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  As Felix stole a glance over the top edge of the upturned table, he saw the strange handgun again. When the man had fired the first three shots upon him, missing, Felix had seen that the gun was squarish in shape with a shaft of metal on the top that slid back with each shot, ejecting cartridges. There was no cylinder evident on the gun.

  And the strangest part of it all was that before the man began to fire, Felix could have sworn he had first seen the gun as a regular revolver, its round cylinder visible on either side. Once the man fired the first shots—fast, quicker than Felix had ever seen anyone shoot—it was as though the gun changed in his hand.

  Nothing seems right, does it?

  Felix quickly glanced to the side. He’d heard a voice. It was the same voice that had yelled at him in the bank.

  Another shot roared, its sound blasting over the droning of the alarm. Felix covered his ears. Then footsteps. The saloonkeeper was moving toward him.

  There was another billiards table in front of Felix, and he darted for it. Just as he scrambled behind the leg, he glanced back and saw the saloonkeeper taking aim with the square gun.

  On instinct, Felix rolled.

  Three more shots.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  They struck the floorboards beside Felix, the final shot landing only inches from him. Splinters sprayed his hand, stung his skin.

  Felix had been counting. The man had fired seven times thus far. The revolver held seven shots. And had no cylinder. How very odd.

  Felix glanced back. The saloonkeeper was panting. He looked at his gun. The sliding, rectangular section on top was stuck back, exposing a couple inches of round barrel out of the front.

  “Shit!” the man said and threw the gun to the floor with a heavy thud.

  It must have jammed.

  The man darted to the bar at the front of the room. His large stomach jostled, and the floorboards squeaked beneath his girth.

  This gave Felix a chance. He clenched the sack tightly in his hand and bolted for the door. As he ran, he heard the voice again.

  This isn’t right.

  There was no mistaking it now. The voice had come from his own head. Felix’s earlier estimation had been correct. His mind had been compromised by the stress of his mission. Once again, he feared he was slipping into mania.

  The door was in front of him. His escape. He clenched the sack of money tighter. He would have to abandon his plan of leaving his next message to Ruef. For now. He would come back at a later time.

  Just as he was nearly to the door, his path was intercepted. The saloonkeeper darted in front of him. In his hands was the item he had retrieved from the bar—a large, rounded piece of wood. He came toward Felix rapidly, a dark glint in his eyes.

  Felix backed away. There were small, round poker tables in the front area of the saloon, and Felix positioned himself such that one of those tables was between the two of them.

  The saloonkeeper charged at him, pulling the rounded shaft of wood behind his head, poised to swing it violently. Felix recognized the item now. It was a baseball bat, like those used by the San Francisco Seals. Like so many elements of San Francisco, the team has been affected by the earthquake. Their home—Recreation Park—had been destroyed. They were finishing their season in Oakland.

  The saloonkeeper looked Felix square in the eye. The man’s face was seething rage, and Felix could not say that he blamed him. After all, Felix was holding a sack full of the man’s money that he had nicked from the office space in the back, and one of the man’s billiards tables was now destroyed.

  “I’ll be famous,” the man said. “The guy who caught Jonathan Fair. They’ll give me a key to the city.”

  Jonathan Fair. The name sounded familiar to Felix, but he did not know why. He also could not comprehend why the man had so quickly assigned this false identity to him.

  The man swung the bat, and Felix jumped back, feeling the breeze as the heavy end flew past his chest. The saloonkeeper tried to come around the table at him. Felix kept moving, keeping the table between them.

  “Alfonsi told us,” the saloonkeeper shouted over the alarm. “Told us all that you might be coming.”

  Another strange name bandied so casually by man. Alfonsi. Felix had never known any Italians, let alone one by the name of Alfonsi.

  He was of half a mind to ask the saloonkeeper about the name, but then the man struck again. He pulled the bat behind his head and swung it down in a big arch. Felix jumped back, and the bat struck the table with a loud crash.

  When the man pulled the bat back again, this pause gave Felix the time he needed. He lifted one leg in the air and smashed his foot down on the edge of the table. This sent the opposite side of the table flying up, and it caught the saloonkeeper under the jaw. A sickening crack and a spurt of blood, and then the man collapsed.

  Felix felt something. His hands were shaking. He cautiously glanced around the table. The saloonkeeper lay in a mess on the floor. Chest moving. Unconscious but still alive.

  Felix could leave his message to Ruef after all. He went to the bar, retrieved his paint can and brush, and wrote his message.

  One last glance at the saloonkeeper then he left.

  Outside, the horseless carriage was waiting on him. It was a relief to have escaped the terrible alarm, but now the ringing in his ears sounded nearly as loud. The morning air was still a bit cool, and the city was beginning to come alive. People, horses, carriages. Felix opened the carriage door, entered, and without hesitation Jones quickly propelled the machine forward with surprising velocity.

  “Well?” Jones said.

  “It is done,” Felix said and raised the sack. “But I must say, Jones, that I am questioning your judgment on this. A man nearly killed me, and I cannot be certain that this was even one of Ruef’s corrupt establishments.”

  “There are going to be some close calls. We have to be prepared for it. And this place is definitely a front operation for Alfonsi… err, Ruef.”

  Felix turned in his seat. “There! There is that name again. Alfonsi. The saloonkeeper said it as well. Who is Alfonsi?”

  “No one. Just … no one important.”

  Felix evaluated the gentleman beside him. Something about his response did not sit well with him. Felix’s mission was the most important moment of his life, the crown jewel of his achievements, his legacy that would have a lasting, positive impact on humanity. And Jones had said that he could help. But as Felix looked at him now, he realized how little he knew about the man.

  He was even difficult to see. Not only did Jones rarely look him in the eye—which Felix found quite perplexing—but it was as though Felix simply could not register what the man looked like. His face was so plain that it was like an empty notepad onto which Felix’s mind refused to scribble in the details.

  Mania. It had to be. Felix was losing hold of his own constitution.

  “What is your name, Mr. Jones?”

  Jones looked over at him for a moment before turning his attention back to the street before them. “Come again?”

  “‘Come again,’” Felix repeated. “You see? What does that turn of phrase mean? So many odd things you say and do. Expressions that make no sense. A mysterious identity. I want to know your name, Mr. Jones. Your full name.”

  “Fine. It’s Tom. Tom Jones.” He snickered as he said it. “But my name’s not important. What’s important is that I’m here to help you, and together we’ll expose Abe Ruef’s cover-up.”

  Felix continued to assess the man beside him. He did not believe that his name was Tom. Not after he snickered.

  And Felix was starting to wonder if Jones really intended to help with the mission.

  Chapter Fourteen

  El Vacío strode through San Francisco International Airport, clutching the handles of his single piece of luggage. In his other hand was his walking cane. It tapped on the flooring.

  He needed to exit as quickly as possible, but he was keeping a casual pace. Nothing to draw attent
ion. His career and his life depended upon anonymity, and airports were one of the least conducive locations. All the people. And the security. Including cameras. He wore sunglasses to shade his eyes and a turtleneck to hide the scar on his neck.

  Chances were, though, he’d already been seen. Not by a retired cop getting his minimum wage to frivol away life’s golden years for the sake of boredom-killing but rather by a spotter from one of the two families who ran this city: the Alfonsis and the Fairs.

  El Vacío had seen the man, watching him from a coffee shop, trying to be nonchalant as he ate a bagel and looked at a magazine.

  El Vacío knew that the Jonathan Fair job was going to be a challenge with the worldwide attention it had drawn. He hadn’t been on the ground for five minutes yet—and the fun was already beginning.

  A few minutes later, and El Vacío was on the road. A rental car. A Cordoba. By the time he was on 101, he had already spotted two cars trailing him. A Ford and a Fiat. His presence was already known in the city—both of them would have called in from the airport. El Vacío would need to make a statement. But, which one to kill?

  Decisions, decisions.

  Sadly enough, though, he knew the choice wasn’t going to be his. The winner would be the one who chose to take the bait he would provide. There was no chance that both of them would. They wouldn’t cross each other. It would be a test of wills.

  El Vacío exited the highway, entering a small community within South San Francisco. A couple freeway gas stations. Some businesses, three- and four-story buildings.

  He looked to the rearview. The Ford came down the exit ramp. A few cars back, the Fiat followed.

  El Vacío cruised along for a moment—then he gunned it. He would give them the impression that they were on the hunt.

  Another check of the rearview. The Ford was following. The Fiat slowed and turned off, diplomatically yielding.

  The Irish, then.

  The stoplight ahead turned yellow, and the car in front of El Vacío began to brake. He jabbed the Cordoba’s horn and flew around the car and through the light. There was the blaring of other car horns behind him. The Ford had run the red light. And it was coming right after him.

  El Vacío smashed the accelerator. He saw an opening ahead, an alley. He pulled hard to the left and into the alley.

  It terminated at the back side of another building. But there was another alley to his right, a small slice of daylight between two brick buildings. He pulled the steering wheel again. The tires squealed, and the rear bumper clipped the wall with a crunch that sent out a burst of sparks.

  He threw the gear selector into reverse, kept his foot on the brake, and watched the rearview mirror. Waited.

  The Ford slowly crept by, noticing him just as it passed his side alley.

  Too late.

  El Vacío smashed the gas pedal, and the Cordoba roared backward, smashing into the Ford. He braced for the impact, tightening his whole body, stiffening his neck against whiplash.

  When the force had finished shivering through his body, the Ford lay parallel to the driver side of his car. The Cordoba spanned the alley, blocking it off.

  One quick breath to clear his thoughts. He looked at his walking cane, sitting on the passenger seat. He considered it for half a second, then decided against it. He wasn’t going to need that weapon. Not with these buffoons. He’d improvise. He took the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car.

  He walked to the rear of the car. The already banged-up bumper was now completely smashed. The rear quarter panels were damaged as well.

  Good thing he bought that extra coverage.

  There was noise from the other car. Both the driver and passenger side doors opened. The driver hopped out, face red with anger, but clearly trying to restrain himself—he knew who he was facing. The man in the passenger side was slower to get out. He grimaced in pain and clutched his right shoulder. Both of them were large, hulking. Stupid looking. Wearing suits that were dated and tacky.

  El Vacío unlocked the trunk, popped it open. Now it was time to make a statement.

  The thugs sensed what he was doing.

  “Hey, now,” the driver said, looking at his associate and putting up a mediating hand. “We just want to talk.”

  El Vacío reached into the trunk.

  The other two looked at each other again. Frightened. They pulled revolvers from their overcoats.

  And El Vacío grabbed the Cordoba’s tire iron.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sun hid in the clouds, peeking out here and there. The sky was pale gray but streaked with bright blue, tinges of gold.

  Dale had the windows down as he drove along the Pacific coast on the Great Highway in Outer Sunset. He was headed south toward Britta Eaton’s home, and he was driving Arancia, his magnificent De Tomaso Pantera—a ravenous, hungry, Italian sports car. His perfect machine. His faithful companion. Though Dale usually liked to drive her with a zestful, high-speed passion—and Arancia sure seemed to like it that way as well—they were enjoying a nice, semi-relaxed drive as the slightly cool, slightly moist ocean air swam through the cabin. Dale’s assignment in San Francisco was frenetic and time-sensitive, so he was going to have little time to sleep, let alone relax. But he was only a mile away from Britta Eaton’s address, and he was running early. He could afford a couple minutes to slow down before plunging back into the madness.

  The breeze felt great, flowing through his hair and between the buttons of his shirt. Though he labeled himself a T-shirt-and-jeans guy, Dale wasn’t adverse to mixing it up every now and then, and today he wore a light brown, button-up shirt with a faint paisley pattern. It was lightweight and comfy, and it seemed appropriate to his current environs.

  While Dale had never been much of a big city person, this first visit of his to San Fran was certainly giving him the warm-fuzzies. New Orleans was a favorite city of Dale’s, and he’d often paraphrased the famous Tony Bennett song about San Francisco, saying that he’d left a small bit of his heart in the Big Easy. Now, having been to the City by the Bay, he knew that, just like Tony, he’d be leaving a piece of his heart behind here as well.

  Because this was a really cool place.

  Arancia fit right in, too. There was something very California about his orange, Italian, thoroughbred beast, and as they drove down the Great Highway, Dale pictured what she must look like from the outside, zipping along the coast. For a moment, his mind’s eye was an aerial camera, watching himself and Arancia, his elbow hanging out the window, as they smoothly traced the Pacific.

  A bit later, Dale pulled up at Britta Eaton’s home. It was a bright blue, two-story house with an entrance and garage door on the ground floor and windows above, styled much like the other houses along the highway. And, like the other houses, it was built directly touching its neighbors, one continuous line of house broken up by the occasional street.

  When he went in, his eyes immediately absorbed a general sense of disarray. In terms of dirt and grime, it wasn’t the filthiest place he’d ever been, but it was certainly one of the most disorganized. Somewhere beneath all the piles must have been a couple tables and some furniture, and the rolling chair in which Britta was seated faced a mound of chaos in which there was most likely a desk. All around Dale were stacks of boxes and folders and a tennis racket and a guitar and a tire and some dried flowers. A cat had greeted him at the door, and after he had stroked its head, it disappeared behind a filing cabinet. Every now and then Dale saw its little face poking out from its secret tunnels in the clutter.

  Britta had requested that Dale call her by her first name. She was in her sixties. Dark gray, curly hair. Wild, alive eyes and a twinkling, almost anxious smile. Roundish figure. An overall cherub-like appearance. She looked a bit like Santa Claus’ wife, had she been coerced into an antacid-pink sweatshirt and a pair of faded jeans.

  She handed Dale a mug of tea. On the side of the mug was, Provo, Utah. Great American Mac & Cheese Cook-Off, 1966. How perfectly
eclectic. Dale had just met her, but he already recognized that the quirky mug fit Britta’s personalities to a T. Dynamic personalities were like that—they announced themselves fully and without a damn thing to hide.

  Britta took another sip from her own mug—this one with an image of a jack-o’-lantern—and she looked over the photos Dale had given her, the crime scene photos of the two messages that Felix had left. She set the photos on top of an open binder of baseball cards on the footstool in front of her.

  “He’s right,” she said. “478 was a lie”

  “How’s that?” Dale said.

  “The number sounds a little low, doesn’t it? Only 478 people dead from a catastrophic earthquake in one of the nation’s biggest cities? Try 3,000.”

  Dale almost couldn’t respond. “Wait… Did you say three thousand?”

  Britta nodded. “Makes a lot better sense, doesn’t it?”

  Dale’s head was spinning. Clearly inaccuracies were corrected in history all the time. But how could the numbers be that disparate?

  “How did you figure this out?”

  Britta turned her chair around and faced the desk mound, turned back around with a cardboard box brimming with copy papers.

  “By every means possible. Listings in newspapers, state histories. Death records, voting records, military records, church records, tax records. I reached out to historical societies and genealogical groups all across the country, tried to find people who had gaps in their family histories.”

  “And you blew 478 completely out of the water.”

  “It was never 478 to begin with. Early on there were 378 bodies in the morgue, so the medical examiner just added a hundred to that number to make the total sound more believable. And that became the official count.”

  “You gotta be kidding me...”

  “There wasn’t even a list of the dead.”

  Dale reached out and grabbed the photos of Felix’s messages. He looked at the message from the first crime that Felix had committed before the break out.