Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (104 page)

Thorp stood before an eighty-two-inch screen that displayed
the mockup of his vision. He was selling them on the grand Regal Tahoe and its
venues. He led them with a toast to great dreams and grand designs. “Bad
recessions provide great opportunities for those positioned to take advantage.”

Never before had Vegas been hit this hard and the
opportunities here, like Tahoe, were big.

“Lake Tahoe’s North is the next big thing,” Ogden Thorp
said. “This is Tahoe now…” They stared at the big screen. The picture zoomed in
on the Cal-Neva and the other old, ready-to-be-torn-down casinos. Then the
picture moved around to the mountains on the east side of the lake, the
undeveloped forty-two thousand acres that once belong to George Whittell.

For Thorp, this was his moment. He’d arrived. These men, the
big movers and shakers whose money had helped build Macau into the gambling
capital of the world, were looking to get into something new, and he had what he
thought would entice them. It had been five long years in the planning. These
were the men who were going to make him king of the Sierras.

“The new design…including the outlying ski resort and the
main casino hotel that will replace everything on the Cal-Neva highlands…”

With a click, there it was in close-up detail. And it was
beyond spectacular. He watched the expressions on the men as their eyes widened.

“This will be the eighth wonder of the world,” Thorp said.
“And it’s just the beginning.”

He moved the scene to the famous landmark, Thunderbird
Lodge, on the Nevada side of the North Shore. “Here’s the big prize. We’re
making some serious progress. We’ll have the ban lifted on enough land for this.
This was once the dream of George Whittell. He owned the forty-two thousand
acres—you heard me right—forty-two thousand acres that are now wasted parkland.
The entire eastern side of Tahoe is waiting for us.”

He loved talking about George Whittell, his idol in many
ways. “All that’s there is his home, which is now the Thunderbird Lodge. Before
he died in nineteen sixty-seven, George changed his mind about building his
great resort. I’m not sure who or what got to him. But we’re going to rectify
that. Tahoe needs it and needs it now.

“George Whittell was the king of playboys in his day, and I
admit to copying as much of him as my system can handle. He made Charlie Win Win
look like a choirboy.”

They laughed, knowing well that he meant the famous
parties—right down to the tunnels, the lion’s cage, the speedboat, and the
girls. Thorp even had the stonework at his place fashioned by Paiute and Washo
Indian masons and ironworkers just as Whittell had done at the Thunderbird
Lodge. He didn’t import any Venetian ironworkers as Whittell had but came close.
Nor could he bring in honest-to-God Cornish miners to build the tunnels. But
Mexicans, well supervised, did a very nice job.

“It true,” one of the men asked, “that you have a lion in
some underground cage under your house like Whittell had?”

“That will only be revealed to those who end up there. Back
in Whittell’s day—as it happened to Errol Flynn—they’d wake up after a drunk and
find the fucking lion licking their faces. People heard that macho swashbuckler
Flynn’s scream clear across the lake.”

The men roared. He went on regaling his audience with
Whittell’s life back in the day when he had those big parties, the gambling,
Hollywood stars including Howard Hughes.

Thorp’s smile filled his smug face. “Next weekend, I’ll be
hosting the party of the year, the Great Gatsby Gala, and I want all of you to
be there. All expenses for all the pleasures will be free, of course. And if you
aren’t interested in talking to me, you’ll have on hand movie stars,
politicians, and, in the poker room—modeled after the famous one in
Tombstone—the world’s greatest poker players will be in the world’s biggest cash
game.”

With all of the Vegas Strip glowing below them, the
brightest lights in all the world, he toasted once again to the fruition of his
grand dream.

He turned to the Chinese gentleman and his small entourage.
“It must be very satisfying that a relative of those who labored to build the
great railroads that opened the Sierras and linked the country are soon going to
own them.”

More laughter. Thorp was on.

“Show us this famous gun you have,” one of the Silicon
Valley investors said. “I heard it was the brother to the pistol that killed
Lincoln.”

He pulled out the Derringer, laid it in the palm of his
hand, and then passed it around for the investors to see.

“A piece of history. This baby is the brother pistol to the
one that killed Lincoln at Ford’s Theatre. Man that made them, Henry Deringer,
made them in pairs because they only shot one bullet. Each pair had a specific
bullet mold.” He retrieved the gun and held it up. “Black walnut stock,
checkered grip.”

“It authentic?”

“This is the real thing. Cost me a fortune to get hold of
it. It’s been going around. The original is kept by the U.S. Park Police in
Ford’s Theatre. They authenticated it about ten years ago as the second of the
pair. I heard that it was out there three years ago, and I had some people run
it down for me. Paid big.”

“How can you be sure that’s the one?”

“Forensics and science. You check the rifling pattern, tool
marks, shading, the grain. The metal of these single-shot percussions is
chemically browned iron, and you can check the age, which I did. Look at the
barrel—see how it’s flattened and slotted on top for the blade front sight. You
have engraved German silver. Lock plate and barrel stamped with Derringer
Philadelphia. His named was Deringer, with one R, but the gun was called a
Derringer, using two Rs. Made in pairs, the double-R makes sense.”

“You ever shoot it?”

He put the gun in his pocket. “Not yet. But I’m sure that
day will come.”

That brought a big round of laughter. It was at that moment,
as he was raising yet another toast, that he got a shoulder tap by his lawyer.

Thorp finished the toast, then followed Richard Rouse, his
attorney, business partner, and life-long friend out onto the balcony.

16

“What’s the problem?” Thorp demanded. He was quickly sorry
he asked. And it got a lot worse when Rouse told him about the shooting at the
hatchery, about Cillo’s nephew saving Jesup, and how he was out there somewhere
as well. Then the most distressing news of all.

“Looks like the fool who jumped the gun was Shaun.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’ve been talking to everybody who knows anything. It
really looks that way.”

Thorp’s incredulity turned instantly to anger.
“That’s…that’s insane. That bastard. Jesus Christ.”

Thorp stared down at the flow of lights on the Vegas Strip
as he tried to process the idea that his moronic cousin, a lowlife piece of
crap, would take it upon himself to do something like this. It was almost
unfathomable.

“Media have this?”

“No. So far she hasn’t reported anything. Probably to
protect her cousin at the hatchery. This is potential disaster.”

“What are we doing about it?”

“The guy I told you about, a plane will bring him in
tomorrow.”

“This guy from New York?”

Rouse nodded. “They say he’s top of the line. I’ve been told
his specialty is that he’s a suicide expert. He doesn’t whack people in the old
Italian way. He’s a new breed. Quiet, quick, and very effective in what he does.
You won’t even know he’s in town.”

“I want to know he’s in town. I’d like to talk to him, make
sure he understands that we can’t afford any kind of negative publicity. How can
I meet this guy?”

“I don’t know that’s a good idea.”

“I didn’t ask you that.”

“Well, he did have a demand. He insists we get the Marilyn
Monroe Celebrity Cabin at the Cal Neva freed up for him. I’m taking care of it.”

Thorp stared at Rouse. “He wants the Marilyn Monroe
Celebrity cabin.”

“That’s what our contact said. He’s some kind of movie
buff.”

Thorp was beside himself. “This can’t be happening. If it
was my idiot cousin, why? Is he deliberately trying to destroy me or what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s trying to impress you.”

“He’s succeeded. If it was him, he’s dead. I want him gone.
I want this cleaned up fast. That guy comes in, I want to meet him. Have the
Cal-Neva open the tunnel from the kitchen to the Celebrity cabin that JFK and
Sinatra used when they went secretly to visit Marilyn.”

17

The rather anonymous, inconspicuous young man smiled to
himself, remembering what he had told the man he’d killed as he walked the night
streets of New York City near Times Square late Sunday night:

“You’re going to do the world a favor and commit suicide.
I’m going to help you in that. It’s what I do. I’m a suicide specialist. Your
profession is bilking folks out of millions. Mine is getting them some justice.
I love my profession.”

It was the best of times…and Sunday night, when people were
least aware, it was the killer’s night. His profession was booming and he
considered himself at the top, with his pick-and-choose of gigs. One of the
reasons Leon had considered taking the job in Tahoe so soon after the Brooklyn
job was Marilyn Monroe’s cabin. He’d heard they were thinking of tearing it
down, and he’d always wanted to spend some time there. Watch her movies on his
Kindle Fire while lying back, reposing as it were, on her bed.

Henry Craven Lee, aka Leon, the man referred to by the code
name Urbanwolf, had come to New York for a job in Brooklyn and was now enjoying
a night off after another success. He thought about his recent target. How the
man had stared at death more with acceptance than fear. How like Leon was maybe
doing him a favor, doing what he’d wanted to do but didn’t have the guts.

“It’s not business and it’s not personal, it’s Mother
Nature…the Italians notwithstanding.”

He’d said those words as he’d looked into the widened eyes
of the man, eyes more resigned than any Leon had ever seen. That thousand-yard
stare, as they say. Something you see in war zones…and wasn’t Wall Street the
final war zone?

Post-kill was Leon’s second favorite time. The long, slow
comedown from the ultimate high the hunt gave him. Leon had taken his current
name from the French version of one of his favorite old movies,
The
Professional.
All the names he’d worked under over the years were lifted
from favorite movies.
The Professional
was
Leon
in the French
version, staring Natalie Portman and the hitman Jean Reno. It was one of Henry
Craven Lee’s all-time top flicks.

Leon strolled now down Fifth Avenue. He loved the night
crowds. The anonymity, the knowing. He talked silently to people. He was never
alone. The world was his playground, and he talked incessantly to people,
imagining what he would do to some of them. Leon’s mind never stopped except on
the hunt. Then it calmed. Then it focused. Otherwise? It ran and ran and ran.

You don’t care, do you? Life beat you. Nature has no
sympathy.

Leon took great pride in the professionalism of his work.
And though he’d learned much of it from watching movies and critiquing the
killers, even mocking them, movies were his outlet. After the military denied
him, which he was forever grateful for—
fuck them
—he’d studied his
profession with zeal. Awarded himself a Ph.D. He didn’t like taking orders
anyway. He was a genius with an IQ near 160, but what he possessed above anyone
he encountered was that he knew the fundamental truth of life. He was absolutely
convinced he knew the nature of things and the “others” were just kidding
themselves.

A limo was now waiting for him in front of his hotel to take
him to a private airfield from which he’d be flown to Tahoe. But tonight, he’d
especially enjoyed his time prowling aimlessly through Times Square, working off
his restless energy, the man whose real name was Henry Craven Lee, so pleased
with himself. Sure, he got physically lonely at times, sometimes wanted a hooker
for release. But for the most part, he liked being a lone wolf.

Leon loved nature’s laws. The true existence of life was the
hunter. And he loved movies. He liked to think he looked a bit like De Niro in
Taxi—
his best role, in Leon’s mind, though he was great in
Goodfellas
and
Casino
. He couldn’t decide, when he thought about it, which of De
Niro’s movies was the best. But what about
The Deer Hunter
and—hold on—
Raging
Bull?
You can’t leave that out. And then what about
Cape Fear?
And—Christ, yes—don’t forgot
The Godfather!

But it was De Niro and Jean Reno in
The Professional
who were his greatest screen heroes. No contest.

Leon, carrying his travel bag, laughed out loud at the great
movies De Niro had been in, all of which he’d seen almost as often as the Monroe
movies. Laughing out caused people to glance at him.

Robert, my friend, you are the best. You are the man.

Back at his hotel, Leon got in the back seat of the limo
with his bag, then pulled out his phone and checked in, listening to the
message. He texted a simple message in a simple code. His contact numbers
rotated with the calendar and various countries’ holiday schedules. This month
it was Scotland. June. Lanimer Day.

He smiled at the thought of his next night being in MM’s bed
in the Celebrity Cabin, where she had been nailed by Kennedy, Sinatra, and
Giancana.

The truth of it was, killings for Leon weren’t murders. They
were purges, cleansings of the rot and corruptions of civilization. People were,
by and large, scum. Stupid and petty. Most. There were exceptions, to be sure.
Still, the world needed more than a bunch of Leons to clean it up. He was a firm
believer in the real need for a major pandemic or global war. It would be fine
with him to get rid of about half the world’s population.