Jonathan Nasaw - Fear itself

So Nelson gathered up his courage (and it would be a mistake to think that severe phobics are lacking in courage: it took more nerve for Nelson to leave his house once a week than it would for most of us to bungee-jump off the Golden Gate Bridge), muted the television, tiptoed over to the door, and put his eye to the peephole.

Oh, Mama! He gasped and drew his head back sharply. Toxic clouds, escaped convicts? Bring ’em on-there was nothing Nelson wouldn’t rather have seen through the fish-eye lens than what he saw, no monster that wouldn’t have been more welcome at his door than the one standing there now. He tried to tell himself he might have been mistaken-after all, he hadn’t seen his childhood companion since the sixties-but in his bones, and by the fluttering of his heart and the tightening of his scrotum, Nelson knew better. This was it, this was what he’d really been afraid of all these years, this was the worst-case scenario.

“Open the door, Nellie,” called Simon, when he saw the peephole darken. “Open the door, ol’ buddy.”

“Go away.”

“Is that any way to treat an old friend?” Nice and calm, Simon told himself-you owned the boy, you own the man.

“We had a deal.”

“Circumstances have changed.”

“I’ll call the police. I’ll tell them about your grandfather-I’ll tell them everything.”

“Yesterday’s news.”

“There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

Manslaughter, thought Simon-then it occurred to him he could turn Nelson’s misconception to his own advantage. “There’s no bail, either-perhaps they’ll let us share a cell.”

Simon waited for the click of a lock or the snick of a bolt, and was faintly surprised not to hear one. That should have done it, he thought; and maybe it had-although it had been quite a few years since he’d last seen Nelson paralyzed by fear, Simon had never forgotten what a moving sight it was.

“Nellie…? Nellie, we both know you’re going to open this door; let’s just get it-”

And for the first time in thirty years, the childhood friends were face-to-face. The pale young gentleman had aged, but his hair was still the same shade of washed-out blond, still too long-he’d always been afraid of barbers. “How did you find me?” he asked dully.

“My spies are everywhere,” said Simon, slipping past him into the house. He glanced around disapprovingly at the avocado walls and beige carpeting, track lighting, built-in knickknack crannies, faux-white-brick facing on the fireplace; Julia Morgan would have puked. “We’ll catch up later-right now we need to get my car out of your driveway before anybody notices it.”

“There’s no room in the garage.”

“Make room.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” Nelson locked the front door behind him.

Simon slipped his arm around Nelson companionably. “Buddy, I’m in all kinds of trouble.”

“If I help you, will you leave me alone?”

“It doesn’t work that way, Nellie,” Simon whispered into his ear; his breath was warm and moist, his tone unbearably intimate. “Not for you and me.”

Emergency rooms, with their gurneys, sparsely furnished cubicles, rolling carts, folding screens, and curtained-off beds, had always seemed to Pender to have a sort of makeshift feel about them, as if they were temporary, and not very well suited, accommodations to be utilized until permanent quarters were ready. He couldn’t wait to get out; as soon as his cast was dry and his arm in a sling, he went searching for Dorie.

She wasn’t hard to find-a uniformed cop was stationed on a folding chair outside the door of her cubicle. He recognized Pender, tipped him a little salute, then leaned over without getting up, and opened the door for him.

“Helluva job,” said the cop.

“Sure is,” Pender replied pleasantly.

“No, I mean you did a helluva job.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Pender was slightly taken aback-locals weren’t usually all that appreciative of federal help. Still, it was a good job, he thought, closing the door behind him. And there before him was the proof, sitting up in bed, her dark hair fanned out across the pillow, looking surprisingly good for a woman with a broken nose and two black eyes.

Dorie was equally glad to see Pender. There had been times, sitting next to him in the basement, or upstairs, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for the ambulance, or in the ER before they were wheeled off to separate cubicles, when she’d wanted to express her gratitude to this man who hadn’t given up on her, who’d risked his life to save hers. But every time she looked at him, the feelings just welled up inside, threatening to overwhelm her. And above all, Dorie did not want to be overwhelmed by anything right now; she was having a hard enough time holding it together as it was.

Now she looked up shyly. “How’s the arm?”

“Good as new in six weeks. I had ’em put the cast on with my elbow in putting position. How about you?”

Dorie shrugged. “They tried to talk me into a nose job, till I told them I didn’t have any insurance. They still want to keep me overnight-somebody came by from admissions to ask me if I had a credit card with me. I told her the guy who kidnapped me forgot to bring my purse along.”

“Have they taken your statement?”

“Repeatedly,” said Dorie. “Berkeley cops, your FBI guys, detectives from San Francisco-I even talked to Wayne’s uncle. He sounded, I don’t know, almost relieved Wayne had been murdered, instead of having killed himself.”

“I’ve seen that before. Are you staying overnight?”

“Not if I have a choice.”

“Think you can drive?”

“Absolutely.”

“Wanna blow this pop stand?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

After the initial shock had worn off, Nelson Carpenter was pleasantly surprised to discover how easy it was to surrender, and how simple it made his life. Instead of being afraid of everything, he only had to be afraid of Simon Childs, and instead of being ruled by the scrupulous and demanding (his shrink said obsessive-compulsive) daily routine he had developed to keep fear at bay, all he had to do was play Simon Says; everybody knows how to play Simon Says.

Of course, not having to worry about darkness or intruders anymore, or fire or food poisoning or spiders or spooks, would have come as more of a relief to Nelson had it not been for the nagging certainty that Simon planned to kill him as soon as he was done with him. Dead man walking, he whispered to himself; dead man whispering to himself.

Fortunately, Simon had neither demanded nor welcomed conversation at first. Once they had the Mercedes safely stowed in the garage (there was plenty of room, Simon had pointed out: it was only a matter of clearing out Nelson’s junk), Simon announced that he was famished. Nelson cooked dinner-boned chicken breasts, broccoli, and Rice-A-Roni-while Simon brooded at the kitchen table; they ate in the dining room. Click of silverware, the unpleasant sounds of mastication, intensified by the ambient suburban silence.

Simon cleaned his plate, then pushed it away. “My compliments to the chef. Love that Rice-A-Roni.”

“It’s the San Francisco treat,” said Nelson-what else was there to say about Rice-A-Roni?

“What time do you have?” Simon had left his wristwatch back in the basement of 2500-he’d taken it off to bathe Dorie.

Nelson glanced at his Rolex, which was the only timepiece in the house. Chronomentrophobia-fear of clocks. “Almost six.”

“Time for the news.”

“I never watch the news.”

“That’s all right, just come keep me company,” replied Simon pleasantly. It was easy for him to be pleasant about the matter under discussion-he’d never had any intention of allowing Nelson to watch the news in the first place. It was going to be hard enough to keep his old pal from flipping out prematurely-Simon certainly didn’t want him finding out how far the fear game had advanced since the comparatively innocent days of the Horror Club, at least not until Simon was good and ready for him to find out.