Tahoe Chase (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller)

by Todd Borg

Simone’s eyes widened. “She said that you were a ski racer. I didn’t know about the Olympic part. Wow, that’s something.”

  “I don’t like Rell to brag about me,” Joe said. “Anyway, most racers have good mountain memory. Racers think topographically. It’s a bit like a musician who can hear a song and then tell you the key changes. Let me ski a mountain, it gets fixed in my mind.”

  Joe lifted up the pile of maps and sorted through them. He pulled one out from the pile and drew a curving line across a portion of it. At one end of the line was an X.

  “Now we’ll give you a little real world experience,” he said.

  Simone frowned.

  “This is a route you can see from this neighborhood. This X represents a viewpoint only two blocks away. I want you to study this route. Figure out which direction it goes and where it goes up and where it goes down. Then we’ll go out to the viewpoint and see if you can identify the route in the landscape. It’s dark out, but the moon and stars light the snow. It will be very much like what you will do on your Randonnée trek.”

  Simone studied the map and made some notes on the paper.

  Five minutes later, she said, “Okay, I think I’m ready.”

  We all went out through the dark house and got into our vehicles, Joe riding in Diamond’s decrepit pickup.

  Diamond led, with Joe telling him where to drive, and we followed. We stopped at a corner in the road and got out. The snowbank was beat down from snowshoers and cross-country skiers. With only Diamond’s steadying hand on Joe’s elbow, Joe was able to walk up onto the compacted snow.

  The view was out over Tahoe Valley, a vast, beautiful landscape, glowing blue-white under the stars and moon sliver and speckled with a thousand lights of houses, eight hundred feet below the Angora Highlands neighborhood.

  Joe handed Simone a compass and stood behind her as she opened the map and held out the compass. She looked out across the valley toward Freel Peak to the east and down Christmas Valley to Stevens Peak to the south. She compared it to the map, consulted the compass, rotated the map, angled the paper to get a better look at it in the dark, rotated the map again.

  In time, she spoke softly to Joe. He murmured something back. She pointed to the map and spoke again. He nodded. She raised up her arm and pointed as if following Angora Ridge up to Angora Peak, taking the next ridgeline to Echo Peak and farther.

  I understood Joe’s mastery as I realized that he had already given her a route into the Desolation Wilderness and had her identify and imagine two peaks that might in fact be on the Tahoe Randonnée Extreme.

  Simone made a gesture as if she would go down the southwest side of Echo Peak, opposite the side we were looking at. Then she pointed toward the mountains to the south, her finger aiming directly at Steven’s Peak in the distance.

  After a time, he patted her on the back, said something else that we couldn’t hear, and she folded the map.

  “What if it’s too dark to see the compass?” she asked. “And what if my flashlight dies?”

  Joe turned and pointed at the sky to the north. “Let me show you how to find the North Star.” He pointed out the Big Dipper and explained how the last two stars at the end of the pan pointed toward the North Star.

  “But that’s only useful if you lose your compass,” he said. “Otherwise, it’s best to dig in and wait until morning.”

  FORTY-THREE

  The next morning, we drove around to buy supplies, an avalanche vest, dehydrated food, extra maps, compass, headlamp, and solar cellphone charger.

  When we got back to Street’s, before we got out of the Jeep, I tested Simone’s resolve one more time.

  “You are still solid about this plan?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow morning we will go to the police and you will tell the truth about how Ned beats you up.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to call Commander Mallory and tell him we will be in first thing in the morning.”

  “Yes.”

  So I called Mallory to let him know that Simone Bonnaire would arrive in the morning to tell all, and Mallory could prepare for the arrest of Ned Cavett on assault charges. I didn’t know for certain, but I hoped that by arresting Ned, Mallory would also be bringing in our murderer.

  At noon, Diamond stopped by once again, and we all visited Joe for a final lesson in back-country skiing.

  Joe had thought of many more bits of advice over the preceding hours. He discussed a hundred points with Simone, quizzing her at times, explaining the safest approach to tackle the route along with the best escape strategy should something significant go wrong. He even drew on the map the best escape routes from the high country.

  As evening approached, Joe announced that he was making a ski racer’s dinner. “You’re going to need lots of protein and lots of carbs to start off on a trip of this magnitude.”

  Simone looked concerned, like a vegetarian who worries about being surprised with meat.

  “Do you like salad and French bread?” Joe asked.

  Simone nodded.

  “Baked potato and butter?”

  “Of course.”

  “Broccoli?”

  “Certainly,” Simone said.

  Street elbowed me in my side.

  “You like a grilled Porterhouse steak?” Joe continued.

  Another nod.

  “How do you like it cooked?”

  “Medium rare.”

  “Do you drink red wine?”

  “I spent my first ten years in France,” Simone said.

  “Homemade apple pie?”

  “I could eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

  Joe gave her a big smile of approval and went into the kitchen to begin preparations without asking any of the rest of us about our preferences.

  Simone again looked worried. She spoke to me in a whisper. “Mr. Rorvik cooks?”

  “Lots of men do,” I said.

  “None of the men in my life have ever cooked.”

  “Welcome to your new life,” I said.

  Joe put on a fabulous feast and even cooked a steak for Spot.

  While we all ate, Joe paid particular attention to Simone, making certain that she ate seconds of everything.

  After dinner, Joe and Simone worked until well into the evening, discussing maps and routes and strategies.

  As we left, Simone seemed subdued by the enormity of what she was planning to do. We were getting into the Jeep when Joe’s voice called out quietly from the front door.

  “Simone?”

  “Oui?” she said, slipping into French for the first time, a sign, I thought, of serious introspection.

  Joe walked out to where we stood by the Jeep. The outside lights were still off for security. He reached out his hands toward Simone. Despite the darkness, gold sparkled in his fingers.

  “This is my good luck necklace,” he said. “I wore it during all of my ski races. I had it on when I won my Olympic Medal. I want you to have it.”

  Simone stood frozen. “I...I...” she stammered.

  “When you are out there in the dark,” Joe said, “and the air is very cold, and the distances seem far, and you feel very alone, you can know that I’ll be here cheering you on.”

  Simone shook her head a bit as if in disbelief. She took the necklace and put it over her head. Joe started to back up toward his door, making a little wave of his hand. Simone broke into a huge smile, reached up and gave him a hug, and kissed his cheek.

  The next morning, Mallory met us at the police department. He said he already had two men outside Ned’s house, waiting for the go-ahead once the judge signed the warrant.

  Simone was nervous as we went in. She filled out the paperwork, made her statement, showed her bruises, which, although healing, were still dramatic. They took pictures of her, asked her many questions, then let us go.

  I drove to Ned and Simone’s house and parked a block down from the patrol unit. I guessed that it would take Mallory about t
wenty minutes to get a judge’s signature on the warrant.

  Twenty minutes later, the two officers got out of their car and went up to the door. In about the time it takes to inform and cuff their suspect, they came back out with Ned, his hands locked behind his back, put him into the back of the car, and drove away.

  I pulled up to their driveway and parked behind Ned’s chinless yellow pickup. Simone pointed out the skis and skins and camping stuff in the garage. I loaded it into the back of the Jeep while she collected her clothes inside.

  She had a little list of things to bring, and after we’d loaded everything, she carefully went through the list, checking off each item. It gave me some confidence, seeing her thoroughness, and I realized that somewhere down in the cellar of my brain I’d been hearing a voice that sounded like Joe’s. It said that Simone was nuts to try this with so little experience. It also said that I would be to blame if tragedy should come to her. I’d encouraged her at each step when I should have been telling her to wait, find a skiing buddy, get some experience, go in the spring when the weather was safer.

  We drove up the East Shore and picked up Street to join us on the ride. Street has a calming effect on people, and she did a good job with Simone, making conversation that was designed to be casual and thoughtful at the same time.

  I could see how it worked as it unfolded. Talk only about trivial stuff, and it communicates that you’re worried about the big issues and are afraid to focus on them. Talk only about the major stuff, and it clutters the traveler’s mind with too many concerns. Strike a medium balance, and the person knows that you understand the scope of the mission, but you are still relaxed about it. The relaxed manner telegraphs confidence in the person who is about to embark on the big event.

  As we drove north out of Tahoe City to Truckee and then around Donner Lake up to the summit and the launch point, Simone seemed more comfortable than at any time since I’d met her.

  We parked near Sugar Bowl and got out. Spot ran around exploring while Simone made a last check of her gear. She strapped the climbing skins onto her skis because her very first leg was an ascent up to the top of Donner Peak.

  I went to help her with her pack, but she held up her hand to stop me.

  “For the next few days I’m going to do all this myself,” she said. “I better start now.”

  We watched as she clicked into her bindings, swung her pack up on her back, adjusted her sunglasses, and picked up her poles.

  Street gave her a hug first, then I followed.

  “You’ll do great,” I said. “We’ll see you on the other end when you ski down into Kirkwood.”

  Simone patted her thighs and called out, “Spot.”

  He came running and jumped around, excited.

  She gave him a hug, turned to us and said, “Au revoir.”

  I held Spot as the tiny young French woman pushed off with her poles and started climbing up toward Donner Peak.

  Back in the Jeep, Street said, “She’s tough, you know.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I watched as Joe marked all of those zig-zag lines to the various peaks. I think it turns a forty-some mile straight trek into sixty or more.”

  “Probably.”

  “How many nights do you think she’ll be out?” Street asked.

  “I’m guessing three nights and four days. She told me that she has more than enough food for four nights and five days. But we’ll get a sense as she calls in her locations along the way.”

  “Do you think she’ll make it all the way?” Street asked.

  “I’m guessing that the single greatest part of success in this kind of thing is determination rather than skill. She’s pretty determined.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  When we got back to Street’s condo, I dropped her off, then headed down to the South Shore. I stopped at my office and used my computer to look up the cross-country ski race from the lake up to Truckee. I printed out a couple of pages and left.

  The chinless pickup was still parked in front of the drive, but Ned would still be in jail. I parked, put on my gloves, told Spot to be quiet, and walked up to the front door. It was locked. The garage door was up. The inner door was unlocked.

  The door took me into their kitchen, as good a place to start searching as any. I didn’t know what I was looking for other than some indication that Ned was interested in Manuel Romero and Jillian Oleska in addition to Joe and Rell Rorvik.

  The house was surprisingly neat and clean, no doubt a credit to Simone and not Ned. The surfaces were uncluttered, things were put away in their places, laundry was neatly folded in the drawers. I didn’t make a mess as I didn’t want to enrage Ned any more than he already was.

  I went through the downstairs first, then proceeded up to the bedroom. I found nothing revealing except for a white ski jacket and warmups that smelled of sour sweat.

  Next, I searched the garage. It wasn’t as neat and clean, probably because Simone wasn’t allowed to pick it up. As a result, there was more clutter to go through, but I still found nothing.

  Over in the corner were several pairs of skis, including small, old downhill skis that probably belonged to Simone. I took the printouts I’d made about the race to Truckee, folded them three times and flexed the folded paper to make it look worn. Then I put it on the floor near the skis. It was a reasonable place for it to fall if Simone had been holding it when she pulled out her back-country skis.

  I searched the rest of the garage and was about to give up when I thought of Ned’s truck.

  I tried the doors. Locked. I went back into the house looking for keys. I found them on a nail by the inside door to the garage.

  Once in the truck, I looked in the glove box. It contained the registration and insurance cards and an old Chevy manual. I bent down and looked under the seat. Lined up in a neat row were a dozen unopened cans of Budweiser. Tucked between the cans was a little spiral notebook. Using a tissue, I slid it out and opened the cover. On the first page was writing in pencil with scrawling block letters that were almost illegible.

  Mrs. Roarvick

  Manwel Romoro

  Jill Olesa,

  Others to take care of –

  Joe Roarvick

  Oen Mickenna.

  Lines were drawn through the first three names.

  I put the notebook back where I found it and called Mallory.

  When he answered, I explained that at Simone Bonnaire’s request, I had done a search of their house and found a notebook with names in Ned’s truck. He sent over two cops who took my statement and then left with the notebook in a Ziplock bag.

  That evening, I began to worry when Simone hadn’t called by seven o’clock. The temperature outside my cabin had already dropped to 10 degrees. My cabin sits at 7200 feet. Simone’s first planned stop was to be at the Sierra Club’s Bradley Hut, which sits at 7400 feet. All other things being equal, 200 feet only equates to less than a degree colder. But other things weren’t equal. At my cabin, I get a substantial warming from lake effect on cold winter nights. West of the lake in the high country, there would be no such effect. Simone could be looking at a night well below zero.

  My other worry was that my estimation of distance had me guessing that Simone would arrive at the hut by late afternoon. If she were still struggling up her last peak... Or if she’d fallen and broken an ankle... The questions swirled.

  Spot got up from his bed and walked over to the door, wagging. I opened it to Street.

  “Any word?” she said, coming in, kissing me, and walking over to the woodstove to warm up.

  “No,” I said.

  “Where do you think she is?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s a cold night. Hard not to worry.”

  My cell rang.

  I picked it up. “Owen McKenna.”

  “Owen! It’s Simone!” she was shouting. I gestured to Street to come close so she could hear. “I made it!” Simone said. “I’m camping. I’m in my tent.”
r />   “You didn’t make it to the Bradley Hut?”

  “No, I went on past it! I’m near Squaw Valley, just down the ridge north of Granite Chief Mountain. I’ll be able to climb it at first morning light. That will be my fourth mountain. Isn’t that fantastic?!”

  “That is great, Simone. Have you eaten?”

  “No I wanted to warm up in my tent and sleeping bag. It’s pretty cold out here. In a little bit, I’ll open the tent door a little for ventilation and turn on my cookstove. I’ll be fed and sound asleep in less than an hour. Just like a real back-country skier!”

  “Congratulations. We’ll toast your progress with a Bordeaux tonight.”

  “Okay! And Owen, please tell Joe that his maps and his route are perfect. It works just like he says. You turn the map to match the compass, find the landmarks, and away you go!”

  “That’s great. What’s the next mountain after Granite Chief?”

  “Squaw Peak, so I’ll be looking down at the top of the cable car and a lot of downhill skiers. After that, I head into the Granite Chief Wilderness and then up to Twin Peaks.”

  “That’s near Hell Hole Canyon, right?” I said, trying to remember the route she and Joe had drawn on the map.

  “Yeah. I don’t want to go down there! That’s like four thousand feet below Twin Peaks! So Joe’s got me going around it to the east and climbing Twin Peaks. By nightfall, I’m hoping to make it to the Ludlow Hut.”

  “That’s another Sierra Club hut,” I said.

  “Yeah, up above and behind Sugar Pine Point State Park. It’s important that I get a good night’s sleep because after that I head to Rubicon Peak, then turn west into Desolation Wilderness and all those mountains. Talk about the middle of nowhere! But Joe did a great job mapping the route, so I’m in good hands.”

  “I’ll tell him, Simone. Thanks for calling.”

  Street was waving at me. “Street wants to say hi,” I said, and handed the phone over.