He took a drink.

What was she doing right now? Had she gone out to find a new apartment? Was she wondering why they hadn't shown up yet with her things?

Hey, I'm stranded here. I'd bring the stuff to you if I could. I'd rather, by far, be there than here.

As soon as Melanie gets back.

That could be a while.

She's stuck there until she has a chance to sneak out.

They might, of course, catch her.

I could walk over there. Wouldn't take more than half an hour.

Or phone Pen. She has a car. We drive over to Harrison's and then what? Knock on the door and ask for Melanie? Real cute.

But the thought of phoning Pen made his heart quicken. He could tell her about Melanie. They could discuss the situation. Maybe she would even come over. They'd be alone in the house. Oh, come off it, he told himself.

I'd better call her.

He set his beer bottle on the table and went into the house. He dialed Directory a.s.sistance, gave Pen's city and name to the live operator and heard a computer voice give the number. He wrote it on a wall pad, and dialed.

He let the phone ring ten times, then hung up.

He went outside again and sat in the sun. He drank some beer and put the bottle down. He shut his eyes.

So much for having a visitor.

He could call a cab and go over to Pen's place. There's a thought.

Hi. Just dropped by to see how you're doing. Where's Melanie? Oh, she's hiding in Harrison 's house, gathering clues.

Pen, finding herself incapable of reading after her return from the laundry room, had turned on the television and sat gazing at its screen, her mind preoccupied with swirling, disjointed thoughts about her encounter with Manny, the calls, her father, the shotgun, whether she should move to a new apartment after all, Joyce and Harrison betraying her father and possibly trying to murder him, Melanie's 'vision', Bodie in her bedroom last night, Melanie's jealousy.

Then had come the blare of her timer's alarm, and the need to go down again to the laundry room.

The shotgun was out of the question, so she'd taken a steak knife along, wrapped in a towel beneath her arm.

Transferring her damp laundry from the washing machines to a drier, she had expected Manny to sneak in, maybe even a.s.sault her this time, but he never showed up.

Now she was waiting again. In a few minutes, the drying cycle would finish and she would have to return once more. The towel with the knife inside lay on the table in front of her. She wouldn't go down there without it.

Maybe Manny was all talk. He hadn't tried anything.

Maybe I should forget the knife.

That was a hard-on in his shorts, and he wanted to stick it in me. He made that pretty d.a.m.n obvious. If I'd shown the slightest interest, he would've had me on the floor anda Manny isn't the caller.

Manny didn't slip the note under the door.

Manny confronts you in the laundry room, half naked, and tries to bully you into putting out. He's not the type to make anonymous telephone calls.

Pen slumped back on the sofa, frowning at the television screen.

There had been, she realized, a certain comfort in believing it was Manny. He was real and known, an enemy to protect herself against. Not a faceless presence, not a stranger out there somewhere, wanting her. Better Manny with his smirk and his pecs and his bulging gym shorts thana She jerked rigid at the sudden jangle of a bell.

I want to comea Not the phone, the timer.

She stood up, patted the pocket of her shorts to make sure she had her keys, then picked up the towel with the knife inside. She clamped the towel under her arm, lifted the laundry basket, and left her apartment.

Manny's curtains were open. She didn't see him at any of the windows, but that proved nothing; he could be standing back a few feet, concealed in the dimness of a room, watching her undetected.

She hurried along the balcony and down the stairs. Walking past the pool, she heard faint music from one of the apartments. A sign of life. She found that rea.s.suring.

She had left the laundry room locked, and it was locked when she reached it.

Manny, of course, would have a key of his own.

Setting the basket down, Pen dug into her pocket and took out the keys. She unlocked the door, swung it open, and peered inside.

n.o.body there.

She flicked the light on. Then she toed her basket through the doorway and shut herself inside.

The drier still rumbled.

She had set it for an hour.

It should've stopped five minutes ago.

Picking up her basket, she stepped over to the machine. The timer dial showed that it still had three or four minutes to run.

I must've set my kitchen timer wrong, Pen told herself.

Either that, or someone had been in here and fooled with the dial on the drier.

I am so d.a.m.n paranoid. I've gotta cut it out.

Bending over, she curled her fingers around the handle of the drier's door. Suddenly, she was afraid to open it.

Anything might be inside.

How about a dead, mangled cat? A note tied to its tail: 'How about a little p.u.s.s.y?'

You're losing your grip, Pen old pal.

She forced herself to open the door. The machine went silent and her breath snagged as the corner of a sheet flopped out.

Crouching, she looked into the dark drum. Nothing seemed to be in there except her laundry.

She reached inside and clutched warm fabric with both hands.

Tiny, needle-sharp teeth didn't nip her fingers.

Of course not.

There's nothing wrong except in my mind.

She lifted out a bundle of laundry and dropped it into the basket.

s.h.i.t, she thought as she reached in again. Plenty is wrong. The whole d.a.m.n world is caving in.

But n.o.body left me a gift.

You hope.

Quickly, she finished unloading the machine.

She pressed the towel-wrapped knife into the soft pile of her laundry, lifted her basket, and hurried from the room.

Half the pool was in shadow, but she walked in sunlight and shook her head.

A dead cat in the drier.

Hungry rats?

G.o.d Almighty, things are bad enough without me inventing nasty little surprises.

She reached the bottom of the stairs.

Almost safe.

Climbing them, she imagined Manny staring out his window at her.

He's the least of my worries, she told herself. He's a creep, but he isn't the caller. I can handle him.

She was tempted to look around as she walked along the balcony, but if he was watching she really didn't want to know. She unlocked her door, entered, and nudged it shut with her rump.

Safe.

The door was locked behind her. The phones were disconnected. The shotgun was under the bed.

No one can touch me now.

Pen took a few long, slow breaths, trying to calm herself, then carried the basket into her bedroom and upended it on the mattress.

She began to sort her laundry: sheets and pillow cases in one pile, another pile for clothes that would need to be ironed, a third for undergarments. When the sorting was done, she carried her bra.s.sieres two at a time to her dresser and stacked them neatly in a drawer. Then she folded her panties. Except for the tattered white pair she'd worn to bed Friday night, the panties were new and skimpy and brightly colored - red, blue, pink, lavender.

Her black panties weren't there.

She knew she had worn them.

So where are they?

She searched the two remaining piles, thinking the black panties may have been caught in a blouse or sheet. They weren't there. She checked the basket, the floor beside the bed. Then she looked once more through the laundry, more carefully this time, lifting each article and shaking it, expecting the panties to flutter out.

They didn't.

'G.o.dd.a.m.n it,' she whispered.

Her chest felt tight.

She must have left the panties inside the washer or drier. They were small and dark, easily missed when removing the rest of her clothes from the machines. Normally, she ran her hands around the metal to make certain nothing was left behind. But she hadn't done that today. Too preoccupied. Too careless. Too eager to get back to the safety of her room.

Good move.

She didn't want to go back down. She wanted to stay right here, locked in with the phones unplugged, maybe have a gla.s.s of wine and take a long, hot bath.

Better get the panties before someone else does.

She hurried out and was halfway down the stairs when she realized she had forgotten her knife.

She quickly patted the pocket of her shorts and didn't feel the bulge of her keys. Her heart galloped. She slapped her other front pocket. She never kept them in that pocket, but that's exactly where they were.

Thank G.o.d.

Really great if you'd locked yourself out.

Striding alongside the pool, she pulled the key case from her pocket and had the proper key out, ready in her hand, by the time she reached the laundry room.

Inside, she bent over the washing machine to peer inside, felt between the wings of its agitator and ran her fingers under the top in case the panties were clinging there. She crouched in front of the drier and swept a hand around the inside drum. She even checked the washing machine she had used for her white laundry. Then she searched the floor.

The panties were definitely gone.

Someone had come in and taken them.

Manny? What if it wasn't Manny?

Tight and cold inside, Pen hurried back to her apartment. She leaned against the door, shaking.

Calm down.

Calm down, h.e.l.l. Someone took my panties - wanted them and stole them and has them.

Watched me come and go from the laundry room.