Free A Fatal Frame of Mind by William Rabkin Page B

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.
    Shawn glanced over at the man and saw . Saw the darker tan on his left arm. Saw the way the kids turned only to their mother to plead their case. Saw the faint traces of bruising around his right eye.
    “He’s a long-haul trucker,” Shawn said. “Spends twenty-three days of every month on the road, and then he’s forced to go home to that lovely family. His wife made him take them to Santa Barbara on vacation in hopes of bringing the magic back to their marriage, but when they went to the beach he spent the whole time staring at young girls in bikinis, and the missus has been furious with him ever since. Now all he wants is to take the family back to Idaho, get in his rig, and drive as far from home as he can possibly get.”
    “You can’t know that,” Gus said.
    “Can’t I?” Shawn said.
    “No, you can’t,” Gus said.
    Shawn cast another glance at the man, who was now glowering openly at them. “Well, there is another possibility,” he said.
    “What’s that?”
    “That he isn’t a trucker at all,” Shawn said. “And that isn’t really his family. It’s all part of an elaborate cover.”
    Gus felt his throat tightening. He knew the answer to his next question, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking it anyway. “Cover for what?”
    “For his role in Kitteredge’s conspiracy,” Shawn said. “He knows the professor is going to have to come back here, and he’s waiting to take him out. But he also knows that we’re here to help. And he’s going to do whatever it takes to stop us.”
    Gus felt the lemon–poppy seed cake re-forming into a solid slab in his stomach. “Do you really think that’s possible?” he said.
    “I don’t know,” Shawn said. “But we can ask him when he gets here.”
    Gus looked back over to the trucker’s table. The man was gone. He scanned the room and found him heading straight for their table.
    “What do we do?” Gus said.
    “The question is, what can he do?” Shawn said. “This is a public place, and we’re surrounded by one hundred and twenty-six other people, not counting the members of his fake family. And statistically, it’s highly unlikely that they’re all members of the conspiracy. If he tries anything, there are going to be lots of witnesses.”
    Gus felt a pulse of relief surge through him. “So the only thing he can do is reveal himself to us,” he said.
    “Exactly,” Shawn said. “Unless he doesn’t care about his own safety, in which case he could kill us both and then take himself out. That’s the kind of thing crazed conspirators do, isn’t it?”
    Gus could have sworn he’d eaten only one piece of that cake. But now it felt like there was an entire bakery’s worth hardening in his gut. He thought about jumping up from the table and running for the exit, but if this man really was a crazed killer sent by the conspiracy, there was no chance he’d be able to get away. Not if the assassin didn’t care about his own life.
    There was only one chance—to stay and fight. He slid his hand onto the tabletop and felt for the knife he’d put on the tray out of habit as they went through the serving line. The blade flexed under his fingers—it was made of thin white plastic, and it would snap in two if it ever hit the slightest obstacle, like a piece of lettuce. But Gus knew from painful experience that when it did break, the larger piece would have a jagged point. It couldn’t possibly penetrate anything harder than pudding, but Gus could always aim for the killer’s eyes and hope at least to cause the same level of pain as a piece of dust on the eyeball.
    As Gus tightened his grip on his weapon, the man stepped up to their table and glowered down at them.
    “It’s over,” he said in a voice filled with menace.
    “On the contrary,” Shawn said. “I think it’s