Read Online Havoc-on-Hudson by Bernice Gottlieb - Free Book Online
Authors: Bernice Gottlieb
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actually had tears in his eyes, and his concern gave me pause.
But my determination to do what I could to help identify and apprehend this rapist/killer wasn’t because I was some wanna-be girl detective or neurotic sensation monger. I had a much more personal motivation than that, and I began to think about telling Andrew what it was.
18
So, the next Friday evening, after a meal of chilled Blue Point oysters followed by T-bones grilled on my patio, I poured fresh glasses of Australian Shiraz and, after a long silence, said, “Andrew?”
“Yes, Sweetie?” I loved the way he smiled at me, as if I was so very easy to smile at. As if there was nothing in the world he’d rather do than smile at me. “I want to tell you something.”
“Hmm?”
It was so lovely sitting there: a river breeze blowing, the ripe midsummer sun beginning its descent over the Hudson Palisades. I was afraid to ruin the mood, but I had to risk it, so I told Andrew something I’ve never talked to anyone about before: something that had happened to me when I was very young; something that explained why these attacks in Hudson Hills haunted me so.
“I know I promised you,” I began, “that I’d stay away from the investigation into the attacks on the real-estate brokers …”
Andrew was suddenly very still. Very attentive. “Why do I fear there’s a ‘but’ coming?”
“But,” I said, and the story poured out of me. “I was only seventeen when it happened,” I began.
I was just leaving our brick rowhouse in Brooklyn the first time Josh drove past in his white convertible. It was a beautiful summer morning and the top was down. When he saw me he stopped and offered me a ride. I’d been brought up to be a proper young woman, so I ignored him. A few days later, he passed my house again, stopped, and smiled at me. I asked him to please leave me alone.
Somehow he got my name and started phoning me. He was funny, charming and persuasive and eventually wore me down. I was only seventeen, after all. What did I know? I told him I would go out with him if I could bring my friend Gloria with me. He agreed and brought one of his own pals along. The four of us had a nice dinner at a local restaurant, then went to the movies.
My parents had made it clear that, since I knew very little about this fellow, I was to be home no later than 10:30 p.m. All Josh had told me was that he’d graduated from Hofstra and the convertible was a gift from his parents. I liked his looks; he was tall, with straight black hair that fell over his forehead. It was charming, the way he kept brushing it away from his eyes.
We left the theater at 10 p.m. Josh ignored my request to drive me home first because of my curfew—which I mentioned again. Instead, he dropped Gloria off at her house, where his friend’s car was. Then he pulled out of their driveway and turned his car in the opposite direction from my house.
“Josh, you’re going the wrong way!”
But he didn’t say anything, just kept going.
“What are you doing? This will take us onto the highway!”
He grinned at me with all his teeth showing and gunned the motor.
I knew then I was in deep trouble. Should I jump out of the car? At the next red light! But there were no red lights. There were no stop signs. We turned onto the highway. He started speeding. The convertible top was up, and he’d turned on loud music. I wanted to scream. I wanted to wave my arms at the passing cars. I started to roll down my window, but he backhanded me across the face. Hard. Stunned, I lost track of time.
We exited Oriental Boulevard at Manhattan Beach, a neighborhood of beach homes and condos. I cried and pled with him to take me home. But, no. He pulled up to a secluded parking area on the beach where there were no other cars, no people, no houses, only a high-rise apartment building looming in the distance.
While we’d been on the highway, I’d considered my options. I checked out the button that unlocked
But my determination to do what I could to help identify and apprehend this rapist/killer wasn’t because I was some wanna-be girl detective or neurotic sensation monger. I had a much more personal motivation than that, and I began to think about telling Andrew what it was.
18
So, the next Friday evening, after a meal of chilled Blue Point oysters followed by T-bones grilled on my patio, I poured fresh glasses of Australian Shiraz and, after a long silence, said, “Andrew?”
“Yes, Sweetie?” I loved the way he smiled at me, as if I was so very easy to smile at. As if there was nothing in the world he’d rather do than smile at me. “I want to tell you something.”
“Hmm?”
It was so lovely sitting there: a river breeze blowing, the ripe midsummer sun beginning its descent over the Hudson Palisades. I was afraid to ruin the mood, but I had to risk it, so I told Andrew something I’ve never talked to anyone about before: something that had happened to me when I was very young; something that explained why these attacks in Hudson Hills haunted me so.
“I know I promised you,” I began, “that I’d stay away from the investigation into the attacks on the real-estate brokers …”
Andrew was suddenly very still. Very attentive. “Why do I fear there’s a ‘but’ coming?”
“But,” I said, and the story poured out of me. “I was only seventeen when it happened,” I began.
I was just leaving our brick rowhouse in Brooklyn the first time Josh drove past in his white convertible. It was a beautiful summer morning and the top was down. When he saw me he stopped and offered me a ride. I’d been brought up to be a proper young woman, so I ignored him. A few days later, he passed my house again, stopped, and smiled at me. I asked him to please leave me alone.
Somehow he got my name and started phoning me. He was funny, charming and persuasive and eventually wore me down. I was only seventeen, after all. What did I know? I told him I would go out with him if I could bring my friend Gloria with me. He agreed and brought one of his own pals along. The four of us had a nice dinner at a local restaurant, then went to the movies.
My parents had made it clear that, since I knew very little about this fellow, I was to be home no later than 10:30 p.m. All Josh had told me was that he’d graduated from Hofstra and the convertible was a gift from his parents. I liked his looks; he was tall, with straight black hair that fell over his forehead. It was charming, the way he kept brushing it away from his eyes.
We left the theater at 10 p.m. Josh ignored my request to drive me home first because of my curfew—which I mentioned again. Instead, he dropped Gloria off at her house, where his friend’s car was. Then he pulled out of their driveway and turned his car in the opposite direction from my house.
“Josh, you’re going the wrong way!”
But he didn’t say anything, just kept going.
“What are you doing? This will take us onto the highway!”
He grinned at me with all his teeth showing and gunned the motor.
I knew then I was in deep trouble. Should I jump out of the car? At the next red light! But there were no red lights. There were no stop signs. We turned onto the highway. He started speeding. The convertible top was up, and he’d turned on loud music. I wanted to scream. I wanted to wave my arms at the passing cars. I started to roll down my window, but he backhanded me across the face. Hard. Stunned, I lost track of time.
We exited Oriental Boulevard at Manhattan Beach, a neighborhood of beach homes and condos. I cried and pled with him to take me home. But, no. He pulled up to a secluded parking area on the beach where there were no other cars, no people, no houses, only a high-rise apartment building looming in the distance.
While we’d been on the highway, I’d considered my options. I checked out the button that unlocked
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