We came through the other side. Minerva curled onto her favorite throw rug and chewed a dried pig’s ear. I got argyle socks and a wristwatch to replace the one that went belly-up in Horseheads. I hadn’t mentioned the tunnel to Meg, nor what happened down there. I smiled wide, strapped the sweet new watch to my arm, fiddled with the settings, and thanked her and Devlin. The gift represented a decent chunk of change for a librarian on a budget. I hugged them tight. It was a beauty, it was perfect. It was an omen of doom. The quartz digital display went haywire after lunch, losing time, then gaining time, then producing error messages. By late afternoon the battery was kaput. I hadn’t foreseen this development, but it didn’t surprise me. My cell phone had been hinky as well; its battery died within a few hours unless I plugged it into the charger twice a day.

Plump roasted goose for dinner with mashed potatoes, green beans, drop-biscuits, and pumpkin pie for dessert. Cognac and a cigar for Lionel and me. Meg sipped peppermint schnapps and Devlin went to bed. He was ruddy and exhausted despite petitioning to stay up another hour. Christmas ranks as a banner day when you’re that age. I hadn’t broached the subject of his left-jab, right-cross approach to diplomacy, choosing to save that unpleasantness until the holidays were done. Now that the moment drew near, I was getting cold feet. Maybe a meteor would hit during the night and I’d be spared the duty.

Lionel slept in the living room as the news tried to balance holiday cheer with the usual reports of global catastrophe. Patroclus Possum, also bunking at the Shaw residence for the evening, slunk from his crate and snoozed on Lionel’s feet. Minerva lay in the middle of the room, every bit of her attention laser-focused on the possum. There was a bit of saber-rattling, but honoring the spirit of Christmas, no open warfare. All that was missing from the tableau were some wise men.

I sat with Meg in the kitchen, holding hands as snow piled against the windowsill.

Meg snapped her fingers.

“The mystery money.” She disappeared into another room and returned with a manila envelope stuffed with photocopies of newspaper stories. “In 1973, a private train engine, Fafnir’s Hammer, two passenger cars, and four people disappeared in the mountains between Oregon and California. Poof, gone Johnson. Train belonged to Major Arnaout Wagner, industrialist. His girlfriend, a bodyguard, and a travel journalist were among the missing. There is speculation, unconfirmed may I add, that he was transporting a heap of money to Los Angeles. His vanishing was a rather big deal.”

“One-point-five million. That’s my guess.”

“For what?”

“How much money was on the train.”

“Guess again, Kreskin. Eight million, according to anonymous sources. A lesser percentage was cash. The rest was coins and precious gems. Literal treasure.”

“Sealing an investment?”

“Or a payoff. Odds are even. Wagner was an eccentric. Involved in enough tawdry affairs to make Howard Hughes blush.”