Fear itself

9

Drought be damned, conservation be damned-Dorie wanted a shower, she wanted it hot, hot, hot, and she wanted it to last forever. She stripped off the pink scrubs one of the ER nurses had filched for her, stepped into the shower, and let ’er rip.

It took ten minutes and several relatherings to rid herself of the stink, which was compounded by the reek of Missy’s cheap strawberry-scented bubble bath. Poor Missy, thought Dorie. The nurse had still been performing CPR on her when Dorie and Pender emerged from the basement; by the time the paramedics arrived to take over, Nurse Apple had nearly passed out from hyperventilation, and although the ambulance docs had kept the CPR going all the way to Alta Bates, nobody seemed surprised when she was declared DOA.

It was just as well, though, Dorie decided-from what she had gathered about their relationship, Missy would probably have preferred death to being separated from her big brother for any length of time.

The hot water ran out as Dorie finished rinsing the conditioner out of her hair. She stepped out of the shower, wrapped her hair in a bath-towel turban, dried herself off, dusted herself liberally with L’Air du Temps scented talcum powder-one of her few personal extravagances-and returned to the bedroom to begin a round of musical clothes. Dear Cosmo: What does a gal wear for an informal tete-a-tete with the man who saved her life, whom she might want to get involved with someday, but definitely not tonight, thank you very much, even though she’s already invited him to sleep over?

Then she reminded herself that Pender had already seen her in the buff, under the least flattering conditions imaginable; after those hideous pink scrubs, could it really make any difference what she chose to wear now? She threw on some comfort clothes-roomy fleece sweatpants and an oversize Carmel Padres sweatshirt-and went down to the kitchen, where Pender was on his knees, scrubbing one-handed at the parquet.

“What’d I tell you,” he said, climbing to his feet. His outfit-beret, rumpled polo, and plaid slacks that made his rear end look like a slip-covered sofa-reminded her that clothes really didn’t make the man-or the woman. “Good as new. Didn’t even strip the wax.”

“Pender, you’re a prince.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Are you hungry?”

“To put it mildly.”

“How do you like your eggs?”

“Sunny side up-like my personality.”

“How ’bout a beer?”

“They say it’s the perfect food.”

“Glass?”

“Naah.”

“Man after my own heart.”

The beer was Tree Frog dark ale, not a brand with which Pender was familiar. The food was perfect, the eggs neither dry nor runny, the bacon neither crisp nor burned. Pender told Dorie she could make breakfast for him whenever she’d a mind to.

“And you can clean my kitchen floor whenever you want.” Dorie took a swig of Tree Frog-out of the bottle, of course. “Where do you think Simon is?”

“Ain’t that the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question?” Pender sopped up yolk with a corner of toast. “You’ve known him for a while. Did he ever mention the names of any close friends, relatives, anybody who might hide him out? My guess is it’ll be someplace in the Bay Area-he’d have to have gotten that car off the road pretty quick.”

“Nothing comes to mind. But they’re gonna catch him, right?”

“What? Oh, sure. You bet.”

“You don’t sound very convinced.”

Pender looked up from his plate. “Scout, I’ve been chasing monsters for a long time.” There was a seen-it-all sadness in his soft brown eyes. “You tell me how much you want to hear.”

“I’ve been hiding from monsters for a long time,” replied Dorie. “You tell me what you think I ought to know.”