Tahoe Hijack

by Todd Borg

  Watson stopped, gazed into space. “But I still can’t figure out how he got my DNA to put under Grace’s fingernails.”

  I pointed at his leg.

  “What?”

  “Your leg. The wound on your shin.”

  Watson looked truly shocked.

  “My God! When I tripped and hit the curb!” His hand went unconsciously down his leg, his fingertips feeling the shin divot through his pants. “I remember that I was wearing shorts that day. Nick must have been following! He saw me fall, and after I shook myself off and hobbled away, he collected whatever flesh I left on the curb! Christ, that was brilliant.”

  “Can you think of anyone else who might be a danger to Grace’s daughter?” I didn’t want to tell him that she’d been kidnapped.

  “You mean, someone who would pursue her because Grace might have given her valuable information?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, other than Davy, no, I can’t think of anyone else. Even if I got out of prison, I wouldn’t be a physical danger to her. I’m not the type. And with Nick at the bottom of the lake, that leaves Davy alone. Unless he or Nick told someone else about the possible gold, but I can’t see it. We all wanted it for ourselves.”

  I thought about it, decided there was nothing more to learn from Watson, and called to be let out.

  “Hey, what about the DA?” Watson said as I was leaving. “Are you going to call her? Put in a good word?”

  Watson had been very forthcoming. But his desire to steal Grace’s treasure – if there was a treasure – disgusted me.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, and left.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  It was still light when Spot and I got home. I remembered the recent dark morning when we’d walked out on the trail that winds around the mountain north of my cabin. I took Spot back out on the trail to the overlook where he’d sniffed with such interest. When we got there, it was just like before. Spot was very interested in the Jeffrey pine and the surrounding area.

  After looking around and seeing nothing, I decided to make a more thorough grid search of the area. I drew an imaginary rectangle that included the tree and the area ten feet to either side, as well as the area about six feet both upslope and downslope from the tree. Starting at one corner, I slowly walked one edge, studying the ground. At the far side of my rectangle, I about-faced and walked back, this time studying the ground a foot in from the imaginary edge. When I’d returned to the original side, I moved another foot in and went back across the rectangle. I had no idea of what, or if, I might find anything. But a grid search is the most effective way of forcing oneself to look at the entire area, even those patches that have nothing to attract the eye.

  The tree grew at a transition point on the slope. To the sides of the tree where the trail went along, the ground was level. Above the tree was a gentle slope that was thick with duff and brush. Below the tree, the ground dropped off at a steep angle. A person watching my cabin from this distance would likely pace back and forth a bit to stretch his legs. But he would be reluctant to step below the tree because he would probably slip and slide on the steep dirt. If you weren’t careful, you might not stop until you came to a stand of small Lodgepole pine 30 feet down.

  I searched all of the area above the tree as well as to the sides of the tree, finding nothing. I didn’t want to step below the tree, fall on my rear and slide down the mountain. So I moved down the trail to a point where the descent was less steep. I carefully stepped off the trail and, holding onto a small tree, eased myself down about ten feet to an area that was a little less steep and also had a few more handholds, a couple of young trees, some brush, and an exposed root of the large Jeffrey pine. Moving laterally, I studied the slope that was just below the trail and now roughly straight out from my head. On my second pass below the tree, I saw a bit of something that was light-colored. I picked it up.

  It was a torn corner of thin paper like newsprint. It was shaped like a right triangle with the tear as its hypotenuse and clean-cut edges for the sides as if from the bottom corner of a catalog. One side was blank. The other side had some printing that began in the middle of a word that had been torn in half. The printing ended with a period. It said ‘’tional foot soldier.’

  I put it in my pocket.

  When Spot and I got back to my cabin, I called Professor Stein and described it.

  “I wonder if this suggests anything to you,” I said.

  “Of course,” he said. “The phrase is ‘Constitutional Foot Soldier.’ This is the standard verbiage that militia groups use to justify their radical actions. It’s especially helpful in recruiting. You’re not joining a wacko group that stockpiles illegal explosives and automatic weapons and spews white-supremacist diatribes. You’re going to become a constitutional foot soldier and defend our nation’s Second Amendment rights against the Socialist government’s efforts to eliminate them. You’re becoming an essential ally of the founding fathers, and without you, the greatest democracy on earth is doomed to a dystopian nightmare of thought control and the cultural hegemony of abortionists, atheists, people with brown skin, Jewish intellectuals and financial barons.”

  “Can you think of any other non-militia group or company that would put together a publication using these words in a different format and different meaning?”

  “Why are you being so tedious? You call with a question. I take time out of my evening to give you the answer. There is little room for equivocation on this. You found words that either came from a newspaper article describing a radical right-wing militia or its equivalent, or it came from something published by a radical right-wing militia or its equivalent. Nobody of any significance today talks about constitutional foot soldiers in any other context. Now I believe it’s time for me to go back to my wine and my book.”

  “Thank you, sir, for your time.”

  He grunted at me and hung up.

  It wasn’t a rock-solid connection to the Patriots, but it was very suggestive. Everywhere I turned, I kept coming across more indications that they were involved. Nick O’Connell and Thomas Watson and Davy Halstead were the only people I’d found who had knowledge of Anna and could presume that she had learned something valuable from her biological mother. All three men were involved in the Red Blood Patriots. The constitutional foot soldier printing came from a place on the mountain where someone was likely watching my cabin. Spot alerted on a strong smell where I found the scrap of paper, and he’d recently trained a similar olfactory focus on my office and on the outside of my cabin door. And before Anna disappeared, she called to say that she saw Davy Halstead on her street.

  Now all three men were either dead or in custody.

  I made several phone calls. To Agent Ramos, Sergeants Bains, Santiago and Diamond.

  I asked them all the same questions. Had they learned anything about Anna Quinn’s kidnapping? Did they know anything more about Nick the Knife O’Connell or Thomas Watson or Davy Halstead?

  They all suggested ideas and put forth hypotheses. But none of them had experienced any epiphanies. When we were done talking, nothing had changed.

  My previous thoughts still suggested that another Red Blood Patriot had overheard Nick and Thomas and Davy talking. Once Nick and Thomas were out of the way, this man realized that if he removed Davy Halstead, he alone would know about the supposed treasure, which, even if it did exisit, probably didn’t amount to much. But a man eavesdropping on other men who spoke of gold might well imagine something much grander than common sense would suggest.

  I visualized this other, unknown Red Blood Patriot following Davy Halstead and getting the bonus knowledge that Halstead had found Anna. Or maybe Halstead recruited him, and together they kidnapped Anna. Then the new recruit found an opportunity to put a stake through Halstead’s chest and take over by himself.

  All of which produced the question: Where was Anna? Was she dead, her body dumped in the forest? Or did someone question her and decide that she was hiding valu
able information? If so, they would want to keep her someplace where they could wear her down. Starve her, deprive her of sleep, maybe torture her in an effort to learn what she knew.

  Assuming that someone was able to eavesdrop on the information about the journal and treasure, it made sense that the same person would be capable of learning other secrets.

  Like the existence of the secret meth lab buried in the hill behind the pole building at the Patriots’ compound.

  It was time to visit the Red Blood Patriots, at night, unannounced, on my terms.

  I called Diamond a second time.

  “Do you have, or do you know somebody who has a bolt cutter?”

  “No, but I’ve seen them at the Home Depot.”

  “I need one tonight.”

  “Let me call Ron. We call him Ronald McHardware. Guy’s got more crap in his garage than a hardware distribution center. I could borrow one from him.”

  “The hardware stores are all closed up here. If Ron doesn’t have one, could you buy one and run it up the mountain to me?”

  “Hey, tell you what,” Diamond said, irritation in his voice. “Why don’t I drop everything including this Tecate and become your private courier service.”

  “Please. It might save a life. I’ll owe you, as will the person who lives. If she lives.”

  “And you’re not volunteering Anna’s name because…”

  “Because then you might feel a duty to let the appropriate county’s sheriff know about my activity so they could help save her life.”

  “You’re playing hero, going in alone,” he said, derision in his voice.

  “No. I’m being practical. One guy can probably get in without calling attention to himself. It would be a lot more difficult with two or more guys.”

  “No point in disagreeing with you anyway,” Diamond said. “I know how you are.”

  There was a pause.

  “Be there as soon as I can,” Diamond said.

  As soon as I hung up, there was a tap at the door.

  I envisioned militia fundamentalists with AKs on full auto. But Spot was staring at the door, wagging his tail. You can’t find more trust in church.

  I pulled the door open.

  Street came in, hugged me, then pushed back a little and put her hands on my chest. She reached up and traced the edges of my shirt collar. Spot burrowed his nose between us.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Why do you ask?” I said.

  “I can tell. You’re distracted. Worried.”

  “I have an idea of where Anna might be.”

  Street’s face clouded. “No, don’t. Please.” She shook her head.

  “You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

  “Yes, I do. You’re going to go after her. And you’re going alone. I’ve seen and felt this too many times before. I can read the danger on your face.”

  The worry on her brow was intense.

  “You should have help,” she said. “And backup. But you won’t because you think it will compromise your mission. Owen, this terrifies me.” She turned her head against my chest and hugged me, her fear telegraphing from her body to mine. Spot pushed forward so that he completely separated us at Street’s waist and my hips. We had to bend forward to still hug.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Yes, reinforcements would absolutely compromise my mission. And I know it’s frightening. But please think of how terrified Anna must be. If she’s still alive.”

  Street turned and looked up at me, her eyes distorted with heavy tears. “Of course, I know how terrified she must be! This isn’t a simple thing, Owen. It’s not like an equation where I can balance her fear against mine and say, sure, hon, go for it.”

  She put her head back against me.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  I held her head, my fingertips touching her face. I lowered my chin until my nose touched her hair. I inhaled her scent.

  “You won’t tell me where you’re going, will you?”

  “It’s best if you don’t know,” I said. “Less risk to you.”

  “And you won’t tell Diamond, either.”

  “Diamond always looks after me. His instincts make it hard for him to hold back,” I said.

  “When will you be back? When will I hear from you?”

  “Sometime between early tomorrow morning and tomorrow night.”

  “Why such a long time frame? Don’t you know where you’re going?”

  “I know where I’m going. But I may have to wait for some people to leave.”

  “To make it safer for you to make your move,” she said, sniffling.

  “Yeah.”

  Street shut her eyes. I saw her jaw muscles bulge. “What if you don’t come back by late morning? What do I do?”

  “Chances are good that I will.”

  She opened her eyes, looked up at me, her eyes moving left and right, searching mine. “But what if something goes wrong?” Her voice was tight, high, worried.

  “Okay. If you don’t hear from me by six p.m. tomorrow, call Diamond. Tell him to contact Professor Frank Stein at UNR. Together, they will figure out where I went.”

  “Will you bring Spot?” she asked. He lifted his head and looked up at her.

  “Yeah. But I won’t put him in any danger that I know of.”

  “Not that you know of,” she repeated. “He can still get killed. You can still get killed.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Am I right? This is going to be very dangerous, isn’t it? It’s not like Anna’s tied up in some lonely place without anyone around. Is that the case? Tell me the truth.”

  “It is, Street. She may be alone in a small place, but that place is likely to be watched by at least one man.”

  “And he’ll be armed,” she said.

  “I’m not going to lie to you. Yes, it will be dangerous.” We were both breathing hard. “I’ll take every precaution.”

  Street was crying harder.

  “And what good will that be when I get a phone call from Diamond or some other cop telling me what happened to you?”

  “Maybe no good at all,” I said. I squeezed her hard.

  Street held me for a long minute. Then she pushed away, blinked tears out of her eyes, and dabbed them away with her fingers. She looked up at me, her eyes red. She took several deep breaths, stabilizing herself.

  “Okay,” she said in a voice so soft I could barely hear her. “I love you.” She kissed her fingertip, pressed it against my lips, and turned to walk out.

  “I love you, too,” I called after her.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  I dug through my clothes and put on my black jeans, a black turtleneck, dark brown running shoes, a black knit cap. In the back of the closet hung an old dark navy windbreaker that I rarely wore but keep for such night operations. In my sundries drawer I found my black belt pack. On top of the fridge was a little box of sandwich bags. I opened the woodstove, found a crumbling chunk of burnt wood that had turned to black charcoal and put it in the bag. The charcoal went into the belt pack along with my medium flashlight and my Leatherman folding multi-tool. My smaller jackknife and penlight went into my pocket.

  Last was fuel. We might be out in the elements for a long time, so I made a large meal for both Spot and myself.

  Just as we were done, Diamond showed up and handed me one of the largest bolt cutters I’d ever seen.

  “Thanks much,” I said.

  “Got you some line, too,” he said, pointing to a coil of high-test nylon cord that he’d rubber-banded to the bolt cutter handle.

  “For?”

  “You cut your way through a pad-locked door, you might need to tie it open so it doesn’t bang.” He looked at me with narrow eyes, like he still thought I was being stupid. “Or a fence. Especially good for tying back barbed wire.”

  He handed me a plastic bag. “Some other stuff in there that might come in handy.”

  I took the bag
and hefted it. “Like what?”

  “Duct tape. A nested screwdriver set. Folding hacksaw. Energy bars. The LED headlamp is particularly useful.”

  I clamped my hands on his shoulders. “What can I say?”

  “Nothing,” Diamond said. “Just keep your head down. Like to have you back in one piece.” He gave Spot a pet and left.

  Five minutes later, Spot and I were heading down my twisty drive to Highway 50. I went around the south end of the lake, up and over Echo Summit and headed down the American River canyon.

  My cellphone rang as the highway climbs from the cellphone shadow at the bottom of the American River canyon back up to the town of Pollock Pines on the ridge at 4000 feet.

  “Hello?” I was in a hurry and didn’t want to pull over, so I hoped the illegal conversation would be short.

  “Mr. McKenna?”

  “Owen, yes.”

  “My name is Tania Kadlec. I’m an assistant curator of photography at the Oakland Museum. I got an email from Robert Calibre at the Crocker Museum. He said you were wondering about whether any early twentieth century photographers took pictures of Chinese laborers. And in particular, there was a reference to something called the Sky Palace?”

  Tania sounded Czech, and her beautiful voice was imbued with insecurity.

  “Thank you so much for calling,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I can be helpful. Robert mentioned something about a murder case, and, well, I’m just calling about an obscure photo.”

  “I’d love to hear about an obscure photo. Tell me about it,” I said.

  “Okay. We have a patron who’s quite wealthy and has donated many pieces to our museum over the years. Now he’s getting on in years, and he’s having us do an inventory of his art in preparation for possibly donating his entire collection to us. It’s an incredible opportunity for us, and I’ve been appointed to oversee the photography and…” she stopped. “That sounds really, how do you say, crass, doesn’t it?” she continued. “Like we’re just cashing in on some rich patron…”