Fear itself

“Have you talked to Dorie Bell yet?”

“At her house last night.”

“MDF?”

“Negative on that-I think this one’s for real.” He started to lay out the plan of action he’d sketched in for Dorie last night.

Linda interrupted him to explain about Maheu and the bank records.

“What an extraordinary asshole,” said Pender when she’d finished. “Let me try to get in touch with McDougal. Liaison Support’s been his baby from the beginning-maybe he’ll let us have this one last hurrah.”

“I haven’t had my first hurrah yet,” said Linda.

“Yeah, well, stick with me, kid.”

Pender’s next call was to McDougal’s office. He was informed that the deputy director would be in conference all afternoon-with Agents Driver, Woods, Irons, and Putter, Pender suspected. He left a message, then phoned Dorie, who wasn’t there either.

“It’s Ed Pender,” he told her machine. Not “Agent Pender”-he had made up his mind to ask her out. “Give me a ring as soon as you can.”

He left her his room number at the Lodge along with his cell phone number. By the time he’d finished, the jet lag he’d been trying to ignore all day finally caught up with him. Quick nap, he promised himself, climbing into bed in his boxers and sleeveless wife-beater strap undershirt, and while waiting for sleep to overtake him, he thought about Dorie Bell. Smart, funny, doing her best to get through a hard time, but constitutionally incapable of cruising in neutral. Handsome woman, too, even with that busted nose. Not to mention that certain something in the way she moved.

3

Simon Childs retired to his bedroom at dawn. Exhausted as he was from the evening’s exertions, he knew that sleep would not come easily. It never had: he’d been a fretful baby and a restless toddler even before his mother’s departure, and a full-blown insomniac afterward. His sleep disorder manifested in both multiple dyssomnias-difficulty falling asleep, difficulty staying asleep-and parasomnias-night terrors and somnambulism. Medications helped: a triurnal rotation of chloral hydrate, Seconal, and Nembutal prescribed by his grandfather’s tame physicians had seen him through adolescence, while as an adult he’d kept up with every pharmacological advance, legal or otherwise.

His current favorite was Halwane, an experimental, short-acting benzodiazepine that had not yet been approved for the marketplace. Simon had learned about it on the Net, where it was nicknamed Halloween, and convinced his doctor to put him on the protocol, promising to eschew all other drugs for the three months of the FDA-monitored trial. He’d had no intention of keeping his promise, but the drug more than kept its promise: fifteen minutes, then bam, you were out; three hours later, bam, you were awake.

If only they’d come up with anything half as effective for the blind rat syndrome, thought Simon-what a simple, ordinary life I might have led. For a rich man, anyway.

But without the looming presence of the blind rat, he reminded himself, he’d never have known the highs of the fear game, never have experienced a moment of such radiant perfection as last night, when Dorie looked up from his lap and their eyes met through the mask. Darkness and light, cruelty and tenderness, fear and hope, all in perfect equipoise for once-how in heaven had the world managed to keep turning, Simon wondered.

Realizing he was still far too excited to sleep, even with the benefit of Halwane, Simon decided to approach Morpheus obliquely. First he treated himself to a long hot shower, then smoked a fat doobie of B.C. super-sinsemilla (what the FDA didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them) out on the deck adjoining the suite Grandfather Childs had occupied from 1924, when the house was built, until a few days after he’d cut his own throat, at which time Simon, age fourteen, moved in for keeps.

Best not to think about the old man, though, Simon told himself-not compatible with relaxation. Think about the positives instead: this fine weed, the million-dollar view (more like ten million, these days) of the San Francisco Bay at dawn, and last but certainly not least, having the house all to himself for once-no Missy bleating mo hah, mo hah from the bathroom.

Whoops-not so relaxing, that thought. He wondered how Missy and Ganny were getting along-was she too much for the old woman? Was it too early to call her? Old people rarely slept late.

No, God bless it! If ever a man was owed a day off, it was Simon Childs. Besides, they were probably as happy as pigs at a trough, those two-if there’d been a problem, Ganny would have called. She wasn’t so decrepit she couldn’t use the telephone.

Having satisfied what he knew to be his cheap slut of a conscience, Simon finished the joint and tossed the roach into the open urn that had originally contained his grandfather’s ashes, washed down a blue Halwane tablet with a shot of Hennessy’s (again, what the FDA didn’t know…).He set his alarm for 10 A.M., then stripped off his robe and climbed into bed naked, sighing with pleasure at the feel of the cool pearl-gray sheets against his bare skin. To relax himself while waiting for the Halwane to take effect, he cast his thoughts backward through time and hooked a juicy plum of a memory.

Summer, 1959. A new family is going to be moving in next door, Grandfather Childs announces at the dinner table. “The boy looks to be about your age, Simp.” That’s short for Simple, which in turn is short for Simple Simon. “Maybe you can make friends with him-although I doubt it.”

That’s a sore point for the ten-year-old Simon-he doesn’t make friends easily. But a few weeks later, when the moving van pulls up next door, Ganny bakes a welcome-to-the-neighborhood cake, and Simon is deputized to deliver it. Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter remind Simon of Ozzie and Harriet. They call Nelson down; turns out he’s a year younger than Simon. In eighth grade, when Simon reads Great Expectations, the description of the pale young gentleman will resonate for him-in his mind’s eye he will picture Nelson Carpenter, his nervous mannerisms; his indoor complexion, so doughy white it looked as though if you poked him with your finger, it would leave an impression; his red-rimmed eyes; and his longish straw-colored hair.

Mrs. C., a hovering, overprotective mother, cuts them each a thick slice of Ganny’s cake, unpacks the kitchen stools, the milk glasses, and the chocolate crazy straws, then flutters away reluctantly to supervise the movers. When they’re done eating, Simon announces that they’re going to go play at his house now, then hops off the stool and starts for the back door. He doesn’t turn to see if Nelson is following him-somehow he just knows it.

He takes Nelson to meet Ganny and Missy; luckily for the skittish younger boy, Grandfather Childs is at the office. And the pale young gentleman definitely passes the Missy test: he doesn’t make fun of her or-it’s a big word, but Simon knows what it means-patronize her. In fact, Nelson and Missy get along almost too well; Simon takes Nelson up to his room so he can have his new friend all to himself.

“Wanna see Skinny?” Simon asks.

“Who’s Skinny?”

“My pet.”

“Is it a dog or a cat? I’m kind of scared of dogs and cats.”

“Nope.”

“Bird?”

“Nope.”

“Fish?”

“BZZZZ.” Simon sounds the imaginary game-show buzzer. “You’re outta guesses.” He hauls Skinny’s cage out from under the bed.

“A snake!” Nelson mouths the words.

“Yup. Genuine striped mamba, most poisonous snake in the whole world. One bite and your dick falls off and you die.”

Skinny is a common garter, of course-Simon’s venomous snake days are still in the future-but Nelson obviously doesn’t know that. He goes stiff and still, only he’s kind of quivering too, like Daffy Duck at the North Pole,