Parker Strip Ii: River of Blood

By Jeff Osterhage

Hot. Wet. Wild. If this erotic thriller had a mood gauge, it’d read ‘redline scorch’ and the mercury just keeps soaring as this torrid summer mind-bender scrapes nerves raw and hormones ragged.
It’s peak vacation season on the beautiful, fifteen-mile stretch of the warm Colorado River, better known as Parker Strip, where short-tempered sheriff JIMMY WITCHITAW suddenly wakes up with a mysteriously brutal homicide on his hands. Unfortunately his only leads are a bloody, four-way trail of morbid retribution splayed out by...
...vengeful crime boss NICK SARVINO...
...loose-cannon FBI agent RICHARD CANAVERAL...
...the beautiful, lust-filled mob lawyer CLARITY CARLYSLE...
...and a viscous pack of heavily-armed tribal ‘ghostriders’
known as
THE HELLHAWK FREEDOM FIGHTERS...
...all of whom drive this normally peaceful resort town into a twisted labyrinth of high-voltage vengeance, power-driven greed and brain-scorching seduction.
Inspired by true events, Parker Strip is an explosive, thought-provoking confrontation of ultimate human deception on the level of “Body Heat”, “L.A. Confidential” and “Two Days In The Valley”.
KIRKUS REVIEWS
“Osterhage excels at making the various storylines fall into step...”
“An endlessly diverting crime story featuring a wide array of characters and subplots.”
“...thoroughly detailed...” “...wonderful interplay...”
“...shocking turns.”
“...continually teases an inevitable confrontation before delivering a blistering coda.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665574853

Jeff Osterhage

Jeff Osterhage is an actor best known for his starring roles in the Louis L’Amour classic western films “The Sacketts” and “The Shadow Riders”. He also starred in the films “South Of Reno”, “Taken By Force” and Edgar Allan Poe’s “Masque Of The Red Death” among many others...plus he played the lead role in the Universal Studios series “The New Dragnet” for 52 episodes. He’s been submitted to The Academy Of Television Arts And Sciences for an Emmy nomination and is honored in both the Oklahoma City Cowboy Hall Of Fame and the Gene Autry Western Heritage Museum for his many performances. He’s the author of a dozen screenplays and is an accomplished drummer, sculpture and painter published in “Actors As Artists”.

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© 2022 Jeff Osterhage. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/03/2023

ISBN: 978-1-6655-7486-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-7485-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022920460

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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About The Author

Thanks to

my dear sweet Gloria, whose patience, support and

unwavering encouragement helped me pursue my dream.

And thanks to Captain Ray Edey, whose valuable input

added to the process, but most importantly for introducing me

to the beautiful Parker Strip vacation spot in the first place.

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Pier Monreal Charlevoix...aka ‘The Facilitator’. Freelances for any solicitor that meets his price, with a list of felonies a mile long...kidnappings, assassinations. No comprehensives yet, but his disposal method is ‘copycat 101’. Doc laid another photo on the desk in front of Witchitaw along with a copy of the rap sheet he was referencing, while Deputy Cooper studied an evidence bag containing the arrow that had been removed from Fallbrook’s chest.

Studies the notorious bad guys in any given area, Doc continued, and replicates their methods to misdirect blame. In this case, the Sonoran Mafia.

Both Witchitaw and Cooper were amazed that all the photos were of Pier, considering the fact that none of them looked anywhere close to being similar. Each one showed the assassin in various states of disguise; camouflage, cross-identity, black hair, red hair, short, long, moustaches, beards, glasses, hats, eyepatches - all a glaring exemplification of well-honed, cloak-and-dagger technique.

And all this came from Interpol? Witchitaw confirmed.

Not more than forty minutes ago. Doc explained. The bureau’s first check on the cigar print came up clean, until I had em run it past International. Apparently the French Interior Ministry’s been on this guy’s heels for years, like a dog on a bone, cause as soon as they found out I made the submission they petitioned to have a DST envoy sent over with all the paperwork in order.

A what? Cooper chimed in.

French F.B.I. They’re flyin into Quantico Monday morning on a standby contingency, ready to extradite our friend as soon as we lay our hands on him.

Yeah well, they can have the bastard as soon as we’re through with him.

Guy must be a real piece a work, Cooper added.

Yeah, get this. Doc laid a second document in front of Witchitaw. Two thousand nine, Montauban, France. A pair of local politicians were apparently tangled in a not-so-friendly, not-so-legal bureaucratic battle for tax revenues generated from a small village. This rat was hired by the underdog to take out the competition, make it look like an inside job by the victim’s own party.

Doc laid another sheet in front of Witchitaw. Two thousand six, two drug cartels fighting for control of a small cocaine market in the Touraine Province. A third cartel stepped in and wanted a piece of the action so they hired our friend to start a feud between one and two. Both wound up cuttin each others’ heads off, allowing number three to coast straight into the catbird seat.

Doc laid several more sheets in front of Witchitaw. Crap they think he’s linked to here in the states. New Mexico two thousand ten. A mob-backed real estate deal ended up with the seller laying in a ditch, compliments of the buyer...or so the authorities believed, until they found out our boy was the trigger man hired by a surrogate. Another document. A gang massacre on an itinerate ‘hooch’ ranch in Arizona just last year, compliments of Mr. Charlevoix. The list doesn’t stop.

So how are they so sure it’s all his dirty work?

Hey, even the best misdirection can only go so far, especially when international gets involved...and guess who’s startin out way ahead of the game.

Good work, Doc.

Yeah, tell that to the people who pay my salary.

So, the Yukes are off the hook on this one, Cooper announced, holding up the arrow.

Got Yuke colors all over it, Doc explained, but it ain’t Yuke pigment.

Sure looks like it to me.

Sonoran Mafia uses modern, composite shafts, but old-school fletch...Elderberry, Bloodroot, tree bark...anything organic just to maintain tradition. That shit, Doc said, pointing to the arrow, is straight from the local hardware store, uh... he pulled a slip of paper from the folder, ...Sherwin Williams exterior enamel, batch number sixteen.

Friggin Picasso, Cooper added, staring closer at the feathers.

So, Witchitaw summarized, looking back at the photos, this guy studies the area, analyzes situations, familiarizes himself with current events, then throws blame on whoever’s flashin the best motive at the time.

Anything that diverts attention away from the party that hires him.

And with all the crap flyin between Fallbrook and the Yukes over the years...

Who better?

Sure as hell had us fooled. Of course, Cooper was right, but Witchitaw didn’t need to hear it and shot his young deputy a look of scorn. Cooper shrugged. Hey, I’m just sayin...at least now we know we’re not lookin for Indians.

And if this guy’s the pro they say he is, Witchitaw conjectured, we won’t be lookin for him either.

Gotta be long gone, huh?

Yeah, but if his track record’s any indication of motive... Doc interupted, holding up Pier’s background documents, ...he was hired by somebody local.

So who else around here besides the Yukes wanted Fallbrook outa the picture?

Out in the lobby, Ginny Lynn quietly continued entering data into her computer, but the front door suddenly flew open and Federal Indian agent Richard Canaveral came barreling straight past her desk, directly for Witchitaw’s office.

Excuse me, sir, she said, jumping to her feet, You can’t...

Canaveral was too fast. He bolted straight inside and dropped an envelope on the desk directly under Witchitaw’s nose. A little gift from Washington, he announced, with flames shooting from his nostrils. We call it Protection Order Twenty-four-thirty-two...but you might know it as ‘Cease And Desist’. It says you come within five hundred feet of Yukepam Territory you’ll be spending the night in one of your own cell blocks restin up for your trip back east, where I’ll personally jerk yer ass up in front of a Federal Magistrate to fill him in on what you did to that poor Indian kid eight years ago.

What’re you talkin about?

Listen hard, sheriff...you need to stay away from those people...and that’s a Federal order. Canaveral made his point extremely clear, then turned and headed back out from where he had come.

The office was silent, but only for a second, because if there was one thing Witchitaw couldn’t stand, was somebody with a bad temper, especially when it was aimed in his direction. Hey! He shouted, jumping up from his chair, heading straight out the door. I’m talkin to you, mister!

Doc and Cooper exchanged an ominous glance, then followed.

Hey! Witchitaw shouted, stopping Canaveral by the front exit.

The agent wasted no time turning and locking eyes hard with Witchitaw, pissed as hell. The Xanax/Mescal combo was still swirling around his system, but this time he wasn’t mimicking anyone famous. It was pure anger.

Regrettably Witchitaw was angrier, but he was able to keep a lid while he kept his eyes riveted. Ginny, honey, did you ever get a hold of Washington like I asked?

Yes sir.

This guy who he says he is?

He’s for real, Jimmy.

Good. That means he probably carries a government issue firearm...which means he probably knows how to shoot. The question is, does he know how to shoot fast. Witchitaw loosened the hammer strap on his Colt and stood ready to slap leather, just like a scene out of the old west.

The move seemed so ridiculous to Canaveral, he couldn’t help grin. Yer jokin, right?

One... Witchitaw began, without the slightest hint of humor.

He’s jokin, isn’t he? Canaveral asked Ginny Lynn.

Cooper and Doc knew full well Witchitaw wasn’t screwing around. They knew whenever he took a stance like that, hell wasn’t half-a-mile away. Jimmy...

Shut up, Cooper. Two...

The smile disappeared from Canaveral’s face. It was obvious the sheriff had every intention to draw, just to prove he could do it. The problem was would he actually pull the trigger. You’re psycho, man.

Three! Witchitaw snapped out his Colt and everybody’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t fire, but the hammer was back ready to discharge. Bang, he quietly announced, you lose.

Canaveral stood frozen, as Witchitaw stepped forward and slowly raised the weapon into his face. Now you listen hard, you redskin lovin cocksucker. I don’t give a rat’s ass if the Vatican sent ya. Next time you come bargin in my place of business, scarin my secretary...I’ll blow yer fuckin brains clean through that window. He gently planted the barrel onto Canaveral’s forehead. "Have I made myself clear?"

Canaveral stared at the gun a second, then his eyes glazed over. His lids began to quiver, just like back at Tin Horn Flats. Psychotic meltdown was approaching fast and there was nothing he could do. For the third time that day the sight of a weapon was making him go places he didn’t want to go. Panic was inching its way into his subconscious and he couldn’t stop it. His eyes rolled back into his head and he started to blink.

Doc, Cooper and Ginny Lynn all remained silent at how strange the agent appeared. Even Witchitaw felt a twinge of sorrow for the poor guy. There must be something wrong with him, he thought, something medical, like an epileptic seizure, or a grand mal convulsion of some sort. He slowly uncocked his Colt and lowered it, but only a few inches, keeping it leveled at Canaveral’s chest. Little did he know that the guy was on the edge of complete, mental collapse.

Canaveral looked up at the ceiling to avoid the inevitable, but there it was; the blurry image of the demon methodically coming straight toward him with the machete; sinister, threatening...and the more he blinked the clearer it became.

Witchitaw even glanced up at the ceiling to see what he was looking at, but the image remained only to Canaveral, as he continued to come unglued right there in front of everybody. His lids pounded harder; confused, disorientated, lost in horror.

Then suddenly, and without warning, the blinking stopped and he snapped down a glare at Witchitaw that registered more than simple fear; more like deranged lunacy, as if total anarchy was about to burst from within. He no longer cared about the restraining order, or the Yukes, or the others in the lobby with him. It was all about the weapon in front. Get that barrel out of my sight, soldier, he growled in an ominous tone that echoed from the bowels of insanity. Now! he screamed, with a shriek so hard it sent chills through the entire room.

What the fuck, Witchitaw said to himself. He’d seen plenty of anger before, but this was different. This guy was...

Whap!...Canaveral grabbed Witchitaw’s wrist, struck him under the jaw, snapped down his arm, spun him around in a hardened, martial arts, militia-type maneuver and slammed him to the floor, face first...and before anybody could react, he grabbed the Colt, jammed it into the back of Witchitaw’s neck and cocked the hammer.

Cooper quickly pulled his service revolver and leveled. Drop the weapon, mister!

Stand down, deputy! Canaveral demanded in military lingo.

I said drop the weapon! Cooper repeated.

Holster your side arm, soldier, and stand down! That’s an order! Yeah it was military lingo all right, but why military lingo? Canaveral looked more like a computer analyst at a software convention.

Witchitaw tried to break loose, but Canaveral held him firm and his efforts were futile. His only defense were words. Yer a dead man, mister, I hope ya know that.

Not here...not today. Canaveral jerked Witchitaw to his feet, locked him off in a chokehold from behind and jammed the Colt under his chin. Witchitaw slammed his fist down on Canaveral’s arm, but Canaveral squeezed harder.

Cooper’s finger tightened on the trigger. Drop the godamn weapon, mister!

Listen up, deputy, Canaveral instructed in a more rational voice, as if his physical actions alone had somehow dragged him back into reality. Your sheriff’s under investigation for obstruction of justice. Now if you don’t wanna come along for the ride, I suggest you lower your sidearm.

Don’t do it, Coop! Witchitaw commanded. Keep yer gun on him!

The nervous, but loyal Cooper didn’t budge. He took a step to the side, but still didn’t have a clear shot. Doc! He tossed his revolver to the medical examiner, then pulled a can of pepper spray from his belt. Let the sheriff go, mister, or I blast both of ya.

Doc reluctantly leveled Cooper’s revolver at Canaveral and slowly circled around to the side, but Canaveral jerked the Colt in his direction, forcing him to halt. Doc was frozen, but kept the gun leveled with a shaky hand, while Ginny Lynn remained numb with fear behind her desk.

Cooper took a step closer, so Canaveral snapped the Colt back at him. Witchitaw struggled one more time, but Canaveral was strong as an ox and Witchitaw was stuck. Unfortunately so was Canaveral, as his eyes darted between the revolver on the right and the pepper spray on the left, trying to figure a way out. Nerves raced. Hearts pounded. The entire lobby remained gripped in stalemate.

Finally a solution. Canaveral leveled the Colt back at Doc, then violently kicked Witchitaw’s knee out from under him, dropping him back to the floor. He snapped out his own Smith and Wesson and leveled it at Cooper, keeping both adversaries at bay...then slowly began backing for the exit.

Witchitaw struggled to get to his feet, but his leg felt like it’d been slammed by a mule and his shoulder was wrenched practically out of the socket.

Canaveral continued his slow retreat, while Cooper advanced toward him. Even the scared Doc stepped closer. Canaveral finally got to the door, kicked it open and carefully backed out. Your gun’ll be waitin for ya outside, he announced. He made sure the door shut in front of him, then he took off down the sidewalk.

Cooper started to go after him, but Witchitaw grabbed his arm. Not now, Coop...not now. Witchitaw was ready to kill, but was hobbled too bad to do anything about it. Besides, he knew chasing the guy would only mean a public street melee outside, and he was already hurt and embarrassed enough. Instead, he slowly walked to the door, pushed it open and stepped out.

Canaveral was already a block down the sidewalk removing the bullets from Witchitaw’s Colt, tossing them into the street as he went. He got to his car, looked back at Witchitaw, then laid the gun on top of a garbage-filled trash can, as if to respectfully show Witchitaw where it could be found. He climbed into his car, fired up the engine and pulled away.

Witchitaw’s temper soared, as Cooper and Doc stepped out next to him.

You okay? Doc asked, checking his shoulder.

Witchitaw jerked his arm away. Cooper?

Yes, sir.

You get a look at that license plate?

I can go after him right now if ya want.

Just wanna know where I can find him.

Yes, sir. Cooper headed back inside the station, as Witchitaw began the long march down the sidewalk to retrieve his gun. He was livid. Not only had the Indian agent made a complete shambles of the sheriff’s department, but he had dumped Witchitaw’s pride and joy - the custom made Peacemaker that was a gift from his former boss - into a trash container, right out in the open, for the whole town to witness. And on top of everything else, Witchitaw’s knee was racked so bad he couldn’t help limp. How fucking humiliating.

He got to the garbage can, picked up his Colt and glared down the street, jaw clenched, venom shooting from his eyes, relishing the thought of what he would do next time he came face-to-face with the son of a bitch. He holstered the gun and slowly made his way back toward the station, about as disgraced as he could possibly feel.

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Billy took one last drink of beer, as he watched the dealer total the healthy stack of chips sitting on the blackjack table in front of him. As drugged-up and intoxicated as he was, he had actually done pretty damn well at the tables the past couple hours, and to make him feel even more victorious, he had the gloating peace-of-mind knowing he had taken it from the same bastards who had whacked off his thumb. The dealer finished counting, then slid several hundred-dollar chips in their place, along with a couple fifties and twenties.

Billy scooped them up and attempted to shove them into his pocket. Ah, damn it, he yelped, accidently smacking his wounded hand on the rail. That fuckin hurt. He’d been at the blackjack table for so long the first doses of painkillers were beginning to wear thin, at least as far as his thumb was concerned. His body, however, said differently, which became evident when he climbed off the stool and his legs nearly buckled out from under him. Whoa, he said to the other gamblers, that’s gnarly, dude.

None of them could take their eyes off the disgusting sight of the blood-crusted gauze, as he tossed the dealer a fifty-chip and smiled at the each of them. Hasta la vista, my friends, he saluted, then he turned and managed to cut a wobbly path across the floor all the way to the corner drinking fountain.

Yeah, he had done just fine at the tables and all he had to do now was cash it all in and add it to the money Pier had paid him to I.D. Fallbrook, then he’d be on his way, to start operations on his new narcotics endeavor. First, however, he had to take care of the pain.

He bent down and took a long gulp, then calmly leaned against the wall and pulled out the bottle of Percocet, to begin the arduous task of getting the lid off with his teeth. Once again, he was having a hard time, but while he struggled, he scanned the room, making sure no other bastards were around to do him any harm. He checked the hallway behind, and the blackjack tables in front, specifically the one where he’d just won. He waved to the dealer. Then his eyes settled curiously on the table next to it, on one lone gambler, who, more than any other, really looked like he didn’t belong. A nervous, distracted, scared man; everything a gambler should not be if he wanted to walk away a winner.

It was Chester Buckner, and he was looking the worse for wear, pulling out the last of the crumpled bills from his pocket to exchange for more chips. The dealer took it all; the whole thirty dollars. Even she couldn’t help feel sorry for the rookie simpleton. She buried the bills in the money slot and laid six, five-dollar chips in front. Chester immediately stacked three of them onto the betting line, then anxiously took a slug of the cheap, watered-down Seagram’s he’d been nursing the past half-hour; the complimentary cocktails offered to anyone who kept a ‘blood-letting I.V.’ stuck in their wallet, he joked to himself, to ease the pain for being such a loser.

Chester usually didn’t drink hard liquor, but he was on a slippery slope and sliding fast, and the more he lost, the more he drank.

As soon as he had left the campgrounds, he had motored his way straight to the Bluewater, without stopping at the store or anyplace else he had told Helen he was going. He knew Ricky was in good hands and would deal with all the purchases on his way back upriver. Right now he had to take care of business; to do what he had come to do, to help his son the best way he knew how.

Unfortunately it wasn’t working. He’d already lost eighty-five dollars from his hidden, hard-earned factory stash and was in desperate need for a win, at least something to put him back to where he had been before he walked through the fucking door. He was the only gambler at this particular table, so it was a showdown between him and the dealer; his last stand, his final hurrah. She dealt a down card to each, the next two face up; a ten to Chester, an ace to herself. Son of a bitch, he moaned to himself, this was the worst possible card the dealer could’ve gotten.

Sorry, she politely said. Insurance?

Needless to say, Chester wasn’t much of a card counter, but he could’ve sworn all the aces had already been played. Damn it, damn it, damn it, he scolded himself. He checked his bottom card. It was also a ten. His mood suddenly changed. His gut told him he had a winner. His intuition told him his opponent had an eight, or maybe a nine at most, and then it would, at worst, be a push. He ever so slightly shook his head ‘no’ to the insurance offer, then boldly set the last three chips next to the others. I’d like to, uh...

Double down?

No, no, uh...

Split?

Yeah, that’s it. Split.

"Need to flip your