Fear itself: a novel by Jonathan Lewis Nasaw Page B

blow up the Washington Monument,” Pender explained. “Metro had a tip on a new group called the MDF. Antiterrorism shuts down the monument, plants snipers all around the mall, the whole nine yards. Then somebody actually goes out to interview the informant—turns out MDF stands for Martian Defense Force —the guy was intercepting messages from Mars through his fillings.”
    Linda forced a laugh. “I don’t think Dorie Bell’s with the MDF. In any case, I couldn’t ask you to—”
    “You didn’t—I volunteered.”
    “But you’re retired now.”
    “Not exactly,” said Pender. “I still have two weeks before I’m officially a civilian.”
    “I don’t want to get you in any trouble.”
    Pender shrugged. “What’s the worst they can do, fire me?”

6

    As a boy, Simon Childs had often been beaten by his grandfather for laziness—among other things. But he wasn’t lazy, just subject to spells of paralyzing, unbearable, skin-crawling lethargy.
    When not in the grip of one of his spells, however, Simon possessed a capacity for almost inhuman exertion; there were reserves of strength in that slender frame and surprising leverage in those long arms and legs. He worked all day and into the evening, and by the time he’d finished, the basement was so clean you could have held a prayer meeting down there.
    Except for the God…blessèd…birds. Try as he might, he just couldn’t bring himself to harm any of them. He tried to, starting with a mercy killing of the canary with the injured wing—the one he’d tried to stuff into Wayne’s mouth—but holding it in his cupped hands, feeling the warmth, the softness, smoothing down the trembling yellow feathers with his long thumbs, he felt the same fullness in his chest and throat, the same bittersweet, painful yet pleasurable feeling that sometimes overcame him when he ran hot water into Missy’s bath, or tucked her into bed at night.
    Therefore, despite the fact that it was far more dangerous than simply doing away with the birds—or perhaps because it was more dangerous, and therefore less boring—he decided to set them free.
    The first step was to consolidate the birds, by species—the parakeets, the pigeons, and all the canaries but one—into three cages, which he then loaded, along with the alarmingly apathetic owl in its burlap sack, into the Mercedes parked in the garage abutting the soundproofed basement of the Julia Morgan– designed Childs mansion. There was barely room in the trunk for the canary and parakeet cages; he stowed the pigeons on the backseat of the convertible, covered the cage with a blanket, tossed the sack with the owl into the front seat, and put the top up.
    Simon went back upstairs a little before nine-thirty. Missy was still in the bath. He helped her out, rubbed her down with a fluffy towel to get that blue-tinged skin nice and rosy, powdered her thighs so they wouldn’t chafe, and got her into her footed flannel jammies in time for The Original Ten O’clock News.
    “Now, Simon has to go out for an hour or so, but if you’re good, and you don’t get into any mischief, I have a very special present for you.”
    There weren’t many words that could induce Missy to tear her eyes away from the screen when Dennis Richmond was on, but present was one of them. “What, what?”
    “You’ll never guess in a million years.”
    “Will too.”
    “Hmmmmm. Lemmee see now. What’s little…and yellow…and has feathers…” Over the years, Simon had learned how to string the hints out so that Missy had the thrill of interrupting him in midquestion, which always made her feel smart. “…and wings…and Sylvester the Cat’s always trying to—”
    “Tweety Bird! A Tweety Bird!”
    “If you’re very good and don’t get into any what?”
    “Mischief.”
    “Exactly.”
    “I promise.”
     
    Missy was as good as her word, and so was Simon. He drove all the way out to Walnut Creek, surreptitiously dropped off the feathered