by Todd Borg
“I agree with you that murder is a counter-productive way to influence you. A more reasonable way to look at it is that you might vote for the resort simply in hopes that this slaughter would stop. If in fact it is a slaughter. They could all still be accidents.”
“Except for the cigarettes,” Joe said. “You’re right. I can’t reconcile accidents with the cigarette packs. I’m at my end, Owen. I can’t take this anymore. I have no more purpose in a life where everyone I know is dying. Next thing I know, you’ll be next.”
His words hit me hard when I realized that, if Ned has his way, they may be true.
“I’m sorry I called you, Owen. I should never have gotten you involved. There is something really evil out there, and it’s targeting me. Maybe you. All because I called you.”
Joe bent his head, chin against his chest. He remained in that position for a long time. Eventually, he lifted his head. His eyes were swollen and red.
“I’m going to have my talk with Rell, then I’m going to have them pull the plug. And when I leave the hospital, I’m going to figure out how to pull my own plug.”
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t swallow. My heart felt like it was banging against my ribs. “Joe, I don’t have any good words to change your mind, except please don’t. Please give me some time. I need you to have more staying power and let me finish what you asked me to start.”
“What I asked you to start is creating death all around me. Rell is still alive. Sort of. But since I called you, two people have died. Who’s next?”
Joe stood up. I realized that he wanted me to go. He walked over, opened the front door wide, and held it there. The cold night air rushed in. Snow blew off the eave above the entry and swirled down into the house, the flakes hitting the ceramic floor tiles and melting into water drops.
“This isn’t a life I want,” Joe said. “Please leave.”
I stood still.
“Leave, Owen! Please!”
A sharp headache grew behind my eyeballs as I walked out, Spot at my side, head hung low. I was helpless, feeling that my choice of words, my presentation, was pushing Joe over the edge. But worse than the thought that I’d gone about it the wrong way was the thought that someone else was ruining Joe’s life, making him so miserable that he was ready to be done with this world.
I was desperate for something to say that could make it better. But there were no words.
Joe shut the door behind me. I hesitated on his entry step, wondering what I could do differently. I could force myself in and restrain him. I could call a judge, get a doctor, try to convince them to intervene. He would fight at every step as we forced drugs into his system, drugs that would sap his will and take away his last sense of self-determination. Doing so might make him live a little longer, and yet it would be the cruelest crime of all.
Diamond often talks about the philosopher John Stuart Mill and how he said that the principle right of any human is the right to be left alone. Anything that I could do would be interfering with that right, intruding against the explicit wishes of the man. To step in against a person’s will – a person who isn’t hurting anyone, not even himself yet, a person who by any measure has lived a very successful life, a person who is in full command of his mental faculties and has explicitly and clearly articulated his wishes – to force yourself on him and make him do things my way would be a crime nearly like murder, because I would be taking away his life as he wants it and remaking it in my own arrogant, condescending, and self-righteous way, treating him like a child who doesn’t know any better.
If you respect the individual, you respect the individual’s desires as long as those desires don’t directly wound others.
From that perspective, I couldn’t force myself through Joe’s door. I couldn’t make him do and be the way I wanted him to be. I had to let him do what he wanted to do.
As Spot and I got into the Jeep, the Christmas lights on the sculptures went out. Then the lights coming through the windows went out, one by one until everything was dark. I sat there feeling like I had turned out Joe’s last light and, in doing so, had darkened my own world in a way that I could never restore.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I drove back through town, crawling along with no sense of purpose, no desire to move forward, only regrets. Everything was wrong, and I was at the epicenter, the cause. Without seeing it coming, I had become the new agent of Joe’s misery.
When I came to the red light at Sierra Blvd, I remembered what Simone said about Ned’s visitor, the man she believed was paying Ned to spy on Joe. The man had been coming at night every two weeks or so, and she thought that the last time had been about twelve days before.
Maybe this time he’d come a couple of days early. Maybe I should be watching. Having failed to bring Joe the tiniest bit of comfort, I had nothing else to do.
I turned right, headed over to where Ned and Simone lived, and stopped a block short. I parked where I had a sight line to their house. I turned off the lights but left the engine running so the defroster could keep the windshield from fogging up in the cold, winter night. Street’s binoculars were still under my seat. I didn’t remember why I had them, but I did remember that the last time they were used was when the illegal alien kid Paco Ipar looked through them and identified the bad guys who were chasing him.
When I looked through the glasses, it was obvious that Paco’s eyes were much different than mine. I had to spin both knobs to bring Ned and Simone’s cabin into focus.
The downstairs lights were on, upstairs lights off. Simone had said that when the mystery man came, Ned took him upstairs to the bedroom.
I could barely see the front door. If I missed seeing the man drive up, and if I missed seeing him go through the door, I would still notice when the upstairs light went on.
I sat in the dark, watching for a vehicle or any other movement. Nothing happened, and I couldn’t stop thinking about Joe and his distress and my misery over it. I knew that I hadn’t created the situation in the first place, but my self-critique was nevertheless relentless.
I’d arrived at Ned and Simone’s house about 6:30 p.m. By 9:30, I decided that the likely window for an evening visitor was closed. So I drove home to my little, lonely cabin and was miserable there instead.
The next morning, I decided to go to the office to do desk work. But first I parked in one of the big hotel ramps, far from where Ned had watched me a few days ago, and walked to the café where Simone worked.
The hostess named Marilyn came up to me, alarm on her face.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to eat, and I won’t distract Simone. I just need to ask her a question.”
Marilyn seemed to ponder it. “Just one question?”
“Yes. You can even ask it for me, if you prefer.”
“Okay, what is the question?”
“Does Ned ski, does he know a Jillian Oleska, and where was he two days ago?”
“That’s three questions,” she said, her face serious.
“You’re right. Sorry. But they kind of go together, so I thought of it as one question.”
She hesitated, then said, “Wait here.”
She walked back to the kitchen. I expected Simone to come out. But a minute later, Marilyn returned. “Simone said yes, of course, Ned skis. She added that he’s a very good skier. She has no idea whether or not he knows a Jillian Oleska, but she’s never heard the name, if that makes a difference. And she has no idea where Ned was two days ago. He was gone all day. He wasn’t at work, and he wasn’t at home.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry, but I forgot one more question. Can you please ask her what color are Ned’s ski clothes?”
Marilyn stood there staring at me. I was a pest, and she didn’t know the best way to get rid of me. She glanced at the other diners, then walked away.
She was back in a minute. “White jacket, white warmups. Now will you please go away.”
I got the message. I thanked her and left.
The wo
rkers were back on the scaffold at the office building, installing some kind of mesh on the outer wall to support a new layer of stucco.
Once my coffee maker was done and had stopped making its loud noises, I called the numbers for Jillian’s ski companions Gigi and Howard and left messages for both. I pulled out the sticky note on which Joe had written Jillian’s number and dialed it just in case someone else was at Jillian’s home. Her machine answered. In the hope that someone else who knew Jillian would call me, I left a message with my name and phone number.
Then I called RKS Properties in an effort to learn who was now in charge of the Stevies. I worked through multiple voice menus and eventually got a young male secretary who wouldn’t give me any information about Jillian or her ski accident or the Stevies or the name of any RKS managers or managing partners. I said it was important, but he would only take my name and number and pass it on. When I hung up, I realized I was going to have to resort to subterfuge if I wanted to speak to anyone.
Next I called Diamond.
“Sergeant Martinez,” he answered.
“You sound very official,” I said. “Stern almost.”
“Sí. Intimidates bad guys. Is it working?”
“Yeah.”
“You calling on official business? Or did you need help eating another pumpkin pie?”
“I’m trying to eat more vegetables, so I better save it all for myself,” I said. “The official word is that your county neighbors to the north had a back-country ski accident in their territory day before yesterday.”
“Sí. Washoe County. A woman hit a tree about a thousand feet above Sand Harbor. The way you say ‘official word’ makes it sound like there is a differing, unofficial explanation.”
“According to an expert skier who knew Jillian well, yes.”
“What’s the unofficial explanation?”
“This expert says that Jillian wouldn’t have hit the tree by accident, therefore she was pushed.”
“And this has to do with Rell Rorvik falling from her deck,” Diamond said.
“I know it sounds like a stretch, but yeah. The ski victim, Jillian Oleska, was one of Rell’s friends.”
“Like Manuel Romero,” Diamond said. “Like Dwight Frankman.”
“Yeah. I’m wondering if you have a contact you recommend I call at the Washoe County Sheriff’s Office. The last Washoe County guy I knew well retired.”
“Try Sergeant Cal Kimmel. I’ve got his number in my phone.”
“Am I the last guy left using Post-it notes?” I said.
“Yeah. Here’s the number.” Diamond read it off. I wrote it down.
I thanked Diamond, hung up, and dialed Sergeant Kimmel.
“Cal, here.”
I introduced myself and explained how I got his number. “Diamond said that you handled Jillian Oleska’s accident.”
“Yeah, what a mess that was. Getting her body off the mountain was a trick in itself. Trying to boost morale after two of our younger guys saw the body was like being a dad all over again. That tree pancaked that poor girl. Broke most of her ribs. I just spoke to the Medical Examiner. He said her aorta didn’t just rupture, it exploded. He said it looked more like spaghetti than like an artery.”
“I spoke to a friend of the victim. She said that Jillian was an expert skier, ex-racer, etc. It’s the friend’s belief that Jillian wouldn’t have hit a tree by accident.”
Kimmel guffawed. “Oh, that’s a good joke. The young lady was up on the mountain with two friends. Their stories are consistent. They were skiing and noticed that Jillian hadn’t kept up with them. So they hiked back up the mountain and found her dead. How is that not an accident?”
“I don’t know. Were you at the scene?” I asked.
“No, I was down at Sand Harbor when the SARS team brought the body down on a toboggan.”
“Any chance the rescue crew mentioned ski tracks near the accident?”
“No. But even if there were, what would that tell us? That entire mountain is a popular back-country descent. There are ski tracks all over it. Is there some other reason you’re calling? You got motive or something?”
I didn’t want to get into a discussion of other accidents that may not have been accidents, so I said, “No, just expert opinion that Jillian Oleska was unlikely to have that kind of an accident.”
“Expert opinion of a friend,” Kimmel said. “And friends are always crystal clear thinkers when their buddies die.”
“Right,” I said. “Thanks for the info.”
“Any time.”
We hung up.
The phone rang immediately.
“Owen McKenna,” I answered.
“Owen, Joe. Something happened. I think I need help.”
“What?”
“I got a call from the hospital in Reno. Where Rell is. They had some incident early this morning. Some unknown intruder was in the hospital. A nurse was struck and hurt. The intruder was in Rell’s room.”
“Was Rell hurt?”
“Not that they can tell. The intruder ran out. I want to go down there, but I’m pretty shaky. Can you drive me?”
“Of course. When can you go?”
“Now.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
TWENTY-NINE
I got to Joe’s house a few minutes faster than I anticipated. He must have been watching, because the door opened and he came out before I could ring the bell.
Spot wagged like a puppy when Joe got in the Jeep, and I had to push his head back several times to keep him from being too boisterous.
“Who called from the hospital?” I asked as we headed down Tahoe Mountain Road.
“I forget how she introduced herself. Something like the hospital security officer.”
“She said that an intruder had been in Rell’s room,” I said.
“Yes. A nurse surprised him. He knocked her down, and he ran out.”
“Anything else?”
“Not that I can remember. I said that I was on my way, and she said she’d talk to me when I arrived.”
We rode in silence for many minutes. I tried to imagine what had happened. Every thought I had was ugly.
We took Highway 50 through town, went up the East Shore and climbed up Spooner Summit. As we crested the pass, Joe spoke.
“She’s helpless,” he said. “Her brain is mostly gone. She’s a shell of a person, a body utterly dependent on others to care for her. It’s not possible for a human to be more vulnerable. So what kind of a person would go into her room and do something? Is it possible that the person who pushed her off the deck came back to finish the job?”
“Hard to imagine,” I said. “But yes, it’s certainly possible.”
“If that’s the case,” Joe said, “then it makes me really angry. I’m going to find out from the hospital if they think someone chose Rell’s room at random, or if there is some indication that the person was looking for her room. If the latter, then I will do whatever it takes to bring that person to justice.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Joe. I believe you have a lot of fight left in you.”
Joe didn’t respond.
A few minutes later, I said, “I’ve read about the Rorvik Roar,” I said to make conversation. “Something you did back when you raced. What was that about? Was ski racing like a fight? Was your roar a kind of intimidation like the roar of a lion?”
In my peripheral vision, I sensed Joe turning to look out the side window. In time, he turned forward.
“Maybe my roar seemed intimidating to others, but that wasn’t what it was about. It was about fear.”
“Making other racers fearful?”
“No. Coping with my own fear. Ski racing can be terrifying. You rocket down a mountain at high speeds. Outside of falling from a balloon or a tall cliff, skiing is the fastest way a human being can move without motorized help. Back when I raced, we didn’t go as fast as they do now. But we didn’t have the control of modern equipment, either. You carve
your way down steep ice and snow at sixty or seventy miles per hour and try to hold it together. Maybe you hit eighty in a downhill race. There is nothing that keeps you in the course and out of the trees except your guts and your skill. The tiniest mistake, a misjudgment that only lasts a hundredth of a second, and you lose control. If you hit an obstruction, you can be torn in two. If you don’t, the smallest mogul or bump or ridge can still toss you into the air. A skier making a yard-sale crash at high speed is a frightening thing to simply witness. But when it is you tumbling down the mountain like a cartwheeling gymnast, the power of the shock will surprise you. If you live to consider it, that is.”
“So your roar was...?”
“A push-back at my fear. I discovered that if I roared, it helped me to not succumb to the fright.”
We came down to the valley at the bottom of Spooner Summit and turned north toward Carson City. After a couple of miles, and a jog to the east, we connected with the new I-580 freeway and headed north toward Washoe Valley and Reno beyond.
“Ski racing always seems glamorous,” I said. “Up on the mountains, in the sun, in the clouds. Spectacular vistas. People watching, amazed at what you do.”
“It is glamorous,” Joe said. “That’s part of the pull of ski racing. It’s not an ordinary sport like hockey or bowling. Ski racing is more like driving race cars or racing horses. But glamour goes hand-in-hand with fear. You step out in front of a world that expects you to be part sports star and part celebrity. The pressure to perform is huge. And if you fail by falling, you can get banged up in a big way.”
“When you mentioned falling, you referred to a yard-sale crash. Does that happen often to racers?”
“Often enough that it stokes your fear. After a bad, high-speed fall, your equipment ends up scattered all over the mountain. Skis, goggles, helmet, hat, gloves. Maybe even some of your clothes get ripped off as you slide over frozen debris at seventy. The result looks like a yard sale of junk gone bad.”
I nodded. “I’ve done that a few times myself,” I said.
After a moment, I said, “Did Rell ever ski?”