Fear itself: a novel (17 page)

An enthusiastic nod, a delighted grin—she was clearly tickled to have made herself understood.

“Could you get him for me?”

“Ohhh no.” The nod turned to a shake. There was a wary quality to her grin now; it no longer lit up her eyes. Pender, who read nonverbal responses the way poetry lovers read verse, was immediately intrigued.
Something
was making the woman uncomfortable—the basement? interrupting Simon? interrupting Simon
in
the basement?—and whatever it was had set off his cop radar.

“Why not?” After spending his entire adult life in law enforcement, although Pender still couldn’t have said for sure whether cop radar was something old FBI agents developed or whether they just didn’t get to be old FBI agents without it, he had definitely learned to trust it.

“Gary,” said the woman.

“Somebody named Gary’s down there?”

Her shoulders slumped. A lifetime of not being understood, thought Pender. He slapped himself on the forehead comically. “I’m such a stupidhead. Give me one more chance?”

“Gary, gary.” She hugged herself and pantomimed a mock shudder.

“Scary—it’s scary down there.”

“Yeah.”

“I know what you mean—basements can be scary places. If you’d like, I could go down there with you.”

The shudder was genuine this time.

“Or I could go down by myself—you wouldn’t even have to go.”

She said something he couldn’t quite make out—I hate him? I’ll get him?—and turned away, leaving the door ajar. Pender thought about it for a good two, two and half seconds (since she lacked the mental capacity to give informed consent, it wouldn’t exactly have been a kosher entry even if she’d invited him in, which she hadn’t), then followed her inside.

Warm water, no pain. Strawberry bubble bath—Missy’s favorite, as Dorie recalled. She leaned back, rounding her shoulders to fit the curving metal sides of the tub.

“Feeling better?” asked the now unmasked Simon. He was sitting on an overturned milk carton next to the tub with his knees drawn up and his chin cradled in his palm like Rodin’s
Thinker.

“Much better.” True enough: even knowing she was going to die soon, this was paradise compared to her last thirty-six hours—or however long it had been. Simon had given her a Percodan for her pain, and equally important, a glass of water to wash it down with, and though he’d immediately retied her ankles after helping her into the tub, he’d subsequently untied her wrists so she could wash herself. It felt good to have her hands free again; she’d almost forgotten what it was like. And as for the trade-off—the Percodan, in addition to taking away her pain, had also taken all the fight out of her—she was scarcely aware of it.

Simon, however, for all his languid posing, was dialed in dead center, acutely attuned to every nuance of Dorie’s mood, every fluctuation of her spirit. He knew they didn’t have much time left together, but he was hoping to make the most of it. First, though, he had to get her relaxed and off her guard again—not an easy task, given the circumstances.

“Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

“I was a few hours ago. I don’t think I could eat anything now.”

“Well, just let me know.”

“I will.”

Dense silence, broken only by the sound of the bathwater lapping hollowly against the sides of the tub when Dorie shifted her position and the whistle of air through her broken nose on the tail end of each exhale. The term
awkward pause
didn’t begin to cover it. Simon tried once more to get a conversation going. “I like your hair up like that.” Absent a comb or hairpin, she had twisted her brown braid into a precariously balanced bun.

Dorie closed her eyes. The painkiller had given her a new kind of courage—the courage not to care.

He tried again: “What do you think of this Y2K deal?”

“Doesn’t matter to me—I’m not going to be around for it, am I?”

“That depends,” said Simon. Over the years he had learned the importance of leaving his victims with a little hope. Without hope, there was no fear. But he could tell she didn’t believe him—she didn’t even ask the almost automatic question: depends on what? Instead she turned away, picked up the bath sponge, squeezed it over her head. Her eyes were closed just long enough for him to slip on the Kabuki mask he’d been holding on his lap, out of her line of sight. It must have seemed to her as if it had appeared out of nowhere. Again he felt the shock pass between them like an electric current. Then her eyelids fluttered, her eyeballs rolled back in her head, and her head drooped forward onto her chest.

Now, he thought—do it now, don’t be greedy. All he had to do was put his hand on top of her head, shove her down under the water, and hold her there. She might not even wake up—so much the better for her. And if she did wake up, if she struggled a little, so much the better for him.

“Page
him—you’re
paging
him.” The penny hadn’t dropped for Pender until Childs’s sister pushed the button on the two-way pager clipped to the railing of the hospital bed set up by the tall, arched windows at the far end of the high-ceilinged, oak-beamed living room.

She held up the device in one hand, pointed to it with the other, pursed her lips, and shook her head sadly—it was a
duh
face if Pender had ever seen one.

“Is this
your
bed?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“Are you ill?”

She tapped her chest. “Ticker.”

Just like his nephew, Stan. “I bet you’re supposed to be
in
bed.”

A sly grin. “’Posed to.”

“C’mon, in you go.” Pender helped her back up onto the bed, pulled the covers up to her rib cage, and was tucking in the corners when he realized they were no longer alone. He turned slowly, saw a slender man in black slouched casually in the archway next to the massive fieldstone fireplace, arms folded at his chest, weight on one leg, one slippered foot crossed nonchalantly over the other as if he were modeling clothes in a magazine ad.

Pender let the details register: white male, early fifties, approximately six foot one, approximately one hundred and sixty pounds. Cleft chin, trim gray mustache, sleepy eyes, silver hair, prominent widow’s peak. Black slippers, black pleated slacks; the cuffs of his blousy black shirt were turned up.

“Mr. Childs?”

A nod—barely perceptible.

“Special Agent Pender, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Childs. He crossed the room, held out his hand. His handshake was surprisingly firm, given his languid manner; his palm was cold and damp, as if he’d only just dried it. “I see you’ve met Missy.”

“I’m afraid I got her out of bed.”

“Not your fault—she’s supposed to have a nurse with her at all times.” Childs turned to Missy, asked where the nurse was. The reply was unintelligible, at least to Pender.

“Mr. Childs, is there someplace we can talk privately?”

“Sure, follow me. And Missy—no more getting out of bed. If you need anything, just holler—we’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Peachy keen,” replied Missy.

Simon’s beeper had gone off just as he was bending over the tub. He’d given the other unit, Missy’s unit, to the nurse, with instructions to beep him only in the event of an emergency, so when the summons came he’d rushed upstairs, expecting to find Nurse Apple performing CPR on Missy—or pulling the sheet up over her face: that was the first, unacceptable image that had crossed his mind.

When instead he found Pender tenderly tucking Missy into bed, recognized him as the man he’d last seen talking to Dorie over her kitchen table, then learned that he was an FBI agent, a flood of conflicting emotions washed over Simon—relief over Missy, then panic, then the rage that invariably followed panic. He knew better than to act on it, though, and by the time Pender turned around, Simon had mastered his emotions well enough to deliver an I’d- like-to-thank-the-Academy performance. And now it was Pender who was off
his
guard. Turning his back.

If only I had some kind of weapon, thought Simon. The knives were all stowed away in a high, Missy-proof cabinet on the far side of the room. Nearer to hand, however, suspended from the rack above the central butcher-block workspace, hung Ganny Wilson’s three cast-iron skillets. Papa Bear, Mama Bear, Baby Bear, Little Simon used to call them. Papa Bear would be too heavy to swing, Baby too light to do much damage, but Mama Bear—Mama Bear would be just right. Somehow Simon knew in advance exactly what it would feel like: the blow would be cushioned by the thin wool fabric of Pender’s beret; the shock would travel all the way up Simon’s arm to his shoulder.

First, though, he needed to find out what Pender already knew. It couldn’t be too much, or he’d never have shown up alone like this. Would he have time to break out Plan B, which involved grabbing Missy and the getaway bag and heading south of the border, to Dr. Andrew Keene’s secure condo in Puerto Vallarta? Simon had to know—Mama Bear would just have to wait.

Simon adopted what he hoped was an appropriately concerned, mildly puzzled John-Q.-Citizen-dealing-with-the-fuzz expression: “So, what can I do for you, Agent Pender?”

“Do you know Dorie Bell?”

“Yes—she’s a friend of mine.”

“Where did you meet?” With a suspect, as opposed to a witness, you always ask a few questions you already know the answer to first—give them a chance to lie early, save everybody some time.

“We met at the PWSPD convention in Las Vegas.”

“When was the last time you were in Carmel?”

“Missy and I were down there around the end of June. We had a wonderful time—visited the Aquarium, drove down to—”

Oh-ho, thought Pender. The first two answers had been unequivocal; this one sounded more as if Childs was trying to lead the conversation away from the question. “Excuse me, Mr. Childs? Are you saying that was the
last
time you were in Carmel. In June?” Polite, but dubious enough to draw Childs out—if the guy was dirty, he’d start tap-dancing anytime now.

And sure enough: “Are
you
saying it
wasn’t?”

“How would
I
know?”

“Agent Pender, what’s this all about?”

Tap dancing? The guy was turning into fucking Bojangles. “Mr. Childs, we have reason to believe Miss Bell has been kidnapped.”

And Childs followed his lead fluidly: “No! Oh, my God, poor Dorie. What do they want?”

“Who?”

“The kidnappers. If it’s money, I could—”

“It’s not money, Mr. Childs. When was the last time you spoke to Ms. Bell?”

Simon saw his chance, and took it. “Yesterday morning. She was planning to drive down to Los Angeles with some guy she’d met.”

By now, Pender was feeling the chill he’d told Linda always to trust. If he’d had his SIG Sauer with him, he’d have pulled it now, held Childs at gunpoint until the tac squad arrived, then claimed that Childs had attacked him so the entry and search would be kosher.

Of course, Pender knew there was also a possibility that both he and his hunch were entirely full of shit, and that either Dorie had changed her mind or he had misunderstood her when she told him she’d be around all day Thursday, and that the chill he was feeling was only the sweat drying on his Ban Lon shirt—Lord knows he’d been wrong before. But what he wasn’t going to do at this point, right or wrong, gun or no gun, was leave Childs alone long enough to kill Dorie—if she wasn’t dead yet—then make a run for it.

Which meant he’d have to do a little fancy dancing himself. “Really! Los Angeles, you say.” He started to reach for his trusty notebook, then remembered that he was no longer carrying it. “This man she’d just met—did she happen to give you a name?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Childs, edging to his left.

It seemed to Pender that the man was trying to ease around behind him. Like a fighter trying to avoid being cornered, Pender edged to his own left. “Did she tell you anything at all about him?”

“Excuse me?”

That was a bad sign—if Childs was no longer paying attention to the questions, he was probably preparing to make his move.

“Never mind.” They had casually circled each other; one more quick step, and Childs was no longer between Pender and the doorway. Whatever he’s planning, he won’t want to do it in front of Missy, thought Pender, turning suddenly and starting back down the hallway toward the living room.

Childs caught up, grabbed Pender’s elbow. Stronger than he looks, thought Pender. He kept going, towing Childs impersonally in his wake like a big dog straining at its leash. Just as they reached the living room, a middle-aged nurse wearing a cardigan sweater over her uniform appeared in the archway on the far side of the room, holding an empty birdcage aloft like a brakeman’s lantern.

There had been a moment of surrender, no denying that. The second time Dorie faked a syncope, it wasn’t to lull Simon, like the first time, it was to lull herself. Close your eyes, let go. It’s not real anyway—you’ve dreamed it a thousand times. Maybe not exactly like this, in a metal tub in a basement, the mask face leaning over you, the surprisingly gentle hand pressed against your forehead, urging you down, down, under the warm, soapy, strawberry-scented water—but you knew it would be
something
like this.

Just let go, she told herself—either you wake up or you don’t. And if you don’t, maybe you see the light at the end of the tunnel. Dorie found it easy to believe in the light—she just wasn’t so sure what came after. But whatever it is, she thought, sooner or later we all find out.

Just let go.

No light, no tunnel. No hand over her face, no mask looming over her. Just the rapidly cooling water and a sense that she was alone in the dark again. So much for surrender; so much for letting go.