Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

I staggered to my feet and backpedaled until I came up against the door. Fumbling for the latch, I lurched out into the garden. I did have wits enough left to glance around first, but the bull had escaped that particular china shop. A small runabout carrying two people was arrowing toward the becalmed sailboat. I stared after it, delaying examination of what the bull had left behind.

Taking a deep breath — my first in minutes, it seemed — and quaking like an aspen, I propped the door open and turned to assess the damage. In the moted oblong of sunlight I could see two ankles bound by rope. One large stocking sported a hole in the heel. I knew there was an overhead light, but I was too rattled to find the switch. After a couple of fumbles along the left-hand wall, I gave it up and approached the bound feet.

The toes wriggled. I nearly jumped out of my own socks. Then I was on my knees, dragging the bound man to a sitting position — with little assistance from him, he was too busy groaning. It was Hal, masquerading as Billy the Kid. A bandana was tied across the lower half of his face, and his hands were tied behind him. I braced him back against the workbench and scrabbled for some scissors.

Scissors may cut paper, but I can testify they make little headway against whatever they’re making rope of these days. My brain finally clicked into gear, and I sprinted back to my own yard. Hal was coming around by the time I returned. When he saw me advancing on him, hedge clippers at the ready, his eyes showed a lot of white.

I snipped through the leg bindings first, then edged around to get at his back. He was awake enough by then to stretch his hands well away from his body; with his mouth still covered, I couldn’t hear his prayers. When the rope fell off, I undid the bandana for him. Beneath it was a strip of adhesive tape. Hal dealt with that himself while I slumped beside him and ordered myself to stop trembling.

That was when I noticed something really odd. Not that finding your neighbor tied up in his own tool shed isn’t odd, mind you, but this was, frankly, bizarre. Hal was chafing his wrist and noticed it at the same time. Someone had stripped a yard of insulation from the business end of a power cable and coiled the exposed copper wire four times around Hal’s upper arm. Our eyes followed the thick cord up to where it dangled from a socket in the ceiling. The same socket that operated the overhead light — which I had been trying to turn on minutes before.

“Get it off!” I muttered through clenched teeth, but Hal was already ripping the device off his arm. He gave a stiff downward yank and the cord slithered to the floor like a dying rattler. We sat in silence, staring at it, our feet poked out into the sunlight.

“Shoes,” Hal finally croaked.

I found the light switch this time, although I hesitated before flipping it. A brief search turned up his rubber-soled shoes under the workbench. The gun was there, too, but I left it. Hal donned his shoes, staggered to his feet unassisted, then flexed his shoulders — or maybe it was a shudder.

“Drink,” he said, walking very deliberately toward the door.

I couldn’t agree more.

Hal excused himself while I poured brandy into paper cups, which was all I could find in his kitchen. When he returned to his dining room, he was decidedly paler. He downed his “juice” and held the glass out for more.

I poured liberally but asked, “Should you drink?”

“It was chloroform,” he said wearily, flopping down in a captain’s chair. “No concussion.”

I made inroads on my own drink, a slow burn down to the heart.

Hal finally took a great breath, released it, and looked across the mahogany table at me. “What happened out there?”

I ’fessed up to my plan to plunder his tools and described the ensuing struggle. No, I told him, I’d never seen the man before. I’d have remembered anyone with shoulders that size. One of which should be stiffening up nicely, I thought, but I didn’t want to brag.

“I was thinking about buying a guard dog,” Hal said when I finished. “I may adopt you instead.” He smiled down at his drink, but the humor was a little sour around the edges.

A knock on the back door made us both jump like scalded cats. I listened intently as Hal went to answer it. A jumble of male voices, then he returned followed by his boathouse guests. Close up they looked less like the Hardy boys and more like fighters in training, young bodies with cynical eyes.

“Mutt and Jeff think we’ve been hallucinating,” Hal said, showing them in.

“Mutt and—” I swallowed a giggle. “Bodyguards?” I asked brightly, to be met by fish eyes. “Or just guards?” less brightly.

“We’re just — observers,” said Mutt.

“And what were you observing fifteen minutes ago?” I demanded acidly.

“A boy almost drowned—” He had the grace to redden.

“You claim you saw the, uh, attacker?” Jeff drawled.

“A tall man, beefy shoulders, square face, wearing a stocking mask,” I recited impatiently. I glanced out the window. “The boat’s gone. You’ll find his gun in the shed.”