Fear itself

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.

But this time, Dorie promised herself-and Pender, and all the others-if she did through some miracle survive this second attack, there would never be a third. She’d kill him first, with her bare hands if necessary.

And as she waited on the bed to kill or be killed, with absolutely no idea that the key to her survival was only inches away, under the mattress beneath her head, Dorie found herself thinking back to the first time she had met Simon Childs. It was at the convention, in the welcoming suite of the Olde Chicago. The name tags had been specially prepared: a blank space for your name on the first line, the printed words A Person With on the second, and on the bottom line you were supposed to print the name of your phobia, using the — ia suffix, not the — ic. Like the name PWSPD, this was all in line with current thinking: a phobia was something you had, not something you were.

And although romance was the last thing Dorie’d had in mind when she got up the courage to leave the central coast for the first time in three years, the moment she saw the tall, handsome, silver-haired man standing behind the registration table, she was prepared to revise her expectations.

Simon Childs

a person with

Katapontismophobia

read his name tag.

“That’s a new one on me,” said Dorie.

“Fear of drowning,” he explained. “The verb katapontidzo means ‘to hurl into the sea.’ The noun katapontidzes means ‘pirate,’ but I guess there were more people who were afraid of drowning than of pirates.”

“I like pirates,” Dorie declared.

“Aargh,” said the handsome Mr. Childs, squinching up one eye. It was the worst Long John Silver impression Dorie had ever seen, but hilarious in context-she’d laughed so hard her boobs bounced. And it turned out, when he saw her name tag, that Simon was the first person she’d ever met, not excluding her current therapist, who knew what prosoponophobia meant without having to be told. She thought she might have found a lover; she knew she’d found a friend.

Honey, you sure can pick ’em, Dorie told herself; a moment later a shot rang out, and the screaming began.

Eleven down, one to go. Linda heard Childs tell Pender he’d hold the door. She was still on her knees-no time to stand up, even if she’d had the strength; as it was, she barely had time to hide the coral behind her back before the door opened.

Childs looked down at her in surprise; behind him, through his legs, she could see Pender on his side on the kitchen floor. “Well, would you look at that, Eddie Pen,” said Childs. “Would you look what gnawed itself loose?” He raised one foot as if to shove her back down the stairs.

Linda flinched but remained upright. She would take the leg if necessary, but she wanted the face, or at least the neck.

“And what’s that behind your back, Skairdykat? Biiiig scairdykat knife? It’s not a gun-I know, I searched the cellar.” He knelt, extended a hand; the gun was in his other hand, out of reach. “C’mon, fork it over.”

Closer, thought Linda, as the coral thrashed frantically behind her back; the face-I want the face.

“C’mon, Skairdykat, give it to Simon before he has to take it away from you and stick it where the sun don’t-”

Close enough.

8

One thing all criminal defense attorneys (along with a majority of cops and the few prosecuting attorneys who are willing to admit it) will tell you is that the only thing most eyewitnesses are good for is impressing juries. The truth is usually quicker than the eye, and the assumption is quicker than either, even for a trained observer like Pender.

He didn’t know, for instance, that Linda was on her knees-he’d seen her through Childs’s legs from the torso up and assumed she was standing on a lower step. He saw Childs kneel, heard him taunting her, heard the word knife, and assumed that’s what she had for a weapon. He saw Linda lunge, heard the gun go off, saw her topple forward, and assumed she’d been shot. When Childs rocked backward and the Colt went flying, Pender continued to assume that Abruzzi had somehow slashed him, and it wasn’t until Childs, still on his knees, turned blindly toward Pender, that Pender began to understand what had happened.

Or perhaps understand is too strong a word. A gun, a knife, a billy, even a sharp screwdriver-those were items commensurate with understanding. But a man on his knees, clawing with both hands at a thrashing snake dangling from his left eye? You don’t understand something like that; you just accept it.

Or reject it-doesn’t matter. What matters is Dr. Walt’s Army Colt under the table, less than six feet away. Pender braced his left leg-his only free limb-against the cabinet and shoved off, bellowing to Dorie, over Simon’s shrieking, that the handcuff key was under the mattress, as he began hump-crawling his way across the splintery plank floor of the kitchen.