Tahoe Ghost Boat (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller)

by Todd Borg

  I couldn’t get a sense of their intentions. Was the display of the gun just some macho play? Was the man with the gun going to burglarize the house? Or did they in fact have Gertie in the van? If so, were they planning to execute her in a place where they could toss the body far enough down the steep mountain slope that it wouldn’t be found until spring, if ever?

  THIRTY-SIX

  I went from chilled to hot. The men who had just tried to drown me appeared to be planning to kill Gertie. My desire to incapacitate them first was intense. But I had no weapon except Spot. If he could attack unseen, he could possibly disarm a single man. But we didn’t have time to approach unseen. And there were three men. The only other thing I could do would be to ram them.

  The thought seemed audacious, but maybe it was my best option. The third man was still in the van. Most cargo vans did not have a bench seat in front. Which meant that the third man was in back.

  With the other two men outside, why would a third man stay in the back of a windowless van?

  Was he watching Gertie? Untying Gertie? Molesting Gertie?

  My imagination made my throat constrict.

  If Gertie was in the back of the van when he got in, that would put her on the left and him on the right. The right side cargo doors were facing me.

  If I timed it just right...

  I put the Jeep into drive, released the parking brake, and started toward them. I accelerated gradually so that my engine wouldn’t roar. I mentally rehearsed the skid I’d made earlier when I slid out on a turn and bounced the right side of the Jeep onto the snow wall.

  I heard what I thought was a shout over the sound of the Jeep. The van’s cargo door opened just as I spun the wheel.

  The Jeep began to turn left, then broke into a skid and slammed broadside into the side of the van, striking it on the open cargo door.

  The collision wasn’t severe, but it was significant. The van probably outweighed the Jeep by one or two thousand pounds, but I thought that my Jeep had bumped the van to the side, hopefully pinning the two men between the van and the snow wall. Because it was a sideways collision, my old Jeep hadn’t deployed airbags. It was still drivable.

  I pulled left and forward, my right doors scraping as they separated from the van. I stopped and jumped out. The icy road was treacherous as I tried to run around the Jeep to the van. I jerked open the crushed cargo door.

  A man sat on the floor. He looked dazed. There was blood on his forehead. He held his arm. I grabbed him, lifted him up, and patted him down. I found no weapons. But he had a phone. I put it in my pocket and threw him out onto the road.

  From the other side of the van came angry voices, swearing. I heard thumping against the wall of the van.

  I leaned in and looked through the partition toward the front seats to see if the key was in the ignition. It would be worth the time to grab it.

  But it wasn’t there.

  Gertie huddled at the left side of the cargo compartment, sitting on a blanket. In the dim light, she looked shocked but didn’t look like she’d been injured from the Jeep ramming.

  “Gertie, it’s me, Owen McKenna. We talked in Sacramento. Let’s get you out of there. Hurry.”

  She didn’t speak and acted comatose as I pulled her out of the van. I kept my arm around her as we moved across the ice-covered road.

  I didn’t know if the passenger doors on my Jeep were operable, so I pulled Gertie to the driver’s door and pushed her inside. She made no sound, but she did make a weak effort to crawl across the center console and sit in the passenger seat.

  I followed her into the Jeep, then shifted into drive. I hit the gas, spinning the tires, sliding the Jeep’s rear end once again until we were facing back the way I’d come.

  The wheels spun as I accelerated. I let off the gas, and we straightened out. The ridgeline road was slippery with snow. The road made a curve. I braked, put the Jeep into a fast turn. We skidded as we went around. Before I completed the turn, I was aware of headlights in my rear view mirror.

  The van was coming up behind me at a fast rate. I powered down a short dip in the road, then flew back up the other side, took another turn, and hit the accelerator as the road went up a gradual slope.

  The van came behind.

  The road made another gentle turn, then a hard 90-degree cut in the opposite direction. I tapped on the brakes. Even though I was gentle, the road was polished ice from previous braking vehicles. The anti-lock system kicked in, and it pulsed continuously as we came to the corner.

  The Jeep’s delayed seatbelt alarm went off because neither of us had taken the time to put them on. No time now.

  I turned the wheel. Once again, we slid sideways. We came to the intersection where someone had broken off the stop sign. Beyond the intersection, the mountain dropped down a steep slope toward the lake. There was nothing to see but the darkness of black water far below and the distant lights of the far shore.

  I tried to ride the brakes, tried to keep us from skidding past the broken stop sign and into the snow wall. But the Jeep would have needed chains on all four tires to stop in time.

  We slid across the intersection, fishtailing. The tires seemed to grab pavement for a moment, then lost traction. We skidded clockwise. The left side of the Jeep plowed into the snow wall at the far side of the road.

  I turned the wheel, gave the Jeep gas, tried to pull away from the snow. But the left front of the Jeep was jammed into the snow, and the tires spun. I shifted into Reverse and tried again. Same result. We were on ice, with no traction.

  Headlight beams washed over us as the van came from behind.

  “C’mon, Gertie, time to run.”

  She made no response.

  I pulled my door handle and pushed. The door opened an inch before it jammed against the snow wall.

  “We have to go out your side,” I said. I reached over and tried her door. It, too, was jammed. The right side of the Jeep wasn’t against snow. The sheet metal must have gotten crimped when I rammed the van.

  I pushed up and back in my seat. Got my right knee out from behind the steering wheel. I turned, lifted my foot, and swung my leg over Gertie’s lap.

  “Pull on the door handle to free the latch, while I kick,” I said.

  Gertie didn’t respond.

  I reached over and grabbed her hand, which was rigid with tension. I put her fingers on the door latch and pulled.

  “Pull this door handle out while I kick the door.”

  She did as told.

  I kicked. The door didn’t budge. I shifted in my seat to get a better angle. I leaned my back against the driver’s door and kicked again.

  Gertie’s door popped open with a metallic screech.

  “Out,” I said. “Quick!”

  She climbed out in slow motion. I scrambled out after her.

  I had to make an instant decision about Spot. Would he hinder us more than he could help us? With three men with guns and no place to run except over six-foot snow walls into deep powder, it seemed it would be best to leave him in the Jeep. “Be good, boy,” I said as I shut the door with him inside. We turned down the street. The road was like a tunnel. The men would catch us easily. Or just shoot us from a distance.

  “We have to climb the snow wall,” I said. “Hurry.”

  The van came fast. It didn’t appear that they even tried to slow down as they approached the intersection. They slid, rotating, studded tires grinding on the icy pavement. The van came to a stop about 20 yards behind the Jeep.

  I kicked a step into the snow wall, then another above it, then a third.

  “Put your shoe into this step, Gertie. I’ll give you a boost. Quick!” I turned her toward the wall, put my hands on her waist. She slowly put her foot into the notch in the snow. I lifted her. She put her bare hands on top of the wall and made a weak effort to pull herself up. I wrapped one arm around her waist so I could use my other hand to guide her feet into the other steps.

  Noises came from behind. Van
doors opening. The heavy breathing of angry men.

  One of them shouted. “Don’t try to catch him, just drop the bastard!” The voice sounded like the man who tied the anchor to my feet and dropped me over the side of the boat into the lake. I heard a weapon being cocked.

  Gertie got her knee over the top edge of the snow wall and rolled onto it. If I could make it up before they shot me, we could maybe roll down the mountain. As soon as I had the thought, I realized that the snow was too deep. Without snowshoes, we’d just sink in and be mired. The men would get to us in a few moments.

  A shot cracked through the night. Then another. They sounded like cannon fire against the quiet of the forest. With the speed of fire and depth of the boom, it was probably a large caliber semi-auto with serious stopping power should a round hit us. In addition to multiple weapons, they probably had large-capacity magazines. It would be easy to keep drilling us until we were both dead.

  My refusal to carry a gun seemed the stupidest decision I’d ever made. Gertie’s life and mine were now as short as the time it took the men to take a calming breath, aim, and pull the trigger.

  Maybe I could run the other way, get them to follow me, and give Gertie a chance to get away. But it was a foolish thought. Without snowshoes, she couldn’t go anywhere except along the hard surface of the highway. I hadn’t saved her. I’d only prolonged her agony.

  Then I had an idea. It seemed ridiculous, but I had no other options.

  I ran away from Gertie, back across the road.

  One of the men shouted. I glanced behind me. One man ran toward me, cutting across the street at an angle. The other man lifted his weapon and pointed it at me. I kept running. A shot fired, its deep crack thudding in my ears.

  I got to the other side of the road, skidding in my boots. The broken stop sign lay on the road. I picked up the sign.

  The sign was much larger than I imagined. With its 4 X 4 wooden post, it was heavy as a log. I sprinted with the sign, back across the street to the snow wall.

  The man who’d chased toward me changed his course and angled back toward where I’d helped Gertie up the snow wall.

  With my hands on the top of the stop sign, I planted the base of the 4 X 4 into the snow at the wall. It wasn’t like a pole vault, but the sign gave me support as I scrambled up and over the top of the snow wall.

  Another shot cracked, loud and percussive, and blasted through the stop sign.

  I pulled up on the sign as the other man got to the wall. He grabbed the 4 X 4 post to yank the sign out of my hands. Instead of trying to pull it away from him, I shoved it toward him. Hard. The end of the broken post hit him on the shoulder and turned him around. He lost his grip. I pulled the sign up, rotated, then dropped down to the snow next to Gertie, who hadn’t moved.

  “Quick,” I said as I positioned the sign in the snow, shiny red side down, the post angling back toward the street. “Lie down on the sign. Like a toboggan.”

  Gertie made feeble moves. I knew that the man would scramble over the snow wall in a moment. I grabbed Gertie, pulled her into position on the back of the sign, putting her legs on either side of the post that was bolted to the back of the sign. I realized that she had no gloves, no winter clothes, no hat. I could put my jacket on her, but if I took more time, we’d be dead. But if I tried to send Gertie on a toboggan ride with no gloves, she’d never make it.

  “Reach up your hands!” I said. She looked dazed. I grabbed her arms, took a grip on her sweatshirt and yanked down on the fabric. I pulled the sweatshirt sleeves down over her hands, then positioned her hands on the front of the sign. The sweatshirt had a hood. I pulled it up over her head.

  “Hold on tight. Don’t let go!”

  I jumped on the lower edge of the sign and its protruding post. My arms were over Gertie’s legs, pinning them in place.

  A grunt came from behind me. I kicked at the snow, trying to get the sign to slide. We were stuck in place. I jerked my body. Over and over. We didn’t move.

  The man leaped onto my legs. One of his hands gripped at my jeans. I kicked at him. He grunted but held firm. I reached down to try to dislodge his grip. His fingers wormed into one of my pockets. I couldn’t break his grip. I kicked again. I rolled onto the side where his hand gripped my jeans. The move forced him down and under me. I tried to press down, tried to crush his hand. But he held firm.

  I got my other leg up and kicked at the man’s crotch as the second man came over the top of the snow wall.

  The man beneath me exhaled an angry groan. I kicked again and again.

  The force of my kicks loosened the sign from the snow. We started to slide down the mountain, Gertie and me and the man holding onto my pocket.

  Then the fabric of my jeans tore, and the man lost his grip. Another kick and the man came loose from us. I looked back and saw the other man up on the snow wall. He raised his gun with both hands. Took careful aim.

  I swung my legs to the left of the post, dragging my boots in the snow. The sign-toboggan swerved left as another shot rang out. The bullet blew another hole in the stop sign, just to the right of Gertie’s chest. Another shot splintered wood near my face.

  The slope pitched down at a steeper angle, and we shot down into the dark forest. A third shot pierced the night, but didn’t hit us. We slid, mostly out of control, into the dark forest and away from the men.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  As we tobogganed down the mountain, I trailed my legs off the back edge of the sign. By swinging them left or right, they acted as a rudder, steering us between the trees. It also kept my weight back, forcing the front of the sign to stay up so that Gertie’s hands on the leading edge stayed in the air and didn’t dig into the snow. I controlled our speed by how much I pushed down with my boots.

  It was dark in the forest as we left the open area near the ridgeline road. I didn’t know where we were going other than to escape the men and head down toward the lake. This part of Tahoe had a few vacation homes down on the lake, accessed by a narrow road that wound down from a neighborhood to the north. Maybe we could get to one of them.

  As I steered between the trees, arcing left and right, powder snow flew up into our faces. At one point I heard Gertie gasp.

  “Tuck your head down!” I shouted. “Concentrate on hanging on. We’ll be down the mountain in a couple of minutes.”

  Gertie lowered her head, her face to her right shoulder.

  As we went farther, I saw Gertie’s right hand loosen its grip. I grabbed the right edge of the sign, my fingers pummeled by the snow as we rushed along. By squeezing my grip and pressing down on Gertie’s legs, I was able to pin her to the sign.

  At times, snow flew into my face, making it impossible to see. Down below us came lights.

  A vehicle on the highway.

  I dragged my boots to slow our descent, and we came to a stop at the snow wall.

  “Okay, Gertie. Time to get off.”

  I helped her down the snow wall onto the highway.

  The vehicle that had gone by before was not in sight. There were no other headlights. But we could walk to somebody’s house.

  Headlights appeared in the neighborhood above us, where we’d come from.

  The cargo van was coming down to the highway.

  “Sorry, Gertie, we’re going to have to take another ride. Let’s put my jacket and gloves on you.”

  We got my clothes on her, and then got ourselves and the sign up the snow wall on the lake side of the highway.

  “Ready?” I said as preparation for our next descent.

  The cargo van turned onto the highway and its headlights washed over us as we pushed off again.

  As the mountain slope steepened, our speed grew. We were far enough down the mountain that I dared to brake harder with my boots and slow our speed. But I saw up ahead an open area that was much more shallow. If we didn’t carry enough speed, we would slow to a stop and be stuck in the deep snow, unable to move far enough to get to a steep slope and continue our esca
pe. On this part of the mountain slope, in this part of Tahoe, slowing to a stop would be guaranteed death. Without tree branches to cut into makeshift snowshoes, we’d be trapped by the deep snow, and we’d freeze to death.

  I bent my knees and lifted up my legs to minimize drag. Our speed increased immediately. But before we got going very fast, we came to the transition and hit the shallow slope.

  We slowed. Slowed more. We were probably on a meadow area, covered by six feet of soft snow. By the time we were halfway across, our speed was cut in half. It was like a boat going fast enough to plane on the water’s surface. You can slow a little and still plane. But once you slow too much, you sink down and come to a fast stop.

  I scanned the snowy surface in the darkness, looking for any area where the slope angle increased, where our momentum could carry us to a steeper slope. There was a bit of a dip to the right, but the landscape continued at the same angle for a long distance. I didn’t think we could get across.

  Straight ahead was a steady slope but probably too shallow to make it across.

  To the left, the slope was even shallower than where we were now. But it was shorter to the steeps.

  It was a gut decision. I went left.

  I didn’t want to steer with my boots because that would slow us more. So I leaned to the left by pulling up on my right hand.

  We made a slow arc toward the shallower, shorter area.

  Our speed was now down to a gentle ride. No more powder lofted up toward our faces. On a sunny day, and without three killers chasing us, it would have been pleasant. As we slowed toward the planing threshold, the prospect of Gertie freezing to death in the wilderness gripped me. I hoped that she wasn’t aware of the consequences.

  The tipping point where the mountain pitched down was just ten yards ahead. We came about a yard short before our makeshift toboggan stopped.

  “You did great, Gertie,” I said. “Now I just have to budge us a little farther to get back sliding down the slope. Then we’ll have one more short ride. So don’t move. Just keep hanging on. This will take me a few minutes. You should flex your hands. Make fists inside of my gloves, then straighten your fingers. Over and over. When we are ready to move again, you’ll be able to grip the front edge of the sign like before.”