I felt myself freeze with the confirmation of my suspicions. This was not the Clem who had been parading around as Mark Twain in Nevada City and Sutter’s Fort. This was . . . Frank Napis.
“No,” he continued smoothly, as if he hadn’t noticed my tightening expression. “Oscar couldn’t have cared less about Frémont’s later political implosion. It was the Bear Flag your uncle was after.”
Napis paused and licked his lips. “The flag that was destroyed in the 1906 earthquake wasn’t the original flag. It was a replacement. In the weeks immediately following the Sonoma revolt, someone made a switch.”
I felt a bead of perspiration break out across my forehead as Napis pumped his fake eyebrows at me.
“Let’s review, shall we? Paul Revere’s grandson rode out to Sonoma to fetch the rebels’ flag and replace it with Old Glory. When he returned to Yerba Buena with the Bear Flag, Captain Montgomery noticed something odd about the design. The flag’s emblem had been modified; it no longer resembled a bear. Yes, the creature was brown and standing upright on its hindquarters. But stretching out from its posterior was a long ground-sweeping attachment—a tail.”
I thought back to the sketch in my notebook and Oscar’s notation next to the DeVoto text:
Local Indians, passing through Sonoma after the revolt, ridiculed the animal on the flag, calling it a pig or a stoat.
And suddenly it became clear to me. The creature on the flag that the local Indians had laughed at and tried to describe as an upright pig or weasel had instead been a . . .
“That’s right,” Napis said as if reading my mind. “A kangaroo.”
I shook my head, curious despite my growing fear of being trapped in a room with my uncle’s arch nemesis. I was still missing the last piece of the puzzle.
“But, the Bear Flag, the state flag of California . . . it’s clearly a
bear
.”
Napis’s dark eyes flickered. “The Osos began to have misgivings about Frémont when he showed up at their Sonoma camp, denied any responsibility for instigating their revolt, and assumed leadership of their group.”
The coarse hairs of Napis’s mustache again twitched from the influence of an involuntary facial tic. “One of the Osos modified the flag’s bear—a little nineteenth-century graffiti, if you will. It was a silent statement of rebuttal.
“When the flag arrived in Yerba Buena, someone there realized the significance of the kangaroo image and what it might mean for the other American officials in Northern California if Frémont’s flagrant violation of the White House’s orders were discovered. The Vice-Consul had been powerless to stop Frémont from starting the revolt, but he and Larkin feared they would be seen as complicit.”
I found myself filling the name in almost automatically. “William Leidesdorff. He stole the original flag? But . . . why?”
Napis stepped behind me and scooped up the picture frame from the window seat.
“Look on the back of Frémont’s picture,” he said softly as he handed me the frame so that the already-loose cardboard backing faced upward.
My hands shaking, I lifted the backing to reveal the backside of the picture inside. With a halting voice, I began to read the charcoal pencil handwriting that creased the delicate paper.
“He bounces from one camp to the next, without plan or predictability, oblivious to the destruction he leaves in his wake, like the long thick appendage of his namesake. Sutter was the first to coin the nickname, but we all use it now. Pathfinder? That doesn’t do the troublesome scamp justice. No, those of us who have come to know Captain Frémont call him by another name. We call him . . .”
Hesitating, I bit down on my lip.
Napis finished the caption for me. “They called him ‘the Kangaroo.’”
And in that moment, I knew what Frank Napis was after. I knew where my uncle had hidden the original Bear Flag.
“I’ve got to go,” I murmured under my breath as I dropped the Frémont picture on the window seat.
Still staring at Napis, I began to shuffle backwards. My hand reached behind my back for the door. As my fingers closed in around the handle, I pulled it open, anticipating the squeal of the hinges.
Napis didn’t move to stop me. His face bore a strangely satisfied smile.
I never saw the man crouched outside in the courtyard. By the time I heard the creak of wood from his step across the threshold, it was too late.
A light
thunk
, expertly delivered, pounded against the back of my head. As the floor rushed up to meet me, everything went black.
Chapter 59
THE STUFFED KANGAROO
I AWOKE TO
a throbbing pain at the base of my skull and a cloth tied around my head, gagging my mouth. Blinking, I tried to take in my surroundings.
I was seated on a wooden chair with my hands bound behind me, my upper torso strapped to the seat back. I tried to wiggle my shoulders, but the rope was securely fastened.
From my limited vantage point, I appeared to be surrounded by an open room with walls constructed of the same stone composite as the fence that had bordered the courtyard outside the Larkin House. I was now located, I suspected, inside the stone shed I’d seen earlier on the opposite side of the property.
The front door to the building opened and the perpetrators of my current predicament entered carrying a large furry brown object. I watched as Frank Napis, still dressed as Clem, held the beast’s shoulders, while Ivan Batrachos, his head shaved bald, hefted the feet. From the snippets of conversation floating in my direction, I gathered they’d brought the stuffed creature in from a vehicle parked around the corner.
“Nothing like a van to haul everything you need,” Napis commented as Ivan righted the kangaroo on the floor about five feet in front of my chair.
I hadn’t seen Ivan since he’d been apprehended and sent back to prison. His bald head was a shock, and he appeared to be a bit wobbly on his feet. He reached out for the kangaroo’s shoulder as if to steady himself.
He noticed my open eyes. “
Luck whooze back wid us
,” he said, his speech noticeably slurred.
Napis glanced testily at Ivan and then turned to me. “I think you’ll recognize this item,” he said smarmily.
The stuffed kangaroo looked just like the one I’d found in the Green Vase not long after my uncle’s death. The beast had been located inside a shipping crate lodged over the trapdoor to the basement. The kangaroo’s pouch and mouth cavity had contained clues related to the Leidesdorff spider toxin and tulip extract antidote.
After all the inspection the kangaroo had received during that caper, I found it hard to believe the dead critter had still more secrets to reveal. But, as I reflected on my earlier conversation with Napis inside the Larkin House, I had to conclude that all clues pointed directly to the kangaroo.
“Your uncle found the original Bear Flag,” Napis said, rubbing his hands together like a child waiting to open a present. “I know because he sent a letter to the Jackson Square Board asking me to provide an estimate of its value.” Napis clenched his hands into fists. “He was taunting me—he knew I’d been looking for the same treasure for years.”
I focused my attention on the kangaroo, trying to mentally block out both Napis’s voice and the apparently inebriated Ivan, who was staggering circles around my chair.
After the ignominious ride to Monterey in the back of the van, the kangaroo’s brown fur looked even more tamped down and mottled than before. Its right arm was crooked out, unnaturally, so that its paw rested on its hip—but it must have been bumped during transport. The arm didn’t appear to have the same curvature I remembered.
“Given the frog episode last summer”—Napis paused for an exaggerated cough—“I felt the need to reinvent myself before returning to Jackson Square.”
The kangaroo’s black lifeless eyes looked out into the room, the dull gloss of the plastic surface reflecting the fading afternoon light from a window somewhere behind my chair. My gaze traveled down the beast’s face to its mouth and the stitching that held its thick rubbery lips in place—the lips that I had sewn back together almost a year ago after I’d retrieved the package that had been stored inside . . .
Napis unclenched his hands and drummed his fingers against his chest. “When the Mayor arrived in Hawaii for his extended vacation, I arranged to make his acquaintance. It was only a matter of time before he took me on as his Life Coach. He graciously allowed me the privilege of hiring an assistant. My
apprentice
has been an invaluable resource. A free flow of information.” Napis’s lips flattened into a grimace. “Too much information, to be honest.”
I stared at the kangaroo, trying to be sure of my observation. I had used a thick black thread to sew up the mouth of Oscar’s kangaroo, but this creature’s lips were secured with a clear vinyl cord.
“With Mr. Carmichael keeping me apprised of the situation at the Green Vase, I just had to bide my time, waiting for the right moment”—Napis paused and, with a deprecating sigh, nodded toward Ivan, who appeared to be growing more and more incapacitated by the minute—“waiting for my associate here to be released from prison.”
As if acknowledging Napis’s reference, Ivan pulled a small silver flask from the pocket of his leather jacket, unscrewed the lid, and swallowed a gulp of the liquid inside.
“A
leettle
celebration of my release,” Ivan said tipsily.
“You couldn’t wait another hour to start in on that?” Napis snapped.
“She looks
thersty
,” Ivan mumbled. “Care if I offer her a sip?” he asked, tilting the flask in my direction.
Napis looked perturbed by this interruption, but he shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “If you must,” he replied.
Ivan stepped toward my chair, bent down, and loosened the gag tied over my mouth. “You
wanna
celebrate with me, don’t you? After all, you’re the reason they sent me back to
preeson
.”
I looked up at him incredulously. The last time Ivan had offered me a drink, it had been laced with the delusioninducing spider toxin. I had no intention of voluntarily repeating the experience.
“Trust me,” he whispered silently, his speech suddenly unimpeded as Napis paced an impatient circle around the kangaroo. Then, he took another slug from the container himself.
Ivan waved the flask in front of my face, and a dense floral scent accosted my nose. I glanced once more at the kangaroo and reluctantly opened my mouth. As Ivan tipped the flask to my lips, a cool flowery liquid trickled down my throat.
Napis stamped his foot irritably, indicating he’d been delayed long enough. “Ivan,” he said crisply. “The shearers, please.”
Chapter 60
A DARK NIGHT
THE MOON ROSE
stealthily into the early evening sky, the bulk of its globe masked in darkness, a tiny illuminated sliver the only indication of its presence.
Not wasting any time, it quickly found its way to Jackson Square, sneaked up the street to the Green Vase antiques shop, and burgled through the keyhole of its ironframed door.
Once inside, the moon paused to stroke a shadowy hand along the curving sides of a green vase positioned on the cashier counter before crossing the room to a stroller parked near the stairs at the rear of the store. A brief check beneath the unzipped net cover confirmed the carriage compartment was empty.
The moon heard a slight murmuring sound emanating from the second floor, so it crept up the staircase to the kitchen. From the top of the stairwell, it observed the following scene:
An elderly woman with curly gray hair sat at a worn wooden table in the center of the room, gently rubbing the distended stomach of a large male cat curled up in her lap. A grimy-faced man in a dirty green cycling outfit lay sprawled across the floor beneath the table, a droning snore buzzing from his gaping mouth. Perched on a second chair pulled up next to the table, a slender female cat listened attentively as Dilla Eckles read a story from a book with a shiny green cover written by a man named Samuel Clemens.
Every so often, Dilla looked up from the text and glanced at a furry figure standing in the corner of the kitchen. Intrigued, the moon slunk silently over to inspect the stuffed kangaroo.
The creature’s dull glassy eyes looked vacantly out into the room. Its fur was dusty, mottled, and contained the slight scent of cedar chips. One of its arms kinked out so that its paw rested on its hip.
As the moon drew closer to the furry face, it saw that the critter’s lips were sewn together with a distinctive thick black thread.
THE MOON PONDERED
the scene from the kitchen as it rolled down the coast to the quiet streets of downtown Monterey. After a short hike along Calle Principal, it located the unlit exterior of the Larkin House.
Stepping cautiously through the front gate, the moon skulked around several overgrown bushes until it reached a rock-walled building on the opposite side of the courtyard. Crouched in the shadows outside the building’s largest window, three figures cautiously monitored the proceedings inside: an elderly Asian man with a long spindly beard, a wrinkled old geezer in shredded overalls, and a cartoonish-looking character clad in a kangaroo costume.
Mr. Wang’s chest wheezed for oxygen as he whispered into a walkie-talkie, issuing instructions to a squadron of police cars en route to the property. His free hand clutched the head of a cane, the top handle of which wobbled back and forth as he leaned his weight against it.
Harold Wombler stood next to Mr. Wang, grumbling under his breath as a light evening breeze ruffled through his loose-fitting overalls, exposing the red knit fabric of the long johns beneath. He pulled a silver flask from one of his many pockets, unscrewed the lid, and downed a mouthful of the container’s clear liquid. Smacking his lips together, he handed the flask of tulip extract antidote to the last member of the group.