V Is for Vengeance

deserted by now. The damsel in distress would be easy to spot. The driver would pull up in the empty lane and get out of his truck. The girl would explain the problem while gesturing at the tires. I could picture him hunkering down to have a look, quickly realizing, as she must have, that human mischief was at the root. I’d left the two valve caps on the pavement, one sitting neatly beside each flat tire. She was bound to have spotted them, and if she’d complained about being the victim of a prank, the driver had probably brought along a portable air compressor. It would be a simple matter then of his inflating one tire at a time and screwing the valve caps back into place. This would take no more than three minutes, maybe four taking into account the back-and-forth of polite conversation.
    I checked my watch, fired up my engine, and turned off the radio. I looked up as though cued and said, “Ah!” because there came the tow truck, turning right at the foot of the hill. The Mercedes followed. Though I knew the upscale private school drew students from all over the city, I’d assumed the girl lived somewhere in Horton Ravine. However, instead of turning left and heading into the heart of the Ravine, she took a right as well. I kept my face averted, making a serious study of the map still open in front of me. She didn’t know me from Adam, but on the off chance we crossed paths in the future, I didn’t want her making the connection. The tow truck passed me, slowed at the intersection, and took a right. She was two car lengths behind. I was already folding up the map, which I left on the passenger seat. As soon as she’d cleared the intersection, I checked for oncoming traffic, made an illegal U-turn, and followed her.
    The tow truck continued on across the freeway overpass. The Mercedes moved into the right lane. The girl took the 101 on-ramp and merged with the stream of speeding cars heading south. I slowed, adjusting my speed to allow another car between us. Traffic was light and it wasn’t difficult keeping up with her. She stayed in the right-hand lane and passed the off-ramp at Little Pony Road. She got off on the Missile Street exit and kept to the left in preparation for a turn. The car between us sped on. We were both caught at the stoplight at the bottom of the ramp. I could see her adjust the rearview mirror and reapply her lipstick. When the light changed, it took her a moment to register the fact. I was patient, not wanting to call attention to myself with even a quick toot of my horn.
    She turned left and kept to surface streets, which meant we encountered a stop sign or a stoplight at just about every intersection. I stayed three car lengths behind her. She didn’t seem aware of me, and why would she? There was no reason for her to fret about an old station wagon. I watched her shake her shoulders and bounce on the seat. She lifted her right arm, fingers snapping in time to music audible only to her. I flipped on my radio again, picking up the same pop music station I’d listened to before. I didn’t recognize the female vocalist, but the girl’s car dancing was perfectly synchronized with the song.
    She turned left on Santa Teresa Street, drove three blocks, and then turned right on Juniper Lane, which was an abbreviated half block long. Ten yards before reaching the corner, I pulled over to the curb in front of a small green stucco house that fronted on Santa Teresa Street. I shut down the engine and got out, trying to behave as though I were in no particular hurry. There were newspapers piled up on the front porch steps and the letter box bulged with mail. I blessed the householder for being away and at the same time faulted him for not having someone cover the house for him while he was gone. Burglars were now at liberty to break in and help themselves to his coin collection and his wife’s silverware.
    I cut across the yard on the diagonal, happy I didn’t have to worry about witnesses. An oversize weeping willow occupied one corner of the lot. Four-foot hedges grew along the edge of the property as far as a detached two-car garage with an apron of concrete in front sufficient to allow guest parking for two.
    I peered over the neatly trimmed shrubs. There were only three houses on the far side of Juniper Lane. The centerpiece was a two-story mock Tudor, with a one-story ranch-style house on the left and a one-story board-and-batten cottage on the right. The Mercedes was idling at