Mr. Steele reached for his gun. But the other man raised a pistol and fired once. Mr. Steele’s head snapped back and he dropped onto the sidewalk. The shooter shoved the pistol into his windbreaker and kept going up the hill. Hector Chang, aka Rice Balls, disappeared onto Pacific Heights.
And the flashing blues arrived.
* * *
JAMES SPENCER’S LIBRARY BECAME an interview room with Detectives Immerman and Nauseda interrogating two young toughs in hoodies, caught on ladders outside the house, along with Peter Fallon, Evangeline Carrington, and former detective William “Wild Bill” Donnelly.
Immerman looked at Peter and said, “So this is where you’re working?”
“With the permission of the family, yes. We’re appraising the books.”
“That was the story they told me the other night,” offered Detective Nauseda.
Immerman said, “Somebody called us, said we might have trouble here. They said these boys may have wacked Wonton Willie, and if we look around out in the shrubs, we might even find their getaway vehicles, a pair of folding Dahon bikes. Do you know anything about that, Mr. Fallon?”
“It’s a long story,” said Wild Bill.
“I have all night,” said Darcy Immerman.
Peter figured that once the pages had gone to Hong Kong, Rice Balls had been given the okay and called in the SFPD “cavalry.”
Darcy Immerman said, “I always liked Wonton Willie, even if he was a lot of trouble. A real character. But too much character will get you killed.”
“Too much mercy won’t,” said Peter.
Detective Immerman gave him a look. She didn’t get it. But some people did.
Detective Nauseda got a text, then said to the guys in hoodies, “Who knows Michael Kou?”
“No talkin’ till we get a lawyer,” said one of them.
“Well, don’t count on Kou to get one for you. Somebody just whacked him.”
“Gang wars,” said Detective Immerman. “I hate gang wars.”
Peter recognized one of these kids now. He had been the accidental photobomb, that first day on the cable car. So Michael Kou had been following them from the start.
Then came more commotion at the door, and in walked a redheaded woman in a blue pantsuit, followed by an Asian guy wearing an FBI windbreaker.
Darcy Immerman said, “Who the hell are you?”
Evangeline whispered to Peter, “Your girlfriend from the Mark Hopkins lobby.”
“And other places.”
“Along with the guy who was watching us in the restaurant the other night,” Evangeline added.
“And other places,” Peter repeated.
The redhead showed her badge. “Special Agent Christine Ryan, and I have a Federal warrant to search this house and library.”
Peter’s stomach dropped. “In the case against—”
“Johnson ‘Jack’ Barber. You can read the complaint online, as soon as it’s filed.”
Darcy Immerman looked at Ryan’s badge. “You can have the house, but the collars are mine.”
Christine Ryan said, “They’re yours, so long as I can question them.”
“I want a lawyer,” said one of them.
“Anyone else in the complaint?” Peter asked Agent Ryan.
“The bureau does not anticipate that any of Barber’s legal associates will be under indictment, if that’s what you’re asking.” Then Christine Ryan stalked into the library and looked around, saw the painting, and said, “Wow, is that a Bierstadt?”
Evangeline whispered to Peter, “Our work here is done.”
* * *
NO ONE WOULD EVER know who eliminated Michael Kou, although LJ told his father that Cousin Rebel and Uncle Charlie had a long talk in Cantonese, just after Notebook Seven was emailed to Hong Kong. Then Cousin Rebel slipped out and never came back.
As for Johnson “Jack” Barber and the late Michael Kou, their scheme to launder millions through Sierra Rock, by repaying Chinese gold purchase loans with dirty money, would earn Barber extended time as a guest of the U.S. government.
When the Federal indictment was handed down, there were numerous references to an informer. And he was named. But it was not James “LJ” Fallon. The informer was William Ling, aka Wonton Willie, of Jackson Street in San Francisco, formerly of Hong Kong.
He had been the other asset on the inside.
* * *
THREE MONTHS LATER, PETER Fallon returned to complete the appraisal.
And Manion Sturgis invited everyone to Amador for the weekend. He set the table at the edge of the patio, in the warm sun.
Sarah Bliss and Brother B. came out from Sausalito and drank wine instead of their usual tea.
Wild Bill Donnelly brought his wife, Jane. Peter delivered him a signed first edition of Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Identity.
Jack Cutler, enjoying his anonymity in Amador County, came to toast his daughter. Since Uncle Charlie had put word out on the street that Cutler was okay, he no longer had to worry in Chinese restaurants.
And Mary Ching Cutler finally seemed as happy as any young bride-to-be. The only one more relaxed was LJ.
Manion raised the first glass. “To Peter Fallon of Boston, who found the seven notebooks.”
“It was LJ who found them,” said Peter. “I was just along for moral support.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you, Dad,” said LJ.
“In some things, Fallon,” said Manion, “no one is your equal.”
“Why, Manion, so much Mr. Nice Guy,” said Evangeline. “What’s come over you?”
“That.” He gestured to a pickup truck pulling into the parking lot.
A woman in her late fifties got out and came up the path, moving with straight-up confidence in a nice pair of jeans, a silk blouse, and leather jacket: Ginny O’Hara.
She took a seat next to Manion and said, “Sorry I’m late. I had animals to tend.”
They drank the best Manion Gold old-vine Zinfandel with bacon-wrapped petit filets, hot-house tomatoes, and garlic-grilled bread.
“Perfect for lunch or dinner.”
That was the pronouncement of brother George. And Manion gave him the honor of announcing that the brothers would be buying Arbella House from the estate and creating a new trust to keep it in the family.
Then they toasted John Yung, who had come out with his son. “He will continue as our caretaker.”
They drank and talked and laughed in the warming sun. They admired the way the land rolled up from Rainbow Gulch, then turned at that bump that Flynn had first noticed and Spencer had named after him.
But when Cutler suggested “just a little” core sampling, Manion said he was planning to grow Chardonnay grapes out there, and if the wine was good, they would call it Flynn’s Bend Chardonnay.
“That will be the gold,” said Peter.
“The best gold of all,” said Evangeline.
“Gold in the glass,” said Jack Cutler.
“And gold in the future.” Peter raised his glass toward LJ and Mary. “To the golden future of two fine young people.”
“Here, here,” said Jack Cutler.
“I’d love to host a wedding,” said Manion. “Or two?”
“Or two?” said Evangeline. “I don’t know.”
“I was talking about us,” said Manion, and he took Ginny’s hand.
* * *
AFTER LUNCH, MANION GAVE a vineyard tour to the newcomers.
But Peter and Evangeline went off on their own in a golf cart, off to Rainbow Gulch. They parked amidst the first ancient vines planted by two Croatian brothers. They clambered down into the dark bottom of the ravine, then climbed again, up into the afternoon sunlight, up to the little graveyard where so many dreams, the fulfilled and the forgotten, lay forever in the earth.
They combed through the markers, some blank or weatherbeaten, a few identifying the remains beneath, until they found it, overgrown and brush-covered: MICHAEL FLYNN, 1823–1851. A RIGHT CHARMER, A REAL LO
VER, AND A FINE SINGING VOICE, TOO.
“A fine epitaph,” said Peter.
Evangeline knelt to touch the stone. “You can feel the ghosts.”
“They’re always here.” Peter looked along the ravine that once had throbbed with so much life, then he gazed south along the river of grapevines. “Always showing us the way.”
Evangeline stood and took his arm. “Maybe they can show us the way back to the guesthouse.”
“Separate beds?”
“No. As James Spencer would call it, our Bower of Bliss.”
EPILOGUE
April 20, 1906
JAMES SPENCER DID NOT sleep well in the two days before his death. He lay abed, afloat on waves of consciousness and thought that rolled, then ebbed, that swirled, then eddied, then dragged him down again toward insensibility.
When he raised his head from the pillow and looked out, he saw billowing smoke. Or was it fog? The recurring San Francisco fog, the rhythm of it defining the life of the city he loved. But if it was fog, why was it blowing from east to west?
And so many other questions swirled in his head. Why did the air smell acrid and burnt? Why were people shouting in the street, right under his windows, like Vigilantes. And why was he hearing explosions? Some were dull thumps. Others were sharp, almost painful blasts followed by thunderous collapses. In that, the explosions were like the pains in his chest, dull and steady and deep but punctuated by sharp, shattering outbursts.
He must ask one of his visitors. So many had come to visit. So many. Why?
Old Doc Beal had placed a stethoscope on his chest, had listened, had shaken his head and prescribed digitalis.
Matt Dooling had sat with him and talked about the good times.
His faithful daughter, Amanda, loving wife and mother of the Rogers clan, had come over the hill and sat with him for hours. She had read the Psalms, knowing that he had always liked the Psalms. She had read Shakespeare, knowing that he liked Shakespeare even more. She had soothed him with the sound of her voice, so much like her mother’s. She had promised that his other children were coming, too, but getting to San Francisco was almost impossible, and some had so far to travel, from Boston, Los Angeles, Amador, Calistoga.
And why again were they coming?
He yearned to stand so that he could piss, so that he could look out the window, so that he could get in the autocar and drive down to the office at the corner of Market and Dupont, where his business and his family had both begun, so that he could save the papers, save the journal transcription, save the seven notebooks.
Or had Mickey Chang done it already? Mickey. Loyal Mickey. Foundling, orphan, nephew of Uncle Chin, who finally found a Chinese family to raise him.
But Spencer’s mind spun away from all that as an explosion shook the house.
Then he felt Janiva’s hand gripping his. Yes, Janiva … no, Amanda … or Janiva … her touch gave him strength, as it had so long ago.
And now, Mickey Chang was looking over her shoulder, looking down on him. He whispered, “We put out food, Miz Mandy. Go down and eat. I’ll sit with him.”
She brought her face close and said, “Papa, I’ll be right back.”
A sharp pain caused him to grimace, gag, grab for his chest.
Amanda dropped to her knees by the bedside.
James Spencer reached out to stroke her beautiful hair. He called her Janiva. And she became his wife, smiling through her tears, beckoning him home.
Another explosion shook the house.
Amanda looked up at Mickey. “Will they make us leave?”
“They’re stopping the fire at Van Ness,” said Mickey. “Blowing up houses with gunpowder and cannons, blowing up other people’s houses to save ours.”
And clarity came suddenly upon James Spencer. He said, “Mickey, my journal.”
“I got it, boss. I went up and got everything before the fire got it. You remember. The box is on the table, in the bay window, so you can write again when you feel better.”
Very good, thought James Spencer. He could not tell if the words “very good” made it out. He could not tell much. But he said, “About your trust.”
And Mickey laughed. He laughed as easily as his real father and almost as often. “Don’t you worry, boss. I trust you. You trust me. Just like you trust Mom and Dad Chang before me.”
James Spencer nodded. Then he tried to hold up fingers. Seven fingers. Then he pointed to the box and gestured for someone to fetch it to him.
Mickey brought it back and gave it to Amanda.
She flipped through it and said, “There are seven notebooks, Papa. Each written with a name. Your six children and”—she looked up—“Mickey. His folder says, ‘To be given to Mickey Chang for his good service, so that he may know his family and his father.’”
Mickey gasped, “Father?” And his eyes filled with tears. “Father?” Then he said to James Spencer, “The Chang family raise me, Mr. James. They my parents. And … and you been like a father, too.”
James Spencer nodded. Then a great exhaustion came over him. He put his head back. He felt sleep coming on. He heard the explosions, some far away, some nearby, as intermittent as the beating of his heart.
* * *
A FEW HOURS LATER, Amanda and Mickey stood on the porch and looked down California Street.
The bestial fire was not far away, chewing relentlessly on the hills and valleys of San Francisco, on the hopes and dreams and mementoes and keepsakes of a hundred thousand lives.
But a fire engine had moved into position at the corner of Franklin and California. So the fight to save what was left would go on.
Mickey said, “If the fire jump Van Ness, we gotta move.”
“But not yet,” she said. “Let Father lay a while longer in peace.”
Mickey wiped his tears. “I gonna miss him, Miz Mandy.”
“We all will.” Amanda took him by the arm. “But he bequeathed a different property to each of his children. Arbella House will be mine. And his will includes positions for you and your family under this roof, forever.”
“Can we stay upstairs, in the apartment under the eaves? With our trunks and things? We like it there.”
“Always.”
“But—” Mickey wrinkled his brow. “My father? Does that book tell who my real father was?”
“Whoever he was, know that my father loved you like a son.”
“Yes, yes.”
“So you can stay, and welcome your grandchildren to Arbella House anytime. We’ll put books in the library for them, in English and Chinese both.”
“They will learn both. Chinese to know where they came from, American to know where they’re going, both to always be friends.”
And for a time, James Spencer’s daughter and his servant stood on the veranda looking at the distant ruins and the approaching flames.
Then Amanda said, “Whatever happens, when the fire is out, we’ll have to get back to work. As my father always said, next time, build it bigger, better, stronger.”
“Yeah,” said Mickey. “Like Americans always do.”
BOOKS BY WILLIAM MARTIN
Bound for Gold
The Lincoln Letter
City of Dreams
The Lost Constitution
Harvard Yard
Citizen Washington
Annapolis
Cape Cod
The Rising of the Moon
Nerve Endings
Back Bay
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WILLIAM MARTIN is the New York Times bestselling author of twelve novels. Across a career that spans four decades, in novels including Back Bay, City of Dreams, The Lost Constitution, and The Lincoln Letter, he has been telling the American story. He has brought to life the great and the anonymous in American history and swept readers from the deck of the Mayflower to 9/11. He has also written an award-winning PBS documentary on the life of George Washington as well as a cult-classic horror film. He is the recipient of the 2005 New England Boo
k Award and the 2015 Samuel Eliot Morison Lifetime Achievement Award. He has three grown children and lives near Boston with his wife. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
Also by William Martin
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
BOUND FOR GOLD
Copyright © 2018 by William Martin
All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of San Francisco © AWL Images Ltd. / Shutterstock.com; map courtesy of the Library of Congress
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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Forge® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-8421-8 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7653-8423-2 (ebook)
eISBN 9780765384232
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Bound for Gold--A Peter Fallon Novel of the California Gold Rush Page 61