'Neither do I,' Bodie said to calm her down. 'Let's just watch some TV.'
A quick, jerking nod.
'We don't have to do anything,' he told her.
'Okay.'
He turned on the television. Leaving Melanie on the sofa, he went into the kitchen and poured wine. Then he sat down beside her. She used both hands on her glass, trying to hold it steady. As she took a sip, she watched Bodie raise his glass. They both saw the surface of his wine shimmer. He was shaking a little, himself.
'What are you so nervous about?' Melanie asked.
'Who, me?'
'Yeah, you.'
They stared into each other's eyes. For a long time.
'We don't have to do anything,' she told him. Smiling, she set her glass on the table.
Bodie put down his glass.
They kissed. They held each other. She was trembling, but she was the one who eased him down onto the sofa. They lay on their sides, their bodies together. She still trembled, but she untucked his shirt and unbuttoned it and spread it open and caressed his chest. Bodie followed her lead. Soon, they were both bare to the waist. Bodie kissed her mouth, her eyes, her long neck with its black velvet choker. He stroked and held and squeezed her breasts while her hands roamed his back.
Her hands didn't venture below Bodie's belt. He abided by the unspoken rule, and kept his own hands from straying lower on Melanie.
He realized, soon, that this was as far as Melanie was willing to take it. The lower half was out of bounds. Squirm and rub, but hands off and clothes on.
He realized something else.
Melanie was a virgin.
She had to be.
The lower half wasn't just out of bounds, it was not even on the map.
Bodie would be her first.
If he could just get her pants off… That might not be easy, though.
Better not try it.
Maybe tomorrow night, or…
Melanie's hand pushed under his belt. Her cool fingers curled around his penis.
My God, he thought.
As her fingers slid, he opened the waist of her corduroys.
The corduroys ended up beneath her. Bodie didn't know it. He didn't know much of anything. He was dazed above her, inside her at last but only partway, holding back, aching with the feel of her slick tightness hugging him, needing in all the way but holding back, not wanting to hurt her though her fingers dug into his buttocks, urging him deeper and she panted, 'Harder… In… Push!' And, at last, he pushed. Flinching rigid, Melanie gasped, 'Oh!' in a high hurt voice and thrust up against him. He went deep. All the way. All of him inside and it was past bearing and he erupted, throbbing and pumping.
She held him. She stroked his hair. She wouldn't let him up. He mumbled lazily about not wanting to crush her, but she told him not to worry about it.
***
Bodie fell asleep. When he woke up, he was still on top of Melanie. He was still inside her. He felt glued to her. 'I think we're stuck,' he said.
'Good.' She smiled and kissed the tip of his nose.
'I think we really are stuck.'
'Something must've dried.'
He pulled free as gently as he could, but it hurt her. Her lips peeled back with pain.
Bodie looked down. 'Not a pretty sight.'
Melanie sat up. She looked. 'Yuck.'
'I guess we'd better take a shower.'
They took a shower. Bodie, Melanie, and Melanie's corduroy pants. When they were finished, only the cords were still bloodstained. 'They'll never be the same,' Bodie said.
Melanie smiled. 'Neither will I.'
***
She's part of me, like it or not. Her problems are my problems. It got that way very fast and maybe not on purpose, but that's how it is and that's why I'm driving through the desert night with a psychic or a nut case in the back of the van.
'I'm sorry,' she said near his ear.
He felt a rush of affection.
'Forgive me?' she asked.
'You had every right to be upset.'
She eased forward between the seats and rested a hand on Bodie's thigh. He looked at her. The bare arm led to a bare shoulder. Below the shoulder was the mound of a breast. A small breast, its nipple large and dark. 'Why don't you find a place to pull off the freeway?' she suggested.
'Are you sure?'
The answer was Melanie's hand sliding to his groin. Bodie started looking for an off-ramp.
CHAPTER FIVE
After a quick shower to get rid of the wine smell, Pen dried herself with a fresh towel. She put a bandage on her scraped thigh, slipped into her moccasins, and put her robe on. Then she picked up the empty glass and the wine bottle.
Polish it off, she thought, and maybe you'll be able to sleep.
You'll sleep, all right. You'll be dead to the world, and maybe that's not such a grand plan.
You might even have a visitor.
Don't even think about that.
I'd damn well better think about that. He has my phone number, so he must have my address. It's right there in the directory for him. The answering machine is off, so he knows I'm here. What if he decides to come over?
They don't do that, she told herself, and opened the bathroom door. She walked quickly to the kitchen and put the wine bottle into the refrigerator. Then she rinsed out her glass at the sink.
Crank callers don't pay visits.
Who says so?
Fictional cops. In books, on TV, in the movies. He's just a crank caller, ma'am. No reason to be alarmed. These guys who get their jollies phoning up women, they're timid mice afraid of their own shadows. That's how come they use the phone, 'cause it's anonymous and safe. You've got nothing to worry about.
That's what they say, those fictional cops. And the next thing you know, the caller who's a timid mouse is sneaking through the gal's house with a butcher knife, intent upon carving her up.
Pen turned off the faucet. She set the glass in the sink. As she dried her hands, she looked across the kitchen. In the dining area stood her table surrounded by four sturdy, straight-backed chairs.
She carried one of them into the living room, moved her umbrella aside, and tilted the chair backward, wedging its top rail under the doorknob.
'That'll slow him down,' she muttered.
She didn't need to check the windows; they'd been closed and latched since last weekend. With dowel rods in the runners to keep the windows from being slid open, they were secure.
Real secure, she thought. Glass.
If he wants in badly enough…
He would have to be crazy. There are fifteen other apartments in this complex, all with windows facing the courtyard and pool. If he smashes a window - if I scream - someone will hear.
Would anyone come to help?
Probably. Manny Hammond , for instance. There's a guy would jump at the chance to rush to my rescue. Wouldn't that be wonderful. Better him than nobody, I suppose. By a small margin.
Pen returned to the kitchen. The butcher block on her counter held eight knives. She took the two largest knives into her bedroom. She placed one on the night-stand. Crouching, she set the other on the carpet just beneath the edge of her bed.
In case we end up on the floor…
Are you serious? she wondered.
Must be, I'm doing it.
She realized that she didn't want to leave the night-stand knife in plain sight. She took a copy of Publishers Weekly from her magazine stand and spread it open on top of the weapon.
Okay, you're in good shape now.
You're in good shape, all right, if paranoia's good shape. You're acting totally bonkers.
Yeah? Better safe than… her mind flashed a picture of the coroner's slide, the naked woman face-down on the autopsy table, buttocks purple. World's worst hie key.
One more knife, she decided, and returned to the kitchen for it. She placed this knife on the floor beneath the other side of the bed.
Back in the living room, she unplu
gged her stereo and removed its extension cord. Kneeling in her bedroom entry way, she ran an end of the cord through the gap between the door and the frame, over the top of the lower hinge. She brought the plug back through under the hinge, made a knot, and yanked. The cord held firm. She drew it across the doorway and tied its other end around the rear leg of her dresser.
Standing, she admired her work.
'Have a nice trip,' she said.
What else might she…?
Isn't this enough? I'm certifiable.
This is enough, she decided.
She turned off the bedroom lights.
Other lights in her apartment were still on. She had-intended to leave them on. But the dark line of her trip cord was plainly visible across the bottom of the doorway.
It won't do much good if he can see it.
Pen stepped over the cord and made her way through the apartment.
She wished she could leave all the rooms bright. But darkness would work against him in more ways than just hiding the cord.
You really are expecting him to show up?
No, not really. All right, yes. Yes, I think he'll show up. Maybe.
She'd been raped once. She didn't intend to let it ever happen again.
Maybe I should get the hell out of here.
She stepped over the cord. She sat on the edge of her bed.
I could drive over to Dad's house and spend the night there. Or go over to a friend's. Abby or Jane or Loretta - any one of them would be glad to let me stay. I can't just barge in, though. I'd have to call first. Plug in a phone, call, get dressed, go out in the rain.
What'll that solve? she asked herself.
It'll get me through the night.
But what about tomorrow night and the night after that?
'Fuck it,' she muttered.
If he's going to come, let him come.
She got up and turned off the lights. She took off her robe, draped it over a chair, slipped out of her moccasins, and climbed into bed. The cool, smooth sheets felt wonderful. The heat of her body warmed them. Snuggling, she buried her face in her pillow.
You're really planning to sleep in the raw?
I always do.
This isn't always. You want to be starkers when he jumps you?
If. If…
Pen felt cozy. She didn't want to leave the comfort of the bed. But she forced herself to sit up, turn on the bedside lamp, and swing her feet to the floor.
There was a naked woman in the mirror, walking toward Pen. Her face made a mocking snarl, a lip curling up, baring teeth.
'Yeah, I know, it's all your fault.'
The rotten bastard doesn't even know what I look like, she thought. He probably picked my name at random. I could be a refugee from the ugly farm, he'd still be giving me grief.
I'm a woman, that's all he cares about.
A pair of breasts and a vagina.
I want to talk to you…
A chill squirmed up her body.
She bent and tugged open a drawer. She pulled out a pair of powder blue silk pajamas. She put them on, the cool fabric sliding over her skin like oil. Clinging, revealing.
Better than her nightgowns, though.
A lot better than nothing at all.
She rubbed her arms, feeling the goosebumps through the slick fabric.
The woman in the mirror sneered at her, obviously disgusted with the whole situation.
Pen took off the pajamas and put them back into the drawer. She opened the top drawer, saw that she was down to her last four pairs of good panties, and searched near the back of the drawer until she found some old ones. They were ragged and the elastic was limp. Perfect.
She found an old, frayed bra and put it on. Then a pair of jeans. Calvins. The tightest jeans she owned.
So tight they peeled the bandage off her thigh.
She fastened them.
The woman in the mirror rolled her eyes upward. You're a clown.
Okay, I'm a clown.
She put on a baggy blue sweatshirt.
Her tightly encased legs made it hard to bend over, but she managed, and put on socks. Then she crossed to her closet and took out a pair of cowboy boots. She put them on. They had pointed toes. Great for kicking.
Looking down at herself, she shook her head.
Thank God I'm alone. Bad enough that I know I've flipped out.
Dressed like this, she wasn't about to get inside her sheets. She remade her bed, leaving the pillow out, then turned off the lights and lay down. On her back.
Great. Like taking a nap on the couch.
Bonkers.
So what's the alternative? Pretend nothing's wrong? Don't brace the front door, don't booby-trap the bedroom entrance, don't arm myself? Curl up naked and cozy under the sheets as if there isn't a guy out there who maybe wants to rape me?
She closed her eyes. Her lids felt spring-loaded. Keeping them shut took an effort. She pulled the pillow over her face. Folded her hands on her belly.
I'll never fall asleep this way, she thought.
Maybe that's best.
I can catch up on my sleep tomorrow after sunrise. I'll be safe once it's daylight. Just lie here and relax. Try to think pleasant thoughts, fat chance.
Instead of pleasant thoughts, Pen found herself wondering whether there were any other precautions she might take. Call the police? They'd probably tell her to get an unlisted number. But that wouldn't stop the creep from dropping by when he got the urge.
If I just had a gun.
Well, you don't.
Maybe pick one up tomorrow.
There's a waiting period for handguns, she knew from story research. About two weeks.
But I could walk out of a store tomorrow with a shotgun. I think. Yeah, the waiting period only applies to pistols, doesn't it?
So buy a shotgun.
Then what? Sleep with it?
Yeah…
***
Pen opened her eyes. She was curled on her side, legs spread out as if she were running. The leg on the bottom was numb. The tight jeans had cut off its circulation.
She didn't remember turning onto her side. Had she fallen asleep? Opening her eyes, she squinted at the lighted face of the alarm clock. Three-thirty.
Asleep, all right, but not for long enough.
Her leg tingled painfully as she rolled onto her back.
She shut her eyes again.
And heard a footstep. Her heart slammed her breath away. She lay rigid, listening. She heard only the thud of her heart. Then another quiet, scraping step. Not inside the apartment, but on the concrete walkway just outside her window.
The window was above her face.
She rolled, dropped her knees to the floor, and slid the knife out from under the magazine. Still on her knees, she crept away from the bed. She rose to her feet and leaned against the wall at the far end of the window.
With one finger, she eased out the edge of the curtain a fraction of an inch. No face. She widened the gap enough to see out with both eyes.
Someone was there, all right.
She took a breath so deep that her chest strained against her bra and she heard a quiet ripping sound from somewhere along the back of the garment. She let the air out slowly. Very tired all of a sudden, she leaned her shoulder against the wall. She continued to peer out the window.
So much for your lurking degenerate, she thought.
At the door of the corner apartment, only a couple of yards beyond the end of Pen's long window, Alicia Bonner was wrapped around her boyfriend. The eighteen-year-old girl, who apparently took her fashion cues from the Mad Max movies, wore boots that made quiet, shuffling sounds on the walkway as she adjusted her stance against the apartment door.
The overhang of the roof sheltered Alicia and her friend from the rain.
One of Alicia's hands shoved under the belt at the rear of the guy's jeans. She squirmed, her thighs hugging his upthrust leg.
My big hard cock and your hot juicy cunt…
There should be a way to erase your mind, Pen thought. Rewind, press a button, and erase the voice as easily as you might remove it from magnetic tape.
Patent it, you'd make a bundle.
She heard whispers through her window.
How long are they going to be at it?
As long as it takes. Right.
Pen put the knife on the table, lay down on her bed, drew the pillow down over her face, and sighed.
As long as they stay out there, she realized, I don't need to worry about my friend.
Friend!?
Go to sleep.
In spite of the pillow over her head, she could hear the rain, sometimes a shuffling boot, sometimes a whisper.
Thanks for the sentry duty, kids.
She found herself relaxing, easing toward sleep.
Gotta pee.
Not too badly yet. But better get it over with.
Moaning, she forced herself to climb out of bed. She unbuttoned her jeans as she crossed the dark room, and was pulling the zipper down when her boot stopped in mid-stride.
Oh, yeah.
The trip cord.
Oh, shit.
Her other foot flew forward to catch her, but the cord hooked it back.
Both feet snagged, she yelped and threw out her arms as she dived through the doorway. The far wall of the corridor pounded a forearm aside and smashed the top of her head.
Stars. A galaxy. Whirling bright.
Ringing. Pen heard ringing.
I'd better get the phone.
But somebody was digging a fork into her brain through a neat round hole in her skull. Prodding around, prying out bite-size chunks of gray matter.
I'd better get the phone while I still have enough brains left to…
Wait. I killed the phones.
Him.
How does he make the phones ring when they're not plugged in?
It's not the phones, it's the doorbell.
Her stomach clenched. Her heart hammered, shooting bolts of pain through her head.
Groaning, she clutched the top of her head.
No hole there. A tender lump the size of a split golf ball.
The ringing stopped.
***
Pen opened her eyes. The hallway was dim with the vague blue-gray gloom of early morning.
Alarums Page 4
