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"No, thank you, dear. No time." She patted Cindy’s arm. "I just know she’ll love her gift. You’re real lucky to have your mom, Cindy. And she’s lucky to have you. Now, don’t stay too late, dear. There’ll be work when you’re dead and gone, as me own mom used to say." She was moving toward the door, working her reddened hands into knitted gloves with blue and red striped cuffs, like children’s gloves. "Good night, now. Harry doesn’t like me to keep him waiting."

"Night, Edie. Take it easy," Cindy called to her.

With Edie gone, the building seemed to drop into a deeper silence. Not that it bothered Cindy. She liked to work late. She always got more done after the others were gone. She grinned to herself and reached for another cigarette. Besides, it was the only time she got to smoke at her desk. Old Alice would have a fit if she knew.

For the next hour, while cigarettes mostly burned themselves out in the ashtray, Cindy worked steadily, her honey-blond head bent over the growing stack of stuffed envelopes to her right, practiced hands flying. But her thoughts were far
away,
drifting pleasantly to visions of castles, fairy tale jungles, warm, sandy beaches, and Jody’s face lit up in wonder and delight.

Once, hearing the faint hitch and grumble of the elevator down in the bowels of the building, her head went up. Someone else working late, she thought as the elevator continued its climb up through the building, groaning noisily on metal cables.

It surprised Cindy to hear it stop on her own floor, to hear the doors slide open.
Shit!
She grabbed up the ashtray and slipped it into her desk drawer while trying to fan away the smoke. She waited to hear the inevitable footsteps approaching, but there was no further sound.

Must be some light walker, Cindy thought, but at least it wasn’t battle-axe Alice, whose step was as heavy as her way. Cindy got up from her chair and went to stand in the doorway, half expecting to see someone in the corridor, but it was empty. She peered down the hallway in the direction of the elevator, her horseshoe earrings swaying with the turn of her head.

The hallway was dimly lit and steeped in shadow, due to a couple of burned-out fluorescent lights the management had never bothered to replace. Kind of spooky, Cindy thought, though it had never struck her that way before. A small trickle of unease stirred in her stomach. Someone had to have gotten off that elevator. It didn’t damn well come up here on its own. It didn’t push its own buttons.

To Cindy’s left was one other office, a cubbyhole, really, rented by a private eye, a sleazy type who had a fondness for brown polyester and slicked-back
hair.
He leered at her whenever they met in the halls. He gave her the creeps. Al Matchett, his name was.

When she complained about his behavior to Alice, her supervisor had said, "What do you expect, dressing the way you do?" But just because she liked wearing sexy clothes, that didn’t give anyone the right to hassle her. Not that he actually had.

Well, it obviously wasn’t dear old Al who got out of the elevator. He would have had to pass by her door to get to his office. She might not have minded so much if he was more of a James Garner type who was sort of old but very appealing.

The office to her right was vacant, had been for a month now. Probably wanted too much rent. Shrugging, Cindy went back to her desk. Must have been some smart-ass kids playing around down in the basement, pushing the elevator buttons,
then
jumping back.
Big joke.
Or else some kind of malfunction.

She sat unmoving for several seconds, head cocked, listening. Then she retrieved the ashtray from the drawer, lit another cigarette, and went back to work.

Ten minutes later, she crushed the cigarette out and stood up. She began winding elastics double around the stacks of envelopes now ready for stamping. Setting them on the desk, she dug her fingers into the back of her neck, massaged, trying to work out the knots. Her shoulders ached and her stomach was crying out for nourishment; she decided to wait until morning to put the letters through the machine.

She dialed the familiar number, waited.
"Hi, Mom.
Just wanted to let you know that I’m just about finished up here.
I’ll be home shortly." Looking out at the darkness beyond the window, she decided to hell with the expense, she’d take a cab home.
"Jody being good?"

"An angel," her mother said cheerfully. "He’s waiting up for you, all bathed and in his jammies. I’ve made your favorite—lasagna."

"Great, I’m starved." Edie’s right, she thought. I am lucky.
So very lucky.
"I love you, Mom."

Her mother laughed, but she sounded pleased. "Maybe you better wait till you taste the lasagna, honey. Oh, by the way, you had a phone call. Some man—didn’t leave his name. I told him you were working late."

There were a few guys it could have been—no one special. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say. She didn’t speculate. She set the envelopes on the table beside the postage meter.

And had a sudden, overpowering sense of someone behind her.
She whirled around.
No one there.
She was quite alone. Suddenly Cindy wanted nothing so much as to be out of here, to be at home with her mom and Jody, sitting in their bright, cozy kitchen eating lasagna.

Snapping up her coat from the rack, she put it on, slipped her stocking feet into her high, yellow suede boots,
then
phoned for a cab. Finally, gathering up her purse and the painting, and, taking one last glance behind her at the waiting desks, the silent typewriters, the beige-colored divider, behind which Mr. Anderson’s own office was located, she switched off the lights and closed the door. She was just about to lock it when she remembered the ashtray. Wouldn’t do to leave that there for old Alice to find when she came in the next morning. She could practically hear the mutterings that would follow about "Cindy’s filthy
habit",
and the windows being raised to the hilt, subjecting everyone to the cold, so they would all be mad at Cindy, too. She wished she could quit smoking. She’d tried a bunch of times. She guessed she was just too hyper.

Well, she’d wash out the damned ashtray, but first things first, she thought, crossing the hall to the washroom. Standing the painting against the wall by the sink, she entered one of two tiny cubicles. The place smelled of Lysol, blown even stronger by the heat pouring through the vents. Either you suffocated in this mausoleum, or you froze.

She thought how nice it would be to work in a modern, air-conditioned office, with carpets you sank into, exotic plants, and, of course, computers. Welcome to the nineties. But good jobs were hard to come by, she thought, setting her purse on the toilet-tank, hitching her skirt up and her panties and pantyhose down. She guessed she was lucky to have this one. The money wasn’t so great, but they were a good bunch to work with—even Alice Fisher was mostly okay, as long as she didn’t get on her bad side.

Sitting there, the quiet crowded in on her.

"Knock it off," she said aloud, putting herself back together hastily, flushing, hearing the rush of water clanking and grumbling down through the plumbing system. "You’re spooking yourself." It was probably all that talk about that singer getting murdered, especially from her mom, that was freaking her out. You couldn’t turn on the TV without hearing something about it. That it happened miles away in New York City didn’t seem to matter. It was enough to know she had been from around here.

Cindy had her hand on the door when she heard the outside washroom door groan slowly open, saw the swath of darkness slide across the floor at her feet. The darkness fell away as the door closed.

Her hand shot back, touched her blouse.
Stop it!
So, someone else is working late. Big deal! You heard them yourself come up in the elevator. No, Cindy. What you heard was the elevator stop on this floor. You didn’t see anyone.

Cindy licked her lips, cocked her head at the foor,
listened
.
Then, "Edie, that you?"

No answer.

She could hear the dripping of a tap. And the hiss of hot air escaping the vents seemed louder, even over the drumming in her ears. When the woman’s legs came into view in the space under the door, Cindy went weak with relief. She almost laughed at her foolishness.

What she actually managed was a nervous grin.

She couldn’t see much of the woman’s legs, just enough to see they were thick and muscled, the feet clad in God-awful black, laced shoes, the kind her grandma used to wear. No one on this floor wore shoes that ugly, not even Alice. Even Edie’s floppy loafers were more attractive.

No, it wasn’t Edie out there.

Then who?

Maybe Al Matchett hired himself a new secretary.
Hardly seemed his type, with those legs.

Unexpectedly, the shoes began turning in her direction until whoever it was, was facing her, standing toe to toe, just as if the door were not between them.

"The other one’s free," Cindy called out, her eyes riveted on the shoes. For several long seconds they did not move. Then they went out of view, each footfall soft and deliberate. Now quiet.

But she was still out there. She wasn’t using the can or washing up, so what was she doing? What was she waiting for? And why the hell doesn’t she say something?

Cindy’s heart was beating in earnest now, her palms sweaty. She tried to calm down.
You’re being nuts! You can’t stay in this john forever. Besides, you’re going to miss your cab if you haven’t already, and all because you’re an idiot.
But all her self-chastising didn’t stop her from holding her breath as she warily pushed the door open, a tentative smile of greeting on her face.

"Hi," she said, too brightly. "I thought I was the only one working late ton—" Cindy’s words trailed off as she looked up at the red-haired woman in the long, black trench coat standing at the mirror. Her head was turned slightly away, but Cindy could see her profile in the glass, could see the raised, angry scratch that ran down one side of her face.

Something familiar about that.

She had a sudden urge to grab the painting and run, but something held her there. Then, slowly, the woman turned from the mirror. She smiled. "Hello, Cindy."

Her voice sounded kind of odd for a woman, sort of like Dustin Hoffman’s in
Tootsie
, only darker. And Cindy wasn’t laughing.
How does she know my name?
Such weird eyes, the color of weak tea, glittering as they took her in. "I-I don’t think we’ve met. Are you new here?" Cindy’s own smile wavered. She glanced involuntarily at the painting standing against the wall, took a backward step. "Who-who are you?"

But she knew. She knew. And he recognized that she did, and the smile widened, blood red lips extending over predatory teeth, so chilling, so utterly devoid of warmth or mercy, it made Cindy’s mouth go dry as dust, and her heart wither with terror.

"I’m the big, bad wolf, Cindy," he said. "I’m the bogeyman in your worst nightmares."

And then he came at her.

~ * ~

Over the next two hours, the phone rang intermittently in the office of Anderson Insurance. At twenty past midnight, a distraught Ruth Miller telephoned police to report her daughter missing.

"She didn’t come home from work," she cried. "That’s not like Cindy. She would have called back if she was going anywhere afterward."

"How old is your daughter, ma’am?"

"Twenty-three."

There was a pause, then Ruth heard the boredom she’d half-expected creep into the policeman’s voice. "I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s really nothing we can do at this point. Your daughter’s of age, and if she decides not to come straight home from work, that’s her prerogative. I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from her. She’s probably trying to call you right—"

"But you don’t understand, officer," Ruth cut in, trying to keep the hysteria from her voice, even while her frustration and fear mounted. "Cindy did call me," she said. "She was on her way home. I made lasagna. I told her—"

"She must have met up with friends," he said with studied patience. "Look, Mrs. Miller, I know you’re worried about your daughter, but from experience I can almost promise you she’ll come strolling home in the next hour or two with a perfectly reasonable explanation. Just calm yourself and try to get some rest, okay?"

"It’s my birthday tomorrow," she said foolishly.

"Happy birthday, ma’am.
Got another line
ringing.
Got to go.
If she still hasn’t returned home by this time tomorrow night, give us a call back."