Alarums (4 page)

    
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 cock you goddamn…

    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 shivering.

    She sat there, hunched over, knees up, breasts against her -legs, arms hugging her shins. Teeth clamped shut to keep them from clicking.

    Droplets of water squirmed down her skin.

    
The thing to do now is… 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 breasts.

    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 shivers. 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 breasts and tucked in a corner to hold it in place.

    At the door, she gripped the knob and hesitated.

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

    She turned the knob. The lock button 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 shifts.

    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 passed its door.

    Nobody jumped out at her.

    
Of course not. I've got a bad case of the willies, that's all.

    She stopped at her office door. Saw the cassette 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 hit the carpet. She squirmed, wedging herself into the gap, shelves digging into her hip and ribs, the desk edge scraping 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.

    

    

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

    'I know,' Melanie muttered. She was slumped in the passenger 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 windshield. 'Maybe it was Pen it happened to,' she said.

    
Maybe it's no one
, Bodie thought. 'Worrying about it won't do any good. Why don't you go in back and try to get some sleep?'

    She didn't answer. She didn't move. She stayed curled up, head pushed forward by the seat back. Bodie wondered how she could breathe in that position.

    'Doesn't your sister go out on dates?' he asked.

    'No.'

    'No?'

    'Well, sometimes, I suppose. Hardly ever.'

    'What is she, fat and ugly?'

    Melanie turned her head. In the dim light, her face was a blur. Bodie couldn't read her expression, but he guessed that she wasn't amused.

    'Just trying to cheer you up,' he explained.

    'She's beautiful,' Melanie said.

    'As beautiful as you?'

    'Yeah, I'm a regular Bo Derek.'

    'You look great to me.'

    'You haven't seen Pen.' There was no admiration in Melanie's voice. Her monotone sounded just slightly resentful.

    'She sure has a terrible name,' Bodie said.

    'Who notices?'

    'Me.'

    'You haven't seen her yet.'

    'What does she look like?'

    'The Playmate of the Year.'

    'Which year?'

    'Any year.'

    'I can't wait to meet her›'

    'I'll bet.'

    Bodie reached over. He patted the back of Melanie's upraised leg. When she didn't protest, he slid his hand down the soft corduroy and caressed her rump. 'I'm not big on Playmates,' he said.

    'You…'

    'I know, I haven't seen Pen yet. Her favorite books must be
The Prophet
and Jonathan Livingston Seagull.'

    Melanie humphed.

    'So why doesn't she go out with guys?'

    'She's got a problem with them.'

    'Ah.'

    'Not "ah". It's not like that. It's just that they're always hitting on her. They've been hitting on her since she was - God only knows - twelve or thirteen. She got tired of it, that's all.'

    'That's some problem.'

    'It can be. I suppose. I wouldn't know.'

    Bodie leaned closer to Melanie. His fingertips found the center seam of her corduroys. He stroked along it, feeling her heat through the fabric. He pressed harder, rubbed. Melanie caught her breath.

    'Not now,' she said.

    He took his hand away.

    Melanie lowered her feet to the floor and sat up straight. 'I'm sorry,' she muttered.

    'No, I understand.'

    'It's my family. Dad or Pen…'

    'I know. I'd be upset, too. But it is Friday night. Just because nobody answered their phones, you shouldn't jump to conclusions. All you've really got to go on is that vision or whatever it was.'

    'You think it was just my imagination.'

    'I didn't say that.'

    'It's what you're thinking.'

    'No, but I do think that's possible. You're carrying around all this resentment and guilt about your father - about your sister, too, apparently. I'm no shrink, but-'

    'That's right, you're not.'

    'I'm just trying to help.'

    'I'm not a mental case.'

    'Melanie…'

    'If you didn't believe me, you should've said so in the first place. I could've come by myself.' Her voice climbed higher, trembling. 'I don't need this. It's hard enough…' She inhaled with a sob. 'Forget it.'

    'Hey, come on,' Bodie said softly.

    She got up, squeezed between the two seats, and disappeared into the rear of the van.

    
Good work,
Bodie thought. He sighed.

    
Christ, you can't win.

    
You'd think she would jump at the possibility that her vision was a false alarm. Does she want it to be true?

    
We're talking about her father or sister biting it, for Christsake.

    
Yeah, maybe she does want it true. In the back of her mind. Wishful thinking. All right for you, Dad. You had it coming - let Mom drown, then married a tramp young enough to be your daughter. Take that, Pen. That'll teach you - think you can get away with looking like a goddamn Playmate of the Year?

    
I've gotta see this Pen.

    
I'll bet you do,
Melanie said, her voice bitter in his mind.

    She wants them to pay.

    Vengeance is sweet, and a whole lot sweeter if you're there to see it happen, arrange for a little telepathic connection so you can feel their agony as their bodies get smashed.

    Bodies smashed. Now that's convenient, isn't it? What did she say? It was noisy and running at her, and too fast for her to get out of the way. Like a car or a train. Some kind of vehicle.

    That'll smash you up pretty good. Disfigurement. The gorgeous sister who always got the guys - maybe some guys you wanted for yourself - gets nailed by a car. The Playmate of the Year body turned to a broken pile of gore. Take that, you bitch. Now who's the pretty one?

    Bodie didn't like the way his thoughts were going. He turned the radio on. Dolly Parton, 'Singles Bars and Single Women'. He left the volume low to keep the Hound from disturbing Melanie.

    Maybe she'll fall asleep back there. Sleep, that knits the raveled sleeve of care. She could use it. A couple of hours of forgetting about her damned vision.

    
Maybe we shouldn't have called.

    Especially her sister.

    That made it a whole lot worse, finding out that Pen wasn't home, either.

    Where was she? Maybe out at a movie or something. But maybe Pen had been notified of her father's accident and she'd left her place to be with him. At the hospital. At the morgue.

    Or the reverse: Pen the victim, her father the one called away from home.

    One way or the other. That's why nobody answered.

    
I'm as bad as she is,
Bodie thought.
Face it, I'm half expecting the vision to turn out real.

    If it wasn't telepathy or something, it was a mental blowout and Melanie's running on a flat.

    
For her sake, it better be real.

    
You don't want that, either.

    
What you've got here, old pal, is one of your basic no-win situations.

    
Heads you've lost your dad or sister, tails you've lost your mind.

    
Not me, Melanie. I'm just along for the ride.

    
Don't you wish.

    
She's part of me, like it or not. Her problems are my problems. It got that way, somehow.

    

    

    When he first saw Melanie, she was walking toward him with her books clutched to her chest, her head down, a frown on her face. It was a sunny Friday, late enough in the afternoon so that most classes were over and everyone around the campus seemed cheerful and relaxed. Everyone except this girl mourning over the cracks in the walkway.

    Bodie felt sorry for her. He also felt intrigued. She looked lovely, fragile - ethereal - and quite obviously down in the dumps.

    Badly in need of rescue.

    She was still several yards ahead of him, still gazing at the walk, and he knew she would pass him without looking up.

    So he fished a quarter out of his pocket. He gave it an underhand toss. It clinked on the concrete, bounced, landed on its edge and rolled in a crazy zig-zag toward the girl. Bodie knew, from the slight side-to-side motions of her head, that she was watching the quarter's approach. As it took a swerve to the right, she lengthened her stride. Her sandal slapped it flat. Her frown was gone when she raised her face and met Bodie's eyes. She looked rather satisfied with herself, pleased that she had succeeded in halting the runaway coin.

    'Thanks,' he said. 'It got away from me.'

    She didn't say a word. She was now looking edgy. Maybe feeling intimidated because she was a freshman - so obviously a freshman - and he was old enough to be a grad student or even an instructor. She took one step backward.