Fear itself

8

Warm water, no pain. Strawberry bubble bath-Missy’s favorite, as Dorie recalled. She leaned back, rounding her shoulders to fit the curving metal sides of the tub.

“Feeling better?” asked the now unmasked Simon. He was sitting on an overturned milk carton next to the 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.