Tahoe Payback (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 15)

by Todd Borg

  It seemed likely he hadn’t followed Street, or, if he had, he’d given up.

  “Let’s go, boy,” I whispered.

  We ran back up the road. I kept my hand in Spot’s collar.

  As we approached my cabin, we slowed. Street would be near. If she was hiding, tucked into the trees or under my deck, Blondie would alert her to our presence.

  “Street,” I whispered toward the cabin, from which the only lights were the ones I’d left on as we left. “Street, where are you?”

  There was a motion in the trees to the side of my cabin. Blondie trotted out and ran to Spot, tail wagging. Street ran out of the darkness, hesitating, glancing left and right as if to gauge the dangers. I bent down and hugged her, and she gripped me as if hanging onto a life raft. Spot pushed up next to us, sniffing Street hard.

  “Are you okay?” I said. Her head was tucked under my chin, and I felt her nod.

  The scents of physical effort rose from Street’s hair just beneath my nose. Another scent was mixed in, slightly pungent and bitter, the scent of fear.

  SIXTY-THREE

  “ Where was this when it happened?”

  “Near my condo parking lot.”

  “And you think he chased you?”

  “I know he did. He was behind me, shouting that he was going to kill me. That I was going to pay with my life.”

  “How far do you think you went while he was shouting?”

  “A long way. A quarter mile. Then he stopped shouting. Probably because he was breathless. But I still heard him panting and grunting behind me. It was like you said. I think he couldn’t accept the fact that he couldn’t catch a girl. So he ran himself down trying.”

  “Then he could still be near, walking back to his vehicle, trying to catch his breath. We might be able to catch him.”

  Street looked horrified. She looked down. She stood stiff with fear and shock. Her hands were balled into tight fists as if she was trying to contain rage and fear.

  “Hurry!” I said. I put my arm around her shoulder and pushed her forward through the dark.

  We ran to the Jeep. I got both Spot and Blondie in the back seat as Street got in the front. I started it and raced down the road. “Tell me where you think he might have come to before he gave up.”

  Street stared out at the dark road and the narrow swath that the headlights illuminated. “I don’t know. I think it was maybe half way up. But then he would have turned and run back, right?” Her words were shakier than ever. Getting closer to the monster was scarier. She looked back and forth toward the dark forest. “He could be anywhere. We’ll never see him.”

  “Dogs can see with their noses.”

  I assumed that Tom Casey had run or walked a good distance back toward his vehicle, which he would have probably left near Street’s condo, maybe pulled off into the woods. So I drove a fair distance past the point where Street thought he’d run to, then stopped.

  I let the dogs out.

  “Spot!” I said in a loud whisper. “Spot, I need you to do another search.” I gave him a shake. “Spot, find the suspect! Find him.” I dropped my open hand in a point next to his head and smacked his rear. He took off down the road. Blondie followed.

  “How will he know what scent to look for?” Street asked, her voice terrified and shaky.

  “He might not. But there is only one human in the woods besides you and me. I think he’ll figure it out.”

  “You think Blondie will understand?” Street asked. Her worry and fear made her voice waver.

  “Dogs learn very well from other dogs.” I gestured at the dogs, streaking away down the road, moving out of the range of the headlights.

  “But she won’t bite my father. I already learned that.”

  “No. Spot will be better at that. Even if she doesn’t fully get it yet, the presence of a second dog will help unnerve your father. Let’s follow in the Jeep.”

  We got back in, and I drove after the dogs, rolling down my window so I could hear.

  About a hundred yards down, I heard an engine start up.

  I hit the gas and sped up. Headlights came on up ahead where the road curved.

  “He’s going to get away!” Street said.

  “I know a shortcut trail through the woods. But it’s going to be rough. Hold on.”

  I swerved off the road and plunged between trees where there was an old, rutted trail. I braked, shoved the shifter into four-wheel-drive, stomped on the accelerator.

  In the dim glow of dashboard lights, I sensed that Street reached out for support, her hands still in fists, jammed against the dashboard and door handle. The Jeep shook violently as we bounced over tree roots and rocks. At one point the Jeep hit a tree with the right front fender. We ricocheted away and kept going.

  Through the trees, I saw the other headlights. We were gaining, but just barely. Tom Casey’s vehicle was ahead of us. In the red taillight glow, I sensed moving shadows.

  The dogs chasing him.

  I gave the Jeep another burst of speed. “Okay, hang on,” I said to Street. “The trail curves back to the road right up here. I’m going to turn hard.”

  A moment later, I sensed the turn. I cranked the wheel and we skidded around the curve. Another burst of speed brought us even with Casey as the trail approached the road. I held my course, playing chicken. He gave up first and turned off the road just as we got onto the asphalt.

  Maybe he thought he could drive through the trees the same as we did. But there was no trail there.

  His car hit a dip, then bounced up over a sharp little rise. It came down hard onto a rock with a loud crunching sound. I slowed as I heard his engine roaring and one of his wheels spinning. He was high-centered on the rock, and he wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  “Stay in the Jeep,” I said to Street.

  I got out and ran toward the forest where he’d gotten stuck. Spot ran up to me.

  Tom Casey, fully in the mindset of a fleeing fugitive, got out of his car and ran into the forest.

  It was a mistake.

  “Spot! Find the suspect! Take him down!” I gave Spot the signal. He ran into the darkness.

  A moment later, I heard a grunt, the thud of a body hitting the ground, and a muffled scream.

  I pulled out my light, walked through the trees, and saw Spot standing there, paws spread wide for stability. His head was reaching down to the ground.

  Tom Casey was face down in the dirt, his head turned slightly to the side. Spot’s jaws fully encased the man’s neck from behind. Casey, as if traumatized by the classic attack mode of a mountain lion, lay frozen. He didn’t know that Spot wouldn’t kill him by crushing his neck. But he realized it would be easy for a dog of that size to put him down permanently with just one bite, and Casey wasn’t taking any chances.

  Nearby, Blondie watched us, making no noise or movement. Behind Blondie came movement. Street’s dark form approached, stopped, stared at Tom Casey lying at my feet.

  I leaned over so my mouth was next to Spot’s ear. I made a little growling sound and tapped on Spot’s throat, the signal.

  Spot growled deep and loud.

  “Good boy, Spot. Keep holding him.” I tapped his throat again.

  Spot upped his growl louder. In addition to the vibration from the growl, Spot’s jaws did little spasmodic jerks. I could see Casey go rigid with terror. But it was still nothing compared to what he did to Street.

  Then, for Casey’s benefit, I said to Spot, “If this scumbag even twitches, bite his head off.”

  I put a knee in the middle of Casey’s back and put weight on it. There was a loud squeak and snapping sound from his vertebra. The man screamed. I jerked his arms back and cuffed him by putting two zip ties around his wrists, pulling them both very tight. Then I did the same with his ankles.

  “Okay, Spot, you can let go.”

  I turned Casey onto his side, then pulled his ankles back and out, arching the man’s back, and zip-tied his ankles to his wrists.

  I pat
ted Casey down. He had no weapon. Before I stood up, I leaned forward in the dark and whispered, my voice airy and very mean.

  “You picked the wrong woman to attack. I’m very close to deciding that when I caught you, your head got accidentally caved in on a rock. Remember that, Tom Casey. If you even look at her, I’ll make that decision.”

  I gave Spot a pat. “Watch him, boy. If he makes the tiniest move, bite his face off.”

  I left them, went to Street and Blondie, and we walked back to the Jeep. Street opened her door a few tentative inches. Street was obviously very wary. She and Blondie got in.

  I rubbed her leg. “The suspect is captured and subdued.”

  I pulled out my phone and dialed 911.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  A fter Diamond and his men came and took the suspect away, I took Street and the dogs up to my cabin. Diamond said he’d come up the mountain when he finished processing the crime scene.

  When we were inside, I locked the door, turned the cabin lights down low, and made certain the blinds were closed tight. As always at 7200 feet in June, it was cold at night. So I built a fire in the wood stove. Street sat in the big leather chair, her knees up at her chest, arms around her knees, fists still balled with tension. She shivered violently. I found a blanket and draped it over her.

  Spot lay down next to her chair. Blondie took her other side. I knew that was the best reassurance of all. Dogs in a protective position around the cave fire. People have always treasured dogs for uncountable reasons. But knowing that dogs have no fear and that no predator can get to us without having to fight the dogs is near the top of the list.

  I wanted to give Street a neck and shoulder rub. But I was afraid that having me step behind her chair and touch her neck might give her flashback fear. It was better to wait. So I sat down in the rocker, available but not pressing. I reached out and rubbed her knee.

  After long minutes, she said, “He attacked me just as I got out of my car.” Her words were rushed and filled with tears, and her teeth chattered. “It was exactly what you had worried about. Blondie hadn’t even followed me out of the car yet.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, and squeezed her knee. I had a hundred questions, but I knew she’d tell me when she was ready.

  “He grabbed me from behind. So I did like we practiced. I tried to stomp down on his foot. I hit something. Maybe it was his foot, but it didn’t seem to do anything. I went limp to give him that false sense of security, then twisted suddenly. I elbowed him in the gut. But he clamped his arm around my neck and began choking me. I could tell that he wanted to kill me.”

  She paused.

  I waited.

  “So I went for his eyeballs like we practiced. I reached both hands up behind my head, feeling with my fingers. I was totally determined to take out an eye. Both of them if I could.”

  Another pause, longer this time.

  “But he put his face against the back of my head. As I searched with my fingers, he turned his head to keep me from getting to his face. I couldn’t feel an eyeball. Not even for a moment. Meanwhile, I was blacking out. His arm was bent so that it shut off the blood flow in my neck. I was desperate. I thought maybe I could get a finger into his nose and push back into his sinuses. Anything. I was blacking out when I finally found a target.”

  “His eyes?”

  “No. His ear.”

  “You jammed your finger into his ear?”

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t stick my finger into his ear. I tore the ear off. At least, I tore part of it off.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  S treet looked down at her closed fists. She held them both up, then slowly opened her left hand. It was empty. She kept her right fist closed.

  “You tore off his ear and then started running,” I said.

  Street nodded. “When my hand landed on his ear, my fingertips were at the top of it. So I dug my nails into the skin right where the upper ear meets the head.”

  Street stared down at her right fist, still clenched, white-knuckled. It must have been seriously cramping. I imagined it was like pulling the pin on a grenade and then holding the lever closed, afraid to let go because of what would emerge, explosive and, in this case, disgusting.

  She continued, “I didn’t have time to ponder it. I just wanted to cut his skin with my nails, to cut in deep. Then I squeezed his ear, pinching it like my hand was a pliers, and I jerked down as hard as I could. There was a squeak and a mushy tearing sound, like ripping soft leather. He screamed and pushed me away. I yelled Blondie’s name and started running.”

  Blondie raised her head and looked at Street, who was breathing hard all over again.

  “After I’d run up the road maybe a hundred yards, I thought I should call you. I was about to pull the velcro tab on my phone pocket when I realized that my fist was closed on his ear. It made me gag, and I almost vomited. But then I focused on my anger, my rage at being attacked. I kept my grip on his ear. I got my phone out with my left hand and called you.”

  She stopped to breathe hard. I could see that she was still shivering, violent, full-body jerking. “When Diamond comes here, can you tell him to come alone? Or maybe leave the other cops outside? Can they not turn on sirens and red lights?” Her words, coming through clenched teeth and cold lips, were thick and hard to understand.

  “I’ll tell him,” I said, understanding that the trauma of an attack is intensified by noise. First Responders are trained to be calm. But light bars on emergency vehicles are anything but. Sirens are the worst for a victim who is not currently being assaulted. I thought that Diamond’s crew would not use them in this situation. But I walked into my kitchen nook and used my landline phone so I wouldn’t have to fight the poor quality connection of my cell. I dialed Diamond directly and spoke in a soft voice, not hiding my words from Street, just being respectfully low key.

  “One more thing,” I said to Diamond. “Street tore off part of her attacker’s ear. You’ll want to take that with you when you leave.”

  When I was done, I made a cup of hot tea in the microwave and carried it to Street, who was still staring at her clenched hand.

  She picked it up with her left hand and sipped.

  “Diamond will be here soon,” I said. I glanced at her closed fist and saw for the first time the dried blood between her fingers. “Do you want to get cleaned up?”

  Street closed her eyes hard as if to shut off her thoughts. “Maybe when Diamond comes.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The fire grew bright behind the glass of the wood stove. Little pops and cracks resonated inside the metal box. Street was still shivering, still in a kind of shock. The fire was hot now and would help with radiant heat as well as psychological warmth. I considered putting on some calming music, soft, slow classical. But quiet seemed best.

  Ten minutes later, I heard vehicle sounds. An engine arriving, then going silent. A car door. A second car door. There was a soft knock at the door. Spot jumped up, not surprised, but eager. Blondie raised her head to watch, her floppy ears perked forward.

  I opened the door and let Diamond in. Spot sniffed him and wagged as Diamond gave him a rough pet. When Blondie realized what was going on, she jumped up to get her share of attention.

  Diamond turned toward Street and just looked without speaking.

  When Diamond speaks with his perfect command of words, you can still hear the faint accent that indicates that English is his second language. But silent emotional communication, given or received, is the same in any language, and Diamond is a master at that. He nodded at Street as he walked over to the side of the leather chair. He squatted down next to her, balancing on the balls of his feet. Street was still tense, still shaking, her left hand gripping the arm of the chair. Her right fist still clutched the chunk of her father’s ear.

  Diamond put his hand on her left forearm. “You okay?”

  She nodded.

  He gently rubbed her arm. “You’re safe now.”

  She no
dded again.

  “McKenna says you are a hell of a fighter and you don’t let anyone attack you without a physical quid pro quo.”

  Street made the tiniest of smiles.

  “I could arrange a trade,” Diamond said. “Be like a prisoner exchange on the Bridge of Spies.” He pulled out his wallet as he gestured toward her right fist. “You give me your Tom Casey trophy, I give you my mother’s photo, which has been imprisoned in this wallet for twenty years.” He slipped the photo out and reached it out toward Street.

  Street’s smile became a millimeter less tiny.

  “Of course, you have to give the photo back after you’ve had her for awhile.”

  Street took the photo with her left hand and stared at it. “She’s beautiful. Look at her eyes.”

  Diamond spread a handkerchief over his other hand and held it out, palm up. “Yes, her eyes were like yours, almost black, like cave pools that go to the center of the Earth.”

  As Diamond spoke, he reached for Street’s clenched fist, set it knuckles-down onto the handkerchief, rubbing her fingers to relieve them of their stiffness. Then he opened her fingers slowly, so that her hand always covered the object it contained. During this, Diamond kept talking about his mother, kept Street focused on the photo.

  “And check out mama’s hair. It was brown like dark chocolate, thick as you can imagine. Now it is mostly white, but still just as thick and heavy.”

  It was a brilliant display of comfort and empathy and understanding. Diamond got the ear wrapped in his handkerchief without Street ever having looked at it. He pocketed the handkerchief while he segued to his mother’s baking.

  “Is she still alive?” Street asked.

  “Mi madre? Oh Dios mío, she’ll outlive me. Her apartment is on the sixth floor in Mexico City. Mexico City is over seven thousand feet. Just like Owen’s cabin. Do you know how she gets her groceries? She carries them up the stairs. Seventy-eight years old, and she never takes the elevator. She’ll be a pallbearer at my funeral.”