Voodoo Ridge (16 page)

L
IBRARIANS ARE
among the smartest and often least sociable individuals on the planet. Books are their friends; it’s most people they can do without, especially dumb ones. I’d come to that realization the summer between my third and fourth grades in school when I’d been granted a rare day off from farm chores and walked two miles to the local public library, a two-story, turn-of-the-century, red brick fortress that smelled of damp paper.

The librarian, Miss Vanderford, had a long nose and heavy-lidded eyes bunkered behind winged, bejeweled reading glasses. She was ancient. Probably in her forties.

“What’re you looking for?” she asked me, from behind the checkout counter.

“A way out.”

“A way out, huh? Of what? This? Your life?”

I shrugged and stared at the holes in my canvas basketball shoes.

Miss Vanderford walked over with a cigarette dangling from between her lips, and grabbed a novel off the nearest shelf. “You want excitement? A life of grand adventure? Here. Read this.”

She thrust the book in my hand. It was “The Hunters,” a fictional account by author James Salter of his experiences flying F-86 Sabre jets during the Korean War. I walked back to the farm, found some shade behind the hay baler, and read until the sun went down and there was no more light. All I ever wanted to be after that was a fighter pilot.

The South Lake Tahoe Library, a modern, wood-frame structure of spare, architectural utility, offered no inspirations comparable to those of my youth, but the librarian on duty, a willowy blonde about my age with pleasant green eyes, did offer me a cup of coffee and research assistance.

“I’m interested in finding out as much as I can about a plane crash that occurred outside of town, a long time ago.”

“The one I heard about on the radio this morning?” she asked me.

I nodded.

“You a reporter?”

“I’m a pilot.”

“Just curious about what happened?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“Well, you’re in luck. We got a call this morning from one of the TV stations in Reno. They’re also curious about that airplane. I’ve already started doing some research for them.”

I followed her to the back of the library. She turned toward me as we walked and extended her hand.

“I’m Constance, by the way.”

“Cordell Logan.”

We shook hands.

“Haven’t seen you in here before.” She gave me a shy smile. “I think I would’ve remembered.”

“My first visit.”

“Really? Well, I hope it won’t be your last.”

She asked me if I’d come to Lake Tahoe to ski. I told her no. She told me she used to ski, before her divorce, but banged up her knee.

“My kids snowboard,” Constance said. “They’re always trying to get me to try it. They say it’s healthier on the joints.”

“Not snowboarding would probably be even healthier.”

She smiled, guiding me to a long wooden table with an old, box-shaped microfilm reader resting atop it.

“Well, anyway, I went through every copy of the paper from October 1956. Don’t know if it’s related to that airplane they found or not, but I found this story very curious.”

On the machine’s illuminated screen was a front page, photocopied, from the October 25, 1956, edition of the Reno
Gazette-Journal.
At the bottom of the page, below an Associated Press story headlined, “Hungarian Students Rise Up Against Russkies,” was another, much shorter wire-service dispatch that ran under the headline:

LOUD BOOM HEARD

Lake Tahoe (AP)—El Dorado County sheriff’s officials were investigating reports of a loud explosion heard early Wednesday morning in the remote, mountainous area known as Voodoo Ridge, about 10 miles west of Lake Tahoe’s south end.

A handful of area residents reported hearing a thunderous “boom” shortly after midnight. Authorities were exploring the possibility that an airplane may have crashed. However, no missing aircraft were reported. A sheriff’s official said a team would be sent to search the area as soon as weather conditions improve. A storm has blanketed the Sierra this week with nearly two feet of snow.

“I went through every copy of the newspaper for a month after that,” Constance the librarian said, “but I couldn’t find anything more about it. I will say, though, the area described in this article is the same area where they supposedly found that airplane yesterday.”

Waiting at the checkout counter with a stack of books, a stooped old man with a cane and a black beret coughed to get her attention.

“Duty calls,” Constance said apologetically. “Excuse me.”

I sat down at the table and reread the story on the microfilm machine. It offered nothing by way of actionable intelligence: residents had heard what may or may not have been a plane crash; there was no apparent attempt on the newspaper’s part to follow up.

So much for that.

Frankly speaking, the story about the Hungarian uprising that appeared on the same page made for far better reading. We studied the revolt in great detail at the academy, how even though the revolt failed, it came to play a major role decades later in the eventual downfall of the Soviet Union.

The article continued inside the newspaper. I hand-cranked the microfilm, advancing the pages, intending to finish the article. I never got that far.

On the jump page was a list of five, one-paragraph news briefs, each with its own headline, all under a larger headline, “News of the West.” The first brief described the winning entry in an Idaho potato-growing contest, the second detailed how officials were assessing small cracks in the Hoover Dam. It was the third story that caused me to sit up straighter in my chair:

AIRPORT GUARD KILLED

Santa Paula, Calif. (AP)—Police are seeking the public’s help in identifying the killer of an airport watchman shot to death Tuesday night in this small citrus farming community, about 60 miles northwest of Los Angeles. The suspect is believed to have escaped in a two-engine Beechcraft, Model 18 airplane.

TEN

A
security guard is shot to death in Southern California. The suspect flies off in a Twin Beech. Hours later, residents in a remote and mountainous area of California hear an explosion amid a raging snowstorm that they speculate might’ve been an airplane crashing. More than a half century later, a Twin Beech is found in the same area with a long-dead pilot behind the controls, and with its mysterious cargo recently gone missing. I was no bookie, but the odds told me that it had to be the same airplane.

“Leaving so soon?” Constance said from behind the checkout counter as I headed for the library’s front door.

“Got what I needed. Thanks for the help.”

“My pleasure.” Her smile was one part professional and about three parts lonely.

The storm had let up. Wisps of low-lying stratus clouds retreated to the east, revealing a sunlit, cerulean blue sky so bright it hurt to look at it. The air was cold and felt good down deep in my chest. For an instant, my mind was transported to the frigid Koh-e Baba mountains of the Hindu Kush, where years before the cold had helped wipe from my brain the nauseating bouquet of blood, gastric acid, and partially digested sheep mutton, spilled by the terrorist whose intestines I’d just splattered all over the snow.

I dialed Streeter outside the library and told him what I’d learned about the airplane I’d found, how it may have been involved in a murder in Santa Paula back in 1956. He was stoked.

“If the homicide was never solved, they’ll still have a case file down there.”

“No statute of limitations on homicide,” I said.

“Did the article say whether they ever made any arrests?”

“All I know is what I just told you.”

“I’ll check it out. Thanks for the tip.”

“You talk to Preston Kavitch yet?”

“Finished up with him about ten minutes ago,” Streeter said. “He’s clean.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“He’s on probation. Wears an ankle monitor. The GPS shows he hasn’t left the house all day.”

Was Preston Kavitch Crocodile Dundee? I doubted it. Their voices were substantially different. Plus, Preston appeared incapable of tying his own shoelaces, let alone concocting a credible foreign accent and pulling off a major crime like kidnapping. But who’s to say he wasn’t working with somebody? I ran the theory past Streeter that Savannah could’ve entered the house, perhaps to grab a cup of coffee while awaiting my return, and run into Preston, who’d then restrained her until his coconspirator arrived.

“I searched the house top to bottom, the surrounding bungalows, and the grounds, and I didn’t see anything that jumped out at me,” Streeter said. “But I’ll go back and do it again, if it’ll make you happy.”

“Do that. Do
something
.”

“I understand you’re anxious, Mr. Logan. I’d be, too. We’re doing the best we can.”

I asked him if he knew whether Preston Kavitch had any ties to Australia.

“Australia?”

“Has he ever been there? Does he hang out with anybody from Australia? Do you know anybody locally who’s from there?”

There was a pause over the phone. “Why would you want to know that?”

I knew I was taking a risk. If Dundee found out that I was asking law enforcement such questions, he might well respond violently against Savannah, as he’d threatened to do. On the other hand, I wasn’t about to sit idly by and simply hope the sheriff’s department did its job.

“I’ll explain later,” I said.

“If you have information relevant to this investigation, Mr. Logan, I’d strongly urge you to share it. Withholding evidence in a homicide is against the law.”

“Duly noted. Are you going to answer my question or not?”

He didn’t answer right away, mulling his response. Then he said, “Because you helped us locate a missing airplane, and because you’ve been of more than a little assistance in this investigation, I feel obliged to reciprocate—to the extent department policy allows me.”

I waited.

“I don’t know anybody personally from Australia who lives in El Dorado County,” Streeter said. “That’s not to say they don’t exist. I just don’t know them.”

The only local Australian connection the deputy could think of—and it was a stretch to even call it a connection—was a local kennel club that raised and showed Australian shepherds.

“Great dogs, but they’re not even from Australia,” Streeter said. “I grew up with one. They’re from the Basque region of Spain originally. But, whatever. If you want to know if Preston has any connections to Australia, I’ll ask him.”

“I’d appreciate you holding off on that for the time being.”

“But I thought you just said—”

“I know what I said, Deputy. I have my reasons. I’ll explain them when the time’s right.”

Streeter to his credit didn’t push it. We hung up on amicable terms, each promising to keep in touch. I unlocked the Yukon and got in. I was sliding the key into the ignition when I remembered:

Out at the airport, Lovejoy’s uncle, Gordon Priest, the manager of Summit Aviation Services, had walked in while I was first pointing out on the map to Deputy Woo where I’d spotted the wrecked Twin Beech. Priest had tossed a bag from McDonald’s on the table, along with a keychain. There was a little metal dog attached to the chain. It was an Australian shepherd.

The digital clock on the Yukon’s dash read 3:20
P
.
M
. More than nine hours had elapsed since I’d last seen Savannah.

I decided it was time to pay Gordon Priest a visit.

W
ALKING INTO
Summit Aviation Services, I could hear him berating his receptionist, Marlene, over some filing error she’d committed. She stood in his office doorway, taking the pounding without pounding back while trying bravely to smile as Priest ripped into her. She seemed more than relieved to see me.

“Mr. Logan. Come to check on your airplane?”

I lied and said yes.

She looked haggard, her eyes rimmed red from crying.

“I’m having a hard time coming to terms with Chad’s death,” she said. “I just can’t believe he’s gone, that he died so violently.”

“He had a record, for Chrissake,” Priest said, walking out of his office to snatch a cookie off of her desk and ignoring me. “He was a loser.”

“My husband has a record, Gordon,” Marlene said, clearly miffed at her boss. “He’s made a few mistakes in his life, but I would hardly call him a loser.”

“A wife beater is more like it,” Priest said.

“He’s never laid so much as one finger on me. Never.”

“When he’s sober, you mean.”

Marlene sat back in her chair and folded her arms.

“You have no right to talk about him that way.”

Priest exhaled. “OK, forget I said anything. I apologize.”

She looked away, her arms still crossed, smoldering.

“Look, all I’m saying is, something was bound to happen to Chad sooner or later.” Priest took a bite of cookie. “He ran with the wrong crowd. I should’ve never hired him. I only did it because my sister wanted me to.”

“Any idea who might’ve shot him?” I asked.

Priest glared at me like I was a bill collector.