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  She still felt shaky, but her vision was better and the cold tightness in her stomach seemed to be easing. She pursed her lips and stretched her mouth wide. The numbness had left her cheeks.

  Opening her umbrella, she wondered what to do. One thing was certain, she couldn't go back upstairs. That left two alternatives: either cross the courtyard to the Press Club bar and wait there for the meeting to end, or go home.

  Gary might stop by the bar after the meeting ended. But there was no guarantee of that. And if he should show up, it might lead to trouble.

  Probably end up trying to fend him off.

  Better just leave.

  She stepped out of the entryway. The rain drummed on her umbrella as she hurried through the courtyard and down the concrete steps to the parking lot.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, she closed the apartment door behind her and hooked the dripping umbrella over its knob. Rump against the door to steady herself, she pulled off her boots. She carried them into the bedroom, turning on lights as she went.

  It felt good to get out of her clothes. She hung up the damp skirt in the closet, slipped her feet into an old pair of moccasins, and put on her robe. The robe was soft against her skin.

  In the bathroom, she switched on the heat light. Then she went to the kitchen and removed a bottle of Burgundy from the refrigerator.

  A glass of wine, a good book, a long hot bath - the life of luxury. Worth coming home for.

  The cork came out with a low, ringing pop.

  She carried the bottle into the dining area and took a crystal glass from the cabinet. Back in the bathroom, she filled the glass. She took a drink, the wine cool and tart in her mouth, warm after she swallowed. Its heat flowed downward, spreading.

  Nice, she thought.

  This will be very nice, far superior to sitting in the Press Club bar.

  Something might have developed with Gary .

  Forget it.

  He just would've tried to pull something. They all do. If you don't come across, they try to force you. The hell with them.

  She set down the glass and bottle beside the tub - near the far end so they would be easy to reach once she was in. Kneeling, she stoppered the drain and turned the water on. She got the temperature right, almost too hot to bear, then dried her hands and went to get a book.

  Her loosely belted robe hung open. She left it that way, feeling too lazy and comfortable to bother closing it.

  She switched on the light in the spare bedroom, her office. Resting on the corner of her desk was the new Dean R. Koontz book. It was getting good, but it was a hardbound. No risking a hardbound in the bath.

  She started toward her bookshelves and yelped in pain as a corner of the desk gouged her thigh. Clutching herself, she whirled around and dropped onto the chair.

  'Jesus,' she hissed.

  When the pain subsided, she lifted her hand. No blood on her leg, but a layer of skin was peeled back, ruffled and white, leaving a patch of shiny pink flesh.

  She let out a trembling breath.

  Damn it, why didn't I look where I was going? It'll feel great when the hot water hits it.

  From where she sat, she could hear the bath water.

  She started to stand up.

  And noticed the telephone answering machine beside her typewriter. Its red light was on. She looked more closely.

  Four calls while she was gone? A busy night.

  She rewound the tape, pressed the playback button, then turned away and headed for the bookshelves.

  'Hello, honey.' Pen didn't recognize the man's voice. 'Sorry you're away. I wanted to talk to you about my big hard cock and your hot juicy cunt.'

  The words pounded her breath away. She spun around, stared at the brown plastic recorder.

  'How'd you like me to fuck your brains out, huh? Yeah, I'll stick it right up…'

  She lunged at the desk, arm out, stiff finger set to jab the voice to silence. The machine beat her to it, a quiet beep signaling the end of the message.

  Pen's legs felt weak. She braced herself over the desk, elbows locked, hands flat on the cool wood.

  Second message.

  Same voice.

  'How'd you like it if I stuck my tongue up…'

  She stabbed the stop button.

  Shut her eyes. Lowered her head. Took deep breaths as her heart slammed.

  Goddamn demented sicko. Good thing I wasn't home. Better fly eggs than…

  Pen opened her eyes. Glimpsed the blond tuft between her legs. Jerked the robe shut and pulled its belt tight. Looked at the machine.

  Maybe the bastard quit after two calls.

  She pressed the fast forward button, watching the counter turn. Okay, third message. '… come in your mouth. I want to shoot my load down…'

  She shoved the eject control. The cassette flipped up. She tore it from the machine and threw it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  They were heading west on Highway 10, an hour out of Phoenix, the headbeams of the VW van pushing ahead of them through the darkness and lighting more than Bodie cared to see beyond the breakdown lane.

  The fencing over there had snagged a lot of tumbleweed. That seemed to be its sole purpose.

  Beyond the fence was nothing.

  Nada.

  Hell, there's plenty out there, he thought. Plenty of rocks and sand and cacti and tarantulas and scorpions. And tumbleweed.

  He remembered an old episode of Thriller or Outer Limits (hard to keep the two shows straight) where a couple got stuck in an area very much like this and the goddamn tumbleweeds got them. Surrounded them, closed in, and…

  A pale shape the size of a trashcan scooted into the path of his headlights. Bodie's foot jumped to the brake pedal. Before he could ram it down, the thing had already blown past his lane.

  A tumbleweed, must've hopped the fence.

  It looked like a giant hairball of dead sticks.

  The back of his neck tingled.

  'It's coming for us,' he said - quoting his favorite line from The Night of the Living Dead. He tried to smile.

  Melanie turned toward him. Her face was a pale oval with dark smudges for eyes and lips. 'Just a joke,' he said. She didn't answer. 'Remember that old Thriller? Maybe it was The Outer Limits. This couple was… Hey, would you say something?'

  'I was so awful to him. I never stopped blaming him for… what happened to Mom. I know it wasn't his fault, but he was right there in the house. If he'd only heard her fall… If I'd been there, instead of away at camp.'

  'Who sent you to the camp?' Bodie asked.

  'They did. Mom and Dad. I didn't even want to go, but they said it would be a growth experience. They felt I was too dependent and introverted, that camp would help "bring me out". I didn't have any choice about going. I know I shouldn't hold myself responsible for Mom's accident. Dad either. It wasn't his fault any more than mine. But what you know and what you feel don't always match up. So things were never right between Dad and me after that. I tried… I just couldn't forgive him, or myself. Then he went and remarried.'

  'Right away?'

  'No. I was a sophomore in high school. That really broke it. I mean, here he was pushing sixty and Joyce was like twenty-six. It was disgusting. I couldn't handle it. I moved in with my sister and lived with her till I finished high school. I just couldn't…' Her voice trembled. 'Now he's dead, and I'll never…' She began to weep.

  'You don't know for sure he's dead,' Bodie told her.

  'I know. I know.'

  'We'll find a gas station. There's got to be one around here someplace. I want you to call again.'

  'It won't do any good.'

  'You've sure got a lot of faith in that vision of yours. You might just have it all wrong.'

  She sniffed and didn't answer.

  'You admitted, yourself, that you weren't sure who the victim was. You thought it might be your father or your sister.'

  'It was Dad.'

  'Now you're sure?'

  'Y
es.'

  'You know, maybe this is one of those things where a person sees into the future. Precognition? If it is, then maybe going there might be part of some design to prevent it from happening. Possible?'

  'I don't know,' Melanie muttered.

  Not a flat-out denial. Bodie felt that he had made a breakthrough… at least opened a crack in her certainty. 'When you had the vision about your mother, was it before or after her accident?'

  'Right at the same time. I had it while she was drowning.'

  'Okay, that's your one major experience with this kind of thing. This time could be entirely different. In fact, when you start thinking about it, the second time with anything is almost never the same as the first. Think about it. Your first drink, your first date with a guy. Look at the first time you had sex. I know for a fact it was different the second time around - a whole new ball game, so to speak.'

  'I'm glad you find this amusing.'

  'I'm just trying to help, Mel. You're all upset about this thing, but it's possible that your vision wasn't what you think. I'm just saying that maybe your father - or whoever - is still okay. Maybe this was a warning, and you're meant to get there in time to prevent whatever you saw.'

  'I guess it's possible,' she admitted. But there was no conviction in her voice.

  It is possible, he told himself.

  Hell, it's possible that the whole damned episode was a figment of her imagination. All that guilt revolving around her father, probably a subconscious wish for him to croak, God only knows what other hang-ups are ticking away in her head. An emotional time-bomb that finally blew.

  He decided to keep that theory to himself.

  The last thing she needed right now was Bodie suggesting she'd flipped her gourd.

  We'll find out soon enough, he thought. If it turns out that her father got his ticket canceled tonight…

  Bodie saw an oasis ahead. Lights, buildings, a Shell sign high atop a pole. Coming up fast.

  He eased his van onto the exit ramp, a single lane curving away toward the Shell station, a second station across from it with a lighted wooden sign announcing 'Bargain Gas', a Denny's restaurant, and a squat adobe building decorated with blinking blue neon that read, 'Bingo's Bar and Grill'.

  Melanie leaned across the seat for a look at the gas gauge. 'You've got half a tank,' she said.

  'Better safe than sorry.'

  'I guess I might as well call while we're stopped,' she

  said. She didn't sound eager.

  Bodie stopped beside the self-service pumps at the Shell station. Straight ahead, at the edge of the lot, stood a pair of public telephones. 'Do you want to call while I fill her up?'

  'I have to use the john.'

  They both climbed out of the van. Bodie stepped to the pump, unhooked the nozzle and shoved down the start lever. He watched Melanie. She was walking with her head down, looking depressed and vulnerable. Not much different from the way she usually looked, a way that made Bodie want to hold and comfort her. He found his eyes lingering on the seat of her corduroys, loose-fitting pants that almost but not quite hid the moving curves of her buttocks. He imagined slipping his hands down the waistband. The cool smoothness. He wondered if she was wearing panties.

  She's probably wearing them tonight, he thought. Sex would've been the furthest thing from her mind when she'd changed clothes for the trip.

  She vanished around a corner of the building. Bodie took off the gas cap and thrust the spout into the neck of his tank.

  It's these balmy Arizona nights, he thought. A guy can't help getting a little horny.

  If she phones and everyone is fine, maybe he would pull off the highway…

  Cut it out.

  It's always terrific in the back of the van. A certain risk of exposure that adds to the whole…

  The nozzle shut off. He hooked it back onto the pump, capped his tank, and headed for the office. He was nearly there when Melanie appeared, striding past the corner of the building, rubbing her hands on her cords.

  'No towels?' he asked.

  'One of those stupid blower machines.'

  'I'll move the van over by the phones.'

  She nodded, and kept on walking. Bodie continued to the office. He paid for the gas, and came out.

  Melanie was standing at one of the phones, searching inside her purse.

  The filling station was deserted except for Bodie's van. He decided not to move it, after all, and headed for Melanie. She looked up at him. 'Problem?' he called.

  'I've only got a quarter.'

  He took out his wallet. 'Make it a card call,' he told her. 'Mine's here somewhere.' By the time he reached her, he had found his calling card.

  'Thanks,' she said.

  He explained how to use it.

  Melanie turned away and dropped her quarter into the slot. As she dialed, Bodie stepped close against her back. He held her shoulders gently. 'It'll be all right,' he said. She nodded, her hair caressing his chin and mouth. She read off the card numbers to the operator.

  He felt her body tighten.

  'It's ringing,' she said.

  He rubbed her shoulders, felt the bra straps under the crisp fabric of her blouse.

  'Nobody's answering,' she said.

  'Give it some time.' Bodie pressed his lips to the back of her head. Her hair had a faint, pleasant aroma of lemons.

  'It's no use. Nobody's home.'

  She hung up. A quarter clanked and skidded into the coin return. She fingered it out, turned around, and looked up at Bodie with her wide, hurt eyes.

  'I wish I could make everything all right,' he said.

  'I know.'

  'Look, maybe there's someone else you could call. A neighbor?'

  She bit down on her lower lip, frowned.

  And suddenly started digging in her purse. Her hand came out with a small, red booklet.

  ***

  Pen's eyes moved across the page, following the lines of words. She thought she was reading the paperback novel. Her eyes traced over its sentences, and she wasn't aware that none of their meaning reached her mind.

  Sorry you're away, I wanted to talk to you.

  What if he calls again?

  My big hard cock… your hot juicy cunt.

  He's out there somewhere, a sicko, and he's thinking about me.

  Maybe right now reaching for his phone.

  Pen turned a page of the book. Her eyes followed the words and she listened, expecting to hear the distant jangle of her telephone. All she heard was a slow drip of water near her feet.

  He might never call again.

  Oh, he will. He will.

  Four calls already tonight.

  Probably four, though she'd only listened to three of them.

  He likes the sound of my voice.

  Four times, she had talked to him. 'Hello. I'm sorry, but I'm unable to answer your call at this time. If you'd like to leave me your name and…' Four times, her voice had traveled the wires and come out close to his ear like an intimate whisper. She saw him alone in a room with her voice. The lights were off so he could pretend that more than her voice was there - that his hand was Pen's hand stroking him in the darkness, or Pen's mouth sucking him, or…

  That's it for the answering machine.

  He won't get another chance to use my voice.

  Give it away. Give it to Dad. 'I don't want the damn thing,' he would say. 'Do the world a favor and deep-six it.' Good joke, though. Gift-wrap it and watch his face when he tears open the package. Pen smiled as she imagined his reaction.

  Hey, she thought. Congratulations, you're thinking about Dad, not that…

  How'd you like it if I stuck my tongue up…

  Damn it.

  Her thighs jumped shut, sweeping up a wave of hot water that lapped the undersides of her breasts. She turned a page and continued reading. 'Penny squirmed under the bed… 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? Wha
t'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 glass, resting on the edge of the tub, was empty. She picked it up, brought the bottle in with her, and filled the glass.

  Ought to get myself smashed real good, she thought. She drank half the wine in the glass, 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, and… 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 glass close to her face and stared through the clear purple Burgundy.

  The color of post-mortem lividity.

  Mom…

  Christ, don't start thinking about her.

  This has certainly turned into a banner night.

  Some creep I don't even know…

  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 glass 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?