Story Excerpt

Capone’s Castle
by Doug Allyn

“Slow down,” Puck said. “There’s something in the road.”

I backed off the gas a tad. The old-timer was right. A quarter-mile ahead, a whitetail doe was sprawled across my lane. Doornail dead. Her neck was twisted at an impossible angle, spindly legs snapped like twigs. A purplish smear stretched a full thirty feet behind her carcass. Whatever clipped her had dragged her a ways. Log hauler, maybe. An ugly way to die.

I slowed my rust-bucket pickup to forty, easing onto the gravel shoulder to avoid the gore, warily scanning the pines on both sides of the blacktop. In northern Michigan, whitetails run in herds, especially in the autumn hunting season. If you see one, it’s likely got kin nearby.

But not this time.

“She’s been dead a day,” Puck said, eyeing the carcass as I drove around it. “Coyotes already found her.”

“Or maybe a tiger? People claim there are tigers in these woods.”

“Your ass. Says who?”

“Locals swear by it. The story goes, when Scarface Al Capone built his retirement castle up here, it had a zoo, stocked with lions, tigers, and such. It wasn’t finished when he croaked, so the animals got loose, and—”

“The half-million deer hunters who tromp these woods every fall never noticed a single tiger? Really?”

“Hey, I’m not saying I believe it. There are all kinds of stories about Capone’s so-called castle. It probably doesn’t even ex—ho-lee crap!”

As we crested the next hill, I slowed my truck, then pulled off onto the shoulder and rolled to a dead stop. Stunned. And staring.

It was like time travel. From the hilltop we were looking across a valley at an honest to God medieval castle. Not some Disney World mock-up, the real freakin’ thing. Built of shaped gray stones, the outer facade rose a full thirty feet, stretching like wings on each side of a barn-sized gatehouse. Gargoyles perched on both corners of the curtain wall, winged bulls, bellowing their silent rage into the northern forest, straining to break free of their chains.

A moat circled the outer walls, with a framed metal drawbridge the only way across. Cast-iron hooks hung over the entrance, meant for cauldrons of boiling oil, or the cages where witches and heretics could waste away till the ravens stripped their bones.

“Whoa,” I breathed. “I’ve seen builds like this in books, but I never dreamed I’d see the real thing.”

“What the hell is it doing out here, middle of no place?”

“The guy who built it was a gangster. Maybe he needed a hideout.”

“It’s barely half done, but it looks pretty sturdy, Danny. What’s the deal?”

“The state seized it for back taxes years ago. I got a letter with architectural drawings, asking for two estimates, one to complete the build, the other to level it. I guess both jobs are up for bids.”

“Which way are we leanin’? Finish it or flatten it?”

“Half done? I can work with that. Beats crankin’ out another Holiday Inn. Let’s get a closer look.”

Dropping the Dodge in gear, I gunned back onto the blacktop, keeping my speed down, drinking in the view as it unfolded. In the courtyard beyond the gatehouse, a few foundation squares were laid out, but the stones only rose a course or two. Outbuildings. I had no idea what they were meant to be.

Halfway down the hill, the castle began to disappear, hiding behind rows of decorative pines, reds, whites, a few blue spruces. Planted shoulder to shoulder, they made the grounds all but invisible from the blacktop.

Even so, spotting the entrance was no problem. A Jeep with police flashers ablaze was parked on the shoulder by the drawbridge. As I pulled in, a cop in a brown uniform waved us to a halt and stepped up to my window.

“Evening, gents,” he said, looking us over, “I’m Sheriff Skarsgard, Edelweiss County. Sorry, but no ghost busters tonight.”

“Say what?” Puck asked.

“Sometimes local folks see lights at night and dial nine one one. Mostly it’s kids looking for a spot to make out, but tonight, all them lights are for some state-sponsored shindig. It’s by invitation . . . only.” His speech died as I held up my invitation, with the State Historical Sites Section embossed in gold across the top.

“And it seems you . . . gentlemen are invited,” he finished doubtfully. “All dressed up for the ball, I see.” Which we damn well weren’t. We’re working stiffs and looked it. I was wearing an L.L. Bean sport coat over a flannel shirt, Puck was in crusty Carhartt coveralls that hadn’t seen a wash in a while.

“Sorry for the holdup, guys, go ahead in.” The lawman stepped away, waving me onto the drawbridge.

The decking was made of heavy oak beams that looked sturdy enough to support a Sherman tank, but I kept my speed to a crawl as we motored into a dark tunnel where the Ram’s engine rumbled like thunder off the stones.

The darkness was no accident. The tunnel was a death trap. Its sidewalls and ceiling were pierced with slits to allow arrows, or spears or boiling oil, to rain hell on anyone trapped in the passage. I could almost imagine men clad in iron, fighting and dying in the darkness—I shivered.

Puck raised an eyebrow. “A ghost whiz on your grave?”

Actually, that’s exactly how it felt.

The tunnel opened into a courtyard that immediately erased the medieval mood. It was doubling as a parking lot for forty cars, mostly high-end rides: Caddies, Lexes, Benzes. I scanned the lot quickly, looking for Lydia’s red BMW convertible. Wasn’t sure how I’d feel if I saw it, but it was a moot point. Her car wasn’t here. A tall kid dressed as a priest waved us into a parking space, then opened my door like a valet. Black suit, brush cut, clerical collar. Didn’t look old enough to buy beer, let alone to be called “Father.”

“Mr . . . Shea, is it?” he said, offering me his hand. “I’m Father Delfino. Welcome to La Copia, gentlemen. His sweeping gesture included the entire interior courtyard. I did a slow turn, taking it in. There was nothing palatial about it yet; it looked like what it was, a construction site, abandoned a long time back. Shaped stones and timbers were stacked in head-high rows, some protected by raggedy tarps, others naked to the wind and weather. An army of them, maybe fifty stacks, total.

“What’s your deal, Father?” Puck asked. “Are you here to exorcise Capone’s ghost?”

“Actually, I’m on loan from the diocese to the Historic Sites Section as a linguist.”

“Linguist?” I echoed.

“Many of the documents were notated either in Latin or Italian. I translate,” he said, grasping the heavy oaken door and swinging it open wide. “Step inside, gentlemen, and welcome to the sixteenth century.”

And he was dead serious.

Inside, the great hall of the gatehouse was roughly the size of a country barn, but there was nothing rural about it. A costumed cocktail party was in full swing. Waitresses in medieval regalia were passing between the guests bearing trays of champagne, shrimp, and caviar. At the far end of the room, a minstrel orchestra was serenading the hall from a raised stage. Lutes and English horns murmured elfin melodies from an elder age and the ancient stones echoed the music beautifully, as though they’d learned the lyrics long ago. Tapestries, richly embroidered, were draped from the ceiling beams to warm the cold stone walls.

They had a similar effect on my partner. Puck was swiveling slowly, taking in the marvelous scene, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Jenny on a bike, Daniel, what the hell is all this?”

“It’s supposed to be a state auction,” I said, scanning the crowd for the one face I was hoping to see. No luck. No Lydia.

The only face I recognized was a suit from Detroit, who was standing at the foot of a giant video screen, watching architectural drawings play across it, a new panel every thirty seconds.

His suit probably cost more than my truck. Razor-cut hair, loafers, no socks. I moved up beside him.

“Carson Felder, right?” I asked. “Beaumont Restorations?”

He barely glanced at me before turning back to the drawings. “Have we met?”

“Dan Shea, North Shore Construction,” I said, offering my hand. I guess he didn’t notice. He remained focused on the screen, as more enlarged drawings slid across it.

“The Flint builders’ show last spring,” I went on. “You were a featured speaker. What brings you here?”

“I’m CFO, the chief financial officer for the Historic Sites Section. You?”

“Honestly? I’m still trying to figure that out. What’s up with all this?” My gesture took in the minstrels, the costumed wait staff, the whole shebang.

“Our tax dollars at work, Mr. Shea. Every year the governor uses the Historic Sites party to pay back donors. Last year it was a Great Gatsby bash, roaring twenties? This year it’s medieval. Donors dress like royals, get sloppy drunk, and grope each other’s wives—oh, sorry, is your wife—?”

“No wife to grope.” I shrugged, too intrigued by the drawings to take offense. The screen changed again, to a cross section of the curtain wall. “Sweet Jesus, look at the curvature of that outer wall,” I said, stepping closer to the screen.

“Handsome,” he admitted.

“But the arc isn’t just for looks. To achieve the curve, each stone is wedge shaped, so anything that strikes it, a catapult or even a siege gun, only drives them more tightly together. Instead of breaking the wall, blows would actually strengthen it. It’s freakin’ brilliant.”

The screen changed again, displaying a sketch of the eastern corner, dominated by the raging-bull gargoyle, bellowing his silent triumph over a half-dozen corpses scattered at the base of the wall. The bull was beautifully drawn, and the corpses looked almost real enough to bleed. I leaned in, trying to make sense of the notes beside the sketch.

“Taurus . . . ?”

“Taurus Victrix,” Felder finished. “The Borgia bull triumphant. Latin was the language of architecture in those days. Cut the class, did you?”

“I didn’t go to school, for Latin or anything else,” I admitted, still focused on the sketch. It was brutal and bloody, drawn so realistically it resembled a battlefield photograph.

“Then—how do you qualify for a builder’s license?”

“The army. Kabul. Buildings were getting blown flat every day; they needed architects to rebuild in a hurry. I took crash courses online, got a degree in reconstruction. You?”

“Yale, a doctorate in architectural arts. Wasted years. Apparently I could have earned it watching TV.”

“Only in the ’Stan, sport, and trust me, the campus was no fun. That catapult’s special,” I noted, as the next display filled the screen.

“How do you mean?”

“Normally a trebuchet uses a box of stones as a counterweight. This one uses a water barrel. Every missile it threw would splash water around, keeping it fireproof, and because you can measure water down to the drop, they could aim this baby to the inch.”

“You skipped Latin but studied catapult construction?”

“The course was Evolution of Weaponry. It was the army. If it was ever used in a war, we studied it. Why are the drawings shown in blue ink?”

“They’re copies, mimeographs made back in the day. I wonder what happened to the originals?”

“Father Delfino translated them, maybe he’d know.”

The picture changed again. A posed photo of working men from the fifties.

“The late Eli McKay and staff,” Felder said. “McKay was the contractor who began the build, dug the moat, raised the wall and the great hall. Long dead now, of course,” he added, knocking back his flute of champagne. “I need a refill. Nice meeting you, Mr. . . . ?”

“Dan Shea.”

“Right,” he nodded, “a pleasure.”

“Same here,” I said, though it damn well wasn’t.

To be fair, Felder probably wasn’t the only one wondering why I was here. My onetime lover, Lydia Ford, is cochair of the Historic Sites Section, so my invitation almost certainly came from her. I was hoping she’d be here so we could talk, but that was stupid. We have phones. These days my calls to Lydia go direct to voicemail, which is an answer of sorts. And since she apparently wasn’t here, I had no idea why I’d been invited.

The troubadours kept the audience amused for a forty-minute set, no easy feat considering the condition of the crowd. Then Father Delfino took the stage with a wireless mike.

“Ladies and gentlemen, dominarum et iudices, signore e signori, your attention, please. Aren’t we having a grand time?”

Which earned him a roared response.

“Good, glad to hear it! But now, we need a few minutes to transact the business that justifies this merry, medieval bacchanal. Will the board members of the Historic Sites Section, and all bidding contractors, please adjourn to the armory? It’s through the large, studded door at the rear of the room.”

A few dozen revelers apologized to wives and friends, then followed the good father’s directions. Puck and I trailed the crowd through an arched doorway into a room that was barely half the size of the great hall, and its exact opposite.

The armory was built of the same shaped stones as the outer walls, but no tapestries warmed them. They were brutally crude, lined with cast-iron racks with mockup weapons, crossbows, pikes, war axes, and the like, reminders of this build’s original, savage purpose. At the rear of the room, a set of easels displayed mimeographed sketches of the castle at various stages of completion, the drawings that had apparently been copied for the slideshow. The last one was a charcoal sketch of what the finished project should resemble. I just stared at it, forgetting to breathe.

The completed build would be . . . magnificent. There was no other word for it. This drawing was only a sketch, newer than the others, but it was brilliantly rendered. The bones of the project were sheathed in stone, yet shining through. I was scanning the materials list, trying to make sense of the language, when Father Delfino moved up beside me.

“Adding some to your bid?” he asked.

“Who wouldn’t? This build’s freakin’ amazing,” I breathed. “Can you read this scribbling?”

“It’s . . . in Latin, basically an inventory of material, shaped stones, timbers, rope, and barrows to move it all.”

I edged over to the next sketch, trying to quiet my heartbeat. This project would be big. Major league. To complete the construction of the outer wall alone would be . . . three to four months of labor, dawn to dusk, and bringing the gatehouse up to anything resembling current codes would require a total wire-up, new plumbing, new glass. Likely a year’s steady work before we even got to the outbuildings. How many were there? Three? No. Four.

Sweet Jesus! This project was bigger than anything I’d ever done. Bigger than anything I’d ever seen. And with winter coming on, my crew needed the indoor work. This job could be . . . Damn. Actually? It would probably be nothing. Not one damned thing.

The more I scanned the sketches, the further my heart sank as the reality of it sank in. The architect who’d drawn up these plans was Antonio Langella the Elder, circa 1500. Langella built royal mansions in his time. A village was actually named after him. My office is a walkup over a pastry bakery in Valhalla, Michigan. Population 3,210.

My crew was half the size of most other outfits in the room. Lydia was either jerking my chain or meeting some requirement for multiple bids. I’d made a two-hour drive into the north woods for nothing.

It was like glimpsing a beautiful woman across a crowded room, then realizing she’s a nun—

But then I did see a beautiful woman.

I’d been so focused on scanning the crowd for Lydia that I’d skipped over someone I should have recognized, though we’d never actually met. Her photograph was in my bedroom, on the nightstand on Lydia’s side of the bed. In the picture, she was still a Michigan State cheerleader. Dressed like a princess now, in a shimmering gown of blue silk with a jeweled tiara glistening in her auburn hair, she looked like a Renaissance royal. Lydia’s daughter, Cheryl Ford. Our eyes met and held for a moment, then she turned away. She gave no sign that she recognized me. Probably didn’t.

Tapping his microphone for our attention, Father Delfino stepped up on a small dais at the rear of the room.

“Folks, we’ll begin the bidding in a moment, but first, a few words about the project on the block.

“The original builder, Antonio Langella, named this structure La Copia, though nowadays it’s more commonly known as Al Capone’s Castle. It was commissioned by Cesare Borgia in 1496, to be an approximation of Castello Ursino in Catania, Sicily. Construction began in 1498, finished in 1505. It involved a workforce of nearly five hundred artisans, masons, and carpenters, many of them slaves. Unfortunately, while visiting the site, Signore Borgia’s father, Pope Alexander Sextus, stumbled and broke an ankle. He never fully recovered, and legend has it that he cursed the castle from his deathbed. Perhaps it’s so. Antonio Langella had a fall soon after, to his death, in fact, from the parapets during his final inspection. And within the year, Cesare Borgia was assassinated.

“After Borgia’s death, La Copia passed through various hands, until 1741, when it was purchased by an English nobleman, whose heirs retained ownership well into the twentieth century. Which brings us to its most recent owner, the infamous Mr. Capone. In 1943, the Justice Department offered two notorious mob bosses, Alphonse Capone, and Charles ‘Lucky’ Luciano, early releases from prison if they’d agree to be deported. Both men jumped at the chance. Luciano purchased a mansion in Naples, and moved there as soon as he was released. Mr. Capone . . . wasn’t so lucky.

“He purchased an historic Sicilian estate, La Copia, and made plans to emigrate, but when his lawyers applied for a visa? The Italians turned him down. Flat. As an undesirable.”

The quip earned a ripple of laughter.

“Flying into one of his famous rages, Mr. Capone swore that if he couldn’t live in Italy, he’d drag Italy here. He had La Copia, dismantled down to the last stone, crated up and shipped to Michigan to be reassembled as a northern getaway. But perhaps the pope’s curse held. In January of 1947, Mr. Capone passed away, and work on La Copia came to a halt. Without plumbing, power, or running water, the property proved impossible to market, and it re-mained empty into the nineties, when ownership passed to the state of Michigan for unpaid taxes. In effect, this property has been abandoned since nineteen forty-seven.”

“If it’s been sitting, Father, why the sudden interest?” a woman asked.

“In a word,” Cheryl Ford said, stepping up on the dais, taking the mike from Delfino, “Project Guedelon.”

“Say what?” someone called.

“In the Burgundy region of France, an historical society is building a new medieval castle,” she explained. “The workers wear period-appropriate dress and use only the tools and techniques of the Middle Ages. The planners expected the project to take twenty-five years. What they did not expect, was that the site would become a hugely popular tourist attraction. Guedelon is drawing nearly a quarter-million visitors a year and grossing millions. If La Copia can generate even a modest percentage of that, it could not only fund its own reconstruction, it could bankroll the entire Historic Sites Section into the foreseeable future.”

“That’s a big if,” a muskateer noted. “It’s been sitting for umpty years.”

“Which brings us to the current question,” Cheryl continued. “Should we attempt to complete it, or demolish it to sell off the real estate to recover what we can.”

“Demo it,” a contractor dressed as a cardinal offered. “It’s like a classic car, the parts are worth more than the whole.”

“Who wants a box of parts?” I put in. “I’d rather have a car. Or a castle.”

“Then cobble one together,” the muskateer argued, annoyed. “My crew could throw up a backwoods Disneyland in a couple of months.”

“You can’t cobble this build,” I countered. “The stones aren’t uniform. Back in fifteen hundred, every block was shaped by hand to interlock. If they’re not assembled in exactly the same order, the walls will never true up. Your Disneyland will crash like a Jenga stack.”

“Most of Langella’s workers were slaves,” Felder said dryly. “You might have a problem recruiting workers.”

“Langella needed umpty slaves because every stone had to be muscled into place,” I shot back. “Bull work, sweat, and blood. No slaves? Fine, I can work with that. A small crew with forklifts and a Skyjack can reassemble that outer wall like a paint-by-the-numbers Mona Lisa. My crew could finish the facade by Christmas, and repurpose the gatehouse into a gift shop by spring. At that point, we hand it off to masons and carpenters in period dress, who use medieval tools, and draw tourists by the busload.”

The muskateer shook his head, grumbling, but didn’t argue the point. This mob might be half buzzed, but they were professional builders. They got it. Maybe.

“Any other questions or suggestions?” Cheryl Ford asked. There weren’t. The crowd was getting antsy, anxious to rejoin the gala in the great hall.

“Then if the contractors will please submit their bids to Father Delfino,” she continued, “this meeting is adjourned.”

I waited at the rear, counting the bidders before submitting mine. There were seven. Mine made eight, but I was fairly sure it wouldn’t matter. Most of these firms were owned by corporations that could write off this project as a public service. I couldn’t. I gave the priest a slip of paper with my rock-bottom bid, and Puck and I bounced. But we didn’t return to the party.

We went out to the courtyard instead, to take a long, last look at the setup. I doubted we’d see it again.

The stone stairway beside the gatehouse door led up to the parapets, a fighting platform designed to give bowmen a clear shot at anyone near the walls. I sensed Puck’s mood getting darker with every step.

“What’s up?”

“Just thinkin’, Danny. Every stud who shaped these stones, and wrestled ’em into this wall? They’re all dead now. Some for hundreds of years, but even the crews who worked the rebuild back in the forties? They’re gone too. I’ve got a bad feeling about this place.”

“Bad enough to turn down the job?”

“C’mon, I saw your face when you looked at them sketches. We both know what you wanna do. If we get a shot at the work, take it. Don’t worry about me.”

“All right then,” I nodded, “let’s size it up.”

From the catwalk, I estimated the front wall was roughly a third finished. It would rise five more courses to—I heard footsteps on the stairway behind us.

Cheryl Ford joined us, still looking every bit the Renaissance princess, with Carson Felder as her escort.

“Gentlemen,” she nodded. “Congratulations.”

“Con—? Whoa up,” I stammered. “We won the bid?”

“By a narrow margin, Mr. Shea,” Felder put in, “though I can’t imagine why you wanted the job so badly. At that price, I doubt you’ll break even.”

“Some jobs are for money, others . . . ? Not so much. This rock pile stood in Sicily for five hundred years. If we do right by it, it can stand here another five. You’re a builder, Carson, you get that. Honestly, I would have paid them to let me do the work.”

“You see,” Felder said to Cheryl, shaking his head, “I told you he was interesting. Excuse me, but I have some revelry waiting below. I’ll put your first check in the mail tomorrow, Mr. Shea, and again, congratulations.” He trotted down the stone stairway, headed back to the party.

Cheryl eyed me curiously, shaking her head.

“What?” I asked.

“Are you and Mr. Felder friends?”

“We’ve met. Friends would be a stretch. Why?”

“You owe him, then. He went to bat for you with the board. Argued that a small crew like yours would be best suited for the job.”

“We agree on that much.”

“My mom told me you’d surprise me,” she said, still sizing me up. “What happened with you two? She won’t talk about it.”

I didn’t answer.

“It’s the age thing, right?” she pressed. “I know she’s a few years older—”

“Eight,” I said grudgingly.

“And what? That’s too much for you?”

“How do I put this politely, miss? I guess I can’t. If your mom isn’t discussing it, I’m not about to. It’s personal. Butt out.”

Anger flashed in her eyes and for a moment I thought I’d just blown the job. Instead, she glared daggers at me, then wheeled and followed Felder down the stone stairway. Puck gave me a quirky grin.

“Wow, I believe that’s a new record. Most jobs, it takes you a week to get crossways of the boss. We ain’t even started this build and you’re already there.”

“If things go south, we raise the drawbridge and fort up.”

“Mr. Scarface Capone probably figured the same,” Puck said. “Didn’t work out so hot for him, nor that Borgia fella neither, or his architect, not even for the freakin’ pope.”

I started to argue the point, but then didn’t.

He was right. Langella, Borgia, and even big Al Capone, all had plans for this place. Plans that didn’t work out worth a damn.

And now they were dead. All of them. And I was the one making plans.

 

That night, Puck and I crashed at a no-tell motel in the nearest town, Edelweiss, twenty miles from Capone’s Castle. We spent the next day verifying our inventory, counting every block and timber stored in the courtyard, fifty-five stacks of them, checking our tallies against the invoices Eli McKay’s crew had totted up back in the day. For the most part, the numbers aligned. A few timbers had been scuffed up during transport, but if we placed them properly, you’d never spot the marks.

We moved a couple of cots into the armory, plus a camp stove for heat and cooking. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it beat making the twenty-mile drive into Edelweiss for a Big Mac, and by the end of the day, I was feeling better about my lowball bid. Felder was right, I’d be lucky to break even, but we were looking at six months of steady work for my crew, most of it inside during the winter months, which matters a lot in the north country. Plus, the gig would put my company name on the map, in capital letters. Billboard size. I could work with that. All in all, smooth sailing on our first day.

But then came our first night . . .

 

Whoomp! The thump rang off the flagstone floor like somebody pounding an oil drum with a nine-pound sledge. But even as the thunder echoed down the corridors, I could hear the roar of an engine revving up and the clash of metal as the driver jammed his vehicle into gear. Sprinting to one of the bowman’s vents, I peered out into the darkness. Just beyond the drawbridge, a pickup truck was backing up to the rim of the moat. Jamming on his brakes, he shifted into drive again. The truck lunged forward, engine howling, accelerating until it hit the end of a logging chain with an enormous thump, and jerked to a halt.

Holy crap! That damned chain was connected to the portcullis grille. He was trying to pull the gatehouse down around our ears and another yank might just do it!

Puck was already out the door and I was only a step behind, both of us pounding over the drawbridge in our boots and underwear.

Across the moat, the pickup was still bucking against the end of the chain, bouncing around like a kite in a windstorm. Dashing up beside the cab, Puck hesitated an instant, timing his move, then yanked the door open. Grabbing the driver by his collar, he hauled him out, sending him sprawling across the turf. I leapt into the cab to shut down the truck, then scrambled out to face—

Hell, he was just a kid, maybe twenty, but built like a linebacker and dumb enough to take a swing at Puck, who’d been a logger when this punk was in diapers. The old man didn’t even duck, he just slapped the kid’s punch past to throw him off balance, then nailed him flush on the jaw with a right cross that landed like a baseball bat.

The boy hit the deck like a sack of cement. He struggled to get up but his legs were rubber and he only made it to his knees. He stayed there, shaking his head, trying to remember his name. Still feisty, though. Spitting out some blood and a front tooth, he glared up at us.

I was sorely tempted to boot him down, but I wasn’t sure he’d feel it. I hauled him to his feet instead.

“I won’t ask who put you up to this, you’d lie anyway, but you’re walking home. Where do you live?”

“Edelweiss, and my kin will—wait! What is he doing?”

Puck had moved around to the passenger side of the truck. Popping the gas cap, he stuffed a fistful of dry weeds down the spout. Then he thumbed his cigaret lighter, and raised the flame.

“No, hold on a minute,” the kid pleaded, “this ain’t even my truck!”

“Good, then you won’t miss it.” Grabbing the kid’s collar, I jerked him backwards as—

Puck set the sheaf of weeds alight.

With a loud whuff, the truck blazed into flame! Puck was already backing away, grinning like the imp he’d always be.

The flames blazed upward, and then a second thump came as the fuel tank burst, instantly engulfing the vehicle. We could feel the heat a full thirty yards away. It was diesel, not gasoline, or the blaze might have roasted us. Even so, the leaking fuel quickly fed a towering plume of fire that rose nearly as high as the walls of La Copia, the flames and shadows dancing madly on the ancient stones.

Within half an hour, the stones were reflecting the flashers of two fire trucks and a police car that came racing out from Edelweiss to answer my 911 call.

Sheriff Skarsgard surprised me. He immediately took charge, took our statements, handcuffed the kid, then questioned him in the back of his patrol car.

It didn’t take long. He left the boy, then joined us at the drawbridge.

“The lad’s Jory La Fleche,” he said grimly. “He’s local, a wood-smoke kid raised in the back country, and related to half the rednecks in my county. He works for your nearest neighbor, but won’t admit to it—”

“What neighbor?” I asked.

“Carl Hitchens. He owns the game ranch a few miles down the road. They raise buffalo and elk. Outstate hunters pay big bucks to fly in and take trophies.”

“They shoot animals raised on a ranch?” Puck snorted. “Some trophy.”

“Hunting’s big business up here, sport,” the sheriff shrugged. “All kinds. We’re the gateway to the northern forest, eighty thousand unfenced acres, and the last thing a game rancher wants is a herd of tree-huggin’ tourists trampin’ through the deer woods.”

“Why do I get the feeling you want to give this punk a pass?” I asked.

“He’s just a dumb kid,” Skarsgard sighed. “Your castle ain’t hurt none and you torched a forty-thousand-dollar ride that’s registered to the game ranch. Mr. Hitchens lives here, and employs a lot of locals as guides and handymen. You fellas weren’t here yesterday and you’ll be gone tomorrow. Let’s call the deal square. It ain’t perfect, but it’s the smart thing. How smart are you, Mr. Shea?”

Smart enough not to cross a country sheriff who was trying to protect his county’s biggest employer. Puck gave me a reluctant nod, so I decided to do what La Copia was designed to do. Fort up and wait for reinforcements.

 

Our cavalry arrived the next day. A small army rolled into Edelweiss at first light, a six-man construction crew in a caravan of work vans and pickups, hauling equipment trailers. North-shore boys from Valhalla. Wild and woolly and rough around the edges, but hard workers, every man skilled at his trade.

Ordinarily, a work gang rolling into a small town scares hell out of folks. “Who are those rednecks? Load up Grandpa’s twelve-gauge and keep it handy.”

Locals in Edelweiss didn’t spook so easily. They likely kept a watchful eye, but along Michigan’s north shore, families rarely lock their doors. Folks who can meet a black bear raiding their trash on any given morning aren’t prone to panic.

I’d called a work meeting at the only tavern in Edelweiss, set for high noon, with lunch and the first brew on me. Puck explained the job to the crew and the system of Roman numerals we’d have to follow in setting the stones, no exceptions.

“Every single block was shaped by hand to mate with the stones below and beside it. They’ll slide into place tight as a tick, as long as we stick to the damned charts.”

“Which doesn’t mean the work will be easy,” I added. “We’ve already had some trouble from the locals and we may have more.”

“What kind of trouble?” Shorty Shannon, a master framer, asked.

“There’s a burned-out pickup just outside our gate,” I said. “Maybe the owner’s leaving it as a warning, but that works both ways. Back in the day, defenders would mount the heads of their enemies on pikes. The pickup kinda serves the same purpose. Any questions?”

“I got one,” Maph Rochon said. “When do we get that first round you promised?”

Our liquid lunch went on till they threw us out at closing time. But the next morning the crew was at the site at first light, ready to rock.

We ripped into La Copia like Vikings on a raid. Half the men set about framing up a long ramp that would allow a skip loader to climb to the top of the wall carrying the massive stones that would complete each course. The rest of us worked on cleanup. We filled three dumpsters with debris the first day, three more on the second. By then we were working in the glare of bright lights after Consumers Power electricians ran a line in from the road.

We completed our first course of stones by noon of the second day, and started a new row at dusk. Only eighty-six more to go, not counting the castle keep, the barracks, the stables, and the gristmill. I knew we’d barely scratched the surface, but it was a solid start. We’d worked three full days and nobody’d died.

Yet.

Cheryl Ford and Carson Felder were our only liaison with the Historic Sites Section. Felder poked his head in the first day to hand me a contract and a startup check, wished us luck, and that was that. Cheryl continued to pop in daily to monitor our progress. She dressed for the jobsite, in jeans and work shirts, asked intelligent questions, took notes, but didn’t kibitz or hang around long. Which was good. Pretty women and construction sites are a risky mix. A smile can brighten your whole day, or distract you for the two seconds it takes to sever your wrist with a Sawzall.

Cheryl’s visits aside, the job went smoothly for the first few days, mostly because it was prep work for the heavy lifting still to come. I knew it was too good to last. And it didn’t.

 

Fourth day, just before quitting, I was up on the parapets when I heard a distant rumble. Not thunder. At the crest of a far hill, a biker had pulled over on the shoulder of the road. Motor growling, he was checking us out. With binoculars. Taking his sweet time doing it.

Puck flipped him off. The rider didn’t respond. Kicked his bike into gear instead and came rumbling down the slope. Cruising speed, I doubt he topped forty. Veering off the two-lane, he thundered over the drawbridge, through the tunnel, and slowed to a stop in the courtyard, facing us. Checked us out for a few before doffing his helmet.

Big guy, lean, with a shoulder-length blond mane, thick as a lion’s. Leather vest. A scar ran from his left temple down to his jaw. Fu Manchu goatee, aviator shades that he left in place.

“Who’s boss here?”

“That would be me,” I said. “I’m Shea.” I didn’t offer my hand. Neither did he.

“I’m Kragen,” he nodded. “Jocko to my friends.”

“What can we do for you, Mr. Kragen?” I asked.

“You can clear the hell out. You boys are trespassin’.”

“Hardly. I’ve got a contract from the state of Michigan. What have you got?”

“Squatter’s rights. My crew’s been doin’ business here for years, and it ain’t been free. We’ve paid our dues up right along.”

“I’m guessing your guys are the lights the locals see around here at night. Locals the sheriff runs off, right? Sounds like your problem’s with Sheriff Skarsgard, not us. Go talk to him.”

“I’m talking to you.”

“You’re wasting your breath. Skarsgard’s got no say in my business, Mr. Kragen. Neither do you. La Copia’s a construction site now, employees only.”

“Which you ain’t,” Puck added.

“Pops, I got twenty lead-pipe bikers in my crew, and we were here first. No need for any drama. But havin’ you fellas around could actually make our business easier.”

“You’re not hearing me, Mr. Kragen. You don’t have any business here.”

“Sure I do, sport, we’re just settlin’ on a price. Here’s my onetime offer. I’ll cut you in for half of Skarsgard’s take. Five K, cash, every month. Tax-free.”

“Capone chiseled on his taxes and wound up in Alcatraz,” I said. “We wouldn’t like it there.”

“They closed it years ago.”

“Then we definitely wouldn’t like it. Here’s my onetime offer. If you’ve got any gear on this site, come back with a U-Haul and pick it up. But after that, we’re done. You don’t come back.”

“Or what? You’ll call the law?” Kragen chuckled. “Good luck with that, sport. How about this? I’ll need a few weeks to set up a new spot. So for now, if a couple hogs happen to roll in? You don’t hear ’em, you don’t see ’em. For that, I lay five large in your hand, right now, and nobody gets hurt. Deal?”

“Keep your five, Kragen. You’re done here. Move on.”

One of my guys joined us. Maph Rochon, a full-blood Ojibwa, rightfully proud of his First Nation heritage. Wears his dark hair braided, favors buckskin shirts. Best hand I’ve ever seen with an acetylene torch, but a surly-ass attitude case. Never met a fight he didn’t like. Kragen sized up Maph, who was toting a shovel over his shoulder like a medieval man-at-arms. And smiling.

The biker took the hint. Backing his ride around, he kicked it to life, then rumbled out through the gatehouse tunnel and over the drawbridge. Pausing at the blacktop, he gave me a long, last look, then roared away.

“He’ll be back,” Puck said.

“Maybe not.”

“Nah, he will and you damn well know it,” the old man snorted. “Won’t come alone, neither, I’m guessin’. Only question is when.”

Which was answered soon enough. . . .

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