Timothy Hallinan - The Fear Artist

Then why is he so frightened?

Murphy is pacing the rear office area of a sixth-floor clothing store, fighting a case of the jitters and telling Andrea Fallon, the aging Khao San junkie posing as Helen Eckersley, for the third time what she’s supposed to do when Rafferty finally shows up. He knows he’s repeating himself, but some little animal in his chest is clawing to get his attention. Andrea is just barely not rolling her eyes when his cell phone rings. He glances at the readout, which says ALARM.

As he looks at the word, the little animal in his chest begins to use its teeth. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Murphy, we’ve got an entry at your house, but someone there diverted the alarm to the telephones. No one is answering.”

“How long ago?”

“How long-”

“How long since the relay came through your office to ring the phones?”

“A little less than fifteen minutes.”

“What the fuck have you been doing for fifteen minutes?”

“We didn’t have this number in the main file. We had to look at your forms-”

“You dumb shit.” Murphy punches the DISCONNECT button so hard he cracks the screen. “Get out of here,” he says to Fallon. “Call me tomorrow for the rest of your money.”

“Yeah, right,” Fallon says, “and you’ll mail me the check.” She holds out her hand, palm up. “Gimme.”

“Oh, sure,” Murphy says. “Sure thing.” He grabs her upper arm, pinching the area between the bicep and the bone viciously enough to make her gasp. With his other hand he seizes her wrist and brings her open hand up into her face, with enough force to send her staggering back to the wall, blood streaming from her split lip. “Clean yourself up and get out of here.”

He leaves her leaning against the wall, swearing at him, and goes out into the store. Despite the external display of anger, there’s a kind of glee at his center, and his vision and hearing are amplified. He feels like he could hear a whisper a mile away. It’s a state of consciousness he loves.

The immediate problem, of course, is getting out. If Rafferty’s not here, he’s got someone else here, on the lookout. The store is obviously being watched. The only way out without taking the escalator, in full view of a thousand people, is the staircase he came up. The entrance to the stairs is about eight meters from the door to the shop. Left, from his perspective.

As always when he’s in this state, ideas announce themselves to him complete and fully formed.

“You,” he says softly to the woman who seems to be in charge. “Don’t say no, don’t give me any shit, don’t attract any attention, just do what I tell you to do, or three days from now there’ll be a toy store in this space. Are you listening?”‘

“Yes,” she says, and a part of him registers the thick, badly applied makeup, the sickly perfume with the pampered-animal smell beneath it, the fragility of her neck.

“That one, over there,” he says, pointing at a salesgirl who, like the manager, is as tall and lean as a fashion model. “Get her.”

While the woman scurries to do his bidding, Murphy puts his hands under one of the heavy rods the dresses hang from and pushes up. As he hoped it would, it lifts easily from the wall bracket. He pulls it down and steps behind the counter, where he tilts the rod until all the clothes slide to the floor, leaving him holding a round bar about seven feet in length. To the two approaching women, their eyes on the spill of clothes, he says, “The longest things you’ve got, dresses, coats, I don’t care what they are, but they’ve got to be long. Understand?”

The manager starts to say something, but Murphy feels his eyes widen, and she retreats, calling instructions in Thai to the other woman. Customers are beginning to pay attention as the two of them scoop clothes from displays everywhere in the store, throw them over their arms and shoulders, and hurry back to Murphy, who holds the pole horizontal.

“Hang ’em up. Jam them together. I want a wall, you got it?” He holds the bar by one end, the other end slanted up slightly, and the women hook hangers over it until it’s about three-quarters full, the clothes sliding down to his end to be smashed together by gravity. Murphy says, “Fill it up.”

The saleswoman says, “The clothes ,” and Murphy whirls on her so fast that some of the hangers fly off the other end of the rod. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

A customer backs out of the store, followed by another.

The saleswoman takes off at a run. Fifteen seconds later the rod is packed with hanging clothes. Murphy shoves the garments on the near end together to bare about a foot of rod. “On your shoulder,” he says to the manager. Then he clears the other end and sets it, not particularly gently, on the salesgirl’s shoulder. “Put your hand on it, stupid. If it falls off, you’ll be sorry for the rest of your short, shitty life. Now, stay there.”

He goes toward the door of the shop, turns his back to it, and pulls a revolver out of the holster at the center of his spine. “Hey!” he shouts, although everyone in the shop is staring at him. “This is a national security incident.” He repeats the words “national security” in Thai. “We have a threat, but nobody’s going to get hurt if you do what I say.” He holds up his cell phone with his free hand. “I want to see your cell phones, right now, and I mean everyone. If you don’t show me a cell phone and I find one on you, you won’t go home tonight. Get them out and hold them up.”

Every person in the store-five customers and three employees-holds up a phone. “Put them on that table full of T-shirts, near the front door. Do not go out of the shop. You, you, you. Go to the table and drop your phone on it, then come back. Keep your hands in sight. Good. Now turn around and go through that door in the back. He waves the revolver at the door. “You’ll stay there for five minutes. In five minutes come out. Everyone understand?”

A few people reply automatically, but most of them head for the door, moving fast, as though they’re anticipating a bullet in the back. When the door has closed behind the last of them, Murphy shouts, “Five minutes!” Then, to the two women, he says, “I’m going to get behind these clothes, and when I say ‘Walk,’ we’re going to walk at normal speed. Outside the door we’ll turn left, all moving together, until we get to the stairs. Then we’re going through that door, all together. Both of you got it?”

The women nod, and the store manager clears her throat, licks her lips, and says, “Yes.”

“No hurrying, nothing out of the ordinary. You’re just a couple of women carrying a lot of clothes, okay? There’s a truck waiting down there, and you’re just taking them down the stairs, right?”

“Fine,” says the manager.

“Keep me in the middle, same distance from both of you. Go at the count of three. Carefully, so nothing happens to the clothes. Ready. One. Two. Three.”

They’re both taller than he is, but he hunches down anyway. He knows he’s invisible from below. It’s a watcher a level up that worries him.

And that’s precisely where Janos is, drinking his third cup of coffee, shifting from foot to foot and wishing with some intensity that he could take a bathroom break. He’s been staring for almost twenty minutes at the front of the store that Murphy went into, and it feels like an hour. The woman has gone into the store, too, and she hasn’t come out yet, so he’s stuck here. He has no idea where Shen is, although Rafferty hadn’t seemed worried about Shen. But it’s sloppy. He needs half a dozen people, with radios, to do this right.

He’s pulling out his phone to give Vladimir a piece of his mind when the women come out, carrying what looks like a whole rack of clothes. He goes up on tiptoe to see whether he can look over it, but he can’t; he’d have to be practically on top of them to do that.