Alarums (6 page)
Authors: Richard Laymon
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
.
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.
She was sprawled belly-down on the floor, her cheek itchy against the carpet. She pushed herself up to her hands and knees, squeezing her eyes tight as pain surged through her head.
You're lucky you didn't kill yourself, the way…
Sounds from the front door. Someone trying the knob? A scrape and click of metal against metal.
Pen unhooked her feet from the trip cord and thrust herself up. She leaped it, rushed across her room and snatched the knife off the nightstand. Her head pounded. The back of her neck had burning steel rods that rammed into the base of her brain with each step as she ran, jumped the cord, and sprinted down the corridor to the living room.
The front door was open!
Only a few inches, but enough to admit the hand.
The hand was clutching the back of the chair, shaking it, trying to work it out from under the knob.
CHAPTER SIX
'Hurry!'
'I'm trying.'
'Let me try.'
'I'm getting it.'
'Come on.'
With his left hand on the outside knob, Bodie pulled the door tight against his right arm. The chair inside slipped down a bit. He tugged at it. He was pretty sure he could get it out of the way, but he wondered what Melanie would ask him to do about the security chain. Kick the door open and rip its mounting from the wall?
Then came a thud of footfalls. Someone charging toward the other side of the door.
'You bastard!'
He lurched back against Melanie, jerked his arm from the gap. A long blade jabbed out. He stumbled backward as fast as the blade approached him. Almost. Its point nicked his side.
His feet tangled with Melanie's. He fell against her. The. bars of the balcony's guard rail rang as Melanie hit them.
An arm in the blue sleeve of a sweatshirt waved the knife, blindly slicing the air.
'Pen!' Melanie blurted.
The arm stopped. The blade tilted upward. The arm withdrew from the opening. A moment later, half a face appeared in the gap, a single eye staring out through strands of blond hair. And lower, one breast in the same blue sweatshirt worn by the knife-wielding arm.
'Melanie?'
The half-face and breast went away. The door shut. Bodie heard the chair bump the door, heard the security chain rattle. Then the door swung open wide.
This is the Playmate of the Year?
Bodie thought.
This is the Weird Sister. Double, double toil and trouble…
At least she had put down the knife. Trembling fingers parted the hair away from her face. She muttered, 'My God, I could've killed you.'
'Just a flesh wound, ma'am,' he drawled. Holding his side, he got to his feet.
Pen bent forward and looked around as if to see whether anyone had witnessed the assault. 'Come in,' she whispered.
Bodie held back and let Melanie enter first. Pen shut the door behind him. She leaned against it. She looked haggard, distracted. 'I don't… I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say.'
'What's going on?' Melanie asked.
She shrugged. Her jeans were open, smooth skin showing above a triangle of white panties. She seemed to realize this at the same moment as Bodie. She raised the zipper and buttoned the waist. 'I had some trouble,' she murmured. She rubbed the back of her neck. 'Come on, we'd better get a bandage.'
They followed her into a short corridor. Passing a bedroom, Bodie saw an electrical cord stretched across the bottom of the doorway.
What the hell is going on?
he thought.
In the bathroom, she asked him to sit down and take off his shirt. He lowered the toilet cover and sat on it. As he removed his shirt, Pen took disinfectant and a tin of Band-aids out of the medicine cabinet. She moistened a washcloth at the sink.
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