10 Tahoe Trap

by Todd Borg

  With the focus that comes from outrage, I pulled my arms in and tightened my muscles as if to prepare for the most intense cough of my life. In an explosion of movement, I shot up with a roar.

  Garcia jerked back, fear in his eyes. He raised his arms in defense. I slammed into him like a thrown hay bale. He was knocked back. The syringe and bottle flew out of his hands. He hit a counter, spun, and fell to the floor.

  The impact bounced me toward Paco. I had no balance, no strength in my legs. My momentum pushed Paco’s gurney to the side, and I fell across him, my body draping his. I knew he couldn’t breathe with two hundred-plus pounds on his chest and belly. But I didn’t attempt to push up, didn’t even think I could push up. The most important thing was to unstrap Paco’s wrists.

  I squinted, trying to see, rolling on Paco’s little ribs, crushing him, feeling for his arm.

  My hands found Paco’s wrist. I couldn’t focus on the strap. Couldn’t see. My fingers were frantic blind crabs, grasping, groping, feeling for the catch. I got it unhooked, pulled the strap away.

  Again I clenched my gut, trying to send blood pressure to my brain, trying to stay conscious. I shifted, reached toward Paco’s other wrist. Found the strap.

  Other hands grabbed mine.

  Garcia’s fingers were like steel claws digging into the backs of my hands. I worked the catch as Garcia raked my skin with his fingernails. The strap on Paco’s other wrist felt different than the first. It wouldn’t come free. I realized I was facing the other way. I was pulling it the wrong direction.

  My vision went dark. I clenched and tensed and coughed out another bark, and it brought me back just a bit. My hands were dark red. Garcia was gouging me down to the bone.

  The catch came free.

  I summoned one last roar as I slid off Paco. My hands found Garcia’s clothes. I grabbed through slippery fabric, gripped the flesh of Garcia’s thigh as if to tear it from bone.

  The darkness came back. I couldn’t see. But I could feel the pull of gravity as I slid off of Paco. I weighed a thousand pounds. I had no more strength to resist my fall. But I could still hang onto Garcia. I could take him down with me. Give Paco a moment to free himself from the other straps and the tape on his mouth...

  I never felt the impact of the floor, but I became aware of it, cold and hard against my cheek. The salty taste of blood was on my tongue where I’d bit through it. The left sides of my lips were smashed.

  My hands were empty. No fabric. No hard marathon runner’s muscles under my fingers.

  I clenched my gut and coughed, tried to hang onto fleeting consciousness.

  Soft sounds of struggle came from behind me. I managed to roll. The rushed slaps of small shoes on concrete made a staccato rhythm, mimicked by heavier footsteps. A door opened to the distant sounds of traffic out on Lake Tahoe Boulevard.

  I turned and saw Paco pushing the latch on the heavy double door, his tiny weight barely able to budge it. Garcia was running toward him, syringe raised in the air. Paco turned sideways to slip through the narrow opening. As Garcia lunged toward Paco, his arm bumped the light switch. The room went black except for the dim glow coming in from the wet street.

  I summoned a last, shouted, garbled exhalation.

  “DODGE, PACO! DODGE!”

  Paco got through the door.

  Garcia reached it, pushed it open, and stabbed the needle into Paco’s back as Paco spun away. Garcia slipped and fell on the wet concrete. Paco bolted toward the street. Garcia pushed up with the spring of a much younger man and sprinted after him.

  The footsteps receded. The door shut with a blast of cold air washing over me. The room went black, replaced by the vision of the old man sticking the syringe into the little boy as the boy got away. I tried to visualize, tried to remember if Garcia had been able to push the syringe’s plunger in or not. But my brain was shrouded in fog.

  My crawl across the floor was the movement of a snail. Small, pathetic contortions. I oozed forward. Slid my hands on the concrete. Regrouped my legs and body. Oozed again. Repeated.

  Clench the gut. Get blood to the brain. Reach the hands. Push the paralyzed legs. Pull the arms back. Ooze another six inches forward.

  The door was as far away as a distant galaxy. I was a tiny snail-ship lost in the galactic blackness of space.

  Eons later, I hit the door, pushed myself into new, strange contortions, got a hand on the latch and pushed. The door opened.

  The light of dark night was dazzling compared to the blackness of the room. My vision was weak, but I saw Paco in the distance, just visible as I peered between two buildings.

  Paco was out on Highway 50. He was running down the middle of the street in the rain. All four lanes had traffic, moving fast, headlights reflecting off wet pavement. Close behind Paco was Garcia. The little boy was tiny compared to the marathon runner.

  An SUV swerved. Paco gave it a hard hand-smack on its side. Paco spun around its tailgate as it went by.

  The big runner behind him tried to follow.

  Paco sprinted into the oncoming lanes. A small car was next to a bus. The approaching vehicles didn’t slow, didn’t see the little boy against the night. Paco turned sideways, stood still on the dotted white line as the car and bus went on either side of him. Both drivers saw him at the last moment, veering away, giving him space.

  Garcia stayed on the double yellow center line, the safest spot between the pulsing, rushing flow of traffic.

  Paco saw an opportunity. He sprinted toward a break in the traffic, and he was able to make some distance down an empty stretch of asphalt.

  Garcia saw the movement, anticipated Paco’s intention, gave pursuit. It only took a few seconds for Garcia to close the gap.

  Five or six cars were coming one way, close on each other, making an impassible obstruction on both lanes of eastbound traffic. In the westbound lanes were two motorcycles followed by a pair of pickups side-by-side. All were speeding at 40 or 45 miles-per-hour.

  Paco sprinted through a moving corridor between the motorcycles and the pickups. There was just enough room to make it. Garcia followed.

  Paco stayed in the moving corridor as Garcia charged forward with confidence, the big runner about to grab the little kid.

  Then Paco made an instantaneous turn, darted between the motorcycles, stiff-arming the closest rider. The big cyclist on his heavy machine barely swerved, but Paco used the blow like a ricochet changing his direction. He shot backward against the traffic, heading for the narrow space between the onrushing pickups.

  He was still moving at an angle, and he had too much inertia to avoid being hit. But he raised his arm up across his chest and shoulder-slammed the rear fender of the pickup. The blow bounced him off the truck and back into an open area of the highway where there were no vehicles.

  Garcia jerked his head to see where Paco was going. But that movement caused him to lose his position. One pickup caught him, the corner of its bumper square in Garcia’s thigh. Garcia bounced, screaming, to the pavement, and he rolled under the rear wheel of the other pickup.

  Paco jogged to the side of the highway, reached over his shoulder and pulled the syringe out of his back. His energy and the time elapsed told me that Garcia hadn’t gotten the plunger pushed in.

  I collapsed on the floor.

  EPILOGUE

  Ten days later, we gathered at Aggie’s Green early in the morning. Pam Sagan coordinated the process and made sure that, at the appointed time, José Castillo’s family and Rafael Vargas’s family were there, along with the local auto dealer who delivered the two used vans, the purchase of which Sagan had arranged.

  We put everybody into the vans. José’s father Ernesto drove the Ford with his four kids, and Rafael’s mother Palma drove the Chevy with her two kids. The kids, especially Ernesto’s, were a robust group, laughing and joking as one might expect with children who ranged in age from a bit younger than Paco up to maybe fourteen or fifteen.

  Paco wanted to ride with Palma’s f
amily, and Pam Sagan joined them, so Street and Spot and I got some quality time as a threesome in the Jeep.

  “Is that veterinarian’s son still alive?” Street asked me as we led the caravan up into the Sierra.

  I nodded. “Doc Lee talked to the guys in Reno. The donor they found wasn’t a perfect match, but the drugs to help prevent rejection are working. Sounds like he might make it. If so, he will get to spend most of his life in prison for complicity in Paco’s kidnapping. Who knows, maybe his cell mates will be Salt and Pepper.”

  “How’s Paco dealing with it?” Street asked.

  “He’s still emotionally shut down, but he’s thawing a bit. I think he’s coming to realize that it was his ideas that allowed us to trap Salt and Pepper. And it was his running and dodging ability that allowed him to escape a strong, experienced runner.”

  “He learned that he has some control over his day-to-day life as well as his future,” Street said.

  “Let’s hope so,” I said.

  The drive to Tahoe’s North Shore took three and a half hours. Robert Whitehall’s gate was open, and he was waiting with Diamond. I led the caravan into the big paving-stone drive with its multiple parking areas surrounded by Jeffrey pines.

  The Castillos and the Vargases had wide eyes as they walked into the concrete-and-glass mansion on the beach. Except for soft murmured exclamations, the children were now silent.

  I introduced Diamond to all of them. He was in his civilian clothes, so nobody seemed intimidated. He and I chatted with Pam over by the lakeside windows. The rain had paused, and we could see all the way to the mountains of the South Shore.

  Whitehall directed everybody to sit and relax. They sat. They did not relax.

  Paco was the exception. He lounged on the blue hearth of the fireplace looking very cool with his new replacement Oakleys perched on the top of his head. Street sat next to him.

  Spot trotted around sniffing everybody and everything. Whitehall pet him with both hands, then raised up his hands and looked at all the little white and black hairs. Whitehall shrugged, then wiped his hands off on his expensive slacks. Impressive.

  Whitehall had brought in a catering company, and one of their young women, a Hispanic girl who chatted in Spanish with the assembled crowd, served soft drinks.

  Then Whitehall stood to the side of the fireplace, ready to speak. The worried stress of a defeated old man that permeated his being when I was last at his house was gone, replaced by the vigor of a man in charge of a small but important part of the world. A vigor that I hoped would stay with him for another decade or more.

  “Hi, I’m Robert Whitehall, and I’m very pleased to meet all of you. I know you’re hungry, so we’ll get to lunch soon. We’ve only just met now, but I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with Ernesto Castillo and Palma Vargas over the last several days. We’ve assembled here today so that I can tell you the results of our inquiries.

  “I have a foundation that funds some things here and there, and the best part of my job is that I get to pick which things those are. Today, we’re here because Paco and his foster mother Cassie created a business that I felt was worth funding. Although I should add that I didn’t have to fund much beyond a little of my time and those used vans you came in. You can think of me as more of a facilitator.

  “Some time back, I signed up for Cassie’s Field To Fridge delivery program,” Whitehall continued, “and for months, I’ve enjoyed the best vegetables anyone could imagine.”

  Paco sat up a bit straighter and raised his hand.

  “Yes, sir?” Whitehall said.

  “Everything we brought you was fruit,” Paco said in a voice that, if not strong, wasn’t meek, either.

  “Fruit? Really?”

  Paco nodded.

  “How does one tell?”

  “Vegetables are like onions, and carrots, and spinach. Stuff without seeds.”

  Whitehall thought about. “Certainly, if you say so, it must be. All the produce I get has seeds, so it’s fruit.”

  Paco nodded again.

  A sudden little shriek of surprise came from one of the catering women working back in the kitchen. We all turned to see Spot come trotting back from the direction of the kitchen, licking his chops. Whitehall’s eyes did that aimless wander in space that meant he was suddenly reassessing his house from the perspective of what a very tall dog might find. But he didn’t express concern.

  Whitehall’s eyes refocused on the assembled crowd, and he continued to speak.

  “We were all deeply saddened that Cassie Moreno died. This meant that Paco lost the only family he had. It turns out that Cassie left no will, but the most valuable thing she owned was the Field To Fridge business. Because Paco helped her build it, and because Paco was her only family, and...” Whitehall paused to give emphasis to his next point, “because Paco is the only one who really knows what is involved in running the business and keeping the customers happy, the Field To Fridge business logically belongs to him.

  “With Paco’s permission, I’ve had a lawyer put together business papers and file the forms with the state of California. Field To Fridge is now part of an official corporation, and Paco is the majority owner with fifty-one percent. He will acquire the power to make all decisions when he turns twenty-one.

  “It turns out that one of the most valuable items that Field To Fridge sells is a wonderful tomato that Cassie and Paco developed called Cassie’s Amazement. One of their customers over on the West Shore owns a restaurant chain and a produce distribution company. I spoke to the owner. Now, with Paco’s permission, that company has purchased the rights to market Cassie’s Amazements nationwide.”

  Next to me, Pam Sagan was beaming.

  “In the meantime, because of Cassie’s death, Paco lost his place to live. However, it turns out that the farm and the two houses on it were for sale.

  “With the proceeds from the sale of the rights to Cassie’s Amazements, we were able to purchase that farm in Paco’s name. I won’t bore you with the details. But the lawyer arranged the paperwork so that Ernesto and his family can live in the front house, while Palma and her family can live in the back house with Paco. Ernesto and Palma have agreed to take over management of the Field To Fridge business, and, after some years, they will own forty-nine percent of the corporation. All of you children will be able to help as your parents see fit.”

  Spot appeared by Paco’s side and lay down on the hard concrete floor. Paco shifted on the hearth, lifted his legs in the air, and rested his shoes on Spot’s back. A couple of the other kids giggled.

  Whitehall said, “I would also like you to know that Paco told me a little secret. He’s given me permission to tell it to you.”

  Both parents and kids were suddenly very focused on Whitehall, their eyes darting from him to Paco and back.

  Whitehall grinned. “It turns out that there is money in this produce business. Even though Paco has been going to school, he’s also been earning money for his work with Field To Fridge.

  “Do you kids want to know how much Paco saved from his work in the last year and a half?”

  Several of the kids nodded. Some said, “Yeah.”

  “Over four thousand dollars,” Whitehall said. “How would you like to make that kind of money?”

  They stared at Paco with astonishment. Paco couldn’t have played it more cool. No big deal on his face.

  “And there’s another side to the money. We’ve set up a system where a certain percentage of earnings gets put aside for an education account for each of you kids.

  “My foundation is going to match those contributions three to one. In other words, for every thousand dollars that goes into each child’s education account, my foundation adds three more. Those accounts get invested in various markets. The results depend on the returns, but by the time you kids graduate high school, there should be substantial funds available for college.

  “So,” Whitehall continued, excitement in his voice. “Let me tell you about your
business!

  “Mr. McKenna gave me the list of Cassie’s clients. I called them all and explained that Paco and his friends’ families were going to continue Field To Fridge, and I asked if they would like to continue being clients. Do you know what they said?”

  Whitehall grinned. Tahoe’s local rock star and ball player and TV talk show host couldn’t have found a more rapt audience.

  “Every one of them said that they would like to continue. Five of them said that they wanted to increase their weekly orders. And seven of them said that they knew multiple other people who wanted in. So I called those people, and the Field To Fridge client list is now double what it was before. That’s why you need two vans.”

  The kids were still looking at Paco, probably dreaming of his bank account, which was actually still a wad of cash that I was holding for him.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Whitehall said. “I learned from Principal Pam Sagan that there is a question about proper paperwork to keep our government happy regarding Paco’s residency, and, it turns out, Ernesto and Palma’s residency, too. So I collected the information on how long you’ve all been in this country, and I got statements from your employers. I took these to some friends of mine who happen to be senators and congressmen. Now here is where it gets a bit tricky to explain.

  “As you know, in this country, right or wrong – just like in most countries – money buys influence. I’m a little uncomfortable with that. So I didn’t say that I was going to give any money to any re-election campaigns. I simply explained that I’ve been looking to expand my company’s manufacturing operations, and I decided that instead of outsourcing my needs to Chinese companies, I’m going to build a new plant in the Central Valley where there is a work force with a good work ethic. I let my friends know that doing the right thing is very important to me.

  “The end result is that yesterday I got a call from a senator’s office. I was told that they found a way to get the three of you into a program that leads to citizenship.”