Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (109 page)

He drifted off with his usual sleep protocol. He loved to
imagine himself hunting down world leaders, killing them, feeding the news
cycles, and playing with the government agencies hunting him. Taunting them. It
was a kind of masturbation of the mind for Leon.

But on this night, after enjoying his kill in New York and
his battle with the old man, he went to Kora North, having various forms of sex
with her in his mind until he finally drifted off.

27

Just before sunrise on Tuesday morning, Marco and Sydney
slipped out of a still-sleeping Markleeville.

Sydney felt guilty about dragging Marco further into this.
She sensed he was already in deep yet was still serious about dumping her and
going to his uncle, hat in hand. He was angry about what had happened, but she
knew she was growing on him. Now a lot depended on what Gary Gatts could tell
them—if it turned out the shooter was some random guy and not coming from Thorp,
then she couldn’t expect Marco to join her “crusade.”

The Mountain View Restaurant squatted off the side of the
snaking mountain road in the pines about six miles from Markleeville. A sagging
dining hall, faded red paint, and a sign over the screened-in porch announced
that you could “catch ‘em yourself” along with a colorful drawing of a fish.

“Is that the place?”

“Yes.”

The sun began its rise and would come with a vengeance.
Another hot day ahead.

Suddenly, a small horde of leathered, tattooed bikers came
roaring around the bend from the opposite direction and pulled into the parking
lot of the restaurant. It was awkward for a moment, as Marco slowed as if also
going into the restaurant but then continued on, the bikers no doubt assuming
their presence was enough to scare off any regular citizenry.

They drove around the curve; Marco found a place just off
the highway in the woods, on a feeder road, and parked out of sight of the main
road and the restaurant. “We arrived a few minutes earlier, it would have gotten
uncomfortable,” he said.

“Timing in love and war is everything,” Sydney said.

Marco secured his piece under his shirt, and then they hiked
down through the trees, where they had a view of the restaurant and parking lot
but were well hidden. They waited about thirty minutes. Two girls were outside
by one of the bikes. They were joined by the rest of the crew: four males, two
more females. They stood talking for a moment, then mounted up, kickstands
retracted, engines turned on and cranked up.

“Dogs on hogs probably making a delivery, or a pickup,”
Sydney said. “The Hell’s Angels used to run the trade until the Mexicans took
over. They work for them. Next they’ll all be working for the Chinese. A new
world.”

Marco smiled. “You’re cynical.”

“Usually depends on the time of day.”

With the biker bitches clinging onto their road warriors
like fierce female bats, they roared off down the winding mountain road toward
Markleeville, their shiny black helmets gleaming in the early morning light.

Sydney and Marco walked across the parking lot and went on
inside, greeted by a fragrant waft of chilies and old grease. A sign on the wall
next to the empty hostess stand explained that you could catch your own fish
down in the creek, bring them up to be cleaned, then cook them yourself, or have
the cook do it.

Fishing poles and bait on the porch,
the sign read in
big red letters across the bottom, with an arrow pointing to the porch.

The man they were looking for wasn’t in the dining room or
in the kitchen. A plump, attractive Spanish woman emerged and cast anxious
glances at them.

“I guess we don’t look like customers,” Marco said. He
nodded to the woman and said,
“Cómo es usted que hace hoy a señora.”

She looked worried. Marco assured her they weren’t ICE. “
No
somos gobierno.
”

“I speak English,” she shot back, eyes fiery like he’d
insulted her. “Probably better than you do.”

Marco smiled appreciatively at her feistiness. “We’re
looking for Mr. Gatts. He around?”

A flicker of anxiety shadowed her eyes. “No.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He comes, he goes. Doesn’t tell me when or
where.”

Sydney glanced at the small kitchen table with two coffee
mugs and two dirty dishes, then out at the tables. No evidence the bikers had
bothered to eat or drink. Looked to her like they’d picked up or delivered and
left.

“You just get a delivery?”

“No. Deliveries come on Fridays.”

“I’m not talking about food.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” the woman said, eyes now
showing some real apprehension.

“Who’s down at the creek?” Sydney asked. She went over to
the stove. “I assume you have the right credentials of citizenship. Or at least
a green card.”

Marco said, and without any humor now, “
No
te
echarás. Dónde está Gatts?
”

“Yes, that’s him down at the creek. He should be up in a few
minutes.”

Marco nodded. “We’ll go on down. He’s an old friend. Be a
nice surprise.”

“He has friends?” she asked, with a wry raise of her
eyebrows.

Marco and Sydney exchanged looks.

“We were in prison together,” Marco said.

Sydney thought the woman’s suppressed smile would have been
laughter had they been sitting at a bar, and if the woman wasn’t frightened for
her own safety.

Sydney said, “Sweetheart, you might want to take off, close
the place for the rest of the morning. Silence is golden.
And
a way to
stay in this country.”

The woman grabbed her purse and a canvas bag from under the
counter and beat it out of there, the screen door banging resolutely behind her.
Moments later, they heard a car engine cough, then start. They saw from the
south end of the building an aging, wounded, blue Ford Focus sputter out across
the parking lot and stumble down the road beyond the trees.

Sydney hung the CLOSED sign on the door, locked it, and they
both took out weapons, holding them down behind their legs. It was time to shake
some information out of Gatts and find out if an old friendship had any weight,
and what that might mean.

28

Sydney’s got game,
Marco thought. He liked the way
she handled herself. Big city law way out of her true element in a small town
like South Lake Tahoe.

As they crossed to the steps, Marco glanced at the fishing
poles and rubber boots that cluttered the back porch. A broken refrigerator
leaned against the wall, next to it, a sign in large letters: BAIT. A cheap
hunting knife was stuck in the wall.

He paused as Sydney got out her phone, he guessed to make a
recording of the interaction with Gatts. Then they went down a series of stone
steps that led to the stream below. She had to go easy on her wounded leg but
seemed to not be in pain.

The creek was narrow but active. Had to be a pool somewhere
that Gatts kept stocked. They made their way carefully, the murmuring of the
creek over rocks loud enough to mask their approach.

They found him at a turn in the creek maybe fifty yards from
the steps. Gatts squatted at the edge of the creek, feet in the water. He wore
tan shorts from which dropped skinny legs, no shirt under his black leather
vest. Skin and bones, the overall look of somebody who lives more on chemicals
than food. A bulge in the pocket could be a handgun.

Gatts was next to a sluice box popular with gold rockers,
oblivious to their approach. But it wasn’t the sluice box he was messing with.
As they got closer, Marco could see a thick metal tube. He was pushing something
inside before screwing on a cap, then pushed the metal tube into a pipe imbedded
in the bank. A rock soon covered the hiding place.

A perfect hidey-hole, Marco thought, especially when the
water rose to normal levels and covered the whole deal.

“Neat,” Marco said quietly. “Guy’s got himself a little safe
right here in the creek. No dogs would sniff that out. No DEA would think to
look under rocks in the stream.”

They moved closer.

“That’s pretty damn nifty, Gary Gatts,” Marco said. “How you
doin’, boy?”

Gatts jumped up, startled, nearly falling over, his eyes
wide, as if he expected to die right then and there. He tried to collect
himself.

“Jesus, you scared the hell out of me sneaking up like that.
The fishing poles are up on the porch. Ask the lady in the kitchen.” His mouth
uttered the words, but his eyes showed concerns of a different sort. He knew
they weren’t looking for fishing poles, knew they’d seen what he was doing, and
this was not a good situation. He didn’t appear to recognize Marco.

“We wanted some fish,” Marco said, noticing the dragon
tattoo on Gatts’ right arm, the tiny gold studs in his ears that caught a spike
of sunlight dappling down through the trees. “We’d have you catch, clean, and
cook them for us.”

The expression on the man’s face said run, said get the hell
out of there, eyes big as an owl’s.

“Settle,” Marco said. “Things better that way. You don’t
remember me?”

“Holy hell…Marco Cruz. Damn, I heard you got killed in
Mexico. Hey, dude, good to see you.” He said it but didn’t look like he meant
it, eyes all jumpy and dilated.

Then Sydney removed her sunglasses—did it in a cool way—and
the little guy recognized her. She did this little rise with her eyebrows
coupled with a gotcha smile.

Gatts mumbled through his shock, “Sydney Jesup,” like she
was the second to last person on this earth to have come back from the dead.

“How are you, Gary?” Sydney said. “Nice little place you got
here.”

Marco said, “I hear you’ve come a long way since your
pot-dealin’ days. Nice setup. People make deliveries; you put them here in your
secret little safe. Pretty neat, Gary—your own full-service restaurant.”

Gatts rubbed his temple with his left hand, his right
drifting back of his thigh.

“What do you want?” Gatts asked, and then, rodent quick, he
spun around and started to run, his hand going to his pants pocket under his
shirt.

Marco fired a warning shot in the water ahead of him. Gatts
stumbled and struggled with whatever he was trying to get and Marco fired a
second shot in the water. Gatts abandoned his struggle with his weapon, rolling
half in and half out of the water as he screamed and grabbed his wounded foot.

“Get under control,” Marco said.

Gatts rocked back and forth as both hands clutched his right
foot, his eyes wide and staring at Marco, who was on him fast, grabbing the
little guy’s face and pushing it under. Marco removed the weapon from Gatts’
front right pocket, where it had gotten hung up. He lifted the gasping drug
dealer’s head up out of the water.

Sydney reached for Gatts’ gun. “Finally, one of my own.
Thanks, Gary.”

Marco dragged him up on the side of the rocky bank, the
little guy squirming and pleading.

“Settle, Gatts!” Marco said.

Gatts, on his back now, his leg pulled up to his chest, his
hands on the wounded foot, moaned like a baby.

“Nobody told you to run,” Marco said. “You try and pull a
gun on me and you’re still alive, makes me wonder what I’m coming to. Maybe it’s
because I need some information bad enough to forgive you. Once.”

Sydney took a nearby seat on a rock just above and out of
sight of Gatts’ eyes, saying, “Listen to your old buddy, Gary. He’s not the nice
guy you once knew. He’s the nastiest bastard I’ve ever run into, and I’ve been
around the block. He’ll hurt you slow and mean before he kills you if you don’t
listen to him and answer his questions.” She prepared her cell phone to capture
whatever transpired.

29

Gatts struggled with a nod of submission. Water bounced off
his head, dripping onto his face. He muttered plaintively, crying out in pain
and fear, “What do you want? I got some cash. Take it. C’mon, man, take my
stash. Anything. Whatever you want, just don’t kill me. Don’t kill me, man. We
go back, you and me. We had fun. Memories, you know. Good memories.”

Marco dragged him back to the bank, next to his drug cache.
“You’re hardly worth a bullet. I might just drown you, though. Let’s see what
you got. And get calm. I hate talking to excited people. Brings out the worst in
me. Before you know it, the vultures will be circling.”

“Take it, man. It’s yours. I just make the connections is
all. It’s pretty big money there. Take it. Just let me get out of here. I’m
begging you, man, don’t kill me.”

“You don’t shut up, I’ll have no choice.”

Gatts shut up. Marco pulled the rock aside, pulled the tube
out, unscrewed the cap on the end, then reached in and pulled out some plastic
bags. He laid them on the nearest flat rock.

“What we have here,” Marco said, dumping the remaining
contents of the cylinder out on the flat rock, “is a CVS pharmacy of hardcore
drugs.”

“How do you think,” Sydney said as she wiped down the small
revolver, “a guy like Gatts would do in prison?”

“He’d become popular fast food. Be buying and selling him
the way he buys and sells these joy bags.”

“Where are these headed?” Sydney asked. “You provide for the
big parties?”

Gatts didn’t respond. He was in obvious pain and afraid he
was going to be killed. Marco gave him a little tap with the gun. Gatts yelped,
one hand leaving his foot to grab his head.

“Yes. Yes.”

The bullet had cut through the outside of his left sneaker
from top to bottom, just behind the toes. He was sitting half in the shallow
water, tears rolling down his cheeks, blood trailing downstream, curling with
the flow of the water.

“These for the big bash next weekend?” Sydney asked.
“Thorp’s Great Gatsby Gala?”

Gatts nodded. “I’m just the delivery guy. I don’t even own
this place.” He nodded to the restaurant. “I’m just managing it for some
people.”