Tahoe Heat

by Todd Borg

  By any reasonable measure, a precariously-balanced rowing shell was not an appropriate vehicle with which to rescue a maiden from the castle tower.

  But there were two considerations that were as attractive to me as a fire truck is to a person in a burning house. The first was that it was the only boat I could find. The second was that, if I could row it without dumping myself into the drink - a big if - I could probably propel the sleek craft at near water-ski speed. To silently race through the darkness at high speed would make me hard to see, an ideal attribute for escaping the gendarmes guarding Preston’s estate.

  I stood in the dark, staring at the boat, visualizing how it could work. The seats faced backward. If I sat and rowed from the front seat, I could possibly get Spot to hunch down over the rear seat, with his feet on the floor of the boat, and I’d be able to keep an eye on him.

  But that didn’t answer the question of how to fit two people and a dog into such a tiny escape vehicle. I could eliminate the question by leaving Spot in the Jeep. But I’d learned many times that Spot’s presence almost always has a bigger upside than downside. In a standoff, Spot can be more intimidating than I would be with a gun.

  I thought about it. But I couldn’t see how to turn the tiny rowing shell into a three-passenger craft.

  Of course, first I had to actually find Champagne. And she had to be persuaded to come away with me. But getting beat up by Preston would motivate her.

  I could call the Placer County Sheriff’s Office and give them my hunch. I have a good hunch record. But cops can’t get a search warrant on a hunch, and cops are required to play by the rules. I play by rules, too. But my rules say that a woman’s life is more important than waiting on proper paperwork, even if my idea is based on supposition and hunch.

  I quietly unstrapped the rowing shell from the carrier rack. I had no idea what kind of alarm the truck had, so I was very careful to prevent rocking the vehicle.

  Four oars lay in cradles on the roof rack. I only needed two. I took them out one at a time and set them into the front set of oarlocks. There were clips positioned on the sides of the boat to hold the blades. Once I had two oars attached, the question was how to carry the boat. It had two handles, perfect for two people to carry it.

  I lifted gently on each end of the shell to gauge the weight and balance. It looked sleek and light, but the seats and rigging hardware made it heavier. After several deep breaths, I took hold of the middle of the boat, and hefted it up onto my right shoulder, palming the bottom of the hull in my hand like a waiter carrying a giant, long tray that weighed 50 or 60 pounds.

  The shell teetered, the front end dropping fast toward the pavement. I shifted it on my shoulder, altering the balance point just before the bow would have hit the asphalt in a loud, damaging bounce.

  Once I had it balanced, I rotated until I was facing down the street that led to the lake. Spot turned circles below the boat, lifting his head, no doubt wondering what craziness I was up to.

  I walked down the street, grateful that the shell’s owner didn’t come running out to cleave my brain with a spare oar. If I didn’t capsize and lose his boat, I had every intention of bringing it back. If I did lose it, I intended to figure out a way to get Preston to pay for it along with usage fees and interest.

  At the end of the block, I set the shell down on the ground, careful not to dent the fragile hull. I scouted up and down the street looking for an unfenced path to the lake.

  A block down was a possibility. A wooden fence with a utility gate. I ran my hands over the dark wood near the edges of the gate, feeling for a catch. My hand caught on a short, stiff wire protruding through a hole. I gave it a pull. A latch clicked on the other side, and the gate swung inward. I stepped in through the opening, listening for alarm bells.

  No sound broke the silence. I peered down a dark, terraced yard that stepped down to the lake below. I doubted there’d be a watchdog reception because Spot normally senses an approaching dog and alerts by puffing an airy woof through his jowls. I stood in the dark for a long minute, watching the big dark house, looking for the faint light that always turns on when a home owner reacts to a silent alarm. No telltale glow appeared from behind the edges of the drapes, no slits of light coming through blinds. It was probably a vacation home, empty most of the year. Even if an alarm dispatch was dialing my law enforcement colleagues as I stood there, I’d be out on the water before they got there. They’d puzzle over what seemed like a false alarm.

  I lifted the shell up onto my shoulder and headed down the slope under the black canopy of the trees. Now that I was away from the house lights out on the street, it was so dark that I could barely see the white background fur that showed Spot’s spots.

  There was a dock that was just visible below as a vague gray stripe stretching out over the black water. I moved slowly, feeling with my feet for the steps that led down to the dock.

  Once I was on the dock and out from under the trees, the dock had a faint, starlit glow. I walked out to the end, lowered the shell off my shoulder and, careful not to bump the hull on the dock posts, gently set it into the water.

  It was like floating a large cigar. The boat exhibited little resistance to rolling. I sat on the dock and held the shell with my feet as I took each oar blade out of its clip holder and set it in the water. Then I slowly transferred my weight onto the tippy craft, leaning on the dock with my hands.

  It was like balancing on a floating log. One faces backward while rowing, so the bow was behind me. I experimented with the sliding seat, which allowed a rower to move with each stroke, increasing power. By straightening my legs, I pushed the seat back as far as it went. I reached out and pushed on the dock. The shell coasted away, the oars dragging in the water. When I was several yards from the dock, I reached for the oars, pushing their handles down to lift the blades out of the water.

  The right oar came out first. The shell immediately rolled that direction. The motion was so fast, I almost fell off the seat. My uncoordinated reaction was to let go of the right oar and reach for the boat. The oar flopped back into the water, fortunately stopping my roll. I learned the first important lesson: Make sure both oars leave and enter the water simultaneously.

  Moving slowly, I pushed down on both oar handles, lifting them out of the water at the same time. The shell rolled, but it didn’t tip over. I pushed my hands forward, the handles coming close together, then lifted my hands up, dropping the blades into the water. I gave a gentle pull back on the oars. The shell shot forward, the direction my back was facing. I carefully repeated the cycle, and the shell moved away from the shore at a surprising speed. Spot stood on the dock and whined as I disappeared onto the dark lake.

  “Quiet, boy” I whispered to him. “Coming right back.”

  I lowered the oars back into the water, using them to brake to a stop. Then I reversed the motion, pushing forward to drive the oars the other way and send the shell the way I was facing, backward, toward the dock. It was too dark to see Spot’s tail, but I could tell by his motion that he was wagging at my approach.

  “Ready for a ride?” I whispered.

  He wagged harder.

  I eased the shell alongside the dock. Spot lowered his head to look. I pointed to the rear seat. “C’mon, your largeness.”

  Spot took a step back.

  Regardless of my tone of voice, he could tell that I was suggesting a ridiculous proposition.

  I pointed to the empty seat and snapped my fingers.

  Spot spread his front legs wide and lowered his head so he could sniff the shell. He no doubt remembered the explosion from the year before. He had clung to the over-turned boat hull for a very long time, almost succumbing to hypothermia. He wasn’t going to be easily convinced that this was a good idea.

  I patted the shell’s hull. “Easier than riding a unicycle.”

  Spot backed up. I saw a way to improve the situation.

  I took off my windbreaker, wrapped it over and around the seat, crea
ting a very thin pad with a familiar smell. I pointed to my jacket. “Okay, let’s try again.” I patted my hand on the seat.

  If he were a Shepherd or a Lab, I could have picked him up and set him on the boat. But you can’t force a 170-pound Great Dane to do what he doesn’t want to do.

  He reached a tentative paw down and put it on the seat.

  “Good boy, atta boy, you can do it.”

  He reached his other leg down. The shell wobbled. With much cajoling, I got him into the boat. His chest lay on the seat. His elbows gripped the hull to either side of the seat, and his front paws straddled the rounded hull.

  With Spot semi-stabilized, I made a slow stroke with the oars, then another. The shell moved away from the dock at a good pace. I paid close attention to the feel and motion. I knew that once I was well away from the shore, a misstep with the oars, or any other action that tipped the boat, could be disastrous. Tahoe’s water is much too cold to survive long enough to swim any distance to shore. If Spot slipped off, I wouldn’t be able to get him back on the shell. Same for myself. But we’d already accomplished the hardest part.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  After 30 seconds of rowing through the dark, I found a steady rhythm. I kept my legs extended, preventing my seat from sliding. The extra movement seemed too risky.

  Still, I had the shell moving much faster than any other kind of human-powered boat. The fact that I faced backward and couldn’t easily see where I was going added to the sense of speed.

  The bow hit the waves hard enough to throw spray up and onto my back. Soon, I was soaked. The spray was icy cold.

  After several minutes, I glanced over my shoulder. The Laurence estate was maybe a quarter mile away. The faint sound of a big band swinging Billy Strayhorn’s “A Train” floated across the water. The Hatteras Motor Yacht was docked at Laurence’s pier. The light strings were off, but a single light came from the stern, silhouetting two jet skis that were suspended from a boom just off the rear deck. As I rowed farther, there appeared another light from up on the flying bridge, but I saw no movement up there or from anywhere else on the yacht.

  Beyond the boat, up near Preston’s palace, was a well-lit backyard patio, and above it several windows in the house that spilled light out onto the lawn. I couldn’t tell if the music came from the boat or the palace.

  I turned back to the oars and rowed until I was once again moving fast. The shell knifed through the oncoming waves. Spray continued to soak my back and occasionally went over me to land on Spot, making him shake his ears.

  The Laurence pier was only 100 yards away. The yacht looked as sleek as a great white shark. The big band was loud, blasting, I thought, from speakers up by the patio. It sounded like a big party. But I saw no people as I approached.

  Nevertheless, I knew that people were around. I’d met one guard at the gated entrance, and he had a radio. A mansion like Preston’s required people to run it. Even if Preston were at his horse-and-vineyard estate in the foothills, or an apartment in New York, or just traveling the world, he was the kind of guy to keep staff around, if only to keep his ego buffed and polished.

  I sensed movement in my peripheral vision.

  I turned and saw a man up on the flying bridge of the yacht. He was a big guy, possibly the man I’d seen at the gate.

  He reached out with his arm, and the light went off. The man disappeared into darkness.

  I gently rowed toward the yacht, trying to get into a position where if he climbed down to the dock, I’d see him silhouetted against the lights up by the house patio.

  When the dock was lined up in front of me, I stopped and waited. Nothing.

  Maybe he was sleeping on the boat. Or was down in the onboard theater watching movies and pounding Budweisers. Or maybe he’d gotten a glimpse of me and was sitting up on the bridge in the dark, looking at me through binoculars, calling reinforcements on his radio.

  After fifteen minutes, I decided he was below decks.

  I rowed to the farthest point from the yacht, where the east fence came down the property line to the beach. I coasted until the bow just touched sand, then took off my shoes. I stuffed my socks into them and tossed them up onto the lawn. I rolled up my pants and stepped out into the frigid water.

  I helped Spot into the water with minimal noise, never letting go of his collar. With my other hand, I dragged the shell up onto the beach, then walked Spot onto the lawn and had him lie down next to my shoes.

  He stayed still while I put my socks and shoes on.

  After watching the lawn and house and yacht for any movement, I took Spot and walked up the fence line, hoping that there were no motion lights or trip lasers. The tree shadows gave me good cover from the lights at the house.

  Spot and I crossed an open area of lawn and stopped when we were next to the house corner. The house was lit by a perimeter of ground floods that showed the world just how grand the house was. Spot and I were in one of the not-quite-so-bright areas between the floods, and probably couldn’t be seen from more than fifteen or twenty miles. The music was loud and appeared to come from the ground. It took a puzzling moment and some bending and squatting to figure out that the tunes came from faux boulders that contained hidden speakers. Down the east side of the house were more boulders. At the far southwest corner, another large boulder. Although Ellington’s band had taken a recess, a big symphony orchestra began Gershwin’s Rhapsody In Blue, and I was standing, courtesy of Preston’s faux-boulder speaker system, center stage. Preston’s taste in music was the classiest thing about him.

  The house was set into a gentle slope. The lowest level was a walkout basement tucked under the center of the main structure. The house was built like his gatehouse, timberframe and stone. Even the windows looked strong and imposing. The doors would be difficult to jimmy. A forced entry would bring the beefcake up from the yacht, or bring his twin down from the gatehouse, or bring more employees from within the mansion itself.

  However I got in, it would have to be silent.

  But first I could try the patio door. Preston and/or his minions might think there was little harm in leaving the backdoors unlocked. Especially when the gatehouse is manned, the shore is patrolled, and the property is well-fenced.

  The only problem was getting across the brightly-lit patio.

  I turned Spot toward our destination, and we ran out into the lights. The doorknob of the walkout basement wasn’t a knob, but one of those big brass handles with a thumb lever. I pressed the lever down as softly as possible, but still it made a loud snap as it clicked open.

  The door swung inward with a swish as the weather stripping separated from its home position. Spot and I walked in, grateful to the gods of breaking and entering.

  I was in an indoor grotto, with rock walls and rock floor, and a strong odor of chlorine. Hidden in the masonry were blue and green and red uplights that shined at the ceiling. The pool curved away from me in several directions, arcing into other caverns. The water glowed turquoise, lit by more unseen lights. It reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Hugh Hefner’s grotto, although I imagined that Preston, with his software billions, had probably ordered up a larger, fancier version.

  The pool water had a gentle swell rocking its surface. Someone had used it recently, or someone was currently lounging in one of the hidden bays. There was standing water here and there, but no clear sense of tracks leading anywhere.

  Spot’s nose was flexing, though I couldn’t tell if from chlorine or the scents of men with guns and radios. I considered getting into the pool and exploring the watery part of Preston’s world, but Spot turned his head away from the pool and looked toward a large arched opening. I went that way.

  We stopped at the opening. I peered around the corner. It was another stone room with three regular doors and one large glass door in a curved glass wall that wrapped around a large circular staircase, which in turn wrapped around a Dale Chihuly-style glass chandelier. The chandelier hung down from the floors above. It emanated
thousands of blue and amber lights.

  I opened the regular doors. Two changing rooms, and one sauna. I walked through the glass door into air much cooler and drier than in the tropical grotto, and headed up the staircase.

  One full revolution around the chandelier brought me to a large grand entrance hall. To one side was the grand entrance. To the other sides were grand openings leading, probably, to grand rooms. If I wanted more choices, the staircase no doubt provided grand options on the upper floors.

  Although the music seemed to emanate from everywhere at once, there were no faux boulders. The most likely sources looked to be a series of abstract expressionist paintings that may have been serious art or may have been serious speakers. With abstract expressionism, one can never be certain.

  I glanced into the huge rooms, each done in an elegant-but-rustic décor, with lots of leather and dark wood and everything big enough to fit athletes who’ve gone to seed. I didn’t pay much attention to Laurence’s size when I met him, but I was pretty sure that if he sat all the way back in most of his furniture, his legs would have to stick out straight like a little kid’s. Maybe the big furniture made him feel like a king.

  As with the grotto, all of the rooms had lights on. But there were still no people.

  I took another trip around the Chihuly glass extravaganza. The next level up was quieter and not so grand. The carpet lost its elaborate red pattern and was now a single muted green, although a very lush nap. There was a large central room around the staircase with two distinct sitting areas. Hallways stretched to the east and west.