10 Tahoe Trap

by Todd Borg

  Paco nodded.

  “But you don’t like green beans?”

  “I like fresh beans. Canned beans are bad for you.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Like seat belts and milk.”

  Paco made a small nod.

  “You don’t like squash, either?” I said. “It’s fresh. Relatively speaking, that is.”

  He shook his head. “Squash tastes bad.”

  “Okay if I eat yours?” I asked.

  Paco shrugged.

  I reached for his plate, slid his squash and beans onto my plate.

  “Do you have ice cream?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Cookies?”

  “Sorry. I’ve got pumpkin pie. You like frozen pumpkin pie, or does it have to be fresh?”

  “I like frozen pie if you cook it.”

  “Okay, I’ll cook it. Takes an hour, though. You think you can stay up an hour? You didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  He thought about it.

  “You could wake me up,” he said.

  So I cooked the pie. Paco fell asleep in the rocker.

  EIGHT

  I woke Paco up when the pie was done.

  Spot was back at his place at the table as we ate. His tongue made a trip down the right side of his jowls and back up the left. Spot began to quiver when a little chunk of pie fell off of Paco’s fork onto the Formica table. Spot looked at the pie chunk, then looked at Paco. Then he trained his big ears and eyes on that chunk as if to vaporize it. Nostrils twitched and flexed. He swallowed. Only after Paco had scooped the chunk back onto his fork, used his finger to wipe the residue off the table, and then licked his finger did Spot calm with disappointment.

  Paco was on his second piece when Spot gave up his intense focus, turned his ears behind him, then got up and walked to the door. Spot stared at the solid door, his tail on the medium setting. Eventually came a two-rap knock.

  Paco jerked and stared at the door, fright on his face.

  “Don’t worry, Paco.” I pointed at Spot. “It’s someone Spot knows. Otherwise, he’d bark.”

  I knew it wasn’t Street, because then his tail would be on high speed, and he’d be doing the stationary prance.

  I opened the door. It was Diamond, wearing his uniform.

  “Just in time for dessert,” I said. “Or are you on duty?”

  “Officers on duty still gotta eat.”

  I nodded. “I’ve got pumpkin pie.” I looked at Paco. “I even cooked it.”

  “Homemade or store bought?” Diamond said. He looked at Paco. Paco kept his head down, eating his pie.

  “Lot of picky people in this room,” I said. “Store bought. You think I could make a homemade pie?”

  “You made that bread for Anna Quinn’s little adventure at the Vikingsholm Castle.” He looked at the pie on the stovetop. “Anyway, preservatives’ll keep me looking youthful.”

  I put my plate in the sink, served up a big piece on another plate, and set it down at the table.

  “Paco, meet my friend Diamond,” I said. “Diamond, meet Paco.”

  Diamond nodded at the boy, sat down, forked a big piece of pie into his mouth.

  Paco stared down at his pie, not meeting Diamond’s eyes. It was probably Diamond’s uniform. The boy had been taught to be wary of cops.

  “I’m from Mexico City,” Diamond said to Paco. “How about you?”

  “Stockton,” Paco said in a tiny voice.

  “Dónde?” Diamond said.

  Paco didn’t respond.

  “You don’t speak Spanish?” Diamond said.

  Paco shook his head. Always, he kept his eyes down.

  When Diamond finished his pie, he got up, washed his plate and mine and set them in the dish rack.

  “I’d feed you pie more often if you always washed my dishes,” I said.

  “Used to be a dishwasher in a restaurant,” Diamond said. “Brushing up on my technique.”

  “Seems like you had every kind of menial service job before you finished your degree and got into law enforcement,” I said.

  “I was a Mexican immigrant with major work ethic and no means.”

  “Meaning, you take what you can get and are grateful for any paying work?”

  “Sí.”

  Paco raised his eyes and suddenly watched Diamond as if to memorize him. He focused on Diamond’s belt, his gun, his radio, then looked down to Diamond’s shiny black shoes, then raised up to the insignia on Diamond’s jacket.

  “But you were recently studying the French philosophers, right?” I said. “Thinking of a future career change?”

  Diamond glanced at Paco. “You want to pay the mortgage, a law enforcement career beats philosophy,” he said. “You want big perspectives on life, philosophy beats everything.”

  “Big perspectives on life?”

  “Conundrums of meaning and purpose. Moral dilemmas. Like that.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Like that.”

  When Diamond left, I followed him out to his patrol unit.

  “You assumed the kid speaks Spanish,” I said.

  “Brown skin. Work clothes. Skin and fingernail dirt that won’t wash out for two weeks. Logical guess.”

  “Dirt and Spanish go together?”

  “Dirt like that on a kid that age in California means field work. Add in brown skin, you got roots from south of the border. Almost for certain he would speak Spanish. So I tried him. But surprise, no Español.”

  “My thought, too,” I said.

  “Means this kid is screwed unless he gets some serious help. Probably his mama brought him from Mexico as a new baby. Which makes him a Mexican citizen and an illegal immigrant. Kid grows up speaking American English, but this ain’t his country. Without Spanish, Mexico ain’t his country, either. Not having a country is a tough gig for anyone, never mind a little kid.”

  “He told me he doesn’t have brothers or sisters,” I said. “No family that he knows of. You got any idea what I should do with this kid?”

  “Got me. I’m a cop, not a social worker.” Diamond got into his SUV, started it, spoke out the open window.

  “The boy tell you anything about the men in the pickup?”

  “Yeah. Paco said one was black and one was white, and they were both huge and they looked like superheroes.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  I shook my head. “Said one of them had a cape like Batman.”

  “Like the guy was wearing an unbuttoned coat?”

  “Probably. The only words they said that Paco remembered was the black guy saying salt and the white guy saying yopep.”

  “Salt and Pepper,” Diamond said. “Heard that somewhere. Something about Vegas, I think. Maybe you should call Agent Ramos.” Then Diamond added, “Any chance you saw these guys chasing the boy?”

  “Nope.”

  “So we don’t know for certain if they exist,” Diamond said.

  “Right. But his fear was real. So we should operate on the assumption that they are real.”

  Diamond nodded. “Keep your eyes open,” he said. “Mañana, hombre.” He drove off.

  Paco was back in the rocker when I went inside. Spot was lying next to him. Between Paco’s strokes and the woodstove’s heat, Spot was doing his nirvana reaction, thick tongue panting, eyes drooping. Happy as a dog can get outside of eating a barbecued cheeseburger.

  “You can turn it off, now,” Paco said, pointing at the woodstove.

  “Not that simple. Woodstove wakes up slowly, goes to bed reluctantly. You want cool, you have to move out of the rocker and sit over there. Or go outside.”

  Paco looked at the dark windows.

  “Where do I sleep?” he said.

  “I’ve got a sleeping bag and air mattress you can use.”

  “Where would I put it?”

  I gestured at the small floor of my living room. “Here in front of the woodstove is good. Or you could use my bed.”

  “Then where would you sleep?”

&nbs
p; “Here.” I pointed at the floor again.

  “Where does Spot sleep?”

  I pointed to Spot’s oversized bed.

  “I could put the sleeping bag there,” Paco said.

  “True. But Spot is a bed hog. He could push you out or roll over on you.”

  Paco shrugged.

  “But before you go to bed, you gotta take a shower.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you need it. When was the last time you took a shower?”

  “I don’t take showers. I take baths. Cassie...”

  “Says showers are bad for you?” I interrupted.

  Paco shook his head. “She says that a bath soaks the dirt out better.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have a tub. So you don’t have a choice.”

  “I’ll take a shower tomorrow.”

  “Not if you want to use my sleeping bag,” I said.

  Paco stared at me.

  “C’mon,” I said. “I’ll show you your towel.”

  He was reluctant, but he acquiesced.

  “Got another call to make,” I said to Paco before I shut the bathroom door. “I’ll be just outside the front door.”

  I stepped outside into the cold night and dialed FBI Special Agent Ramos on his cell number. I paced back and forth in miniature, two steps each way so that I stayed under the overhang and in from the rain.

  “McKenna,” Ramos answered, no doubt reading his caller ID.

  “Sorry to bother you at this hour,” I said.

  “You found the boy who was supposedly kidnapped. Reasonable to call about it. Assuming, that is, that he’s telling the truth. Has he given you any evidence?”

  “No,” I said. “A story, a palpable fear, nothing more.”

  “You believe him?” Ramos’s skepticism was as clear as Mallory’s.

  “I believe something traumatic happened. He did tell me something that I wanted to ask you about. He said that one of the men was black and the other white. The black man said something about salt, while the white man said something about yopep. It sounded to me like names. Salt and Pepper.”

  “Really,” Ramos said. A statement. Disgust in his tone. “Well, then you’ve probably got something. There’s a couple of dirtballs we’ve been looking for. Two suspects who go by those monikers. Did the boy say any more about what they look like?”

  “Just that they were big guys with shaved heads. One wore a cape.”

  “A cape?” Ramos didn’t sound as surprised as I thought he’d be.

  “You know them?”

  “Heard of them,” Ramos said. “They’re based in Vegas. They refer to themselves as The Collectors. An informant has mentioned them. He says that they call each other Salt and Pepper. Silly names, but it sounds like they’re trying to build a persona.”

  “What do they collect?”

  “Anything. You pay their fee, they collect people, payrolls, guns. Often they’re hired to get rid of what they collect.”

  “Big fee?”

  “Medium scale from what we’ve heard. We believe that these two men may have been involved in three murders. Two of the victims were men who were suspects in other murders. One was a man we know nothing about. We never were able to ID the body.”

  “How were they killed?”

  “It appeared that they were all hit with a stun gun and then wrapped with shipping plastic. Arms tight to their bodies and heads, too. Death in each case was caused by asphyxiation from the plastic wrap.”

  “By plastic wrap, do you mean shrink wrap?”

  “Yeah. The stuff that they put around wooden pallets and cardboard boxes to hold it all in place.”

  “Anything else you know about these guys?” I asked.

  “Nothing except their names.”

  “The murders you describe, they all take place in Vegas?”

  “Probably,” Ramos said. “The bodies were found out on the desert in shallow graves. Two in one grave, the third in another grave. Near popular hiking trails. In both cases it was hikers who noticed the graves.” He paused. “Hate to think these boys have come to our bucolic mountain hamlet.”

  “Me, too.”

  “The thing is, these guys are grandiose. They do stuff in goofy ways that gets media coverage. But that doesn’t make them any less dangerous. You watch your back,” Ramos said, then hung up.

  NINE

  When I went back inside, Paco was finished with his shower, and he had put his dirty clothes back on.

  “Gotta brush your teeth before bed,” I said. “I’ve got a brand new brush I’ve never used. I’ll get it.”

  I fetched the brush.

  He looked at it with suspicion.

  “My teeth don’t need brushing,” he said.

  “Yeah, they do. Don’t tell me that Cassie says that brushing teeth is bad.”

  He looked at me, but he didn’t protest.

  “Good. She made you brush, didn’t she?” At least there was one thing that Cassie and I agreed on. I handed him the brush. “Toothpaste is in the bathroom,” I said.

  With a sense of resignation, Paco tore off the plastic wrapper, took out the brush and went into the bathroom. A few minutes later, he came out.

  I handed him the sleeping bag I’d dug out from the back of my closet.

  He put it on the edge of Spot’s bed, climbed into it and curled up next to Spot.

  I wondered if I should be doing anything else. This was foreign territory for me, but even I knew that a kid shouldn’t go to bed without some kind of touch. Especially a kid who, unless he was a world-champion liar, had just been through a major tragedy. So I walked over, bent down, and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

  “Goodnight,” I said.

  He didn’t respond.

  Sleep came in bits, interrupted by long bouts of stress and worry about the kid in the next room.

  In the middle of the night, I finally got up to check on him.

  I slipped out of my bed, walked quietly to the door, and looked out.

  In the faint light from the LED display on the microwave, I saw him. Paco was sitting up, backed up against the log wall, knees to chest, hugging his knees, the sleeping bag still bundled around him. On his left, Spot’s bulk was pushed up against him.

  Normally, I wouldn’t have been able see his features in the dark of night. His eyes and eyebrows were black on a brown face. But the dim kitchen glow reflected off his wet cheeks.

  I didn’t want to startle him. So I made a little noise against the doorway before I walked out.

  There was just enough space between Paco and the woodstove that I could sit down on the floor next to him, my back against the log wall. My elbow bumped up against his shoulder. He didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.

  I felt as ill-equipped for this moment as any in my life. What do you say to a kid who has witnessed an assault on his foster mom, a kid who apparently has no relatives, no place to go, who lives with the constant worry that he may get picked up by authorities and sent to a country he can’t even remember.

  I thought back to when I was a kid his age, tried to remember kid emotions, kid responses to tragedy. But I immediately realized that it was not instructive. I’d been a cocky kid, full of himself, living with my solid, reliable family in Boston. The support within my family home was constant. And outside the home, in a city where several of my uncles were cops, I felt equally self-assured and protected. My entire existence as a kid had nothing in common with this kid next to me, crying in the dark, facing a future that was a giant question mark at best, nearly destroyed at worst.

  I’d already learned that Paco was as taciturn as they come. Even if I knew what to say or ask, I knew that he probably wouldn’t answer.

  “You want to talk?” I said. I knew it was a feeble attempt before I had finished the question.

  Paco didn’t speak.

  I put my hand on his bent knee.

  “You’ve been through hell,” I said. “It’s okay to be upset. I know it really hurts.” />
  Still no response.

  I waited.

  Eventually, he said, “My life is like an empty room.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I realized that my hand was clenching his knee hard. Too hard. I tried to relax it a bit.

  “You’re a tough kid,” I said. “Together, you and I can find these bad guys. We can put them away. It won’t make the hurt less. But it will be something.”

  He sniffled, rubbed his arm across his nose.

  In time, his breathing slowed a bit.

  I didn’t move.

  He lay down to the side, away from me, his upper body on top of Spot.

  I waited until he was sleeping, pulled the sleeping bag up over him, then went back to bed and listened to the steady drone of rain on the cabin roof.

  The next morning, I found Paco snugged up so tight against Spot that I worried that Spot had crushed him in the night. He was tiny compared to Spot, and I wasn’t confident that Spot was careful around small bed-mates.

  I leaned in close to see. Paco was out, but still breathing. I relaxed. Paco’s arm was over Spot’s chest. Spot was snoring.

  I poured a cup of coffee, turned on my laptop, and spent some time looking for information that might tell me where Paco lived. Then I called Commander Mallory, talking softly so I didn’t wake Paco.

  “Heard from Ramos that you may have a lead on the men who kidnapped the boy,” Mallory said. “And Diamond told me you’ve got the kid at your house.”

  “Don’t know what else to do with him,” I said. “I’m planning to take him home today, ask around, see where he can stay. But from what he told me, it doesn’t look promising. No family, no friends with room, no relatives.”

  “You find out where he lives, yet?” Mallory asked.

  “No. He says it’s an hour out of Stockton and just down from McDonald’s and Aggie’s Green Elementary.”

  “He know his street address?”

  “It sounds like he doesn’t have one,” I said. “He said their house is at the back of the landlord’s property. They grow tomatoes and peppers and sell them up here in Tahoe.”

  “You have a plan how to find the house?” Mallory asked.

  “More of a guess. I Googled St. Agatha’s Elementary and found one about an hour out of Stockton. It could be the school. I’ll let you know what I learn. You haven’t had any reports of a van or pickup that fit our description?”