn’t move. Chief Vick leaned over and whispered in his ear. He scowled, but he shuffled over to take the place of the attendant.
“First I want you to assure the audience that we’ve never met and that I haven’t given you any direction on what to do,” Shawn said.
“We have met more times than I care to count,” Lassiter said. “And, in fact, you’ve not only told me what you wanted-you typed out a script. There’s only one ‘s’ in ‘genius,’ by the way.”
“Sorry. The key sticks,” Gus said.
“Can we just get on with this farce?” Coules said. “I have criminals to prosecute.”
Shawn turned to his audience and bowed. “Allow me to set the scene. We’re in a tin shack that passes for an impound office. It’s well over a hundred degrees inside. And two intrepid young sleuths come in on a desperate rescue mission. Alicia!”
The harpist let loose with a brief glissando. Shawn and Gus stepped up to the counter. Lassiter glared at
