Tahoe Blue Fire (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 13) (34 page)

Glennie lifted up a small sketchbook. There were Post-it notes marking various pages. She turned to the first one. “I will start by reading a poem called ‘Wildness.’”

The poem was short and poignant and talked about the last bits of the untamed world. When she was done, everyone clapped loudly.

“The next poem will be read by Street Casey.” Glennie handed the sketchbook to Street as she approached the podium.

Street said, “This poem is titled ‘Dare I Sleep.’” Street read slowly and softly. The poem was a warning about species on the brink of extinction, yet it wasn’t strident or shrill. Instead it spoke of the ephemeral nature of beauty in all plants and animals.

Street was followed by Diamond and then Sergeant Santiago. Even Commander Mallory, locally famous for being too much of a curmudgeon to participate in such events, got up to read a poem.

In all, twelve people read Adam’s poems, all of which were about the forest and mountains and the untrammeled wild places and wild animals, haunting descriptions of hallowed ground.

During the reading, I leaned over toward Adam and whispered. “Looks to me like you have lots of friends.” He didn’t smile, yet he seemed amazed at what was happening. Blondie lay at his side. She wore her service dog bib.

At the end, the audience was quiet with contemplation and, perhaps, a bit of awe.

Glennie went back to the podium. “Let’s give Mr. Simms a show of our appreciation.”

The crowd clapped and stood and clapped some more.

I looked at Adam. He’d been silent, so I couldn’t tell if he was having a good day or a bad day. But his cheeks were wet with tears.

The last week of May, I stopped by Street’s lab on my way home from my office. She’d just opened the door and bent down to hug Spot when Diamond drove up in his Douglas County Ford Explorer.

He got out and walked over. Spot stared at him, wagging his tail.

“Sergeant,” I said.

Diamond nodded.

“How’s Adam Simms doing?”

“Going down fast,” he said. “We moved him out of the safe house yesterday. I went in to check on him, and from the looks of things, he’d had another seizure, pulling the kitchen table and two chairs and the knife rack over onto the floor as he went down. Probably, he had a few seconds advance warning from Blondie. Fortunately, no knife stabbed him. He’d come back to consciousness before I got there, but only barely. His eyes were open, and he looked at me, but there was no recognition. He didn’t know who he was, didn’t seem to remember anything. He kept asking when Felicite was coming. I didn’t have the heart to say that she was probably going to prison for the rest of her life. Adam had also left the stove top on with a pile of newspapers just inches away from the lit burner.”

“That sounds terrifying,” Street said. Her face was a network of worry lines.

“The worst thing was, Simms didn’t recognize Blondie. He kept saying, ‘who’s that dog?’ And he wouldn’t pet her. Blondie was very traumatized. She stayed in a corner of the living room and wouldn’t look at me or Adam. After we got Adam settled into the nursing home, I took Blondie with me, and she hasn’t eaten a thing. She drank a little water, but not as much as I think a dog her size should. I’m worried. I called the vet, and they said to bring her in if she isn’t drinking and eating normally in another day.”

“What will you do about her?” I asked.

“That’s a question I haven’t answered.” Diamond glanced down at Spot who was still wagging. Only now I realized that he hadn’t been wagging at Diamond. He was looking at Diamond’s SUV.

“I’m hoping we can find someone who’s willing to adopt Blondie,” Diamond said. “If we can’t, I’ll have to turn her over to animal control. I thought I’d ask if either of you has ideas.”

“I can’t fit another dog in my tiny cabin on a permanent basis,” I said. “But let’s not put her in the shelter just yet. Let’s ask around. Maybe we know someone who would like a dog.”

Diamond said, “I thought about taking her, but my job often has long days when I can’t even get home for dinner.”

Street said, “Is she in your car?”

“Yeah.”

“We should let her out so she can run around.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen. She’s had a pretty serious setback.” Diamond walked over and opened the back door of his vehicle. There was no movement inside.

We followed him and took a look. Blondie was at the other side of the back seat. She cowered from us. Her tail was between her legs, and her ears were back. She wouldn’t look up.

“C’mon, Blondie,” I said in my cheeriest voice.

She didn’t move. Spot pushed his nose in next to me.

“Hey, Blondie, you can play with Spot.”

No response.

I took Spot by the collar, brought him to the Jeep and had him climb into the back seat. “Stay,” I said.

I walked back to Diamond’s SUV and opened the other back door on the side where Blondie had pressed herself into the corner. She turned her head and looked at me but didn’t move even as gravity started to slide her off the edge of the seat and out the open door. It was as if she were half comatose.

I cradled her in my arms and carefully carried her over to the Jeep, trying not to jar her. She still didn’t move as I set her in on the edge of the seat next to Spot who seemed to understand not to be exuberant.

I shut the door.

“I’ll take her home with Spot and see if that helps her forget what she’s been through.”

Diamond nodded. He pulled a large padded envelope out of his patrol unit and handed it to me. “A day or two after the poetry reading, Simms had a moment of lucidity, and he gave me this. He said, ‘Can you give this to Owen McKenna when my mind is gone?’ I agreed.”

“Thanks,” I said. I put the envelope in the Jeep. “Adam didn’t have any money. How is the nursing home going to get paid? The state will cover some expenses, but not all.”

“I talked to Vince. He said that if it hadn’t been for Simms saving your life when you were chased by the rotary, you wouldn’t have found the diamond pieces. So he’s going to sell enough pieces of the Blue Fire to pay for Adam’s care.”

“Nice guy,” I said.

“Yeah,” Diamond said. “Nice is undervalued these days.”

I drove the Jeep. Street said she’d follow along in a few minutes. When I got home, Blondie was still cowering.

A cloud front had come across the sky, shutting out the sun as if someone had pulled a large sun shade across a huge skylight. A cool breeze had come up, and snow flurries whirled through the air. I let Spot out and brought him into my cabin. Then I fetched Blondie, trying once again to be gentle as I carried her inside. I pulled Blondie closer to me so that the cold weather didn’t make her feel worse.

When I was inside the cabin, I kept holding Blondie. I said, “Spot, lie down on your bed.”

I stepped onto the edge of his bed so that he couldn’t take up all of the space. I tapped my foot where I wanted him to lie. “Spot,” I said a bit louder. “Come lie down.”

Spot ambled over, stepped onto his bed, sniffed Blondie in my arms, then lowered himself down onto his elbows.

I squatted down and set Blondie onto the other side of Spot’s bed. She lay curled up, her snout turned sideways across her front paws. She was touching Spot with her side, but she didn’t move.

I built a small fire in the wood stove, enough to warm Blondie but, I hoped, not enough to drive her away.

I heard the soft sound of a car door. In a moment, my front door opened and Street walked in. Spot lifted his head and looked at her for a moment. Blondie didn’t move.

“How’s she doing?” Street asked.

“Same,” I said. “We’ll just give her some space and time and calm and see if that helps.”

Street nodded.

I opened a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for each of us, and we sat in front of the wood stove. Street took the leather chair, I took the rocker.

I tore the end off the padded envelope and pulled out Adam’s sketchbook. Tucked inside the pages was a hand-written letter. I read it aloud to Street.

Dear Owen,

This is a pretty good day as I write this. I can think. But I sense I’m near the end of that. I’m going to give this letter to Sergeant Martinez and ask him to give it to you when I’m no longer competent.

I’m writing this on the fifteenth day of May, my birthday, and the day on which I found Blondie in the rescue shelter two years ago. I’d already been having seizures for six months when I got Blondie. Six months of feeling that life wasn’t worth living.

I learned a lot from Blondie, starting with the first day. She was pretty much a wreck, just like me, but together we found that life once again became worth living.

Even on the worst days, when she got so stressed about my seizures, my brain eventually came back, and after a time, Blondie would calm down and go back to being as happy as a dog could be. Ever since I got that dog, when I’ve had dark times, I always reminded myself of that. I brought Blondie happiness. Imagine that. After all those years of football, the gift I gave the world that mattered most to me was bringing happiness to a rescue dog.

It must have been terrifying for Blondie to have me turn into the shaking robot, unresponsive to her, not noticing her licks or cries, not petting her, maybe even hurting her with my jerks.

But of course she also learned that I came out of the seizures, that the shaking robot left my body, and I always came back to her. She knew that no matter how often the seizures came and no matter how bad they were, I still came back.

This time I’m not coming back.

For me, that’s the hardest thing about facing the end. It’s not fair to an animal who thinks you’re the most important thing in the universe. People understand, more or less. But Blondie - all dogs in this situation - Blondie will keep waiting for me.

So I have a favor to ask, Owen. I’m asking you because you know about dogs, you know their personalities and their needs.

Blondie would make someone a wonderful pet. She has more love in her than I’ve ever seen in anyone. I can’t imagine her going back to the shelter. It would destroy her just being there again. Never mind that most dogs don’t ever come out alive.

So would you please try to find a home for Blondie?

It would be a huge favor, but I don’t know who else to ask.

Thanks very much for considering it.

There’s one more thing.

I had the world in my hands when I played football. I knew a thousand people. Yet I never really had any close friends. But you showed interest in my poetry and talked to me about it. No one else ever came close to believing how important poetry was to me. You even organized the reading at the college. I’ve never had a friend who did that for me.

When you said you could help me do a book of my poems, I didn’t know what to say. But I’ve never stopped thinking about that. I remembered that you said that more people would be interested if they thought my book had stuff about me and not just poems about wildness.

So I’ve written another poem for the book, even though I know the book may not ever happen. This poem is not about wildness. It’s called Won’t Need No Cane. In fact, I think that would be a good title for the book. I’m dedicating this poem to you, Owen.

Won’t Need No Cane

A broke-wing hawk no longer flew

Looked up to see the trees and sky

Was grateful for the gift of view

He’d never seen from perch on high

Confined to ground, no longer free

He’d never grow too old to soar

With wisdom gained, he now could see

Though battles won, he’d lost the war

by Adam Simms for Owen McKenna

When I was done reading, there was movement over on the dog bed. Blondie began panting, clearly heated too much by the fire. She pushed herself up to her feet and, moving slowly, she walked off the dog bed, came partway across the living room and stopped. She looked at me, then at Street. Blondie’s ears were back, her head hung low, and her eyes drooped with sadness. She looked very scared. Taking tiny steps, she gradually walked over to Street and looked up at her face. Then she lowered her head to rest it on Street’s lap.

Street reached out with both hands and caressed her head. “I’ll take Blondie,” she said.

About the Author

Todd Borg and his wife live in Lake Tahoe, where they write and paint. To contact Todd or learn more about the Owen McKenna mysteries, please visit
toddborg.com

PRAISE FOR
TAHOE GHOST BOAT

“THE OLD PULP SAVVY OF (ROSS) MACDONALD...REAL SURPRISE AT THE END” - Kirkus Reviews