by Todd Borg
“Nothing. It was the last thing I expected to find.”
“But you went to the trouble to bring in Ellie and her dog. Just a hunch?”
I nodded. “I thought there might be something to learn. You know Ellie?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s the best. We’ve used her several times. Lost hikers. Back-country skiers who go down the wrong side of the Sierra crest and can’t figure out a way back.”
“Did you hear about the latest note?”
Linda Saronna nodded, her face suddenly serious. “I almost can’t believe this is happening. When you found the body I thought, ‘thank God this is over.’ Now it’s worse than I could have imagined.”
“What will be the Forest Service’s response?”
“There isn’t really much we can do other than have all our units ready to go. I was in my truck just now when Terry Drier called me about the second note. So I’ve been on my phone trying to crank up our preparedness. We’re officially on Red Flag Alert. We’ve already got a chopper on the way. With that and all the local departments ready, we should be on any fire within seconds.” Linda leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. It was obvious that she needed rest.
“What about scouting for locations where a fire would burn just two houses?”
“I thought of that and called Frederick. He agreed with me that it didn’t seem promising, but that he would get on it immediately. Let’s see where he’s at with it.” She punched some buttons on the phone. “Frederick? I’ve got Owen McKenna here and we’re wondering about your two-house survey. Find anything yet?”
Frederick Mallicoff walked in a moment later. He had several rolled maps. “Hey, Owen,” he said as he spread them on the table. “Heard you found the body. God, that must have been... I don’t know, horrible.” He seemed embarrassed by what he’d said and focused on his maps. He lined up four topographical maps into a large square, the intersection being in the middle of the lake. Together, they covered the Tahoe Basin. “The problem,” Frederick said, “is just as we thought. There are several dozen sites where a fire might only take out two houses. We could never watch all of them.” He pointed to the little black squares that dotted the maps and represented houses.
“The last fire was set just off the main highway,” I said. “The firestarter might want to use a vehicle for a quick getaway as before. What if we narrowed the sites down to those where the fire could easily be set from the main road?”
“That would still leave too many possibilities. Besides, this guy lit the last blaze below several houses and burned none of them, just like he said. If he’s as good the next time around, he might set a fire where there are many houses but plan it so only two burn.”
What Frederick said seemed possible and as such was frustrating. I looked at Linda who sighed and chewed her lip.
“I’m not saying,” Frederick continued, “that we shouldn’t post lookouts at the most obvious places. Only that we shouldn’t expect too much. Let me show you how I think the arsonist would plan.”
Linda got up from her chair and we all leaned over the maps while Frederick explained.
“There are several ways for a firestarter to guide where a fire will go. One is to use mountain slopes because fires burn up. The steeper the slope, the more direct the burn. This assumes, of course, that there will be little or no wind to direct the fire sideways. But in any event, fires don’t move well downslope even when the wind is going that direction.
“The second way to direct a fire is to know which way the wind is going to blow. But that is almost impossible to predict. Even when we know the prevailing wind, the local topography creates so much turmoil that it can blow one way at one elevation and the opposite direction just a thousand feet up or down. So my guess is that the firestarter will want calm conditions.
“The third way to control a fire is to use natural firebreaks. Scree chutes like the two big vertical stripes of rock up on Trimmer Peak are hard for a fire to cross.” He pointed to an area on the map just south of the town of South Lake Tahoe.
“You mean the ones that look like ski runs in the winter?” I said.
“Right. It is so steep that the constantly sliding rocks make it impossible for trees to grow. They look like narrow ski runs from town. But in reality they are a couple hundred feet across. Makes a great firebreak. Other firebreaks are ridgelines. Fires like to race up to the top of a ridge and then slowly move sideways along the ridgetop. But fires don’t readily go over the ridge and head back down unless there is a strong downslope wind pushing them. Cliffs and other rock outcroppings are difficult for fires to cross.” Frederick pointed to the maps. “Here, near Emerald Bay, and over on Mount Tallac, for example.
“Then, there are the not so natural firebreaks that are in many parts of the basin, some wide, some not so wide, but all capable of directing a fire to some degree. These, of course, are the roads.”
“You’ve really studied this,” Linda said. She almost seemed alarmed.
Frederick Mallicoff nodded. “I took every course they had in fire science and have been to two or three seminars a year ever since school.” He leaned over the maps again and pointed to a highly populated area. “In several places all these factors come together. For example, over here we have a steep slope with a ridge on one side, a scree slide on the other, and down below where it is not so steep there are roads that would direct the fire. Strike a match near the highway and almost for certain you would take out these two houses on the escarpment above but not any of the several dozen nearby.”
“Frederick Mallicoff, you’re scaring me,” Linda said. She was pale. “How many places like that are there in the basin?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “But certainly a dozen or more.”
“So, combined with all the lonely pairs of houses out there, we could never watch them all.” Linda’s voice was soft.
Frederick said, “I think the best policy is maximum preparedness.”
“Owen?” Linda Saronna said. “Any thoughts?”
“I agree with Frederick. You’re already doing everything you can.”
“Okay,” Linda said briskly. She was in command mode. “Frederick, see if you can bring in any more rigs from Carson and Sac. We’ll put spotters with radios on high lookouts twenty-four hours a day. Owen, do you have a cell phone?”
I pulled out a card. “The number is on here. Please call at any time.”
I left and drove to my office. I practically had to drag Spot up the stairs and down the hall.
My copy of the day’s paper was in front of my door. I picked it up and unlocked my door. The phone started ringing as I walked in.
“McKenna Investigations,” I said
“I thought I’d explain how Glennie got the picture,” Street said.
“What picture?”
“You have a paper?”
“Sure.”
“Turn to the back of the first section.”
I did as she said. One of the headings said,
LOCAL DOG FINDS INJURED MOUNTAIN LION
Underneath was a good-sized picture of Spot hanging his head out of my Jeep. Below that was a short article on Pussy Cat with all of the information Glennie had gotten from me including weight and sex.
“Glennie came to my condo late last night. She told me about the lion. She begged so hard for a picture, I gave her the one she put in the paper. Anyway, I just thought you’d like to know your dog is upstaging you again.”
“Always has, always will,” I said.
“So what happened to the lion? Glennie only had the vaguest idea. She said Spot found it below your deck?”
I told her the whole story about Spot dragging the lion up the mountain.
“Oh, my God, Owen, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe he’d do such a thing. Are you sure?”
“What other conclusion is there? Either the lion attacked him which is highly unlikely considering his size, or he attacked it. I want to think that they surprised each other in the w
oods. If the lion thought she was cornered, she might strike and then Spot would defend himself.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I may have to keep him chained up at all times. I may even be open to prosecution. I think it is illegal to hunt or harm wildlife in the Tahoe Basin. And pet owners are responsible for the actions of their pets. I feel so bad about that cat. Let’s just hope she lives.”
We talked some more and I could tell that Street was getting upset over the problem. She was as attached to my dog as I was. I decided it was best to end the conversation, so I asked if she wanted to come for dinner and she said she had too much work to do. So I told her I loved her we hung up.
I went home and spent the evening ruminating on arson and murder and the cat. I sipped Sierra Nevada Pale Ale in front of the woodstove while Spot, morose as ever, lay in the corner of the living room. Although the evening was cool, I kept thinking about the warm turn in the weather. All vestiges of the Pacific system that had brought some moisture to the mountains were now gone. The air and forest were crispy dry. Worse, the forecast was for warmer weather still, with hot, southwest winds picking up in the afternoons for the foreseeable future. It was the worst that could happen with the arsonist threatening another fire.
I got another beer, picked up an art magazine and read an essay written by an art educator named Sister Wendy. She’d become well-known through PBS specials on art, shows that, lacking a TV, I hadn’t seen. Sister Wendy had an intriguing definition about art. She said that great art is what draws you back again and again. Much of the time great art possesses a captivating beauty. But Sister Wendy thought that homely art and, sometimes, even sacrilegious art can possess the power to repeatedly bring the viewer back to observe.
As I read on, I was surprised to discover that her essay seemed to apply to my current investigation of the arsonist. Sister Wendy was illuminating an idea that, to my point of view, drew parallels between some art and the forest fire and threatening notes.
She was talking about conceptual art. She thought that while conceptual art was valuable, it served society like newspapers. You quickly get the point and then move on. An example she gave was the scandalous Piss Christ. The piece, which depicts a crucifix in a bottle of urine, is by most people’s judgement revolting and crude. Sister Wendy didn’t think it was great art, but she was open-minded enough that she found some value in the questions it provokes about how we view religion. I had always looked for nothing other than beauty in art. This approach, in which beauty was not necessarily paramount, suddenly got me thinking about arson as a heretical concept.
The book with the Bierstadt reproduction was on the floor to the side of my chair. I picked it up and flipped through to the picture. The image of The Sierra Nevada In California was clearly about beauty, the exquisite grandeur of nature, the untouched realm of God. It was similar in many ways to the scene of Tahoe out my window. A pristine, natural beauty. Yet someone was trying to burn it down.
I sipped my beer as I tried to reconcile the conflict between the sacred and the sacrilegious.
What if Jake had died by accident? What if the firestarter only intended to burn trees? If so, was burning the forest like putting a crucifix in urine? Could we, like Sister Wendy, learn from an apparently violent act? All conventional thought said no, just as nearly all of Sister Wendy’s colleagues said that Piss Christ was an abomination. But what if we could be like this woman of the church? Could we see in the fire provocative questions about our forest management and our narrow-minded actions which seem to operate on the presumption that the forest is for our benefit alone?
Should we rethink the way we always put out all forest fires? Was putting out even lightning-caused fires like damming rivers or paving swamps, a misguided attempt to have nature the way we like it?
The questions seemed to run in endless circles. I finally put aside my book and magazine and went to bed.
The next morning the phone rang as I was eating breakfast.
“Hello?”
“Owen, Dick Siker. About that cat?”
“Yes?”
“Your dog didn’t hurt her at all. She was shot through the neck. In fact, Spot saved her life.”
FOURTEEN
“What?” I said, shocked and delighted. I looked over at Spot. He was lying on the floor in the corner, not sleeping but just staring at the wall like a monk enduring deprivations.
“All I know is that Pussy Cat was shot. The puncture I thought was from your dog’s fang turned out to be from a bullet. I don’t know the details. For that you’d want to talk to Dr. Selma Peralta down at the UC Davis Veterinary Hospital.” Dick Siker gave me the number.
After I hung up the phone I turned to Spot and spoke in the cheery voice I used whenever I wanted to get him excited. “Hey, polka dot boy! Guess what?”
Spot didn’t move, didn’t even shift his eyes.
“Spot, c’mon over here!” I patted my thighs.
There was no reaction.
Anytime someone describes the emotions of their pets in human terms, other people call it anthropomorphizing. But those people either have never had pets or else they are incapable of forming close bonds with them.
My dog was depressed and filled with guilt over the belief that he’d done something terribly wrong to the lion.
And I was the one who’d made him feel that way.
I walked over and knelt down beside him. “Spot, I’m so sorry,” I said as I touched his head and ran my hands over his neck. “I screwed up, big guy. You didn’t hurt the mountain lion. You didn’t cause the blood.”
I knew Spot didn’t understand my words, but I hoped he’d get my meaning. Yet, he didn’t appear to know I was even there. I sat down on the floor, lifted his head onto my lap and rubbed his ears. Then I got up and fetched a bag of dog treats from my desk. I put them in front of his nose, but he ignored them and appeared lifeless. That, and the fact that he hadn’t drunk any water to speak of in the last day, had me worried.
After a few minutes I got up, dialed the number Dick Siker had given me and spoke to a woman in the UC Davis Veterinary Hospital. She couldn’t put me through to Selma Peralta as the doctor was in surgery. I explained briefly what I was calling about and she said I could meet Dr. Peralta in her office. She expected her back from lunch around 1:00 p.m. and she wasn’t scheduled for anything until 1:15. That gave me enough time to make the two hour drive down from Tahoe.
“Okay, Spot, let’s go check on a mountain lion.” I tugged hard on his collar and he reluctantly stood and came with me to the Jeep, hanging his head the entire way.
Once in a rare while he had hung his head and let his eyelids droop because he was sulking, feeling sorry for himself over some slight. But today was nothing like that and it made me worry.
I made it to the university with just enough time to park, walk across the busy campus to the vet hospital and find Selma Peralta’s office on the third floor.
I knocked on the closed door and, receiving no response, leaned against the wall to wait. A beautiful Hispanic woman came down the hall at a brisk pace. She was short like Ellie, with a frame so well proportioned that if you saw a photo of her you’d guess her to be of normal height. She wore a white coat that made her sienna skin look exceptionally rich and warm. By her demeanor I guessed her to be a woman with natural authority, the kind of person who knew exactly what she wanted in life.
“Dr. Peralta?” I said as she approached.
“Hello,” she said, cranking her neck back to take in my height. “You must be Owen McKenna. My secretary told me to expect you.” She reached up her miniature hand and gave mine a delicate squeeze. “Please come in,” she said as she unlocked her office door.
We went into a small space crammed with books and looking more like an associate professor’s office than what I expected of an animal doctor. She gestured toward a chair and I sat while she dug through some papers on the desk.
“I appreciate you
seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Peralta.”
“Please, call me Selma.” She gave me a warm smile. “I’m sorry I don’t have much time. I’ve got appointments stacked up as high as a giraffe. I understand you are the person who found the mountain lion?”
“Actually, it was my dog who found her.”
“So I’ve heard. Must be an awfully big, strong dog.”
“I don’t know how far he dragged her up the mountain. But I thought he had caused the lion’s injuries. Her fur was matted and caked with blood on her neck where he’d gripped her.”
Selma smiled again. “You can forgive your dog. He caused none of the injuries that I found. Come, we have a few minutes. Let me show you.”
We left the office, rode an elevator down to a basement level and walked down a corridor to a large door that was wide enough to roll a prostrate moose through. Selma tugged on the door and I reached out to help.
We entered a wide, brightly lit hallway lined with doors that had windows in them. Through each door I could see white rooms with white tables. In one room there was a group of students watching and listening intently as their teacher examined a large black animal. From my position I could not tell what kind of animal it was, but from the size I guessed it to be a calf.
At the far corner of the hall Selma unlocked one of the doors and led me into a room like the others. On a white table, lying on a vinyl covered pad, was Pussy Cat. Her head was down and her eyes were shut, looking very much asleep or unconscious. Even so, I stayed back. Selma walked up and put her hand on the lion’s neck. She checked a drainage tube and glanced at some electronic readouts on the wall. “Come on over,” she said to me. “Don’t worry, she’s out. She couldn’t hurt a bunny rabbit in the state she’s in.”
I walked over and stood close. The lion had been cleaned up. Large portions of her neck and been shaved and bandages wrapped nearly all the way around.
