Tahoe Chase (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller) (27 page)

FORTY-FOUR
 

When we got back to Street’s condo, I dropped her off, then headed down to the South Shore. I stopped at my office and used my computer to look up the cross-country ski race from the lake up to Truckee. I printed out a couple of pages and left.
 

The chinless pickup was still parked in front of the drive, but Ned would still be in jail. I parked, put on my gloves, told Spot to be quiet, and walked up to the front door. It was locked. The garage door was up. The inner door was unlocked.
 

The door took me into their kitchen, as good a place to start searching as any. I didn’t know what I was looking for other than some indication that Ned was interested in Manuel Romero and Jillian Oleska in addition to Joe and Rell Rorvik.
 

The house was surprisingly neat and clean, no doubt a credit to Simone and not Ned. The surfaces were uncluttered, things were put away in their places, laundry was neatly folded in the drawers. I didn’t make a mess as I didn’t want to enrage Ned any more than he already was.
 

I went through the downstairs first, then proceeded up to the bedroom. I found nothing revealing except for a white ski jacket and warmups that smelled of sour sweat.
 

Next, I searched the garage. It wasn’t as neat and clean, probably because Simone wasn’t allowed to pick it up. As a result, there was more clutter to go through, but I still found nothing.
 

Over in the corner were several pairs of skis, including small, old downhill skis that probably belonged to Simone. I took the printouts I’d made about the race to Truckee, folded them three times and flexed the folded paper to make it look worn. Then I put it on the floor near the skis. It was a reasonable place for it to fall if Simone had been holding it when she pulled out her back-country skis.
 

I searched the rest of the garage and was about to give up when I thought of Ned’s truck.
 

I tried the doors. Locked. I went back into the house looking for keys. I found them on a nail by the inside door to the garage.
 

Once in the truck, I looked in the glove box. It contained the registration and insurance cards and an old Chevy manual. I bent down and looked under the seat. Lined up in a neat row were a dozen unopened cans of Budweiser. Tucked between the cans was a little spiral notebook. Using a tissue, I slid it out and opened the cover. On the first page was writing in pencil with scrawling block letters that were almost illegible.
 

Mrs. Roarvick
 

Manwel Romoro
 

Jill Olesa,
 

Others to take care of –
 

Joe Roarvick
 

Oen Mickenna.
 

Lines were drawn through the first three names.
 

I put the notebook back where I found it and called Mallory.
 

When he answered, I explained that at Simone Bonnaire’s request, I had done a search of their house and found a notebook with names in Ned’s truck. He sent over two cops who took my statement and then left with the notebook in a Ziplock bag. 

That evening, I began to worry when Simone hadn’t called by seven o’clock. The temperature outside my cabin had already dropped to 10 degrees. My cabin sits at 7200 feet. Simone’s first planned stop was to be at the Sierra Club’s Bradley Hut, which sits at 7400 feet. All other things being equal, 200 feet only equates to less than a degree colder. But other things weren’t equal. At my cabin, I get a substantial warming from lake effect on cold winter nights. West of the lake in the high country, there would be no such effect. Simone could be looking at a night well below zero.

My other worry was that my estimation of distance had me guessing that Simone would arrive at the hut by late afternoon. If she were still struggling up her last peak... Or if she’d fallen and broken an ankle... The questions swirled.

Spot got up from his bed and walked over to the door, wagging. I opened it to Street.

“Any word?” she said, coming in, kissing me, and walking over to the woodstove to warm up.

“No,” I said.

“Where do you think she is?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s a cold night. Hard not to worry.”

My cell rang.

I picked it up. “Owen McKenna.”

“Owen! It’s Simone!” she was shouting. I gestured to Street to come close so she could hear. “I made it!” Simone said. “I’m camping. I’m in my tent.”

“You didn’t make it to the Bradley Hut?”

“No, I went on past it! I’m near Squaw Valley, just down the ridge north of Granite Chief Mountain. I’ll be able to climb it at first morning light. That will be my fourth mountain. Isn’t that fantastic?!”

“That is great, Simone. Have you eaten?”

“No I wanted to warm up in my tent and sleeping bag. It’s pretty cold out here. In a little bit, I’ll open the tent door a little for ventilation and turn on my cookstove. I’ll be fed and sound asleep in less than an hour. Just like a real back-country skier!”

“Congratulations. We’ll toast your progress with a Bordeaux tonight.”

“Okay! And Owen, please tell Joe that his maps and his route are perfect. It works just like he says. You turn the map to match the compass, find the landmarks, and away you go!”

“That’s great. What’s the next mountain after Granite Chief?”

“Squaw Peak, so I’ll be looking down at the top of the cable car and a lot of downhill skiers. After that, I head into the Granite Chief Wilderness and then up to Twin Peaks.”

“That’s near Hell Hole Canyon, right?” I said, trying to remember the route she and Joe had drawn on the map.

“Yeah. I don’t want to go down there! That’s like four thousand feet below Twin Peaks! So Joe’s got me going around it to the east and climbing Twin Peaks. By nightfall, I’m hoping to make it to the Ludlow Hut.”

“That’s another Sierra Club hut,” I said.

“Yeah, up above and behind Sugar Pine Point State Park. It’s important that I get a good night’s sleep because after that I head to Rubicon Peak, then turn west into Desolation Wilderness and all those mountains. Talk about the middle of nowhere! But Joe did a great job mapping the route, so I’m in good hands.”

“I’ll tell him, Simone. Thanks for calling.”

Street was waving at me. “Street wants to say hi,” I said, and handed the phone over.

“Your progress is fantastic news, Simone,” Street said. “We’ll chart your progress on our map. We’re proud of you.” She paused and listened, then said goodbye and hung up.

“It’s great that she’s so pleased with her progress. This gives us every reason to think that she may pull this off.”

Street nodded, but her face wasn’t bright.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“It’s just that on the way up to your cabin the radio report said that the air masses out in the Pacific have started to change. They had thought we were in a stable high-pressure system. But now they’re talking about the Jet Stream dropping south of us and sucking moisture into the Tahoe area.”

“A potential storm?”

“Maybe,” Street said.

“When?”

“They don’t know. Everything is iffy right now. But if it keeps changing fast, we could have snow as soon as two days.”

“Simone would still be out in the high country,” I said.

Street nodded.

“Well, we’ll watch it. If it begins to look bad, we can call her in before she gets to the end.”

“Where would that be?” Street asked.

“I saw Joe draw emergency exit points on Simone’s maps. Squaw Valley or Alpine Meadows. Blackwood Canyon. Emerald Bay. Glen Alpine. Her trail is a long way from any of those, but they would still be better than her trying to press on south.”

Street nodded, her face clouded with worry.

I called Joe and gave him Simone’s progress report.

He was very glad to hear that Simone was doing well, and I think it sent him to bed with a smile.

FORTY-FIVE

The following day I did catch-up work paying bills, returning phone calls and emails that I’d long neglected.

That evening, Simone called from the Ludlow Hut. She was cheerful, excited, and totally worn out. She said she had blisters on her feet, and she felt like she’d never completely thaw her toes. But she was looking forward to the rest of the trip, and she kept saying that it was the greatest thing she’d ever done.

I told Street and again called Joe to report her progress. He seemed even more pleased than the night before.

The next morning, I headed to my office. As I went south down the East Shore, I noticed the big, chinless, yellow pickup with the overbite tailgating me.

Ned Cavett must have been waiting near the base of my road and followed me as I turned out.

I dialed Diamond.

“I’m talking on my cell while driving,” I said when he answered.

“Should I come and give you a ticket?”

“Maybe. Ned Cavett is following me, and if I had to guess, I’d say he’s out to vivisect me before he goes on trial for beating up Simone.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“I thought you might want to watch.”

“The vivisection,” Diamond said.

“Yeah. Hold on for a dropped call. Cave Rock tunnel approaching.”

I drove through the tunnel. I was surprised that Diamond reappeared in my ear when I came out the other side.

“I’m going to my office,” I said. “Ned will follow me there.”

“I’ll get there as soon as I can,” Diamond said and hung up.

I went south past Skyland and headed toward Zephyr Cove. In another few miles, I came to the South Shore and turned left at Kingsbury Grade. Ned tailgated me the entire way. He wanted me to know he was there. No doubt, he thought it would intimidate me. He was right.

I pulled into an open space and parked. Ned didn’t bother to find a parking space. He just stopped in the middle of the lot and got out, leaving his engine running and the driver’s door open. Leaving Spot in the Jeep, I got out and walked toward the office entry as if Ned weren’t there.

“McKenna! You made my girl file assault charges against me! That’s punishable by death.”

I got to the office door and turned. Ned was standing in the lot, his hand held out to the side of his belt. He had another knife holster, and he looked like he was imitating a gunslinger ready for a duel.

“You beat on your girl like she’s a punching bag,” I said.

Ned ignored my words. “You took my girl! You brought her to that Truckee ski race! You think I didn’t notice her skis missing? You think I’m stupid?”

They always say not to aggravate a violent suspect, and that instead one should minimize tensions by being calm and reassuring. I said, “Yeah, you’re stupid. In fact, there are no words sufficient to describe the astonishing breadth and depth of your stupidity.”

“I’m gonna kill you, McKenna. Then I’m gonna find that bitch Simone and kill her. I saw a show on wolves, and there was a lone wolf that ran out of the woods and cut a baby elk out of the herd. No one will know where or when I’m gonna strike.”

Without looking down, Ned reached into the holster on his belt, a move that was as practiced as Billy The Kid drawing his six-gun. He pulled out a knife, brought it up above his head and then down behind him in a dramatic, circular swing like a softball pitch. His movement accelerated through the backswing as if his arm were a mechanical wonder, and the knife shot toward me like an arrow from a bow.

I jerked to the right and sprinted toward him. The knife cut the air near my face.

I wanted to do what Ned would least expect, so I kept up my charge.

 Ned raised his fists like a boxer in a defensive posture and planted his right foot behind him to brace himself. As he prepared for my impact, I dove through the air toward him, hoping the snow and ice would lessen how much skin would burn off on impact.

My knees hit the asphalt as my arms locked around his waist. He hit the ice with his butt. His upper body went down, and he slid backward with me on top of him.

He pulled out another knife. I shot my arm out, but he raised the knife out of my reach. As he stabbed down, I rolled away. I did a fast pushup and jumped to my feet, staying bent, minimizing the target I presented. He jumped up. I leaped forward, grabbed his throwing arm with my left hand, and put my shoulder to his middle.

We went down again.

Before we stopped moving, I lifted his knife arm and slammed his elbow down onto the pavement. The knife clattered away. His hand came up and clamped onto my neck, fingertips like hooks in my throat.

I swung my right arm and made a solid elbow punch to his face. Ned let go of my neck as his nose turned bloody. I rolled off him and pushed back up onto my feet. He was still on his back. I thought he was dazed, but his hand shot to his holster and pulled out another knife. I kicked his hand hard. The knife skittered away. I stomped the throwing hand. He screamed, rolled, cupped his hand to his body. I stood bent, panting, hands to knees. He writhed in pain, but I stayed focused. I’d been suckered too many times. He rolled partway onto his stomach, but not enough to keep me from seeing his left hand snake to the holster and pull out a knife as a Douglas County Patrol vehicle pulled into the far end of the lot.

I kicked Ned’s elbow. He screamed, rolled, and tried to shoot a knife at me from the ground. It was a serious attempt to put me down for good. The knife shot past my shoulder.

I stomped his left hand, then his elbow. I bent down, fumbled at his belt, got my hands on his holster of knives, yanked it off and hurled it toward the trees, the second time I’d disarmed him. Across the parking lot, Diamond was walking toward us, holding a video camera pointed toward us.

Ned twisted and rolled the other way and made an impressive front snap kick up toward my face. His boot caught my jaw and snapped my head back. My vision went blurry. I jumped onto the front of his knee, hyper-extending the joint, grinding the bones against the pavement.

He screamed again.

I turned and walked to my office building, my head lolling. My legs wouldn’t work right. My sense of balance was off. I listed to the side, toward the scaffolding. I felt faint.

Behind me came the sound of a vehicle door slamming, then an engine revving. I thought Ned was down for good with crushed and broken joints. Shows what I know. Wheels screeched. The engine roar grew.

I grabbed the scaffolding for support and blinked hard, trying to bring back my vision. The roar grew louder.

Maybe if I jumped to the side at the last moment.

I ducked under the scaffolding and took three fast steps. I grabbed a scaffolding support pole that someone had leaned at an angle.

Ned hit his brakes, then screeched backward, changing his direction to aim at my new position.

I was still light-headed, my visual field seeming to tilt sideways. In my fading consciousness, it seemed like it would be good to have a weapon even though I knew that Ned would still drive over me with his truck. I thought the pole I’d grabbed was free and unattached, but it turned out to be stuck at the top. I jerked the bottom of the pole out from the ground. The bolt holding the pole at the top came free and arced through the air just as I heard Ned’s truck strike the first part of the scaffolding.

What happened next was hard to comprehend even though I saw it clearly.

When I jerked the angled pole free, the joint where it had been attached came undone. Three poles simultaneously spread apart. Then, like some kind of magic toy, the entire scaffolding began to come down like multiple, linked, open scissors closing shut, one after another, in a grand design. Every fourth joint popped open, and the rest of the joints scissored closed.

I leaped to safety, but Ned, in his truck, was underneath the collapsing structure.

The scaffold poles came together in a neat pile. As they all stacked up, a significant portion of them landed on top of Ned’s truck. The big, yellow, chinless vehicle made a terrific screech and moan as its body panels were crushed to the ground.

I stumbled toward the wreckage.

Diamond appeared, video camera in hand.

We both stared.

“Bad idea to drive into scaffolding,” Diamond said.

I was still holding the heavy pole I’d pulled from the scaffolding, the real trigger point for the collapse. But I didn’t have the mental wherewithal to explain.

I leaned toward the truck wreckage. “Hey, Ned. You in there? Can you hear me?”

There was no sound. All I could see was twisted yellow metal crushed by thousands of pounds of scaffolding. As I looked down into the metallic morass, there came another screech as more metal under duress finally gave way and tore apart.

I couldn’t tell if Ned was squished flat or if he might be alive while contorted into a pretzel by the twisted truck body.

“Ned, did you push Rell Rorvik off the deck?” I called out. “Did you kill Manuel Romero? Jillian Oleska? They were in your notebook, Ned. Was that your murder list?”

But there was no answer.