Alarums. Part 3

Hey, she thought. Congratulations, you're thinking about Dad, not thata How'd you like it if I stuck my tongue upa d.a.m.n it.

Her thighs jumped shut, sweeping up a wave of hot water that lapped the undersides of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She turned a page and continued reading. 'Penny squirmed under the beda Hey, this gal has my name!' She turned back a few pages. The name Penny popped out at her from almost every paragraph. Who's Penny? What's going on? Scanning what she had read so far, she realized that none of it had registered.

With a sigh, she sat up, reached over the side of the tub, and set the book on the floor beside the wine bottle. Her gla.s.s, resting on the edge of the tub, was empty. She picked it up, brought the bottle in with her, and filled the gla.s.s.

Ought to get myself smashed real good, she thought. She drank half the wine in the gla.s.s, then poured to the top and set the bottle down carefully on the rim of the tub.

Get good and polluted, maybe you'll crack your head getting out, anda like mother like daughter. No more worries about your friendly neighborhood pervert.

Being careful not to spill, she eased down again into the liquid heat. Lower this time. Her head sank against the air-filled backrest. She held the gla.s.s close to her face and stared through the clear purple Burgundy.

The color of post-mortem lividity.

Moma Christ, don't start thinking about her.

This has certainly turned into a banner night.

Some creep I don't even knowa How do I know I don't know him?

The voice.

He could've changed his voice, disguised it.

These kinds of guys, though, don't they usually call strangers? Open the phone book, pick a name, any name, as long as it isn't a man's. Not much to be said for the old ploy of using your initial. He sees P. Conway, he knows it's not a Peter.

'No Peter here,' she mumbled. 'No, indeed.'

She tried for a drink.

Too late, she realized she should have sat up for it.

The rim was almost to her lips before the base of the gla.s.s met her chest. A quick tip. Wine sloshed into her mouth, spilled down her chin. Choking, she lurched up. She tried to hold her mouthful of wine, realized it would spurt out her nose if she didn't get rid of it, and coughed it out. The wine turned the water pink between her legs.

She coughed, sniffed, took a deep breath that made her lungs ache.

Neat play.

She blinked tears out of her eyes.

Go Mom one better, drown on a mouthful of Charles Krug.

Death, where is thy sting?

The pink cloud spread out and vanished, but the sweet aroma of the wine filled Pen's nostrils.

She drank what was left in her gla.s.s, then set the gla.s.s aside.

Sliding her feet up the bottom of the tub, she raised her knees out of the water. Leaned forward. Sniffed them. A pleasant odor, but if she did nothing about it she might be sorry. It would stick with her like spilled perfume, cloying after a while, even nauseating.

A banner night. Star-spangled.

She spread her knees wide, leaned between them, and tugged the chain of the drain stopper. The rubber disk came up with a belch. A small whirlpool appeared on the water's surface, and the level began to drop.

A quick shower.

She hated showers.

You can't hear a d.a.m.n thing.

The Manson family could break down your door, Norman Bates could waltz in singing 'Mammy', the telephonea You could fall down and split your skull.

Especially after you've had a few snorts.

She hated showers.

What're you gonna do, you smell like a guided tour of wine country?

She turned her head. The empty gla.s.s and the half-empty bottle of wine stood on the tub's rim. She would have to move them out of the way. The book on the floor, too. Showers could be very messy.

She reached for the bottle.

The telephone rang.

Her whole body lurched. Her hand struck the bottle's neck. With a quick grab, she caught the teetering bottle and held it steady.

The phone rang again.

YOU b.a.s.t.a.r.d, YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!.

Each jangle was a blow smas.h.i.+ng against Pen's heart, pounding her breath away.

She saw herself climb from the tub and rush, streaming water, into her office. s.n.a.t.c.hing up the phone. You rotten degenerate s.h.i.+t, if you ever call me againa No, that's what he wants. My voice, my fear.

Give him a blast with your whistle.

The police whistle was on her key ring. The key ring was in her purse. In the living room. On the coffee table.

Grab it and blast his ear off.

That'll wilt your big, hard c.o.c.k you G.o.dd.a.m.na The ringing finally stopped.

She let go of the wine bottle.

She listened. She heard her thumping heart, her quick shaky breaths, the water gurgling down the drain, silence beyond the locked bathroom door.

He knows I'm home, now. The tape didn't talk to him, he knows I'm home.

The tub emptied. The drain went quiet.

Pen sat there. Wet. The wet turned cold. She was s.h.i.+vering.

She sat there, hunched over, knees up, b.r.e.a.s.t.s against her -legs, arms hugging her s.h.i.+ns. Teeth clamped shut to keep them from clicking.

Droplets of water squirmed down her skin.

The thing to do now isa is what?

Make it so he can't call back.

She squeezed her legs harder.

Right now.

Pen let go, unhuddled, lost the comfort of warm firm legs tight together and tight to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

She felt very naked, very vulnerable as she stood up and lifted a leg over the side of the tub.

It rings now, she thought, I fall, crack my head open.

She swung her other leg over.

Both feet on the bathmat.

Your timing's off, you creep.

She felt as if she had tricked him, won a small victory.

Then there was the soft dry warmth of her towel. It rubbed the wetness away. It eased the chill. It calmed the s.h.i.+vers. Her teeth unclenched, and she noticed the ache in her jaw muscles.

When she finished, the towel smelled of Burgundy.

She wrapped it snugly around her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and tucked in a corner to hold it in place.

At the door, she gripped the k.n.o.b and hesitated.

Don't clutch up again, she told herself. He's not out there. It's perfectly safe.

She turned the k.n.o.b. The lock b.u.t.ton popped with a loud, springy ping. She pulled the door open and stared through a gap the width of her head. Lights from the living room, her office, and her bedroom glowed through the hallway. Nothing looked wrong. But it all looked wrong, strangely mutated and alien.

A voice on a tape, and the world s.h.i.+fts.

She listened.

There was the faint hum of her refrigerator, nothing else.

A drop of water trickled off her rump and skidded down the back of her leg. Reaching a hand around, she smeared it away.

Wait a while longer, why don't you? Stand here till he calls again.

She stepped into the hallway. Glanced into her bedroom as she pa.s.sed its door.

n.o.body jumped out at her.

Of course not. I've got a bad case of the w.i.l.l.i.e.s, that's all.

She stopped at her office door. Saw the ca.s.sette on the carpet, the answering machine beside the typewriter.

First things first.

At the end of the hallway, she made a quick scan of the living room. Her eyes swept to the door. The guard chain hung in place.

Satisfied?

Pen wasn't satisfied, but she felt her shoulders ease down a bit.

She stepped into the kitchen. From the hallway came enough light for her purposes, but she flicked the kitchen switch anyway to kill the shadows.

Just above the switch panel, her telephone was fixed to the wall. She wrapped a hand around it and pulled. The metal plate stayed on the wall, its jack hole empty. She placed the disconnected phone on top of her refrigerator.

One down, one to go.

With swift long strides, she returned to her office. She carefully avoided the desk corner that had earlier gouged her leg.

The answering machine. The phone. Their cords dropped off the edge of the desk, hung nearly straight down the gap between the side of the desk and the bookshelves, then curved upward and vanished behind the books.

Pen sidestepped. She dropped to a squat, held herself steady with one hand on the desk corner, and reached into the gap with her left hand. Her fingertips found the cords. She followed them, twisting sideways, slipping her hand over the book tops. Her towel fell. The phone blared, jolting her heart and ripping her breath away. With a cry of fright and rage, she hurled herself forward. Her right shoulder rammed the desk, shoving it, turning it. Another blast from the phone. Her knees. .h.i.t the carpet. She squirmed, wedging herself into the gap, shelves digging into her hip and ribs, the desk edge sc.r.a.ping across her right breast. The phone shrieked in her ear. She writhed, teeth bared, whimpering, and her fingers found the phone jack. She yanked it from the wall.

Silence.

She eased herself free.

Her trembling fingers grasped the towel. She dragged it with her as she moved backward on her knees.

Eyes fixed on the phone.

The next best thing to being there.

CHAPTER FOUR.

'This is Friday night,' Bodie said. 'People go out.'

'I know,' Melanie muttered. She was slumped in the pa.s.senger seat, knees up, feet against the dash. She had been like that since they left the service station. Staring straight ahead, but too low to see out the winds.h.i.+eld. 'Maybe it was Pen it happened to,' she said.