Must be, I'm doing it.

She realized that she didn't want to leave the night-stand knife in plain sight. She took a copy of Publishers Weekly from her magazine stand and spread it open on top of the weapon.

Okay, you're in good shape now.

You're in good shape, all right, if paranoia's good shape. You're acting totally bonkers.

Yeah? Better safe thana her mind flashed a picture of the coroner's slide, the naked woman face-down on the autopsy table, b.u.t.tocks purple. World's worst hie key.

One more knife, she decided, and returned to the kitchen for it. She placed this knife on the floor beneath the other side of the bed.

Back in the living room, she unplugged her stereo and removed its extension cord. Kneeling in her bedroom entry way, she ran an end of the cord through the gap between the door and the frame, over the top of the lower hinge. She brought the plug back through under the hinge, made a knot, and yanked. The cord held firm. She drew it across the doorway and tied its other end around the rear leg of her dresser.

Standing, she admired her work.

'Have a nice trip,' she said.

What else might shea?

Isn't this enough? I'm certifiable.

This is enough, she decided.

She turned off the bedroom lights.

Other lights in her apartment were still on. She had-intended to leave them on. But the dark line of her trip cord was plainly visible across the bottom of the doorway.

It won't do much good if he can see it.

Pen stepped over the cord and made her way through the apartment.

She wished she could leave all the rooms bright. But darkness would work against him in more ways than just hiding the cord.

You really are expecting him to show up?

No, not really. All right, yes. Yes, I think he'll show up. Maybe.

She'd been raped once. She didn't intend to let it ever happen again.

Maybe I should get the h.e.l.l 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?

'f.u.c.k 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. Ifa 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a v.a.g.i.n.a.

I want to talk to youa 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 gooseb.u.mps 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.

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 G.o.d 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 b.o.o.by-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?

Yeaha ***

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, sc.r.a.ping 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 c.o.c.k and your hot juicy c.u.n.ta There should be a way to erase your mind, Pen thought. Rewind, press a b.u.t.ton, 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.