Fear itself

6

Pyromania, enuresis, cruelty to animals-the homicidal trinity of forensic psychiatry. Sid Dolitz used to have a standing bet with Pender: if Pender ever caught a serial killer who didn’t have a childhood history of starting fires and/or wetting his bed and/or torturing small animals, Sid would buy him dinner.

Simon Childs had never wet his bed as a boy, and cruelty to small animals per se was anathema to him, although he did get a kick out of feeding white mice to Crusher, the boa constrictor who’d succeeded Skinny as his boyhood pet. But Simon had certainly started a few fires in his day, and while the thrill wasn’t as intensely orgasmic for him as it was for your true pyromaniac, there was a definite erotic charge that accompanied watching the flames and hearing the sirens.

So it was something of a disappointment to him, to have to miss the fire. But otherwise, Plan C had gone so smoothly that by the time he left Atlantic City on Cappy’s classy old Harley, he was not only reasonably certain that the explosion and fire would take place as scheduled, but that the fates had given their seal of approval to the entire venture.

The key to the first part of the plan, as Simon had foreseen, was Rosie. The news about Missy had devastated her-but it gave Simon a chance to comfort her, to play the heartbroken, but loving son, which had not only endeared him to Rosie, but to Cappy as well.

With the ground prepared, Simon had then spun the same yarn he’d spun for Zap Strum after learning of Missy’s death, once again imbuing the embellishments with the authority of his own emotional investment, as well as making sure that both Rosie and Cappy were kept well-lubricated with Select Choice vodka. And by the time he’d finished telling his rapt audience of two how a crooked FBI agent named Pender had tricked Missy into letting him into the house, then attacked Simon, how Missy tried to stop him and there was a scuffle, how the struggle had overtaxed her heart, and how Pender had then shifted the blame to Simon to cover his own rear end, Rosie didn’t need any more convincing-maternal guilt alone would have been sufficient motivation for her.

But just to be on the safe side, Simon added a spoonful of sugar to make sure Cappy’s medicine went down smoothly. He took the old CPO aside and showed him the satchel filled with cash, then explained how once he, Simon, had confronted Pender while wearing a hidden tape recorder and fooled him into confessing, he wouldn’t be needing his getaway money. In which case, he would be happy-no, honored-to leave the money behind for Cappy, as a token of his appreciation for his help in clearing his name and bringing Missy’s killer to justice, not to mention the loan of the Harley.

From the glitter in the old man’s eyes when Simon dumped half of his remaining stacks of dead presidents on the bed, Simon was reasonably certain that he had just bought himself a second accomplice. But it wasn’t only the money that had won Cappy over, it was the prospect of adventure. Judging by the man’s excitement and enthusiasm when they started going over the next part of the plan, Simon had the feeling that Cappy would have paid him for the opportunity to be useful again, to do something important for somebody, something that mattered, to be a participant in life again, and maybe even have a little fun with the cops in the bargain.

Simon had thought of everything. The two were to stay in the kitchenette portion of the apartment, where they couldn’t be seen from the apartment’s only window. Rosie was to wait half an hour, then call the cops and tell them she was being held hostage by her son. After that, all Rosie had to do was stall, stall, stall; all Cappy had to do was let himself be heard in the background every so often.

And when push came to shove, Simon assured them, they wouldn’t have to put themselves in danger-he wouldn’t think of allowing any harm to come to either of them. Let the cops in, explain how Simon had threatened to kill them if they didn’t help him get away, then go treat yourselves to a fancy dinner someplace with the money Simon had so generously left behind, and never mind the senior/twilight discounts.

Before leaving, he’d traded clothes with Cappy and kissed his mother good-bye. The wrinkled cheek was surprisingly soft against his lips; the eyes were filled with tears. She cried easily, this old woman-but had she cried when she spent the blood money Grandfather Childs had given her to abandon her children? And did she cry when she spread her legs for that old man on the Murphy bed? Did she cry for her children then?

Of course not-so why should I cry for her? thought Simon as he closed the door behind him. Then he’d made a big stomping show of starting down the stairway, before doubling back quietly to ring the bell of the apartment next door.

“Who’s there?” A shaky, phlegmy old voice. Perfect for his purposes: if the occupant was as feeble as she sounded, there would be no need to strong-arm her, as he’d originally planned. He might not even need to improvise a delayed-action fuse to trigger the explosion.

“Gas company, ma’am,” Simon had called. “I’m afraid there may be a problem with your line.”

Twenty minutes later he was on his way. He might even have passed the Bu-car containing Special Agents LaFeo and Kingmore, traveling in the opposite direction. He heard the explosion an hour later, from a phone booth near Deep Water, New Jersey, just east of the Delaware Memorial Bridge spanning the Delaware River.

“Hello, Mrs. Schantz? This is Joe from the gas company. Your readings are all clear now-as they say in the Navy, the smoking lamp is lit…. Yes, ma’am, I know the smell is strong-that’s the anti-inflammatory I told you we were going to be pumping in.…I quite understand-I’m a pack-a-day man myself. What I want you to do, though, while I’m holding, I want you to flick that Bic for me, walk around the apartment, see if the flame wavers…. No, you can keep the Bic with our compliments…. Yes, ma’am, I’ll wait.”

While he waited, Simon held the phone at arm’s length to avoid the percussion tinnitus syndrome shortly to be experienced by the hostage negotiator for the Atlantic City Police Department, currently holding the line for Rosie Delamour next door-unlike her, he knew what was coming.

And though he’d told himself he wasn’t going to cry, afterward there were tears in his eyes as he replaced the receiver and walked slowly back to the Harley. He was an orphan now, he’d suddenly realized-a motherless, fatherless, sisterless child.