Fear itself

4

After the initial shock had worn off, Nelson Carpenter was pleasantly surprised to discover how easy it was to surrender, and how simple it made his life. Instead of being afraid of everything, he only had to be afraid of Simon Childs, and instead of being ruled by the scrupulous and demanding (his shrink said obsessive-compulsive) daily routine he had developed to keep fear at bay, all he had to do was play Simon Says; everybody knows how to play Simon Says.

Of course, not having to worry about darkness or intruders anymore, or fire or food poisoning or spiders or spooks, would have come as more of a relief to Nelson had it not been for the nagging certainty that Simon planned to kill him as soon as he was done with him. Dead man walking, he whispered to himself; dead man whispering to himself.

Fortunately, Simon had neither demanded nor welcomed conversation at first. Once they had the Mercedes safely stowed in the garage (there was plenty of room, Simon had pointed out: it was only a matter of clearing out Nelson’s junk), Simon announced that he was famished. Nelson cooked dinner-boned chicken breasts, broccoli, and Rice-A-Roni-while Simon brooded at the kitchen table; they ate in the dining room. Click of silverware, the unpleasant sounds of mastication, intensified by the ambient suburban silence.

Simon cleaned his plate, then pushed it away. “My compliments to the chef. Love that Rice-A-Roni.”

“It’s the San Francisco treat,” said Nelson-what else was there to say about Rice-A-Roni?

“What time do you have?” Simon had left his wristwatch back in the basement of 2500-he’d taken it off to bathe Dorie.

Nelson glanced at his Rolex, which was the only timepiece in the house. Chronomentrophobia-fear of clocks. “Almost six.”

“Time for the news.”

“I never watch the news.”

“That’s all right, just come keep me company,” replied Simon pleasantly. It was easy for him to be pleasant about the matter under discussion-he’d never had any intention of allowing Nelson to watch the news in the first place. It was going to be hard enough to keep his old pal from flipping out prematurely-Simon certainly didn’t want him finding out how far the fear game had advanced since the comparatively innocent days of the Horror Club, at least not until Simon was good and ready for him to find out.

“But how will I-”

“Nellie,” Simon said quietly. That was his warning tone; after all these years Nelson still recognized it.

“Yes, Simon?”

“Trust me.”

“Yes, Simon.”