by Todd Borg
“Tell them about the other marks,” Henrietta said.
Marlette said, “The paper had those two folds to make it shaped like a letter, right? But it looked like there were other folds that had been smoothed out. I didn’t know how to make them on this piece of paper, but I memorized the pattern. I can sketch it if you have a pencil.”
“I’ll get one,” Street said. She went inside and came back out with a pencil and another sheet. “You can sketch on this so we don’t mar the drawing.”
Marlette walked over to the old plastic table that was about to be replaced by the new, electric blue wooden table. She set the paper down and sketched several lines, which all converged on a single point at the short edge of the paper. She held it up to Henrietta. “Isn’t that about right, Henrietta?”
“Yes. I think so. There may have been one or two more, but that does a pretty good job of showing where the paper had once been folded before it got smoothed out again.”
I picked up the sheet with the converging lines and the letter drawing and held them side by side. As I stared at it I had one of those deja-vu moments, a glimmer of a memory from my youth. I kept looking at it, but couldn’t make sense of it. I could only recall a sense of familiarity. I set them down on the table and walked away, letting it simmer in my brain.
“The main thing is, this is strong evidence that she’s alive,” I said.
“Yes!” Marlette said.
I reached again for the paper with the lines that Marlette had drawn. “Like a map,” I said, folding it on one of the lines, then another. “But it doesn’t make sense that the folds all converge.” I tried it a different way, starting with the center line, then attempting a second and third fold that created the convergence Marlette
had sketched. Then the childhood memory came back, and I figured it out. A paper airplane. I finished the folds and held it up.
“Why would Silence write a letter on a paper that had been used as a paper airplane?” Marlette asked.
“Maybe it was the only piece available to her,” Street said. “Maybe she had no paper and she found an errant paper airplane under her bed.”
“That would be a long shot,” I said. “I’m guessing that she found a paper and pencil, wrote the letter, then folded the paper into an airplane to send it.”
Marlette looked a little sick as if thinking about the details made the kidnapping more vicious. “Do you mean,” she said, “that if she is being held in a room, she would fly the letter out the window? To where?”
I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t know.” I continued the thought. “But let’s assume someone found it and saw that when the airplane is unfolded and smoothed out and then refolded on the two parallel folds to make the three panels lie next to each other, then it looks like a letter. So this person recognized the picture of the high school and delivered it there. A postal Good Samaritan.”
“But why?” Marlette said. “If the rest of us found a paper airplane that unfolded to reveal these drawings, we’d be unlikely to think it was a letter. And we’d be even less likely to deliver it.”
“I agree,” Street said. “Even if I thought it was a letter, I’d think of it as a pretend letter. Something an artist did as a party joke. It would never occur to me that it was a sincere attempt at a real letter and that I should deliver it myself.”
“Another puzzle,” I said, “is why the person who delivered it did so before the school opened. Most people would want to go during school hours, see what the reaction was among the school personnel. All of which points to the kidnapper as the person who delivered the drawing. But if it was the kidnapper, that wouldn’t explain the airplane folds. Also, if the drawing that is in the return address position is accurate, then it goes a long way toward revealing where she is being held. The kidnapper would never allow it.”
Henrietta spoke up, “I can visualize Silence in a room. She finds a piece of paper, makes the drawings, folds it into a letter format and creases it well so that whoever finds it will see how it can be used as a letter. Then she refolds it into a paper airplane. She flies it out the window and it goes all the way over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. The neighbor picks it up and decides to deliver it anonymously.”
“Why remain anonymous,” Marlette said.
“There could be several reasons why,” Henrietta said. “Maybe the person is really shy, a shut-in who doesn’t want to see or talk to people. Or maybe the person is mentally ill and doesn’t understand that the letter might be significant in some way and that they could help by identifying themselves to the school. It could even be that they think that if the school wants to get back to the letter-writer, they would just go to the return address. Of course, that is just a drawing, too, but if a mentally ill person thinks the high school drawing is a reasonable address, so would be the house drawing in the return address position.”
“What would be the motivation for the neighbor to even deliver it?” Street said.
“I’ve an idea,” I said. “Maybe the neighbor suspects that something is strange in the house next door. Maybe they even suspect that Silence is being held there. But they don’t want to get involved. The neighbor could be wanted by the police or they’re afraid of retribution from the kidnapper. Either would be a powerful motivation to just deliver the letter in the night. No additional notes about what the neighbor suspects because hand-writing could lead the police and the kidnapper to the neighbor.”
I turned to Marlette. “Did Silence ever make paper airplanes?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Don’t all kids? In fact, a few years ago she and Charlie went through quite a phase where they made different kinds of airplanes and they flew them for hours.”
TWENTY-THREE
I asked Marlette if I could borrow the drawing. She hesitated, then agreed. After she and Henrietta left, Street and I drove to Street’s lab where she has a good scanner. We ran the drawing through, then Street used her computer to greatly expand the drawing that served as the return address on the center panel. She printed it out. Then I left her to her bugs and Spot and I went across Kingsbury Grade to my office.
Spot poked around, checking my office corners for bad guys while I put the expanded drawing of the house on my copier. I ran off a hundred copies.
I called Mallory and he said he had to leave in a couple minutes, but he would wait if I were quick.
Spot and I drove across town and turned on Johnson, the back way into the police department. I pulled into the lot just as a police department-emblazoned SUV was exiting. The vehicle honked and pulled to a stop. Mallory jumped out and walked over to my Jeep.
“You talked to the mother about the drawing?” Mallory said as Spot stuck his neck out the rear window, inspecting.
“Yeah. I made more copies of the drawing.”
“Crime lab couldn’t get any good prints off the original,” Mallory said. “Which is what to expect with paper like that. Same for skin cells and hair. Nothing but a few graphite smudges.”
I lifted one of the copies of the expanded return address drawing off the passenger seat and held it out to Mallory. “An uncanny rendering of the high school suggested that the drawing of the house in the return address position was equally accurate. Any ideas about the house? Do you think this is the place where she’s being held?”
“I don’t know anything about autism,” Mallory said. “How it works, and all. But it makes sense, right? Girl gets taken by some goons, first thing she’s gonna want is to get out. Girl can’t talk or write. But she can draw like hell. So in her own way she draws a little letter. It says, ‘Help me. I’m being kept in this house.’ Then she addresses it to the high school where people will recognize who sent it and know what to do. How she got her outgoing mail delivered is another story.”
“We’re thinking she folded it into a paper airplane and flew it over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. The neighbor delivered it.”
“That would explain the other folds,” Mallory said. “But
why wouldn’t the neighbor speak up? Why hide?”
“Afraid of you guys?” I said.
“Oh, that.” He looked at the drawing of the house. “You’re thinking this is the house where she is held. Could be something there. Can I keep this?”
“Made it just for you,” I said. “I’ve got others I’m going to show some realtors. See if anyone recognizes it.”
“Good idea. Gotta go, pal.” Mallory knocked twice on the roof of my Jeep. He turned and got in his SUV.
I called Geoff Lambdon at his office.
“I didn’t get you out of bed?” I said when he answered.
“McKenna, my man, a party boy like me? Hell, I’m often up at two in the afternoon. Incidentally, my wife and I have been pouring over maps. We’re planning the ultimate mountain ride. Every road hand-picked for its curves, its gain and loss of elevation, its distance from civilization. It will be awesome. You want to come? I can help set you up with the machine of your dreams.”
“I’ll pass on the road trip, but I’ll take your advice on the machine. Where do you recommend I go for a custom bike?”
“There are lots of good venues. What kind of wheels do you want? A cruiser? Something for speed? Travel?”
“Something that will blend in. Probably a cruiser,” I said.
“New or used?” Geoff said.
“Preferably used. Problem is, I’ll need some custom work and I’ll need it fast.”
“What kind of work and how fast?”
I thought about it. “The custom work could probably be done in several hours by a very good team of mechanics. As for when, sooner the better. Tomorrow would be good.”
“Oh, so time is not a problem. Christ, McKenna, you don’t make it easy. Tell you what. I’m thinking I should call up Slider in Carson. He’s got a small shop off the highway. Just him and Farley, the guy who works for him. They could probably do it. But they’re busy. Whenever I have him do any little thing he makes an appointment three weeks out. However, Slider is a businessman. If he sees enough profit in it, he can make adjustments to take the business. The way I see it, if you bring a credit card with enough room on it, maybe he takes one of those nice used rides out front and brings it into the shop for some emergency work, huh?”
“I’ll be there in forty-five minutes. Where do I go?”
Geoff told me, then added, “But you gotta give me an update, make it so I can justify this interruption in my afternoon trip planning.”
“I found a place I want to investigate. Because of the local biker population I thought I’d blend in a little better if I had the same wheels as the rest of them.”
“I’ll call Slider. Let me know how things turn out?”
“Will do.”
At four in the afternoon, Spot and I pulled into the gravel lot in front of the unpainted concrete block garage in Carson City where Slider held forth under a sign that said, “Slider’s Rides – We Make’em Growl.”
There were six bikes parked out front, all threatening to tip over as their kickstands sank into the gravel. They were different models, but they were all Harleys, and they all sparkled in the desert sun.
I walked over and looked at them.
Eventually, a big man with long hair and a big gut came out of the building and said, “What all can I do for ya.” He didn’t sound eager.
“Are you Slider?”
“He’s on the phone.” He looked toward the building.
“Got a question for him when he’s done,” I said.
The man nodded, spit in the dirt and went back inside.
A few minutes later, a small man came out. He had short hair and no gut. He looked up at me as he chewed on a toothpick. “You McKenna?”
“Yeah. Lambdon call?”
“Uh huh. Said you needed some quick work.”
I nodded. “I need a bike. Maybe one of these would do. Got a gig going down soon. I need some wiring done so I can run without lights or, depending on my circumstances, run with the low beam but still no brake lights.”
“Not a problem.”
“I didn’t think so. The real work is I’d need a muffler. Something serious. Make it sound like a Goldwing.”
Slider inclined his head a few degrees. “Goldwings don’t make no sound.”
“That’s the point,” I said.
“You robbing a bank?” he said. The toothpick moved from the left side of his mouth to the right.
It occurred to me that I might get better service if Slider thought I was less than pure and honest. “There’s an outfit that’s got something that doesn’t belong to them. I intend to make an unannounced withdrawal.”
Slider didn’t speak. The toothpick went back to the left side.
“You got a problem with that?” I said.
“Pro’bly not.”
“I may spend some time on some backwoods trails, not real rough, but not asphalt either. So I need some clearance.”
He took his time. “I could send out. Get some kind of Japanese muffler. Jack it in, I don’t know. Pro’bly work.”
“But it’s got to have a valve. So I can turn it on or off. Depending.”
“Wait. See if I understand. You want quiet sometime but not all the time. Like you reach down and turn a valve and the exhaust gets routed through a muffler.”
“Right. A quiet muffler. Make it so you can’t tell it’s there.”
“Shit. Lemme see what Farley thinks.” He went in and brought the big guy back out.
They talked awhile. Some of it I understood. Some I didn’t.
Slider came back over. He pointed to one of the used bikes. “This Sportster twelve hundred. We’re thinking we could weld in a valve, hide a pipe underneath and put the muffler there. The valve would be a ninety-degree crank. The crank would show. But maybe it could be put down low and oriented so it doesn’t catch a lot of light.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
“I don’t know. Be a lotta work and it would mess up the exhaust back pressure. Maybe I could modify the muffler and adjust it. Still pro’bly cause backfires and foul your plugs and other shit. And it would take away some clearance. I couldn’t guarantee nothing about it.”
“I don’t want a guarantee. I just want to blend in with some other bikers and then go silent at the right time.”
“Goldwing muffler sure as hell will make you silent.”
“Perfect. What will it cost to have it all ready by tomorrow? I’m on a budget. Right price, you make some good money. Too expensive, I figure a different way.”
Slider stared at me. He turned and walked over to Farley who leaned against the building. They talked for a couple of minutes. Then Slider went inside. Through the window I could see him flip through some catalogs. He picked up the phone and talked and looked in some more catalogs, then came back out with a note pad. He wrote as he walked toward me. He stopped and studied the Sportster, then wrote some more.
Eventually, he came over and showed me the pad. I couldn’t make out any of the writing except the columns of numbers and the total at the bottom. I figured it was far more than Marlette could afford.
I pulled out my wallet, fished out a credit card and said, “Put half on this card as a deposit. I’ll be back when you’re done and you can charge the rest then.”
I called Street at her lab as I drove away. I had to swerve as a guy talking on a cell phone drifted into my lane. I honked. People who make phone calls while they drive.
Street answered.
“Hello?”
“It’s cocktail hour. Want a glass of wine on my deck?”
“Of course,” she said. “In fact, I was going to leave soon. I have to stop at my place. Then I’ll head up the mountain.”
“Take your time. I’m coming up from Carson.”
“Will an hour work?” she asked.
“Perfect. Will you still be wearing those shorts with the notches in them?” I said.
“The ones that are suitable for bending?”
“Thos
e ones,” I said.
“It’s cloudy, breezy and fifty-two degrees.”
“Right. We’d have to be quick with our wine and then retire to a warmer, cozier place.”
“In front of the woodstove,” Street said.
“You want me to drag the bed in front of the woodstove?”
She started laughing and hung up. Which I took for a yes.
When I got home, I looked at the bedroom doorway and compared it to the size of the bed. Maybe twenty years ago.
Ten minutes later Street showed up wearing a long red coat. Earrings with little pearls set in gold. Strapless spiked heels. I handed her a glass of wine I’d had airing. We went out on the deck, sat in the cold wind and drank the wine. She opened the coat to show me she was wearing the notched shorts and nothing else.
“I’m cold,” she said.
So we went in and practiced bending activities until we were warm.
After a long nap we sat in front of the fire, Street barefoot in her coat, me barefoot in my jeans, and talked about Silence’s drawing.
“You think, if we find a house that looks just like Silence’s drawing, that we’ll have found her?” Street asked.
“Yes,” I said. “But I can’t think of a good way to find the house. I made a bunch of copies. I thought I could hand them out to realtors. But realtors aren’t usually in their offices. And I don’t want to leave the drawings lying around. I need to be careful about who sees the drawing. I have to be sure they will stay quiet about it. If any of the agents spilled the beans and it got back to the kidnappers, they would move her. Or decide the risk was too great and kill her.”
Street picked up the fireplace poker, stuck it in through the open stove doors and shifted a log. It sent a little explosion of sparks up the pipe. “House tours,” she said.
“House tours?”