"I don't want to."

"Do you want me to stab you?"

She shook her head. Her lips trembled.

"Then come with me." Taking her hand, he pulled her off the bed. He led her down the hallway until he found the bathroom. He turned on its light, and pulled her inside.

The bathroom was long, with a sink and counter close to the door, a space, and then the toilet. The bathtub, set into the wall opposite the toilet, had frosted shower doors.

Roy led the girl to the toilet. The seat was already down. Its green, fuzzy cover matched the carpet. "Sit there."

Joni obeyed.

Kneeling in front of her, Roy unfastened the buttons of her pajama top. She sobbed. "Knock that off." He slipped the pajamas down her arms. "We'll get good and clean," he said. He unsnapped the waistband, tugged the pants out from under her, and down her legs. She clamped her knees together. Arms crossed over breasts no more developed than a boy's, she bent far down, bringing her shoulders almost to her knees.

Roy turned on the hot water. As it splashed into the tub, he undressed himself. When all his clothes lay heaped on the floor, he plugged the bathtub drain. He adjusted the water so it was hot, but not scalding.

Joni still sat on the toilet seat, hunched over and hugging her knees.

Roy grabbed her arm. She tried to pull free, so he slapped the side of her head. She yelped, but didn't move. Standing in front of her, Roy grabbed both arms and jerked her to her feet. She cried, "No!" as he swung her into the bathtub. Her feet whipped. She kicked the metal spout and cried out in pain. Roy nearly lost his grip but managed to keep from falling backward. She splashed the water, rump first. Roy climbed in, facing her.

He knelt in the water. "I've about had it," he warned. "Sit still."

She kicked. Her heel caught him in the thigh.

"Okay."

Clutching her ankles, he lifted her legs and pulled her forward. Her head slipped underwater. Her eyes and mouth were puckered shut. Her hands slapped the sides of the tub, reached up blindly for something to hold, found nothing, and splashed water. Roy watched the frantic girl, enjoying the struggle, excited by the sight of her skinny body and the cleft at the hairless joining of her legs.

He let her ankles down. The girl's face broke the surface, eyes and mouth gaping as if surprised. She gasped air. Roy let her sit up.

"No more trouble," he said.

She sniffed, and wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand. Then she crossed her arms and bent forward.

Roy twisted sideways. He turned off the cold faucet, and let just the hot water run for a while. The water level rose. Soon it was good and hot and deep. He turned off the water.

"Let's switch places," he said. Standing, he stepped over her. She scooted forward, her rump squeaking on the enamel. Roy sat down, leaned against the cool back of the tub, and stretched out his legs on each side of her.

"Now we'll get all clean," he said.

He lifted a bar of soap from its tray and began to rub her back. When that was slick, he eased her closer so she was reclining against him. Reaching over her shoulders, he soaped her chest, her belly. Her skin was warm, pliant, slippery. He pulled her more tightly against him. He put the soap in the tray. He reached down between her legs.

That's when the mother staggered up to the tub, raising a butcher knife. Roy's left hand rammed the sliding door shut. The knife point thumped the door, and scraped down it. Roy shoved the girl forward. He kneed her away. Pressing the edge of the door to keep it shut, he got his feet under him. The mother lurched sideways. Her left hand let go of her sopping, bloody nightgown and reached for the rear half of the sliding door. Roy held it shut with his other hand. As if there were no door, the woman plunged the knife toward Roy's face. It's point hit, shaking the door. She stabbed again and again. The sound from her throat was part growl, part an outcry of pain or frustration.

Joni gripped Roy's leg and started to pull.

"Bitch! Let go!"

He released the right-hand door long enough to bat Joni's face with the back of his fist. Her head jerked with the impact. It thudded the tile wall.

The mother reached for the free door. Roy got to it first and held it shut. Growling with rage, she grabbed the top runner of the doors. She climbed and pulled herself until she was standing on the tub's edge. Her face appeared above Roy, eyes wild. She swung her right arm down, slashing toward him. He ducked below the knife's arc.

Inches from his eyes, the mother's red, clinging nightgown smeared blood on the door. She was pressed tightly to the door, her bare feet on the rim of the tub.

She grunted. The blade whished above him. She propped her left knee on the towel bar halfway up the door.

Shit, she's climbing it!

Roy jerked the door. It slid open, slamming the wall at the front of the tub. Reaching forward with both hands, he clutched the woman's right ankle. He pulled. His hands slipped on the bloody skin, but he kept his grip. With a cry of horror, she flopped backward. She hit the floor first with the back of her head. She went limp. Still holding her right ankle, Roy climbed out of the tub. He picked up her other leg and swiveled her away from the tub.

He picked up her knife. He cut her throat with it, then returned to the tub.

Joni, sitting sideways, looked up at Roy with blank eyes.

He squatted in the tub. The water felt tepid. He turned on the hot water. When the temperature felt hot enough, he turned the water off and stepped to the rear of the tub.

He sat and leaned back.

Taking Joni under the arms, he slid her close between his spread legs until he could feel the press of her against his penis.

"Now," he said, and picked up the soap. His throat was tight. This was what he'd wanted for so long, so long. This was what he'd always wanted. "Now," he said, "we're all set."

CHAPTER THREE.

The Nubian guards, dressed like pimps, came at Rucker from all sides. Their black faces were glossy with sweat, their big teeth white and shiny. Some aimed handguns at his face, others began spraying him with automatic fire from AK-47 assault rifles. He cut them down, but more came running, shrieking, brandishing cutlasses. His American 180 stitched holes across their bright shirts. They fell, but more came.

Where the hell are they coming from? he wondered.

From hell.

He kept firing. One hundred and seventy rounds in six seconds. A mighty long six seconds.

They still came. Some had spears. Some, now, were naked.

He dropped the ammo drum, stuffed another into place, and kept firing.

Now all of them were naked, their black skin shimmering in the moonlight, their smiles big and white. None had guns. Only knives, swords, and spears.

I've killed all the pimps, he thought. Who're these? The reserves. When I get them, I'll be home free.

But stark fear whispered a message of death in his ear. Looking down, he saw the alloy barrel of his rifle droop, melting.

Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, they're gonna get me now. They'll lay me low. They'll cut off my head. Oh Jesus!

Gasping, heart racing, he bolted upright. He was alone in the bedroom. A trickle of sweat slid down his back. He ran a hand through his wet hair and wiped it dry on the sheet.

He looked at the alarm clock.

Only five past midnight. Damn. This was a lot earlier than usual. When the nightmares got him at four or five, he could go out for breakfast and start the day. When they got him this early, it was bad.

He got out of bed. The sweat on his naked body turned cold. In the bathroom, he dried himself with a towel. Then he put on a robe and went into the living room of the apartment. He turned on all the lights. Then the television. He flipped through the channels. The Bank Dick was on. It must've started at twelve. He got a can of Hamms from the refrigerator, a can of peanuts from the cupboard, and returned to the living room.

As he reached for the flip-tab, he watched his hand shake.

It never shook on a job.

Judgment Rucker's got balls of brass.

If they could only see him now.

It's those damned nightmares.

Well, those would ease off. They always did. Just a matter of time.

Watch the movie.

He tried.

When he ran out of beer, he went into the kitchen for another. He popped its tab and looked out the window. Moonlight made a silver path on the water. Across the bay, fog matted the hills above Sausalito as white as a bank of snow. Fog wrapped most of the Golden Gate Bridge, too. All but the top of its northern tower, with its red flashing light, was hidden in fog. Probably the other tower was poking through, too, but Belvedere Island blocked that part of his view. He listened to the low groan of a foghorn, then carried his beer into the living room.

He was about to sit on the couch when a harsh, male scream of horror slashed the stillness.

Jud listened at the door of Apartment 315. From inside came the sound of a man taking quick gasps of air. Jud rapped the door quietly.

At the end of the hallway, a woman in curlers peered out her doorway. "Let's keep it down, huh? You can't keep it down, I'll call the cops. Do you know what time it is?"

Jud smiled at her. "Yes," he said.

The anger pinching her face seemed to let go. She made a tentative smile. "You're the new tenant, aren't you? The one in 308? I'm Sally Leonard."

"Go to bed now, Miss Leonard."

"Something the matter with Larry?"

"I'll take care of it."

Still smiling, Sally pulled her head back inside her apartment and shut the door.

Jud knocked again on 315.

"Who is it?" a man asked through the door.

"I heard a scream."

"I'm sorry. Did it wake you?"

"I was already up. Who screamed?"

"Me. It was nothing. Just a nightmare."

"You call that nothing?"

Jud heard the slide of a guard chain. The door was opened by a man in striped pajamas. "You sound as if you know nightmares," the man said. Though his sleep-tangled hair was as white as the fog, he seemed to be no older than forty. "My name's Lawrence Maywood Usher." He offered his hand to Jud. It was bony, and damp with sweat. The feeble grip had a weariness that seemed to sap strength from Jud's hand.

"I'm Jud Rucker," he said, entering.

The man shut the door. "Well, Judson..."

"It's Judgment."

Larry immediately perked up. "As in Judgment Day?"

"My father's a Baptist minister."

"Judgment Rucker. Fascinating. Would you care for some coffee, Judgment?"

He thought about the open can of Hamms in his apartment. What the hell, he could use it tomorrow for cooking. "Sure. Coffee'd be great."

"Are you a connoisseur?"

"Hardly."

"Nevertheless, this should be a treat for you. Have you ever tasted Jamaican Blue Mountain?"

"Not that I know of."

"Well, opportunity has knocked. Your ship has come in."

Jud grinned, astonished at the new liveliness of the man who'd screamed.

"Will you join me in the kitchen?"

"Sure."

In the kitchen, Larry opened a small brown bag. He tilted its opening toward Jud's face. Jud sniffed the sharp coffee aroma. "Smells good," he said.

"It ought to be. It's the best. What line of work are you in, Judgment?"

"Engineering," he said, using his usual cover.

"Oh?"