They were about to head back to Tahoe after having attended funeral services for a friend of the Thorp family. The service was at the old, white church that stood stiff as a constipated Puritan on a hill north of the ancient gold mining town of Jackson. The graveyard, with headstones in jagged rows like rotting teeth, held many bodies from battles a long time ago. It was dry and hot under the relentless sun, the hills burnished with the color of overcooked tortillas. After the funeral, they’d paid a quick visit to the ancestral Thorp estate, where his mother still lived, just off historic Gold Route 49—down from Thorp Lumber and Mining, a massive complex of corrugated-roofed buildings, mountains of logs receiving a mist spray to keep them moist in the summer heat. “It’s our boy,” Rouse said, looking at the screen as he drove his Mercedes SL500 into the foothills. “Damnit, I don’t like this. Jesus, it’s like the wild west.” “He’s cleaning up the mess,” Thorp said.
