by Todd Borg
Why? She could have chosen any of a thousand bits of private information, things only the two of us shared. Bugs were just one thing we talked about. It identified her, certainly. But did it do more? Did it have another meaning?
I went over to my bookshelves. Street spent enough time at my cabin that she had her own shelf of books including one on entomology. I got it down and looked up Achorutes nivicola. In the index were listed several page numbers for this critter which, I noticed, was not spelled correctly in the fax. Was that a clue? Had she purposely misspelled it for him? Or was it his mistake?
One of the page numbers was in bold. I flipped to the page and found the bug mentioned halfway down.
Achorutes nivicola was the genus and species name for a particular Springtail which was only one of 150 species in the state of California. Although they are not really fleas, they are commonly referred to as snow fleas because they sometimes swarm in enormous numbers on snow. I checked all pages listed in the index.
The book went on to explain the various habitats where snow fleas live including soil, leaf litter, decaying wood, fungi and other damp places. In great detail were descriptions of the actual bugs, the size of their body parts, the segments of their antennae, and the spring-like mechanism that makes the bug, despite not actually being a flea, jump like one.
What could it mean? When Street mentioned these bugs the night Ellie was over, we were looking at the Bierstadt. Was that part of a clue?
I got out the big art book and flipped to the reproduction, Bierstadt’s The Sierra Nevada In California. I virtually had the painting memorized – could have painted it from memory if I were an artist – but I studied it anew.
I went over the clouds, the shafts of sunlight, the jagged mountaintops. Below the rock, snowfields gave way to streams, waterfalls and lush forests. According to what I’d read, snow fleas could live almost anywhere in the picture.
I studied every aspect of the image, trying to think about it in terms of snow fleas. But nothing came to mind that would give me the identity of the killer or the location where Street was being held. I went back to the entomology text and read everything there was about snow fleas. No ideas came to mind.
Possibly, there was nothing there. Street was not a calculating person. Nor was she a game player. She didn’t do crossword puzzles or play word games. In fact, cleverness and clever people were not attractive to Street. So it was entirely possible that the snow fleas were merely an identifier, nothing more, something to prove that the kidnapper did, in fact, have her.
But I didn’t believe it.
Street was very bright, and she was a fighter. The combination would have her thinking of how to help me find her and/ or find the killer.
I finally gave up, shutting the book with a thud. Any clue Street had sent with the snow fleas message was beyond me tonight.
I called the dogs in and went to bed. When I finally nodded off, I slept like Street on a bad night, wrestling the sheets and blankets, twisting them into ropes so tight a princess could have dangled them from the tower window and made her escape.
THIRTY-SEVEN
My last dream was filled with fire and I awoke hard, frightened and alert before dawn. I turned on the coffee and dialed up Morning Edition on public radio. I was impatient, waiting to get a detailed weather report. I had fire on the brain. Winton was loose and would try again. The worse the wind, the more difficult it would be for fire fighters to keep houses from burning. One of which was likely serving as Street’s prison. If Winton had his way, Street would burn, the fourth victim on his death row.
I thought about Frederick’s comment on the wind.
Yesterday, he had pointed out that if the firestarter wanted a wind like we had now, he would have already lit his fire as the wind had been blowing continuously for several days. Then, it turned out Winton did light a fire, but it was put out in minutes. Now I wondered if the tables had turned. If the wind changed, would that be a good sign? Or did it not matter?
Winton lit his fire and was foiled. He’d probably light another and another until he succeeded in burning whatever neighborhood he wanted. Which led to a very unwelcome thought.
Maybe the fire by the airport was a diversion.
He knew that the Forest Service and several fire departments would now be throwing much of their resources into watching the neighborhoods by the airport, thinking that he would try again.
All while he may be preparing to start his major fire somewhere else.
I reached for the phone, ready to call Mallory and Terry, Frederick and Sheila, when I realized it was 5:30 a.m. Maybe I should think about it for a few minutes and wait until six o’clock before waking everyone with a frightening thought that might be way off base.
Finally, the Morning Edition half-hour break came and KUNR in Reno gave a full update on the weather. It was as bad as I could have imagined.
The day was supposed to set high-temperature records for all of the Tahoe Basin. The winds, already strong, were going to pick up further and, toward afternoon, switch around to the northwest. This would make the northwest-facing slopes of the South Shore, slopes like Kingsbury Grade especially vulnerable to a fire.
The announcer took care to add that the fire danger in Tahoe’s forest was as bad as it had ever been and that everyone should be particularly careful regarding all potential sources of ignition.
The fire marshals of every community had issued fire warnings. There could be no matches or cigarettes used out of doors. No barbecuing was allowed. No fires of any kind were allowed indoors, whether in fireplaces or woodstoves because of the danger from sparks coming out of chimneys. No vehicles were allowed off paved roads or parking lots except in residential driveways because the hot catalytic converters could ignite grass. Anyone engaged in any activity that could potentially start a fire, no matter how benign it seemed, would be cited.
I turned off the radio and went out on my deck.
But for a gibbous moon hanging in the sky, it was still dark out. The air, at least for now, was cool. Spot and Natasha had followed me outside and the three of us stood at the deck railing, me looking down at the black water a thousand feet below, and the dogs vigorously sniffing the predawn air. Natasha had her nose through the railing while Spot had his over the railing. I was thinking that when the first forest fire began, Spot had been looking over the railing and growling from the very same place.
He suddenly did it again.
Natasha looked at him, realizing that one of the sounds or smells on the wind was out of place. She gave a little yip and spun around, wondering, looking at Spot for a clue. Spot stuck his nose high in the air, turned, ran back to the rear of the deck where it faces the street and let out a huge bark.
“What is it, Spot?” I said.
Sometimes he does a weak point, not lifting a paw, but reaching forward with his nose and straightening his tail. His growl intensified. I followed Spot’s line out into the darkness of the street and saw a reflected glint of light, a sparkle of chrome, where there should be none.
An engine suddenly started and revved. Headlights came on and the vehicle came toward my cabin at high speed. I opened the deck gate and ran into my drive as it roared by and rocketed down the road. It was night and the vehicle went fast, but I was able to see it clearly in the moonlight.
A large, white pickup with flared fenders and dual rear wheels.
The pickup Winton had stolen after Jake Pooler was killed.
A dozen questions crowded my thinking as I ran for the Jeep. How long had he been watching my cabin? Was he planning to burn it with me and the dogs inside? A Molotov cocktail through the window could have turned it into an inferno before I would have known what happened. Were we alive only because I was unable to sleep?
I opened the back door of the Jeep and the dogs leaped in. In another second I had it running. I burned rubber backing out of the drive and again as I shifted forward.
The pickup was out of sight down below t
he first curves. I thought I could catch him before he got to the highway, a two-mile drive that I knew better than anyone. If not, Diamond or one of his colleagues could pick him up. I reached for my phone.
It wasn’t there. Damn!
I’d brought it inside last night and left it by the bed. Too late to go back. But if I could drive fast enough...
The dogs struggled to keep their footing as we careened right and left. I pushed it as hard as I dared, almost skidding out of control on one hairpin curve. But Winton must have been the better driver because when I got to the highway he was gone. There were no taillights in either direction.
I remembered my own trick.
He could have shut off his lights and been driving by the weak light of the moon. If so, he would have to hit his brakes eventually because the highway comes to sharp curves regardless of which direction you turn out of my road. The only way to avoid braking would be to drive slowly and downshift hard before the curves. But I didn’t think Winton would drive slowly knowing I might be right behind him with my own lights off, too.
I considered making a guess, picking a direction and seeing if he’d gone that way. But I thought that the fifty percent odds weren’t worth it. Better to wait.
I couldn’t watch both left and right at once, so I turned onto the highway and stopped. Now I could gaze in one direction while my rear view mirror covered the other. Any flash of red taillights should be obvious regardless of where they came from. And there were no other cars on the highway to confuse me.
It came from behind, a red light that flashed in the mirror as brief and distant as a firefly. I threw the Jeep into gear, skidded around 180 degrees and shot down the highway.
I drove dangerously fast, but after a few miles I realized that I’d lost him. He could have turned off on any number of roads. Or he might have parked in a dark spot and waited until I passed by.
Without my phone I discovered that phone booths are hard to find. Eventually, I came upon one in Roundhill and, after waking Diamond up, reported the events to him.
I drove random patterns through side streets, checking neighborhoods from Cave Rock to Stateline. Soon, I saw a Sheriff’s vehicle and then another, joining me in the search. Both drivers waved at me even though I couldn’t see who they were in the dawn light.
I finally gave up and went home. I stopped at Street’s condo on the way to pick up one of her scarves which I could use to scent the dogs when the time came to have them search houses. I put it in a plastic bag and stuffed it under the front seat of the Jeep. When I got to my cabin, my phone was ringing.
“Owen McKenna,” I said.
“Owen, Mallory here. Getting back to you on the pickup driving away from the airport fire.”
“The one where the plate was registered to a corporation?”
“Yeah,” Mallory said. “The Jones Company. Only it wasn’t one of those doolies or whatever you called it. It was a white Toyota pickup. Medium size. Anyway, the sole stockholder of The Jones Company is Arthur Jones Middleton the Sixth.”
My confusion was so great I could barely think. Was it Art who’d set the fires and kidnapped Street? Was it Art in Jake’s pickup? No, Mallory had just said that Art’s truck didn’t have dual rear wheels.
“You there?” Mallory said.
“Yes.” I took a deep breath. “I’m going to be real eager to talk to this guy.”
“Be my guest. We picked him up at Embassy Suites Hotel ten minutes ago.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Captain Mallory led me to his jail cell.
The man inside started talking when we were still some distance away. “Are you Mr. McKenna? Art told me about you. Said you were real tall. Thank God you’re here! Can you get me out of here?” Although his voice was tiny and airy as a whisper, the man talking was tall and robust, almost as big as Arthur Jones Middleton. Shave off his trim little moustache and he’d look like him as well.
Mallory looked at him, then at me. “I don’t get it. This isn’t Middleton?”
“No. I don’t know who this is.”
“I tried to tell you!” the prisoner almost screamed. “But you and your boys wouldn’t listen! ‘Up against the side of the car! Hands behind your head! Spread ’em wide!’” The man looked about to cry. “Then it was ‘shutup!’ And ‘you’ll talk when we ask you!’”
Mallory shook his head. “He’s driving Middleton’s wheels, he’s got Middleton’s wallet on him. The ID matches for chrissakes. What the hell are we supposed to think?” Mallory turned to the prisoner. “Try again. What’s your name?”
“Lawrence Raphael. And it’s my wallet.”
“What are you doing impersonating Middleton?” Mallory said. “How did his ID end up in your wallet?”
“We’re friends. He has two IDs. He likes me to be able to charge to his account. An ID makes it easier.”
“Where’s your ID?”
“I lost it about six months back. When I realized I hadn’t really used it in years, I didn’t get around to replacing it. Art said that if I was going to be his...” Lawrence looked down. “Art takes care of me. I don’t need my own ID.”
Mallory unlocked the jail cell and opened the door. I followed him inside and Mallory shut the gate behind us.
“Let’s go through this again,” Mallory said. “You can repeat your story for McKenna’s sake.” Mallory walked up to the bigger man, crowding him.
Lawrence Raphael stepped back and hit the wall of the cell. It was obvious that even though Mallory was a smaller man, he intimidated Raphael.
“Why did you light the fire?” Mallory said.
“I told you! It was an accident!” He was frantic, his eyes darting toward me then back to Mallory.
Mallory gave me a knowing look.
“I swear!” Lawrence Raphael yelled.
“Easy, Lawrence,” I said. “Calm down. Mallory isn’t going to hurt you.”
“Are you sure?” Raphael was shaking.
I didn’t see any point in saying that the danger would come from me if I thought he had Street somewhere. But at the moment it didn’t make sense.
Mallory spoke. “Why don’t you tell McKenna what happened. From the beginning.”
Raphael’s face was covered in beads of sweat. “Like I said, it was an accident.”
“You admit to starting the fire yesterday?” I said.
“Yes, absolutely. It was the most frightening thing!” Raphael swallowed and wiped his brow. “I was driving along highway fifty and this terrible gust of wind nearly blew my truck off the road. I was fighting the wheel, trying to get back in my lane when my cigarette blew out the window. Christ, I could use one now.” He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. He shook with nervous twitches.
“Anyway, I saw the direction my cigarette blew and I was terrified because there was all this tall grass and all those warnings on the radio. So I pulled over and went to try and find it. But before I located my cigarette, the grass had already started burning. I tried to stomp it out, but the wind was so strong it just kept growing. I felt so lucky when that police car came down the road. But then I realized he would think I was the arsonist! I knew I would be arrested!”
Lawrence Raphael closed his eyes and shook his head. “I ran. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I got frightened, ran back to my truck and drove away.
“Later, I drove back by and was so glad to see that firemen had arrived and put out the fire! My God, what if it had grown into a forest fire! People could have died!”
I watched him as he stepped sideways past Mallory and moved around the cell, nervously touching the bars, rolling his shoulders, reaching up and rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was low and calm when he spoke again. “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to turn myself in, but I knew my story sounded so... ridiculous. And I thought they would hurt me.”
“Because of homophobia,” I said.
“Right.”
“Did they?”
“Hurt me?” He glanced at Mal
lory. “No. But they’ve been very gruff. They were rough searching me. Then they handcuffed me. My wrists still burn. It was the most humiliating moment of my life. Being treated like a common criminal.”
I thought he was going to cry. “Lawrence, you should know that accidentally starting a fire is a crime. Not the same as arson, but it is a serious crime nonetheless.”
“As is running away from a police officer,” Mallory added.
“I thought you’d believe me, Mr. McKenna,” he said, his words thick.
“Maybe I do, Lawrence. But you have a lot more explaining to do. Captain Mallory said you had wooden matches on you. “Why? Doesn’t Art’s truck have a cigarette lighter in it?”
“It does, but I’ve always used wooden matches.” He wiped his eyes with his hands. “Lately, I’ve been getting them from Club Tropic. Art and I go there Friday nights to listen to jazz. Their match boxes have a Bird of Paradise design on them. They add the right touch to my cigarettes.”
Lawrence found a tissue in his pocket, blew his nose and seemed to relax a bit.
“And when you drive and smoke,” I said, “do you always keep the window open? Even in forest fire country?”
“I can see now how stupid I was. But yes, I generally do.”
“Where were you going?” Mallory asked.
“I was going up to Art’s house. He’s coming up today.”
“Lawrence,” I said. “Art’s place is on the North Shore. Wouldn’t you drive up Interstate Eighty to get there? Why come up Highway Fifty to the South Shore? It’s a longer drive.”
“I just do it for variety sometimes. Don’t you ever do that? Take different routes to keep from getting bored?”
“If you were going to the North Shore, why were you at Embassy Suites on the South Shore?”
“You won’t believe me, I know it. But I checked in last night because I thought I might get up the guts to turn myself in this morning. I wanted them to know that I was not the arsonist and that they should keep looking for someone other than me. I called Art last night from the hotel and told him what happened. I know he’s worried sick about me. Now, he doesn’t even know where I am.”
