by Todd Borg
“We are here,” Mare said, taking off her glove and pointing to the map, angling it so that Packer could see. “From what you said on the drive up, I figure there’s a good chance this old shack could be located in one of these four areas.”
Packer studied the map. “I’d vote for these two areas. They fit with what Claude said about the trip from Squaw having more elevation gain than the trip from Donner Summit.” He pointed to the map. “And this area might allow for a view of Squaw.”
“Okay, let’s start here.” Mare made a circle with her finger. “If Claude’s cabin is in fact an old mine shack, that helps in identifying where it might be. Mine shacks were usually built on a slope so that the mine tunnel can go back into the mountain.”
“I see,” Packer said. He reached for the map. “So we’d want to start exploring down below the ridgeline here.”
“Yeah. That’s a windward slope, a good candidate.”
“What about this slope?” Packer asked.
“Judging by the topo lines, that slope is about forty degrees. The slope also faces a couple ticks east of northeast. Meaning it’s a leeward slope and very likely to accumulate big-time wind loading of snow. The map also shows that it has very little vegetation.”
“So it would be dangerous.”
“Yes,” Mare said. “But more to the point, if anyone had built a mining shack on that slope, the first big slide would take it out. Any shack that’s been around for a while would have to have been built in slide-safe territory.”
Packer turned to us and pointed sideways at Mare. “She’s pretty smart, huh?”
“Why we brought her,” I said.
Mare headed off.
This leg of our trek was still generally up, but it had a few downs mixed in. Packer put on his board, and we all rode untracked powder down.
As with our treks up the slopes, Spot stayed in my tracks on the way down the slope. Because I was the heaviest member of the group, my track was the most compressed and gave him the best footing. Even so, he still sunk in past his chest. At the bottom, I turned around to see him running down in my S-curve tracks, his head barely visible.
When we came over the ridge, the windward slope below was vast and mostly treeless. Mare handed Packer the map. She pulled out her binoculars and studied the view.
“That ravine over by that distant stand of trees,” Mare said. “That would be good place for a mining cabin.”
“But I don’t think there would be a lookout close enough that Claude would go there with his morning coffee,” Packer said. “At least no lookout high enough to see one of Squaw’s chairlifts.”
“Good point,” Mare said.
“So we go to this next area?” Packer handed her the map.
“Yeah. We’ll approach from the southwest and traverse up toward this small valley.”
As we approached, we saw an old shack on the side of the small valley. Close by on one side was a miniature butte projecting out of the snow. The coffee lookout.
We stayed in the open so that we wouldn’t surprise anyone.
“Claude?” Packer called out. “Hey, Claude. You there?”
We stopped about fifteen yards away. Mare took off one ski and tested the snow by stepping down. We waited, all of us familiar with the experience of stepping off skis and sinking up to our armpits in soft snow.
“Windblown,” she said. “Seems pretty firm.”
We took off our skis. Packer walked up to the cabin. It was a ramshackle building built into the slope. The shack was clad in tree bark siding, and its steep roof slanted from high on the back to low on the front. There were a couple of small windows and a wide, sliding barn door, the better to roll out ore carts, I imagined. Nothing about it looked like a cozy mountain cabin that someone would live in. It had all the charm of a pile of dirty ore.
There was a bent sheet-metal smokestack that came out of one side and then went up through the roof eave. No smoke issued from it.
There were no fresh tracks in the snow, either, although there was a general depression under the snow not far from where we stood and a narrow depression leading to the door. It looked like someone had skied to the cabin within the last couple of days. Then the tracks were covered with compacted and drifted snow about a foot deep.
“Claude?” Packer called again. Spot trotted around sniffing the cabin and the nearby trees. Packer took off his snowshoes, stepped up to the door and knocked. “Claude, it’s Packer. I took your class a few years ago.”
There was no answer. Packer tried the latch.
“It’s not locked,” he said. “You think I should open it?”
“Yes. We mean well.”
Packer unhooked the latch and tugged on the door. It slid sideways about 18 inches and stopped with a rusty-sounding screech.
“Claude?” he said again. He leaned into the cabin, turning his head both ways. “Looks empty,” he called out to us. Spot ran up next to Packer, jamming his head in between Packer’s waist and the doorjamb.
Packer stepped inside, then turned his head back toward us.
“Something here you might want to see,” he called out the open door.
Street and Mare didn’t move.
“It’s not a body or anything,” Packer called out. “Just that I didn’t expect it.”
I walked over and stepped into the musty dark interior.
“Check it out,” Packer said. He pointed to a cardboard box on the floor. “It’s full of dynamite.”
FIFTY-ONE
“A box of three-by-eights,” Mare said.
“I remember him showing us these in his class,” Packer said.
“Probably six or eight in that box,” Mare said.
Street moved back. “Is it safe?” she asked.
“Pretty much,” Mare said. “They don’t have detonators. Those will probably be around here somewhere. Let’s not drop any sledge hammers until we find them.”
“What do you mean, pretty much?” Street said. Spot was sniffing the box.
“Dynamite without a detonator is quite stable. It won’t go off unless it gets a serious pop right next to it. A detonator or a bullet would do it. In theory, you and Spot could play fetch with those three-by-eights without danger. Don’t know if he would like the taste, though.”
“In theory,” Street said.
Mare grinned at her. “This is the stuff I use at work. When you see what it can do, you don’t want to sleep with a box of it under your bed. Safety becomes a theory you don’t want to test.” Mare turned to Packer. “Do you know if this guy has his Blaster’s license?”
“No idea. He seemed to know the stuff well, but I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who cares much for rules.”
“Why do you ask?” I said.
“Just that you don’t generally walk into someone’s cabin and find dynamite. It’s supposed to be under supervision or lock and key.”
“Any idea where this stuff may have come from?”
Mare shook her head.
“Let me pose a different question,” I said. “If you wanted to get a supply of dynamite for criminal use, where would you look for a source?”
“Well, I’d steal it.”
“Would that be hard?”
“You don’t want to know the answer to that question,” she said.
“Where would you steal it from?”
“I wouldn’t steal it from around here, although it would be easy. I’d probably go to Colorado. They have lots of ski resorts. Lots of avalanche control.”
“Lots of dynamite,” I said.
Mare nodded.
“And you would know where to look for it,” I said.
She nodded again.
I thought about Paul Riceman, former Utah ski instructor who, according to Terrance Burns, had recently gone back to visit the area where he taught.
We were all silent for a moment. Spot sensed it. He grabbed at my glove. Come on, let’s do something.
Street was poking around at the cou
nter that Claude used for his kitchen. There was a campstove and some propane canisters and some pots and pans. Mare walked over to a large shelf where bulk bags of granola, flour and oatmeal sat. On a small shelf, positioned over a makeshift sink, was a large water jug with a spigot.
“What I’m looking for,” I said, “is something that points to any of the victims. We know that Paul Riceman took a class from Claude. We know that March Carrera was going to visit Claude in Tahoe City. March probably knew Claude or at the very least, knew of him. But March may also have taken a class from Claude. So Claude is a connection of sorts between March and Paul. If we can connect Claude to Astor Domino or Lori Simon, then Claude will be the nexus of all the avalanche victims.”
“And your chief suspect,” Packer said. He was leaning against a roof support post, showing no interest in looking around.
“And my chief suspect.”
“But you still won’t know he’s guilty.” Packer sounded indignant.
“No,” I said.
Packer stared at me. I couldn’t read his expression. I wondered if he felt an allegiance to Claude, or if there was another reason why he didn’t like what we were doing.
“This was just a friendly visit to a backcountry expert,” I said. “Now that we’ve seen that he’s gone and he’s got enough unprotected dynamite to blow up half the mountain, we’re checking to see if he left a note or anything.”
“A note that says, ‘don’t worry, guys, I’m okay?’” Packer’s tone was sarcastic.
“Yeah,” I said.
Street had been poking in the ash inside an old woodstove made from a large metal barrel. She held up a piece of kraft paper that looked like something torn from a grocery sack. It was partially burned.
“I found a note,” she said. “But this doesn’t make it look like things are okay.” She handed it to me.
I took it from her and held it up to the light that came in a dusty, spider web-coated window. Mare and Packer walked over to look.
Spot came and wedged himself in between Street and me.
The note had the names of the avalanche victims, written in pencil. All caps. Badly formed letters.
Lori Simon
March Carrera
Astor Domino
Paul Riceman
April Carrera
“Everyone on the list is dead, except April,” Street said.
FIFTY-TWO
“Owen,” Street said. “You mentioned a young man who said he saw March with a girl. It could have been April. She may have been in town all this time and no one knew but March, and now she’s in danger.”
“The other guy who works in the snowboard shop,” I said. “What’s his name?”
“Benson,” Packer said.
“Right. He told me he saw March with some girl, but he didn’t know who she was. Does he know April?”
Packer shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“I bet you’re right, Street,” I said. “I think they all took the same class in November. April has been here with the rest. That would explain why she was hesitant on the phone about her location. If she’d really been in the Dominican Republic, she would have been more direct about it. Instead, I suggested it to her and she agreed indirectly.”
“I was back east visiting my parents,” Packer said. “But why would none of them tell me they took the class? They knew I’d taken it three years ago. It would be natural to talk about it.”
“Because something happened in that class that none of them wanted to talk about. Something that is getting them all killed.”
“It doesn’t make sense that Claude would kill his former students,” Mare said. “What could possibly have happened that would drive Claude to such lengths?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I pulled out my cell. A single reception bar came up on the screen. I went through the menus and found her number. Her recording answered.
“April, this is Owen McKenna. I know you are in town. You are in danger. You need to immediately go to someplace public where no one would think to look for you. A supermarket or a coffee shop. Then give me a call. But leave first, then call.”
I left my number again and hung up.
“Street, do you have Diamond’s number in your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Please call him and explain what has happened. He will connect you to someone in the Placer County Sheriff’s Department who can make decisions about what we found here. Maybe they can get some detectives up here on snowmobiles if the snow isn’t too deep. But Claude could come back at any time,” I said. “Mare, if you and Street hid in those trees, you would have a sight line to this cabin, but no one would see you. Without your help, the cops may not find this place, it is so well hidden under the trees. You know the territory and the map better than they do. You can talk them over the mountains.”
“Better than that,” Mare said, reaching into her pack. “I’ve got a GPS. I’ll give them the coordinates.”
“Take a roundabout way over there so your tracks aren’t obvious. If Claude comes back, you can warn the cops before they get here. Then you can leave in either direction, and circle around back over the ridge the way we came.”
“What will you do?” Street said.
“Packer and I will go after April. If she calls, we’ll be closer to her. If she doesn’t call, we’ll be knocking on doors trying to find her. Packer will know best who we should contact. In the event it approaches sunset and the cops still haven’t come, I think you should ski back,” I said.
“Absolutely,” Mare said. “We won’t risk a night on the mountain. Even though I always bring survival gear.” She reached into her pack and brought out thin wind-proof anoraks.
I stepped into my ski bindings and locked them down for downhill travel. Packer got on his snowboard.
“Spot will stay with you,” I said to Street.
She nodded, her face very serious.
“Packer, are you ready?”
“Wait,” Mare said. She pulled out her map. “Remember the gentle way we came up and over the ridge? We made a big curve? There’s a better, faster way down.” She pointed at the map. “If you start out here, you’ll find a gradual downward incline over to where this slope opens up. From there it will be a steeper, curving path, first to the east, then it loops around to the west, then south. But it is down all the way. You won’t have to do any climbing.”
“Sounds good to me,” Packer said.
“Okay, we’re off.” I gave Street a quick hug and a kiss. “I’ll ride with Packer. You have keys to the Jeep?”
She nodded and patted her zippered pocket.
“See you tonight.”
Street pulled out her cell to call Diamond. I pushed off with my poles and Packer did the snowboard jerk to get going. We went down the gradual incline to the top of the slope that Mariposa had shown us on the map. We rode next to each other, our speed slow.
“You knew April?” I said.
“Yeah, but not well.”
“Did you know she was in town?” I asked.
“No. March said she was doing a charity thing in the Caribbean.”
“Any of this make sense to you, that March and April maybe took an avalanche class from Claude but didn’t tell you or anyone else about it?”
“No,” Packer said. “Like you said, something must’ve happened in the class.”
“You took one of those classes. Can you imagine what could happen that would drive someone to murder?”
I saw Packer shake his head in my peripheral vision.
We came to the point where the mountain dropped down into a long, steep curving slope that narrowed as it descended.
Packer jerked his board, dropped over the edge, and I followed.
FIFTY-THREE
It took less than ten minutes for Packer and me to make the three-mile trip and twenty-five-hundred-foot descent. We shot out of the Squaw Creek drainage and skidded to a stop where the houses and the village began.
<
br /> Packer moved fast. He pulled his snowboard off and took off running. I grabbed my skis and ran after him. He had the pickup running and was scraping snow and ice off the windshield when I caught up with him. I tossed my skis in the bed and jumped in. He drove while I worked the phone.
I called Uncle Bill first, explained what we’d learned. I tried to break it gently, but I didn’t want to cover up the danger.
“April is here in town?” Bill said. “She’s been here all along? Am I an idiot? How do I mess up so bad? No, I didn’t hear about any avalanche class. How could they take a class and I didn’t even know? If I hadn’t kicked her out, maybe she wouldn’t be in trouble. No, I have no idea where to look for her. No idea. I’ve destroyed everything I ever cared about.”
“Bill,” I interrupted, but he kept talking. “Bill! Shut up and listen! April is probably still alive. If we can find her, we can save her.”
“What should I do?”
“Stay calm and think of where she might be. Go back over everything she said. Anything that seemed unusual or out of place. Anything that could suggest who she might be with.”
“Okay. I’ll try. I’ve failed her in every way.”
“Bill! This isn’t about you! Start thinking!”
I hung up and called Sergeant Bains, and told him about the connection between the victims.
“Claude Sisuug?” he said. “How do you spell that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Google different combinations along with the word avalanche. You’ll turn up something.”
“You got any other address for him besides the mountain shack?”
“No. The guy I’m with, Packer Mills, took Sisuug’s class three years ago. He said that Sisuug is from the Yukon and spent time in the Beartooth Mountains near Red Lodge, Montana.”
“Oh, that makes it real easy.” Bains was silent, no doubt making notes. “Okay, I’ll put the word out on April Carrera and see what I can find. Meantime, you’re looking for her?” he said.
“Yeah. Packer knows her some. He’ll take me around to anyone who knows her.”
