Part 3 (1/2)

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.