“Are you local?” asked Ray.

“We live in T.C.”

“And you go to West?”

“No, we’re both at Central.”

“So how many kids are looking for Capone’s treasure?”

“We’ve been kidding about it at lunch for a while,” explained Ty. “Win’s the only one who really believes it. And he’s the only one with a metal detector. Tell the man what you’ve found the last several years. Tell him about the beer cans and nails and that piece of chain.”

“I did find a watch,” said Win.

“Yeah, an old Timex.”

Ray looked out at the lake. The waves were beginning to build. “We’ve got to start back, the wind’s come up.” Ray stood up and helped Win to his feet. “What’re your plans?”

“We’re ready to go, too.”

Ty started to unwrap the space blanket.

“Keep it on,” said Hannah. “You’ll need it for the crossing.”

“How do I get it back to you?”

“Where did you launch from?”

“The Cannery.”

“Same as us,” said Ray. “There’s a green Subaru in the parking lot. Just leave it on the roof or hood. Do you have enough gas? I noticed that you weren’t carrying a fuel can.”

Ray watched Win check the tank on the engine after they had dragged the boat down to the water’s edge.”

“We should have enough,” said Win. “And we’ve got a paddle.” They pushed off, Ty sitting on the floor near the bow, Win in the rear, paddling the Zodiac into deeper water. He pulled the starter rope several times before the engine coughed to life, sputtering a cloud of white exhaust, then stalling. He started the engine a second time, and when it was idling smoothly, he engaged it in gear and with a backward wave, headed out into the Manitou Passage.

“Let’s get going,” said Ray, “we may end up towing them to shore.”

“So they were looking for Capone’s treasure,” said Hannah soon after they launched.

“Yes,” said Ray, “they say the book is on Kindle and cheap. We’ll have a summer of shore diggers with smart phones. Petoskey stone hunting is a thing of the past, at least for this year.”

The wind continued to pick up and they were pushed across the open water, their boats occasionally broaching from the following seas. There was little conversation, just a focus on their final destination. Hannah stopped yards off shore and waited for Ray to paddle near the side of her boat.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Hungry, exhausted, but I hate coming off the water. You?”

“Same.”

The boats felt heavy as they carried them from the beach, up over the dune, to the parking lot. The space blanket and jacket were wound around one of the kayak racks. A note was tucked under a windshield wiper.

Hey Guys,

Thanks for the help. I’ll remember you when I’m rich.

Win

Simone was waiting at the front door, a note of distress in her otherwise ebullient greeting. Hannah walked the dog while Ray changed his clothes and started supper, pulling a container of potato soup from the freezer, setting it into the microwave, and warming a baguette in the oven. By the time Hannah returned with Simone, Ray was putting the finishing touches on a salad of assorted greens with slices of avocado when Hannah walked in.

“Thought you two might have gone missing,” he said.

“Quality girl time. We understand one another. When’s dinner?”

“Everything’s hot. The sooner the better.”

“Can I eat in my fleece long johns?”

“This ain’t the Ritz. No dress code.” He put down Simone’s dish of dog food, enhanced with some aged Vermont cheddar. Then he ladled up steaming bowls of soup.

“One question,” said Hannah, before taking her first spoonful of soup. “How come you didn’t try to get more information on Ty and Win?”

Ray smiled. “Win is Winifred Steward III. His father is a dentist in town, and his grandfather was a dentist in town. I recognized the boat. His father uses it for duck hunting.”

22

Mackenzie reached forward and turned the temperature up a bit in the shower. After several minutes of soaking up the warmth, she stepped out of the spray to examine the collection of soaps and shampoos provided by Ken Lee. She started with a shampoo, squeezing a palm full of the greenish liquid, and working it into her hair. There was no scent, just lather. Mackenzie carefully scrubbed her whole body with liquid soap the same bilious color, removing any trace of makeup and residual feminine scent from her usual toiletries. After rinsing away the last traces of soap, she dried herself with freshly laundered towels. She had washed her underwear and linen in detergent also sent by Ken Lee. He had emphasized that she should keep her gender a secret, be more male-like than feminine. He joked that if he could re-teach her how to walk, he could make her gender invisible.

In panties and a flattening bra, Mackenzie settled into a chair in front of the bathroom mirror. She carefully applied greasepaint, again supplied by Ken Lee, to her face, neck, hands, and several inches above her wrists. This is crazy she said out loud, watching her mouth open and close in a face she barely recognized.

There were times when Mackenzie thought Ken Lee was utterly wacko—much more than overly cautious, perhaps more than a little bit paranoid. The history he had shared with her passed through her mind like a series of black and white snapshots: growing up in Texas with a black mother and a Korean father, learning to be a scrapper before he even started kindergarten, escaping the poverty of his childhood by joining the military as soon as he was out of high school, eventually becoming a Navy Seal, and picking up a college degree along the way. Ken Lee’s military and college training coupled with his extraordinary facility with technology enabled him to get a high-paying job in corporate security.

Combing her hair and securing it tightly in a knot at the back of her head, she thought about the List of Cautions Ken Lee had given her. She’d once teased him that they read like quotes from Chairman Mao mixed with Jay Gatsby’s plan for self-improvement. Today she was following the first item on his list: Always be more prepared than your potential adversary.

Mackenzie went into the bedroom where she’d laid out her clothing, all black and still sealed in plastic bags. She pulled on a long-sleeved, skintight turtleneck shirt and black long underwear of the same material. She followed with loose-fitting outer pants that somewhat disguised her feminine form. She pulled on long, thick wool socks and black duty boots that Ken Lee had forced her to thoroughly break in before the trip to Michigan. Then she shrugged on body armor that ran from her shoulders to her waist. A bear claw knife, a small tactical flashlight, and a GPS-enabled satellite phone were already secured to the armor. Finally, she added a hip holster and a black balaclava, taking care to push back and under any wisps of hair. Before pulling on a black winter jacket, she holstered the two loaded and chambered pistols.

Fully outfitted, she turned slowly in front of the three bathroom mirrors, and for a moment she felt silly. Then she remembered why she was in Michigan: the helplessness when she had been surrounded by the boy, the fear like poison, the knowledge that rape was imminent, and the rescue by her brother.

Every aspect of the mission had been carefully planned. Mackenzie had laid out a detailed scenario, and then e-mailed it to Ken Lee. He had sent back a few suggestions that she had incorporated into her final “operations plan.” Ken Lee would monitor her progress back in California.

Tonight was just a rehearsal: checking equipment and getting used to moving around in the dark. She had earlier found a place to park the car where it would go unnoticed. Using Google and geological survey maps, she had calculated the distance from the parking lot to the approximate position where her brother’s body had been found. A little more than 4 miles, it was a journey of an hour and 20 minutes in daylight on a solid surface. But she would be walking in darkness, a heavy overcast preventing any moonlight from breaking through. And she would be walking on sand, perhaps sprinting for the shelter of the woods if anyone approached.