Coyote

by Rhonda Roberts

  The guard and driver both raced to show their compliance, putting their hands up as soon as their weapons hit the dirt beside the stage.

  I jumped over the tree trunk and kicked their discarded weaponry into the bushy gully beside the trail. Then I slung my rifle over my shoulder and pulled out one of my pistols instead. It was better for close work.

  ‘What do you want, Mr Eriksen?’ said the driver.

  ‘Just a quick talk with one of your passengers,’ I said, striding up to the coach. ‘Then you can go.’

  A grey-haired passenger stuck his head out of the stagecoach window, saw me and ducked back in.

  I wrenched open the door of the stagecoach to look inside.

  It was just Hector and a grey-haired salesman clutching a suitcase to his chest. The words ‘Dewhurst’s Medicinal Remedies’ were written in white across the front of the case.

  ‘Both of you, out!’ I ordered.

  The salesman complied, still clutching his case.

  I looked up at the driver and guard. ‘You two get down!’

  They obeyed, terror mounting their features. This wasn’t what I’d said would happen.

  Kershaw was still inside. He hadn’t moved.

  I stared at the three unarmed men. ‘Over there.’ I pointed to the rear of the stagecoach.

  They went.

  Keeping the three well in sight, I leant into the stagecoach and dropped my voice into a snarl. ‘Kershaw, if you don’t get out now I’m gonna shoot you where you sit.’

  His eyes flashed in sudden fury but he descended at the point of my gun.

  ‘Everyone take off their boots,’ I growled.

  They all dropped to the dirt and started tugging. This time even Hector did as he was told.

  ‘Now start walking; you’ve got a long way back to Santa Fe.’

  All four men turned like robots and headed back down the trail, the stagecoach driver and guard exchanging puzzled glances as they went.

  ‘Not you, Kershaw!’ I snapped. ‘Get back here.’

  Hector froze in his tracks.

  The other three shot him a pitying glance and then took off at a dead run. They didn’t want to witness what was going to happen next.

  Hector scowled at his fleeing companions, muttering something under his breath. From his expression it was a curse. But when he turned back to me, Hector straightened up. The person facing my handgun wasn’t a whiney kid any more but a man filled with a steely-eyed determination to best me.

  ‘Why are you pretending to be John Eriksen?’ demanded Hector. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Now why do you say that?’ I replied through gritted teeth.

  ‘Because,’ he spat, ‘I met the real John Eriksen years ago.’

  That sounded weird but explained why Hector had been interrogating me at the Prickly Cactus last night.

  I frowned. But if Hector knew I wasn’t the real Eriksen then why didn’t he squeal on me to the governor? That just didn’t make any sense.

  I didn’t have time to be sidetracked. The clock was ticking. ‘Shut up, Hector, and give me the diary.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Now Kershaw was genuinely shocked. ‘You want my diary?’ As though he was expecting me to be after him for another reason.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Hector kept a vice-like grip on the shoulder bag. ‘You’re not getting it,’ he snarled, his face contorted with hate.

  I studied him, confused.

  Hector was a chameleon.

  At the mere mention of taking his diary, Hector’s whole persona had shimmered into someone quite different again. Now I could see the changed face that Rosita must’ve seen just before he attacked her. Hector’s face had become older … cruel.

  This was no patsy, no innocent victim of the governor’s schemes.

  I held out my left hand. ‘Give me the diary!’

  ‘Not on your life,’ he spat back.

  My eyebrows went up. Hector meant it. Damn. I couldn’t shoot him in cold blood.

  I put all my hatred of his attack on Rosita into my face and voice. ‘Give it to me … or I’ll take it off your dead body.’

  Hector believed that threat. He threw the bag at my feet.

  I opened it, rummaged through and pulled out the diary. It was bound in black leather with a blood-red spine. A vermillion ribbon attached to the spine and acted as a bookmark, leading me to the most recent entry. There was a sketch of Rosita, slumped naked on the floor of the Prickly Cactus … Her mutilated face was outlined in loving detail.

  I scowled down at the appalling image.

  Hector Kershaw had not only cut Rosita, he’d sketched the damage he’d done to her as a kind of keepsake — a trophy.

  I glared at Hector Kershaw. What kind of animal was he? ‘You did Dry Gulch, didn’t you?’ I accused.

  Hector smirked. ‘And what if I did?’ He made his confession into a boast, as though glad to be able to finally reveal his true self.

  I felt a growl rumbling in my throat. Were there other pictures in this diary? Trophies from his slaughter at Dry Gulch?

  I bent to look, seeking confirmation …

  Behind me, a bugle sounded. There was the sound of galloping hooves. The governor had literally sent the cavalry …

  Hector laughed at my chagrin. ‘Now we’ll see who you really are.’

  I turned. Captain Bull was leading the charge; he and his men had their rifles drawn ready to shoot.

  Hector slammed into me, knocking the diary to the ground.

  A razor-sharp blade slashed through the air straight in front of my nose. I stumbled backwards and away. Hector followed, slashing the air into ribbons as I retreated.

  Captain Bull and his men had their rifles up ready to fire. They’d be in range in less than ten seconds. I had no choice.

  Incendio jumped the tree trunk to get to me. She stomped the ground, urging me to mount. To escape.

  I dived for the diary, but Hector dashed in front of me, laughing and slashing the air. He was enjoying his Jack the Ripper moment to the full.

  I had no choice …

  I lunged for Incendio’s back. She flexed beneath me like a giant rubber-band and cleared the fallen tree in one mighty leap.

  We sprinted down the trail ahead.

  I stole a look back. Bull had left half his men to guard Hector … and sent the rest after me.

  The bullets stung the dirt around Incendio’s thundering hooves.

  I leant over Incendio’s surging neck and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, girl, I have to go …’ I hugged her goodbye.

  I tied the reins together and dropped them onto her neck.

  I found my fob watch — my disguised transponder — and pressed it three times. And then another three …

  ‘Goodbye, my girl.’

  Incendio just kept racing her great heart out for me. Once I was gone she’d be safe; this time warp would zap back into place and she would go on to her destiny.

  The portal began to summon me … I shimmered.

  Incendio neighed in distress … anxious. She faded beneath me.

  I went, growling with rage that I wasn’t going to see what other secrets were in that damned diary …

  PART THREE

  PRESENT TIME,

  SAN FRANCISCO

  41

  REWIND OFFICES

  It was early morning in San Francisco. The drenching rain had passed. But now the fog billowed down the thoroughfares like a fluffy grey pillow in search of a bed, suffocating the faint autumn light and stalling the early traffic. After the shining turquoise heaven of New Mexico, it was like stepping into the black and white version of reality.

  I unlocked Rewind Investigations and flipped the light switch … Nothing happened.

  I thumped my bag onto the secretary’s desk in the foyer.

  At least, despite the dismal weather outside, the office wasn’t dark enough to need all the gas hurricane lanterns and boxes of matches Des’d left laid out in uniform order on the desk
… in his usual police haute couture, everything at exact right angles.

  For some reason it reminded me of the silver-handled brushes standing at stiff attention in front of Hector Kershaw’s hotel mirror.

  I shook my head free of that thought and walked through to stare at my desk. It was still buried under the mound of highly inaccurate research notes about Hector Q. Kershaw I’d managed to drag together before I left. My in-tray was the only empty space visible. At least the avalanche of bills hadn’t arrived yet.

  I was four hours too early and still furious that, courtesy of Captain Bull’s cavalry charge, I’d missed out on reading that bloody diary …

  Well, at least neither Honeycutt nor Des were here, ready to grill me for details I didn’t have. I had to think this through; I needed time to piece it all together. What possible motive could a spoilt Boston banker’s kid on his first trip out of his mama’s steely grip have for committing an atrocity like Dry Gulch?

  I moved over to the big bay window, glaring through the rolling wisps of fog at the old hulk of a building directly across the way. On the marble edifice, the head of a Grecian hero seemed to mock my confusion, as though it could reveal the answers to my questions but wasn’t letting me in on the joke …

  Because there was no doubt in my mind that Hector Q. Kershaw was the butcher of Dry Gulch. When he’d had nothing to lose by it … at the very last moment … Hector had revealed his true nature.

  The other thing I knew for sure was that I had to come up with bloody strong evidence for my conclusion. I needed a strong motive to convince people, Des included, that it was possible that San Francisco’s greatest hero was a cold-blooded killer … And then I needed the diary to prove it.

  There was a rapid knock and then the front door swung open. I’d left it unlocked.

  A dark-haired man stuck his head through. ‘Is anyone in there?’ It was Seymour Kershaw; his voice was tense, nervous.

  ‘Come through, I’m in my office,’ I grouched. Bloody too eager client had arrived before I even had my story straight.

  ‘Arrrgh!’ There was a crash then a heavy thud as Seymour fell over the secretary’s desk, knocking my bag off it as he fell.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he growled from the floor, ‘can’t you put a light on? It’s pitch dark in here!’

  I ignored that to grab Seymour’s arm and hoist him upright. He glared angrily as I struck a match and lit a hurricane lamp. I ignored his glare too, instead showing him into my office with the lamp held high. I put it on my desk, but as far away as possible — it was too bright and hurt my eyes.

  Seymour hunched down in my comfy client’s chair. ‘You’re back early.’ His voice was as strained as consommé … as though he wasn’t sure he wanted me back at all.

  Then Seymour focused on my face, stiffening at the sight.

  That amped up my anger … so I wasn’t looking my best after just evading a cavalry charge?

  But that wasn’t distaste in his eyes; it looked like fear.

  I studied his now sweating face, wondering. Seymour certainly wasn’t happy to see me, yet he was so desperate he hadn’t been able to wait for our appointment tomorrow.

  Seymour Kershaw looked nothing like his fair-haired relative, Hector. Instead he was lean and dark … but with the exact same arrogance that growing up with wealth and position had moulded into his ancestor’s features.

  Had Seymour acquired the other less acceptable qualities as well?

  Seymour, unused to a critical reception, took a second to recognise my suspicious expression. When he did, his dark eyes changed from fear to aggression. ‘So … what happened?’ he barked. ‘Did Hector keep one? Was there a diary?’

  I paused, considering my options. The Kershaws were the only people who had the incentive to spend the mucho dough necessary to send me back to old San Francisco and find out where Hector hid his diary.

  I tried to wipe the belligerence off my dial, wavered at neutral, and had to settle for stiffly blank. ‘Yes, he did, I saw him with the diary myself. But it’s not in Santa Fe; Hector took it with him on the stage as he headed for San Francisco.’

  Seymour reared back at that. ‘So there was a diary after all …’ he muttered. That thought scared the living crap out of him …

  Which made me prick up my ears.

  Did Seymour Kershaw know what was in that diary? Did he know about his ancestor’s dark past?

  I refrained from lunging across the desk. ‘Of course, I’ll have to go back to old San Francisco …’ I said, as smoothly as my temper could manage, ‘and find out where he left it.’ I waited, monitoring his expression like a lie detector on high.

  Startled, Seymour’s dark eyes bulged. ‘No! Not San Francisco! I don’t want you to. This has gone far enough —’

  ‘You know what’s in that damned diary, don’t you?’ I yelled. I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he spluttered defensively. It was cold in my office but there was sweat pouring down his face. He was lousy at this; a child could tell he was lying his head off.

  Hmm. So that’s why Seymour was afraid that there really was a diary. But why had he sent me back anyway?

  Of course! He didn’t want River to find it first!

  I stood and leant over the desk. ‘You slimy bastard, you sent me blind into that mission to shadow a stone-cold killer. You already knew Hector committed the Dry Gulch massacre!’

  Seymour’s expression went from fearful to blank, like a switch had been thrown. ‘What?’ he barked in outraged disbelief. The snooty leader of San Francisco society was back in charge. ‘What did you just say?’

  Hmm … His surprise was utterly genuine, no doubt about that. But Seymour was sure worried about something in that diary.

  And if it wasn’t Dry Gulch then what the hell was it? ‘You heard me!’ I countered. ‘Hector Kershaw is not the innocent banker’s kid that I was led to believe. Hector —’ I reined back, grasping for what diplomacy I could muster, ‘Hector had something to do with the Dry Gulch massacre … and I aim to find out exactly what it was.’

  Seymour lurched to his feet. ‘How dare you …’ he spluttered. ‘I gave you very specific instructions and you come back with these … these lies!’

  I grinned my wolf’s smile. ‘I’ll be able to prove them, Seymour … when I find his diary.’

  ‘You!’ He stuck his finger in my face like a gun with the safety off. ‘You’re fired; you’re off this case. And if you come anywhere near my family — if Rewind Investigations continues to look for my ancestor’s diary after this — I will sue you for everything you and your company has. And I will personally see your Time Investigator licence is revoked.’

  He meant it.

  ‘So the trip went well,’ chuckled Jackson River — now lounging in the doorway behind Seymour.

  We both jumped.

  Seymour swung around to glare at the interloper, then swung back to me for one final blast. ‘If I hear you’re continuing with this case, Miss Dupree, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers!’

  Seymour snatched up the hurricane lantern to light his way out. He slammed it down on the secretary’s desk in the foyer, almost breaking the glass.

  My eyes felt like headlights on high beam, searching Seymour for secrets … My ex-client was masking his true feelings with anger. Seymour was petrified.

  Seymour slammed the front door, rattling the glass pane.

  A quick glance showed River watched me with a curious satisfaction. He slid into the seat Seymour had just vacated. ‘You didn’t find out where the diary is hidden, did you?’

  My eyes still on the door Seymour had just exited, I answered, ‘No, but I saw it. I know Hector kept one. And that he took it with him when he headed for San Francisco.’

  ‘So it’s here after all.’ River gloated over that thought for a moment. ‘What else did you find out?’

  I sat. ‘You were right about Coyote Jack. He didn’t do Dry Gulch.’

  River leant in,
eager. ‘You know who did it, don’t you?’

  ‘I believe I do. But, as yet, I have no hard evidence. I need the diary for proof.’ I whispered to myself, ‘And to find the motive.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Hector Kershaw.’

  His black brows shot up in disbelief.

  ‘Look, River,’ I growled, ‘I went over every inch of the massacre scene at Dry Gulch and it’s the only answer that makes any sense. The killer wore US officer’s cavalry boots.’

  ‘But doesn’t that mean that Captain Bull was the —’

  ‘Let me finish!’ I hadn’t the patience for that particular dead-end argument yet again. ‘The killer trod in the victims’ blood while he was looking for something in the stagecoach … I don’t know what. I found the exact same boots, with blood encrusted on the soles, in Hector’s hotel room.’

  ‘Hector Kershaw wore US cavalry boots?’ A strange expression crossed his face. A painful grimace. As though he was trying to remember something but couldn’t quite get the right key in the right lock for the memory to be revealed. Then River narrowed his eyes. ‘But wait a minute, Kannon, much as I’d love it to be true — Hector was just a spoilt greenhorn. How could he —’

  ‘I know!’ I snapped. ‘But that same tenderfoot banker’s kid mercilessly carved up a dance hall girl’s face because she dared to look in his damned diary. Hector Kershaw had a dark side … a very dark side indeed.’

  River sat back in surprise. ‘But even supposing Hector Kershaw had a motive, how would he know how to set up the massacre to frame Coyote Jack? Because that’s what happened.’

  I hate it when people ask me questions I don’t know the answer to. ‘So Hector did his homework before he came to Santa Fe …’ I shrugged. ‘That just shows it was planned. I know, without a doubt, that he did it. What I want to know is why he did it … Why would Hector travel so far to kill those particular people?’

  River sat in deep thought. ‘But cavalry boots … why would Hector Kershaw wear cavalry boots?’ A startled look exploded across his face, as if the answer had just jumped out from under my desk and yelled, ‘Surprise!’