Read Tahoe Ghost Boat (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller) Online
Authors: Todd Borg
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 first 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.
There was one more option.
Instead of assembling an official Placer County Sheriff’s team and playing by the rules, I could bring my own private backup. Diamond had helped me before despite the threat to his career if he should be caught doing something outside of his jurisdiction. Once he heard my plan, he might sign on out of desire to save Street and Gertie and catch the men who attacked his deputies.
But as I thought about it, my doubts grew. Not only did I still not have a phone to call him, I had no evidence. My past inspection of the castle revealed it to be empty.
By every measure, my idea of a secret tunnel was outlandish.
But what better idea did I have?
I decided to go alone. Just me and Spot. One more inspection of the castle. I would have the advantage of stealth and surprise. And if I found nothing, I wouldn’t have engaged local law enforcement on a worthless mission.
As I drove up the dark, deserted East Shore, I once again regretted my personal prohibition against guns. I wanted a gun. Multiple guns. I wanted to shoot the men who took Street and Gertie. Not kill shots. Thigh shots that would incapacitate and cause much pain. But that was the very reason why I no longer carried a gun. Because I might use it. Because I’d used it in the past with tragic consequences.
There was a small amount of traffic on Highway 50 as I headed up Spooner Summit. But after I turned north on 28, I didn’t see a single vehicle until I got to Incline Village. There were a couple of cars and a few late-night delivery trucks near Incline’s shopping areas. Otherwise, the highway was empty. I checked the dashboard clock. One a.m.
As I came around Crystal Bay, the wind had shifted out of the south. There was a fine layer of lake-effect snow on the highway and a frozen mist in the air as moisture, picked up from the lake, cooled off once the air came back over land. The cooling condensed the moisture molecules into micro ice particles. Occasionally, my Jeep drifted on the corners. I realized that my tension had me pushing my speed. I backed off on the gas.
From Crystal Bay, I drove through the dark, silent towns of the North Shore. Kings Beach, Tahoe Vista, and Carnelian Bay all slipped by. There was a bit more traffic as I came into the lights of Tahoe City, a few locals coming home from working late shifts as slope groomers at the ski resorts.
I turned south on 89, drove across the Truckee River on Fanny Bridge. Again, the traffic disappeared, and I had the dark highway to myself. A couple of miles south I went by Sunnyside, and a mile after that I went by the drive that led back through the trees to Lassitor’s castle on Hurricane Bay.
Without slowing, I continued south then turned right into the eccentric lady’s neighborhood. I drove a few blocks, turned left and parked on the narrow street. Because the snow walls were so tall, the Jeep was mostly hidden.
I grabbed the penlight from the glove box, got out, and let Spot out of the back seat.
Whenever I wanted to be incognito, walking with Spot created a challenge. Unless it was completely dark, the white splash of his coloring would catch the light. And the darkest nights always motivated people to turn on lights if they heard a sound.
My best approach when I didn’t want to be seen and noticed was to go when no one was around and go alone. The middle of the night worked well except where there were other dogs. Bringing Spot would increase the chance that other dogs would bark. But if I left Spot behind, I would be leaving behind my best multi-use resource.
Spot wasn’t brilliant. But like all dogs, his ears and eyes and especially his nose were much more sensitive than those of people. In a quiet situation like walking at night, Spot would alert to any human presence long before I could tell anyone was around. And in addition to standard dog abilities, Spot also had bonus characteristics. His size made him intimidating. And his weight and strength were such that no man could fight him off without a good weapon and a focused ability to use it.
We got out of the Jeep. I walked over to the snow wall and kicked at the base. In and down. Harder. Farther. I came to the shoulder of the road. Kicked more. Hit dirt. Like so much of Tahoe, the ground under all the insulating snow wasn’t frozen. I scuffed some of it up and rubbed it on my face and hands. Gathered more and rubbed it over Spot’s white areas of fur. He didn’t protest. I’d done it before. When I was done, he was no longer a standout. The blacks spots blended into gray-brown background. I’d transformed him from a Harlequin Dane to a Merle Dane with black spots on a gray background.
We stayed next to the snow walls as we walked out to the highway. When we came to the corner, I looked out. There were no vehicles on the road.
“Let’s go, Spot,” I whispered. I held his collar as I ran. He trotted next to me. We went down the highway a couple of hundred yards. Instead of turning in Lassitor’s drive and risking the attention of any cameras that might be mounted in the trees, I turned into Gower’s drive. By using the connecting path between the houses, it was the most direct route to Lassitor’s boathouse.
I slowed to a walk as we approached Gower’s house. Although it wasn’t as big as Lassitor’s castle, it loomed in the dark, two stories high, with all its windows dark. Assuming Gower pulled his car into the garage, there was no way to tell if he was home or at his place down in Carson Valley.
Spot stopped moving and panting, something he does when he hears a faint sound.
I heard a faint sound. A low moaning in the distance.
Another ghost boat?
I listened. I couldn’t place the direction. I watched Spot. His direction sensitivity is far better than mine, and he turns his head and ears toward sounds he’s interested in. But so far he didn’t seem interested in the moaning sound. He looked left, then right, listening, sniffing.
I cupped my hands behind my ears, increasing my sensitivity. The moaning sound seemed to rise and fall.
Then came a light in my peripheral vision. On for a moment, then off. Then twice again. Was it in the trees toward Lassitor’s castle? At the castle itself? It happened so fast that I couldn’t tell if it was someone with a flashlight or something else.
I turned toward the trees. Watching, listening. At the same time, I was aware of Spot’s head below my own. He turned away from the castle and faced the lake.
Then Spot jerked his head toward the castle. He went rigid.
I saw nothing. Heard nothing. Spot began a low rumble in his throat. I jerked on his collar.
“Quiet,” I whispered.
Then a woman screamed.
FIFTY-SIX
The scream was distant and muffled but no less terrifying for it. My heart thumped. My breaths were shallow pants. I couldn’t recognize any quality to the sound that suggested that it was Street or Gertie. Screams don’t reveal much about the voices that make them.
Like the moan, the scream seemed to come from everywhere at once. But the muffled quality sounded like it was deep inside a building. I couldn’t sense any direction to the scream. But Spot did. He stood rigid and stared through the dark toward the castle.
We ran toward the castle. I followed the path from Gower’s drive over to Lassitor’s. There was a dusting of new snow that made it quiet but slippery. Still hanging onto Spot’s collar, I leaned on him for extra support. With his tough claws, he had more grip than studded snow tires.
My left shoulder bumped the snow wall as we ran. Spot’s right shoulder rubbed against the other snow wall.
Fifty yards down, we came to Lassitor’s drive. There were no vehicles and no tracks in the recent snow. I looked toward the massive stone walls, trying to see the few small windows in the dark. With no light inside or out, they were nearly impossible to pick out. Up along one of the roof peaks was an area of darkness that looked different from the stone walls. I realized that it was the row of clerestory windows. I walked with Spot toward them. I got close to the big wall with no windows. That would be the windowless wall in the entertainment room. Or else it was the wall that people were supposed to think was the entertainment room wall. The row of clerestory windows was at the peak of the room. Regardless of whether there was one wall or two with a secret room between, if anyone turned on any light in the entertainment room, it would give a glow to the clerestory windows.
I stood in the dark, my neck cranked up, staring at the windows. Eight large panes in a row. A big enough expanse of glass that, even if someone in the house below were using a flashlight, a chance moment of reflected light would probably produce a glow visible through those high windows. But they remained dark.
I turned around to head to the boathouse when Spot jerked again. I sensed a brief glow on the snow around me. I spun around. Nothing. No glow in the clerestory windows. No glow from any of the other small windows off to the side of the big windowless wall.
Turning slowly, I scanned the forest around the castle. Looking for movement, for any light. My hand was still on Spot’s collar.
Maybe I was imagining the light.
The house seemed deserted. The scream could have come from another house in the area.
My only hope was probably a fantasy. A secret tunnel that would allow me to get into the house where Street and Gertie were being held. It was a ridiculous idea that seemed more ridiculous the longer I considered it.
But even if I’d been hallucinating, I still knew that someone had screamed. Spot had heard it.
Spot and I ran to the intersection of the path that went to Lassitor’s boathouse. We turned toward it and the lake.
I slowed Spot as we got closer to the shadowed building, then pulled him to a stop. We waited, both of us listening, Spot sniffing the air. He didn’t alert. Which meant that no one was hiding in the shadows.
We walked up to the boathouse door. The only light was dim starlight that reflected off the snow. Spot sniffed the knob and the deadbolt and the doorjamb. It was his casual sniff. Nothing like I would have expected if he smelled scents from Street’s condo.