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February 1969 They called her the Drowned Wife. She died and was brought back to life after four hours without any brain damage. Her husband held her under after he chopped a hole in the ice of the pond out back. Luckily, the wife was in the peak of fitness and twenty-eight years old. The terror of it: right through the restraining order. She was even hiding on a friend's farm in New Hampshire at the time. Maybe it could have been considered a crime of rage, except for the chopping a hole in the ice thing. It was almost two feet thick at ten below zero. That took a little planning. And rage.…mehr

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February 1969 They called her the Drowned Wife. She died and was brought back to life after four hours without any brain damage. Her husband held her under after he chopped a hole in the ice of the pond out back. Luckily, the wife was in the peak of fitness and twenty-eight years old. The terror of it: right through the restraining order. She was even hiding on a friend's farm in New Hampshire at the time. Maybe it could have been considered a crime of rage, except for the chopping a hole in the ice thing. It was almost two feet thick at ten below zero. That took a little planning. And rage. Rational rage and a life sentence without parole. June 1971 No matter. He escaped and came after the drowned wife again. That's where I came in. But understand, I didn't make the nickname up. It was the press. It stuck. Maybe it was lucky that no one remembered her real name, including me. The scientist didn't help by calling their contribution: 'The Drowned Wife and Cognitive Preservation in a Cold Water Drowning.' Pithy. The lady hid on Cape Cod under a new name, as a waitress in my uncle's seasonal restaurant. Uncle Peter protected our Eylana, and her ex-husband had never come up against something like us, the surfers and crew of the dish kitchen: me, the LSD loving hippie freak, Nub, the mute Vietnam vet, Dave, the oppressed son of a tyrannical mother, almost free orange sunshine, a gaggle of surfer girls, and Benjy the man whore supreme. I was nineteen. She was thirty. Protect and rescue. Giant crush not returned. What the hell, why not? Poodle skirts vs. LSD. The Platters vs. Jefferson Airplane. Frank Sinatra vs Jimmy Hendricks. We could make it work, right?... as long as the draft lottery didn't drag me to the jungle. But first good old murderous Mike Johnson from Roanoke Virginia had to be dealt with. The cops were useless. He beat them up. Our scheme to dose him with LSD and tie him to a tree was a debacle. Who can save her, or will she save herself? Read the damn book and find out.
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