Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (114 page)

She knew the feeling of powerlessness and hated it worse
than anything else. She’d really wanted that moment when Corbin looked down the
barrel of the gun in her hands, and even that had been taken away from her. But
she wasn’t done yet. She was breathing, wasn’t she?

She thought of Jesup and decided she was like a role model
for a girl who doesn’t take shit from the big boys.

I wish I was a killer like the guy who did Shaun.

She thought about Thorp and Rouse and the big weekend coming
up. Jesup was no fool. If you did know the security system and had somebody
could deal with it, then getting to the mother lode was possible.

Damn,
she thought,
this isn’t impossible.
If
there was one time a year when it could be done, the party was the perfect
cover. She started getting worked up about it. She’d been trapped for a long
time on a train going nowhere. Maybe in some bizarre way her time had finally
come. She sure as hell was due.

How strange would it be if the one who got her out of here
with a ton of money was the most feared and hated woman in Lake Tahoe?

38

Thorp’s lawyer grabbed him by the arm. “Oggie, I need to
talk to you right now.”

Rouse was wild-eyed like he was on the verge of a nervous
collapse.

They were in the hallway at Cal-Neva lodge, where Thorp was
giving a tour of the past and the future. He pulled his arm away. “Calm down. In
a minute.”

Thorp continued his tour with a group of investors. He
pointed to the wall of history, a line of pictures leading to the main ballroom.
“Sinatra, Marilyn, Robert Goulet, Lena Horne, Jack Benny. Back in the day,
actually, the heyday, yes, indeed…but a new day is upon us, and we have to make
changes or we’ll lose out.”

Rouse had that panic twang in his voice as he whispered in
Thorp’s ear, “This is an emergency. Come out on the deck.”

“Gentlemen,” Thorp said, “make yourselves at home. The bar
tabs are on me. I’ll be right back.”

“What now?” Thorp uttered with a low hiss as he followed
Rouse down the hall and out past the bar. He’d been back from the funeral less
than three hours and in the midst of an important tour for a small group of big
investors and wasn’t in the mood for interruptions. But he could see it was
serious. Maybe the body of Cillo or Shaun had been found and there was a police
investigation or news reports.

Rouse led him outside on the patio above the swimming pool,
his face all tight, a weird, frantic look in his eyes.

Thorp stopped. “What?”

“Your boy is back,” Rouse said in a low voice. “He’s down
there in his cabin, and he’s in bad shape. Got his face broken.”

“What in hell—?”

“Happened at Shaun’s place,” Rouse said.

“I thought Corbin was out of the picture?”

“He is. You’re not going to believe this. He was there going
through some of Corbin’s stuff when Jesup and Cruz showed up.”

Thorp couldn’t believe that. He was stunned. “What the hell
are you talking about? Speak up, for Christ’s sake.”

Rouse said, “What I could get from him, he got into a fight
and he got the worst of it. Got hit hard in the head with a steel bar or maybe a
dumbbell.”

Thorp couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Something like
this was impossible. Insane. Sydney Jesup and the criminal nephew of Cillo’s
still in Tahoe, and they beat up the pro? It was beyond comprehension. It
couldn’t be true.

Thorp asked, “He sure it was them? How does he know it was
them? I don’t understand.”

“Ask him yourself who beat the hell out of him. He was lucky
to escape. He wants to see you. And he wants painkillers,” Rouse said. “I sent
for some and a gun. No way I’m going down there again.” He pushed a package at
Thorp.

“What’s this?” Thorp, in a daze of disbelief, took the
package.

“He wanted OxyContin. What he needs is an X-ray or MRI and
medical treatment, but he’s not interested in that right now. He’s crazy. He’s
mumbling about broken bones in his face. They got everything.”

“Everything what?”

“Corbin’s computer and files and whatever he had. He’s nuts
right now. Threatening to kill half the people in Tahoe. He wants a replacement
for his gun. It’s in the bag. If I were you, I’d consider shooting him. Bring in
somebody to clean up.”

“He lost his gun?” Thorp couldn’t believe this. It was
unacceptable. The idea that Jesup wasn’t all that shot up—that she had this Cruz
with her and they were on the move
and
had gone after Corbin—was just not
what he needed right now. The whole deal could blow up in his face.

Rouse said, “Yeah. This greatest of all”—he lowered his
voice—”hit men got his ass kicked in a fight and lost his gun. This guy you want
on retainer, or to run all your security operations, is waiting for you.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“Believe it. This Cruz she’s hooked up with could be real
trouble. He needs to be dealt with soon. You want, I’ll get them to open the
Sinatra tunnel.”

“No. He said he’d kill anybody who came through there. He
didn’t like it when I did it the first time.”

“You have the gun,” Rouse said. “He’s incapacitated.”

“Then maybe you should deliver this.”

“No. He wants to see you.”

Thorp looked down at the Celebrity Cabin. Going down there
wasn’t something he wanted to do. He glanced up at the veranda and saw concerned
faces looking at them. He turned to Rouse. “Go entertain them. Tell them I have
to deal with a relative. This is a fucking nightmare.”

39

On the way down the hill, Thorp glanced toward Incline
across Crystal Bay. At this moment on the main lawn of his estate, though he
couldn’t see anything from where he was, the band platform for the weekend
Gatsby Gala was under construction. Already one of the big tents was laid out
and ready to be raised.

Thorp swore bitterly, his blood pressure maxed out. He
struggled to breathe, his chest tight as a fist, his mouth clenched. He wasn’t
happy at all about going down there to meet this greatest hit man of all time,
this top of the line, this crème de la crème who got his ass kicked.

He knocked on the cabin’s side door and heard a mumble. He
went in.

“—took long enough,” the killer, sitting on the bed,
muttered in a thick whisper, his jaw not moving when he talked, like a
ventriloquist.

Thorp, trying not to shake, to show fear or weakness, handed
him the bag.

The face of this greatest of all hit men was a bloated mass
of distorted flesh around the mouth, eyes, and nose. Just looking at him made
Thorp extremely uneasy. Something really nasty had happened to this guy. Thorp
shook his head, all kinds of terrible scenarios whirling around.

The killer clenched and unclenched his left fist, his right
hand at his face. Then he rolled his neck. A man in terrible pain.

Out on Ogden’s lake, as Thorp liked to think of Lake Tahoe,
sailboats and speedboats darted about at play, awaiting the next big thing to
hit Tahoe.

The suicide specialist stared at Thorp, right eye bloodshot,
swollen. He was holding an ice pack against his face. Up close, he looked like a
freakish, inflamed gargoyle.

“Goddamn!” Thorp said.

“Pills,” the killer muttered, fishing around in the bag. He
came out with the OxyContin.

“Richard said they hit you with a dumbbell. Jesus, that’s
like getting hit with a damn sledgehammer.”

Leon took the bottle, dumped a couple OxyContin tablets out,
and slipped them one at a time between his teeth, apparently not able to open
his mouth. He picked up a drink he had sitting on a table to wash them down, but
most of the water fell down his chin.

“The woman with him—definitely Sydney Jesup?”

Leon nodded.

“You need to get your face looked at. I can get you someone
who won’t ask questions or remember the visit. Take a look and see if you have
broken bones.” Thorp thought as he spoke of getting more guys up here fast to
deal with this mess.

Leon shook his head. Waited a minute before whispering,
“Later.”

Blood bubbles formed at the corners of his mouth like the
froth of someone with rabies. He said, “I got work to do tonight. One of your
girls…”

“One of my girls?”

“Kor…ah…Kora North.”

Thorp had to lean in, get uncomfortably close just to make
out what he was saying, the noise of a powerboat all but drowning him out. “What
about her?”

“Showed up,” the killer said with a tight grimace, swearing
under his breath. “At Corbin’s…they took her. I need address. Find out why.”

“I don’t understand.”

“…kidnapped. Or working with them.” His eyes flashed in
rage.

Thorp backed off. He saw the killer in the guy just then.
That look in the eyes like a cobra.

“Kora North,” Thorp said. “Are you sure?”

“Address,” he whispered. “Give me her goddamn address.”

Thorp, so buoyant a few minutes ago, now began to feel
cracks developing everywhere around him. He saw a massive conspiracy rising. At
the root of it, this insane woman who’d linked up with this criminal nephew of
Cillo’s. That he hadn’t killed her a long time ago…the biggest mistake of his
life. Rouse’s fault. The nervous fool had counseled against it. Weak.
Pathetically weak.

“Look,” Thorp said. “We can get you help. But you don’t look
in any condition to be doing much of anything. We can bring up a couple of Vegas
boys to deal—”

“You bring nobody,” he whispered in a guttural snarl. “You
just do what I ask. You hear me?”

Thorp stared at the killer’s eyes. Like looking into gun
barrels. He nodded.

“Her address?”

Thorp said, “She lives in the Tahoe Keys in South Lake. You
want the speedboat?” Thorp said, “I have a guy who can get you over there fast.”

The killer shook his head. “Last thing I need is to be
slamming across water in a fucking boat.”

“I don’t want her dead,” Thorp said. “Get this settled. This
girl is my Daisy, playing the Mia Farrow role at my party. Don’t mess her up.”

The killer’s expression grew reptilian cold.

“Look,” Thorp pleaded, scared of his guy, “she’s worth too
much. One of my best assets.”

The killer stared at him.

Thorp had to make the guy understand. Kora was important.
She got men to do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do. The best films, the best
arm twisting came from her. Men fell in love, went nuts, did what they did, and
paid the price. Thorp controlled himself. He was famous—and had been all his
life—for his tantrum-like outbursts when frustrated. But not with this guy.

Thorp said, “She’s too valuable to me. Find out what you
need to find out, old sport, but I need her. She’s a favorite of some very
powerful people. She’s expected at my party.”

The guy waved him out.

This top professional in the business had gotten the shit
kicked out of him by Marco Cruz. Thorp thought about that as he left, and it
didn’t improve his mood. He wished Corbin was alive. He’d take the son of a
bitch down into the tunnel and feed him to George.

Thorp stood for a moment looking at his lake. The black ring
of mountains. His world. His family’s world. They had cleared the Indians out of
here. Built the railroads. This was Thorp’s world on the verge of greatness, but
now on the verge of destruction if things continued downhill. And he was about
to expand that legacy, that birthright, to include the greatest vacation resort
on this earth.

And on the verge of the biggest, most important weekend of
my life—the Great Gatsby Gala—now this.

***

Leon took another pill. He waited. Finally, after long
minutes, he felt some change. Some relief.

He checked the replacement gun, a Glock 23-40 with concealed
clip holster and two 17 round mags. Nice weapon.

The hunt had taken a turn, and now it was war. He could get
his face fixed later.

40

Sydney and Marco drove back into South Lake a little after
ten that night, using back streets to keep off the main boulevard. They’d spent
the afternoon and evening in the Range Rover thirty miles from Tahoe up in the
mountains, seats back, trying to get some sleep. Marco didn’t know how Sydney
was holding up. She kept saying she was fine, but he could tell that wasn’t
exactly true. He’d taken some big shots from the guy he’d fought and was feeling
the effects now, putting him in a grim mood.

Something seemed to be bothering Sydney.

“Maybe the guy who killed Shaun lived long enough to call
whoever his contact is,” she said. “Maybe he told them about us, about Kora.”

“Not likely. I head his skull crack and I saw him drop. That
boy survived long enough to make a call, would be something, especially since he
left this behind.” Marco pulled out the cell phone. “Forgot in all the rushing
around that I’d picked it up. So quit all this worrying.”

She nodded. Sydney had made contact with her reporter
friend, and he’d called back and told her where to find Dutch Grimes. A watering
hole called Pop’s, two blocks off the main drag. Sydney said she knew the place
from having passed it many times but had never been inside.

“Been a long, strange day,” Sydney said as they drove into a
back parking lot of Pop’s Place. “From Gatts to Corbin and now Dutch Grimes. I
don’t know if we’re moving up the social ladder.”

Marco drained the coffee they’d stopped for, nodding to
that. He put the cup in the holder and prepared to go get their target. She’d
given him a description of Dutch. He got out and left her to watch for anybody
coming into the parking lot they might not want to encounter.

He entered the bar through the rear door. He wore sunglasses
and the wide-rim hat, an Airflow Tilley that he’d borrowed from Shaw.

The place was moody—no music, dark, one of those old joints
that hadn’t gotten upgraded. A place where you expect to see sticky flypaper
dangling from the ceiling. No Monday-evening crowd here, no dancing girls. No
Bada Bing.
A low-end joint for the pool players and serious drinkers.