Fear itself

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.

9

“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.

Pender let the details register: white male, early fifties, approximately six foot one, approximately one hundred and sixty pounds. Cleft chin, trim gray mustache, sleepy eyes, silver hair, prominent widow’s peak. Black slippers, black pleated slacks; the cuffs of his blousy black shirt were turned up.

“Mr. Childs?”

A nod-barely perceptible.

“Special Agent Pender, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Childs. He crossed the room, held out his hand. His handshake was surprisingly firm, given his languid manner; his palm was cold and damp, as if he’d only just dried it. “I see you’ve met Missy.”

“I’m afraid I got her out of bed.”

“Not your fault-she’s supposed to have a nurse with her at all times.” Childs turned to Missy, asked where the nurse was. The reply was unintelligible, at least to Pender.

“Mr. Childs, is there someplace we can talk privately?”

“Sure, follow me. And Missy-no more getting out of bed. If you need anything, just holler-we’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Peachy keen,” replied Missy.

Simon’s beeper had gone off just as he was bending over the tub. He’d given the other unit, Missy’s unit, to the nurse, with instructions to beep him only in the event of an emergency, so when the summons came he’d rushed upstairs, expecting to find Nurse Apple performing CPR on Missy-or pulling the sheet up over her face: that was the first, unacceptable image that had crossed his mind.

When instead he found Pender tenderly tucking Missy into bed, recognized him as the man he’d last seen talking to Dorie over her kitchen table, then learned that he was an FBI agent, a flood of conflicting emotions washed over Simon-relief over Missy, then panic, then the rage that invariably followed panic. He knew better than to act on it, though, and by the time Pender turned around, Simon had mastered his emotions well enough to deliver an I’d- like-to-thank-the-Academy performance. And now it was Pender who was off his guard. Turning his back.

If only I had some kind of weapon, thought Simon. The knives were all stowed away in a high, Missy-proof cabinet on the far side of the room. Nearer to hand, however, suspended from the rack above the central butcher- block workspace, hung Ganny Wilson’s three cast-iron skillets. Papa Bear, Mama Bear, Baby Bear, Little Simon used to call them. Papa Bear would be too heavy to swing, Baby too light to do much damage, but Mama Bear-Mama Bear would be just right. Somehow Simon knew in advance exactly what it would feel like: the blow would be cushioned by the thin wool fabric of Pender’s beret; the shock would travel all the way up Simon’s arm to his shoulder.

First, though, he needed to find out what Pender already knew. It couldn’t be too much, or he’d never have shown up alone like this. Would he have time to break out Plan B, which involved grabbing Missy and the getaway bag and heading south of the border, to Dr. Andrew Keene’s secure condo in Puerto Vallarta? Simon had to know- Mama Bear would just have to wait.

Simon adopted what he hoped was an appropriately concerned, mildly puzzled John-Q.-Citizen-dealing-with- the-fuzz expression: “So, what can I do for you, Agent Pender?”

“Do you know Dorie Bell?”

“Yes-she’s a friend of mine.”

“Where did you meet?” With a suspect, as opposed to a witness, you always ask a few questions you already know the answer to first-give them a chance to lie early, save everybody some time.

“We met at the PWSPD convention in Las Vegas.”

“When was the last time you were in Carmel?”

“Missy and I were down there around the end of June. We had a wonderful time-visited the Aquarium, drove