Tahoe Hijack

by Todd Borg

  I got an idea.

  I went back through the darkness to the utility cart. It had such a good balance that I barely touched its handle, and it rolled easily. I pushed it through the dark, over toward the pole building, where I left it behind some trees.

  After forty-five minutes, one man told the other that he had to pee. I moved behind a tree. He stumbled across the dark toward me. I studied his form, looking for the shape of a weapon. It looked like there was a holster on his right hip. The man named Gaver had spoken of the gun on his belt. Gaver stepped behind a tree and urinated into a bush.

  I had thought about what approach would work best. While he was still zipping up, I tackled him from the right rear side, my shoulder to the middle of his ribs. He made a sudden exhalation and folded as I propelled him into the trunk of a large fir. His head bounced off the wood, and he went down.

  I unsnapped his holster and tossed his gun into some distant bushes. The gun clattered through branches, making even more noise than the man had hitting the tree.

  Gaver was a good-sized guy with a large inner tube of heavy flab around his middle. I squatted, grabbed his jacket collar with one hand, his belt with the other, and picked him up.

  With Gaver in a bent position, arms flopping and feet making pretend steps, I ran him forward, straight into the utility cart. His head hit the front, fiberglass wall of the cart, and he collapsed in a heap. Another loud noise.

  “What’re you doing, Gaver?” The other watchman Manny called out.

  I picked up the cart handle and trotted Gaver along the way that I’d come, toward the far side of the cabin. Manny’s plaintive refrain receding in the distance, “Gaver? You okay? Hey, Gaver, where’d you go? You trip or something?”

  I rolled Gaver back to the compost pile and let go of the cart handle.

  He moaned and gasped. I grabbed his hair, lifted his head, knotted my knuckles and put a short right jab onto his jaw. He went still. I patted Gaver down. His overly-large Jim Bowie knife was in a sheath on his right thigh. His wallet was attached to his belt with a heavy chain. I took off his belt and threw it, the wallet and his knife into the bushes.

  I trotted back toward the pole building.

  “Gaver,” Manny said, standing ten yards away from the fire, staring into the night. “Don’t be a dumbshit. This isn’t funny. We have a job to do. This isn’t the time for jokes.”

  I stayed in the dark.

  In another minute, Manny came walking farther out into the darkness, the campfire winking behind him. He had his gun and flashlight out, holding them together like a SWAT team member. He swung them back and forth, the light beam oscillating through the night. I stayed behind a tree, watching his rhythm. When he got closer and his beam went away from me, I made a silent run over to the dark side of the pole building. I waited in the dark while Manny called Gaver.

  I planned to wait for him to give up and come back toward the campfire. But I saw him point his flashlight down to his side and lift something off his belt. I felt a jolt of adrenaline as I realized he had raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

  I sprinted toward him.

  “Sunrise, this is sunset. Come in, sunrise. We have a situation that...”

  His words were cut off as I hit him from behind.

  He exhaled a big whoomfing sound as he went down. The walkie-talkie flew through the air. I landed on top of Manny, and he made a grunt of pain. He reached out, gun in his hand.

  I grabbed his wrist and pounded it onto the ground. Again. Harder. He let go and the gun spun away. Manny writhed under me. He was tough the way a wild animal is tough. He rolled and squirmed, punched and gouged, got my forearm in his teeth and bit down.

  The pain was like fire just below my elbow.

  I jerked my arm, slamming the side of his head onto the ground hard enough to break his skull. He made an amazing jerk and got out from under me. I jumped up, expecting him to flee. Instead, he turned and lunged toward me.

  I bent so that he went by my side. I grabbed his jacket and added to his momentum as I stuck out my foot. He went down again. I landed on top of his back. We both slid on the ground right up to the embers. Manny kicked and jerked like a madman. I got my knee into his back but it didn’t slow him down. He pulled a knife out of his pocket.

  I reached into the fire, grabbed the unburned end of the log, lifted it high and smashed it down onto the back of his head. Coals sprinkled into his hair, but he lay still.

  I brushed the coals out of his hair and rolled him away from the fire. He didn’t move.

  Nearby was the whiskey bottle that Manny and Gaver had been drinking from. I still had the taste of mashed maggots in my mouth. I took off the cap, took a mouthful, swished, gargled and spit. It tasted like cheap bourbon, and I’d never been more grateful for mouthwash in my life. I tipped my head back, poured the whiskey over my face and rubbed my sleeve over my cheeks, scraping away a layer of dried, rotted deer guts.

  I removed Manny’s knife from his hand, folded it shut and put it in my pocket.

  Several yards away in the dirt came a voice over the walkie-talkie. “Sunset, do you read? Sunset, report. Sunset, we’re on our way.”

  I ran to the pole building.

  The door was unlocked. I swung it open and stepped inside.

  FORTY-THREE

  The inside of the building was like a large farm equipment shed. On the left was a front-end loader with the backhoe hanging off the rear. In the middle of the building was a bass boat on a trailer. To the right sat an old International Harvester Scout, without a top and so rusted that the fenders looked like they would fall off if the vehicle hit a large bump.

  At the rear of the building was a long workbench that stretched all the way across the back wall. On one side of the bench was a fluorescent shop light throwing its cold greenish glow over that corner of the cavernous room. Near it was the window from which I’d seen the light outside.

  The back wall was concrete block just as Thomas Watson had described, a retaining wall holding back the hill behind the building. At one-third intervals there were abutments made of the same block. They were perpendicular to the back wall, and their top edges rose up at a steep angle to meet the back wall about 8 feet above the ground. Davy Halstead was a smart engineer.

  The surface of the back wall was covered with stolen highway signs, turned on end and attached to the block wall. Up close, you realize just how big they are, 5 by 10 feet, with rounded corners, and made of some type of pressed chip board with a smooth finish and painted with high-gloss paint. One was green and said Exit 296 in white reflective paint. Another was yellow and said Thru-Traffic Merge Left in black letters. A third said Colusa 4 Miles and Sacramento 72 Miles.

  The workbench backed up to the signs. Screwed into the signs were tool racks and angle braces to which clip lights were attached.

  I felt along the bench looking for divisions. The bench had a 2 X 4 framework underneath that had been constructed into 2-foot by 8-foot sections to hold standard plywood ripped down the center on the long dimension. I felt along each section. One had a heavy-duty metal drawer slide attached to the bottom left side of the 2 X 4 structure. The next section had none. The following section had the same drawer slide attached to its right side. It looked like the brackets were designed to hold up the section of bench between them.

  I felt some more and found the connecting rod that penetrated the rear wall, locking the suspended bench section in place. Pulling on it unlatched the bench section, and it slid toward me, then pivoted down on swing arms until it touched the floor, perfectly counter balanced by tension springs similar to those on a garage door.

  A sign that read Exit Only was now fully exposed. There were two hidden catches on the right side, one 2 feet above the floor and one 6 feet. I unhooked them and the sign swung open. It was a good disguise and well designed, easy to operate from the outside or inside, but nearly impossible to detect unless you knew it was there.

  Behind the Exit Only sign wa
s a recessed sheet-rocked wall with a door framed into it. It had a regular knob and a heavy keyed deadbolt. The deadbolt had been forced with a crowbar. Maybe Davy Halstead had lost the key. More likely, the man who killed Davy couldn’t find the key and had to jimmy the lock to use the secret room.

  I turned the knob and walked into Davy’s meth lab.

  FORTY-FOUR

  The meth lab in the metal storage box was like a windowless cave. It was damp and cool and dark. Despite the whoosh of what sounded like an exhaust fan, the air was thick with a burning odor that reminded me of ammonia or cat urine. Meth lab chemicals.

  The only light came from a small desk lamp in the front corner to my left. It shined down on a counter that showed the white laminate surface at the edges, but was covered with brown stains elsewhere. Above the counter was a narrow shelf with supplies. Stacks of cold medicines, still unopened in their bright-colored packages. Multiple boxes of coffee filters. A row of shiny new glass beakers. Six small cans of kerosene. A big plastic jug of anti-freeze.

  I walked over and turned the desk lamp so that it shined back toward the rear of the storage unit.

  At the back wall of the metal box shined two little points of light about five and a half feet above the floor. I left the light in its angled position and walked back.

  The two points of light grew into Anna’s eyes. Terrified eyes. Eyes that looked almost alien in their fear and dread. Eyes on a body that was stretched up like Jesus on the cross. Eyes that had been hanging on the wall for days.

  I realized that she couldn’t see who I was.

  “Anna, it’s me, Owen. I’ve come to get you out of here.”

  Her head vibrated, but she didn’t speak. Her mouth was stuffed with a beige rag like a sleeve torn off of a shirt. It ran around her head and through her mouth. Around her neck was a rope that stretched up to a tie loop at the upper edge of the storage container. She was currently standing, but she would choke to death if she fell asleep and sagged down. Her arms were out and up, a nylon line going from zip ties on her wrists to distant tie loops at the upper corners of the metal storage container. Her bare feet were lashed together. Assuming the goal of her captor was to make her confess to secrets real or fictional, I couldn’t imagine a more effective way of breaking a person’s spirit. She couldn’t move or talk or sleep. That she was still alive suggested that she still hadn’t given in to her captor’s desires.

  “I’m going to cut off your gag, Anna. Hold still.”

  I took Manny’s folding knife from my pocket and raised it to the side of Anna’s head, keeping it out of her sight. I slipped the point under the cloth behind her ear. My hands shook with tension. I knew that men would be on us shortly. Manny’s knife was as sharp as a razor blade, and the fabric fell away.

  “Thank God you’re here,” she said in a hoarse, ravaged whisper.

  Next, I cut the rope that was tied around her neck. I worried that she’d collapse once her arms were freed, so I cut the rope around her ankles first. Then I positioned myself to catch and support her as I cut the rope around her left wrist.

  As her arm dropped, she gasped in pain.

  With that arm freed, she swung in and sagged. I got my arm around her waist and held her up as I cut the final rope on her right wrist. As that arm fell, she stifled a scream of agony, and I understood that her shoulder tendons and ligaments must be on fire.

  I pocketed the knife, then shifted her so that I could pick her up. But first, knowing she’d be unable to put her arms around my neck, I tucked her arms in front of her so they wouldn’t swing and cause her more torturous pain. Then I put my arm behind her knees, picked her up, and trotted with her out of the secret room, through the door, and into the pole building.

  In the distance through the outside door, I saw approaching headlights. I knew that if I stayed in the pole building, we would be trapped and possibly die in a flurry of bullets. So I ran out the door into the wash of headlights, two sets racing up from the side of the cabin.

  Still carrying Anna, I turned and ran with her into the dark bush, up the slope toward a stand of oak trees. It was a futile move, but I was panting, and I couldn’t think of a better thing to do.

  “Don’t be foolish, McKenna,” came a shout, ragged with anger. Someone had recognized me in the glow of their headlights. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Come out of the woods or I send the dog,” he said.

  I kept running.

  “Go Big Bear! Go get ’em!”

  I stopped, set Anna down so she could sit on the ground and lean against the trunk of a big oak.

  “Don’t leave me, Owen,” she pleaded.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I trotted down toward the light, frustrated and angry at having to replay my moves from several hours before.

  The Bouvier came running like a cat, fast and silent. I dropped down to my knees. He slowed.

  “Big Bear, STAY!” I shouted as I dropped my arm in a dramatic motion toward the ground.

  He slowed further, hesitating, no doubt remembering our previous engagement.

  “GET ’EM, BIG BEAR!” the man below screamed.

  “SIT-STAY!” I hissed.

  The dog slowed to a trot.

  I worried that the men below had me in their rifle sights. I needed that dog.

  I got up and walked at a fast pace toward the dog and the light. In a moment, I’d be well-lit and an easy target for a man with a rifle. Big Bear stopped. I didn’t want him to run.

  “Good boy! Good dog!” I praised.

  As I got close, he cowered.

  I reached down, grabbed his collar with one hand and picked him up with the other.

  I walked toward the four headlights, holding the Bouvier against my chest. The men were invisible in the dark behind the blinding glare. I didn’t know how many men there were or where they were standing. As before, Big Bear didn’t struggle. He completely submitted to my dominance.

  I shifted Big Bear onto my hip and managed to get the knife out of my pocket. I flipped it open and held it by Big Bear’s side.

  “I’ve got Manny’s knife,” I said. “You want to get your dog back alive, you’ll all get into one vehicle and leave the other. The woman and I will drive out of the compound. When we get to the highway, we’ll leave your vehicle with Big Bear inside.” It was a desperate attempt at a way out, but I had no other choices.

  I tried to squint against the headlights, tried to sense any figures or any movement. It was hopeless. They could have moved off to the side to pick me off without harming the dog. I turned a circle. Unpredictable movement would make them hesitate. The dog was getting very heavy. After carrying Anna, my arms were fatigued.

  “It’s a good trade,” I continued. “The woman obviously has no valuable information for you. I’ll take her off your hands, no more questions asked. You have a good dog. You don’t want to lose him.” I kept turning. I held the knife so that it would reflect in the headlights. If the men had any brains, they would realize that my previous engagement with Big Bear showed that I knew dogs well. And anyone who knows dogs well is incapable of hurting them. But I counted on these guys being too stupid to put it together.

  “Last chance,” I said. “A vehicle in exchange for the dog.”

  From up the slope where I’d left Anna came a scuffling sound, movement in the dirt, a whimper.

  I ran toward the sound. As soon as I was out of the main headlight beams, I set Big Bear down and ran bent over, holding onto his collar. When I got near the tree where I’d left Anna, I stopped, willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  She was gone. I turned and headed across the slope, scanning for movement.

  A car door slammed. Then another. Then a third. I let go of Big Bear and sprinted down the slope toward the vehicles.

  One of them shot backward, engine racing. It made a tight turn and stopped, shifted into forward. The second vehicle did the same. The two of them shot out past the cabin, went alongside
the Quonset building, and disappeared. It was dark once again.

  I ran to where I’d left Manny by the campfire.

  I turned him, lifted him, shook him.

  “Wake up!”

  He was still out.

  I ran to the dark bushes near the side of the cabin and kicked around looking for Gaver. Nothing. He must have gotten into one of the vehicles.

  I turned and walked into his body.

  He was heavy, but I dragged him over to the side of the old CJ-6 Jeep, reached in and turned on its headlights and flicked them to high beams. I dragged Gaver to the front of the Jeep, lifted his torso and positioned him so that his back was against my thigh and his face was ten inches in front of the left headlight. He was lit with such intense light that it looked like his sideburns would catch fire. I slapped his cheeks.

  “Wake up, Gaver!” I hit him hard.

  He moaned.

  “Wake up. Hurry!”

  Nothing.

  Left, right. Hard enough to knock out his teeth.

  “Wa’re’y’doin?”

  “Wake up!”

  I took a deep backswing. Hit him hard enough to loosen his eyeballs.

  “Stop!” His eyes fluttered, started to open. “Cntrnofflight!”

  “Wake up!” I said again. “I’ll turn off the light when you tell me where the key is.”

  “I’nknow’rkey!”

  “That’s it, Gaver. I’m done.”

  “Wait! I’ll tell you!”

  I pulled him to the side. He lifted his hand, rubbed his eyes. Then shot his hand up and grabbed at my face, gouging my nose.

  My patience was gone. I spun him down onto his belly and kneeled on his back. I heard a crack. He screamed. I took the back of his hair and carefully positioned his head so that his face was directly into the dirt. Then I leaned on his head.

  He screamed again, this time muffled by the ground.