Chapter One - March, 1978; End of the 1977-78 Drought Year

The car fishtailed violently on the wet pavement as the young female driver ran the stop sign and turned hard right onto Soda Bay Road.  “Oh, my God! Go faster Beverly, he’s gaining on you,” she said under her breath.

Beverly Todd regained control of the car and floored the accelerator.  Instead of roaring ahead, the powerful motor just spun the rear tires on the damp roadway, causing the car to fishtail again before the rear wheels gained traction and the car took off.  In the meantime, the car chasing her had negotiated the turn much smoother and had closed the gap even more.

“Oh my God,” she repeated.  “I thought this car was supposed to be fast?  Where did the gun come from?  I didn’t even know he owned a gun!”

The vehicle in the mirror, a powerful 1970 Dodge Challenger, quickly closed the gap between them in spite of the driving rain and large puddles in the roadway.

“Find someplace safe, Beverly, before he kills you, too.”

Her thought was interrupted by a loud ‘POW’ behind her, and the sound of the rear window shattering and a ‘thud’ as a bullet passed by, inches from her right arm, and lodged in the dashboard.

“Oh, my God!  We knew he would be mad, but … but … he’s gone crazy!”

The next curve scared her even more, as the car slid sideways across the centerline and barely stayed on the roadway as she rocketed through a tight left corner near the Clear Lake State Park.

“Oh my God!” she repeated aloud as she powered through a right curve, nearly hitting the embankment to her right.  Her heart was pounding out of her chest and her clammy hands could barely hold the steering wheel.

She looked up into the rear-view mirror and saw the rear window was now a spider web of broken glass with a large gunshot hole in the middle.  She shuddered and glanced to her left into the side mirror and saw his headlights were now just a few feet behind her rear bumper.

She knew the next curve in the road would be the most dangerous.  The road made a sharp right curve with the mountainside on the right and the wide, unprotected dirt shoulder to her left which led to the pitch blackness of a sheer drop off into the murky waters of Clear Lake, in the area known as Soda Bay.  The yellow speed sign with the large black letters ’25 mph’ announced the forthcoming turn was dead ahead. 

She glanced into the mirror and couldn’t see the headlights of the Challenger.  For just a brief moment, she tried to tell herself that maybe he wasn’t there anymore, but that hope was quickly dashed by a ‘thud’ and her car lurched forward. “He’s right on my bumper!” she cried.

As she eased back on the gas to make the turn, she felt another thud as the pursuing vehicle contacted her rear bumper again, easy at first, followed by a much harder hit, causing her head to slam backward into the headrest.  The Challenger began to push her faster toward the curve, and then, just as quickly, she felt it back off and then her car began to spin around as she fought to bring it under control.  The car looped around one full rotation, enough so that as it turned, seemingly in slow motion, she had one last chance to see the driver of the Challenger.

Beverly shrieked from surprise and shock as she saw the hatred in the killer’s eyes.  At that final moment, the Buick completed its rotation and plunged off the cliff, striking a huge boulder head-on half way down, and catapulting upside down into the muddy winter waters of Soda Bay.

In that instant, the scene, utter chaos only seconds before, became eerily quiet as the car settled into the lake.  The glimmer of its headlights lighted the otherwise murky, greenish waters of the cove.

The Challenger pulled onto the shoulder of the road and the driver got out. Carrying a large caliber hand gun, the driver walked slowly and deliberately back to the location where the Buick had left the road.  There was no sign of the woman escaping the wreckage. 

The killer returned the pistol into his jacket pocket and pulled a loose cigarette from the rain parka.  Shielding the lighter from the rain, the killer lit the cigarette and casually took a long draw of smoke into his lungs, and slowly exhaled.

Casually, the driver stood there staring into the lake, watching for any sign of life from the lake below.  The sound of the rain and the belching air from the vehicle were all that were audible.  Escaping air continued to bubble to the surface, as the car purged itself of the only chance the occupant might have had to survive.  The vehicle slowly settled to the bottom, until the lights went out and extinguished the only evidence of the car.  After about five minutes had passed; long enough that surely no-one could have survived underwater for that long, the driver casually ripped a branch from a nearby manzanita bush and using it like a broom, swept the tire marks from the dirt and gravel shoulder until there were no telltale signs that a car had left the roadway.

After one last glance at the lake, where the car had been visible moments before, the killer got into the Challenger and drove away.

The air bubbles had stopped completely now, and the sound of the incessant rain was all that was audible.  Clear Lake had welcomed the car and its victim with open arms, and soon, as if it had cradled it to its bosom, with one last belch of air, it was as if it never happened. 


Chapter 2 – Thirty-Six Years Later; Drought Year 2014.

The early morning sunrise on Clear Lake is always spectacular in February, especially when it is overcast, and this morning was no exception.  But the sight of nature’s splendor was interrupted by a snagged fishing lure for Paul Nicholson and Dave Tunney, two bass anglers who were out early this morning to pre-fish the local hot spots before the upcoming Clear Lake Anglers Invitational Bass Tournament.

“A little closer, Paul.  I don’t understand why the tire won’t dislodge, at least a little, so I can shake my lure loose.”

“It looks pretty stuck and I can’t see below the surface.  Maybe we should just cut it loose before we hit a rock or something.”

“No.  I’ve almost got it.  I can see it stuck to the tire.  Just a little closer and I can reach it.”

“These assholes who push tires off the cliff just for the thrill of it ought to be shot,” he said as he inched the boat closer to the protruding tire.  “This corner of the cove is always pretty stagnant.”

“And this is the best time of year.  It’s going to get worse later this summer here in Soda Bay.”

“Well, this drought doesn’t help.  This is the lowest and murkiest I’ve ever seen the lake.  Normally we wouldn’t be this close to rocks.”

“I don’t give a damn about any drought right now.  Get closer in so I can save an eighteen-dollar lure.”

As Paul carefully maneuvered the boat closer to the mostly submerged tire, he continued, “The lady at The Cottage said the lake level was at its lowest since some time in the nineteen seventies.  That’s a long time ago.”

Just then, the boat struck something hard just below the surface coming to a stop with a thud.  Dave, who was reaching for the lure, pitched forward, barely catching himself from flying out of the boat.

“What the ….”

“My boat!” exclaimed Paul.  “What the hell did I hit?”

Dave lay across the bow and reached down into the green layer of muck and felt what appeared to be the bumper of an automobile.  He ran his hand along the surface to confirm his suspicions, then sat back very quickly.

“Uh.  Hey Paul, there’s a reason that tire isn’t moving.  It’s attached to a car … upside down in the lake!”

“Bullshit, Dave.  Quit screwing with me.  What did we hit?  Forget the lure.  I’ll buy you a new one.  I’m not going to tear up my boat on the rocks for an eighteen-dollar lure.”

“I’m serious, Paul.  It’s a car.  Come check for yourself.  And look.  That’s an old Goodyear radial tire.  It might have been here awhile.”

“Do you think anyone is inside?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve lost my fishing appetite, let’s go back to the State Park and call the Highway Patrol.”