Tahoe Deathfall

by Todd Borg

I turned into the park that is south of the Salazar mansion and stopped in the same place I parked when Jen­nifer and I went for the boat ride.

  The beach, wide, calm and sandy before, was cov­ered in foam from the crashing waves. The huge dark roll­ers had twelve miles to build their fury as they came across from Emerald Bay. The waves had white caps that vanished when the wind gusts blew them off. When the waves broke on the beach, the wind whipped the icy spray into the air, mixed it with snow and flung it a hundred feet into the woods.

  I opened the VW’s door and stepped out. Spot jumped out after me. The assault of the spring storm was furious. My windbreaker was immediately soaked with icy snow and spray. I leaned back in the open door. “You should stay with Alicia,” I said to Street.

  “No way. Wherever you’re going, you’re going to need help in this storm.”

  “Spot will come with me.”

  “So will I.”

  “Street...

  “She’s right,” Alicia suddenly said. She started tak­ing off Street’s coat. “If I can survive thirteen years in an insane asylum, I can manage for awhile in a car. Leave me the keys. I can run the engine for warmth.” She handed Street her coat. “Go. Stay with him.”

  Street pulled on her coat and jumped out of the car.

  I saw no point in arguing.

  “Oh,” Street said. She leaned back in the car door and spoke to Alicia. “I have a bunch of candy bars in the glove box. They’ll help you stay warm.”

  “It will help you, too,” Alicia said. She opened the glove box. “I’ll take two, you take the rest.” She thrust them into Street’s hands.

  Street and I ran down the shore toward where the tall Salazar fence ended in the water. Spot was ahead of us. When we got there I yelled over the roar of the wind. “We have to go into the water to get around this fence. I’ll carry you.”

  Street looked at me with amazement. “This is no time to put on the chivalry act.”

  “Damnit, Street, this isn’t chivalry! The water is dangerously cold! And there’s no point in both of us get­ting wet when only one of us has to. If we get in trouble you’ll be a hell of a lot more help to me if you’re not suf­fering from hypothermia!”

  Street acquiesced. I picked her up, rushed into the water around the fence and set her back down in the snow.

  “I didn’t mean to yell,” I said as we ran on down the shore.

  “You were right,” Street said, panting.

  When we got to the boathouse I rushed out on the pier and tried the doors. Locked. I ran around the far side to try the other doors. One was shut. The other was blow­ing in the wind, slamming in staccato bursts against the boathouse wall.

  I looked inside the building. It was too dark to see anything. Spot stuck his nose in next to me, sniffed and walked slowly into the dark. I felt around for the light switch, found it and flipped it on just as Street appeared.

  “What are we doing?” she asked.

  I pointed at the slip where water slapped against the pier. “The powerboat is gone.” I went across the walk­way at the back of the boathouse to the other pier. “We have to catch it. We’ll take the runabout.” I started unleashing the lines that held it in place.

  “Wait, Owen.” Street said, alarm in her voice. “No way is this little boat big enough to take out in this storm. It will swamp in those waves.”

  I untied the lines.

  “Shouldn’t we check the house first?” Street said.

  “No need to with the powerboat gone.”

  I looked around for life jackets. They were hanging on a wall. I got out of the boat and fetched several of them.

  “Owen, did you look at those waves? Are you blind? I don’t want to die.”

  “Me neither,” I said. “But we have no choice. If we hurry, we might save Jennifer. If we don’t, she dies for sure.”

  I threw the life jackets in the runabout and then spied a spare gas tank near a storage locker. I checked the gauge. It was full. I put it in the boat. “You can stay here,” I said. “Spot and I will go alone. But it would be better if you came. This boat can use the extra ballast. Riding lower will mean less profile to the wind. With these waves we’ll be taking on water and need a baler as well.” I grabbed a small bucket that hung on the wall and tossed it in the runabout.

  On the side wall hung several rubberized storm coats. I slipped one on, my arms poking eight inches out of the sleeves, and pulled the rest off the wall. I threw all but one of them in the boat. “Are you coming?” I said, holding out the last storm coat.

  Street turned and looked out the side door at the howling wind. “Yes,” she said. She walked around to my side of the boathouse.

  I held the storm coat out so she could put her arms into the sleeves. Then she climbed down into the boat.

  “Where do you want me to sit?”

  “We’ll be most stable if you sit in the bow seat. But pull the hood up and face backward, with your back to the wind. The spray will hit you on your back.”

  I got down into the boat and sat next to Street for a moment. I kissed her. “Sorry I’m so brusque.”

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  “I’m afraid for Jennifer,” I said.

  “Me, too. Here, eat a candy bar, eat two of them.”

  I grabbed the candy, stuffed one in my mouth, moved to the rear seat and bent over to start the outboard engine, a 40 horsepower relic. It was old, but it would move the runabout along at a decent speed if it worked. I found the priming pump on the gas line coming from the tank and squeezed it several times. Then I pulled on the cord. Over and over. Nothing happened. I twisted the throttle and pulled again. The engine was lifeless. I stopped and looked it over. On the lower left side was a black knob. The choke. I pulled it out and the engine started on the next pull.

  “Can you reach the door button?” I said to Street as I unhooked the last line. I pointed to it on the pier next to her. She leaned over and touched it. A motor whined above us and the boathouse door creaked and then rose up into the ceiling.

  “Spot,” I said. He came running over. “Lie down.” I pointed at the space between my seat and Street’s. Spot hesitated at the edge of the pier, lowering his head to see just what kind of craziness I was suggesting. Then he reached out one tentative paw and half-stepped, half-leaped into the boat. The runabout leaned precariously in the water as he shifted his bulk and finally lowered him­self onto the pile of storm coats on the keel of the boat. I tossed one of the coats over his body. He needed to con­serve heat as much as we did. I twisted the throttle grip and eased us out into the worst weather Lake Tahoe had seen in months.

  Dark waves smashed across the bow of the run­about as I brought the speed up. The boat plowed up each wave and then plunged down into the troughs between them. I twisted the throttle and the boat surged forward. We almost jumped off the next wave and slammed into the leading edge of the following one. The blow to us and the boat was severe. I backed off on the throttle and found a speed that was jarring but acceptable. Maintaining this speed into the wind, we headed out into the lake.

  Street huddled at the front of the boat. Spray soaked her. An occasional wave crashed over the boat and smashed across her back. She jerked with surprise and then braced herself for the next. Spot put his head down as if curling into a circle were the best way to endure such torture. Periodically, he lifted his nose to the storm. I kept us into the wind and kept a lookout for the power boat.

  I had no idea where it might be. My only guideline was that the powerboat would head for deep water. But with most of Lake Tahoe over 1,300 feet to the bottom, that left a lot of territory. In the end I thought the power­boat, large as it was, would head directly into the wind to make the ride easier. If we stayed into the wind we’d pos­sibly follow in its tracks.

  The snow intensified as we got farther from shore. I could no longer see the land behind us. I was piloting the boat as I did the plane, by dead reckoning.

  The snow slowly took o
n a gray quality. At first I wondered if we were coming near the lights of another boat. Then I realized it was dawn. I couldn’t see anything but snow in all directions. Periodically, I veered off my course and the runabout bounced furiously as we cut the waves at an angle. I steered directly back into the howling wind to reduce the violence of the boat’s motion. Waves were breaking over us, splashing gallons of water into the runabout. The rear of the boat sat lowest, so the water we were shipping rushed to the stern and was now over my shoes. I grabbed the bucket and bailed as I drove.

  As we crested the top of each wave, I looked out into the storm, scanning left and right trying to see the powerboat. There was nothing but snow. We’d gone maybe a mile or more into the lake and, except for the wind direction, we were lost.

  Once or twice the outboard coughed and I thought we’d lost any chance of saving Jennifer. Then it came back to life and we continued on, up the crests of the waves, then crashing back down. The boat groaned. I heard wood splintering.

  Street said nothing, stoical as statuary at the front of the boat. Spot looked around at me several times, won­dering, no doubt, if I’d finally lost it. A wave crashed over him and he put his head down and lifted his paw across his nose. The water was now over my ankles and reached Spot’s paws. I thought of asking Street to bale, but I wor­ried that if she let go with either hand she would be swept overboard.

  We fought our way into the gray storm for another 30 minutes. The water in the runabout was now over Spot’s elbows and eight inches up my calves. I was sure that we’d missed the powerboat. We should have come upon it by now.

  We must have been in the middle of the lake, half­way to Emerald Bay, when through the snow storm came a sound that cut the wind and motor noise like a clarion bell.

  A woman screamed.

  Spot jerked his head up and growled.

  “Quiet!” I whispered to him.

  I had a vague sense that it came from in front of us. Street turned around, knees on the seat and hands on the gunnels. She pointed to the right. I turned the outboard and we curved off, splitting the waves at an acute angle. The little boat slammed terribly in this new posture. The wind and waves and motor noise were so loud in concert that I heard nothing else. I throttled back just a touch, hoping to reduce the motor noise. We still heard nothing. And at the top of each wave I looked but saw nothing except snow.

  Then came another scream.

  It was a slow agonizing cry that rose and fell and turned to a wailing before it stopped. The emotion in it was so excruciating that it crumbled a part of my interior. A vision insinuated itself into my mind. Hopper’s young woman was being tortured in a darkened theater by a maniac. Then Hopper’s woman morphed into Jennifer and the theater faded into a gray blizzard. I tried to see the powerboat, but saw only furious gray flakes. Street ges­tured ahead to the left.

  I twisted the throttle and we shot ahead. The run­about climbed up the waves and slammed down, again and again. Spot was sitting partway up. His front feet were spread wide for stability. Street faced forward, clutching the gunnels of the lurching boat. Suddenly, she pointed.

  I looked but saw nothing. I kept the boat heading where she pointed. Spot growled again. Then I saw it.

  Off in the blinding blizzard was a dark shape. I could not make it look like anything but a shadow. Grad­ually, it turned into a boat. I twisted the outboard grip to full throttle. The other boat was broadside to us, rocking violently in the waves. Something moved on the boat. The movement took on distinct form. It was at the stern. Two people struggling. One pushed the other down. A gargled scream rose up to our ears. We raced closer. Spot was standing up high, trying to see. He growled louder. I pointed our boat toward the stern of the powerboat. The person who was down got up. The two people struggled violently. Someone grunted. Then one bent down, grabbed a leg of the other and toppled the person over­board. The person on board bent down, struggled to pick something else up, then threw it overboard. There was a deep chunking sound and then nothing but the wind.

  We came up to the stern of the powerboat. The remaining person was moving toward the front of the boat, reaching toward the steering wheel. I throttled back and our boat bumped the powerboat. Street jumped up into the bigger craft.

  “Careful, Street!” I yelled. But my attention was distracted by a coiled yellow line that was rapidly running out of the powerboat and into the black water. Spot saw it at the same time. He leaped into the dark water as the end of the line flashed up into the air and then snaked beneath the dark waves.

  I heard the distinctive sound of Spot’s jaws snap­ping twice, then nothing. He tried to swim, but his big white, polka-dotted body sunk into the blackness, pulled by the yellow line in his teeth. I took a quick glance at Street and saw her struggling with the other person.

  I instinctively gauged where the greatest threat lay, and I leaped into Lake Tahoe.

  THIRTY-FIVE