The underwater world was murky, but even without a mask I could see by the oxygen tank strapped to his back that my assailant was a scuba diver. Firmly gripping my ankles, he pulled me toward the bottom. I fought hard, yet he had the advantages of flippers and superior strength. The sound of my pounding heart thudded in my ears.
I twisted toward the diver, grabbing at his face. My fingers caught his regulator and I pulled as hard as I could. I felt the breathing apparatus come loose and kept pulling. His mask came off with the mouthpiece, and I recognized the sandy-haired man with the oversized nose. He grabbed for his mouthpiece, letting go of my ankles.
Free at last, I shot upward. My lungs were on the verge of exploding as I broke through the surface. I had time to let out one hoarse cry for help before I felt his hands on my ankles again. I gulped for air. The last thing I saw before going back under was the bright blue California sky.
Down, down, down. I grabbed for his regulator again. He was ready for me and ducked out of reach. The exertion left me oxygen starved. The urge to inhale was overwhelming. I didn’t know how much longer I could fight the instinct to breathe. I saw stars and blotches of gray. It occurred to me that I was probably going to die.
But as suddenly as he’d attacked, my assailant let go and darted away. Willing myself upward, I saw why. A neon yellow kayak floated directly overhead. I broke the surface gasping and sputtering. The kayaker grabbed my arms and pulled me across the bow.
“You okay?”
The brown-faced boy who helped me up couldn’t have been a day over eighteen. I nodded my head, too breathless and dizzy to speak.
I spent much of that afternoon in the hospital, where I was treated for shock and kept under observation as police asked seemingly infinite questions. Finally, my father—who happens to be a doctor—insisted on my discharge and brought me home. Friends and family had gathered at my house to show their support. I finally convinced them all to go, telling everyone that what I really needed was sleep. Dad left reluctantly, reminding me that my assailant was still out there somewhere. I reminded him that I had a state-of-the-art security system—and a nine-millimeter Glock.
Still, I admit my heart jumped later that night when the motion light went on and the closed-circuit television showed a man coming up my walk.
It was Baxter.
“What’s up?” I asked when I opened the door.
“We arrested the guy who tried to drown you,” Baxter replied. “I thought you’d like to know.”
Feeling a rush of relief, I motioned him inside, eager to hear about it. “Where’d you find him?”
“Picked him up a couple miles north of the cove, at Torrey Pines State Beach. He’s being held downtown. The DA’s office will be getting in touch with you after he’s charged.”
“Attempted murder?” I asked.
Baxter nodded. “That too. We arrested him for the murder of Wendy Woskowicz.”
This came as a surprise. “On what evidence?”
“Plenty,” said Baxter. “The guy’s name is Gunner Thomas. We figure he’s the one who filed complaints under the alias Thomas Gunn.”
“As in tommy gun. Cute,” I said dryly.
“The old man you visited at the condo was his grandfather. We got a warrant and found scuba gear on the back porch. Get this: the straps were cut and we found long blond hair strands caught in the mask. From initial tests we’re pretty sure they came from Wendy Woskowicz.” Baxter’s eyes were shining. It was the first time I’d seen him genuinely happy.
“You think the evidence will hold up in court?” I asked.
“It should. Technically, Wendy’s hair DNA is the strongest thing we got. But we found something on Thomas that’s even more damning, from a jury’s point of view.”
“What’s that?”
“We found a key that opens those funky handcuffs he used on Wendy. It’s an exact match of the key we found in the pouch around her neck.”
“So both keys are accounted for now.”
“Yes,” Baxter replied.
I felt a little let down. This meant the key I’d picked up in my vacuum cleaner hadn’t been sent from Wendy after all.
His expression turned solemn. “You’re lucky that kayaker came along when he did and bailed you out.”
“I thanked him a hundred times, believe me,” I said.
“I thought you were psychic. Thomas had outstanding warrants, one for assault with a deadly weapon. Didn’t you sense he was trouble?”
I hadn’t. Thomas had done such a good job of making me feel like an asshole for harassing the old man that I’d failed to notice what an asshole he was. I thought about standing on the beach and the sense I’d had of being watched through the opaque windows of the condo.
“I missed my cues,” I said. “So let me get this straight. Thomas killed Wendy because of her pig?”
“He killed her because he’s a sick son of a bitch. Now that we’ve made an arrest, all kinds of beach people are coming forward and describing his angry rants about the way ‘immigrants’ and ‘indigents’ are bringing down the neighborhood.”
“Now they speak up.” I wasn’t surprised. People have all kinds of reasons for staying silent about the suspicious behavior they see. They don’t want to get involved. They worry they’ll be wrong. They worry they’ll pay for talking.
“You were right about one thing,” Baxter said to me.
“What’s that?”
“The missing handcuff key. I blew you off about it, but it’s going to be an important piece of evidence. How’d you know?”
To tell, or not to tell?
“My vacuum cleaner picked up a handcuff key the day after Wendy’s drowning. This sounds stupid, but I honestly thought it was a message from her.”
“I don’t know about a message,” Baxter said, “but it is a pretty weird coincidence. The important thing is, Gunner Thomas is going down, and it’s because of you.” He started for the door. “It’s late. I’ll let you get some rest.”
I thanked him and waved from the door as he pulled out of the driveway. Walking back to the family room, I imagined the suntanned boy-man sitting in a prison cell downtown.
Thomas, I thought, you are one sick son of a bitch.
With that, the tears came. Thomas had attacked me and nearly snuffed out my life. He’d forced a brutal death on Wendy. I wished I could rage at the ruthless bastard, but the best I could do was cry. Better than numbness, I thought. At least I was alive and feeling something. When my tears were exhausted, I turned off the lights and trudged upstairs, feeling the full weight of the day in every step.
Before collapsing into bed, I went to my altar to light some fragrance and a candle, small gestures of thanks for my deliverance. I found a book of matches by the incense burner and fired up a stick of sweet Nag Champa. I moved the flame slowly to the candle and froze. Something wasn’t right.
Wait a minute.
The handcuff key was missing. I searched every inch of the bureau top, but it wasn’t there. I got on my knees and scoured the floor. No key. I turned on the overhead light and searched again. Nada. I widened my search. Zip.
Standing in the center of the room, I asked out loud: “Did you take the key?”
There was no answer, of course. But I swear I could hear Wendy, in her silent way, telling me that I could stop looking now.
PART II
NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH
THE NEW GIRL
BY DEBRA GINSBERG
Cortez Hill
I suppose most people have some trouble with their neighbors at some point or other. It isn’t possible to get along all the time, after all, especially not with strangers with whom you live cheek by jowl. People have such peculiar habits and inclinations—so evident when there are common alleys and kitchen windows without shades. Still, my policy has always been live and let live as long as nobody gets hurt. But sometimes the definition of “hurt” becomes a little murky. And sometimes people are just plain rude. There is no excuse for rudeness. It almost always leads to trouble.