My leg hit the man on his shin. He was braced and ready, and the blow had no apparent effect. He had pulled his weapon back as if preparing to throw a spear.

  When someone is trying to spear you, you can only hope to deflect the spear and get out of the way.

  I had my vest on, but he’d already seen that his spear needle wouldn’t easily go through it. Maybe the needle that hit the vest had broken off. But the one that stabbed my arm was still good. And if he aimed away from the vest, he could put that needle into my neck or head. If it went into my skull through the natural openings - eye, ear, nose - the air pressure would blow my head apart. For all I knew, a needle could be stabbed through the skull bone. I had to keep him from stabbing me with the good needle, and I only had one good arm.

  For a moment, we stood facing each other, feinting and bobbing like boxers. “Despite the MFA and the top art school, you’re still just a thug looking for a score,” I said. “But hiring your old foster brothers to beat up people is so crude and cheap. I would have thought you were above that.”

  Manfred was dodging, making short stabbing motions with his air dagger. “Carlos and Jeff saved my life. Those women tried to beat me to death. I owe my brothers everything. When I sell the treasure, they’ll get half the money.”

  “What treasure?” I said. I parried and thrust and jumped forward and back. “It’s a fiction, maestro. Brand has that fiction. A little book in a jar. Call him. He’ll tell you.”

  Ivan Manfred jerked as if he’d been slapped.

  His distraction was my best chance. With as much speed as possible, I shot my left hand up into the air to his right side. I turned my head that direction at the same time to make him look that way.

  Then I dropped to the ground, rolling hard toward him. I hit his legs, locked my good left arm around them, and he went down backward. He didn’t flail much, which showed impressive control. He knew how to land with a rolling motion.

  But I hung on to his legs so that he couldn’t do much to cushion the blow to his butt and back. More important, for the moment, he was unable to stab me.

  I shifted my grip on his legs so that I could get my arm around his ankle as I rolled onto his knee. I rolled him just enough, then jerked on the ankle, putting sideways pressure on the knee. Knees only bend one way well. I put serious effort into bending his a different way.

  He screamed.

  In spite of his pain, he stabbed again with his spear. It hit my hip, the needle missing my flesh. A jet-plane hiss of compressed air rushed out.

  As fast as I could possibly move, I let go of his knee and reached my functioning left arm out and over the spear, the way I had with Flyboy’s arm in the jail cell. I clamped my arm down hard and rolled. As I went over my inflated right tricep, it felt like I had an explosion of fire in my arm.

  But Ivan’s spear came with me.

  Ivan kicked out with his good leg. He hit me square in the center of my back, knocking the wind out of me.

  I kept rolling, trying to suck air into my lungs. The spear came to a stop as its air hose drew tight. I jerked on it, trying to rip it free. The hose wouldn’t come loose. But the air tank, a metal container about the size of a liter bottle of soda, flew out of Ivan’s duffel bag onto the sand.

  Ivan kicked at my head and my inflated arm with his good leg. My head throbbed with pain. I rolled farther. Jumped to my feet. I held the compressed-air spear. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see straight. But I had the weapon in my left hand. The pipe had a grip on it, some kind of handle. Attached to the grip was a lever. I couldn’t see it in the dark. If felt like the lever on a fire extinguisher. But with my right arm going numb, I couldn’t hold the weapon and also pull the lever with one hand.

  Ivan struggled to get to his feet. He held his bad knee with both hands. He moaned with pain.

  In the distance beyond him, I saw Mallory hustling across the sand.

  “Don’t move,” I said. “Don’t move an inch, and you’ll be okay. The cops are here.”

  Ivan pushed off from his good leg, and lunged toward me. I was still holding the spear. But it was dark. The blow knocked me down onto the sand. Ivan fell on me with rage. He grabbed for my neck. His hand hit the air lever. Maybe he thought the inflation needle had stabbed me. Instead, he apparently pierced himself with the needle. He gave the air lever a long squeeze, not realizing until it was too late, that he’d just filled himself with air.

  Ivan screamed again, this time a strangled gargle. He fell over onto his side, his belly swollen like a beach ball.

  I fell upon him, put my knee against his back, and used my good hand to jerk one of his arms behind him, hard enough to dislocate the shoulder socket. But he wasn’t screaming with arm pain. It was his insides being crushed by the beach ball of air in his gut.

  “McKenna!” Mallory’s voice cut through the air. “You okay?”

  I felt his hands on me.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I was trying to see out onto the black water. The sound of the motorboat was receding.

  I grabbed Ivan’s other hand and held it while Mallory put on cuffs.

  Ivan continued to howl like a baby. I didn’t know how much air had gone into his gut. But it was certainly enough to cause severe pain, and it would probably kill him fast.

  Mallory toed the inflated, writhing body on the sand.

  “Ivan Manfred, the Ink Maestro. You’re the killer? You lying piece of scum.”

  I turned toward the water, trying to see the lights of the motorboat. “Ivan lunged onto me,” I said absently. “He thought he was stabbing me with his compressed air weapon. Then he pulled the trigger. But he actually stuck himself with his own weapon and then filled himself with air.”

  “Fell on his sword and killed himself,” Mallory continued.

  “How dead he gets depends on how fast we get him to the hospital.”

  Mallory spoke into his radio, requesting an ambulance.

  When he clicked off the radio, I pointed out at the black lake. “That motor boat sound is Ivan’s fellow thug on a stolen boat. Brand Morse. He’s got Street and Mae O’Sullivan with him.” My eyes stung as I said it.

  “No, he doesn’t,” came a voice from the water. I turned fast.

  Street and Mae were walking out of the black water. In the dim illumination from distant lights, I could see that they were still zip-tied arm-in-arm. The leashes Brand had held now draped down behind them, down into the water. They shivered violently.

  I ran into the water. Held them both with my one good arm.

  “He slipped in the boat and dropped the leashes so he could catch himself,” Street said. “Then Mae shouted, ‘May the devil drown!’ I realized immediately what she meant. So we grabbed each other and jumped off the speeding boat.”

  The women leaned against each other, crying.

  “Mallory,” I said, “their collars have ratchets. We need a bolt cutter immediately.”

  I carefully lifted up the leashes and handed them to Street and Mae. “Make certain no one pulls on it.”

  Mallory got on his radio and shouted more orders.

  In a minute, an officer ran up with a bolt cutter. He cut the collars and the zip ties that bound their hands.

  Mallory had his shoe on Ivan as if to prevent him from slithering away. “So Ivan the Scum, here, had help from another guy who stole the motorboat.”

  “Yeah. He’s carrying what he thinks is the treasure. Possibly he was planning to come back and pick up Ivan. But I doubt it.”

  Another officer ran up with blankets. I used my one arm to help wrap Street and Mae. I could feel them shake.

  “We need to get Street and Mae into a warm car as soon as possible.”

  “We’ve got several up on the road by the park.”

  I spoke to Street and Mae. “Can you two walk with me?”

  “To heat?” Street said, her teeth chattering. “I’d walk into the fire of the sun if I could.”

  I walked Street and Mae up the sand, holding onto them, moving carefully.

  Mallory came along. “Was Brand part of this plan all along?”

  “I think so. The first victim, Colin Callahan rented a room from him down in Citrus Heights. Colin was living there when he got some old letters that hinted of treasure. I think Brand - AKA Jay Brandon Morse - set the whole scheme in motion, putting Colin in touch with Ivan, who gave Colin his tattoo and, during the process, learned all he could about the treasure and where it might be. Brand had another renter, Jacky Wormack, who was also part of the operation. When Brand and Ivan had gotten whatever information Colin and Jacky had, they killed them both to increase their share of the take.”

  “What about the guys who tried to beat you up at Cave Rock and Street’s place?”

  “I’m guessing that the Bosstro brothers were just as advertised, dumb enforcers, eager to beat on people for money. And happy to work for Ivan, their foster brother.”

  EPILOGUE

  Two days later, Ivan Manfred died from his self-inflicted air wound. Brand had been intercepted by Placer County deputies in Tahoe City. He and the Bosstro brothers were all charged and held without bail. My arm, which had been relieved of its air by Doc Lee, was no longer on fire, and I was getting the feeling back in my hand.

  Most important, Street and Mae were okay physically. Their mental state was dicier. When you believe you are going to die by being dropped with a weight into the blackness of Lake Tahoe at night and then aren’t, it leaves you with lots of issues that psychologists have names for. But Street and Mae had spent most of those two days together, Blondie at their side, talking, processing, eating, trying to get their sense of humor back. Street had even stayed overnight on Mae’s couch.

  Much of that time, they’d spent at Daniel’s house. They found that his perspective on life was as valuable as one might think. After 90-plus years’ experience, he had a lot of wisdom to share.

  Meanwhile, Spot and I had spent two long evenings with Diamond, eating chips and salsa and drinking beer. During the intervening day, we’d gone over to Daniel’s and had a little party with him and Street and Mae. Daniel invited Spot and Blondie in as well.

  We filled Daniel’s house wall-to-wall, five adults and two dogs. Daniel turned his jazz standards up high, and we even did a little dancing. Mae coaxed Daniel up out of his rocker, and we moved the furniture aside. Then Daniel wowed us all doing the Lindy Hop, the dance he’d learned as a child from his precious sister Nora.

  As we left, Daniel said it was the best time he could remember since Nora was alive. He removed his aviators and wiped his eyes, then gave each of us a hug.

  At 6:30 a.m. the next morning, my phone rang. I picked it up and said, “Hello?”

  “Owen, this is Mae.”

  I was groggy, still on my first cup of coffee, barely awake enough to perceive that she was upset.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Daniel died in his sleep last night.”

  I called Street, picked her up fifteen minutes later, and we went to Daniel’s house, where Mae filled us in.

  The evening before, after we’d all left the party, Mae had made dinner for Daniel. He hadn’t eaten much. Then he said he didn’t feel very well, and he went to bed, where he did a little leather work.

  In the morning, she’d checked before dawn because she knew he was an early riser. His body was long cold.

  Following Daniel’s instructions, she called his doctor. Daniel had told her that should she ever find him dead, she shouldn’t call 911. He wanted her to be spared the stress of dealing with paramedics and their flashing emergency lights.

  Following Daniel’s instructions, Mae had also called Daniel’s lawyer and left a voicemail.

  Street and Diamond and I were with Mae when Daniel’s doctor arrived. He went into Daniel’s bedroom and came back out in a couple of minutes. In a soft and comforting voice, he explained to us that he’d been monitoring a femoral aneurysm that he had fully expected would be Daniel’s cause of death. He said Daniel knew about it and refused to consider the surgery that would possibly give him another year, a difficult surgery that also might kill him on the operating table. The doctor said that Daniel’s end was peaceful and from natural causes. The doctor said he would take the necessary steps to expedite the paperwork, and he notified the funeral home to pick up the body. After he answered Mae’s questions, he left. We sat with Daniel until the funeral home vehicle arrived. Mae stood up and combed Daniel’s hair. Two workers wearing white coats with embroidered funeral home patches came in and took Daniel’s body away.

  We three were still in Daniel’s living room, sitting in front of the new window that Ed Filusch had installed, when a silver Mercedes pulled up and a man got out.

  “This must be the lawyer,” Mae said. She made a little shake of her head. “I know this shouldn’t be a surprise, but I never visualized that this would actually happen.” As she shook her head, I noticed that the red abrasion marks on her neck had darkened toward purple.

  Mae answered the door.

  “Good morning. I’m Percy Rodriguez, Daniel Callahan’s lawyer. I understand he has passed. I’m very sorry.” He turned toward Mae and Street. “Would either of you be Mae O’Sullivan?”

  Mae nodded. Then she introduced us, her voice soft. “These are Daniel’s friends. Street Casey and Owen McKenna and Diamond Martinez.”

  We shook hands all around.

  “I’ve handled Mr. Callahan’s legal affairs, so I know that you agreed to be his executor.”

  Mae nodded.

  “Based on my recommendation, Mr. Callahan kept the will here at his house. Did he tell you the location?”

  “No,” Mae said. Her voice seemed weaker still.

  “Ah.” Rodriguez nodded. “When I asked him to let me know the location, he said it was in his desk, in a folder labeled ‘Landscaping Quotes.’ Because you are a party to the will, it might be useful to have me go over it with you.”

  Mae nodded again.

  The lawyer looked at the rest of us. He turned back to Mae. “This is a personal affair. Perhaps you’d like privacy.”

  Mae seemed to find some internal strength. “I’d like my friends to stay.”

  Percy Rodriguez made a small nod. “As you wish. Shall we see if you can find the folder labeled Landscaping Quotes?”

  Mae turned and walked into Daniel’s bedroom. Percy Rodriguez followed close behind. The rest of us waited in the living room. Diamond stood at the window, staring out toward the vacant lot from which we believed Jacky Wormack had fired the shot that broke the window.

  Soon, Mae and Rodriguez came back. They sat next to each other on the living room couch that we’d earlier taken apart to find the burner phone when Jacky Wormack was tormenting Daniel.

  Rodriguez opened Daniel’s file folder and removed a black paper binder and flipped through a number of pages.

  “I’m just checking to see that this is as I remember. It is. I can report from memory. Mae, this will be a relatively easy job for you as executor because Mr. Callahan left everything to you.”

  I saw Mae bite her lower lip.

  Rodriguez continued. “He mentioned the real estate, this house and the house next door, which I understand you rent from him. He also mentioned two bank accounts with small dollar amounts and a brokerage account that handles about twenty thousand in mutual funds.”

  Rodriguez paused.

  I said, “I think Mae will also be wondering about personal effects. Furniture, collectibles, things like that.”

  “The will explicitly states that everything that Daniel owned goes to you, Mae, from accounts to personal mementos. Because the real estate is old, you will likely spend substantial amounts of money bringing things up to modern code if you want to sell at market prices. But if you plan carefully, you should be able to more than recoup expenses. Two houses, however small, add up.”

  During the lawyer’s comments, Street sat at Mae’s side, close, as if to hold her up should Mae falter.

  After the lawyer left, I turned to Mae.

  “You have a lot to adjust to,” I said. “If there is anything we can do to help, let us know.”

  She nodded. We all stood and moved to the door.

  Mae reached over to the coat rack and lifted off a large braided loop of Daniel’s forest-green leather. “This triquetra is for Spot. When Daniel went to bed last night, he finished it as he lay in bed. It was the last thing he did. He handed it to me and said, ‘Spot saved my life. The least I can do is make him a good-luck triquetra.’”

  When I got home, I spent a little time doing some research on Inverted Jenny stamps and the art of stamp investing. I learned that the sudden appearance of multiple Inverted Jennys would probably do exactly as Daniel predicted and drop the price they would fetch by 75% or more. Which meant that twenty inverted Jennys might only fetch 2 or 3 million dollars. A very nice parting gift from an old man to his neighbor and best friend.

  The next day, I called Mae and gave her the information I’d learned.

  Three days later, we gathered at Daniel’s favorite place, Emerald Bay. We arrived at the Vikingsholm castle parking lot an hour before dawn, the only way to beat the summer tourist crush. Mae had explained that from the first time Daniel had visited Emerald Bay as a young boy, he loved the calm of the bay’s waters, the roar of Eagle Falls, and the softness of the beach sand. Many times after that first boyhood visit, he’d asked to be taken there on his birthday, to witness dawn among the rocks and trees and water.

  We gathered at the top of the trail, Diamond included. Even Ed Filusch, the silent carpenter, had asked Mae if he could attend, and she agreed.

  Mae had asked me if Spot had some kind of a dog backpack. So I strapped on Spot’s hiking pack that we used for his dog food.

 

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