That, thought Peter, was a no-brainer. So he put the gray box on the desk.
Uncle Charlie opened it, took out the journal with great care, like a man who respected history, flipped through it, read here, grunted there, made a few comments, flipped to the end and read: “We bumped over the Rainbow Gulch water trench and came finally to the north rim of the ravine…” He flipped back as if he had missed something, then flipped again, almost frantically.
Then he looked up. “Where’s the ending?”
Peter said, “We think Spencer died before he transcribed it.”
Uncle Charlie slammed the book down and raised his hand to slam it again.
Peter said, “Ah … could you go easy on that? We hope to return it to its rightful owner. It’s very fragile.”
“Very fuckin’ worthless, too.” Uncle Charlie put the book back in the box and the briefcase back on the floor. “Hong Kong wants the ending. Cutler said the ending might have core sample results, so we know for sure if there’s gold under the vineyard.”
Peter looked at LJ and Mary. “How would Cutler know that?”
Mary said, “Speculation. It’s what he does.”
“If there’s gold there,” said Uncle Charlie, “we can still recoup our losses.”
“Manion Sturgis won’t sell,” said Evangeline.
“We’ll make him an offer like in the movies,” said Rice Balls.
Uncle Charlie fished out his pack of Lucky Strikes. Empty. So he went over to the card table, pulled a butt from the pack offered by Rice Balls, lit, took a long draw, told Peter, “You need to find that original. And fast, because now that Kou has cut loose, there’s no more time for watching and waiting. He sent L.A. muscle to kill Cutler in the apartment and found you instead … he hit Lum in gold country … he’s spilling lots of blood so he can be the new blood.”
Rice Balls said, “Not happenin’.”
“Right.” Uncle Charlie exhaled smoke through his nose. “Nothing in this briefcase incriminates me or my people. You get it if you find last section. Otherwise, appraise the library, then go back to Boston, all of you, because I can’t protect you.”
Peter looked at LJ.
LJ said, “Maybe that’s what we should do, Dad.”
“What?”
“Appraise the library. I didn’t look there. I’ve looked everywhere else.”
He said, “Do you think we can get into the library?”
LJ said, “Mr. Yung is—”
“Don’t trust Yung,” said Uncle Charlie. “He’s on Barber’s payroll. But he also takes Saturday off. Usually visits his big-time architect son in Palo Alto.”
“How do you know that?” asked LJ.
“I know many things. I also know the house is alarmed. Hard to get in.”
* * *
SO, THE FIRST PLACE to look for the key: Sarah Bliss, the executor. Peter called her.
She answered with: “Even if you allow me to see your caller ID, the answer is still no.”
“To what?”
“I just told you. I’m giving up nothing.”
“Just told me?” Peter looked at the others. “I didn’t call you—”
But she kept talking, “You aren’t getting to go through my things here. And you aren’t getting the key to Arbella House. You aren’t on our side.”
“Listen, Sarah,” said Peter, “I didn’t call you. Somebody is using my name. Don’t let anyone in. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t do anything until we get there.”
Peter clicked off. “Somebody’s after her notebook. Should we call the cops?”
“No cops, for fuck’s sake,” said Uncle Charlie.
“She’s in Sausalito, right?” said Rice Balls. “So we go rescue her. Go by boat.”
“Good idea,” said LJ, and he and Mary stood.
“You’re not going, either of you. Too dangerous.” Uncle Charlie pointed at Mary. “You’re my closest relative. And the next Charlie Chan generation comes from—”
“Wait,” said Peter. “Your name is Charlie Chan? Like in the movies?”
“You should be the detective here, not me,” said Wild Bill.
“Stop with the jokes. I’m out on a limb as it is,” said Charlie. “Nobody in Hong Kong knows that my future nephew is working for the FBI. Mary stays here. Your son stays with her. As soon as you get the rest of chapter seven, scan it and send it to me. I send it on to Hong Kong. And your son gets the briefcase. I’m good for my word. Right, Rice?”
“It’s why we been with you forever.”
“Then Barber and Kou go down for wire fraud, money laundering, SEC violations, and the Triad knows all there is to know about the lost river of gold. The young people can go live their lives so long as—” He looked at Mary and LJ.
“So long as what?” said Mary.
“So long as you name the first kid Charles Chan Fallon. Not Peter.”
LJ put an arm around Mary. “You have my word.”
* * *
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, A Grady-White Fisherman 257 rocketed across San Francisco Bay, with Peter, Evangeline, and Wild Bill Donnelly aboard and Rice Balls, whose real name was Hector Chan, at the helm.
He shouted over the roar of twin Yamaha 200s, “Sausalito is about three miles. We’ll be there in no time. A little bumpy but it beats the traffic all to hell.”
“Nice boat,” said Wild Bill.
“Won it on a dice roll. Good bulk, displacement hull to cut through the chop, fast as a Jet Ski…”
The Bay, thought Peter, remained one of the wonders of the natural world—just as James Spencer had written when the William Winter ran through the Golden Gate—no matter how it had been used and abused for a hundred and fifty years.
The boat bounced and the cold spray showered everyone.
“Sorry,” shouted Rice Balls, “but I need all the power I got with that current tryin’ to suck us out through the Golden Gate. Up inside Sausalito, it’ll smooth out nice. And there’s a twelve-foot channel right along the houseboat wharf, so we can get close.”
After a few minutes, they tucked under the north footing of the Golden Gate Bridge, all grand and orange above them, and made for Waldo Bay, dropping to “No Wake” speed when they came up on the channel marker.
Rice Balls said to Peter, “Do you want binoculars?”
“How close can you get?”
“As close as you want. This channel was dredged for the Liberty ships they built up in here.”
“Get close, then. Binoculars might be too obvious.” Peter grabbed a red ball cap with a San Francisco 49ers logo from the forward locker, pulled it low, and took off the sport coat he had been wearing since the day before.
Rice Balls cruised slowly ahead, about twelve feet from the decks of the houseboats. At low RPMs, the four-stroke engines quieted to a whisper.
“Keep up some chatter,” said Peter, “like we’re out on a sunset cruise.”
“I got a better idea,” said Rice Balls. “There’s cold Buds in the cooler. Grab a few.”
“Beer?” said Evangeline. “At a time like this?”
“It’s a fucking disguise, lady. Drink beer, look casual.”
Wild Bill flipped her one. She popped it, and the suds fountained out all over her. Rice and Wild Bill laughed like boaters having big fun. Perfect cover.
The slider was closed but the drapes were open aboard the Tree Hugger, and Peter knew right away that something was wrong. A big guy was standing over Brother Bliss’s wheelchair, holding the tube from the oxygen generator. Holding, releasing, holding, releasing. But that was all the view they had as the boat went past.
Peter said, “Black leather … could be one of the guys who chased us last night.”
“If they work for Kou,” said Rice Balls, “they shoot first and ask questions later, or they get their questions answered, then they shoot. But they always shoot.”
Wild Bill said to Rice Balls, “What are you carrying?”
“I got a Walther with a silencer and
a nine-millimeter.”
Wild Bill patted his holster. “I’ll stay with the cannon. The .44 will go through the glass.”
The plan: Peter would jump off on the dock, a hundred yards up the channel, then walk back and knock on the front door to distract the guys inside. Wild Bill and Rice Balls would go in shooting, right through the sliders … so long as Evangeline could drive the boat.
“I can handle a yacht,” she said. “I’ll put this little thing up against that sun deck like I was parking a Toyota Corolla.”
“All right,” said Peter. “When you hear me yell Sarah’s name, come fast.”
The boat swung and dropped Peter. Then he started back along the dock toward the Tree Hugger. A few people were out, working on their window boxes or sitting in the late-afternoon sun. Some nodded. A few gave this stranger the once-over.
Peter started whistling, as though he was part of the scenery, just moving to his own inner beat. But as he went, he was setting his speed to the Grady-White moving back down the channel, slowly, almost silently.
At the Tree Hugger, Peter stopped, took a deep breath, knocked on the door. No answer. Bad sign.
He tried the handle. Locked. Worse sign.
He lifted the welcome mat. The key was right where Sarah said it would be. He put it into the lock, turned, heard the door click open, and cried, “Hello! Sarah! Sarah Bliss! It’s Peter!” He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
And a guy in black leather pressed a pistol to his head. The other guy in black leather was standing over Brother B., who lay on the floor by the slider.
Sarah Bliss said, “Fallon! What the hell are you—”
And the whole houseboat shook with the impact of the Grady-White, knocking everyone off balance.
The guy by the slider turned his face right into a blast from the .44 Magnum that tore through the glass, then through his forehead, then threw him backward onto the deck.
Sarah screamed.
The guy covering Peter swung his pistol toward the slider, so Peter swung his hand, knocked the pistol loose, sent it skittering across the floor.
Then a switchblade popped and slashed at Peter, who jumped back.
And that was all the slashing he did …
… because Sarah Bliss grabbed the pistol from the floor and put two shots through the black leather. Then she pivoted as Wild Bill pulled at the slider.
“No!” cried Peter. “He’s one of us.”
She didn’t put the gun down.
“Don’t fuck with Sarah,” said Brother B., rising to his elbows. “She might be an old hippie broad, but she’s licensed to carry and—”
“Don’t fuck with my husband, either,” she said.
Peter looked at the two: black leather, both Asian. “These guys chased us last night. What were they after?”
Sarah Bliss said, “The journal. They didn’t believe me when I told them I didn’t have it.”
“So they were chokin’ me,” said Brother Bliss, “the motherfuckers.”
“Relax,” said Peter. “Make some tea.” Then he and Wild Bill helped Brother Bliss back into his wheelchair.
Sarah lowered the gun and said to Peter, “7-5-4-4-4-7.”
“What’s that?”
“The code for the burglar alarm once you’re in the foyer at Arbella House.”
“Is Notebook Seven there?”
“How in the hell should I know? But it makes sense to look.” She pulled two keys off her ring. “These will get you in the outer door, then the inner. Yung won’t be there. He—”
“—visits his son in Palo Alto?”
“You know a lot,” said Sarah. “So … once you’re in the foyer, it’s 9-9-9-7-1-9 to unlock the pocket doors on the library.”
Peter pulled out his phone and wrote those codes on the Notes page.
“Now scram,” said Sarah. “The cops are coming. And you, Mr. Peter Fallon, need to end this. I don’t give a damn who does what anymore. Whether there’s gold under that vineyard or not, this world has gone too crazy for me.”
On the boat, Rice Balls was leaning over the side, inspecting the hull where it had hit the dock. He was growling at Evangeline, “Like parking a Corolla?”
“It’ll buff out,” she said. “A little rubbing compound. Good as new.”
“Rubbing compound, my ass.” Rice Balls took the helm and said, “Hang on.”
Peter handed Evangeline a beer. “You’ve earned one. You did fine.”
She took a sip and gave it back to him. “You, too.”
He put his arm around her.
Wild Bill gave a shove off the dock, and Rice Balls said, “We’re out of here.”
* * *
IT WAS JUST AFTER dark when they turned onto California Street, which was always a Whole Foods traffic jam at dinner hour on a Saturday.
Rice Balls was driving a blue Nissan Rogue. He made one pass by the house and said he’d dropped them on the next pass, then park around the block, so as not to attract attention. On the second pass, they hopped out right in front of Arbella House, went through the gate, onto the porch, without anyone noticing.
One key and they were in the vestibule. Punch the code, then the second key, and they were in the foyer. They waited a moment, listened, then Peter called, “Mr. Yung!”
No answer.
“Uncle Charlie was right.” Peter turned to the library, punched in the code on the keypad beside the pocket doors, heard a pop, and the doors slid open, revealing the room where this had begun a few nights before.
The drapes were pulled. Peter flipped on the lights.
Wild Bill said, “Wow. Is that a Tiffany pendant lamp?”
“You have a good eye.” Evangeline pointed to the Bierstadt. “Recognize that?”
Wild Bill looked, went closer, and said, “That’s the view from my patio.”
“Spencer commissioned it, we think,” said Evangeline. “His first view of the Mother Lode.”
Their plan was simple. Go through every book and hope that no one came to interrupt them, although Michael Kou’s team was surely closing in.
Peter said, “Look first for leather bindings without title. Spencer wrote on folio’d foolscap, eight and a half by thirteen and a half. Look for taller items and skinny bindings because the notebooks aren’t more than sixty or seventy pages each.”
“And if it’s not here?” said Evangeline.
“We’re fucked. Or shot. Or arrested. Or all three.”
“I’ll take the first,” she whispered.
And they dug in.
Before long, Peter was reminded of something he had heard when he was searching for a Shakespeare manuscript in the Harvard library: “A man will be known by his books.”
James Spencer still lived in his library, and he showed himself to be a man of breadth, depth, erudition, and patriotism. But they were not stopping to appraise or admire. They were looking quickly, not even reshelving. And after forty-five minutes … nothing.
That was when Wild Bill found a section of books marked with Chinese characters, down near the floor. “There are a couple of skinny ones over here, but—”
Peter knelt and pulled one: a children’s book in Chinese, illustrated. Then two or three thicker volumes. Then, at the very end, something long and skinny … the right size, the right vintage, but … an empty notebook. Peter sat back. “For a minute there, I thought we had it.”
And a voice behind them said, “You don’t.”
John Yung was standing in the doorway. As on the day that he first guided them into the library, he wore his white jacket, smoothed his black hair straight back, and offered a presence so preternaturally composed as to appear either disconnected from reality or in complete command of it. Given the cannon he held at his hip, it could go either way.
Wild Bill looked at Yung, then at the gun. “What the hell is that?”
Peter counted seven barrels. “It’s a Nock gun. Named after the inventor. Load it with buckshot, and you can sweep the deck of
a wooden ship in a battle or knock down a dozen mutineers with a single pull of the trigger. Very rare.”
“I can sweep this room, too,” said Mr. Yung.
“That gun is ancient,” said Peter. “It could blow up in your face.”
“You’ll hit the rare books,” said Evangeline, “the Tiffany, the Bierstadt. Think of the mess you’ll make.”
Yung looked at the books on the floor. “You’ve already made a start on that. Glad I stayed home today, or you might have torn the house apart.”
“We’d never do that,” said Peter. “But what would Maryanne Rogers say if—”
“She’d be happy, if we could bring an end to this madness.”
“Madness?” Peter sensed that Mr. Yung was hiding something.
“Mr. Barber calling her, bothering her, even telling her he loved her.”
“Loved her? Barber?” said Evangeline. “He’s about fifty. She was—”
“Seventy-six.” Yung lowered the Nock gun.
Wild Bill let out a deep breath, “Not the first May–December romance.”
Peter chalked up another reason to dislike Johnson “Jack” Barber.
“How do you know what he told her?” Evangeline stepped closer.
Mr. Yung gestured to the console telephone in the corner. “Intercom to the kitchen. Once the height of high-tech.”
“Still a good eavesdropper if you leave the switch on,” said Wild Bill.
“I heard Barber say, ‘If you love me, sign the new will.’ He had brought George Sturgis to witness. She always trusted George more than Manion.”
“Most people do,” said Evangeline.
Yung nodded. “So she signed. But as Mr. Manion said, undue influence.”
“Why didn’t you speak up?” asked Peter.
“Barber saw the hit-and-run. He was waiting in front of the restaurant. He said it looked like I pushed her. But he said if I kept his secrets, he would keep mine.”
“What were his secrets?” asked Peter.
“He did not specify. He only wanted me to keep my mouth shut.”
“But you didn’t push her?” said Wild Bill.
“My people have worked for the Spencers since Mickey Chang. Why would I push her? Besides, I know things no one else does.”
Bound for Gold--A Peter Fallon Novel of the California Gold Rush Page 59
