on a dusty trail, be a kid again.
Yes, she would do all those things… when this job was over… She felt herself drifting into the alpha state on the threshold of sleep.
Her thoughts fuzzed out and grew distant. All tension left her, and there was only a humming meditative sense of calm.
Then a sudden lurch forward, water over her head, the hot jets stinging her neck-She was submerged in the tub, the surface only inches away but out of reach, because she couldn't rise.
Someone was holding her down with a strong hand clutching the top of her head, gripping her hair in tangled bunches.
She tried to grab the hand that-held her, knowing she could inflict instant pain by bending back one of his fingers or squeezing the tender ball of flesh below his thumb, but with his free hand he deflected her attack.
If she could only see him-But she couldn't, she was underwater, blinded by the lights ringing the interior of the tub, and above her was only darkness and she couldn't see anything, and there was no air.
She struggled to duck lower, pull free, but he had her by the hair and wouldn't yield. She braced both feet against the bottom of the tub and pushed hard, fighting to overcome the downward pressure that kept her submerged, but he had the advantage of leverage.
A cry of frustration burst out of her in an explosion of bubbles, blending with the jets of churning water.
The cry cost nearly the last of her oxygen. She would black out at any moment, and then he would simply have to hold her down until her lungs flooded with water in a final instinctive breath.
But she couldn't die this way, facedown in a Jacuzzi, surrounded by empty beer bottles and trash-Beer bottles.
A weapon.
With her last strength she raised her arm out of the water and groped behind her, along the rim of the spa.
Her hand closed over the neck of a bottle.
She tilted it, smashed it against the concrete, then jabbed upward with the broken, jagged end.
Instantly the hand holding her down withdrew.
She stabbed again, blindly, not sure if she had made contact the first time-then surfaced with a hoarse, spluttering gasp.
Sucking air into her lungs, she spun in the tub, looking everywhere for her assailant, but all she saw was the gate clanging shut.
In the parking lot-running footsteps, fading out.
She leaned against the side of the tub, fighting to control her breathing, then noticed that she still held the beer bottle in her hand.
She examined the jagged end for blood, found none.
She saw no red droplets on the concrete surface of the spa area.
The bottle had merely scared him. She hadn't inflicted a wound. Too bad. Blood could be tested and matched to an eventual suspect.
Besides, she would have liked to hurt the bastard after what he put her through.
She set down the bottle and climbed out of the spa, shivering in the cool air. With a towel wrapped around her, she considered the big question.
Who the hell was he?
She was quite certain her attacker had been male.
Those hands had been decidedly masculine in their size and strength.
But whose hands had they been?
Hickle's? Was he on to her somehow, or had he simply equated her in his mind with Jill Dahlbeck, his earlier obsession?
He had asked if she was an actress, as Jill had been.
Maybe there was something about her that had triggered the same feelings that might have led him to splash Jill with battery acid on a dark side street, in Hollywood years ago.
Or maybe the assault had no connection with Hickle or this case. She remembered Wyatt saying, This is Hollywood, remember. Lots of random craziness. Hickle's not the only nutcase.
Then an absurd thought occurred to her. How well did she really know Vie Wyatt?
'Oh, come on,' she said under her breath, 'that's paranoid.'
Of course it was paranoid. She was in a paranoid business. She was trained to be hyper vigilant But the fact was, somebody had just tried to kill her, less than two hours after her meeting with Wyatt-and she didn't know Wyatt all that well.
He had bumped into her last night at the bar in Westwood. Suppose it wasn't a coincidence. Suppose he had been following her. Stalking her She knew all about that kind of behavior, didn't she?
And suppose that tonight, after dinner, he had followed her to this building, and when he saw her enter the tub… 'Tried to kill me?' she asked herself aloud.
'Why would he?'
She couldn't say, but she had to admit it was at least possible. The lock on the gate was broken; anyone could have entered the spa area.
She still didn't believe it. Wyatt had never struck her as the slightest bit unstable or hostile or obsessive.
Anyhow, there might be a way to eliminate him from suspicion.
She took the cell phone out of her purse and called Wyatt's home number.
He lived in the mid-city district near La Brea and Washington.
If he'd fled this location just minutes earlier, he wouldn't have had time to get home yet.
She waited through three rings, a small knot of worry forming in her stomach. She didn't want to suspect Wyatt. She didn't want the assailant to be anyone she knew and liked.
Four rings-And the phone was answered.
'Wyatt.'
'Oh.' She caught her breath.
'Hi, Vie, it's me. Hope I'm not calling too late.'
'No problem. I'm kind of a night owl, with the schedule I'm working lately. What's up?'
She couldn't very well tell him that she was calling to remove him from suspicion of attempted murder.
But she hadn't had time to think of a cover story. She improvised.
'I realized I forgot to ask if there were any other women Hickle went after. You know, in addition to Jill Dahlbeck. Anything in his past, any other reports, before or since.'
'Not that I'm aware of. But I have a feeling you might know about somebody.'
'Me?'
'Why else would a security firm be taking a fresh look at him?'
'Well… no comment.' 'That's what I figured. And if I asked who his new object of affection might be?'
'No comment.'
'You sound like a broken record. Anything else you forgot to ask?'
She almost said no, then changed her mind.
'There is one thing. Any reports of drownings in the Hollywood district?'
'Drownings? You mean, like, little kids who fall in a swimming pool?'
'No, I mean adults… Any unsolved cases like that?
An adult who drowned in a pool or a hot tub, that kind of thing?'
'What would that have to do with Raymond Hickle?'
'Probably nothing. Just a loose end I'm trying to tie up.'
'Well, to answer your question-no, there haven't been any mysterious, unsolved Hollywood drownings. If there had been, I think the local news would have picked up on it, don't you?'
'Sure. Of course they would. Sorry I asked.'
'No problem. I'm here to help. To protect and serve, that's my motto.'
