Fear itself

11

“…twenty-five hundred Grizzly Rock Road. And an ambulance. Hurry, please.”

Nurse Apple’s voice, cutting through the red-hot rage, brought Simon back to his senses. He found himself standing over Missy and Pender with the poker raised; he didn’t want to think about how close he’d come to smashing her fat, stupid skull with it. Thank God he hadn’t-but now there was no time to deal with Pender. Nine-one-one, once called, could not be uncalled. Five minutes. Wild, improbable schemes sprang into his head-kill them all, stab myself-intruders, bikers, a black gang. Four and a half minutes. Just grab Missy and run. But Missy was still hanging on to Pender with a death grip. Four minutes. Maybe just grab Missy and the getaway bag and run. Or maybe just the getaway bag. He who fights and runs away…

It was a little like being underwater, this all-green, nightscope world, a little like exploring a cave, a little like being inside one of those camera’s-eye scenes in a horror movie, and nothing at all like the brightly colored, safe, sunny life Dorie had constructed for herself over the years to keep the mask-monsters at bay.

The basement itself, save for the big room with the mattress and the tub, was a series of chambered caverns joined by low, thick-walled archways. It reminded Dorie of something out of Poe-The Cask of Amontillado, perhaps-but by now she was so far beyond being moved by imaginary fears that she never even flinched when she found the cardboard box containing Simon’s cache of masks near the bottom of the stairs.

Kabuki, its white glare and red frown even more lurid in shades of green, was on top. Dorie reached into the box, lifted it out with a sense of wonder, held it up like Hamlet holding Yorick’s skull. Plaster-could it be that it was only paint and plaster and a droopy little rubber band cord? Strange as it felt to actually be holding a mask in her hands, the little tug of regret she experienced as she tossed it back into the box seemed even stranger. Dorie’s phobia had been an essential part of her identity, her sense of self, for so long that like a newly freed slave, she found herself wondering what life was going to be like without her chains.

Probably short, if you don’t get your ass in gear, she reminded herself, kicking the box under the stairs and turning away.

With Missy on top of him-and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she had saved his life-Pender couldn’t see where Childs had gone. It was enough, for the moment, that he had gone-then Pender remembered that Dorie might still be alive, might be somewhere in the house.

“It’s okay, honey-you can get off now,” he whispered urgently-whispered because her two hundred, two hundred fifty pounds were crushing the breath out of him. She felt like dead weight. He started to extricate himself one-handed, saw the nurse standing openmouthed, still holding the receiver. “Little help here,” he gasped.

She was terrified, hugely undecided. Pender couldn’t blame her-for all she knew he was a crazed intruder whom her employer had been trying to fend off with that frying pan.

“FBI,” he called.

She was either unconvinced or frozen with fear.

“Please, I think she’s stopped breathing.”

That brought her out of it. Leaving the phone off the hook, Nurse Apple bustled over to help Pender roll Missy off him. He staggered to his feet, cradling his injured arm. There was no time to break anything gently. Letting the arm dangle-fuck, that hurt-he pulled his wallet out of his hip pocket with his left hand, flipped it open to show her his badge.

“Pender, FBI. Simon Childs is a serial killer. There may be another victim still alive in the house-when the police get here, tell them I’ve gone after him.”

Nurse Apple was already bending over Missy, preparing to begin CPR-she waved him away impatiently, half-listening. Then it dawned on her: serial killer, gone after him. “No, don’t-”

Too late-he was gone. “No more private gigs,” she muttered, turning back to her patient. Pender, FBI, had just bugged out, leaving her alone with a serial killer who ran around bashing people with frying pans. “This time I mean it.”

Dorie’s hope died with the battery that had powered the night-vision goggles; along with hope went courage; along with courage went the last of her strength. Wet, naked, thoroughly disoriented, she threw the goggles aside and sank down onto her haunches, shivering as much from despair as from the cold.

Sooner or later, she told herself, Simon would come looking for her. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out that she’d unscrewed the lightbulbs-after that it would only be a matter of time. She remembered how peaceful she’d felt in that warm tub, how easy drowning had seemed back then. Now the universe had turned so ugly that she no longer believed in the light at the end of the tunnel-in any light, for that matter. Part of her wanted to go primal, to howl and tear out her hair, but she was too tired and beaten even for silent grieving.

Never mind, she thought, leaning her bare back against the cold concrete wall-let him come. But even that weak note of defiance deserted her when she heard footsteps descending the wooden stairs; she covered her ears with her hands to block out the sound and shut her eyes against the sudden brightness of the flashlight beam shining down on her from above.

And that was how Pender found her, squatting against the wall in the far corner of what had once been Grandfather Childs’s wine cellar, her hands pressed tightly over her ears.

“Dorie,” he said gently, then, louder: “Dorie, it’s Ed Pender.”

When there was still no response, he sat down beside her and waited. After thirty seconds or so she opened her eyes. “It is you,” she said. “I was afraid maybe I was dreaming.”

“I know what you mean,” said Pender. “I know exactly what you mean.”