Jonathan Nasaw - Fear itself

“You’re really asking for it,” said Childs. “You understand that, don’t you?”

Linda decided there might be a way to steer the conversation to her advantage. “Mr. Childs, I want to live. But sometimes it just isn’t in the cards. You of all people ought to know that-you don’t have much longer to live than I do. Oh-but I forgot. You’re rich. You’re mentally ill, at least by most people’s standards, and you’re rich. They don’t execute sick, rich people in this country. If you give yourself up-if you let me handle your surrender-you’ll be living the high life in some country club asylum, like that du Pont guy who killed that wrestler, long after this damn MS sends me to my grave.”

“Excellent point,” said Childs. “How’s your coffee?”

The pleasant tone should have alerted Linda; instead she thought for a moment she had succeeded in getting him to consider another option. “Very good. I was just waiting for it to cool down.”

He picked up her mug, dashed the contents in her face. “There,” he said. “That’ll cool it down a little quicker.”

As if to show his contempt, Simon left Linda alone in the kitchen while he returned to the living room to fetch the travel bag. Unfortunately, he hadn’t allowed her to put on her braces or bring her cane into the kitchen with her. Her face still stinging from the hot coffee, Linda was inching her chair backward toward the counter, bound for the knife drawer, when Simon returned. Without breaking stride or even glancing at Linda, he grabbed the top rung of her chair and dragged it back to the table; it might as well not have been occupied.

“I think it’s time.” He dropped the travel bag into Linda’s lap. “Do you think it’s time?”

“You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do.”

“Well, yes. But you mustn’t give up hope.”

“Why not?” It might have been an attempt at irony-then again, it might not. Childs seemed to take it seriously enough.

“Because it will spoil the game,” he said.

No surprises here, Linda reminded herself, as Simon slipped on the heavy leather gauntlet and reached into the travel bag. He frightens them, he custom fits their deaths-we knew all that. She braced herself, and if it’s possible to shout at yourself in your interior monologue, she shouted.

Okay, asshole, I’ll play your fucking game. Lord knows, I can’t die any younger. Come on, whip it out, let’s see what you got. Fuck, is that all? Not a very big one, is it? Kind of skinny, too. Black nose, black head, pretty bands, red-yellow-black-yellow-red-yellow-black down to the black tail. Yeah, that’s right, a little closer, bring it a little closer. I love this, I want a better look. I love this snake I love this fucking snake. Forked tongue, flickering out. That’s how they smell, it’s just smelling me. Smelling the coffee. Wake up and smell the coffee. Good snake pretty snake I love it observe observe observe the red and black bands are wider than the yellow ones the red bands have little black flecks the pupils are round not slits like I thought yeah sure bring it right up to my fucking eye I love it I-

When she made her move, Linda went, not for the snake, and not for Childs, though she wanted to rip his face off, but for the glove. She reached around the snake, grabbed the gauntlet at the wrist with both hands while simultaneously throwing herself backward, and held on to the rough leather for dear life as her chair tipped over; she hit the floor still throttling the empty glove at arm’s length.

Okay, I played your fucking game, thought Linda, as the snake slithered rapidly but gracefully through the kitchen door, with Childs in clumsy pursuit. Now, where’s my lovely parting gifts?

One advantage to having been raised in his grandfather’s house-Simon had learned to handle disappointment. Or at least to disguise it. It didn’t matter whether your birthday presents consisted of a savings bond and an itchy sweater, or if your dinner was liver and onions with brussels sprouts, you’d better not let an expression other than stupefied gratitude cross your mug or Grandfather would have your hide. (None of this applied to Missy, of course-Missy always got away with murder.)

So as he made his way back to the kitchen, Simon reassured himself that he’d gotten his money’s worth out of the coral with Gloria. And as for that pitiful creature crawling across the kitchen floor, dragging her legs behind her? Useless-that was a good word for her. Blame it on the disease-knowing that she was dying anyway rendered her unfit for the game.

But there was always Pender’s game. Pender would make it all worthwhile, thought Simon, striding across the room and dragging Linda back from the counter-she was trying to pull herself up, probably hoping to climb through the tiny window over the sink. She turned, raked at his face with blunt and bitten nails. He caught her wrists, bent her arms back, leveraged her down to her knees.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you?” he asked, kneeling in front of her, looking into her eyes. He saw white-hot anger, but not a blessed trace of fear.

“No, and I don’t give a rat’s ass,” she said. She’d have spat in his face, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching her trying to work up some saliva.

“I’m going to let you live,” he said quietly. “I’m going to make you watch while I blind your friend Pender-slowly, one eye at a time-and then I’m going to let you both live.”

“We’ll dance on your grave,” Linda snarled back. “If I have to lead him there and he has to hold me up, we’ll dance on your fucking grave.”

Darkness. Smell of dank cement, old brick and old timbers, damp cardboard and laundry soap, and the faintest whiff of decay from the far corners, the unexplored reaches of the cellar where generations of rodent corpses had long since crumbled to dust.

Linda was lying on her side with her hands behind her back and her wrists tied to her ankles with a length of clothesline; Childs had gagged her with the belt of her flannel bathrobe. She could hear a television overhead, somewhere off to her right. Sounded like Childs was listening to CNN.

Linda held her breath, straining to make out the words. Media coverage, she knew, was a two-edged sword for law enforcement in these situations-every piece of information broadcast to warn the public would likewise inform the fugitive. So if the arson investigators had figured out that the body in 5-B wasn’t Childs, he would learn it along with everybody else. Then she could expect footsteps descending the basement steps, a bright light piercing the darkness, the resounding boom of a Colt.45 in an enclosed space.

On the other hand, if they still hadn’t discovered that Childs was alive, there wasn’t much hope of anybody calling to check on her. So either way, Linda told herself, she was screwed. And unless she could think of something between now and tomorrow afternoon, so was Pender.

After the big story-double murder in Georgetown, six dead in Atlantic City, including the fugitive serial killer-the sports came on. Something about the Redskins. In this day and age, how could you call a sports team the Redskins? It was not only demeaning, thought Simon indignantly, it was inaccurate. Native Americans were no more red than Gloria was yellow. She was ivory, that’s what she was. Beautiful antique ivory.

Thinking about Gloria, Simon felt a stab of regret. Not over killing her, but over losing her. Naked, terrified, pliant, in the bed or in the bath, she’d been his, completely and entirely his -a relationship like that, you just naturally miss it when it’s over.

Simon switched off the bedroom TV, lay back on Pender’s bed. Underneath the gloss of the dexedrine he was dull and exhausted-he hadn’t slept since Wednesday morning-but whether exhaustion would be soporific enough for someone with a snootful of crosstops and a history of sleep disorders was highly questionable.