Fear itself

“I’m not a total rookie, Chief. In the words of one of my favorite T-shirts, ‘quit yanking my ears,’ I know what I’m doing.”

Pender laughed.

“Call me on my cell when you’ve got it-I’m going back to bed.”

“I thought my FBI never sleeps.”

“Who said anything about sleeping?”

2

Drained, energized, empty, full of himself-Simon never knew how he was going to feel after a game.

This morning it was all of the above, plus a polypharmaceutical hangover. He awoke alone in Gloria’s shiny bed-the headboard was constructed of stacked, polished aluminum rails-after an hour or two of sleep so unrestful that it was only the act of awakening that told him he’d been asleep in the first place. The satin pillowcase next to him was spattered with blood; when he rolled onto his back, he saw Grandfather Childs staring down at him from the mirror on the ceiling over the bed, and when he sat up, the old monstrosity was looking out from the elliptical mirror of that monstrous Moderne vanity table where he’d given Gloria her haircut last night.

Naked, he tottered into the bathroom to empty his bladder. He had to close the shower curtain to block out the sight of Gloria sitting upright in the tub like Marat in his bath-something about the puffy features and the slanted eyes with their drooping lids reminded him uncomfortably of Missy.

But he couldn’t block out the triptych of mirrors set at oblique angles just inside the bathroom door, presumably so the formerly vain Mrs. Gee could view herself from all sides. Spooky as it was to look directly into a mirror and see Grandfather Childs looking back at you, it was spooky cubed to see him out of the corner of your eye, or sense him behind you, then wheel around and see him wheeling around as if to catch you in the act.

Simon hurried out of the bathroom without stopping to wash his hands or brush his teeth at the sink, which in any event was still littered with shards of broken mirror from the night before. Badly rattled-not frightened but rattled (there was a difference, he reminded himself)-he tossed a bedsheet over the oval mirror of the vanity table, brushed Gloria’s hair from the chair with his fingers, hauled his getaway satchel onto the chromed steel counter of the vanity, and began going through his pharmacopoeia in search of remedies both for his jangled nerves and his hangover.

The latter was easy-there wasn’t a hangover in the world couldn’t be cured with a five-hundred milligram Percodan-but the heebie-jeebies, which often presaged a visit by the blind rat, presented more of a challenge. There was Valium of course, in five-, ten-, and fifteen-milligram sizes-on top of the Percodan, though, it might knock him out. There was Xanax-but that sometimes gave him the runs, which after last night’s stinky was something he definitely didn’t need.

Or perhaps he could go in another direction entirely, he told himself. He had certainly enjoyed Gloria’s Ecstasy last night. Surprisingly, it was the first time he’d ever played a game on X-surprising because, now that he thought about it, the empathy drug seemed like a natural fit. The game was all about empathy-fear and empathy.

Ecstasy, then, but at what dosage? He’d taken two last night, and he didn’t remember his own X, which came in pink capsules stamped with little hearts, as being any stronger: he decided to start with two. While waiting for the medication to take effect, with trembling fingers he tore two rolling papers to shreds trying to roll a joint at the vanity, and ended up with one of those lumpy, python-digesting-a-gopher numbers, which he smoked down to the roach before going downstairs in search of a more congenial bathroom in which to shower.

When he saw the contorted figure in the red bikini briefs lying in full rigor mortis on the living room couch, Simon was surprised at its savaged condition-he couldn’t remember having inflicted that much damage. He hurried past it into the guest bedroom. No bodies here, and no American Moderne-just a single bed, a garage-sale dresser, and a few amateurish still lifes on the walls.

So this austere little maid’s room was where the real Skairdykat had slept, according to Gloria. And this little closet of a bathroom was where she had showered. And her name is Linda, and now she lives with Pender. Which means another first for the game: a doubleheader. How convenient, thought Simon. How very…bloody… convenient.

3

“Not bad for a one-armed old fat man,” declared an exultant, if exhausted, Pender, after a morning of extended lovemaking punctuated by endorphin-drenched naps.

“One-eyed,” Dorie murmured, equally satisfied, but less inclined to crow about it. She did think it was sort of sweet, how boyishly proud Pender was to have collaborated with her on that last, noisy multiple O.

“Hunh?”

“One-eyed old fat man-it’s a line from True Grit.”

Pender shuddered-small wonder he’d misremembered the quote: the thought of losing even one eye filled him with horror. Once that happened, he knew, you were only a sharpened pencil away from total blindness.

Linda called back while Dorie was in the shower. “Nelson Carpenter,” she announced.

Pender checked his watch. “Just a little over three hours-couldn’t have done better myself. I don’t suppose you also came up with a current address?”

“You know where Concord is?”

“Massachusetts.”

“Concord, California. North of San Francisco-Contra Costa County, I think. The subdivision’s named Rancho del Vista.”

“Just give me the street address; I’ll find it.”

Here we go again, thought Linda. “Ed, sooner or later, McDougal is gonna-”

“-be very, very proud of his little Liaison Support Unit. But I give you my word of honor, if Nervous Nellie has anything at all to tell us about Childs’s whereabouts, I will pass the information along to the appropriate authorities.”

Linda gave him the address, reminded him of his promise, and wished him luck; it wasn’t until another hour had passed that she realized their agreement could have been more precisely worded. She called him back and got his message box.

“Ed, this is Linda. Just to clarify: the term ‘appropriate authorities’ does not, repeat not, include yourself. Talk to you soon.”

“How far is Concord?” Pender called through the bathroom door, when Dorie had finished her shower.

“Two, three hours. Depends on the traffic and the time of day. You can pretty much bypass San Fran and Oakland entirely, if you swing around on six-eighty. Why?”

“That’s where Nervous Nellie lives.”

“All right! We should probably leave now, avoid both commutes.”

“Whoa. To paraphrase Tonto, what you mean ‘we,’ white woman?”

“What you mean, what I mean?” Dorie came out wrapped in a bath towel, winding a second towel around her wet hair. “You’re not leaving me alone here, buster.”

“Luka practically tore me a new one for bringing you along yesterday. Said I could be doing you untold psychological damage.”

“In the first place: you didn’t bring me, I brought you. In the second place: Luka is at least ninety, and rumor has it he takes LSD once a month. In the third place: the psychological damage has already been done-by Simon. I dream about him, I imagine him popping up every time I turn a corner, and if you’re not in the room with me, I can’t even bring