Chapter 1 – Drought Year 1978.

The car fishtailed violently as she ran the stop sign and turned 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 wet pavement, causing her to fishtail again before the rear wheels gained traction and the car took off.  In the meantime, the vehicle chasing her had gotten much closer.

“Oh my God,” she repeated.  “I thought he said this car was a ‘hot rod’?  Where did he get a gun?  I didn’t even know he owned a gun.”

The vehicle in the mirror, a powerful 1970 Dodge Challenger, the same vehicle featured in the movie ‘Vanishing Point’, quickly closed the gap between them in spite of the driving rain and 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 cracking and a ‘thud’ as a bullet passed by, inches from her right arm, and lodged in the dashboard.

“We knew he would be mad, but this — he’s 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 cried aloud as she powered through a right curve, nearly hitting the embankment to her right.  She looked up into the rear view mirror and saw the rear window was now a spiderweb 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 yellow speed sign with the large black letters ‘25mph’  announced the forthcoming sharp right turn with a mountainside on the right and a wide shoulder leading to a sheer drop off into Clear Lake on the left.  As she slowed to make the turn, she felt the pursuing Challenger hit her rear bumper, 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 him back off and her car started to spin as she attempted to regain 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 hatred in his eyes before it completed its rotation and plunged off the cliff, striking a huge boulder head-on, and catapulting upside down into the muddy winter water of Clear Lake.

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, algae covered waters of the stagnant cove.

The Challenger pulled onto the shoulder of the road and a young man got out.  He walked slowly and deliberately back to the location where the Buick had left the road.  There was no sign of the woman escaping the wreck, but he had to be sure.  He pulled a loose cigarette from his leather jacket and, shielding the lighter from the rain with his back, he lit it and took a long draw of smoke into his lungs, and slowly exhaled.

He stood there staring into the lake.  The rain pelted him as he lifted his collar to cover his neck while he watched for any sign of life from the lake below.  The sound of the rain and the belching air from the vehicle were all that was 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.  He estimated about five minutes had passed; long enough that surely no-one could have survived underwater for that long.

He casually ripped a branch from a nearby manzanita bush and using it like a broom, he swept the tire marks from the dirt and gravel shoulder until there were no telltale signs that a car had left the roadway.

He took one last glance at the lake, got into his car and drove away.

The air bubbles had stopped completely now, and the sound of the incessant rain was all that was audible.  Horseshoe Bay had claimed 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.”

“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 ought to be shot,” he said as he inched the boat closer to the protruding tire.  “That algae is pretty thick.”

“It always is here in Horseshoe Bay this time of year.  It’ll break up in a month or so.  ”

“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 eight dollar lure.”

As Paul carefully maneuvered the boat closer to the submerged tire, he continued, “The lady at the Cottage said the lake level was at its lowest since 1977.  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 eight dollar lure.”

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

“Do you think anyone is inside?”

“I don’t think there could be.  It's covered in crud all over it.  I don't know, but I’ve lost my fishing appetite, let’s go back to the State Park and call the Highway Patrol.”