The laundry room was dark.
Well, if those bulbs were gone, that was it. She'd go upstairs, and pound on Herr Neischen's door until he came running. She'd given him hell for the broken latches on the front and back doors and for the beer-guzzling kids he never kicked off the front stoop. She'd give him hell for the missing bulbs too.
She reached inside and flicked the switch.
Brilliant white light. Three large bulbs glowed like suns, revealing a room that was filthy but empty. Monelle strode up to the bank of four machines and dumped the whites in one, the colors in the next. She counted out quarters, dropped them into slots and shoved the levers forward.
Nothing.
Monelle jiggled the lever. Then hit the machine itself. No response.
"Shit. This gottverdammte building."
Then she saw the power cord. Some idiot had unplugged the machines. She knew who. Neischen had a twelve-year-old son who was responsible for most of the carnage around the building. When she'd complained about something last year the little shit'd tried to kick her.
She picked up the cord and crouched, reaching behind the machine to find the outlet. She plugged it in.
And felt the man's breath on her neck.
Nein!
He was sandwiched between the wall and the back of the washer. Barking a fast scream, she caught a glimpse of ski mask and dark clothes then his hand clamped down on her arm like an animal's jaws. She was off balance and he easily jerked her forward. She tumbled to the floor, hitting her face on the rough concrete, and swallowed the scream forming in her throat.
He was on her in an instant, pinning her arms to the concrete, slapping a piece of thick gray tape over her mouth.
Hilfe!
Nein, bitte nicht.
Bitte nicht.
He wasn't large but he was strong. He easily rolled her over onto her stomach and she heard the ratcheting of the handcuffs closing on her wrists.
Then he stood up. For a long moment, no sound but the drip of water, the rasp of Monelle's breath, the click of a small motor somewhere in the basement.
Waiting for the hands to touch her body, to tear off her clothes. She heard him walk to the doorway to make sure they were alone.
Oh, he had complete privacy, she knew, furious with herself; she was one of the few residents who used the laundry room. Most of them avoided it because it was so deserted, so close to the back doors and windows, so far away from help.
He returned and rolled her over onto her back. Whispered something she couldn't make out. Then: "Hanna."
Hanna? It's a mistake! He thinks I'm somebody else. She shook her head broadly, trying to make him understand this.
But then, looking at his eyes, she stopped. Even though he wore a ski mask, it was clear that something was wrong. He was upset. He scanned her body, shaking his head. He closed his gloved fingers around her big arms. Squeezed her thick shoulders, grabbed a pinch of fat. She shivered in pain.
That's what she saw: disappointment. He'd caught her and now he wasn't sure he wanted her after all.
He reached into his pocket and slowly withdrew his hand. The click of the knife opening was like an electric shock. It started a jag of sobbing.
Nein, nein, nein!
A hiss of breath escaped from his teeth like wind through winter trees. He crouched over her, debating.
"Hanna," he whispered. "What am I going to do?"
Then, suddenly, he made a decision. He put the knife away and yanked her to her feet then led her out to the corridor and through the rear door--the one with the broken lock she'd been hounding Herr Neischen for weeks to fix.
ELEVEN