10 Tahoe Trap

by Todd Borg

We hit the switches. The motors ran down.

  With the roar gone, the screams from the living room were much louder.

  I flipped on the kitchen light. The floor had many ants rushing around, but a quick glance through the screen window in the side of the ant bucket showed that most of them were gone.

  Burning pepper mist began to fill the kitchen.

  I lifted the brace out of the door brackets. Opened the door for Paco.

  “Paco, take Spot out the kitchen door. Wait for me outside. I don’t want you to get the pepper juice or the ants on you.”

  Coughing, he went out with Spot, into the night.

  I took a deep breath of air at the outside door, then opened the door into the dining room and living room and flipped on the living room light.

  The room was drenched and vibrating with the movement of countless tiny specks.

  The front door was broken into splinters. A window on the side wall was smashed, shards of glass sparkling on the floor.

  Salt and Pepper were writhing and jerking on the floor, screaming. Their eyes were clenched shut, their faces contorted with pain. I saw ants on their clothes and skin, but it appeared that the major debilitating weapon had come from the magic of Cassie’s Vipers.

  I was amazed to see that our crazy scheme had worked.

  I stepped back to the outside kitchen door to get away from the pepper juice miasma and breathed five quick, deep breaths. Then I went back into the living room.

  The white man was on his back on the floor, bawling like a child. Near him was a Taser. Using my foot, I forcibly rolled him over onto his side. I grabbed his belt at the back and lifted him up onto his hands and knees. He didn’t really hold himself up, but he took enough of his own weight to lessen the load on me. Ants crawled from him up my arm, but I didn’t care.

  “Outside, dude,” I said. “Fresh air.”

  He sort of helped me, crawling across the ant-covered floor, slick with pepper juice, as I walked him out the broken door. I sped him up and then lifted him as we got to the porch steps. He made a blind, flying belly flop onto the dirt in front of the house, where he collapsed in a heap, still crying, still jerking from ant stings.

  Spot stood nearby, licking his chops, sniffing the air, keeping his distance. He snorted and shook his head.

  I thought of telling Spot to watch the man, but it was obvious that the guy wouldn’t go anywhere until the worst of the pepper juice and ants was past.

  I took more fast breaths to clear my lungs, then went back inside for the other guy. Spot stayed outside.

  Pepper wasn’t crying like Salt, but he looked to be in more pain. He was choking and gagging. Ants swarmed him.

  In thirty seconds, I had him outside, on the dirt next to Salt.

  I held my breath and went back inside to the kitchen to grab the duct tape.

  It was the heavy-duty variety, and it only took two turns each to do Salt and Pepper’s hands behind their backs, their feet, and their knees. They both choked and gagged and cried like children. I heard a car not too far away and wondered if the driver would come to investigate the bawling sounds from the men. If so, the scene would be awkward to describe.

  I lifted each of them up to a standing position and walked them up face first against Jeffrey pine trees. With their faces turned sideways, cheek-to-bark, I ran tape around their necks and the tree trunks. I didn’t want to suffocate them, but I wrapped the tape tight enough that their molars would get re-aligned from the bark pressing through their cheeks. Then I wrapped tape around their feet and the trunks. When I was done, they were immobilized against the trees.

  Through it all, they continued to gasp and sputter, and the stinging fire ants made them twitch and jerk. I was glad I’d kept my goggles on. There was no antidote for pepper spray. All you could do was wait an hour or two for the burning, blinding chemical to soften its grip on your skin and eyes and lungs.

  Despite my gloves and goggles and holding my breath, a bit of the pepper had gotten into my lungs, and it burned as if I were inhaling fire. I couldn’t imagine what a full dose would do to a person.

  Spot had disappeared back around the house.

  I left the men against the trees, sagging down, their bulk held up by their tree-tape necklaces as much as by their own legs.

  In the light that spilled out from the broken front door, I saw Spot come running back from behind the house. I held my gloved hands up in the air so that Spot wouldn’t touch them.

  “Okay, Paco, it’s safe to come around the house,” I called out. “Just stay back from these miserable jerks. I don’t want any of the pepper juice to get on you.”

  Spot ran back behind the house, nose to ground.

  “Paco, c’mon out,” I called.

  No response.

  My gut clenched.

  I sprinted back to the rear of the house. Spot ran with me.

  “PACO!” I shouted.

  He wasn’t there.

  FORTY-FOUR

  I ran up to the kitchen door and shouted.

  “PACO!”

  I circled the house. Held my breath and ran back inside. Up the stairs. The bedrooms were empty.

  “Spot,” I said when I was back outside. “Where’s Paco?” I said.

  Spot’s brow was furrowed.

  I pounded down the stairs. There was a trail of sorts behind the house. Cars probably used it like an alley. I’d gone out the front of the house just seconds after Paco and Spot had gone out the back. Paco must have gone toward the alley.

  I ran out and looked both ways.

  Nothing. It was a dark path into the night with no sign of vehicle lights.

  I’d been so stupid! I’d focused on Salt and Pepper. When Spot came running to see what I was doing in the front yard, a third comrade ran off with Paco.

  If Paco had cried out, Spot would have run back to intervene. But if Paco knew the person, he might not have been suspicious.

  Even if the person was a stranger, he might have muffled Paco’s mouth and got him into a car before Spot noticed.

  It must have been the car I’d heard while I was taping Salt and Pepper.

  I ran back to the front of the house. “WHERE’S PACO?!” I shouted at the closest man, Pepper.

  He was still sagged down as if his weight was hanging from the tape around his neck, wheezing, struggling to breathe, his bronchial tubes inflamed from the pepper spray. He wouldn’t be able to speak for a long time.

  I went over to Salt. Asked him the same question.

  He could breathe, but he said nothing.

  I stepped behind him and jerked up on his taped wrists, stressing his elbows and shoulders.

  He yelled.

  “WHERE’S PACO?” I shouted again.

  “I dunno,” he grunted. “I thought he was with you.”

  “Tell me what you do know!”

  “I dunno anything.”

  Another jerk on his arms. Harder. He screamed louder. Ripping apart a shoulder or elbow is a pain near the top of the scale.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “I dunno.”

  I bent down, got my shoulder under his bound wrists and began to straighten up. I heard squeaks coming from his joint tissues.

  He screamed like he was being torn in half by a lion.

  I backed off just a touch.

  “You don’t answer my questions, I’m going to take apart both of your shoulders and elbows. It’s tough to repair that kind of injury. And when your shoulder pops in that position, sometimes it rips the brachial artery. You’ll bleed out in a couple of minutes. At least then you’ll get some relief from the pain.”

  “Once more,” I said. “Who do you work for?”

  “Just a guy that sent an email. A referral thing.” He stopped to breathe. Gasping breaths. “My arms...”

  I let off the upward pressure.

  “The guy said he’d pay us our fee for two jobs. Thirty thousand each. Fifty percent down.”

  “You were paid to kill bo
th the woman and the boy?”

  “We were only to kill the woman. Kidnap the boy. We had orders. Make sure the kid ain’t hurt.” The man’s eyes were still shut tight. Tears flowed out from between red, clenched eyelids.

  A million Scoville units, Paco had said. It was Paco’s brilliant idea that brought these two men down. It was my incredible stupidity that let a third man take Paco while I’d been focused on these men.

  “Why would he kidnap the boy?” I asked. “There’s no money to ransom.”

  “We jus’ sell our services. Someone pays our money, we don’t ask why.”

  “What’d the guy look like?”

  “Never saw him.” The man’s words were hard to understand. He coughed and wheezed.

  “How’d he pay the deposit?”

  “Mail. He mailed it to us.”

  “He mailed you thirty thousand dollars cash?”

  “Yeah. In a Flat-rate box. Hunnerd dollar bills.”

  “And now he has the kid?” It was a reasonable assumption. But so far I’d been wrong about a lot.

  “I ’spose,” the man said, his voice rattling with mucous. “Musta followed us. We do the work, and he snatches the kid out from under us. We’ll still get the money.”

  “How were you supposed to deliver the kid?”

  “Gonna email the guy. Then he’d give us instructions.”

  “What’s his email address?”

  “I dunno. It’s in my computer.”

  “Where’s your computer?”

  “In my truck. Down the block.”

  I looked through the dark. Didn’t see any vehicle in either direction.

  “You believed he’d pay you the balance even though you don’t know his identity?” I said.

  The man coughed. “We have a rep. He stiffs us, we track ’im down and make ’im pay. We always get paid.”

  “Not this time,” I said.

  “I can’t breathe,” he said. “You gotta take this tape off my neck, or I’ll choke to death.”

  I ignored him.

  By his bulging jaw muscles, I could tell that he wouldn’t hesitate to use his debt-collection techniques on me if he could.

  “If I let you go, where would you go to look for this guy? Or the boy?”

  “There’s a college kid in Vegas. Knows how to hack computers. He can track email.”

  “Why’d the guy hire you to kill Cassie?”

  “I dunno. Maybe the bitch screwed him over.”

  I gave him the hardest jerk, yet. Something snapped loud and crisp in my ear.

  He cried out in an ear-ripping shriek, ragged with terror, followed by a long moan. He sagged, knees bending, tape pulling tight around his neck. His breath was fast, short panting gasps, tense with desperation. Drops of sweat mixed with pepper juice on his forehead. The man turned a deep red, visible in the dim light spilling out from the house.

  “You wrecked my arm. I’m gonna kill you for that.”

  “Your other arm is next. Why’d he want you to kill Cassie?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Why did Cassie drive to meet you?” I asked.

  “I don’t know! Guy who hired us set it up. He’d made some deal with her. She thought she was meeting him. All so we could do her and grab the boy. Then the little shit hid and ran. Kid runs like an animal or something. At least we got the woman. She was one tough bitch. Tried to fight when Pep pulled his piece. Guess she’s sorry now.”

  He said it as a boast. I lost control. I bent my arm and put a hard elbow punch to his temple. With his head against the tree, it could not bounce away to lessen the blow. He went limp like I’d flipped a switch. He’d live, but he’d have a hell of a headache when he came to. I didn’t think I broke his skull, but thought he might end up with enough brain bruising and swelling to cause permanent damage. The possibility didn’t bother me.

  I ran to the Jeep, ripped away the branches. Spot was at my side. I let him into the back, then jumped in, threw the shift into reverse, and backed the Jeep out from under the tree.

  I grabbed my phone and dialed 911 as I raced down the road. When the dispatcher answered, I said, “Owen McKenna calling. There are two killers who are known as Salt and Pepper. They are wanted for three murders in Vegas. One of them just confessed to the murder of Cassie Moreno as well as the attempted kidnapping of her foster son Paco Iparagirre. Paco has now been taken by a third, unknown party.

  “You will find the men tied to trees in front of a condemned house on the West Shore, not far from Chambers Landing.” I gave her the address. “Tell the officers to be careful. There’s pepper spray on the men and inside the house.” I hung up.

  I called Diamond and got his voicemail. I explained what had happened. It was out of his jurisdiction, but I knew he’d want to know. Then I dialed Street. In crisis, phone home to your soul mate. She’ll have an idea.

  I got her voicemail, too. I stumbled through a description of who, what, where, and when, but didn’t have the why.

  When I hung up, I stared at my phone, trying to think of what to do next. After ten seconds, the phone lights went off. I felt like my world had just gone from dark to black.

  I drove around the block, looking for Salt and Pepper’s pickup, but saw nothing. I circled the next block, and the next still. Still nothing. Maybe they’d hidden it. Or maybe they’d come with a third person, someone other than the guy who hired them, and that person took Paco and left in the pickup.

  I thought about all the people who I’d talked to and the ones I hadn’t. Although I’d learned that Cassie didn’t have many friends, a lot of people knew her because they wanted her produce. They wanted Cassie’s Amazements.

  Which made me think of the man Paco had mentioned, the guy who drove the red Audi. The guy who’d come to Cassie’s farm several times to talk to her about her hybrid.

  The Jeep fishtailed as I pushed it on a curve, shot past Chambers Landing, and headed up through Homewood. A bit farther, I turned into the townhouse project where Michael Schue the owner of the restaurant chain and produce distribution company lived. He wasn’t in when Paco and I had stopped by before. Maybe he was in now. Maybe he’d know the owner of the red Audi, the man who’d turned into the same complex the day Paco and I had tried to visit.

  FORTY-FIVE

  I found Schue’s code on the keypad readout at the gate. His phone rang. This time he answered.

  It took all of my control not to yell.

  “Mr. Schue, my name is Owen McKenna. I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of Cassie Moreno, the owner of Field To Fridge. She delivers your fresh vegetables every week.”

  “Yes, I heard about her death,” Schue said. “Very sad.”

  “I need to talk to you about it. I’m at the condo gate.”

  “Oh?” he said. “Well, perhaps we can set up a time if you send an email to my secretary. You can find it on the contact page of my company’s website. I...”

  “Mr. Schue, I must speak to you now.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t allow unscheduled visits. So I’ll have to hang...”

  “Michael Schue, if you hang up, I will have the Placer County Sheriff’s Office get a warrant, and a small army of deputies will be back to take apart your townhouse so thoroughly you won’t recognize it when they’re done. Not that you’ll care from your jail cell.”

  There was static from the keypad speaker.

  “What are you saying?” Schue finally said.

  “You let me in now and answer a few questions, maybe we can avoid a warrant and a search, and future depositions and court appearances. If you don’t, maybe we get eager in our search, find something we think suspicious. Have you ever spent a night in jail while you’re waiting for your lawyer to call back from Grand Cayman?” I knew that few wealthy men like Schue had ever spent a night in jail. The idea would scare him.

  More static.

  Eventually, he said, “I’m in the Blue Lake building. I have the top floor. The garage code is ‘Beauty’.�
��

  The gate began to open.

  I found the Blue Lake building, typed ‘Beauty’ into the garage keypad, and drove down the ramp as the door rose up. The garage held a dozen cars. One was a red Audi quattro. There was an elevator at one end. I left Spot in the Jeep and rode to the top floor.

  The door opened on a room with a window overlooking the beach and dark lake beyond. There was a small seating arrangement, a table and lamp, and copies of financial magazines. Opposite, was a grand door. I crossed to the door and pushed the button.

  The door opened, letting out soft classical music. Violins and cellos stepping in a stately procession down a series of chords. Baroque, maybe. A man stood in front of me wearing leather slippers and burgundy pajamas underneath a dark green robe.

  I showed him my ID.

  He sniffed, wrinkled his nose at the pepper smell emanating from me.

  “I’m Michael Schue. Come in.” I followed him to a semi-darkened living room with a grand view of the dark lake with its perimeter of twinkling lights. The only room light came from canned ceiling spots turned down to their lowest dimmer setting and three large candles on a low table. Near the candles was a bottle of wine and two half-full glasses.

  Behind the table was another man lounging on a couch. He, too, wore night clothes, and he held a pipe that looked to be packed with unlit tobacco.

  “Mr. McKenna, this is my friend Albert Zimmer,” Schue said.

  Albert nodded and gestured with his pipe.

  “Please sit,” Schue said as he joined Albert on the couch.

  I took one of the big over-stuffed chairs that faced the couch. I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm myself, then gave a brief explanation about Cassie’s death, her foster son Paco, and his kidnapping a few minutes ago.

  “That’s terrible!” Schue said.

  “I’m here for two reasons. One is because you, Michael, were a client of Cassie’s. The other reason is that Cassie was periodically approached by a man at her organic farm down near Stockton. The man wanted to acquire an interest of some kind in her hybrid tomatoes. Among other things, Paco noticed that the man drove a red Audi quattro.

  “Recently, Paco and I went around the lake visiting Cassie’s clients. When we came here to see you, there was no response to my keypad call from the gate. Yet, as we left, we saw a red Audi quattro pulling in. Paco got a look at the driver and said that it was the man who came calling at the farm and wanted to buy tomato rights.