"How was he killed?"

"His body was crushed under the rocks. Clearly, Wish was right there at the precise spot where the dynamite detonated."

Van Dorn shook his head, sadly. "That man's instincts were golden. Even drunk. I hated having to let him go."

Bell kept his voice neutral. "His sidearm was several feet from his body, indicating he had drawn it from his holster before the explosion."

"Could have been blown there by the explosion."

"It was that old single-action Army he loved. In the flap holster. It didn't fall out. He must have had it in his hand."

Van Dorn countered with a cold question to confirm Bell's conjecture that Aloysius Clarke had tried to prevent the attack. "Where was his flask?"

"Still tucked in his clothing."

Van Dorn nodded and started to change the subject, but Isaac Bell was not finished.

"I had to know how he got there in the tunnel. Had he died before or in the explosion? So I put his body on a train and brought it to a doctor in Klamath Falls. Stood by while he examined it. The doctor showed me that before Wish was crushed, he had taken a knife in the throat."

Van Dorn winced. "They slashed his throat?"

"Not slashed. Pierced. The knife went in his throat, slid between two cervical vertebrae, severed his spinal cord, and emerged out the back of his neck. The doctor said it was done clean as a surgeon or a butcher."

"Or just lucky."

"If it was, then the killer got lucky twice."

"How do you mean?"

"Getting the drop on Wish Clarke would require considerable luck in the first place, wouldn't you say?"

Van Dorn looked away. "Anything left in the flask?"

Bell gave his boss a thin, sad smile. "Don't worry, Joe, I would have fired him, too. It was dry as a bone."

"Attacked from the front?"

"It looks that way," said Bell.

"But you say Wish had already drawn his gun."

"That's right. So how did the Wrecker get him with a knife?"

"Threw it?" Van Dorn asked dubiously.

Bell's hand flickered toward his boot and came up with his throwing knife. He juggled the sliver of steel in his fingers, weighing it. "He'd need a catapult to drive a throwing knife completely through a big man's neck."

"Of course ... Watch your step, Isaac. As you say, this Wrecker must be one quick-as-lightning hombre to get the drop on Wish Clarke. Even drunk."

"He will have the opportunity," vowed Isaac Bell, "to show me how quick."

Chapter 4.

THE ELECTRIC LIGHTS OF SANTA MONICA'S VENICE PIER illuminated the rigging of a three-masted ship docked permanently alongside it and the rooflines of a large pavilion. A brass band was playing John Philip Sousa's "Gladiator March" in quick time.

The beachcomber turned his back to the bittersweet music and walked the hard-packed sand toward the dark. The lights shimmered across the waves and cast a frothy shadow ahead of him, as the cool Pacific wind flapped his ragged clothes. It was low tide, and he was hunting for an anchor he could steal.