Tahoe Blowup

by Todd Borg

  “Good. Keep you from yakking my ear off.”

  “Right,” I said. “I can tell something bad happened besides the fire. Did Linda die?”

  Diamond bit his lip. “We found her remains in the bedroom you tried to bust into. She was on the bed. Funny place to be when your house burns up in the middle of the evening. Especially when the house was overloaded with smoke detectors, including one in the bedroom. More than one person said they have personally heard Linda say that she puts fresh batteries in them every six months and never waits until they start beeping. Seven smoke detectors in a five room house. And there was general agreement that Linda was not a nap taker.”

  “So why did she die in her bedroom?” I asked, working through the sentence with care.

  “Don’t know. Forensics might have something in another day. Meanwhile, tell me if we’ve figured this out. You were going to see Linda, right?”

  I nodded. “She said she had something to tell me. Something she heard about the arsonist.”

  “That’s what we thought,” Diamond said. “Explains why you were in the vicinity when the fire broke out. Next question. You saw the fire and kicked in the front door. The house was already on fire, but you went in. Not finding Linda, you kicked in the bedroom door. It opened fast, hit the wall or something and bounced back at you just before the explosion. Am I right?”

  “I’m a little vague, but that fits from what I remember. How did you figure it?”

  “The bedroom was superheated from the fire,” Diamond said, “ready to burst into flames. But because the walls were still intact, the room was oxygen starved and hence no fire. When you kicked in the door, the rush of oxygen made the room explode.” Diamond shook his head as he looked down at me on the bed.

  He continued, “Having the bedroom door bounce back saved your life. It took the brunt of the explosion which drove the door and you out through the front picture window and beyond the burning house. It was an old house and it had solid doors. If the bedroom door had been a hollow core, you’d be history. Even so, the door had a dented imprint of your arm and shoulder and head.”

  “Did the fire burn three houses like the note said?” I asked, forming the words carefully.

  Diamond nodded. “Six or seven in the vicinity, but only three burned. Guy knows what he’s doing.” Diamond’s tone was depressed, his face somber.

  “Linda’s death is worrying you,” I said.

  “No, it has to do with Street.”

  “Which was going to be my next question. Have I been unconscious every time she’s visited or what?”

  “As far as I know, she hasn’t visited.” Diamond leaned forward and put his hand on my forearm. “I haven’t seen her anywhere. Was she going on a trip or something?”

  “No. She’s at her condo taking care of Spot,” I said. But as I said it, I felt confused, trying to remember how I’d left things before the fire and not being able to come up with a clear memory.

  “She’s not at her condo,” Diamond said.

  “What do you mean? You’ve checked?”

  “Yes. After your accident I went to get her. Spot was locked inside, but Street was gone.”

  “You went inside,” I said, a numbness creeping into my psyche.

  “Yes. I had to force the lock. Lucky for me, Spot knows who I am. I left him there the first night. Then I took him home to your cabin.”

  “You’ve checked Street’s lab?”

  “Yes. She hasn’t shown up the last three days. I also talked to all of her neighbors. No one has seen her.

  “Did you call Glennie at the paper?”

  He nodded.

  A powerful wave of nausea swept over me. “Where do you think she is?”

  Diamond looked at me intensely. His black eyes were moist at the corners. “It’s only supposition at this point, Owen. But I’m afraid she might have been kidnapped by the arsonist.”

  THIRTY

  I was stunned.

  A tidal wave rose unannounced from the depths, breached the breakwater, slammed up against the castle and ripped out the foundation. I struggled to breathe, the flood choking me, my entire life lost in the torrent. My mouth opened and closed silently, then again as if the movement would bring me sweet air. Or sustenance. Or some revelation that it was all wrong, that Street was coming down the hospital hallway, about to turn the corner and come into my room, her smile glowing, her sparkling eyes crinkled against her own high wattage.

  But Street didn’t appear and I couldn’t get air and the tidal wave was sweeping me out to sea.

  I realized that Diamond was talking. “I checked your office and cabin,” he said, “and it was the same. No sign of Street. And no note. No message on the machine at your office. You still don’t have an answering machine at home, correct? I looked around, but I didn’t see one.”

  I was reeling. I shut my eyes against the pain.

  “Is there any chance that Street might have suddenly left?” Diamond asked. “Maybe to visit a friend? Something comes up and she decides to split and call you later?”

  I struggled to come to the surface. I worked my mouth to answer Diamond’s question. “No,” I said. “She was staying with Spot. The farthest she’d go would be to step outside to the barbecue or something. She knew Spot was in potential danger. She wouldn’t have left him.”

  As I said it, I realized the incredible oversight I’d made. If the killer wanted to get to me through Spot, it would be a thousand times more effective to target Street instead. And if I wanted to protect Street, my first impulse would be to leave Spot with her and tell her to keep him at her side at all times whether she was inside her condo, answering the door or out on her deck. Instead, I had focused on protecting Spot. Street had probably gone outside to investigate a sound and carefully locked Spot in behind her!

  My brain pounded with pain. I’d been so stupid!

  Rage coursed through me. I turned toward the wall, away from Diamond, away from the world.

  A killer had sneaked into my most private, special place, a personal world I shared with Street and no one else. A universe of love and comfort and understanding where no thoughts were too secret to confide, no fears too large to discuss and no triumphs were too small to celebrate. The killer had taken her, taken the only person in the world I lived for.

  I turned back toward Diamond. His eyes showed worry as I laboriously sat up and swung my feet out of bed. He put out his hands as I inched forward on the edge of the bed, gathered weight on my feet and slowly stood up, rising well above him. My clothes were hanging in a little half-closet. I untied my gown and let it drop to the floor as I reached for my clothes.

  Diamond was already out the door, grabbing a nurse as she walked by. She turned, saw me in my nakedness and gave a little scream. The policeman who had been guarding me came in and tried to reason with me.

  I ignored him.

  Moving at my fastest was moving very slowly. Even so, I was most of the way dressed when Diamond came back with three people in white coats, one probably a doctor and the other two nurses.

  They made lots of protest and scurried about. Diamond spoke on his mobile phone. A nurse stuck her head out of the hospital room and yelled at someone down the hall. The policeman stayed back, his arms held out like a gorilla. But he let the others make the commotion. Even though we were in his town and Diamond was a sheriff’s deputy from another state, he deferred to Diamond.

  At one point the one who acted like a doctor even held her hand out in front of me, then realized the folly of it. The other nurse stepped forward, but then he, too, stopped. There are advantages to being a half foot taller than anyone else in the room.

  When I finished dressing, I realized what was missing. I turned to the doctor. “My gun,” I said.

  The doctor turned and looked at the nurses. They all acted like they didn’t know what I was talking about. I took a step toward the doctor. “Get it now, please.”

  The policeman stepped forward and spoke to Diam
ond. “Shall I stop him, sir?”

  Diamond made a guffawing noise in the back of his throat. “You wish.” Diamond turned to me and put his hand on my arm. “Owen, you don’t have a gun, remember?”

  I shut my eyes, the rage and confusion overwhelming. How many years had it been?

  Diamond directed me out of the room and led me to the parking lot.

  THIRTY-ONE

  As I walked out to the hospital parking lot I realized I’d left my Jeep near Linda Saronna’s house. Yet there it was, at the end of the second row. Diamond must have arranged for it to be brought over.

  My first stop was Street’s condo.

  I pushed past the crime scene tape and let myself in.

  I did a poor job of searching for evidence, shocked as I was with the enormity of what had likely happened. Nevertheless, I satisfied myself that Diamond’s idea of the events was close to the mark. Street had no doubt answered the door and left Spot inside to protect him. There was no sign of a struggle, so she must have felt comfortable enough to step out on the porch and close the door behind her.

  Maybe she even knew the kidnapper.

  Again, I chastised myself for such stupidity. It was my fault.

  I left and drove up the mountain to my cabin.

  Spot was glad to see me, but still morose. He sniffed me everywhere, no doubt trying to determine what the hospital smells were all about. I didn’t pay him much attention. Then he lost interest and lay down on the rug in front of the wood stove.

  My first call was to Glennie.

  “Owen!” she nearly yelled. “My God, I was so worried! I came by the hospital to see you, but they had an armed police guard who wouldn’t let me in! Are you okay? We heard that poor woman’s house exploded when you were inside!”

  Something about her enthusiasm raised a little red flag in the back of my mind.

  Could Glennie be lighting the fires in order to get exciting scoops for the paper?

  For that matter, could she have kidnapped Street because of jealousy over my affections?

  “I’m okay,” I said carefully. “Glennie, I need a favor.”

  “Of course. Anything you want.”

  “Can you see what photos you can find of the fires? I’d like to see both those taken by reporters as well as any taken by bystanders. I thought you could run a little notice in the paper asking for fire photos.”

  “Consider it done. I’ll put it in tomorrow’s edition. Is there anything else I can do?”

  I realized that she had no idea Street had been kidnapped, assuming, that is, that Glennie was innocent. There didn’t seem to be any point in bringing it up now. “No thanks, Glennie,” I said.

  I looked up the number for Jake Pooler Construction and got tight-faced Betty on the first ring.

  “Betty,” I said slowly, forming my speech with as much precision as possible. “This is Owen McKenna.”

  “Oh, hi, Mr. McKenna!” Her voice was as cheery as a game show host. “Is something wrong? You sound kind of, I don’t know, bedraggled.”

  “I am,” I said. “Tell me, Betty. Have they found Jake’s truck yet?”

  “No. Not that I ever heard.”

  “Has Winton come in?”

  “No. And let me tell you, that boy is going to get an earful when...”

  “Thanks, Betty,” I said, and hung up.

  Spot and I were at Winton Berger’s cabin on the North Shore sixty minutes later.

  I left Spot in the Jeep as I had a bad feeling about what was to come and I didn’t want him in harm’s way.

  Winton’s front door was shut and there was no sign of any lights in the windows. Nevertheless, a TV or radio was broadcasting a game, so I knocked loudly. No one in a building that small could have missed it, yet there was no response.

  I knocked again, louder still.

  “Get outta here!” a drunken voice yelled.

  “Winton!” I yelled back. “It’s Owen McKenna. We need to talk.”

  “No! I’m busy!”

  “Winton!” I called through the closed door, “you can talk to me or talk to the police. What’ll it be?”

  There was no response. The game boomed through the cabin walls and into the forest. I pounded on the door again, hard enough to make the wood crack.

  I was about to turn to walk around the back side of the cabin when the door jerked inward an inch, slamming against the chain. A rifle barrel jabbed out of the dark opening, eighteen inches of blued steel that angled up and nearly touched my chin. I paused, leaned back a few inches and saw a dark hole smaller than a pencil.

  .22 caliber.

  “Listen up, Mr. Beanstalk! A man’s cabin is his castle! Now get your ass outta here before I shoot it off!”

  The rifle wavered to my right. I leaned to the left, grabbed the barrel and jerked the rifle out of the door opening.

  “Ouch! Goddamn you!” he screamed, then slammed the door. The lock clicked shut.

  I slid the rifle’s bolt action, ejected the round and put it in my pocket. From inside the cabin came the sound of soft, fast footsteps. I set the rifle down on the front step and ran around the cabin. A movement caught my eye in the forest beyond.

  Winton was running through the trees.

  I tried to sprint after him, but my body still felt broken. Why had I left Spot in the Jeep!

  The skinny kid could run like a mountain cat. He easily out-distanced me and disappeared in the trees.

  I was about to give up when I heard the roar of an engine. I ran toward the sound, ducking low branches and rushing around trees and was rewarded with the sight of Winton driving away, tires kicking up dirt and rocks as he fishtailed away up an old logging road.

  His vehicle was huge and white and shiny, with dual rear wheels.

  Jake’s pickup.

  He flashed up the mountain and disappeared.

  THIRTY-TWO

  I ran back past Winton’s cabin, picking up the rifle from where I’d left it by the door. I threw it in the back of the Jeep so I could have the ballistics lab check it for similarities to the slug that was taken out of Pussy Cat.

  The driveway to Winton’s cabin was a dirt patch among widely-spaced trees, and I spun my wheels as I shot into the woods. It took a minute to find the place where Winton had parked Jake’s truck. The tracks he’d left were clear abrasions in the dirt and I was able to follow them, bouncing and shaking, over the rough terrain that led up the slope above the cabins and the highway.

  After a mile the dirt trail came to another, bigger road, probably a logging road from years past. It had a rocky surface that did not show his tracks. I assumed that Winton would want to avoid going farther up the mountain because he might come to a dead end and he would be trapped. So I turned to follow the logging road down the mountain and was back at the North Shore highway in a few minutes. There was no sign of Winton and I knew I’d lost him.

  I was about to drive back to Winton’s cabin and search it when my phone rang. It was Terry Drier saying they’d just gotten another fax. I decided that Winton’s cabin could wait.

  Terry handed the fax to me the moment I walked in the door of his station.

  Now that Detective Owen is conscious, he should know that I have Street Casey. Wow, what a little fighter that girl is! It took some work, but I convinced her to give me some information that would make you believe this kidnapping is for real. She said that not long ago she talked about bugs named Achorutes Nivcolas. How’s that for specific information? The next fire will be the blowup you’ve all been waiting for. It will take out over eighty houses. P.S. This isn’t about ransom. This is about punishment. Street will be in one of the houses.

  My head felt about to explode. This was the first time anyone had harmed Street since I’d known her.

  Because of me!

  Street’s kidnapping was worse than the kid at the Wells Fargo Bank. It blew out my rational fuses, burned through my logic circuits.

  Justice was no longer some concept handed down from the Mag
na Carta. Justice had morphed into a singular vision – Owen’s Jurisprudence – a vision that put my hands on the kidnapper.

  I’d break the long heavy bones first just to hear the sounds, deep and loud. Next, I’d work over the soft tissues, organ damage being particularly painful. Finally, I would seize the neck. There were seven cervical vertebrae. How many could I grind into powder before he expired?

  I turned toward Terry, wondering if these notes didn’t just come to him, but from him as well. He must have seen something in my eyes or in the clenching of my fists. He stepped back.

  “Owen? You okay? You need a soda or something?” As he spoke, he maneuvered slightly closer toward his office door.

  I thought also of Winton. He might not have been drunk like I thought. It would have been easy for him to get the note faxed after he drove away in Jake’s truck. The note could even have been pre-written. Winton might have been waiting until he knew I was conscious and out of the hospital.

  “Owen?” Terry said again, a worried look on his face.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay.”

  “I know it’s upsetting,” Terry said. “Anything we can do to help you on this, just let me know.”

  “Thanks.”

  I left and called Diamond, filling him in on my encounter with Winton as well as the latest fax.

  Later, my evening blurred into a tormented night, crazed sleeplessness mixing with demented dreams.

  The next morning Diamond stopped by my cabin. “First thing I did as soon as I saw the fax was call the FBI. They’re hard to interest when we have nothing but a missing persons report. But when we get hard evidence of a federal crime, they pay attention. Special Agent Ramos says he’ll be wanting an interview with you.”

  “Fellow Mex?”

  “More gringo than Mex from what I can tell. Talks like he was born in America, and I heard he got his law degree at an Ivy League school. He looks at me like I still got cabbage stains on my shoes.” Diamond looked down and cocked his shoe. “Then again, maybe I do. Anyway, he’s probably a good guy to have helping to look for Street.”