Coyote

by Rhonda Roberts

Then Shaker blindfolded Gilda …

  The hackles on the back of my neck stood up.

  ‘What are they doing?’ asked the anxious woman at the next table.

  ‘Just wait,’ answered her excited spouse.

  She frowned at him in distaste, but he was too busy devouring the scene on stage to notice.

  ‘Now, my Prairie Rose …’ commanded Shaker. ‘Fire!’

  Gilda sent her arrow into the target just below the bound girl’s left foot. She reloaded and sent arrows to touch the other foot, then each hand.

  Then Gilda aimed one final arrow at the girl’s head.

  We all held our breaths.

  Thwok. The arrow slipped past the girl’s scalp, to pin one curl to the target.

  I sneered. There had to be eye-slits in that blindfold.

  Gilda tore off the blindfold, her eyes even angrier than before. The applause was resounding. She looked straight at me. Before Shaker could finish taking his bow, Gilda brought an arrow to her bow and aimed at my head.

  The audience hushed. The tables around me sat frozen in terror.

  I dared her.

  She let fly. The arrow rushed past me to bury itself in the wall to my right. I felt my cheek; there was no blood, just a burning sensation.

  That’d been too close. Way too close.

  Shaker’s jaw dropped and he hustled everyone off the stage. The curtain came down with a crash. The tourists crowded round to gape at the arrow stuck in the wallpaper. They thought I was part of the show and took pictures.

  I headed for the stage, itching for a fight. A waiter blocked my way and asked me to follow him. He led me into a backroom.

  The actor playing Captain Shaker was waiting. ‘Sorry about that, ma’am.’

  I didn’t reply.

  He smiled nervously and asked me to sit. There were two glasses and a whiskey bottle on the table between us. He poured two drinks and slid one in front of me.

  I ignored that too.

  He took a slurp, studying me over the rim of his glass. ‘Hope you weren’t too taken aback by the floorshow, ma’am. It’s perfectly safe you know.’

  I noted he hadn’t introduced himself. Maybe he thought that somehow his cover would be a defence — that if I didn’t know his real name I couldn’t hold him responsible for what’d just happened.

  ‘Sure it is,’ I said, each word dripping with sarcasm. ‘Except when Gilda gets the bit between her teeth.’

  He blanched. ‘Er … yes, but you know us actors, we do like to improvise.’

  I took a sip of whiskey. ‘But Gilda’s not a real actor, is she?’

  He shot me a careful look. ‘Er, no … she’s an ex-Navy SEAL.’

  ‘Didn’t know they learnt how to shoot arrows … blindfolded,’ I drawled.

  He evaded my eyes. We both knew that Gilda’s blindfold was a fake. ‘No, but Mr Webb insists that everything be as authentic as possible. He runs a boot camp each year for us all to get ready for our parts.’

  ‘And just what part of being Prairie Rose is Gilda really getting into?’ I was still angry.

  He shrugged. ‘Well, Prairie Rose was a seriously disturbed woman. Her people were wiped out in some Indian War somewhere …’ The exact details didn’t concern him, which surprised me.

  We perused each other keenly.

  ‘Well, I want compensation for being a part of tonight’s act.’

  He tried to smile. ‘Now what can I possibly do to make you happy, Ms er …?’

  I ignored that as well. ‘I want to talk to Gideon Webb … now!’

  The faux Captain Shaker gestured helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, Mr Webb is out of the city tonight —’

  ‘Where is he?’ I demanded.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, he flew down to LA to meet with some investors who want to —’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ll make sure he will see you then.’

  I eyed the pirate-clad actor. ‘I want information about where Hector Kershaw took Prairie Rose after he rescued her. I want to know exactly where Hector kept his mistress.’

  He frowned, as though I was a little crazy. ‘Sorry, ma’am …’ He shrugged. ‘I’m just an actor, I don’t know any history except what I need for specific re-enactments. You’d have to talk to Mr Webb —’

  ‘I will. But I want some answers tonight. Where’s Gilda?’

  The faux Shaker blanched. ‘I don’t think that would be a good —’

  ‘Get her in here! And make her answer my questions,’ I ordered. ‘Or do you want me to make a complaint.’ I rubbed my reddened cheek. ‘I’d imagine her little display could get this place closed down.’

  The now sweating actor stood. ‘I’ll be back. Don’t leave …’

  Five minutes later the faux Shaker, supported by two of his faux pirate crew, returned. Gilda, still dressed as Prairie Rose, stalked in after them.

  She glared at me. The faux Captain Shaker jerked his head at the chair opposite, but all three men remained standing while Gilda sat.

  I gave her glare for glare.

  ‘Well, what do you want?’ spat Gilda.

  ‘After what you just did, you’re gonna answer my questions and like it.’

  She narrowed her eyes but didn’t protest.

  ‘I want to know where Hector Kershaw kept his mistress, Prairie Rose.’

  That just added fuel to her temper. ‘She wasn’t his mistress!’

  Behind her, the faux Captain Shaker rolled his eyes, as though this was an old argument. ‘Aw, shut up, Gilda! You know that Prairie Rose lived under Hector’s protection while he was mayor! So don’t bore the nice lady with your crazy views about whether they actually had sex or not. I don’t think she cares. Just answer her question!’

  Gilda eyed me like a mule would eye a work halter. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s bullshit, Gilda!’ barked the faux Shaker.

  ‘Well, no, I don’t have a street address if that’s what you’re after!’ she spat out.

  ‘Do you want me to tell Mr Webb about tonight’s little tantrum?’ replied the now furious actor. From his expression he knew that threat would work.

  He was right, it settled her — but Gilda still glared at me as she spoke. ‘All I know was that there was a special tree near where Prairie Rose lived. It was a big one … I think it was an oak. She said that it was the same kind that the mountain lions used to climb and wait for prey.’

  I stared at her. I’d heard a hunting-mad neighbour say that exact same thing about the Canyon Oaks in the coastal ranges above my beach house.

  There was an old Canyon Oak in the centre of Little Boston’s courtyard. My excitement rose; I was on the right track. It had to be Little Boston!

  ‘A tree,’ scoffed Shaker. ‘So what?’

  Gilda shot him a look of pure venom. ‘Prairie Rose called it her guard tree. Hector Kershaw saved her — so she vowed to protect him from his enemies. She was afraid that the Corsairs would find a way to take their revenge … so she’d sit in the tree, armed with her bow and arrow, and guard him. But Hector never knew she did it.’

  I shook my head. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’ Didn’t the librarian say that Little Boston was never used? ‘I know where that oak tree is. But I don’t understand how Prairie Rose could use it to guard Hector.’

  Gilda shrugged. ‘Hector had his own private office built right next to where Prairie Rose lived. She couldn’t protect him when he was in the middle of the city, in the new town hall, but she would guard him there.’

  I gazed at her. Hector had his own private office somewhere in Little Boston?

  49

  BACK AT REWIND OFFICES

  Panting at the bit to go straight back to Little Boston, I rang Des from just outside The Hue & Cry. We’d agreed to meet in the de Vivar Library at 11 pm … that was in fifteen minutes’ time. But, after repeated tries, he still wasn’t answering, so I rang the archivist who’d helped him that afternoon.

  ‘I
’m sorry, Ms Dupree, but the last time I saw Mr Carmichael was about three hours ago. He was on his way out of the library — and Mr Carmichael seemed very excited about something he’d found. I don’t know what it was, but he was carrying a stack of books and photocopies.’

  I gave up ringing Des and headed straight for the Zebulon.

  Maybe he’d lost his phactor again. Des was old school; he still wore the same dreary old suits he’d worn as a New South Wales detective and his phactor kept wearing a hole in the breast pocket — which he didn’t always remember to have mended.

  My heart sank a little when I saw there was no light shining through the glass pane of Rewind Investigations. Where the hell was Des? I had to get back to Little Boston!

  I snapped on my flashlight and opened the door with my key. It was pitch dark. I felt the hurricane lantern that’d been left ready on the secretary’s desk. It was stone cold. Damn!

  I checked Des’ office, swinging my flashlight around.

  Hmm. Wherever Des was now he must’ve come here first. The heavy bundle of books and papers the archivist had described were sorted and stacked into three orderly piles on his desk. I felt the lantern sitting next to them on his desk. It was stone cold too.

  I lit the wick, then held it up.

  Nothing seemed disturbed except the battered leather briefcase that was normally plunked next to his seat — the one Des always used as his personal in-tray — was gone. Like his frayed old cop suits, when Des became attached to something, he kept it forever. He’d used that same briefcase to hold the key papers from his most important cases for more than twenty years. I knew that because he’d used it to hold the files on my childhood kidnapping until he solved the case.

  Still, that the old bag was gone was a good sign. If Des’d started using that battered leather bag again then that meant he was now seriously sucked into the Kershaw investigation.

  But why had Des dropped off all this library material and then taken his briefcase? Where had he gone? And why hadn’t he rung me to postpone our meeting? That wasn’t like the methodical detective I knew.

  Damn. Just how long had Des been … missing?

  When I was setting up Rewind Investigations, Des convinced me he was fit enough to go back to work and eager to make a new career for himself as a private investigator here, in San Francisco. I felt a twinge of guilt. That was just what I’d wanted to hear too. He was the ideal partner for me, smart as a whip with more than twenty years as a first-class investigator under his belt.

  Plus, like me, he never ever gave up.

  I put the lantern down on the desk, got out my phactor and gave Des one more try. No answer.

  I plunked down on his seat. My office was still a mess, but Des’d set this room up like his old police office: no frills, no personal details, ‘just the facts, ma’am’. I shook my head; Des’d laugh his head off if he knew I was worried. He was probably out with one of his San Francisco PD mates in that cops’ bar in North Beach … telling some innocent cadet that daft tale about the New South Wales colonial justice system and the real origin of the term ‘kangaroo court’.

  But why wasn’t Des answering his phone?

  I perused the three piles on the desk in front of me, but the titles I glimpsed didn’t make any sense. I picked up the book on top of the nearest pile. It was entitled The Miracles of the Holy Cross of St Theodosius. There was a picture of a weirdly shaped, grandiose-looking cross on the cover. The picture looked like it’d been enlarged from some old oil painting.

  The cross was solid gold and the piece above the cross bar was a flattened oval shape. The oval was painted with floating angelic figures. The thing must’ve been worth a fortune.

  I opened the book.

  The cross had belonged to Emperor Theodosius who’d ruled the Roman Empire from 379–395 AD. He was the third Christian emperor, a religious fanatic who’d enforced his specific brand of Christianity throughout the empire at the pointy end of a Roman sword. He was personally responsible for the destruction of many of the most important pagan temples of the ancient world.

  Theodosius had wrested the golden artefact from one of the pagan temples he’d ordered destroyed, claiming that the cross-shape showed the universality of his religion. Theodosius had kept it with him always and was buried with it at his birthplace in northern Spain.

  That seemed strange, surely? A staunch Christian so attached to a pagan artefact, cross-shaped or not.

  I flipped to the next chapter.

  It said that for centuries, pilgrims from all over the world visited Emperor Theodosius’ tomb as it was renowned for miraculous healings. The Christians claimed the miracles were due to the sanctity of their pious emperor and the pagans claimed they were from the immensely powerful artefact he’d chosen to share his grave with …

  I snorted. Miraculous cures? Yeah, sure. Sideshow tricks for the gullible more likely …

  Finally, as the Roman Empire declined, the grave was looted. The body of Emperor Theodosius was never recovered but, five hundred years later, his beloved cross found its way into the treasury of the Spanish royal family.

  Really, Des! First it was a Mexican bandit and now you’re on the trail of some Goddamned Roman emperor … a moribund religious fanatic, slavering over his ill-gotten loot.

  I slapped the book back on top of its pile in disgust.

  The textbook on the top of the next stack was even worse. It was a dry-as-a-bone biography of Isabella of Portugal, the daughter of a king, who married well and became the regent of Spain from 1535–1539. Then I focused on the cover. It was an oil portrait of Isabella in full regalia and she was holding St Theodosius’ Cross clasped to her imposing bosom. The look in her eyes and the tightness of her grasping hand seemed to dare anyone to have the balls to try to take it away …

  I looked back at the first book on Emperor Theodosius. Its cover was actually an enlargement of the cross shown in Isabella’s royal portrait.

  Des had left a folded scrap of paper as a bookmark in the book on Isabella, so I flipped it open to a chapter headed ‘Isabella’s Cross’.

  I read it out loud: ‘An intensely religious person, Isabella pleaded with her husband, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, to be allowed to keep the Spanish royal cross. He granted her wish and Isabella never let the cross away from her person, until the very week she died in 1539. It is believed that week the cross was stolen by Alonso de Olid, a court official, who escaped with it to the Spanish territories in the New World. De Olid brazenly surfaced in Mexico City before fleeing north, Spanish soldiers on his trail …’

  I stopped. This was a complete waste of time.

  Why the hell was Des researching Isabella’s Cross?

  I looked at the third pile and cursed. Bloody Des, he was such a mule!

  It was all about El Chacal and his exploits in Mexico. I leafed through to the last few sheets. They were a translation of the same paper he’d showed me before — The Mexican Star. Des had highlighted sections of the pages with a yellow marker.

  I read aloud: ‘Over the past year El Chacal has plundered Zacatecas, Durango, Corralitos … and if he remains true to form he is due to hit El Parral next. He seems to be steadily working his way north from Mexico City …’

  What?

  I went back to the book on Isabella and de Olid and took up reading where I’d left off. ‘Neither de Olid nor Isabella’s Cross have ever been found and even now, so many centuries later, treasure hunters retrace his flight north along what became known as the El Camino Real de Tierra Adentro.’

  What? That was El Chacal’s favourite hunting ground.

  I switched back to The Mexican Star article on El Chacal and started reading from the start.

  ‘When El Chacal threatened the town of Caliente, the town council refused to meet his outrageous demands. Wanting revenge, El Chacal destroyed the town in what was to become known as The Reaping. It would be repeated in any town or village that refused to accede to the bandit’s demands. One cold w
inter night, he and his men blocked the doors of the houses in the sleeping town, doused them in flammable liquid and then dropped snakes down the chimneys before lighting the fires … Deprived of his victims’ bodies, El Chacal left a huge white painted C on the cobblestones in the middle of the town square.’

  Again, a C. The same signature left by the killer at Dry Gulch.

  I shook my head. How could there be such a coincidence? Was I wrong about Hector after all?

  I searched the article for a physical description. But none who’d actually seen El Chacal’s face had lived to speak about it. At a distance it could be seen he wore all black, with a black sombrero pulled low over his upper face and a black bandana over his nose and mouth.

  I read on, tensing as the death toll mounted. This man was a monster. ‘By the start of 1867 El Chacal was sweeping into towns and slaughtering them just to exert his control over the El Camino. People stopped using the highway and trade stuttered to a halt. Communications between Mexico City and the north, right up to the US border, virtually ceased.’

  My eyes bulged in disbelief. ‘And everywhere El Chacal raided, he put his victims to the same question … Where was Isabella’s Cross?’

  Huh?

  Too many questions began boiling in my brain.

  ‘In the end the Mexican army was sent after him, but it was as though El Chacal could read their minds. He was never where they thought he’d be, and he and his banditos moved like the wind.’

  That sounded too familiar.

  One Mexican official claimed, ‘He is like the elusive Comanche on their raids from Texas down into Mexico. El Chacal uses similar tactics to elude capture.’

  I stared at the page. El Chacal used Native American-style tactics?

  I read on. ‘The army finally cornered El Chacal and his banditos in an arroyo near the town of Juarez, but when they arrived they only found dead bodies. They were El Chacal’s own men, all poisoned, and he had escaped.’

  So once again — anyone who saw his face died.

  El Chacal was cornered at Juarez … That must have been when the Mexican government tripled the reward for the bandito’s capture and every bounty hunter in the United States headed down to Mexico. Including my cover — John Eriksen.