Tahoe Killshot

by Todd Borg

  The next shot came with frightening precision as if the shooter had a night scope. The round blew through the towel-covered broom. It exploded the floor lamp by the rocker and thudded into the log wall above the woodstove.

  My breath was short. A shooter at night is like a punch in the gut. I struggled to breathe.

  I grabbed my cell phone and pen light and hustled Spot out the back door. His movements were slow and stiff. Blood ran out from under the duct tape that encircled his chest.

  We headed for the dark forest behind my cabin. The forest fire burn from the year before left us exposed in the dull moonlight that was coming through a cloud bank to the west. I ran through the open burn. Spot lagged behind. He whimpered. On the far side of the burn, we plunged into dense blackness under the pine and fir. I knew the path well and followed it by instinct into the forest.

  The trail went down at a shallow angle. It followed the contours of the land until it reconnected with the communal driveway several hundred yards below my cabin. I stopped before the drive and touched Spot on the nose to signal silence. The shooter may already have checked the cabin and discovered me gone. He could be walking down the drive, looking through night-vision goggles, waiting for us to step out.

  Spot’s left front leg shook. His ears were down and back. He telegraphed none of his usual power. He was weak from the trauma of the gunshot and the loss of blood.

  I took his collar and jogged to the drive, dragging him with me. We sprinted across what felt like a flood-lit stage, and ran into the forest on the other side. Spot limped.

  No shots were fired.

  When we were out of range from anybody listening, I turned on the cell, dialed Street’s numbers and left messages.

  “Street, sweetheart. Someone is after me, and I’m concerned they may come after you. You should get in your car and leave. Don’t answer the door and don’t let anyone stop you in your car. Try to get Diamond or Mallory on your cell. Go to one of the hotels and check in. Stay there until I can reach you.”

  I hung up and called Diamond.

  “What you got?” he said.

  “A shooter at my cabin. Missed me, but winged Spot pretty bad. He’s got a deep groove in his flesh. We got out the back door. We’re on the bike trail that traverses the mountain to the north.”

  “Okay, hold that,” Diamond said. I heard him talking on his radio, the radio he wasn’t supposed to be using, telling dispatch to send deputies up to my cabin although we both knew the shooter would be gone.

  “I’m back,” Diamond said. “What’s your plan?”

  “I need to get Spot to Doc Siker fast. Can you pick me up?”

  “Where?”

  “This trail goes down at a slight angle and intersects Highway Fifty just south of Glenbrook. It’ll take me awhile to walk it in the dark. Give me an hour. If you come along slowly with your turn signal on, I’ll know it’s you. I’ll give you three flashes on my penlight.”

  THIRTY

  Spot and I were in the trees just off the highway when Diamond came along in his pickup, his feeble yellow turn signal flashing.

  I hit the button on the penlight. He pulled over and jumped out. Spot was too weak or in too much pain to climb into the pickup. Diamond helped me get him up into the seat, lying on his right side. I got in, then pulled him over my lap so Diamond could get in behind the wheel. We three packed the seat wall-to-wall.

  Diamond said, “I called Doc Siker and asked if he could work on Spot down at Solomon Reed’s place. Safer to get you and your hound out of the Tahoe Basin.”

  “Siker okay with that?”

  “Yeah. He says the equipment for horses and cows is a little different, but the procedures are the same. He’ll meet us there.”

  Diamond headed over Spooner Summit, then coasted down the long slope toward the glittering lights of Carson City 3000 feet below.

  “I got a phone call right before the shooting,” I said.

  “From the shooter?”

  “Yeah.” I told Diamond what the caller said and tried to describe the strange voice quality.

  “A computer voice?”

  “No. Less real.”

  “Male?”

  “No. Not female, either. Medium high, metallic sounding.”

  “Like a robot in a sci-fi movie?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hard to figure it out,” Diamond said. “The shooter is outside your cabin, calls you on his cell and what, plays a tape recording of a robot voice into the phone just before he shoots?”

  “Or else there were two people.”

  “Could the caller have a kazoo in his mouth as he spoke? Or something that would buzz like waxed paper?”

  “I don’t think so. The sound was more synthetic,” I said.

  We got to the bottom of the desert valley, turned south toward Minden and Gardnerville and eventually turned into a dark parking lot in front of a building with blue metal siding. A small sign said Solomon Reed, Large Animal Veterinary Hospital.

  Dick Siker’s SUV was already parked by the door.

  I opened the door and squeezed out from under Spot. He cried.

  I heard a door open and turned to see Dick Siker approaching. “Owen. Diamond,” he said. He came around to look in on Spot. “Duct tape,” he muttered.

  Spot looked up at the words, concern on his face.

  “Going to be fun getting duct tape off, huh, Spot?” Dick leaned into the pickup and ran his hands over Spot, checking those things that vets check.

  Spot looked worried.

  Dick turned on a flashlight, lifted up Spot’s jowls, pressed on his gums and watched the color slowly return. He placed a stethoscope on Spot’s chest and listened. “He’s pale, but he’s breathing okay.” Dick gestured toward the duct tape. “Last time I tried to remove a bandage like that it was packing tape wrapped around the leg of a Jack Russell terrier. Almost lost a couple fingers that day. This is going to be harder to get off. Duct tape bonds to fur.”

  “I was in a hurry,” I said.

  “So I see. Let me go get a sedative.”

  He went inside and returned with a syringe. Spot didn’t budge as Dick, working under the pickup’s dome light, found a place to make the injection.

  Five minutes later, Spot was placid, and the three of us walked him inside and helped him up onto a table. Doc Siker began to try to pull the duck tape off. It didn’t come. He pulled harder. A corner came loose along with the ripping sound of hair pulling out. Spot cried again.

  “Okay,” Dick said. “We’ll go to plan B. Have to be careful, though, when I get to the wound. You think it is pretty much centered under the tape?”

  “Not sure,” I said. “It was dark. A guy was shooting at us.”

  “I understand. You better hold Spot’s head.”

  I came around the table and held Spot while Dick started working a hair clipper under the edge of the duct tape. Spot cried louder. As soon as a portion of the tape was loosened, Dick cut it off and held it out for Spot to smell.

  “See, boy? Nothing to be alarmed at.”

  Spot sniffed it, then turned away. He cried out twice more as Dick worked with the clipper. Dick gradually worked the tape, and the blood-soaked paper towel underneath it, free.

  “Ouch,” Dick said when he saw the wound. “Sorry, Spot, but the duct tape was the easy part. You’re not going to like me working on this at all. Owen, maybe you should hold this guy’s head a little tighter. Never know when he gets hungry for my arm.”

  I held Spot’s head while Dick washed the wound and applied disinfectant. He injected anesthetic in several places, then hooked up an IV. In another five minutes, he began stitching. Despite the sedative and numbing injections, Spot squirmed. Dick used a big needle and pulled coarse thread through my dog’s hide like he was stitching the thick leather on a baseball glove. Maybe that was what made us talk about baseball in our effort to sound calm for Spot.

  Our conversation moved from the Yankees to the Dodgers and then to
Sandy Koufax and whether he was merely the best pitcher of his day or the greatest pitcher ever. By the time we’d decided on the latter, Dick had made repairs to Spot’s muscle down to his rib bones, and Spot sported more stitches over his shaved hide than a baseball.

  When we were done, we discussed whether or not I should leave Spot at the vet hospital. Dick said I could take him, but only if I were very careful of the wound and made certain that Spot got plenty to eat and drink. He stressed that Spot had lost significant blood and would take a long time to heal. I thanked Dick and made myself a mental note to include some fine wine when I paid the bill.

  Diamond and I got Spot back into the pickup.

  “Where to?” Diamond said.

  “We need a place to stay.”

  “Hotels don’t like dogs,” Diamond said. “The guy could find you if you stayed in a motel.”

  “If he’s determined,” I said.

  My cell phone rang. I looked at Diamond as I answered it.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “I have your cell number, too,” the robot voice said.

  I motioned to Diamond and leaned toward him so he could put his ear next to mine and listen in.

  I said, “I’m going to nail your ass to the wall.”

  The synthetic voice made a witch-like cackle. “Oh, that’s good, McKenna. You’re a funny guy to say that when I own your future. I own your dog’s future, too, and your girlfriend’s future.” The voice cackled again, a harsh, chattering laugh that rose to a crescendo before the caller hung up.

  I dialed Street’s numbers again. She answered her cell. “Owen, I got your message. What happened?” She sounded frantic.

  I explained about Spot.

  “Spot got shot?!”

  “He’s okay. Dick Siker stitched him up. Where are you?”

  “I checked into Caesars.”

  “Good. Be very careful. Don’t answer your door for anyone you don’t know. Not even room service.”

  “You think I’m really in danger?” she asked.

  “I don’t want to take any chances. I had a caller. He referred to my girlfriend. I don’t know if he would actually come after you, but he’s obviously dangerous.”

  “Okay, I’ll stay here until you think otherwise.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Not what you bargained for, being with me.”

  “You’re worth it. Spot, too. Where will you stay?”

  “I’ll figure out something.”

  We spoke for some time. Eventually, she calmed. I reassured her that Spot and I would be safe.

  After we hung up, I set my phone on the dashboard.

  “Dude on the phone was creepy,” Diamond said.

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  “Could give a guy bad dreams,” he said.

  “Only if a guy has a place to sleep,” I said.

  “You need to go into hiding.”

  “Right. In a place where this guy would be reluctant to break into if he found out.”

  There was a pause.

  “Like a sheriff’s deputy’s house,” Diamond said.

  “He wouldn’t even know I was there.”

  “But if he did...” Diamond trailed off.

  “Back in San Francisco we had a saying, ‘Shoot a cop, start a war.’ This guy probably doesn’t want a war.”

  Diamond started the pickup and turned south toward Minden. We stopped at a supermarket where I bought several cans of dog food. Then we went to Diamond’s house. It was off a little street that was off another little street.

  Diamond pulled into a narrow driveway that ran between a thick hedge and the side of his small, stucco house. Diamond’s backyard was dark and private. He turned behind the house, parked under a cottonwood tree and next to a car wrapped in a tarp.

  I gestured toward the tarp. “Is that your Karmann Ghia?”

  Diamond nodded. “The terror of Carson Valley. Kids in their Camaros hide when I go cruising in the Orange Flame.”

  Diamond let us in the back door. He showed Spot a thick rug that lay on top of the living room carpet. Spot carefully lowered himself down onto his right side so the wound on the left faced up.

  I pet his head. “You want some dinner?”

  Spot ignored me. Diamond opened a can, scooped some food out onto a plate and put it in front of Spot’s nose. He moaned and turned his head away.

  “Okay, maybe later,” I said.

  “Your Jeep is at your cabin,” Diamond said as he handed me a Pacifico beer. “Probably the shooter knows what it looks like. You can use the Orange Flame if you want.”

  “How’s it running?”

  “Like a border jumper trying to make it to Tucson before dawn.”

  “Last I recall, it was up on blocks.”

  “I had to weld in a patch for part of the floor pan that rusted away,” Diamond said. He looked at me like he was sizing up my length. “Only problem is, you’ll have to slouch. And don’t stomp on the brake or your foot may go through my floor repair and hit the road.” Diamond picked up his radio. “Let me see what’s happening at your cabin.”

  He spoke for some time, then turned to me. “Rockport and Linetco and a couple other deputies are about done up there. They didn’t find anything but the mess. They’re short on lights, so they’ll look for shell casings in the morning. Rockport is coming down to the valley and is wondering if you want anything.”

  “Can he bring the puzzle?”

  Diamond relayed my request and turned off the radio.

  “You think the shooter will try to get at me through Street?” I said.

  “Like during the forest fires? Maybe. But kidnapping is messy business and leaves lots of evidence. My guess is he’ll keep a low profile. A single killshot to your head when you are alone is the best way to get you.”

  “Reassuring,” I said.

  Diamond nodded. He got out some tortillas, black beans, salsa, cheddar cheese and ground beef. He went to work shredding the cheese while the ground beef browned on the stove. “You think the shooter had a night scope?”

  “Yeah. The lights were on in my cabin when the first shot came. But the second shot came with the lights off. I moved a broom in front of the window. The shot was accurate.”

  I drank some beer.

  Diamond was rolling enchiladas. “Even with a good night scope, you’d have to be a trained shooter to make a shot at night,” he said.

  “Did Rockport ever serve in the military?”

  Diamond shook his head. “Don’t know. Could be. He’s into guns.” He slid the enchiladas into the oven.

  “What do you mean? He collects them?”

  “I don’t know that he collects them. But he knows all about weapons. He talks about them. Zip guns, assault rifles, exotics. Ammunition, too. Why? You think he’s a candidate for the shooter?”

  “Crossed my mind.”

  “Wonder if he owns a ski mask,” Diamond said.

  “Right size,” I said. “Athletic, too. Probably eats garlic.”

  “Lot of people eat garlic.”

  “Does he smoke?”

  “No,” Diamond said.

  “Of course, if this guy is as clever as Agent Ramos says, he probably puffed on a cigarette right before he came to beat me up, just on the off-chance that I would survive and think my attacker was a smoker. Any chance Rockport has a dark van?” I said.

  “Actually, he does have a van, but it is gray.”

  “Gray could look dark at night.”

  “Maybe,” Diamond said.

  Diamond pulled out the enchiladas and set them on the table. He got out two more beers and we ate. The food was delicious. “Maybe Spot would prefer this over that canned stuff,” he said.

  I cut off a bit and mixed it into the uneaten dog food. Spot didn’t inhale it with his usual gusto, but he ate.

  My cell phone rang. It was Mallory. “Some excitement at the homestead?” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “You okay?”


  “I am. But Spot’s got a bad groove on him.”

  “You gonna go back to carrying a gun?”

  “I’m at Diamond’s. He’s got one.”

  “You mean, he’s got a Glock. That ain’t a real gun,” Mallory said. “It’s plastic. Combat Tupperware.”

  “It’ll have to do,” I said.

  “Okay, but somebody wants you bad. Keep a low profile.”

  “Yes, commander.”

  He hung up.

  I drank some beer. “Mallory calls your gun combat Tupperware,” I said.

  Diamond grunted. “He thinks if the antecedents to modern firearms are metallic, then modern firearms should be, too. I think Mallory would look good in a white wig and knickers.”

  “Good point,” I said.

  “Besides, my nine’s got a metal barrel. Although, someday they’ll modernize that.”

  Diamond and I moved to the living room. Diamond took the big arm chair near Spot and let his arm dangle down so his hand could rest on Spot’s head. I sat on the couch. We set the case of beer between us. There was a knock at the door. Diamond got up and opened it.

  Rockport stood there holding the puzzle and the bag with the green pieces of paper. He grinned at us, every one of his big teeth visible. “First, it’s gunfire up on the mountain,” he said. “Now it’s a jig-saw puzzle party. Hard to keep up with you guys.”

  “Want to come in for a beer?” Diamond said.

  “No thanks. Bedtime for me. I better be going.”

  “Thanks for dropping off the puzzle,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.” He stopped as he was leaving and turned back toward Spot. “How’s your dog?”

  “He’ll live.”

  “That’s good. The shooter was probably aiming at you, not your hound, don’t you think?” Rockport grinned and left.

  I spread puzzle pieces out on the coffee table.

  “At least the guy trying to kill you hasn’t gone after Street,” Diamond said as he pawed over the green pieces of paper. “Suggests he might not want to kill me, either.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” I said.