by Todd Borg
Jersey was staring at the fingernail on her left index finger. The nail was torn and bitten far back and had dried blood in the cuticle. She found a little piece left to chew and twisted her arm around, elbow stuck out in front of her, to get at it. She mumbled as she tried to get purchase with her front teeth. “Charlie, no. No friggin way. But Silence. I dunno. Maybe.”
“Maybe she’d be too scared to fall off?”
“Maybe. She might just hang on cuz of fear and stuff.”
“Okay, she’s a maybe,” I said. “But Charlie definitely would be difficult to haul off on a bike against his will.”
“Totally. He’s like a soldier, a tribesman,” Jersey said. Her inflection was full of pride.
“He earned your respect,” I said.
“What?” she mumbled, cranking her arm around so she could attack the fingernail from a different direction. “Gimme a break. I don’t respect him. He’s just a kid. He’s, like, three years younger then me.”
“Sure,” I said. “So if they couldn’t haul Charlie away on a bike, then they would have to stuff him into a vehicle.”
“A van,” Jersey said.
I walked a few paces. “Why do you say a van?”
“Obvious.” She pulled her hand from her mouth and looked at her finger. There was fresh blood leaking from the back edge of her nail. She dabbed at it with her tongue. “A car has small doors. He could grab onto the edges. Charlie’s strong. It’d be hard to get him in. Unless you handcuffed him. But a van’s got a big door. You could push him in. And smoked windows.”
“Smoked windows?”
“Of course. Lotsa vans have smoked windows. So you couldn’t see them once they were inside. Or maybe it was a panel van. Even better.”
“If they just wanted to kidnap Silence, would Charlie fight them? Is he brave enough to do that?”
Jersey swung her head up and frowned at me. “Whad’ I say. He’s a soldier.”
“Right. How about Silence? Would she put up a struggle or is she too docile for that?”
“She’d struggle. Kick and scream.” Jersey paused, still licking her finger. “But she’s skinny. You wouldn’t need a van. It wouldn’t be hard to stick her in a car. Or maybe, like if you were driving the bike...” Jersey stopped walking and demonstrated a movement with a disturbing ferocity. “You could slam her on the back of the bike, get on and then stick her arms under your arms and clamp down!”
Jersey held the position for a moment then resumed walking. When she spoke she was again calm. “I still think it was a van. It would be the MOC.”
“Pardon me?”
“Thing on a cable show. MOC is mode-of-choice.”
“Oh,” I said. “Did Silence communicate with you much?”
Jersey rolled her eyes so hard her head rolled, too. “They didn’t tell you? She doesn’t talk.”
“They told me that. What I wondered is about other ways of communication. For example, if Silence likes something, does she have a way of letting you know? Or does she always keep it to herself?”
“Oh, she always lets you know.”
“How?”
“She pushes you toward it. And there’s this sound she made. Like a hmmm, hmmm sound.”
“What kinds of things make her do that? Push you toward them?”
“I moved away a long time ago, so I don’t really remember.”
“Try.”
“Just stuff. You know. Food. Like cupcakes. Anything chocolate. And Dylan. He’s a musician from way back. I have him on my iPod. Every time I’d scroll down my list, Silence would push me when Dylan came up. And Cal at school in Tahoe. He was, like, the perfect jock. A total jerk. A year older than us. He’d be walking down the hall totally ignoring us and Silence would always give me a big push toward him. I’d yell at her every time. But she was so stoked on him. It didn’t matter what I said.”
“Do you remember Cal’s last name?”
“King. Callif King. They called him King Cal.”
“Would he still be in school, or would he have graduated by now?”
“Whad’ I say. He’s a year older. He’d be a senior by now.”
“Jersey, I’ve been told that some doctors who examined Silence think she is retarded. Do you agree with that?”
Jersey came to an abrupt stop. She turned and gave me an incredulous look. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”
“You think she is smart?”
Jersey shook her head back and forth as if amazed by how dense I was. “She’s totally smart.”
“How does she show it?”
Jersey started walking again. “She just knows stuff. Smart stuff. I could tell. Charlie could tell. It was obvious. Other kids could tell, too. Even the ones who were mean to her.”
“What about Cal? If I asked him, would he say she was smart?”
“I told you, Cal’s a jerk. Just because he’s a jock he thinks he can ignore anybody. I hated him.”
I walked a bit farther and then stopped. “Jersey, if I need to talk to you again, how do I reach you?”
She studied my face for a bit, trying to make a decision. Then she pulled out a pen. “Gimmee your palm.”
“How about a card instead?”
She rolled her eyes again as I pulled out a business card and handed it to her backside up.
She wrote on it and handed it back to me. “That’s my email. You can write. Maybe I’ll write back. If it gets through my Spam filter.”
“I thought you said technology is stupid.”
“It is.” She turned and walked away.
SEVEN
When I got back to Tahoe I stopped at Street’s condo before heading up to my cabin. Spot met me at the door, nose on overdrive, sniffing out hints of ocean and airplane and Jersey Walker.
Street was spending the evening working on her speech for the upcoming entomology conference, so Spot fetched his tennis ball and we said goodbye and headed home. When we rounded one of the curves on the climb up the private road that I share with my wealthy neighbors, I saw a flickering light out on the mountainside where normally there was only dark forest. My guess was that the light came from a campfire and I wanted to check it out.
But the moment we got out of the Jeep, Spot whirled to face up the road and got down in a half-crouch. From up in the shadows by Mrs. Duchamp’s house raced Treasure, the Toy Poodle who weighs possibly four pounds and, uninhibited by the 166-pound difference, is thus a fearless playmate. She charged Spot at full speed, leaped up and gave him a full body block on his shoulder, slamming him back at least a quarter inch. She bounced off him, hit the ground and launched a second time. Again he was pressured back another quarter inch toward the end zone. But he never dropped his ball, which was completely hidden in his mouth. He decided to make a break and he took off down the field. Treasure dogged him like a pilot fish darting around the mouth of a Great White shark. She leaped up at his head and neck, over and over, nipping at his flesh, issuing a torrent of little high-pitched barks, her tail wagging furiously. Spot went around in circles until Mrs. Duchamp’s voice ripped a hole in the night like Pavarotti hitting a high C.
“TREASURRRRRRRRRE!” she sang out, her tremolo notes so sheer and potent that, were they the beginning of the national anthem at a Kings game, she’d bring down the roof of the arena.
Treasure disappeared into the Duchamp palace, and Spot charged back to me.
“You didn’t drop the ball, did you?”
Spot did a kind of nod he favors and then, from the hidden recesses of his cavernous mouth, out popped the tennis ball, which bounced and rolled, hit my cabin wall and stopped. Spot stared at it, glanced up at me, then looked back to the ball, his tail held high but exhibiting just a hint of wagging motion.
“Sorry, your largeness. I have other exercise in mind.” I went inside to get my binoculars and flashlight, then headed down the road.
Although it was quite dark, Spot and I entered one of the trails that threads its way along the mountains
ide. The sliver of new moon, not yet set over the mountains to the west, provided a tiny bit of light to help see the trail through the forest.
I looked at the moon and thought about the rumor Mallory had told me, that Tony Go and his biker group performed sacrifices at the full moon. Mallory said he thought it sounded ridiculous. I had a hard time imagining such a thing, too. But I had seen sicker stuff in the past.
If it were true, the moon would be full in about ten days.
The trail traverses the slope at a slight upward angle. After a half mile it begins switching back several times as it climbs up to meet the Tahoe Rim Trail not far from Genoa Peak. It was very cold, and I hiked fast to generate some warmth.
My destination was the second switchback, where the trail comes to an opening in the forest. There is a house-sized boulder one can climb up on and get a great view of the surrounding mountains.
Spot ran up the trail as if the moon sliver were the sun, his nose taking up where his eyes left off, eager to catalog every species, plant and animal, on the mountainside and deduce from their odors alone their nocturnal activities.
Fifteen minutes later, I called Spot, then put my hands against the giant boulder, palms on a sloped portion of the rock about six feet above the ground. “Paws here, Spot.” I patted the rock.
He raised up on his hind legs and put his paws next to me, his panting, lolling tongue next to my face in the dark. “Okay, remember how I boost you up, rear paws in my hands?”
I did as I said and he almost tipped over, but then he got a good grip with his nails on the lichen-covered granite and he scrambled up to the top. I followed him and sat down on the very top.
The campfire was easily visible about a half mile to the north. I saw movement and heard somebody laughing and Spot did a little growl as I put the binoculars on the scene.
There were three men standing near the fire. Three motorcycles glinted in the dark behind them. They must have found a good trail to brave taking road bikes into the woods. But I knew all of Tahoe to be laced with good trails. Some were recent, carefully constructed to low-erosion standards by conservation groups. And some dated back to the days of Mark Twain, when loggers clear-cut the Tahoe Basin to provide lumber for the mining tunnels of the Comstock Lode in Virginia City.
I watched through the glasses for ten minutes, then sat with Spot for another ten. When I looked through the glasses again, nothing had changed. The bikers were just enjoying a campfire with the world’s greatest view for a backdrop, something many bikers were probably doing all over the Tahoe Basin. Nothing about the scene could be connected to missing children except in my imagination.
Spot and I climbed down from the boulder and went home to bed.
EIGHT
When the South Tahoe High School let out the next day, I was there.
I had called the numbers that Marlette gave me for Charlie’s friends and visited the mother of one of the boys. She was much more forthcoming than Jersey Walker’s mother had been. The woman gave me a description of her son and his friend, class pictures of both, a peanut butter sandwich, corn chips, a glass of milk and a description of her son’s friend’s car, which they drove to and from school.
I was at the car now, an old Camaro in the process of being restored. The body filler had been sanded smooth. I walked around it and saw a small spray of hot red paint just behind the right front wheel well. Otherwise it was all gray primer. I wasn’t leaning against it or even touching it as the boys approached.
“Steve?” I said. “Steve and Jason?”
“Yeah,” said Steve, the one who held cars keys in his hand.
“Owen McKenna.” I reached out and shook their hands. “Jason, your mother told me where I could find you guys. Said you could answer a question about one of your classmates.”
The reaction with all kids is standard and predictable. If you’re not a teacher or employer, suspicion shapes all social intercourse. They can be good, honor-role kids and still they assume you’re a cop looking to make trouble for one of their own. Steve and Jason had that look.
I tried to ease their tension. “Nice ride,” I said. “What is it, a sixty-eight?”
Steve made a little nod.
“You going to customize it, or keep it stock?”
“I dunno. The last owner kinda tricked up the engine, but I might build it back down, go with authentic original parts.”
“That’s what I’d do,” I said. “What color you gonna go with? Black? Or red, maybe. Red would be cool.”
Steve raised his eyebrows and gave me a little grin. “Yeah, I was thinking red. Friend of mine works in a body shop. He showed me a color, Ferrari red. Awesome. He put a little sample down on the rocker panel.” He pointed.
I nodded. “Hey guys, I won’t keep you long. I’m a private detective looking into the disappearance of Charlie and Silence Ramirez. You know them, right?”
Jason went wide-eyed. “They really were kidnapped?”
“We don’t know. Maybe. I’m wondering if either of you have heard from either Charlie or Silence.”
Steve glanced at Jason then turned to me. It was the kind of glance that could be loaded with meaning, or it could just be that he was looking to see if Jason was going to talk first. “Well, me and Jason, we talk to Charlie lots. He’s younger than us, but he’s real mature for his age. He mostly hangs out with kids our age. His sister is the same age as us.”
“He say anything to you in the days before he disappeared?”
“Not anything that would be like a clue or anything. Just the usual. Same as every day.”
“You mean, talk about school, girls, stuff like that?”
Both Steve and Jason grinned.
“Yeah,” Steve said. “He always wants to know where I’m at with the rig.” Steve looked toward the Camaro. “How many more coats of primer. What am I gonna do with the transmission. Like that.”
“Either of you heard anything about Charlie or Silence since they disappeared?”
They both shook their heads.
Jason said, “Just rumors. Whether they ran away. Or could they have really been kidnapped.”
“Steve?” I said.
“Yeah, I’d say the same thing. The rumors have been pretty thick at school.”
I paused. “One thing came up. It’s possible they were taken by bikers. Do you think bikers could do that? Take Charlie and Silence on the back of motorcycles?”
Steve was shaking his head. “If they didn’t want to go? No way. Charlie’s a fighter. He’s only fourteen, but he’s gonna be a serious athlete. He can already bench one-eighty. He’ll be pumping two-twenty, two-thirty in a year. And he’s still just a kid.”
Jason was nodding. “They try to put Charlie on the back of a bike against his will, he just wouldn’t let it happen. He’d strangle the driver or gouge his eyes out.”
“Do either of you think that Charlie and Silence would run away? Or that they would go somewhere for a few days without telling anyone?”
“You mean, not even call their mother?” Steve asked.
“Yeah.”
They both shook their heads.
“Charlie would call,” Jason said with conviction. “Isn’t that right, Steve? Charlie wouldn’t leave his mom hanging.”
“That’s right,” Steve said. “Charlie is respectful of his mom. He’s respectful of all adults.”
“How was Charlie about his sister? Was he protective of her?”
“No kidding,” Steve said, making an exaggerated nod. “It’d be real stupid to say something bad about Silence with Charlie around. Even if you could take him, he’d still do his best to remove your head. No fear, that kid. Don’t get me wrong, we’d never say anything bad about Silence. I like her. I mean, she’s kinda out there, but I like her. Don’t you, Jason?”
“She’s a sweet kid. Not like I’d ask her out.” His giggle was short and nervous. “But she’s nice. I think a lot of kids are starting to think that she’s not so weird after all.
But there’s still those who make fun of her, not talking and all. And she never looks at you. That still bugs me a little.”
Steve spoke. “Charlie is responsible for changing the way kids see Silence. He is so focused on being good to her that it kinda spreads to other kids. And partly, he’s getting big and strong and if you don’t do right by her he’s going to get in your face.”
“What about Callif King?” I said. “Is he around? I have a question for him.”
“You want to talk to King Cal?” Jason said, surprise in his voice. “He’s right over there.” He pointed across the parking lot toward a group of kids. A half-dozen girls surrounded a boy who had blond hair, a letter jacket and a toothy smile.
I thanked Jason and Steve and walked over to where Cal stood at the center of the circle of admiring girls.
Outside of the ring stood four other jocks, smaller, not as handsome, not as confident. They shifted positions as I approached.
It is a carefully studied nonchalance and indifference that popular high school male athletes adopt. The world exists for them alone. Other people are paper cutouts, positioned at appropriate distances to direct attention to those on center stage. If any other male of size or substance comes near, the threat is ascertained, the support troops mustered to intervene, and the collective athletic unconscious draws together to cordon off the royalty, to protect those who are anointed and have the power to dispense favors to the second string.
The mindless girl groupies who pull in tight, jostling for a position close enough that they can bump up against the lettered flesh, seem unappreciative of the fact that they outnumber the varsity boys four to one. Most of their group will be cast off to hook up with the B-squad boys who, like coyotes following grizzlies, are eager for any scrap the big boys leave behind.
The four second-stringers got nervous as I approached. They pulled together to intercept me, but they fidgeted and didn’t know whether to look at me or pretend to ignore me.
“Hey, man,” one of them said to me. Both a greeting and a challenge.