Tahoe Skydrop (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 16) Read online

  “What if you’re not the only person watching me? They could have one of their own watching me from a distance. Like the drone operator he mentioned. She would see my signals, too, right?”

  “That’s a risk we have to take. Because I’ll know by the hand on the hip that your signal is coming, I’ll be able to recognize it quickly, so you won’t have to hold it long. Also, if a person isn’t familiar with hand and arm signals, and if the signal isn’t given with dramatic flourish, they probably wouldn’t recognize that it is a signal at all.”

  “Got it. Okay, what signals should I know?”

  “The fewer signals we use, the less likely we are to make a mistake, and the more likely you are to remember them. So I’ll teach you just a few important ones.”

  Vince nodded. Brie looked skeptical. Street looked worried as if I were putting too much focus on something that wouldn’t be useful.

  “First of all,” I said, “even though I’ll be looking through a telescope, you and the other men will still just look like tiny figures up on the mountain. It would be helpful to know who’s in charge. To point out that person, we use the ‘leader’ signal. With your right arm hanging at your side, put three fingers of your left hand across the bicep of your right arm.”

  Vince did as I said.

  “Now, keeping your right elbow at your side, flex your elbow and swing your lower right arm up and out so that your right hand is pointing toward the leader. You don’t even need to look at him. I won’t be able to make out how many fingers you have on your bicep. But I’ll see the arm point, and that will be enough.”

  Vince went through the motions twice.

  “Good,” I said. “The next signal to learn is one most people already know. To communicate money, we generally put our thumb to our fingertips and rub them back and forth. Like this.” I held my hand up and demonstrated. Vince and Brie both nodded awareness.

  “The problem is that if you hold your hand in front of your body, I won’t be able to make out the movement. So you hold your hand up and out to your side. Like this. If from my point of view, your hand is silhouetted by the sky, I can probably make out your movement. If I can’t see your thumb and fingers moving, I’ll still be able to figure it out.”

  “Why would I need to communicate money?” Vince said.

  “Maybe you won’t. But when you consider why someone would go to such lengths to rappel down ice in weather that would keep anyone else off the mountain, money becomes a possible motivator. Maybe there’s a bag of money up there in the cliffs.”

  “How would money get up on the mountain? Fall out of an airplane?”

  “Maybe. I was once involved in a murder case where the killer was after some gold coins, eighteen-seventy Double Eagles that had been buried in an avalanche not far from Job’s Sister. So anything’s possible.”

  “What if it is treasure but not actual money?”

  “Same thing. The money signal will communicate that these men are after lost treasure, so to speak, regardless of its form. And it explains better than almost any other concept why they are going in such inclement weather. They don’t want to provide any hint of their activity to others who might also be looking for the money.”

  Vince said, “Anything else?”

  “There is the remote possibility they want to rescue someone who’s trapped up there.”

  “Why wouldn’t they just request a search and rescue? Oh, maybe that person has committed a crime and doesn’t want anyone else to know that he’s up there?”

  “Right,” I said. “Or maybe there’s a wounded person who was the victim of a crime, and they want to go up to finish him off.”

  I saw Brie wince.

  “A good way to indicate there’s a live person in trouble is with the hostage signal,” I said.

  “How do I do that?”

  “Reach your hand up and grip your throat. That signifies a victim under serious threat. I’ll understand.”

  I continued, “Another reason they might want such privacy is to cover up a crime or retrieve a weapon used in a crime.”

  Vince thought about it. “Like if one of them was up on Job’s Sister and shot and killed someone, but then dropped his gun. So now he wants to retrieve it so he can’t be linked to the crime.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which would imply…” Vince paused, thinking it through. “It might imply that we could be coming across a body.”

  “Right. In addition to retrieving a murder weapon, they may want to hide the body.”

  “So what signal would I use for a weapon or a crime?” Vince asked.

  “These various things, covering up a crime, retrieving a weapon, finding a body, these are all connected to danger. And there is a signal for danger. For that, you raise your arm up and out, palm down, and draw the edge of your hand across your throat.” I demonstrated.

  “Like cutting your throat,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  Vince frowned. “I could tell you all of this stuff later, after I get down off the mountain.”

  “True.”

  “Unless of course, I don’t make it off the mountain. If I’ve already signalled information to you, you have it whether I die or not.”

  “That’s true as well.”

  “And if you have the information, it might help you find and save my boy.”

  “Vince, don’t,” Brie said. “This is creepy enough without you talking about dying on the mountain.”

  “I’m just facing reality,” he said.

  “Anyway,” I said. “I will try to find Jon regardless of what happens.”

  Vince was quiet, maybe pondering the likelihood of dying when hiking a mountain in a windstorm. No doubt, it was significant.

  “It’s time to leave,” I said.

  Vince nodded, looked at Brie, and she nodded, too. We all walked down the stairs to the drive.

  I spoke quietly just in case anyone was listening. “Your job is to show up at your meeting,” I said as we stood next to Vince’s old pickup. “I’ll be out there in the mountains, watching. Do whatever it takes to make them happy, and give me the appropriate signals. We’ll reconnect when you get back home.”

  Street and the dogs and I walked to where we’d left the Jeep near the beer festival and drove away. We got to the opposite side of the lake an hour and a half later.

  I dropped off Street and Blondie.

  I called an acquaintance of mine, Ryan Picard, an ornithologist in Zephyr Heights who spent most of his time photographing birds.

  “Owen McKenna, here,” I said.

  “Hey, McKenna, long time. Did you start that life list we talked about?”

  “No. A good idea, and I keep thinking about that Painted Bunting you showed me. But I’m not that organized. I’m calling for equipment info.”

  “Bird stuff?”

  “No, it’s not. Some men are climbing a mountain. I want to observe them from a distance of one or two miles. I don’t need photos. I’m wondering if you have a spotting scope I could borrow.”

  “At that distance you’re going to need a spotting scope with a very long lens.”

  “Is that something I could borrow from you?”

  “Yeah. When do you need it?”

  “Tonight, if possible.”

  Picard was slow to respond. Probably reimagining his evening to consider having me drop by and take up a bunch of time. “You’re not trying to do this in the dark,” he said.

  “No. Tomorrow morning. Early.”

  “When would you be here?”

  “I’m home. Maybe fifteen minutes?”

  “See you then,” he said and hung up.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I left Spot in the Jeep and knocked on Ryan Picard’s door. He opened the door with one hand and held a cup of tea with the other. “C’mon in.”

  I followed Picard into his cabin, a cozy place in the woods, not as small as mine, and much more refined, but without my view. He had a small fire in the cobblesto
ne fireplace to ward off the chill of a June evening in Tahoe. Unseen stereo speakers filled the air with some kind of lavish baroque music, one of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, maybe. An unseen cookpot in the kitchen nook enticed with a rich blend of smells. I guessed wild rice and turkey soup.

  Picard walked over to a corner room that functioned like a study for photographers.

  “You said you want to watch from two miles away.”

  “Maybe. I’m guessing. I won’t know until I start walking around in the forest, looking for a view that suits me.”

  He walked over to a corner with various gear. “My sense would be to send you out with this tripod-mounted spotting scope with binocular eyepieces. Much easier to look through than the single-eye lens. This model has image stabilization. It’s heavy, and it takes some time to get comfortable with it. But this gives you serious magnification and quality lenses.”

  “Sounds good to me. This setup is probably pricey,” I said. “You don’t mind me borrowing it?”

  “Not if you don’t wreck it. And if you do, I still won’t mind if you buy me the next higher grade of gear for replacement.”

  “Should I be asking about the cost?” I said, wondering if I was making a mistake.

  “Think late model used car, all wheel drive, like an Outback that doesn’t even have leather seats.” I assumed he was exaggerating. But maybe not.

  “Is that all. What do I need to know about working this?”

  “Not much. Zoom is here.” He touched a sleeve on the lens. “Focus is here.”

  Picard went over some additional quirks of the scope. Explaining the tripod took the most time of all, adjusting leg length and angle and the locking lens mount. It took enough time that he finished his cup of tea before he was done explaining.

  “Thanks very much. I owe you,” I said as he finished showing me how to fit the lens and eyepieces into a custom, foam-lined case. Even the tripod had its own carrier.

  A half hour later, we’d loaded it all into the back of the Jeep. Picard gave Spot a pet, and then headed back indoors to refill his tea and resume his quiet evening.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After Spot and I left Ryan Picard’s house, I knocked on Street’s condo door. She opened it, and the dogs ran into the forest as if they hadn’t already spent much of the day hiking. I went inside.

  Street had opened a bottle of wine and poured a tiny bit into a glass. The fire was flickering in the fireplace. There were all the makings for an evening of joy, maybe even one of celebration.

  But Street looked sad.

  She pulled a glass out of her cupboard and poured me some wine. It was a petite sirah from the Fairplay appellation in the foothills below Tahoe. The wine was a deep red bordering on purple. Did melancholy come in colors? If so, red-purple may be one of them.

  Street said, “I’m very concerned for all of them. For a kidnapped child… How terrifying. And for Vince to have his boy kidnapped. But oddly, the person I’m most worried about is his girlfriend Brie Du Pont.”

  “Me, too. They both are obviously sick about the boy’s disappearance. But Vince, frightened as he is, is a robust guy, physically strapping and mentally focused. I think he could survive nearly anything. Brie, however, seems to be broken.”

  “Yeah. Very depressed,” Street said. “Anxious, too. She radiates struggle, like she’s held together by a single thread. Break it, and she’ll unravel.”

  “I want to call my cop friends to help on this. But I’m bound by Vince’s wishes.”

  Street was staring down into her wine glass. “How could you intervene if Vince hadn’t said, ‘no cops?’”

  “That’s one of the frustrations in these situations. There is no clear legal precedent regarding how to respond to a kidnapping.”

  Street sipped wine. “When you watch this mountain climb from a distance,” Street said, “what are you thinking you’ll see?”

  “I don’t know. It’s like a stakeout where you think something might happen. So you get in a position where you can watch. Ryan Picard lent me a spotting scope. I’m hoping to hike to a place where I can see Job’s Sister. While it’s supposed to be very windy, the sky is supposed to be clear. I should have a view of the entire west ridge that leads to the summit. Hopefully, I can get a clue of why they are going up there.”

  “Good luck.” Street raised up on her toes and gave me a quick kiss, the kind that doesn’t linger because it happens during a time of stress.

  Spot and I got in the Jeep and headed home, back up the mountain.

  As I drove up into the dark forest, I felt the familiar sadness cloak me. It may have partially been that my log cabin, however cozy, was quite dark even with all the lights on. Street’s condo, with its white walls, was quite bright even with just a few candles. But mostly, the melancholy came because Street, despite being content in her solitary world, was the light in any setting. Every time I left her and Blondie, I felt that no amount of lumens could push away the darkness.

  Spot didn’t even turn his pre-sleep circle on his bed. He walked onto it, lay down, and seemed to be immediately asleep. I attempted the same in my bedroom, but struggled with thoughts of a child I’d never met being held captive by a man who spoke with a Swedish accent and didn’t hesitate to shoot at people in a crowd just to convince them he was serious in his demands.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When the alarm went off at 4 a.m., I stumbled around for several minutes before I got the coffee on and splashed some water on my face. I made turkey sandwiches for Spot and me, filled two of my retro canteens, grabbed my binoculars, Ryan Picard’s spotting scope and collapsible tripod, Spot’s folding camp bowl and put it all into a pack. We got into the Jeep and drove down the mountain through the dark. I turned south at the highway and headed down 50 to the South Shore.

  As I drove, I tried to think like the bad guys. I reasoned that, because Vince was meeting the kidnappers at the High Meadow trailhead above Sierra House School, they’d likely place a spotter nearby, maybe the woman who was supposed to be in charge of the camera drone.

  It was critical that none of them saw me. So I decided to hike in from a different direction. Instead of working my way up from South Lake Tahoe, I’d drop down from the north, following the Tahoe Rim Trail.

  When I got to Stateline, I turned up Kingsbury Grade, drove past my office, and wound up to Daggett Pass. I turned on Tramway and went back to the Stagecoach Base Lodge at Heavenly. The ski resort had closed two months before, and the parking lot was largely empty.

  Dawn was pinking the sky as I let Spot out of the Jeep. He trotted around as I pulled on the pack and started across the parking lot. There was an old Forest Service road that climbed out of the parking lot, and the Tahoe Rim Trail branched off from that.

  Spot ran ahead. Like all animals, he understood trails. The Tahoe Rim Trail, the TRT, is well constructed and maintained. Every year, hundreds trek its entire 165-mile length around the Tahoe Basin.

  At the end of June, most of the trail had melted clear of snow. However, we’d had a strong winter, and the northeast-facing slopes above 8000 feet were still covered in snow. The TRT makes a gentle curve around Heavenly Resort, staying below the higher ski slopes. When I’d consulted my map, it looked like I would have to hike at least three miles out to get to a good view of the summit of Job’s Sister. Because of wrinkles in the mountain topography, the summit would be obscured from much of the trail. I might have to go as far as six miles one way.

  As the sun cleared the distant mountains to the east of Nevada’s Carson Valley, the wind began to pick up. The last weather report had a high-wind warning and high-surf warning for the Tahoe Basin. The forecast predicted steady East wind of 35 plus and 100 mile-per-hour gusts on the ridgetops and mountain summits. Although many trails within the forest would not experience such wind, it was very dangerous weather to climb in. Vince knew it. Probably one or more of the kidnappers knew it, too. But as we had surmised, that was, no doubt, precisely the point.
Privacy in the mountains was found where and when others feared to hike.

  Spot kept disappearing around curves. Each time I came back into his sight, he’d be standing like a regal statue, head held high, ears focused, and turned back to look. When I came into view, he’d continue down the trail.

  After about two miles, we had our first glimpse of the summit of Job’s Sister. Despite the clear-sky forecast, there was a misty haze that seemed to stream from the summit, coming from the southeast and blowing off the cliffs on the north side. From the vigorous, straight plume of mist, I guessed the wind at the summit was blowing at a steady 50 or 60 miles per hour.

  Spot and I were sheltered in a forest of giant California Red Fir at almost 8000 feet of elevation. Any experienced hiker would know that to go up an additional 3000 vertical feet and get on an exposed summit would be suicidal. Which was exactly what Vince and the kidnappers were doing.

  I looked at the summit, trying to imagine where Vince would currently be. They’d planned to meet and start their hike at 6 a.m. Depending on their fitness, they could be approaching Star Lake, which is at the base of the cliffs leading to the summit. Because of the way the lake was surrounded by a huge cirque of rock, it would be relatively sheltered from the wind.

  I didn’t worry that I’d be spotted by the climbing party. They were a long distance from me. As long as I stayed off open slopes, I’d be relatively invisible. Even Spot would be mostly hidden in the trees.

  In several places, the trail disappeared beneath snow. Instead of a nicely graded path, there was only a broad slope of snow, inclined at enough of an angle that both Spot and I were at risk of sliding away. I then realized that I’d forgotten my cat tracks, a type of hiker’s crampons. Not as serious as what climbers use on a glacier, but very helpful in staying upright on snowy slopes.