Doug Allyn: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 104, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 633 & 634, October 1994

Using the car’s body to shield myself from the current, I slipped under the surface. Absolute blackness. Not a hint of light. I switched on my helmet lamp, but it only haloed off the turbid silt. Whiteout instead of blackout. No help. I switched it off and worked blind, feeling my way along the side of the car.

Roofline, rear window... And then a gap. The driver’s door was open. Damn. This would make it trickier. If the car had been closed up, the silt would have settled out of the water inside it and I could have checked the interior with a light. As it was, the only way to check for a body in there was by touch. I felt an icy chill that had nothing to do with the river current.

There was no other way. Grasping the steering wheel with my left hand, I quickly ran my right hand over the front seat, the ceiling, the dashboard, the floor. Nothing. I inched farther inside, reached around the front seat and groped blindly in the back. I began on the ceiling, slid my hand across until I felt the backseat, then down — something spongy moved beneath my hand!

I recoiled, banging the back of my head against the front door frame. Damn! My eyes felt like they were pressed against the Lexan lens of my face mask. But there was nothing to see. Black water. I tried to remember what... whatever I’d touched felt like. Cloth. A sleeve perhaps? With an arm in it? I wasn’t sure.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. I couldn’t even check my watch to find out how long I’d been down. Not long enough. Nowhere near thirty minutes. I had no excuse to surface. Pity. I had a memory flash of a comedian... George Carlin? Talking about being on an airplane and seeing flames coming out of an engine. But not telling the stewardess about it. Because he’d rather die than look like a schmuck.

It was funny because it was true. And the truth was, frightened or not, I wasn’t about to surface and tell Sheriff Bauer or Biff that there might be a body in this godforsaken car. Neither one would say anything. But they’d think it. Next time, get a man for the job.

I swallowed hard and reached into the rear passenger area. And brushed against the cloth. And felt it give. Too late to back off now. I squeezed, gently at first. Then harder. The fabric pinched together. Not a sleeve, or a coat... The material was too coarse. More like... Hell, it was carpet. The carpeting from the rear floor had bubbled up and I was holding a piece of it.

I ran my hand quickly over it, far enough to know there were no more surprises. And then I backed out and surfaced, letting Charlie pull me close enough to the bank to stand.

I spat out my mouthpiece. “Nobody home. Can’t tell what kind of a car it is, can’t see an inch. But I could reach clear across to the far door, so it must be a compact. Want me to hook it up?”

“You want a break first? You sound a little shaky.”

“It’s cold down there,” I said curtly. Biff handed me the hook on the end of the cable and reeled a few feet off the winch. I replaced my mouthpiece, stepped off the bank, and slid back down into the blackness. I felt along the car till I found the rear wheel, then beyond it to the frame. I looped the line around a solid cross member, hooked up, then backed out and surfaced again. Charlie gave me a hand up.

“You okay?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice yet. Biff already had the wrecker’s winch cranking, the big truck rocking on its tandem wheels as the reel drew the steel cable taut. It hesitated a minute when it hit dead level, then with a deep, liquid gurgle the river muck released its hold and the car began inching slowly out of the dark and up the bank. When the rear wheels crawled clear of the river and I was sure I wouldn’t have to go back down, I trudged over to Charlie’s Blazer and shed my air tank and tool belt. And took a moment to think about how ugly it had been to feel that carpet. And how good it felt not to quit. A little private “attagirl.” The best kind.

When I turned back, the car was already two thirds clear of the river. Coffee-colored water gushed out of the open door and river silt slid down the roof and the sides.

The steel cable had crushed part of the bumper assembly, popping the trunk. But the car was easily recognizable. And familiar. It was an airport rental Ford Escort. Tan.

Charlie was checking the license plate against his clipboard. “Gotcha,” he said.

“Were you looking for this one?” I asked.

“It was on the hot sheet,” he nodded. “Guy took it on a three-day rental at the airport ten days ago.”

“A young guy? Latin?” I asked.

He glanced at the sheet, then at me. “Yeah. Name was Calderon. What are you, a witch?”

“Sometimes,” I said. “But not this time. I met him last week. In fact, if you’d like to talk to him, he was standing with the rubbemeckers up on — there. See the tall guy on the end, the one in the blue sports jacket? That’s him.”

“No kidding?” Charlie said. “Hey! Excuse me, you, the guy on the end? Could you come down here a minute, please?”

Calderon hesitated, then stepped over the railing and clambered down the bank. He was carrying a flight bag, and as he entered the ring of light from the wrecker’s halogen roof rack I knew I was mistaken. There was a resemblance, but it wasn’t the same man. He was older, more solidly built. And better looking.

“My diver here thinks there’s a chance you know something about this car,” Charlie said.

“I don’t understand,” Calderon said.

“Sorry, my mistake,” I put in. “From a distance you looked a lot like the guy who rented this car.”

“Jimmy Calderon? Is this his car?”

“A James Calderon rented it,” Charlie nodded. “You know him?”

“I’m Ray Calderon. Jimmy’s my brother,” he said, stalking over to the dripping car. “How did it get in the river?”

“I was hoping you could tell us,” Charlie said.

“No, I don’t know anything about this. I just flew in. I told the airport cabby to take me to your office, but as we drove past he said it looked like the whole department was here, so we stopped.”

“Why were you looking for me?” Charlie asked.

“My brother came here on — business, last week. He was supposed to stay in touch. When he didn’t, I got worried.”

“Where are you from, Mr. Calderon?” Charlie asked.

“Virginia. Norfolk. I got out of the navy a few months ago.”

“A long way to come,” Charlie said. “Why didn’t you just phone?”

Calderon hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Because if Jimmy was all right I didn’t want to cause any fuss.”

“You mean because your brother’s on parole,” Charlie said. “I ran a check on him when his car went overdue. Armed robbery, wasn’t it?”

“It sounds worse than it was,” Calderon said evenly. “He was young, he made some mistakes. He’s paid for them.”

“Not entirely, or he wouldn’t still be on parole. Let me ask you a question, Mr. Calderon, straight up. What are the chances your brother ditched this car on a whim and skipped?”

“No way,” Calderon said positively. “He only had six months of parole left and he had a job. He had no reason to run.”

“He didn’t have permission to leave Virginia either, but he did.”

“Charlie?” Biff interrupted. “I’m hooked up and ready to haul ’er to the yard. You want the stuff in the trunk?”

“What stuff?”

“Luggage,” Biff said. “A couple suitcases.”

“Suitcases?” Charlie said.

“They’re Jimmy’s all right,” Ray Calderon said grimly, sorting quickly through the sodden clothing. “This is a picture of my — our mother,” he said, handing a photograph in a K mart frame to Charlie. “You still think he dumped the car and took off? Without his clothes?”