Fear itself: a novel (11 page)

Always grateful for a chance to wear her sunglasses—which not only were pretty, with thick pink rims and lenses shaped like sideways teardrops, but hid her eyes so strangers couldn’t tell right off that she was a Downser (or so she sometimes thought)—Missy padded back inside, leaving the door open. She picked out a pair of plaid Bermuda shorts and a Special Olympics T-shirt from the pile on the sofa bed and took them back into the kitchen so she could look at the flowers in Ganny’s garden while she finished dressing. There were purple morning glories climbing the back fence, glowing in the sunlight, and golden sunflowers taller than Missy, just starting to go to seed.

It took a few tries to get her Deedees—white Adidas cross-trainers—on the correct feet, with the tongues pulled up smooth instead of crumpled and the Velcro straps tight but not too tight. When she had finished, she slung her pink plastic purse that matched her sunglasses over her arm, picked up Tweety’s cage, and left the house via the front door, grim-faced and determined.

“You stay here, Ganny,” she called on her way out. “I’ll go get Simon.”

Alluring as she’d been in the late afternoon, Pebble Beach was somehow even more bewitching in the early morning, with the fog drifting in wisps and tatters across moss-green fairways glistening with dew. And as if to make up to Pender for her behavior the day before—or perhaps, beautiful bitch that she was, just to keep him on the hook a little longer—she showered him with favors. The damp air kept his booming drives from flying too far, the breeze blowing in from the bay kept them dry, and the dewy greens saved more than one overmuscled putt from slipping past the hole and rolling all the way to Maui.

The fog burned off a little before ten, leaving the sky a fresh-scrubbed blue. Pender stepped up to the eighteenth tee shooting eighty-four, laid up right, reached the green in three, and twoputted for a glorious, unashamed bogey: he’d broken ninety.

After their round, and an elegant lunch at Roy’s, over in Spanish Bay—a Kobe beef carpaccio carved so exquisitely thin that the slices were almost transparent—Pender and Dolitz repaired to their two-bedroom suite at the Lodge. Naptime for Sid; time to get down to business for Pender. His first call was to Linda Abruzzi.

“Linda, it’s Pender.”

“Hi, Ed—how’s the vacation going?”

“Good, pretty good. Weather’s great—and I broke ninety at Pebble this morning.”

“Is that good?”

“It is if your handicap’s higher than the drinking age.”

“Have you talked to Dorie Bell yet?”

“At her house last night.”

“MDF?”

“Negative on that—I think this one’s for real.” He started to lay out the plan of action he’d sketched in for Dorie last night.

Linda interrupted him to explain about Maheu and the bank records.

“What an extraordinary asshole,” said Pender when she’d finished. “Let me try to get in touch with McDougal. Liaison Support’s been his baby from the beginning—maybe he’ll let us have this one last hurrah.”

“I haven’t had my first hurrah yet,” said Linda.

“Yeah, well, stick with me, kid.”

Pender’s next call was to McDougal’s office. He was informed that the deputy director would be in conference all afternoon—with Agents Driver, Woods, Irons, and Putter, Pender suspected. He left a message, then phoned Dorie, who wasn’t there either.

“It’s Ed Pender,” he told her machine. Not “Agent Pender”—he had made up his mind to ask her out. “Give me a ring as soon as you can.”

He left her his room number at the Lodge along with his cell phone number. By the time he’d finished, the jet lag he’d been trying to ignore all day finally caught up with him. Quick nap, he promised himself, climbing into bed in his boxers and sleeveless wife-beater strap undershirt, and while waiting for sleep to overtake him, he thought about Dorie Bell. Smart, funny, doing her best to get through a hard time, but constitutionally incapable of cruising in neutral. Handsome woman, too, even with that busted nose. Not to mention that certain something in the way she moved.

Simon Childs retired to his bedroom at dawn. Exhausted as he was from the evening’s exertions, he knew that sleep would not come easily. It never had: he’d been a fretful baby and a restless toddler even before his mother’s departure, and a full-blown insomniac afterward. His sleep disorder manifested in both multiple dyssomnias—difficulty falling asleep, difficulty staying asleep—and parasomnias—night terrors and somnambulism. Medications helped: a triurnal rotation of chloral hydrate, Seconal, and Nembutal prescribed by his grandfather’s tame physicians had seen him through adolescence, while as an adult he’d kept up with every pharmacological advance, legal or otherwise.

His current favorite was Halwane, an experimental, short-acting benzodiazepine that had not yet been approved for the marketplace. Simon had learned about it on the Net, where it was nicknamed Halloween, and convinced his doctor to put him on the protocol, promising to eschew all other drugs for the three months of the FDA-monitored trial. He’d had no intention of keeping his promise, but the drug more than kept its promise: fifteen minutes, then
bam,
you were out; three hours later,
bam,
you were awake.

If only they’d come up with anything half as effective for the blind rat syndrome, thought Simon—what a simple, ordinary life I might have led. For a rich man, anyway.

But without the looming presence of the blind rat, he reminded himself, he’d never have known the highs of the fear game, never have experienced a moment of such radiant perfection as last night, when Dorie looked up from his lap and their eyes met through the mask. Darkness and light, cruelty and tenderness, fear and hope, all in perfect equipoise for once—how in heaven had the world managed to keep turning, Simon wondered.

Realizing he was still far too excited to sleep, even with the benefit of Halwane, Simon decided to approach Morpheus obliquely. First he treated himself to a long hot shower, then smoked a fat doobie of B.C. super-sinsemilla (what the FDA didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them) out on the deck adjoining the suite Grandfather Childs had occupied from 1924, when the house was built, until a few days after he’d cut his own throat, at which time Simon, age fourteen, moved in for keeps.

Best not to think about the old man, though, Simon told himself—not compatible with relaxation. Think about the positives instead: this fine weed, the million-dollar view (more like ten million, these days) of the San Francisco Bay at dawn, and last but certainly not least, having the house all to himself for once—no Missy bleating mo hah, mo hah from the bathroom.

Whoops—not so relaxing, that thought. He wondered how Missy and Ganny were getting along—was she too much for the old woman? Was it too early to call her? Old people rarely slept late.

No,
God bless it! If ever a man was owed a day off, it was Simon Childs. Besides, they were probably as happy as pigs at a trough, those two—if there’d been a problem, Ganny would have called. She wasn’t so decrepit she couldn’t use the telephone.

Having satisfied what he knew to be his cheap slut of a conscience, Simon finished the joint and tossed the roach into the open urn that had originally contained his grandfather’s ashes, washed down a blue Halwane tablet with a shot of Hennessy’s (again, what the FDA didn’t know…).He set his alarm for 10
A
.
M
., then stripped off his robe and climbed into bed naked, sighing with pleasure at the feel of the cool pearl-gray sheets against his bare skin. To relax himself while waiting for the Halwane to take effect, he cast his thoughts backward through time and hooked a juicy plum of a memory.

Summer, 1959. A new family is going to be moving in next door, Grandfather Childs announces at the dinner table. “The boy looks to be about your age, Simp.” That’s short for Simple, which in turn is short for Simple Simon. “Maybe you can make friends with him—although I doubt it.”

That’s a sore point for the ten-year-old Simon—he doesn’t make friends easily. But a few weeks later, when the moving van pulls up next door, Ganny bakes a welcome-to-the-neighborhood cake, and Simon is deputized to deliver it. Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter remind Simon of Ozzie and Harriet. They call Nelson down; turns out he’s a year younger than Simon. In eighth grade, when Simon reads
Great Expectations,
the description of the pale young gentleman will resonate for him—in his mind’s eye he will picture Nelson Carpenter, his nervous mannerisms; his indoor complexion, so doughy white it looked as though if you poked him with your finger, it would leave an impression; his red-rimmed eyes; and his longish straw-colored hair.

Mrs. C., a hovering, overprotective mother, cuts them each a thick slice of Ganny’s cake, unpacks the kitchen stools, the milk glasses, and the chocolate crazy straws, then flutters away reluctantly to supervise the movers. When they’re done eating, Simon announces that they’re going to go play at his house now, then hops off the stool and starts for the back door. He doesn’t turn to see if Nelson is following him—somehow he just knows it.

He takes Nelson to meet Ganny and Missy; luckily for the skittish younger boy, Grandfather Childs is at the office. And the pale young gentleman definitely passes the Missy test: he doesn’t make fun of her or—it’s a big word, but Simon knows what it means—patronize her. In fact, Nelson and Missy get along almost too well; Simon takes Nelson up to his room so he can have his new friend all to himself.

“Wanna see Skinny?” Simon asks.

“Who’s Skinny?”

“My pet.”

“Is it a dog or a cat? I’m kind of scared of dogs and cats.”

“Nope.”

“Bird?”

“Nope.”

“Fish?”

“BZZZZ.”
Simon sounds the imaginary game-show buzzer. “You’re outta guesses.” He hauls Skinny’s cage out from under the bed.

“A snake!” Nelson mouths the words.

“Yup. Genuine striped mamba, most poisonous snake in the whole world. One bite and your dick falls off and you die.”

Skinny is a common garter, of course—Simon’s venomous snake days are still in the future—but Nelson obviously doesn’t know that. He goes stiff and still, only he’s kind of quivering too, like Daffy Duck at the North Pole, like if you whacked him he’d break into a million tiny pieces. Simon feels himself getting a stiffy. He unzips his khaki shorts and works it through the fly of his whities until it’s poking out.

“Kiss it,” he tells Nelson. “Just once. If you kiss it, I won’t let him get you.”

“You promise?” asks little Nelson, still frozen, still quivering.

“Trust me,” little Simon replies.

Three hours after taking the Halwane, Simon awoke feeling as refreshed as if he’d enjoyed a full night’s sleep and sporting a wake-up erection. Haven’t had one like this in years, he thought, admiring his uncharacteristic arousal in the bedroom mirror. Good stuff, that Halwane—have to save a few for the getaway bag.

Or maybe it wasn’t the Halwane that was responsible for the erection. Maybe it was thinking about Nelson before he went to sleep. Have to look old Nellie up again, one of these days. Last time Simon had checked, he still lived in Concord, in the house he’d bought after his parents died. And the statute of limitations had probably already run out on the whole Grandfather Childs thing—manslaughter, at worst—which meant the delicate balance, the two-way blackmail that had kept them apart all these years, no longer applied.

Or maybe it wasn’t Nelson or the Halwane—maybe it was the prospect of the morning’s game that had Simon so excited. In which case, he had been right to save the best for last, he told himself. Or at least for later—with the blind rat lurking about, Simon knew there could never really be a last.

Headache. The kind of headache with roots so deep you feel it in your gut. And sore all over, like after a car wreck. Like that time she wrecked Daddy’s car.

I’m sorry. Daddy, I’m so sorry.

And Daddy says,
As long as you’re safe, sweetheart—that’s all that matters.

But the Chrysler—it’s totaled.

That’s why we have insurance, sweetheart. You rest now.

Okay, Daddy.

A few minutes—or a few seconds, or a few hours—later, Dorie opened her eyes to blackness, true, impenetrable blackness. As a painter, she knew what a rare thing that was. You didn’t often find it in nature, not aboveground, anyway.

The mattress smelled of bleach. She sat up slowly, taking inventory. Headache, cotton mouth. Bruised and battered. Cold. No clothes, where are my—

Two masks appeared. They weren’t there, and then, impossibly, they were. Tragedy and comedy, a frown and a grin, glowing in midair, surrounded by darkness. Dorie moaned and covered her eyes, which would not close of their own accord, then counted to ten and spread her fingers apart, peeked through the cracks into the darkness, and saw only the darkness. No grin, no frown—had they even been there in the first place?

Dorie drew her knees up and crossed her arms over her breasts, hugging herself for warmth. Got to figure this out. Last thing—what’s the last thing you remember? Musical clothes. Upstairs trying on clothes. Blue shirt—my blue denim. But why? Going out? No, somebody coming over. Who? Her memory inched forward. Doorbell rings. Big bald guy on the doorstep. Brown beret, easy grin, Pebble Beach sweatshirt, tragic plaid pants. And his name, his name is, his name is Pender, and he’s here because he’s here because he’s here because…

Then she had it, all of it. Carl, Kim, Mara, Wayne. A psychopath who preys on phobics, feeds on fear. Carl, Kim, Mara, Wayne, and now me. She moaned again and hugged herself tighter, tried to tell herself that this wasn’t happening, that it couldn’t be happening, because things like this just didn’t happen. Dreams happened, though—wake up, you big turkey. You know how to wake up—you just open your…