Tahoe Ghost Boat (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller)

TAHOE

GHOST BOAT

by

Todd Borg

THRILLER PRESS

PROLOGUE

The wind and waves of the winter storm were ferocious. The skipper wrestled with the wheel of the restored Gar Wood wooden boat. He had left his dock on Hurricane Bay on the West Shore of Lake Tahoe and headed east-southeast, toward Glenbrook, twelve miles away on the far side of the mountain lake. He’d barely gone one hundred yards from shore before he thought his mission was crazy. He shouted at the wind while he drove the troughs of the five-foot winter swell.

“Nobody kicks Ian Lassitor! Nobody!” He took his right hand off the wheel just long enough to pull his flask out of the cup holder that dangled on a gimbal mount beneath the cockpit dash. He swigged enough Jim Beam to spread warmth down to his frozen toes, jammed the flask back into the holder, and grabbed onto the wheel again.

The man angled downwind at the same rate as the waves rolled south. He steered between the wave crests. Now and then, the swells became uneven. The waves didn’t line up. A wave trough ended like a little box canyon. The skipper had no choice but to drive the little wooden boat directly up a wave that loomed above him like a small mountain.

The Gar Wood was a 1947 Ensign, its lines designed for cutting small chop at high speed, not for coping with deep-water swell. The boat teetered at the crest of the wave then tipped down the other side, nearly swamping.

The howling winter wind on Lake Tahoe created conditions more like those on the arctic ocean than those on a lake, even a very large one. With Tahoe’s great depth and size, the cold, north wind created a swell that grew large and mean as it rolled 22 miles from the North Shore to the South Shore.

 After coming close to capsizing the woodie, the man was desperate not to allow his little boat to be forced up another one of the big waves.

Shouting at the wind helped him control his emotions.

“The Lassitors are hard-ass mariners! Nothing can break us!”

The swells on Lake Tahoe were inconsistent. But by steering hard and revving the small inboard engine here and there, the man angled from one swell to another and mostly stayed down in the liquid valleys. It made the ride a bit less dangerous. It also kept his little boat almost out of sight.

As the Gar Wood’s skipper struggled with another swell, he heard a sudden roar to the starboard. He jerked his head to see the source. The hull of an approaching craft blasted over the wave top to his side. The wave thrust the bow of the onrushing boat up into the air.

There was no time to react. But in the single second before the other boat struck his, the skipper realized that the approaching vessel had been downwind, its low profile blocked by the big waves and its sound masked by the constant howl of the wind and the crash of whitecaps.

The woodie’s skipper gasped as the other craft shot off the big wave and loomed above the woodie’s starboard gunnel. The skipper cranked his head around, watching horrified as the other boat crashed down onto the Gar Wood’s engine housing just behind where he sat. The blow was too much for the woodie’s hull structure to withstand.

The man held the Gar Wood’s steering wheel with one hand and grabbed the cockpit dashboard with the other as the woodie’s sides cracked and shattered.

A large section of the boat’s side broke into several pieces. One swung forward and hit the back of the skipper’s head, slamming his face against the wheel. Another piece split into a sharp shard and stabbed through the man’s hand, nailing it to the cockpit panel.

 The man screamed. Blood spurted from his nose. His fingers clenched onto the dashboard like claws as blood gushed from the wound made by the wooden spear.

The other boat was an aluminum fishing boat. Its hull snapped and then folded as it crashed down onto the woodie’s engine housing, the center supported on the housing, the bow and stern down.

The woodie pilot tried to turn, tried to see the skipper of the fishing boat. But his hand, attached to the cockpit dash, locked him in place and prevented him from turning around.

He jerked his head the other way and watched as the next wave from the north crashed onto the lowered bow of the fishing boat, filling it with water.

The two boats immediately began to sink, broken and folded into each other.

The Gar Wood cracked in two. Now disconnected, the rear portion of the woodie came free from the more buoyant bow. The heavy engine and drive shaft pulled the stern down into the depths with a single unceremonious burp of escaping air.

The skipper’s terror paralyzed him. He gritted his teeth as the bow section slowly lowered into the ice water. A garbled howl rose through clenched teeth, but it was soft against the roar of wind and waves.

 The broken bow of the woodie had enough buoyancy to float just beneath the waves. The man’s head was barely above water. But after just two minutes, the relentless waves of 32-degree water drove the voice from his throat and the sharp edge of terror from his brain. In another minute, hypothermia sapped his ability to hold his head above the water. His head slumped, and the cold water filled his lungs.

ONE

“One more ride?” Street Casey said as she brushed snow off her jacket. She had that wild, demonic look in her eyes that meant she would once again try the feint-left-and-lean-right trick on the toboggan, sending me tumbling off into the deep snow while she continued down the slope with Spot, my Harlequin Great Dane, chasing her.

“Okay, but it’s my turn on the rear,” I said. Because the last person on a toboggan has the steering advantage, I could maybe get the upper hand against Street’s superior strategy.

We walked back up the slope, me hauling the toboggan, staying on the windblown ridge where the snow was packed enough to support our boots without snowshoes.

At the top of the slope, we pointed the toboggan toward fresh powder. In the distance, 1200 feet below us, lay Lake Tahoe, a startling indigo backdrop that distracted all winter playground participants. Closer to us, a mere 800 feet down, we could make out the buildings on Kingsbury Grade where I had my office and Street had her bug lab.

Street sat at the front of the toboggan, holding onto the curved wood, while I lay on the rear, my legs hanging off the end. I pushed off. We accelerated down the steep slope on the shoulder of the mountain where Heavenly Resort’s ski runs sprawled above. Powder snow flew up over us. Street shrieked as she started leaning and pulling on the wood, trying to make me lose my grip and tumble off. I held the rope lines at the edge of the toboggan and used them to resist or add to Street’s leaning. By dragging my feet one way or the other, I could also manipulate how the toboggan turned.

We slalomed down the mountain, out of control, laughing, each trying to throw the other off. Street started to lean right. I thought it was another feint. Then she leaned even harder to the right, so much so that the toboggan carved a sharp turn. I didn’t see it coming. I went off the left side. But I held onto the rope line as I was dragged into the snow. The toboggan and Street flipped over onto me. The front dove into deep snow, and we all turned end-over-end and came to a fast stop. Street was lying on top of me. She giggled, kissed me, then dumped a handful of snow onto my face.

“Payback!” she shouted, referring to an earlier run when I’d managed to dump her. She pushed off me, jumped back on the toboggan and took off without me, laughing all the way.

Because the snow in most places was too deep for Spot to run in, he had stayed over on the windswept ridge, running down, keeping pace with us as we made our toboggan descent. Now, as Street raced down the rest of the slope, he sped up to meet her at the bottom, leaving me alone.

I lounged in the deep snow for a bit, listening to Street’s laughter get more distant and then be joined by Spot’s bark.

It was a glorious end to a perfect morning.

When I finally slogged down to join them, Street made the evil grin again and said, “What took you so long? Getting old or just out of shape?”

“Both older and outta-shaper.” As I said it, the compressed snow beneath my boots gave way and I sank down a foot. Street was now standing above me.

“Do I need to find a more youthful model?” she asked as she jumped onto me, wrapping her legs around my waist. With her small additional weight, we sank farther. I lost my balance, and we fell sideways into the snow. Spot jumped onto us, and we became a snow-caked pile of bodies, laughing and barking.

Life doesn’t get more delightful.

An hour later, Spot and I walked into my office building. We were still damp from rolling in the snow, but that wasn’t an excuse to play hooky from work. And with my own coffee maker, a desk made of actual wood – albeit cracked and older than my grandfather – and a window which, if you looked carefully through the trees, gave a filtered view of Lake Tahoe, my digs were practically guaranteed to impress a potential client. In a nod to modernity, I’d gotten rid of the old desktop computer with the curved screen. When I set out my laptop and my new smart phone, no one could doubt my tech cred. Unless, that is, they asked me to do more than make a phone call or write a business letter. The only thing missing was a client.

The phone rang as I was pouring water into the Mr. Coffee. I didn’t want to seem too eager, so I let the machine get it.

A woman started leaving a message. She sounded scared. I never could ignore a damsel in distress.

I picked up the phone.

“This is Owen McKenna,” I interrupted. “I’m here.”

“Mr. McKenna, I need help,” she said in a shaky voice.

“Who’s calling, please?” I said.

“My name is Nadia Lassitor. I’m... Hold on!”

I heard noises in the background. A high screech like squealing tires. The woman made a choking cry.

“Nadia, are you there?”

Another cry. “Help! A man is chasing me! I’ve been watching him in the mirror. But I almost swerved off the road.”

“Who’s the man chasing you?”

“I don’t know! He’s behind me. Two cars back. No, three.”

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m coming down Echo Summit toward the South Shore.”

“Has the person following you done anything to you?”

“No. But he’s been behind me for hours!”

“How do you know it’s the same man?” I asked.

“I just know! Can you do something?”

“Maybe. Keep driving. Take a deep breath. Stay calm.” I paused. “Have there been any specific signs that this person is a threat?”

The woman made no response except for audible worried breathing.

“Because if there is a threat,” I said, “I can call nine-one-one and have the police intercept you.”

“No! You can’t call the police.”

“Nadia, if you’re in danger, we should call them.”

“No. Just tell me where to go so you can help me. Hurry!”

I thought about it. “What kind of car are you driving?” I asked.

“Dark blue BMW.”

“Can you tell what kind of car the person following you is driving?”

“No. An SUV. Darker than mine. Maybe black.”

“Do you know where the Heavenly Gondola is?” I asked.

Another pause.

“On Highway Fifty at Heavenly Village?” I added.

“Oh, right. Yes, of course.”

“There’s a bus stop pullover as you get close to the gondola’s base station. Pull in there. Get out of your car and run up past the gondola and back to the parking ramp. Go inside the ramp and keep going as if you’re going to walk out the other side.”

“Then what?”

“If your pursuer is serious, he will stop and follow you. I’ll be in the ramp to intercept.”

“Okay.” The phone disconnected.

I hung up and turned to Spot who was sprawled on his side. At seven feet from nose to tail-tip, he took up most of the available real estate in my office. His eyes were shut. We’d only been in the office a few minutes. I didn’t think that anyone, man or beast, could fall asleep that fast. But we’d burned a lot of calories during our morning snow play, so it made sense.

“Hey, largeness,” I said.

He opened a single droopy, unfocused eye.

“We’re in a hurry, Spot. Wanna go for another ride?”

Outside of eating and, maybe, tobogganing, it was his favorite activity. He rolled onto his elbows, pushed up to a sitting position, and then, grunting, stood. At only 45 pounds less than my 215, it was work to get his bulk up from the floor. But another head-out-the-window rush beckoned.

We went back down the stairs and out the door of the office building. The entry was much improved since the remodeling contractor trucked away the last of the scaffolding that had collapsed the month before.

Spot jumped into the Jeep.

I started the engine and rolled down the rear window. Spot stuck his head out and looked around with excitement as if he hadn’t seen the area hundreds of times before.

I took the Jeep down Kingsbury Grade and turned left at the highway. We drove past the casino hotels, crossed the state line into California, parked in the ramp behind Heavenly Village, and walked out onto the pedestrian plaza just far enough to see the bus stop a short distance beyond.

Dozens of people in bright-colored sports clothes carried their skis and snowboards through six inches of new snow to the gondola base station. The gray gondola cars emerged from the station at regular intervals, each making a short swing as the machinery clamped them onto the fast-moving cable to be rushed two miles and 3000 vertical feet up the mountain.

Ten minutes later, a dark blue BMW jerked out of the right lane and came to a halt in the bus stop lane. A woman in a dark pantsuit the same blue as the car got out carrying a small dark blue purse. She slammed the car door and did a girly, high-heels run around the Beemer, one hand held out, palm down, doing an exaggerated back-and-forth wave. She stepped over the slushy berm at the side of the road, then hurried across the open area near the gondola. She was a match for the Beemer. Stylish, sleek, and she looked fast even if she didn’t move with speed. But her two-inch heels weren’t good in snow. On her fifth or sixth step, she slipped on an icy patch and fell on her butt. I wanted to go help, but I didn’t want my presence to discourage any pursuer.