Fear itself

4

Last day on the job. For a secret sentimentalist like E. L. Pender, the whole morning had been fraught with significance. Alarm clock: won’t need you no more, you little bastard. Shaving: why not start a beard now, after all these years? Hide those extra chins, at any rate. Clothes: one last chance to nail down his reputation as the worst-dressed agent in the history of the FBI. Universally loathed plaid sport coat, Sansabelt slacks that had spent the night on the floor, and his most comfortable wash-and-wear short-sleeved white shirt-comfortable because it had been washed and worn to a point just short of decomposition. No tie, of course: odd to think that this was the last time that not wearing a tie would carry any meaning.

Perhaps the strangest part of Pender’s morning came when he realized that he was strapping on his calfskin shoulder holster for the last time. He’d already decided he wouldn’t be applying for a concealed weapons permit. Not much use for the Glock.40 on the golf course. Anyway, he’d never really bonded with it after the Bureau had taken away his SIG Sauer P226 for display at the FBI museum. It was the shoulder holster that really should have been behind glass, though: Pender was one of the last federal agents to wear one; everybody else had switched to the officially approved over-the-kidney holsters years earlier.

Like most secret sentimentalists, Pender suspected other people of being sentimental, too. Though he knew that save for Pool, the rest of the old Liaison Support gang were either retired or scattered by the Bureau to the four winds, he’d practiced acting surprised on the drive to work, just in case they had decided to throw a party for him.

The only surprise, however, had been the discovery that his replacement was a handicapped female who was no longer even a special agent-and even that felt more like the last piece of the puzzle finally falling into place. Obviously the Liaison Support Unit, the assignment for ambitious young agents back in the late seventies, had in its final days become a dumping ground for employees the Bureau didn’t know what else to do with.

So when Pender told Linda that nobody would give a toasted fart how she spent her time, it was only the unvarnished truth. But when he saw the hurt in her eyes, he quickly added: “That’s the bad news and the good news.”

“Good how?”

“You have two and a half months to make whatever you want out of this assignment without Steve Too crawling up your ass.”

“Steve who?”

“Steve Maheu, Steve McDougal’s number two. Picture in the dictionary next to holier-than-thou. But with McDougal retiring, Maheu’s too busy scouting a soft place to land to pay any attention to you, so you should be pretty much on your own.”

“But for what? To do what?”

“To look for serial killers nobody else is looking for.”

“Are there any?”

“It’s a growth market, kiddo.” Pender chuckled. “Now more than ever, it’s a growth market.”

Then he caught himself, and the laugh faded. “I’m sorry, that was bullshit of me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“When we started Liaison Support over twenty years ago, I promised myself I’d never forget about the victims. Even if I was only going fishing in the MMRs, I told myself I’d never forget what the job was really about. And I just did.”

Linda looked away, moved by Pender’s passion and commitment; maybe this might not turn out to be such a dead-end assignment after all.

“So what do we got?” she asked brusquely, when she was sure of her voice again. All Bronx, all business.

“I want you to take a look at a letter that came in last Friday. It gave me a chill.” He began shuffling through the papers stacked on the desk. “And if there’s one thing I’ve learned on this job…” Now he was back down on the floor again, rummaging through a stack of buff file folders with one hand, trying to keep it from toppling over with the other. “…it’s to trust the chill.” Then, distractedly, still rummaging: “What scares you, Linda-what are you afraid of?”

“You mean, other than progressive paralysis, ending in death?” Linda tried to soften the bitter words with a laugh. When she’d first decided to fight for the right to keep her job, she had promised herself that if she won, the office would be a no-whining zone.

And it had been one hell of a battle: FBI regs stated clearly that special agents were required to be in “excellent physical condition with no defects that would interfere in firearm use, raids, or defensive tactics.” In the end, however, the brass agreed to a compromise: reassignment with the bogus job title of investigative specialist, rather than special agent. Badge, no gun, same pay level, desk job, monthly physicals, and, most worrying of all, monthly psych evaluations: first sign of cognitive impairment, a common enough MS symptom, and they would wash her out entirely.

“I mean before the MS. When you were a kid, say, what was the thing you feared most?”

“Like a phobia?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s easy, then-snakes.”

“How severe?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did snakes just give you the creeps, for instance, or were you afraid to walk in the woods, or-”

“We didn’t have much in the way of woods where I grew up. But I definitely stayed the hell away from the reptile house in the Bronx Zoo. I passed out in front of it on a field trip when I was in college.”

“Well, if you…Here we go.” Pender had found the envelope he was looking for, and winged it up onto the desk. “If you multiply your fear of snakes by about a thousand, you’ll have some idea what life might be like for Dorie Bell.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Linda.

“Don’t mention it. Give me a holler when you’re done-I’ll be down here someplace.”