by Todd Borg
“But that won’t stop people from looking,” I said.
“People are motivated to look for treasure merely for the sport of it. Fifteen million or more brings it into a new realm. People dig substantial mines hoping to find smaller amounts. UC Davis has a submersible, but they probably wouldn’t spend resources on a search unless they had a solid indication of location. The bottom of that lake is huge and very deep.”
I asked Rudy if I could consult him again.
“Sure,” he said.
“Thanks very much.”
We said goodbye and hung up.
A second later, the phone rang.
“Owen McKenna,” I said, my brain full of images of gold coins spilling out of chests.
“Glad you finally got off the phone.” It was Diamond. “Sorry to tell you bad news. We got a nine-one-one from Street’s neighboring condo. I’m here at her condo.”
“What happened?” It felt like a grenade had gone off in my gut.
“The neighbor saw a white cargo van roll to a stop a hundred yards up the road. Two men got out. They had baseball bats. They slipped into the forest. Denell and Galant were standing outside their patrol unit, talking. The men raced out of the woods and hit Denell and Galant as they were drawing their weapons. My officers were struck on the head and chest. They are both unconscious, alive, but just barely. Then the men from the van kicked down Street’s door, went in, and came out a few seconds later with Street and Gertie, both of them screaming and kicking. The men dragged them into the back of the van while a third man drove off.”
FIFTY-TWO
Stunned with rage, I stood, not breathing, not talking. I dropped the phone. I couldn’t move. Corrosive anger and fear for Street and Gertie shut out all other thoughts. My vision narrowed, darkness pushing in from the edges. My heart raced. A high-pitched ring pulsed in my ears. Searing pain infused my nose and head as if my sinuses had been shot with burning acid. The cabin seemed shaken by a loud roar.
Time slowed. Spot pushed his nose against my hand. I looked down. My fists were clenched as if to crush my own hand bones. Spot’s ears were down, his brow creased with deep ridges of worry. His tail was between his legs. He shivered.
I raised my fists up and saw them small and distant. I stared at them, tried to make my hands open up. My throat hurt, my head throbbed. The roar got louder. I realized it was me, screaming. Terror. Fear. Torment.
Rage.
A strangling rage.
In a moment, the roar stopped. I gasped for air. But I couldn’t draw in a deep breath. My breathing was short, shallow pants, quickened like those of a panting dog.
Minutes went by. I stood rigid as a board.
More minutes. I still hadn’t moved.
I got my fists unlocked. Straightened my fingers in front of my eyes. I stared at them, concentrating, trying to calm without success.
My lungs finally opened up. I drew deep breaths, again and again, until I could hold a breath, until my heart rate slowed.
As I concentrated, my emotions drew together. The worry and fright and anger that turned my gut, the crushing guilt of my role in creating the frantic, despairing, tortured, ruptured world that was now Street’s and Gertie’s, my fury over the injuries of the cops, my ache, my desire – my need – for retribution, and most of all, my desperate hope that Street and Gertie would survive... All of these seemed to combine at that single point. My single focus.
Rage.
I noticed the time. Half an hour had gone by. Time lost. I was sitting on the floor in the corner. Knees drawn up to my chest, my back against the hard logs that joined at the corner of my cabin.
The dangling phone beeped the off-the-hook signal.
Spot sat on the wood floor near his bed. He stared at me with his ears back. When he saw me look at him, he turned away. There was a look on his face that I’d only seen once before. I couldn’t place it. Then I remembered. It was a look I’d seen once when he was a puppy. I’d brought him to the vet for puppy shots. He had loved the vet, loved the other dogs, loved the people, didn’t even notice the shots. Everything in life was good and fun. But on the way home, a pickup came out of a side street, didn’t even slow for the stop sign, and hit us broadside, caving in the door where Spot sat. Spot looked okay, but he was shaking. It could have been deadly. I got out of the Jeep and walked around to the pickup. The driver got out. He was stumbling drunk. When he saw my puppy cowering behind the crushed door, he began laughing. Boy, lucky puppy, isn’t he, he’d said with a grin on his whiskey-stench face. Lucky puppy. I grabbed the man by the throat, lifted him up, and yelled at him. My yell was a roar of anguish and anger, focused at the drunk. But when I turned to look at my Jeep, I saw that my puppy took it worse. He cowered away from me and my roar. It was Spot’s first look of fear.
Spot had that look now.
I got up, walked over and sat on the edge of his bed. I reached out my arm. “C’mere, boy. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Spot didn’t move. I said the words again. Patted the dog bed.
Spot stood up, not tall like normal, but cowering a little. He took slow meek steps toward me. He stepped onto his bed and sat down next to me. Then he lay down, close to me but not touching, careful to have his head away from me, away from the danger of my emotions.
I pet him. Long slow strokes.
“I’m sorry boy. Something bad has happened. Real bad. But we’re going to fix it. You and I.”
My breaths were slow and deep. The cabin was cold. I looked down at my hands. They were pale with cold. My legs ached with cold. Feet numb. Spot shivered.
But my heart was hot. And my brain was afire.
“We’re going to fix it, Spot.”
Everything that mattered in the world had become one small thing. I internalized it. I’d submerged my emotions so that I could focus. I was an emotional black hole. Nothing could escape, and nothing could be seen from the outside. My purpose was simple, unfettered, uncompromised, undiluted. It was hidden from Spot, as well.
Yet it was powerful.
Rage.
FIFTY-THREE
I put Spot back into the Jeep and drove down to Street’s condo. There were multiple sheriff’s vehicles with lights flashing. No sirens. I pulled up to the parking lot entrance. A deputy tried to wave me away.
I got out and walked toward him.
“This is a crime scene!” he said, alarmed that I’d ignored his signal to move. “Move on!” He lifted his radio with his left hand and spoke while his right hand hovered over his sidearm.
“I’m Owen McKenna,” I said in a low voice. “Diamond’s expecting me.”
“I’ll say it one more time. Get into your car and drive away!”
I repeated myself, louder.
He spoke again into his radio. A crackle of voice came back. “Are you sure?” More crackle.
“Okay,” he said to me. “You can go in.” His voice was still a bark, full of frustration. Cops get jumpy, stressed, scared, and mad as hell when their own are injured in the line of duty.
I got back in the Jeep, drove over to the corner of the lot and parked. I left Spot and walked up to a group of officers who had marked off a large perimeter around the patrol unit. Bright lights had been set up. Men with evidence bags and collection kits were inspecting every inch of vehicle and pavement. Their voices were heavy with tension and anger. Try to kill a cop, you set off a firestorm among the ranks like nothing any other crime can do.
“Here to speak to Diamond,” I said to a deputy.
The man turned and shouted. “Sergeant? A guy’s asking for you.”
Another voice murmured, “That’s McKenna, her boyfriend.”
Diamond came off the far side of Street’s deck so he could walk around the circle of cops.
“Sorry about this,” Diamond said.
“I’m sorry for you. For Denell and Galant. They have families?”
“Galant, no. Denell, yes. His wife Sherry and his boy Jared. Jared�
�s two years old.” Diamond’s eyes were wet. “They both have severe head injuries. The chopper took them to the trauma center in Reno. Let’s hope they make it. And let’s hope that Gertie and Street are...” Diamond stopped. He looked out toward the big black lake. In the dim light, I saw his adam’s apple go up and down. “I was starting to worry when you didn’t show up.”
“I was... Collecting myself,” I said.
Diamond looked up at my face. “You don’t look good. You okay? No, of course you’re not okay. I’d like you to come inside. See if you notice anything unusual.”
“You think the men had reason to take anything?” I said. “Or leave anything?”
Diamond shook his head. “No, but you should look. See if anything is different.” He turned me and walked me around the cops and back up the far side of the deck. We went in the slider. The place was as I had left it except for a lot of stuff on the floor, some broken. The front door was swung open, a deep crack in its middle, and the door jamb was broken with part of the frame lying on the floor. Cold air blew through the condo. The heater vents blew warm air, more vigorously than I’d noticed before.
I walked from the entry to the bedroom to the kitchen to the living room. Nothing seemed to be missing. But the place was a mess, furniture askew, stuff on the floor. Street and Gertie had obviously fought and tried to grab onto doors and tables and counters as they were dragged outside.
Street’s TV screen was on, as was her computer that streamed shows onto the bigger screen. The image was a YouTube page. It looked like they’d been watching one of Gertie’s videos, and it came to the end and stopped.
I took another trip through the small condo. Nothing else caught my attention. I looked at the front door and its splinters spread across the floor. The little entry mat near the door still held Street’s shoes, unmolested by all of the violent activity. They sat side by side right where Street puts them when she trades them for her slippers.
Diamond was on the front step outside the broken door. I stepped out. “I don’t see anything unusual. Was there anything out here?”
“Just this,” Diamond said. He held up one of Street’s slippers.
I stared at it, the coldness in my gut getting colder still. My sweetheart was taken prisoner in the winter, and now she didn’t even have two slippers. I didn’t speak. I was locked down, choked off. My vision narrowed to a tunnel.
Rage that would explode when it found its outlet.
I gestured at the broken door and spoke to Diamond. “Do you have a policy...” I stopped, something interrupting my thoughts.
“We secure crime scenes when we’re done. We’ll arrange for sufficient repairs to close up her condo. You can deal with it later.”
“Thanks.” I turned away, looked at my Jeep in the corner of the lot. Spot took up the back seat. I could see his black nose stand out from the fogged up glass.
“You okay?” Diamond said again. “You want to stay here? Come home with me? Or I could come up to your cabin.”
“I need to think,” I said, my mouth moving at slow speed as my thoughts raced. I was trying to find a thread of an idea that danced just below my consciousness, a thread that felt like it would lead me to something.
I walked down Street’s front steps, turned to move around the perimeter tape, and walked to the Jeep.
Spot sniffed me after I climbed in. He was subdued. I knew he would be depressed at the smell of trauma. The lingering fear from my earlier screaming at the cabin affected him as well. I should have been reassuring. I should have talked to him in a sweet voice. I should have hugged him. Instead, I said, “Hang in there, largeness. I’m going to need you.”
I drove away, turned up the highway heading north.
I had no plan, no destination. I just drove.
FIFTY-FOUR
Street and Gertie were out there somewhere, terrified. I wanted to race to find them. But I knew of no place to search. I had to find an idea, make some kind of connection that had eluded me.
The highway was dark with moisture condensing out of the air. Occasionally, moonlight poked through the trees. White snow at the side of the road caught the light, emphasizing the black stripe that was my path to nowhere. Then the clouds returned, and all the world seemed black.
My thoughts were non-linear, uncoordinated, disjointed.
There were only two things that mattered in the world.
Street and Gertie.
On their way to die.
Wait. The men could have just killed Street and Gertie, like they tried with the deputies. But they didn’t.
Why?
When I rescued Gertie from the van, they were going to kill her. Now they had Gertie and Street, too. Why would they want them alive now? Was it only to postpone their deaths? Was it because they wanted something else before they killed the women?
The question choked off my breath.
My hands gripped the wheel as if to crush it. Only one thing kept me from imploding.
Rage.
I was driving, but I wasn’t seeing the road.
I was seeing a kidnapped girl with a desperate desire to move past thoughtless parents and a cleft lip, and the perils of growing up homely in a world hyper-focused on beautiful people. I saw Street, woman of my dreams, with a passion for all living things including the insect creatures that everyone else thinks are pests. I saw a chestful of Lucky Baldwin gold. I saw an old lady who talked about seeing strange lights at night and hearing ghost boats.
But the ghost boats turned out to be real.
I remembered what I’d heard her say. He thinks he’s king, hums and crows, true the crown. When I’d asked her about it later, she denied saying it.
The eccentric lady had shied away from human contact. She’d spoken in strange ways. She’d looked disheveled as a witch.
But she didn’t seem like someone who’d lie.
She’d told the truth about the ghost boats. What if she had told the truth about the man who thinks he’s king?
Maybe I’d just heard it wrong. She could have said something else that merely sounded like hums and crows, true the crown. Then it would make sense when she’d told me that she’d never said those words. It could be those words sounded as crazy to her as they did to me. She might never remember other words that could be confused with them.
I said it outloud to myself. “He thinks he’s king, hums and crows, true the crown.” I repeated it.
What did it sound like?
The only thing that came to me was almost as strange. ‘He thinks he’s king, comes and goes through the ground.’
I remembered that when the lady talked about Lassitor’s castle, she mentioned George Whittell’s famous castle across the lake, the Thunderbird Lodge. Maybe they were similar in more than just their construction material.
The Thunderbird Lodge had a secret tunnel from the castle to the boathouse. So that he could ‘come and go through the ground.’
What if the architect of the Lassitor castle had replicated that design?
I thought about Lassitor’s boathouse. It was made of stone and was unlike most boathouses in that it wasn’t built over a pier. Instead, the foundation started ten feet back from the shore, ran to the water and continued another twenty feet into the water. As with many boathouses, Lassitor’s boat could be moored in the water, inside the boathouse. He could raise the door at the end and simply pilot his boat out onto the lake. Lassitor’s boathouse also backed up onto solid ground. The ground sloped up from the lake, and the back wall of the boathouse was set into the rocky slope.
When the neighbor Craig Gower took Santiago and me inside the boathouse, I noticed that its back wall had a custom built-in cabinet and closet very similar to the built-in bookcases in the castle’s entertainment room. But just how custom were they? Could they really be facades designed to hide a door?
When I’d asked Gertie about the men bringing her to the place where they held her, she said that when they put the bag over her head and f
irst went indoors, the inside temperature wasn’t very warm. She also said they walked a long way as if through a warehouse. Why such a long walk? Why wouldn’t people just go in the front door or a secluded side door or back door? Could it be because they were in a tunnel that provided a way into the castle without being seen by anyone near the front of the castle? The layout of the grounds was such that someone could drive and park near the boathouse without being seen by neighbors on the opposite side of the castle.
If the Lassitor castle had a secret tunnel, did it also have a secret room where Mikhailo the Monster and his men could take Gertie and Street?
Time to find out.
FIFTY-FIVE
I thought of finding a phone, calling Agent Ramos, and telling him what I thought. But Ramos and I had a checkered relationship. Because I had no evidence, and because I had a history of sometimes being wrong before, Ramos would tell me that there was nothing he could do other than have someone stop by Lassitor’s house and knock on the door and look around.
I’d already looked around, inside and out, and seen nothing.
I had a better relationship with Sergeant Santiago at Placer County. If I called him, he might put together a team based on my hunch alone. But he wouldn’t be able to get a warrant. No judge signs a warrant based on a hunch. If Santiago were to help me, we’d have to hope to find some indication of distress at the castle and go in on a no-knock entry with a mission to save whomever was in distress. Legally, it was a tenuous action. Unless every aspect of a raid goes well, and it actually saves a victim, even a beginning defense lawyer can get the case thrown out on illegal-search-and-seizure grounds.
But my biggest hesitation about a hostage rescue team was that the more men that went in, the more noise and commotion. Stealth is reduced exponentially as more people are involved.
I didn’t know the territory. If the castle had secret passageways, the kidnappers would have a significant advantage. As soon as they heard someone coming, they might be able to escape.