ear to the crack, listening. He was snoring. She couldn’t hear
anything else in there, no strange rustling noises.
Again, she considered waking Daddy. He was a police detective.
Lieutenant Jack Dawson. He had a gun. If something was in the
apartment, he could blast it to smithereens. On the other hand, if she
woke him and they found nothing, he would tease her and speak to her as
if she were a child, Jeez, even worse than that, as if she were an
infant. She hesitated, then sighed. No. It just wasn’t worth the risk
of being humiliated.
Heart pounding, she crept along the hall to the front door and tried it.
It was stir! securely locked.
A coat rack was fixed to the wall beside the door. She took a tightly
rolled umbrella from one of the hooks.
The metal tip was pointed enough to serve as a reasonably good weapon.
With the umbrella thrust out in front of her, she went into the living
room, turned on all the lights, looked everywhere. She searched the
dining alcove and the small L-shaped kitchen, as well.
Nothing.
Except the window.
Above the sink, the kitchen window was open. Cold December air streamed
through the ten-inch gap.
Penny was sure it hadn’t been open when she’d gone to bed. And if Daddy
had opened it to get a breath of fresh air, he’d have closed it later;
he was conscientious about such things because he was always setting an
example for Davey, who needed an example because he wasn’t conscientious
about much of anything.
She carried the kitchen stool to the sink, climbed onto it, and pushed
the window up farther, far enough to lean out and take a look. She
winced as the cold air stung her face and sent icy fingers down the neck
of her pajamas. There was very little light. Four stories beneath her,
the alleyway was blacker than black at its darkest, ash-gray at its
brightest. The only sound was the soughing of the wind in the concrete
canyon. It blew a few twisted scraps of paper along the pavement below
and made Penny’s brown hair flap like a banner; it tore the frosty
plumes of her breath into gossamer rags.
Otherwise, nothing moved.
Farther along the building, near the bedroom window, an iron fire escape
led down to the alley. But here at the kitchen, there was no fire
escape, no ledge, noway that a would-be burglar could have reached the
window, no place for him to stand or hold on while he pried his way
inside.
Anyway, it hadn’t been a burglar. Burglars weren’t small enough to hide
under a young lady’s bed.
She closed the window and put the stool back where she’d gotten it. She
returned the umbrella to the coat rack in the hall, although she was
somewhat reluctant to give up the weapon. Switching off the lights as
she went, refusing to glance behind into the darkness that she left in
her wake, she returned to her room and got back into bed and pulled up
the covers.
Davey was still sleeping soundly.
Night wind pressed at the window.
Far off, across the city, an ambulance or police siren made a mournful
song.
For a while, Penny sat up in bed, leaning against the pillows, the
reading lamp casting a protective circle of light around her. She was
sleepy, and she wanted to sleep, but she was afraid to turn out the
light. Her fear made her angry. Wasn’t she almost twelve years old?
And wasn’t twelve too old to fear the dark? Wasn’t she the woman of the
house now, and hadn’t she been the woman of the house for more than a
year and a half, ever since her mother had died? After about ten
minutes, she managed to shame herself into switching off the lamp and
lying down.
She couldn’t switch her mind off as easily.
What had it been ?
Nothing. A remnant of a dream. Or a vagrant draft.
Just that and nothing more.
Darkness.
She listened.
Silence.
She waited.
Nothing.
She slept.
Wednesday, 1:34 A.M.
Vince Vastagliano was halfway down the stairs when he heard a shout,