Marquez dropped into the river canyon and then climbed toward Kyburz. He drove past Shauf sitting in her van off the road shoulder. They’d made the first buy from their bear farmer in June in the Tahoe Basin. The southernmost buy was near the Fourth Recess on the eastern slope, and the northernmost near Eagle Lake off Interstate 80. They’d pushed pins into a map and stood around guessing at his home base location God knows how many times. Marquez had a full tank of gas, his team had him in view, but he really had no idea where he’d be directed now. Then the next call came.
“Turn onto the Wright’s Lake Road.”
“There was a Fish and Game bust up that way last night. It was all over the news. We don’t want to meet anywhere near there.”
“Turn left onto the dirt road near the top.”
“Go up the road to Wright’s Lake and turn left before the crest?”
“Yes.”
That left turn marked the other end of Weber Mill Road. After he hung up, Marquez called Shauf.
“This isn’t right,” he said. “He’s setting me up to drive down Weber Mill.”
He turned off the highway, climbed the narrow steep road through the trees, Shauf’s voice coming through the earpiece. Where Weber Mill Road reached the asphalt he stopped, the car poised there, looking down and across the canyon face at Weber Mill winding through the ravines. It felt like the car sat on a knife’s edge, rear tires still on the paved road, dusk coming, no rational reason why their bear farmer would bring him here unless he knew who he was.
“Do you see any vehicles?” she asked.
“No.”
“We’re on the move and should be able to see the rest of Weber Mill soon.”
His other cell rang, and she heard it too. “I’m going to take it,” he said. “Here we go.”
“Drive down the road and you’ll see a van.”
Marquez repeated for Shauf, “Okay, I’ll look for a van. How far do I go?”
No answer, line going dead. Marquez laid his gun on the passenger seat and covered it. He started down the dirt road and the car rattled. He lowered his window, unlocked the doors, undid his safety belt, and drove with his lights off.
“Was that him at Tahoe,” Shauf asked, “the man with the rifle on the slope?”
“You may be right.”
“We can’t miss tonight.”
“Wait for my signal.”
“You okay with this?”
“If we get him I’m fine with it.”
He was maybe a mile from where the takedown had been last night. He slowed, rounded another fold in the slope, didn’t like any of the thoughts going through his head. He came around another turn and saw a white van parked up ahead a quarter mile this side of where the bust had been. The phone rang.
“Park fifty yards behind the van, walk to it, and get in the passenger side. There’s a bag on the floor. Put it over your head and pull the string tight around your neck. Sit in the passenger seat and wait for me. If you’ve got a weapon on you, leave it in your car.”
“I’m here because I want to heal people. You don’t have anything to worry about.”
This time Marquez didn’t wait for him to hang up; he hung up first and got a hold of Shauf with his remaining seconds.
“We’re in the basin,” Shauf said, “but we’re not seeing a vehicle yet.”
“It’s this side of the bust about a quarter mile.”
“Roger that.” She called back seconds later. “We’ve got it.”
“A white Ford van. I’m to get out, walk up to it, and wait inside with a hood over my head. I’ll do that, but you’ve got to take him down as he approaches. I think he’s up the slope in the trees above me. He could drive in, could be on foot, could be another dirt bike deal.”
Or he’s already in the van and waiting and there’s no hood to put on. It’s Durham. No one had been able to locate Durham since the bust. An auto-reply on his email said he was out of town.
So did a voice mail message.
“I’m going to park in the next thirty seconds.”
He decided to do a three-point turn and park facing the other way in case he needed to get away fast. He turned the car around and was slowing to a stop when he heard a loud pop that startled him. He saw the dashboard hole, heard the echo, and jerked the wheel, sliding the car nose toward the uphill embankment, as a second bullet shattered the window behind him. He heard Shauf screaming, “Get out, get down!”
The car plowed into the embankment as he rolled out, hitting the ground hard, a third shot punching through the open driver’s door. He heard the whine of the bullet passing and rolled, scrambled behind the car trunk, and around to the other side, heart pounding, still not certain he was out of the line of fire. But it had to have come from above, from up the slope, so the gunman might be running through the trees right now, trying to set up for another shot on this side. Get down the embankment, into the brush down where you were last night. Go, go, don’t lay here, too risky, and felt the seconds clicking by. He glanced around for his phone, saw it not far away, and crawled to it. His gun was in the car.
Now he looked at the slope above and decided he’d go up there instead of across the road and down the steep slope. He slid out, scrambled up the embankment, keeping trees between himself and the upslope. He stayed low under brush and got his phone out.
“I’m out, I’m okay, but I don’t know where the shooter is. I’m on the slope east of the car.”
“We think he just left on a motorcycle. There’s a report of a man at high speed on a BMW bike racing into the basin. He passed a ranger going the other way. We’d called her for backup and she was on her way here. We’re trying to seal the basin. We’ve called everybody there is to call.”
Marquez assimilated what she’d just told him. A ranger had seen someone racing a motorcycle. That didn’t mean enough. He could be on the slope above still.
“Don’t come near here yet.”
“We’re going to get you out of there.”
“Do all these deputies know he shot at me?”
“Everyone knows.”
“Any chance they can get a helicopter?”
“They’re trying.”
She reported back ten minutes later. The motorcycle rider still hadn’t been accounted for, but county cruisers were at every access to the basin. He saw police vehicles, lights flashing, come up the access road. Marquez waited another half hour, then walked over and got in the Taurus. The engine was still running. He backed up and heard dirt fall off the front grill as he drove out, lights off, his heart still going too fast, talking to Shauf.
“There’s another report on the bike, not a BMW anymore.”
“What is it now?”
“Dirt bike. Possibly a Honda.”
“Sounds right, and he’ll go off-road.”
Marquez drove down to the highway, parked near the cruisers there, then inspected the bullet holes in his car, put his index finger through the hole in the driver’s door. That one hadn’t missed his head by much. All of the shots had been close and he saw it now, what was supposed to have happened, either getting picked off as he walked up to the pickup or after sliding the bag over his head, the shooter blowing his skull apart. When he’d turned around the shooter may have decided he was leaving.
Shauf pulled up and they searched the area above Weber Mill before dropping back down to the van. A county crime unit drove down Weber Mill and parked, two crime techs getting out, saying they had some confidence that if the suspect spent any time inside the van they’d find DNA or prints. But other than checking the outside handles and door frame for prints, nothing would happen out here. Only one usable print was found, that near the gas cap, and then the van was towed. In the passenger well was a black sack, the hood.
Twenty-two vehicles were stopped leaving the basin, none were allowed in. The county and the SOU checked each driver and searched well into the night, but the motorcycle rider was gone.