Jonathan Nasaw - Fear itself

Unless of course the association was nothing but an Internet dummy, something the killer had set up in order to provide himself with a pool of victims. Which, Pender realized, would make the man who was financing the operation either a complete sucker, an accomplice, or the killer himself. Which meant in turn that it was high time somebody interviewed Mr. Simon Childs, of Berkeley. Somebody cautious enough to show up on Mr. Childs’s doorstep without advance notice, somebody experienced enough to ascertain what Mr. Childs knew without alerting him to the fact that he was under suspicion.

Pender had nominated himself, of course-and there were no other candidates.

The address had been in the phone book: 2500 Grizzly Rock Road, Berkeley. The house was built of weathered stone and dark timbers. The front door, rough-planed black oak, was opened by a short, fat, balding woman wearing footed pink pajamas under a pink robe. Her complexion was mottled, white as a chronic shut-in around the eyes, brick-red, ointment-smeared patches of sunburn on her cheeks and brow, and she appeared to be almost as out of breath as Pender.

“Heyyo.” Deep voice, unmodulated. Down Syndromer-this would be the sister Dorie had mentioned. Older than Pender had pictured-but then, DSers tended to live a lot longer nowadays. “Hi. Is Simon home?”

And although he couldn’t comprehend all that she said next, thanks to the time he’d spent with his sister Ida’s son, Stan, who’d also survived to middle age but had passed away a few years ago, Pender understood enough of it that when she concluded by pointing downward, he understood. “Simon’s in the basement?”

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.