Tahoe Silence, Page 2

  “What was his name?”

  “Commander Mallory.”

  “Mallory gave you my address?”

  “No, he just said you lived in Tahoe, over on the east side. He only gave me your name and phone number. So I called and called. But you never answered. Why would you do that? Not answer or return my call?”

  I pointed to the corner of the kitchen where the answering machine pulsed an incessant red light like a miniature emergency vehicle. “I was working and got home late. I don’t usually listen to messages or return calls at midnight. You didn’t answer my question about my address.”

  Marlette looked annoyed. In an obvious effort to calm herself she drank some coffee. “When you didn’t answer or call back, I started calling everyone I knew who lives or works on the east side and asked if they knew you or where you lived. I’ve heard of your name, so I figured other people might’ve heard of you, too. Finally, an hour ago I thought of Ellis Gordon who works for Webster Tree Service in Zephyr Cove. He goes to my church. I woke him up. It was a wild chance, but it worked. He said he was up here last month cutting out one of your trees that was burned in that forest fire a year ago. He said it took a year to die. Anyway, he didn’t know your address number, but he said you lived in a cabin on this road. So I drove up here and, well, it was obvious. All the other people on this little road have big fancy houses.”

  I drank the last of my coffee, got up and refilled my cup. “Why did Mallory think you were unhappy with what the cops were doing?”

  “It was obvious they weren’t going to find my kids. They didn’t go look. All they did was ask questions!”

  “Any idea who took them?”

  “A motorcycle gang. They were there one moment, gone the next. There were motorcycles everywhere. They must have taken them.”

  I thought about the Tahoe Biker Heaven festival I’d read about. It was due to begin on Sunday. Bikers were already pouring into the basin.

  I watched Marlette. Her attitude was peculiar. She radiated intense energy. Yet aside from her anger, no other emotion showed. No tears, no quiver of lip. No doubt she was fearful, but that didn’t show, either. Her emotions were under lockdown, blocked by the trauma of her missing kids or by something else. But it was obvious that a hot fire burned within. White showed all around the perimeter of her irises. A solar corona during a total eclipse.

  “How old is your daughter?”

  “She just turned seventeen.”

  “And your son?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Your daughter is almost old enough to go where she pleases.”

  “Not SalAnne. She has autism. She doesn’t go out on her own. Never will.”

  “Did you see the motorcycle gang take your kids?”

  “No.”

  “So you don’t know they did.”

  Her eyes flamed at me. “They were right there. In the street. We searched. Me and my neighbors. Two of the policemen stayed and searched, too. Those bikers had to have taken her. My neighbor even heard Charlie call out.”

  “Call out how? What did he say?”

  “She said his voice was muffled. But she thought he said, ‘SalAnne, those bikers are looking at you!’”

  “How long were your kids out of your sight?”

  “Two, three minutes.”

  “Maybe they wandered off. Maybe they got lost in the woods. You can go a long way in two or three minutes.”

  “My kids wouldn’t do that. My son, especially. I know them. My son I know better than I know myself.”

  “But not your daughter?”

  “I told you. She has autism. She’s different.”

  “You sound very certain they were kidnapped considering that you didn’t see it happen.”

  “My God, you’re just like the cops! You can know something without actually witnessing it.”

  “Okay, let’s assume your kids were kidnapped, and...”

  “They were!”

  “Right. Let’s pretend you hadn’t seen any motorcycles. Does anyone you know seem a likely suspect for taking your kids?”

  “No. I can’t imagine why anyone would kidnap them. It’s not like I have money for ransom.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Was. Fifteen years. We’ve been divorced three years.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Shane Ramirez. I went back to my maiden name of Remmick after our divorce. The kids are still Ramirez.”

  “Where does Shane live?”

  “San Diego. He was here until two years ago. A liftee manager.”

  “Liftee manager?”

  “Liftee managers assign which liftee is stationed on which chairlifts, where and when. They keep the whole mountain running. He was over at Sierra At Tahoe. Started years ago, back when it was called the Sierra Ski Ranch. A great job, but Shane wanted something else.”

  “Not many ski lifts in San Diego.”

  “He always wanted to be a rapper and music producer. Latino rap. Even took a rap name. Calls himself NSNG. Stands for No Shane, No Gain.”

  “Shane doesn’t have a motorcycle, does he?”

  Marlette’s mouth opened, but no sound came out for a moment. “My God. That thought never occurred to me.”

  “That means he does?”

  “Yes. A big Harley.”

  TWO

  “It couldn’t be Shane,” Marlette said. “He wouldn’t kidnap our kids. What would be the point? If he wants to see them or be with them all he has to do is ask.”

  “Do you have custody of SalAnne and Charlie?”

  “Yes. Shane likes Charlie, but they’re not real buddies. And he has no interest in SalAnne at all. I can’t imagine him wanting her around. They never got along. And anyway, if he wants them in his life he can just ask me. I think children should have a father present. I would make arrangements.”

  “He didn’t fight giving you custody?”

  “No. He was grateful.”

  “He sends child support?”

  “Yeah. He’s late sometimes. But he sends it. I’m surprised, actually. I thought he’d be less reliable.”

  “You said you don’t have enough money to entice someone into thinking about a kidnapping for ransom.”

  Marlette shook her head vigorously. “No. Absolutely not. I mean, don’t worry, I’ll figure out a way to pay you. But ransom? No way.”

  “What about someone you know? A relative with money?”

  Marlette was still shaking her head. “None that I ever knew of. Not that I ever even knew my relatives. My family isn’t... I don’t keep up with any of them.” She clenched her teeth, jaw muscles bulging.

  “Any friends of yours who have money? Or someone at the kids’ school?”

  “No.”

  “Neighbors? Someone who cares about your kids?”

  More head shaking. Then she stopped. “Well, there’s Emerson Baylor. He lives up the street. He’s pretty rich. So you’re thinking someone could kidnap my kids and send Mr. Baylor a ransom note?”

  “It’s happened before. How well does he know your kids?”

  “Not very. We just say hi when we walk by.”

  “He doesn’t come over, socialize with you?”

  “No, nothing like that. He’s just a nice neighbor.”

  “Tell me about your kids. Start with your daughter.”

  “You’re wondering if her autism would make it easy to kidnap her?”

  “No, I wanted to know what SalAnne is like.”

  “Well, she’s a nice child, really. But you wouldn’t know it meeting her because she is standoffish. That’s an autistic thing. Silence doesn’t meet people well. She’s got walls around her. But the main thing is, she doesn’t talk. Never has.”

  “Silence?”

  “Her nickname is Silence. Everyone who knows her calls her Silence.”

  “Does she have friends?”

  “You need to understand that kids with autism...”

  “Marlette, the only thing I’
m understanding is that you are focused on her autism. I want to know about Silence the person, not about Silence the kid with autism.”

  Marlette made a dismissive snorting sound. “You don’t have a clue what it’s like.”

  “Does she have friends?” I repeated myself.

  “Not really. Most of the kids at school either ignore her or make fun of her. There’s one girl who used to live in Tahoe. She’d be the only person I might think of as a friend to Silence. But her family moved away to Santa Monica a couple years ago. I even tried calling her yesterday after the cops left. She was out so I talked to her mother. She didn’t know anything.”

  Marlette turned and stared out my window toward the mountains on the west side of the lake. Mt. Tallac was just starting to glimmer a soft pink with the alpenglow of dawn.

  “You were telling me about Silence,” I said.

  Marlette spoke in a soft voice, more toward the distant mountains than toward me. “Silence is a strange child, very removed and distant. Most people would think she’s quite retarded, not talking and all. You can’t communicate with her. At least, not in any normal way. She’s locked into her own frozen world. But in some ways she’s pretty smart.”

  “Does she play games or sports?”

  “No. She’s not very physical.”

  “Does she watch TV?”

  “Not really. She doesn’t have enough focus to stay with TV shows or movies. I think the sound bothers her.”

  “Listen to music?”

  “Sometimes. She doesn’t sing along, of course. But I think she likes the rhythm. She moves in a rhythmic fashion. And she likes to spin.”

  “Spin,” I said, not sure I understood.

  “Yeah. It’s another autistic thing. I know, I know. But autism is such a big part of her.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Spinning? Well, she just turns in place, pushing herself faster and faster. She’s very good at it. Never falls down. I don’t know why she likes it. I think it helps her escape the world. Something about the way it feels, I guess. Another way she’s physical is squeezing. She likes to be squeezed. Maybe it’s a womb substitute.”

  “How does she manifest it?”

  “She climbs under her mattress and just lies there letting the weight push down on her. She’s gone under the sofa cushions a few times, but the mattress is her favorite. I don’t think the sofa cushions weigh enough to give her the feeling. I think she assumes that all creatures like to be squeezed hard, too.”

  “Why? Does she hug extra hard?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. Silence doesn’t like to touch people. But she likes animals. She’s fascinated by them. When our neighbor Rachael moved in next door, Silence was fixated on her cat. Always trying to grab it. One day the cat walked onto her lap and Silence squeezed it so hard the cat clawed her and bit her hand. I thought a dog would be tougher. Dogs like to roughhouse and such. So, for a birthday present I went down to the animal shelter and got her a puppy. It was a sturdy little mutt, some kind of Cocker Spaniel mix, cute as can be. Spinner, we called him, because sometimes he turned in circles when he got excited. How perfect is that, Silence having such a dog? And Silence instantly showed that dog more touching than she’d ever touched in her life. But it turned out to be a mistake.”

  “She hugged it too hard,” I said.

  “My Lord, that poor dog couldn’t take a breath. I tried every way to show Silence how to pet him gently. But she just didn’t get it. It was like trying to show a dog how to eat a piece of meat slowly.”

  “You had to get rid of it?”

  “Yes. Either that or come home some time and find it asphyxiated. She even took it under the mattress with her. I thought the poor thing would have broken bones.”

  Marlette went quiet, remembering. “The rest of the time, Silence is very delicate, very careful. She moves with precision. I suppose that helps her with her art. She’s a really good artist.”

  “Art? That’s great. What art is Silence interested in?”

  “I don’t know. She just does drawings. She can draw anything. Sometimes she does repetitive images. The same thing over and over. Like that famous guy did. What’s his name? Warhol. I saw her looking at a magazine article about him, once. I think she likes Warhol.”

  “I’ve read that Andy Warhol had a mild form of autism.”

  “What? I never...” Marlette stared at me for a moment. Suddenly, her personality seemed to shift and the warrior glare was back. “What does this have to do with her kidnapping!”

  “I don’t know. Anything could be pertinent.”

  “Mr. McKenna, I don’t think that...”

  “Owen.”

  “Owen, I don’t think that her art or anything else matters in this case. I think what matters is that...” she stopped.

  “What?” I said.

  Marlette Remmick studied the table, then turned to study the propane stovetop. “Silence is an unusual-looking girl. She’s very thin and she’s certainly not beautiful. Her face is all edges and angles. But she’s got... Oh, this is ridiculous.”

  “Nothing you think is ridiculous,” I said. “Usually, when a client thinks it’s ridiculous, it is in fact relevant.”

  Marlette held her breath and then sighed. “Silence has, I don’t know, a radiance or something. She has pale green eyes and reddish brown skin. The combination kind of glows.”

  I waited.

  Marlette looked at me. “Anyway, Silence doesn’t realize what men are like. She is so innocent. I’ve tried to tell her how she needs to be careful. But she closes down. Shuts her eyes and hugs herself. Or she just disappears into her sketchbook. You will never see that child without her sketchbook. It’s like the way some girls are with dolls. And now she and Charlie are...”

  Marlette Remmick burst into tears. Not a mere sudden thunderstorm, but a shattered dam. The torrent came through like a river that had been held back for a decade and then suddenly released. She shook and heaved and gasped as tears nearly squirted from her eyes. I handed her a box of tissues. She grabbed a handful and blotted her eyes so hard she could have been trying to blot spilled wine out of the carpet. Marlette sucked at the air and choked and sniffled.

  When she calmed a bit she grabbed her coffee mug and drank from it so forcefully I heard her teeth click on the rim.

  When the deluge eased, I spoke.

  “What about Charlie? What is he like?”

  At the mention of his name Marlette brightened. “Oh, Charlie, Charlie,” she said, a smile pulling at her sad mouth. She blew her nose, a strong honk that made Spot’s ears twitch. “He’s the best boy. He’s kind and sweet and sensitive. A very good student. He plays football and baseball. And he has a baseball card collection that goes way back. A few months ago I took him to a collector’s fair at one of the hotels here in Tahoe. He went to all the tables and talked to the old guys. Know what he said to me after we left? He said that he knew more stats about the ballplayers than the old-timers did. So I asked him if he let them know and he said it was better to be humble than to brag.” The memory brought more tears and Marlette mopped them up with another handful of tissue. “Can you imagine a fourteen-year-old boy saying that? That it’s good to be humble?”

  “Sounds like a good kid,” I said.

  “And of course he’s Silence’s lifeline to the world. He looks after her ‘round the clock. Every little thing. Charlie is always there for her.”

  “Do you have pictures of your kids that I could have?”

  “Yes, of course. Only I didn’t bring any. I’ll get them to you. Videos, too. I took a lot of videos over the years. I had them put onto a DVD.” She paused and looked around at my little cabin. The dawn was now bright enough that it was easy to see I didn’t have a TV. “Oh,” she said, looking at the bookcase that sat where most people would put the entertainment center. “Lots of books. You do have a DVD player, don’t you? In your bedroom?”

  “No, but I can play them on my laptop.”


  Marlette frowned, no doubt trying to puzzle out what kind of strange creature I was.

  THREE

  By 8:30 a.m. Marlette was exhausted from talking and crying. She’d explained that she had some savings from her job cleaning houses and said I could have it all. I told her not to worry about it, that we’d work something out, and she left. I got Commander Mallory on the phone a couple minutes past 9:00 a.m.

  “You sound groggy, McKenna, like you just got up. Some of us have been up for hours.”

  “Right,” I said. “Had an early morning visitor. Marlette Remmick. Daughter and son went missing yesterday. She said you made an appearance.”

  “Yeah,” Mallory said, exhaling in my ear. “Told her we’d do our best but we couldn’t perform miracles. No direct evidence of a crime leaves us a little empty. We put out an Amber Alert. But I may live to regret that.” He breathed impatience into the phone. Another phone was ringing in the background.

  “But her kids are missing,” I said. “That’s evidence in some circles.”

  “Yeah. Kids go missing lots. Were I one of her kids, mom like that, I’d go missing, too.”

  “You’re a harsh man, Mallory.”

  “Call it like I see it.”

  “What’s your read on the motorcycle thing?” I said.

  “I don’t know. Could be something there. Word is the Granite Mountain Boys are in town. You familiar with them?”

  “No.”

  “I’m just learning about them myself. Soon as we got the word they were around we got a file on their leader. He and his first lieutenants all spent time at the Granite Mountain State Prison. Up by the Oregon border. Toughest Super Max in the country. Even the guards gotta prove they’re psychotic before they can get a job. They got perps in there, some of them old men, who are running gangs from the inside.”

  I’d heard about Granite Mountain for years. Now I recalled a report about it on National Public Radio. “Aren’t those the guys who do the Aztec thing? Coded messages written micro-small in the Aztec language on items that can be smuggled out by visitors?”

  “That’s it,” Mallory said. “They call ‘em Nahuatl suppositories.”