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24
He kept dragging me along to the deep end of the pool. I could feel his rough hands. The pebbled deck hurt my bare feet as the ground rushed by. Thoughts tumbled through my mind, incredibly fast. I foolishly wondered why he didn't simply hold my head under water at the shallow part. But this time he has to be sure it looks like an accident. He can't drown me in shallow water, and he can't leave any unexplained marks on me. That must be why he isn't trying to choke me.
He was behind me, one hand over my mouth to keep me from screaming, the other wrapped around my abdomen, inexorably forcing me closer and closer to the deep end. My arms were free, but I couldn't reach him. It was no use even if I had the strength to fight him. Then I remembered reading about protesters. They let their bodies go limp to make themselves more difficult to drag. I tried to deaden my weight. If only I had the Mace spray in my hand. It probably wouldn't stop him for long, but it could buy me time. I could run out of the gate and over to Jean and Jerry's house.
The spray would be where I always put it when I swam, on the stone bench alongside the pool, next to my bathing cap and swim goggles. I had to get the Mace. Oh, God, if only we haven't already passed the bench, I prayed silently. But as I reached my hand out to check, I felt my legs scrape along its base. This was my only chance. I was going to make the most of it. My heartbeat speeded up as I got ready to grab the canister, lift it in Tim's direction, and squeeze the nozzle before he knew what was happening. In a sudden flash of desperate insight, I realized the spray would affect me, too, but it would be worse for Tim.
If only we haven't passed the Mace, I thought again. I have to get it!
As all this flashed through my mind, I felt my bathing cap on the bench. I was afraid it was too late-that I'd passed by the Mace. But I wasn't going to give up. There ... there it was! A fraction of a second later, I had the canister in my hand, aimed it behind me, and pressed. We were both coughing, but the attack shocked Tim long enough to slacken his hold on me. I ran to the gate, released the spring lock, and was out in the driveway so quickly that I hadn't even decided where to go. I only knew I needed help, and I could hear myself screaming for it as strongly as I could between bouts of coughing.
No one will hear, I thought in despair. They'll all be watching television or sleeping. I didn't dare look back to see whether Tim had recovered enough to come after me. Then I heard the gate click and knew he was close behind. Someone grabbed my arms and I screamed loud enough to bruise my throat before I realized it couldn't be Tim. This person was in front of me, and he let go immediately.
"Ruthie, it's all right. You're safe."
It was Michael's voice, and I stopped screaming although I still couldn't stop the ragged coughing or control my shaking knees. There were no racing footsteps behind us. "Tim," I said. "He's trying to kill me."
"Yes, but he may as well give up," Michael said, shouting so Tim would hear him. "I called the police on my car phone as soon as I saw his car in your driveway."
Michael's Lexus was slanted across the driveway, blocking Tim's green Riviera. We couldn't see Tim, but we could hear him coughing. The sound told us he was running across my lawn to the street. "He can't get far," Michael said. "I'll let the police be the heroes."
We heard the sirens then. Within minutes, two Scottsdale patrol cars pulled into the driveway. Somehow, because he was so closely connected in my mind with the investigation, I expected to see Frank Moreway. But I didn't recognize any of the four patrol officers who approached us, and I was afraid we'd waste valuable time explaining, while Tim got away.
Michael immediately called to them that he was the one who had telephoned, and I vouched for him. We pointed out the direction Tim had taken. One officer stayed behind to talk to us.
Before I could begin my story, my legs started to shake so violently that I had to sit on the grass at the side of my driveway. Michael sat beside me, offering his shoulder for support.
After my first few sentences, the officer left us and went back to his patrol car to use the radio. And by the time I finished telling him exactly what had happened, another patrol car pulled up. Detective Moreway got out.
By this time, too, the Flints, the Woodmans, and other neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk in front of my house. I wondered why the arrival of the police had brought them out but not my screams. Then again, I could be misjudging them; they could have waited just inside their front doors, ready to provide a haven for me.
I'd always preferred neighbors who minded their own business, but perhaps it was better to have people like the Brandens living next door. They would have been outside at the sound of my first scream. None of this matters, I thought soberly. If I hadn't reached the canister of Mace on my own, it would have been too late.
I expected to see the police hauling Tim to one of the patrol cars by now, but they returned without him. One of them must have radioed for the police helicopter, for it was soon overhead spotlighting the area. Local television and newspaper reporters soon arrived on the scene. I didn't want to talk or allow them into the pool area, but I didn't have the strength to resist. Denise told me later that she saw me on the morning news, sitting on my front lawn, wearing only a pink bathing suit. That must have been a sight, a fifty-five-year-old pinup.
The questions and the commotion finally stopped. One patrol car remained outside the house, and the two police officers in it assured me I was safe. The front door was still locked. There was no way Tim could have passed us and reached the back door through the driveway. Michael checked out the house anyhow and poured a glass of Mogen David wine for me, the only alcoholic beverage I had in the house.
"I'm going to leave now, Ruthie. Lock up after me, get some rest, and we'll talk in the morning."
As he spoke, an idea struck with the force of a blow to the head. "Michael, I forgot. Betsy is the key to everything. He could go after her." I was pulling at his arm, trying to make sure he understood. "You've got to call and warn her not to open the door for him."
I didn't know how much time had elapsed since Tim's escape, but since his car was still in my driveway, he couldn't have reached the Stokes's home quickly. Michael's face paled and he ran to my kitchen phone. He gripped the receiver fiercely as he waited. The phone rang unanswered for a long time, and his grim expression haunted me. When she picked up the phone, he started to relax but I saw his brows knit as he talked to her.
"Are you alone, Betsy?"
He waited, tension in every line of his face. Then the lines softened, but he warned her not to let Tim Barnard in the house no matter what excuses he gave her.
She must have wanted reasons, because I heard him explain that Tim had just tried to kill me. "I'll be there as quickly as possible," Michael said and hung up the telephone.
"Can't we get the police to watch her house, too?"
"It will take too long to convince them. I've got to be there myself."
"Call those neighbors," I told him. "The Brandens. They can keep watch until you arrive. No, you go. I'll call them. Will you phone me when you get there?"
He nodded and dashed to the front door, stopping only long enough to be sure I locked up behind him. I tried unsuccessfully to reach the Brandens, wishing I'd thought about the danger to Betsy earlier.
If the police hadn't been busy trying to capture Tim, Michael would surely have gotten a ticket for speeding. I watched him from my dining room window as he shot out of the driveway and raced up the street. Then there was silence. The neighbors had drifted away and so had the reporters, and the men in the remaining patrol car were quiet shadows.
I waited for Michael's call. It should take him about twenty minutes to drive to his daughter's home, maybe only fifteen the way he was going. When he hadn't called at the end of half an hour, I began to worry.
My thoughts were wild. What if Tim had been lurking at Betsy's and used her father as a hostage to get into the house? I paced from room to room, holding my portable phone so I could answer the instant Michael's call came through.
All the news items I'd ever seen about rejected lovers who killed family, friends, and anyone else they blamed for the breakup flashed through my mind. I realized I couldn't bear the thought of losing Michael, and couldn't believe I had ever suspected him of murder. During these few weeks, I had grown used to his warm smile and vibrant personality again. Even if we were only to remain friends and see each other occasionally, that would be enough for me. And surely he'd call now and then when he came up to Scottsdale to see Betsy and his grandchild. With all my foolish suspicions behind us, we could reminisce lightheartedly and enjoy each other's company.
I continued to pace, wondering if I should go outside to the patrol car and ask them to check on the Stokes's house. Michael had always been dependable. Surely he couldn't have forgotten to call and reassure me that his daughter was safe.
Just as I made up my mind to approach the police, the phone rang. At Michael's "Hello, Ruthie," I sat on the floor right where I was and leaned against the wall, weak with relief.
"I'm sorry for the delay," he said. "We had some excitement here, but we're both okay."
"Tim was there?" I could barely get the question out. "He was at Betsy's house?" I remembered the terror of that scene by my swimming pool and grieved at the thought of a pregnant young woman going through similar violence.
"He was hiding by the front door, behind one of the pillars. I was unlocking the door, when he came up and tried to force his way into the house."
I was glad I had the wall for support. It was too easy to imagine the scene as Michael described it.
"Luckily, I was able to reverse direction and back into him," Michael continued. "We both landed on the walk and had a bit of a fight, but it didn't last long. I was so furious with him for trying to kill you and for going after Betsy, that the police had to pry me off him when they arrived."
"Are you really all right?" I asked, my voice shaky with relief that Tim must now be in police custody.
"Absolutely. Would you believe Betsy had gone back to bed after my call from your place and slept through it all?"
"Then who called the police?" I asked. But I knew my earlier conjecture about neighbors like the Brandens was accurate.
Michael gave me a few more details about Tim's arrest. "They'll probably recall the patrol car at your house," he said. "Do you think you'll be all right?"
I assured him that I'd be fine and repeated my assurances to the officer who came to the door to tell me what I already knew about Tim's arrest. But even though I knew I was safe, I spent what was left of that night with my canister of Mace on the pillow next to me.
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