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  “They’re not even prescription.”

  “Shit,” Yorke said. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  Dale pushed his sunglasses back up. “Another whack-job.”

  As Dale bent over to help the man up, the man screamed out to the onlookers, laughing as he did it. “I am Jonathan Fair! I’m Jonathan Fair!”

  Chapter Two

  They were in the darkness. A void.

  Felix and John were the same height. But that’s where the similarities ended.

  Felix had curly, sandy-colored hair. Blue eyes, precise and contemplative. His face was lean, and he wore a smart mustache. John had a fuller face that was encapsulated by a mass of thick, shaggy, reddish-brown hair with long bangs. He wore glasses with square lenses.

  “I’m taking control again, Jonathan. And this time you cannot join me. I am truly sorry.”

  John’s voice wavered with uncertainty as he replied. “Why are you doing this, Felix? I helped you.”

  “And I thank you for that. But I anticipate that you will interfere with what I must do.”

  There was a pause as John examined their surroundings. “Where are the others?”

  Felix didn’t reply.

  “Where are they?” John said, panic in his tone.

  “The others are fine. See for yourself.”

  There was an indication from Felix, and then John sensed them, in the distance. They were unresponsive.

  John yelled out to them. “Walter! Rebecca! Andy!”

  No reply. They were lifeless. Three ambiguous, still forms.

  “What have you done, Felix?”

  “I assure you, they are perfectly fine. They are asleep.” He paused. “And so are you.”

  John yelled out, tried to stop it.

  But then he was asleep.

  Chapter Three

  Dale loved San Francisco’s weather.

  Perfect temperatures. Perfect humidity. Just the right amount of sunshine.

  He and Yorke were walking to the San Francisco Hall of Justice. They were a block away, and as they rounded a corner, there was a park on the opposite side of the road. Near the fence, some girls were skipping rope. They shouted out a rhyme, and their skipping matched the cadence of the words. It was the same rhyme that Dale had been reading in the newspaper article just before the car crash.

  Where, oh where is Jonathan Fair?

  Everybody’s looking. Vanished into thin air.

  Someone’s gonna kill him, maybe even on a dare.

  Where, oh where is Jonathan Fair?

  The whole country and much of the world had become engrossed in the escape and disappearance of Jonathan Fair, a member of San Francisco’s infamous Irish crime family. The city had developed a task force, and the Federal Marshals were called in to track down Jonathan Fair and the other missing individuals.

  While Dale’s work at the Bureau of Esoteric Investigation kept him in the shadows, a high-profile case like this meant that he was directly in the spotlight, which further meant that he had to be disguised, both in name and appearance. The thick, fake beard on his face was itchy, and in the afternoon sun, it was starting to get hot. He scratched at the edge of it, where it blended into his face.

  Yorke smacked his hand. “Stop picking at it. You’re going to knock it loose again.”

  She had a point. Though Dale’s BEI associate who had crafted the disguise—Marty Rhodes, or Arty Marty, as Dale liked to call him—had improved his adhesive quality as of late, the beard hadn’t held up to Dale’s constant scratching and had come loose twice already in the two days he’d been working with Yorke.

  Dale looked at the hand that Yorke had smacked and opened his mouth wide with theatrical shock.

  “You know, Yorke, that was unrequested touch. I would turn you in for sexual-harassment, but then I’d just be a hypocrite … given what we have together.”

  He pumped his eyebrows a couple times.

  Yorke rolled her eyes.

  It was an ongoing gag between them. Shortly after meeting her, Dale had pulled out the charm and given her a dinner offer, but Yorke quickly returned with a resounding No. But whereas many women, Dale had found, seemed to somehow take personal offense when a man they weren’t interested in expressed interest in them, Yorke had turned it into a game—a game of teasing Dale and trying to knock down his masculinity a notch or two.

  It was fun.

  “Are you kidding me, Conley?” she said. “I could break you across my knee and toss your two halves over that fence, skinny man.”

  Dale wasn’t at all sure where she was getting “skinny” from. He was muscular and proportioned. He supposed one could possibly describe him as “lean,” but he certainly wasn’t skinny. Yorke knew that Dale was a fitness nut, so her blatantly labeling him as small was another playful jab in this game they’d been playing. In that way, she was one of the guys—disparaging something another guy held sacred, taunting him, teasing him to let him know you liked him.

  But she was right that she could probably break him in two. In addition to her robust yet curvaceous legs—which a half hour prior Dale couldn’t help but admire, even in the midst of the foot chase—she had toned arms and slightly wide shoulders. She was powerfully built. Not huge; just powerful. She had freckles on her arms and a few on her face. Her eyes were blue. Her hair was blonde and as short as she could keep it while still being able to tie it back in a short tail.

  Today she wore a white polo shirt and gray slacks. Dale was in a T-shirt and 501s, the latter of which seemed more than appropriate in San Francisco, the home of Levi’s jeans.

  Yorke groaned suddenly. “I can’t believe I screwed up again.”

  Dale glanced at the sidewalk behind them. “Did you step in dog poop?”

  “It was my lead we followed. My false lead. We chased down the wrong guy.”

  “It happens, Yorke.”

  She shook her head. “This assignment is my chance to prove myself again. After what happened last year, everyone thinks I’m a screwup. They even brought you in to babysit me.”

  “I was brought in for my expertise in history, not to babysit. Though, if you need some moral support, I give really good, really long hugs. I won’t be pervy about it at all. Scout’s honor.”

  Yorke shot him a look.

  Dale decided he should be a little less irreverent. “The whole world’s trying to catch Jonathan Fair. I can’t imagine a better way for you to rebuild your name than by capturing him. Do you think he did it?”

  “His original crime? Robbing the bank?”

  Dale nodded.

  “Of course I do. They caught him on camera.”

  “What I mean is, what do you think really happened? Do you think Jonathan did it? Or do you think Felix did it? The man has multiple personality disorder.”

  “I don’t give a damn what really happened. I’ve been tasked as a deputy U.S. marshal to catch him. That’s all I need to know. Reality isn’t always the most important thing.”

  Dale’s reaction to her statement was so flabbergasted that the words sputtered out of his mouth. “How… I… Reality isn’t the most important thing? How can you say that? I’m a historian. History is about finding the truth. The reality. Reality is always most important.”

  “Not to my job. All I need to know is that he broke out, and I gotta bring him back. That’s my reality.”

  The Hall of Justice was ahead of them, a massive, gray building. Squared-off, blocky. Seven floors in height, consuming an entire block with a line of trees along its boundary. Flags hung above the rectangular, glass-filled openings of the building’s entrance, and a set of steps led up to the doors. The complex housed the San Francisco County Jail, the police, the Sheriff’s department, and the DA’s office. Cops liked to call it “850 Bryant”—from its street address—or simply “the Hall.”

  Though it was a large building, its gray color, monolithic construction, and out-of-the-way location might make it easy to overlook on a normal day, Dale figured. But this had
n’t been the case since Dale had arrived in San Francisco a couple days earlier—not with the circus surrounding Jonathan Fair.

  There was a crowd gathered outside, on the steps. Members of the media and fanatics who had latched onto the hysteria. People wearing Beatles wigs and square glasses. The catchphrase Where, Oh Where Is Jonathan Fair? was written on cardboard signs and printed on T-shirts. There were other messages too. Fair Lives, a play on the Frodo Lives phenomenon from the ’60s. And The Second Alcatraz, the name the newspapers had given to Jonathan Fair’s escape.

  As Dale and Yorke got closer, the media recognized them and rushed over. A woman with a microphone in her hand stepped up to Yorke.

  “Deputy Marshal Yorke, we understand that you just had a Jonathan Fair sighting. Is that correct?”

  Yorke shouldered past her as she and Dale made their way through the crowd and up the cement steps toward the doors.

  “False alarm,” Yorke said.

  A man, also clenching a microphone, turned to Dale. “And Mr. Melbourne, did you have any part in the chase?”

  Yorke tried to cut Dale off before he could answer. “Tim Melbourne wasn’t able to—”

  “Timmy done good,” Dale said in a dull and slightly quick voice. “Timmy done real good.”

  Yorke scowled at Dale as they pushed through the doors and left the crowd behind.

  Dale and Yorke hurried to keep up with U.S. Marshal Eliseo Delacruz as they rushed down the hallway toward the Marshal’s latest meeting. They dodged cops and lawyers left and right. There was a busy sense of frenetic energy surging through the whole building.

  “And yet you still chased after him,” Delacruz said.

  He was in his fifties, decent shape, just a hint of a middle-aged punch hanging over his belt. His hair was starting to reach a salt-and-pepper state, and his mustache had already gotten there. His eyes were dark and keen, and his skin was bronze with distinguished lines and some scarring—acne, maybe, or chickenpox—that somehow looked quite dignified on him.

  He was the Federal Marshal for the Northern District of California, and while his attitude toward Yorke had been slightly exasperated, Dale had noticed, it wasn’t out of resentment. It seemed to Dale that Delacruz was trying to shield Yorke. From what, Dale wasn’t sure.

  Yorke replied quickly, defensively as she sidestepped a uniformed officer coming at her from the opposite direction. “We had no clue it wasn’t Fair until we apprehended him. He had on the glasses. And a wig.”

  “A wig,” Delacruz said and shook his head. He looked away.

  Dale spoke up. “Sir, Yorke’s right. The guy was a dead ringer. Same height, same build.”

  They stopped at the office where Delacruz was to have his meeting. Other people in business suits were entering the room.

  Delacruz looked at Yorke. “This is your first fugitive assignment since your incident, Yorke. I don’t think you’re ready. But there’s not much I can say since the DA personally requested you. When Beau Lawton speaks, San Francisco listens.” He took in a long breath. “Be sure to link up with SFPD. They have some more questions for you about the crazy.”

  He turned and entered the office.

  Dale felt awkward standing there with Yorke. It was that same awkwardness you feel when you’ve seen a child scolded by her parents. He glanced over at her. She avoided eye contact.

  There was a coffee machine on a table a couple feet away. Dale inched toward it, thankful for a distraction.

  “Well,” Yorke said. “At least Beau Lawton still has faith in me.”

  Chapter Four

  Felix Lyons stepped off the sidewalk and quickly jumped back, almost getting sideswiped by a speeding carriage. There had been so many carriages hurtling through town at breakneck speeds lately. And, worse yet, the new horseless carriages. Death on wheels, as Felix called them.

  The city’s nerves were still rattled, Felix reasoned, in the aftermath of the earthquake. Though life was returning to normal in San Francisco, the people moving about the streets had a dazed look in their eyes. Everything was wrong. And not just the crumbling buildings. There was something in the air. As if the damage was going to linger there forever.

  When the coast was clear, Felix crossed the street.

  He tipped his hat at an elderly lady, stuck his hands in his pockets, and tried to be as nonchalant as possible as he gazed at the bank a few storefronts down. It was one of Abe Ruef’s banks, and Felix’s new acquaintance, Mr. Jones, had helped him locate it.

  Ruef. And his corruption. The earthquake had taken so very much from the city. Ruef made it worse. And threatened to erase the disaster’s true impact from history.

  Felix wasn’t going to let that happen.

  It was still broad daylight. Lunchtime. He would come back tonight.

  And rob Ruef’s bank. Make a statement.

  Ruef wasn’t going to silence those people forever. Not if Felix could do anything about it.

  Chapter Five

  His name was El Vacío.

  The Shadow.

  Not his birth name, of course. That one was neither important nor regarded.

  The new name had come to him via reputation, and it was all he needed. He’d even developed an intriguing symbol from the initials. One swift flourish of the hand. Down, up, side to side.

  The waves were gentle. As best he could tell, it was some time around ten in the morning. The sun was starting to get warmer, giving just the slightest feeling of discomfort to his bare legs and chest, and he could feel the bridge of his nose begin to sweat slightly under his sunglasses. The canvas of the beach chair was dried out after years in the sun, and the equally sun-kissed wooden frame creaked as he adjusted his weight.

  In front of him, the Pacific was deserted but for a lone freight ship far out toward the horizon, leaving the port in Tumaco. On either side of him was visible the thick Colombian jungle that surrounded his property. When he wasn’t working, he enjoyed an isolated existence. But he kept civilization nearby. His work required it. He was a few kilometers south of Tumaco—its airport and resources a short distance away. If he needed more, Pasto—a city twice as large as Tumaco—was farther to the east. He was close to the Ecuadorian border, making it easy for him to leave the country and disappear into international anonymity. Once in Ecuador, he was only a short distance from a major metropolis, Quito. He had a stratified hierarchy of cities that he could utilize.

  Tumaco, Pasto, Quito.

  Big, bigger, biggest.

  He rested his arm on the small table beside him. His fingers were wrapped around a Mexican beer, and his forearm lay on a large, unopened envelope stamped AIR MAIL that the courier boy had delivered. It had sat there for a while. He was in no hurry to open it, even if the sender had rushed the package to him. The beer bottle was cold against his palm, and the lime slice still sat in the top of the neck, waiting.

  With his other hand he pinched at his scar. An idle habit of his. The scar was on the left side of his neck. Four inches long and an inch across. Large, but he was still able to hide it with makeup. Alternatively, it was low enough that a big collar could conceal most of it.

  Otherwise his entire visage was perfectly nondescript. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he certainly wasn’t ugly. In addition to the scar on his neck, his face had an overall patina of wear-and-tear from years in his line of work—sleeping in vehicles in below-zero conditions, squinting in the desert sun, absorbing fists and boards and broken beer bottles. His body was wrought with hard, tight muscle. Yet he wasn’t bulky. Put him in a suit or a T-shirt and jeans, throw him into a crowd on a city street, and you’d never see him.

  His complexion was slightly olive, eyes brown, and hair a dark but not too dark brown. He could pass as Iberian. Or Italian. Or Balkan. And yet with the right clothes, the right demeanor, he’d blend in just as easily in Britain. Romania. Estonia. Bulgaria. People saw in him what they wanted. He was a blank canvas for their projections.

  Which worked out perfectly
for El Vacío.

  He thumbed the lime into the bottle. The beer hissed out a few bubbles, and he took a swig, letting it slowly slide down his throat. He set the bottle down and finally gave his attention to the large envelope. He grabbed a shell fragment from the sand and slid it under the envelope’s fold, tore along the edge, then took out the contents. A small stack of papers. On top was a large black-and-white photo. A surveillance picture.

  A man in his late twenties. Shaggy hair. Square glasses. It was Jonathan Fair of the Irish crime family in San Francisco.

  Well, now. This was certainly going to be interesting.

  Chapter Six

  “‘Go with Beau,’” Dale said, reading from a framed image that hung in the office. It was a red-white-and-blue political campaign sign, the kind that’s stuck in front yards and stapled to telephone poles.

  San Francisco District Attorney Beau Lawton stood beside his mahogany desk, which was covered with folders, books, stacks of paper. There was a collection of diplomas and certificates hanging on the wall to the left of the desk, and on the other side were shelves full of legal texts. Flanking the desk was a pair of flags—one U.S. and one California.

  Lawton had the dashing looks of a Golden Age Hollywood leading man—Cary Grant with bigger hair, streaked gray in the temples and sideburns. Though he was highly polished and smelled of cologne and mouth wash, Dale got the sense that the man was a tenacious worker. His suit pants were dark brown with flared legs. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie loosened, arms crossed.

  Lawton stepped over to the framed sign, smiled fondly. “Yeah, I came up with that one myself. My campaign’s PR guys went for it, surprisingly enough.” He straightened the frame. “A little ironic now.”