Fear itself: a novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

was considered by some psychiatrists to be the most effective form of phobia therapy, but few patients or psychiatrists had the stomach for it, and the malpractice carriers weren’t crazy about it either—when it failed, it failed big time. Or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he and the birds were all fellow captives, but whatever the reason, Wayne’s ornithophobia had vanished: he found that birds no longer frightened him. Except for the owl, but as that was no longer an unreasonable fear, it no longer qualified as a phobia.
    Somebody probably should have locked me in a room with a bunch of birds years ago, thought Wayne during one of his more lucid moments. He even started to chuckle.
    Think of the money I’d have saved on therapy.
    Laughing out loud, now. LOL, as they said in the PWSPD chat room.
    Miracle cure for ornithophobia. Not cheap, though—cost you an eye and an ear.
    LOL a little too hard.
    Also guaranteed to improve your cello playing. Play even the most difficult pieces with your hands tied behind your back.
    Shrieking with laughter. Lucid no longer. Couldn’t stop if his life depended on it. Birds skittering around in their cages.
    My new friends.
    Shrieking and sobbing.
    My fine new feathered friends.
    Just sobbing, until he’d sobbed himself out. Then it was back to Bach. Number six—the bucolic.
    And this time, Mr. Summers, remember to retune your instrument before you begin.
     
    Much better, thought Simon, when Wayne began to lose his composure. Fear comes in flavors, but the purer it was, the better—nothing chased away the blind rat, or made Simon feel more alive than the terror of a severe phobic. And these new Generation 2 technology goggles were really something—$1,899 over the Internet, but worth every penny. The detail was astounding, especially when you switched on the optional infrared spot/flood lens intended for use in total darkness. You could see every twitch, every quiver, every tear and every drop of fear sweat, and even the darkest blood. All in shades of green, of course, but you got used to that quickly enough, and the padded headgear distributed the one-and-a-half pound weight of the goggles evenly, and thus made it easy to bear—Simon thought of himself as having a long, aristocratic neck and a delicate build.
    But when Wayne left off sobbing and went back to that intolerable, infernal finger twitching, Simon intervened for the first time since the owl attack.
    “I think I’m going to let the smaller birds have you now,” he said quietly.
    “Fuck you, Simon,” replied Wayne. He still didn’t remember much after the recital Sunday evening, but the voice of the man who had called himself fear itself, particularly when he said the word buddy, had triggered one of those wispy, smoke-ring memories: standing out on Van Ness with his cello case, eyes averted from the sight of the Civic Center pigeons while he waited for a cab. Shiny silver Mercedes convertible pulls up to the curb, Simon Childs behind the wheel.
    Hey, buddy, I thought that was you, what a coincidence, can I give you a lift someplace?
    Wayne had always been a sucker for silver-haired white guys, not to mention silver convertibles; he’d almost made a move on Simon at the PWSPD convention last spring, but hadn’t been able to decipher the decidedly mixed signals the older man was putting out.
    The sexual signals weren’t the only contradictions Wayne had noticed. Simon Childs was third-generation wealthy, obviously upper-crust, but though he was well-spoken, his speech was sprinkled with just enough street snarl to suggest that he’d spent some time mucking around down at the bottom of the pie as well. And yet he never swore—Wayne had never heard so much as a hell or damn escape from those elegant lips.
    Wayne had never seen Simon in a tie, either, even at the PWSPD closing banquet in Vegas—his dress was always casual and comfortable, but expensive, and the drape of those casual,