I had slept with him. And now he planned to kill me!
That was Thursday night. Later, Shelly called, and I was actually glad to hear from him. He was as intense as ever, making jokes, telling me about a horrible-but-hilarious conversation he’d had with his mother, who really did sound like a total nutcase.
Shelly sensed that I was down, and without asking why, he worked hard to cheer me up. “I heard that sigh,” he said. “What’s up with you, Lindy? You seem distracted.”
“Just work,” I said. I couldn’t bring myself to confide the truth. Sure, I needed someone I could talk to about everything, but I had Ann-Marie and Luisa for that. They had both been so understanding and kind. Why bring Shelly into it?
I met Shelly for a quick lunch near my office on Friday. He had a million funny stories. I barely got a word in. But I knew I could relax with him. I didn’t need a police escort.
After lunch, I startled myself by backing him against the front wall of the restaurant, and I kissed him, more passionately than I’d planned. I guess I was just so grateful to be with someone I didn’t have to suspect.
Saturday night. A warm, windy night, the air heavy and wet, making my hair droop and my skin feel all spongey. Brad and I were walking toward the pier at the South Street Seaport at the bottom of Manhattan.
The Seaport is a touristy area of several blocks. Seafood restaurants, a big fish market, mall-type stores—an Abercrombie and a J. Crew—a few large, noisy bars—very yuppy places. It’s where the Wall Street financial guys and girls come after work to pump some beers, let off steam, and hook up.
Brad led the way to the long, wooden pier that stretches out into the river. Spotlights played off three tall-masted sailing ships bobbing in the low waves. Seagulls squawked somewhere in the distance. Couples walked arm-in-arm. A pretzel seller leaned over his cart and coughed, a loud, hacking smoker’s cough.
The wind picked up, salty-smelling, kind of sour, fluttering my hair. The wooden planks squeaked under our feet. Brad slid his arm around my shoulders. “Let’s take a look at this schooner. I love old sailing ships.”
I stopped at the bottom of the sloping gangplank. A shiver rolled down my back. I turned and glanced down the pier. Where was Tommy’s guy? I didn’t see anyone who looked like a cop. But Tommy had promised someone would be watching my every move.
Brad narrowed his little bird eyes at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Uh . . . nothing,” I said. “Thought I saw someone I know.”
I held back. I really didn’t want to walk out on this narrow pier with Brad without one of Tommy’s guys nearby.
Brad motioned to the old schooner, sails flapping noisily in the wind. “I love the water,” he said. With that beak of a nose and those round, black eyes, he really did look like a seagull. “I’m a Coney Island boy myself. I think I told you that last time. I grew up on the beach. Mom said she had me in the water when I was two weeks old.”
“Cute,” I said. “Can a baby float at two weeks?”
He grinned. “I don’t remember.”
We turned and started back toward solid land. My heartbeats started to return to normal. I still didn’t see anyone watching us.
“Check it out,” Brad said. He had stopped at a break in the pier railing and was pointing down at the water. “Those fish glow in the dark. Wow. You can see them so well at night.”
I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to keep walking, off the pier, away from the water. But I turned and gazed down into the dark waves, far below. Through the oily, black murk, I saw a faint, green glow.
And then I felt a sharp pain in my back.
Someone had pushed me. Pushed me hard. I tumbled forward.
I shot my arms out and grabbed for the rail. Missed.
And, hands flailing, too startled to scream, I plunged over the side.
32
I heard someone scream—but the scream cut off as I hit the water. Facedown. A belly flop that sent pain shooting over my body. I shut my eyes as the freezing water surged over my head.
Cold panic swept over me.
I can’t move my arms. My legs. I can’t move.
The water—it’s pulling me down.
I could feel myself sinking deeper. The current beneath the pier pulled me hard to the left, then pushed me to the right, helpless, like a clump of seaweed.
My chest ached. The shock of the cold seemed to paralyze me.
Move, Lindy—move.
With a great effort, I kicked my legs. Arched my back. My shoes suddenly heavy as rocks. But I forced myself to move. I willed myself up.
You’re drowning. You’re going to drown now.
You’ve always known you were going to die in the water.
No.
Ohmigod no.
I had to fight my own thoughts.
I opened my eyes. At first, I saw only darkness. Thick and black. But then I stared into a green glow, so close I felt I could reach out and touch it. Glowing, green fish—lighting my way?
Lighting my way to the other side?
Didn’t people always see a glowing light just before they died?
I crashed over the surface of the water and gulped in deep breaths of air. My hands thrashed the cold water. I kicked hard.
Calm. Calm. Take steady strokes, Lindy.
You’re breathing now. Someone will pull you out.
Brad, where are you? Are you going to jump in and save me?
Or did you push me?
My whole body shivered. The current was carrying me away from shore.
Is anyone looking for me?
Is anyone coming? Brad? Where are you?
I lowered my head and swam hard. I can do this. I’m not going to drown under this dock. No way.
With a shuddering gasp, I reached out both hands and grabbed on to a wooden piling. My hands slid right off. The thick log was slimy, slippery with green, mossy weeds slick as gelatin. The current pulled me away. Frantically thrashing the water, I pulled myself forward again.
I sucked in a long breath, my lungs aching, and made another grab. This time, I held on—and wrapped my arms around the slimy log.
Pressing my body against it, I raised my eyes to the dock. Bright white light blinded me. I gasped and lowered my gaze. I heard shouts up above. Someone called my name. Brad?
Brad? Did you push me?
It had to be you. Did you try to kill me?
No. It didn’t make sense.
I didn’t say no to you, Brad. I thought we were having a nice time. Are you just a sick, twisted fuck? Did you bring me out on this pier to kill me, you bastard?
My fear quickly turned to anger. The anger helped me fight the river current, helped me hold on to the moss-slick piling although my arms were numb from the cold.
“They’re coming!” someone shouted from the dock. The bright light washed over me. “Hold on! They’re coming!”
I heard the low roar of a boat motor behind me.
You’re safe, Lindy, I told myself.
For now.
“Here. Put this on.” Brad held up a Seaport sweatshirt he’d run to buy at a shop near the pier. He helped slide it over my head. “This will help you stop shivering.”
When they raised me onto the dock, he rushed forward and hugged me. His face was all concern. He pulled weeds from my hair and ran to buy a tall cup of coffee.
Nice acting job, I thought.
Two police officers, both looking about fourteen, with close-shaved blond hair and narrowed blue eyes, waited patiently for Brad to pull the sweatshirt over me. One of them, lanky and thin as a rail, kept sniffing, studying me suspiciously. Did I smell bad? The other cop already had a beer belly, his uniform shirt pulled tight over his stomach.
These weren’t Tommy’s guys. Where was my police protection tonight?
The coffee burned my throat. It started to warm me. Brad wanted to hold me against him, but I backed away.
We were standing in the entrance of a small bookstore across from the
dock. The store was closed but the windows were brightly lit. I read the title of a Stephen King novel in the window.
Just what the world needs. More horror.
“What happened, Miss Sampson?” the tall, lanky officer asked, eyes studying me.
“I don’t know. I didn’t see. Someone pushed me.”
I turned to Brad. I couldn’t read his expression. His mouth hung open slightly. He was breathing hard.
“Were you depressed? Did you jump?”
“No way!” I shouted. “Are you crazy?” My voice trembled.
“We have to ask,” the other cop said softly.
Brad finally spoke up. “Someone shoved her. I didn’t get a good look at him. I was so . . . stunned.”
The two cops turned to Brad. “Are you and Miss Sampson . . . ?”
“We . . . we were out together,” Brad fumbled for words. “You know. A date.”
“Did you have a fight?”
Shivering, I tightened my arms around myself. The sweatshirt was soaked through now and wasn’t keeping me very warm. Water dripped from my hair, down my forehead. I just wanted to get home and into some dry clothes and . . . away from Brad.
“No. No fight,” Brad said, almost in a whisper. He pulled a pack of Camel Reds from his pocket. He offered the pack to me. I shook my head. He knows I don’t smoke. “A man ran up behind Lindy. I didn’t see his face. He wore a hood. I think it was black. It was . . . you know . . . a hoodie. He had it pulled over his face.”
A man in a hood? The same man who followed me outside the restaurant downtown last week? Brad must be telling the truth. He didn’t know about the hooded man last week.
Unless Brad was the hooded man?
I decided not to say anything. These cops weren’t going to be helpful. I needed to talk to Tommy.
I searched the area around the dock. Stores were closed. People were leaving the bars and restaurants, heading home.
“You didn’t see his face?” the lanky cop asked.
Brad shook his head. He lit his cigarette with a red plastic lighter. “I already told you.”
“Describe him.”
Brad took a deep drag on the cigarette. “Kinda average. Not too tall. Maybe a little shorter than me. I’m not sure. It happened so fast. Not fat or anything. I think he wore black pants, kinda baggy.”
Like the guy last Saturday night . . .
The chubby cop turned to me. “Did he steal your bag? Was it a robbery?”
I blinked. My bag? I had brought a large, soft canvas bag.
“Here it is.” Brad picked it up from the pavement. “It flew off her hand when she went over the side. It landed on the edge of the dock. I picked it up.” Brad handed it to me. He had a strange smile on his face, as if he had just scored a point or something.
I shivered harder. “Listen, I really have to get home,” I told them. “Can you guys give me a lift?”
I didn’t want to go home with Brad. Maybe he was telling the truth about the hooded guy. But I had to get away from him. I had to get warm and dry. I had to think.
Someone had tried to kill me.
How could I keep it together now? What are you supposed to do after someone tries to kill you?
“We’re almost finished,” the lanky officer said, staring at his notepad. “We’ll take you home. Unless . . .” He turned to Brad.
“I don’t have a car. We came on the subway,” Brad said. “I could get us a taxi.”
“Please take me home,” I told the officer.
Brad took another drag on his cigarette and didn’t react to that.
“So it wasn’t a robbery attempt,” the chubby cop said, keeping his eyes locked on mine. “Maybe it was just a psycho. He saw you at the gap in the railing and made his big move.”
“I . . . I’m really cold,” I said, my voice quivering along with my body. I touched my hair. Sopping wet. I tried to dry it a little with a sweatshirt sleeve.
“We’ll take your info in the car and get back in touch. We have a regular patrol at the Seaport. Maybe we’ll spot the guy wearing the black hood.” He motioned for me to follow them.
Hugging myself, I started toward the squad car in the parking lot. Brad hurried after me. He wrapped his arms around me. “Jesus, I don’t know what to say. I’m really sorry, Lindy. I promise we’ll have a . . . dry time next time.”
Next time?
“We won’t even drink anything,” Brad said, still holding me.
Someone tried to kill me, and he’s making jokes.
“I . . . I’m sorry, too,” I murmured. Why did I say that? Maybe I was in shock a little bit?
He pressed his face against mine but didn’t try to kiss me.
You didn’t push me, did you, Brad? It really was a guy in a black hoodie, right?
I swung out of his grip and hurried after the two officers.
“Anyone home?” I slammed the door behind me and bolted it. “Ann-Marie? Luisa? Are you here?”
Silence.
I glanced at the neon Budweiser clock over the mantel (a gift from Lou). Eleven o’clock on a Saturday night. Of course no one was home.
“I need to talk to somebody!” I shouted to an empty apartment.
I grabbed my cell out of my bag. I’ll call Ann-Marie, I thought. She must be out with Lou somewhere. She’ll come home when I tell her what happened.
No. Wait. What am I thinking? I have to get changed first. I have to warm up. I’m not thinking clearly. My brain is all crazed.
Lindy, hello. Take it one step at a time.
I took a long, hot shower. I let the steam swirl around me, so soft and comforting. Then I pulled on my softest sweatpants and sweatshirt and thick, woolly ski socks.
Yes!
I felt a little better. Now what?
I didn’t have time to decide. The phone rang. I hurried across the room and lifted it to my ear. Was it Ann-Marie? I really needed to talk to her. Was it Tommy Foster?
“Hello?”
“Lindy. I just took a chance. I thought maybe you might be hanging out at home tonight.”
“Shelly? Well, hi. What are you doing?”
I was happy to hear his voice. Shelly could cheer me up. Could I confide in him? Tell him what happened to me tonight?
Yes, I decided. Yes, I could confide in Shelly.
“I’m watching paint dry,” Shelly said. “It’s totally exciting.”
I dropped onto the edge of my bed. “You’re joking. What’s going on?”
“I’m not joking. They painted my apartment today. I’m watching paint dry.”
I laughed. “Well . . . are you high on paint fumes?”
“I’m high on life. Are you . . . uh . . . alone there? You just hanging out? I mean . . . you want to meet or something?”
“Come over, Shelly. I have some wine in the fridge. Maybe we’ll get trashed or something.”
“Or something? Are you trying to get me into bed?”
“Shut up. I’d really like to talk. I had a kind of frightening thing happen tonight.”
“Okay. Talk and wine. I’m there.”
“Thanks. I mean, hurry over, okay?”
I didn’t want to be alone. I needed to talk about everything with someone. Ann-Marie was so involved with Lou, so totally obsessed. We were still close, but it was harder to get through to her. Especially since I told her about Lou coming on to me. That kind of changed things between us. I could see it in her eyes. A distance that was never there before.
Shelly was funny and nice. Yes, he could get intense, but of all the guys I’d been seeing, he was the only one I could confide in.
I went to the mirror, brushed my still-wet hair, and pulled it back tight into a blue scrunchie. I was spreading lip gloss on my lips when the phone rang again.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
Hard, noisy breathing.
I let out a gasp. “Stop it—please!”
Raspy throat sounds. The breathing came fas
ter.
“Stop calling me!”
My heart pounding, I clicked off the phone and threw it across the room.
Why do I do that?
Lindy is such a nice girl. And I think she really likes me.
Why do I call her and breathe and groan like that? Am I a sicko? I don’t even find it that thrilling.
You’re such a bad boy, Shelly. Why do you keep calling her?
Okay, it’s a little exciting. Admit it. You love to hear that intake of breath she makes when she realizes it’s the breather again.
You like to hear her shout at you.
You’re bad, Shelly. You have to stop.
You have to be nice to her. You like Lindy. You like her a lot.
Now put down the phone and get over to her apartment. She’s waiting for you.
PART FIVE
33
Dune Road in Westhampton stretches through a narrow strip of sandy ground, with the ocean on one side and Peconic Bay on the other. Houses on stilts, all windows and light wood and weather-graying shingle, rise up on the yellow sand on the ocean side. The houses are pressed close together, as if huddling against the powerful waves. Some of them tilt into the wind off the ocean. Frothy water from high-tide waves washes under the stilts of houses built close to the shoreline.
Sand blows over the narrow, two-lane road that separates the beach houses from the bay-side houses. Every year, the ocean beach grows a little narrower. As it erodes, the houses find themselves more vulnerable, closer to the powerful waves that steadily crash onshore.
The houses on the bay side of Dune Road are more modest. Many of them are just bungalows, clapboard cabins and shingled, one-or-two-bedroom shacks built as summer rentals. The houses sit lower to the ground, many of them surrounded by tall grasses and reeds, swaying in the ocean winds.
The backs of the houses face the gentle, saltwater bay. Sometimes the bay is flat as a lake. Sometimes low waves splash on the grassy shore. No one swims in the bay here. The water is much too shallow. You’d have to walk for miles before the water came up to your knees.
Westhampton is the first Hampton town you come to when you drive out on the Long Island Expressway from the city. It is the youngest and flashiest and sluttiest and least snooty of the Hamptons. Westhampton has more young people jammed into share-houses, more dance clubs, more bars, more silver and gold beach jewelry and thong bikinis, more Beamers, more people my age desperate to hook up, to find a summer romance.