Jonathan Nasaw - Fear itself

Childs jumped back; the blow missed. Dorie saw the barrel of the Colt come crashing down across the back of Pender’s neck. Pender’s hat went flying; he fell limply across her, knocking the wind out of her. With his weight across her chest, she couldn’t draw a breath. She started seeing stars; the white hat was a pinwheel, rolling on its brim across the floor. Then, as her consciousness began slipping away to a pinpoint of light, the crushing weight came off her; she sucked in a great gulping breath.

Pender lay on the floor, unmoving; Simon was stretched out across Dorie, clicking the handcuffs into place behind the rail. She tried to knee him. He avoided her easily, then knelt painfully across her thighs while he gagged her with one of Pender’s garish neckties.

This is the last time I’ll ever see him, thought Dorie, as Simon dragged Pender out of the bedroom by the ankles. By him, she meant Pender-she was pretty sure she’d be seeing Simon again.

To keep from toppling backward as she knee-walked up the stairs, Linda had to lean forward, bending at the waist (she hadn’t forgotten her old friend Lhermitte and his lightning bolt), and leaning awkwardly on her left elbow to keep from falling onto her face.

By the sixth step- fuck this excellent pain, fuck this excellent, first-rate pain, was her mantra-her knees were killing her, and both insteps were bruised from banging against the overhanging tread, but she could hear Childs and Pender talking in the kitchen. At least when she reached the top, it would be over, she told herself: she wouldn’t have to drag her sorry ass the rest of the way across the house.

Eight down, four to go.

A sense of rising, of swimming upward through blackness, shedding dreams as he rose to the surface. The swimmer, the dreamer-he had no sense of himself as himself yet-heard a voice, echoic and distorted. For a moment he was a boy again, playing a joke on his mother, holding his breath at the bottom of Little York Lake to frighten her.

With the memory came identity; when Pender knew who he was, the rest came flooding back. It was the second time in four months he had been separated from his senses. Back in July, a blow to the head had launched him on one of those so-called near-death experiences, white light, tunnel, a visit from his dad in dress blues-the whole nine yards. This time, there’d been only chaos, and his dreams were not so much dreams as swirling fragments.

Pender opened his eyes, found himself lying in a contorted position on his side on the kitchen floor, with his left arm drawn painfully behind his back and cuffed at the wrist to his right ankle. Looking up sideways, he saw Childs sitting on a straight-backed kitchen chair.

“Sorry about your sister,” Childs said in a conversational tone.

Pender assumed he’d read the letter; he mirrored Childs’s tone-stay calm, keep the hostage-taker calm. “She had a good life.”

“I didn’t mean I was sorry she was dead-I meant I was sorry I had to kill her.”

“No shit? Did you off Judge Crater and the Ramsey girl, too?”

“No-neither of them had killed my sister.”

“I didn’t kill your sister. The doctor said she died of a congenital heart condition.”

“Congenital-that means she had it for forty-nine years. Why is it, do you think, that her heart gave out while she was struggling with you?”

“Struggling? She was trying to save me from getting my brains bashed out by you.”

Simon let it pass-he wasn’t here to argue. “Almost biblical, don’t you think? The retribution, I mean-my killing your sister in return for your killing mine. I have to tell you, though, I didn’t really want to kill Ida, fitting as it might have been. I thought she was a very nice lady, right up until the moment I broke that blue capsule into her hot toddy. If it’s any consolation to you-it was to me-she was dead by the time she hit the floor. As I say, I didn’t want to do it-but I couldn’t take a chance on her telling you about our conversation. Would you like to hear about our conversation, Eddie? Or should I call you Pen, like that hooer waiting for me in the bedroom?”

Pender wanted to kill Childs of course-he wanted to kill him as badly as he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Instead, he reminded himself that the most important thing he could do at the moment was to work the problem.

And the problem-how to get loose, at least long enough to dial 911 on the phone in his pants pocket-was in the present. If Childs had killed Ida, that was in the past-nothing he could do would bring her back. And Childs’s threat about Dorie belonged to the future, and was of no account. When your enemy threatens you, he’s either lying, which means he’s scared, or he’s stating his intentions, which gives you more data to work with. The more data, the more better. “Call me anything you want. And, yes, I’d like to hear about your conversation.”

Childs leaned back, laced his arms behind his head, and crossed his legs casually at the ankle-not an easy thing to do in a straight-backed chair. “It was very illuminating. For some reason, Ida was under the assumption that my name was Bellcock.”

The name hit Pender like a slap. Ida had been a tough old bird-she wouldn’t have told Childs squat, no matter how much he’d threatened or cajoled or even tortured her. But Pender himself had given her permission to talk to Bellcock-maybe Childs wasn’t bullshitting about killing her after all.

“She told me all about Stanley, and Dr. Walt-this is Dr. Walt’s gun I’m holding now,” Childs continued. “She also told me all about what a naughty boy her little brother Eddie was. How he threw a firecracker down the chimney and nearly blinded himself. How he never got over it. How as a boy, he wouldn’t let himself be blindfolded for a game of pin the tail on the donkey. And even at Stanley’s birthday party, grown man, big-shot G-man, he wouldn’t even play bust the pinata.”

You wanted data, you got it, thought Pender, as Childs began removing an assortment of implements from the drawer next to him, and showing each one to Pender with a stage magician’s flourish before setting it down carefully on the table-folding Buck knife, which he ostentatiously unfolded, apple corer, box cutter.

More data, Pender told himself. Keep working the problem. So Childs knows. About your fear. So what? Pain, darkness, death-one way or another it was going to be pain, darkness, death. Nothing else has changed. The phone is still in your pocket. Six inches away-might as well be six feet.

But there was still the possibility that Dorie had heard him and found the handcuff key under the mattress. If she’d already freed herself and called 911 or gone for help, all Pender had to do was hang on awhile longer. Just hang on. And stall like a mo-fo. A fearless mo-fo from the Eff Bee Fucking Eye. And keep on collecting data: “What have you done with Abruzzi?”

Skairdykat! Thanks for reminding me, thought Simon, as he tested the point of the Buck knife on his thumb-he’d been so caught up in the moment, so dialed in to Pender, that he’d almost forgotten Skairdykat. He’d also almost forgotten that the game, the doubleheader, would have to take place in the cellar, where no one would hear them scream-no one except Dorie, that is. “Nothing, yet. Would you like to see her?”

“Yes-yes, I would.”

“She’s in the cellar-all you have to do is hump your way across the floor and down the stairs. I’ll hold the door for you.”

Dorie had rattled the headboard until her wrists were sore. Leave it to Pender, she thought. The house looks like it’s going to fall down any minute, but the bedstead couldn’t be sturdier. She kept picturing Childs coming through the door, covered in Pender’s blood, and throwing himself on top of her. Horrible as the image was, she knew that would be her best-and last-chance to kill him before he killed her.