Tahoe Deathfall

by Todd Borg

The sudden immersion in ice water was an aston­ishing shock. But I swam down into the depths looking with open eyes to locate Spot. There, fifteen feet down, was his white hulk. He was trying to swim to the surface, but the line in his teeth was pulling him down into the black abyss.

  I kicked furiously and swam down next to him. My right hand closed around the line in his mouth while my left touched his side. Spot seemed to understand. He continued to hold onto the line and the two of us swam upwards, dragging the line.

  It felt like it must have an anchor attached. My lungs burned. My body weakened as the pain of no air began to crush my spirit. But I took strength from Spot. If he was willing to go down with the victim below, I would, too. My vision was going as the surface grew near. I saw a dark shape nearby and took it to be a boat. Then my head was above the water and I sucked air as if I’d never breathed before. Spot’s head came out next to me, and still gripping the line in his teeth, he snorted and choked through his nose. I reached up and grabbed the water-skier’s ledge at the back of the power boat. With my other hand I pulled the line up and wrapped it around a cleat. Still gasping for air I yelled at Spot.

  “I’ve got it, Spot. Get in the boat. Fast!” I reached for him and propelled him toward the boat ledge. He looked at me, the line still in his teeth. “Let go, Spot. I’ve got it.” He hesitated and then let go.

  He put his front feet on the ledge, claws scraping fiberglass. Holding onto the ledge, I raised my legs under the water. Spot’s rear legs pushed off my thighs and he jumped into the boat. He turned toward me, but I pointed toward the front of the boat. “Help Street. Go help Street.” Spot bounded for­ward. I heard a growl as I rolled up and over onto the ledge.

  The end of the line was still in my hand, holding it from snaking out around the cleat. I braced myself against the back of the boat and began hauling the line in, hand over hand.

  The line looked like a ski rope which I guessed was 75 feet long. I pumped my arms, about two feet of line with each pull. The weight on the rope seemed to get heavier. I didn’t know what was tied to the rope, but I knew it wasn’t just a person. Fatigue burned in my biceps. As the pain grew I went into a kind of trance, counting every two feet, trying to get to seventy-five. Faster and faster. A sharp pain grew in the web of muscles across my back. The muscles knotted up, but I kept pulling.

  Next thing I knew, other arms were working with me. Street had joined me, meshing her pulls with mine and lessening the work for me. Together we speeded up the pace. My counting got to sixty. Sixty-two, sixty-four, sixty-six.

  At sixty-eight something appeared. It was the per­son tied to the line. Or maybe a body. We tugged and brought it to the surface.

  Jennifer. Her long hair swirled lifeless in the black water. We pulled on her but her body was too heavy to easily come aboard. Then we saw the reason.

  The line went around her leg in a series of knots and then stretched tight to a concrete block down below.

  “Hang on!” Street yelled.

  I was too tired to protest. I hung on as told. Street went back behind me and then reappeared. She jumped into the water and swam under Jennifer. I saw a flash of knife and then the line suddenly got much lighter. The concrete block shot down into the depths.

  I pulled Jennifer up out of the water and into the blizzard. She tumbled to the floor of the boat. I turned her sideways and squeezed the water out of her chest. She was as cold as her mother had been a few hours earlier. I felt for and found a weak pulse. But unlike her mother, Jenni­fer wasn’t breathing. I filled her lungs with my breaths, in and out. She had a heartbeat and I wasn’t going to let her die.

  For endless minutes I breathed into her cold body, unwilling to give her up. I was oblivious to what was hap­pening around me, oblivious to the lurching and rocking of the boat in the waves. I didn’t feel the snow and I was unaware of the cold. All I knew at that moment was that Jennifer was alive, but not breathing.

  She will breathe, I said to myself. She will breathe. I worked those lungs for her, in and out. I got light headed. She will breathe.

  The snow came down as if to bury us. Gusts of wind sucked the air from my lungs. With each giant wave the powerboat rocked violently. My body was wracked with cramps. But I willed her to breathe.

  And she did.

  Jennifer gave a weak choking cry and coughed up water. Then her chest rose and fell as if to never stop, and I bent down and held her while she came to life.

  Some minutes later I was aware that the boat had stopped rocking so violently and that a new sound filled the air. I took off my cold wet storm coat and laid it over Jennifer. Then I found another and put it around her. I had no hot drink to warm her. I pulled a seat cushion off and slipped it under Jennifer’s head.

  Slowly I raised up and looked forward. In the dull light of dawn I saw Street at the wheel, piloting the power­boat downwind through the snow storm. Next to her stood Spot, standing guard over a motionless figure on the floor of the boat. The person was wearing a dark coat and the collar blocked my view of the face. I was reluctant to leave Jennifer, but I went forward.

  Even up close, I could not see past the fabric to the face of the murderer. I put my hand on Spot’s back as I leaned down. He didn’t move. I reached out and pulled the collar away to see two intense eyes staring up at the dog and then at me.

  Gramma Salazar.

  EPILOGUE