Tahoe Hijack

by Todd Borg

  “Really? The professor never mentioned any such thing.”

  “Bear in mind that this is only a guess based on some things the writer says, a different style of handwriting for the last part of the journal, and also a different style of voice. Chinese syntax. My sense of dating for the second part of the journal comes from a statement about motorized carriages. It could be a reference to some kind of mechanized device for construction. But it could also suggest motor vehicles. If the first writer was mining during the Gold Rush, and the second was around during the early stages of the horseless carriage, then that would indicate that the second writer was at least two generations removed from the first writer. Also, while the writing styles are different, they are not as different as that of two strangers. It makes me wonder if perhaps the second writer is the grandson of the first.”

  “That would explain why two people wrote in the same journal.”

  “Yes.” Doc Lee nodded. “It could have been handed down.”

  “And the masonry idea?”

  Doc Lee set his unfinished bowl on the little side table and sipped some more beer. “A reference to laying stones. Hard to tell, though. The blurred characters in the second portion of the journal are very hard to make out. It almost looks as if the journal is a fairy tale about sky people who lived in the Sky Palace.”

  “Sky people? You think it is fiction? Storytelling?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell. Maybe. Or it could be a metaphor. Although the second writer doesn’t write in the formal educated style of the first, and the writing isn’t sophisticated, his style makes him appear quite bright.”

  “Anything else you can decipher from the journal?”

  Doc Lee frowned. “In general, nothing seems very remarkable. It seems like two diaries, like a grandson picked up where his grandfather left off. But one thing caught my eye. Here, in the first part of the journal,” he pointed at a page, “is a reference to yellow metal beneath the tent.” Doc Lee turned to the back of the journal where he had held his finger. “And back here near the end of the second part of the journal it says that the hiding place needs to last forever.” Doc Lee looked up at me. “Makes you wonder if they refer to the same thing.”

  “Like the first writer had some gold and hid it under his tent? And the second writer was looking for a better hiding place? Two people, each with gold or something else that was valuable, hiding it? The Berkeley professor never mentioned anything like this.”

  Doc Lee’s eyebrows went up and down a single time. “A common cultural characteristic of Chinese people is to be very frugal. If a Chinaman had some gold, he would not necessarily think to spend it. He might pass it on to his grandson. He might also pass on the tendency to hoard it.”

  Doc Lee pulled up his sleeve to look at his gold watch. His watchband was the same blue as his shirt.

  “I better be going,” he said.

  “Any last observations?” I asked, looking at the journal in his lap.

  Doc Lee flipped through the pages one more time. He stopped near the end, then turned back a few pages. “Something interesting where he talks about the people in the Sky Palace,” he said. “I noticed this before. It is probably nothing, though.”

  “What?”

  “The characters are all blurred. But it looks like this writer mentions an important person with a recording box. The choice of characters is awkward. But the closest meaning I can reconstruct would be as if this important observer recorded the place with the recording box. And the way the characters are made, there is emphasis on the words for the place.”

  “Like a physical place?” I said.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Could be a photographer took a picture of a significant place,” I said.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Does it say who the photographer is?”

  “No. There is only the reference to the observer being important.”

  “Maybe the simple fact of having a camera made the observer seem important,” I said.

  “Sure.” Doc Lee nodded. “The Sky Palace could make the observer seem more important as well.” He looked at his watch again, then stood up.

  Spot jumped to his feet and stared at Doc Lee’s unfinished stir-fry.

  I grabbed the bowl. “Maybe later, largeness,” I said.

  I thanked Doc Lee for his help, and he left.

  SIXTEEN

  My cellphone rang as I went out to walk with Spot.

  “Hello?” I said as I walked out my drive on a day that was as clear and bright as crystal.

  “It’s Anna. Do you have a moment?”

  “Sure.” Spot ran a circle around the Jeep, then trotted off past my cabin, down the slope toward the edge of the escarpment. Maybe he wanted to look at the view.

  “Mr. McKenna, do you believe in free will?” Anna said.

  Not what I expected. “What do you mean?”

  “Just the idea that we are free to make our own decisions. That we can decide what to do next. That we aren’t controlled by outside forces or events. Do you think we are controlled by physics? Or our biology? Or by our religions? If there is an all-knowing God, does he or she determine our actions?”

  The topic seemed completely out-of-the-blue, but Anna’s tone was so careful and sincere that she’d obviously thought about it a great deal. I realized that this was one of those times when I should think before I spoke. That I shouldn’t be glib. Which, of course, made me nearly incapable of speaking.

  “Well, I suppose that we want to think we are free to make decisions, right?” I said. I didn’t know where she was going with this, and I found it a little bizarre that someone I hardly knew would call with such a question.

  “Yes,” Anna said. “But are we really free? Do we make decisions because we want to? Or do we make them because we have to?”

  “We’re kind of over my head on this, Anna. I’d guess that we make some decisions freely and others out of necessity. I need money, so I have to go to work. Like that. So maybe that isn’t free will, huh?”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  “But I’m fully aware that I don’t really have to go to work. Maybe I’d lose my job if I didn’t, but if I wanted, I could say, ‘to hell with it.’ I could kiss my job goodbye. So I still have a little free will.”

  She was silent a moment. I worried that I’d said the wrong thing.

  “Why do you ask, Anna?” I finally said.

  “I have a friend who says that we don’t have free will.” It sounded like she was talking about herself. “She says that I’m a classic example.”

  “Because you have made decisions out of necessity rather than desire?” I said.

  “Exactly. My friend has been reading this philosopher named Schopenhauer. He was from Germany way back around the beginning of our country. And he said that we all believe that we’re free and that at any moment we think we can change the course of our life, but that in reality we always have to do what we must rather than what we want. That we are controlled by necessity.”

  “Anna, what is this about? Why do you ask this?”

  “Because if the decisions I’ve made weren’t about finding some freedom from the man who attacked me and were instead determined by necessity, by my need for safety, then that means that I’ve lost three years of my life.”

  “You’ve been productive in those three years, right?” I said.

  “That’s what I wanted to think. But maybe none of it matters. Maybe I’ve simply gone down a road by necessity. That’s worse than being attacked in your bedroom.” Her voice was on a rising arc. “That’s worse than losing your freedom. That’s like dying!”

  “Anna, I don’t think that’s true. Yes, you did some things out of necessity. But you still are in control of your life.”

  “No, I’m not! My attacker’s in control! He’s taken over my life. It’s just like Schopenhauer said. I might as well have let him kill me three years ago!”

  “Schopenhauer d
idn’t say that, did he?”

  “He may as well have. I’ve lost my life. I have no free will. From the moment the stalker left the message on my answering machine, I’ve been under his control. I’ve lost everything!”

  Her words had descended into darkness, into despair. Like she’d given up on life in the space of a minute.

  “Anna, don’t think like that.” My voice came off stronger than I expected. “Your attacker is probably dead. So there is likely no necessity of living in fear of him. But we can’t be sure of it. Caution suggests that you stay where you are and keep a low profile. But that doesn’t mean that you’ve lost your life. You’re just being sensible.”

  “The only way I can get my life back is to tell the attacker to go to hell. To live my life the way I want to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To come back to the world. To come in from the cold.”

  “Not yet, Anna. Soon. But not yet. It is critical to remain cautious.”

  “You just said that you think my stalker is dead.”

  “Yes,” I said, hesitating. “But thinking it is a world away from knowing it. Until we have solid evidence, it isn’t worth taking the risk. The potential gain in freedom of movement is nothing against the potential loss if your stalker is out there.”

  “You’re saying I have no free will. What Schopenhauer said. I can only act by necessity.”

  “No, Anna. What I’m saying is…”

  She hung up.

  SEVENTEEN

  I was thinking about what Doc Lee said about the journal mentioning an important person with a recording box.

  I didn’t know any photography experts, so I called the Nevada Art Museum in Reno.

  “This is Detective Owen McKenna calling on a research project that may help us solve a murder case.”

  “Oh, my,” the soft-voiced, professional-sounding receptionist said. “I’m afraid you’ve reached a wrong number. This is the Nevada Art Museum.”

  “My inquiry is about art. Photography, specifically. Can you please refer me to an expert in early twentieth century photography?”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I’m not sure exactly who would be best for that. I could transfer you to Sondra Moliere’s voicemail. She teaches Photographic Portraiture at our E.L. Cord Museum School. Would that be okay?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I left my number.

  My phone rang 20 minutes later.

  “Sondra Moliere returning your call.” Another soft voice. Equally professional. Maybe it was a requirement to work in the museum world.

  “Thanks, Sondra. I’m working on a case and an interesting question came up that may relate to your field. We have an old journal in which a Chinese/American laborer refers to an important person with a recording box at the construction site of something called the Sky Palace. I called you because I suspect that this refers to a photographer. The time would be during the early part of the twentieth century.”

  “That’s an interesting notion, but I’m not sure I understand how I can help.”

  “Me neither,” I said. “Does anything ring a bell? Was there an important photographer who would call his camera a recording box? Or did any of the early twentieth century photographers specialize in construction sites? Did any focus on something called the Sky Palace?”

  “I’m sorry, but I would have to answer no to all of those questions. No photographer comes to mind.”

  “How would you suggest I research this? Is there some kind of comprehensive database of photographers where I could search by subject?”

  “You mean, search for something like construction sites?” she said.

  “Right. Or construction workers. Or the Sky Palace.”

  “No,” she said. “Certainly, it is easy to find the common subject areas. Landscapes and portraits and such. But I can’t think of a straightforward way to find construction photos.”

  “Any idea of whom I should call? Other museums? Galleries that sell photography?”

  “Good question,” she said. “Tell you what, you’ve piqued my curiosity. Let me check with some of my colleagues and see if they have any ideas. If I connect with someone useful, can I have them contact you directly?”

  “Please. Let me give you my phone and email address, too, in case I’m not able to answer my phone.” I read it off to her.

  “I’m hoping to finish up a project today,” she said. “If I hurry, I’ll have some time before I go home. I’ll try to get back to you later this afternoon. Would that be okay?”

  “That would be wonderful. Thanks.”

  Sondra Moliere called back as I was preparing dinner.

  “I haven’t had much luck,” she said. “What I did was call several people I know in the business. Dealers, curators, professors. Robert Calibre at the Crocker Museum was particularly helpful. He has quite an email list, and he said he would send out a bulk note with your contact info. I hope that was okay.”

  “Yes, of course. Thanks very much for your efforts.”

  “Good luck with your investigation,” she said.

  We hung up.

  EIGHTEEN

  Late that night, Anna called me again.

  Street had long since called and told me goodnight-I-love-you in that bed-ready voice that makes me pine for a life where we crawled into the sack together every night. I had put a split log on a bed of embers that may or may not have had enough energy to begin life anew, poured a finger or two of Chateau Routon port wine, and sat in the rocker in front of the woodstove.

  Spot got up from his comfy bed to consider what stores of affection I might have in reserve. He perched his chin up on my shoulder. I gave him a thorough head massage, starting with the big neck muscles and ending with the fingertip routine up the bridge of his nose and around the perimeter of his eyes and over to his ears.

  He’d shifted into that half-sleep state where his breathing gets heavy and his eyes are shut, all while he’s still standing, albeit with his front legs folding. Just as his rear legs were losing their steadiness and he was in danger of falling over, the phone chirped and Spot woke up.

  As I reached the portable off the little table, Spot lay down on the braided rug.

  The phone readout said the calling number was private.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. McKenna? Is this too late to call?”

  “No, Anna. Feel free to call anytime. And please call me Owen.”

  “Owen. If you learn anything more about my attacker will you call me instead of emailing?”

  “Yes, if you give me your number.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I guess there’s no harm. Even if someone were to somehow get my cell number out of your phone, it’s unlisted. So they couldn’t find out where I live. And the cellphone company only has my P.O. box anyway.”

  She read the number off to me, and I wrote it down on a scrap of paper, putting a dash between every two numerals. If anyone found the scrap, it would be meaningless.

  “I’m sorry if I’m bothering you by calling now. You’re probably relaxing.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  “First, I wanted to thank you. You are trying to help me, and I’ve been incredibly ungrateful. I apologize for that.”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “It’s just that having something finally happen where I might get my life back, I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m worried and scared and excited all at once.”

  “That’s a normal reaction.”

  “Do you think it will happen? Will I be able to go back to normal?”

  “Yes. Just be patient. We’re not there, yet.”

  “Okay.” Anna’s voice was quiet. Resignation mixed with weariness.

  “Earlier today you mentioned your dreams about your future,” I said. “Plans you put on hold. What are they?”

  “I think I mentioned that in my past life, I was a teacher. I taught science to fifth and sixth graders. Kids at that perfect age when they are so engaged, but
they haven’t yet become jaded. I loved being a teacher. But I chafed under the administration and their never-ending rules. And I always wanted to run my own show, so I began building my web design business, working on it weekends and every evening. I use some standard web design software but I also studied programming. And I’ve written some apps, one of which is selling a hundred downloads a day.

  “Not far from the neighborhood where Tara and I lived were two girls who were students of mine. Maya and Lola. They lived in a run-down apartment building. The mother of one girl worked part time as a house cleaner. The mother of the other had a drinking problem and couldn’t hold down a job. They subsisted on a little bit of help from some state and federal programs. Of course, there was no dad in either household.

  “So Tara and I periodically invited Maya and Lola to our house to try to give them different inputs from what they were used to. The girls saw my computer work and expressed interest. They weren’t interested in the computer, but they loved my colorful website designs. So I asked them if they would each like their own website. Not just a Facebook page, but the whole works with a professional email address.”

  “You mean like if my email was Owen at OwenMcKenna.com?”

  “Yeah. You’d probably like it, too, huh?”

  “I don’t know if I’m that fancy,” I said.

  “Well these girls loved the idea. So I used that enticement as a way to teach them how it all works. We got them each a domain name, and we began to build each of them a website with photos and a page where they could post their blogs and so on. They gradually learned how to use web design software. They ended up creating great sites.

  “Of course, as the girls grew older and started focusing on those things that teenagers occupy themselves with, they weren’t quite so interested in the computer. But I stayed in contact. I convinced them that any girl with their technology skills had a huge advantage in pursuing college and careers. They were reluctant to stop texting their friends for even a moment. But I kept hounding them to stay up on the changes in software. We even had a schedule. Two hours after school every Tuesday and Thursday.