Fear itself

6

As Pender crossed the living room, heading for the vestibule-the bags were still out on the front doorstep-he saw the basket of mail on the table beside the answering machine. The letter on top caught his eye. Noble J. Heinz-Ida’s lawyer. The Judge, everybody in La Farge called him. An imposing, wintry man with arctic blue eyes and a mane of snowy hair. Always wore Clarence Darrow galluses and navy serge suits as dark as blue can be, and still be blue. But why would the Judge be writing him? He decided the baggage could wait.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

Pender glanced up from opening the envelope. It was good to see Dorie standing in his living room. She was looking mighty fine, too. Her cheeks were rosy from the nippy air, the discoloration around her eyes had faded to a faint yellowish green, and the blue eyes themselves were as bright as if she were high. Maybe she was, thought Pender-maybe landscapes were her drug of choice. “First door on the right or third door on the left.”

Inside Judge Heinz’s envelope was a second envelope, with Pender’s name written in Ida’s Palmer Method handwriting. He opened it with a sharp pang of dread and unfolded a sheet of her familiar lavender stationery, so thin it was almost transparent.

May 29, 1997

Dear Eddie,

If you’re reading this, that means I’m gone.

I’ve arranged to have some things sent on to you. The family papers and photo albums, Mom’s jewelry, a few knickknacks from the Cortland house, et cetera.

Everything else has been left to the Down Syndrome Foundation. Judge Heinz is handling the estate, which he says is an attorney’s dream. Most of my assets, including the title to the house, have already been transferred into a trust for the DSF, so Uncle Sam is going to reap precious little out of the transaction, which warms the cockles.

Cleland’s is handling the auction, and Seland’s Funeral Home will haul my carcass up to the crematorium in La Crosse. They have strict instructions not to bring anything back. No tarted-up corpse in an overpriced casket for me, no cremains in an overpriced urn. Ashes are ashes and dust is dust, and it is ghoulish superstition to treat them as if they were anything else.

As for a funeral or memorial service, you know how I feel about that sort of thing. I didn’t bury Walt, I didn’t bury Stanley, and I won’t have you burying me. If you want to, you can raise a glass in my memory, but don’t go off on a bender on my account.

I guess that’s about it, except to tell you that I love you dearly, as did Walt and Stanley, and that no big sister was ever prouder of her little brother than I am of you.

Your Loving Sister,

Ida

Pender was still trying to digest all that-in fact, he was still trying to digest the first sentence-when Dorie appeared in the doorway leading to the bedroom wing. “Pen?”

He looked up. The high color of a moment ago was gone, leached from her face. “Dorie, what-”

As Dorie shuffled reluctantly into the room, chin in the air, hands in the air, Pender saw first a pistol barrel against the back of her neck, then a hand yanking her tightly by the roots of her braid, then a bald Simon Childs behind her, turning her, angling her body toward Pender, to keep it between Pender and himself.

“You move, she dies,” said Childs.

Everybody dies, thought Pender, letting Ida’s letter slip from his fingers; the flimsy lavender sheet fluttered slowly to the floor.

Twelve steep wooden steps, each with a lip that overhung the step below. Wall and railing on the left, ascending; sheer drop to the cellar floor on the right. Holding the thrashing coral aloft in her right hand, Linda grabbed the railing with her damaged left hand and hauled herself to a standing position. The pain shooting up her arm was…excellent. First rate.

By raising her left knee, she managed to lift her floppy left foot high enough to clear the first tread. When the sole was planted firmly on the bottommost step she leaned forward, put her weight on it, and by straightening the left leg she managed to drag the trailing right foot up to the step, though not without banging her toes on the overhanging lip.

One down, eleven to go.

Simon was feeling pretty good about himself. Large and in charge. This was going to be the best game ever, he told himself. Early as it was, he was already feeling connected with Pender-merely by looking at him, Simon could tell he’d just learned about his sister’s death.

He knew better than to take the credit for it right away, however. Simon didn’t want to drive the hulking Pender into a rage-not until he had him secured, anyway. But first he needed to take care of the superfluous Miss Bell. Having her around was making him too self-conscious-it was like having a ghost at your elbow.

No good-it was no good, trying to climb the stairs standing. Linda’s left hand had lost most of its gripping strength, her fingers were too numb to feel the rail, and the pain traveling up her left arm made her pay dearly when she tried to raise the arm above her shoulder. Every time her hand slipped from the rail, she flailed the other hand to keep her balance, further inflaming the already infuriated coral.

She dropped to her knees on the third stair; three down, nine to go.

Childs marched the two of them back into the bedroom where he’d first surprised Dorie, ordered her onto the bed with her hands on either side of the centermost vertical rail of the brass headboard, then ordered Pender to cuff her wrists behind it.

Yes, thought Pender, trying to hide his eagerness. Perfect. His last girlfriend had been a DEA agent, somewhat unstable, like most DEA, and a hellcat in the sack. She liked to play mild bondage games, with herself as dominatrix-that’s what the cuffs were doing under the bed in the first place. Pender didn’t mind-at least that way she did all the work-but he didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her. Which was why he had stashed a spare key under the mattress, at the head of the bed, where he could reach it even while cuffed to the headboard.

But how to let Dorie know, with Childs standing over them? Pender leaned across her body, fumbling one-handed with the cuffs. “Under the mattress,” he whispered. Probably not loud enough, but Childs was leaning closer; Pender could smell his own aftershave on the man. Sensing his chance, he whirled around, trying to club Childs with the elbow of his cast.

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.