Coyote

by Rhonda Roberts

  I’d seen that set of moccasin tracks coming out of the Great Kiva for myself.

  I’d witnessed Coyote Jack and his men arrive back to find a precious artefact had been stolen.

  I’d seen that rope dangling from the kiva roof, ending above the empty paws of that Coyote statue …

  I slapped my head. But what about Hector Kershaw? Where did he fit in? I knew without doubt that Hector was more than capable of murder. But was he just a proto-killer, a murderer-in-the-making who peaked when he reached San Francisco? Who’d channelled his psychopathic impulses into a more socially acceptable form …

  I had to talk to Des. He said he knew how it all fitted together. What had he found that made sense of these pieces? ‘Des!’ I yelled in frustration. ‘Where are you?’

  The fog parted and I realised I was standing in the middle of the old mission cemetery.

  It was marked by gravestones that looked as old as San Francisco.

  What did I do now? I wasn’t going home without knowing what’d happened to Des …

  Without hope I pulled out my phactor and tried again. No answer …

  Brring brring … brring brring …

  I pulled the phactor away from my ear …

  Brring, brring … brring, brring …

  I started running — that was Des’ ring tone. I stumbled, righted and then stopped. There was a small metal object on the ground. I grabbed it up. It was Des’ phactor.

  I swung around, the mist clinging to me like ropes …

  Gravestones, trees, crumbling wall …

  There — in one dark corner lay a crumpled heap.

  Des.

  I reached him in a bound. ‘Des, Des …’ I kept whispering his name over and over, more a prayer than in hope of a response.

  He lay completely still, collapsed on his side. I checked his pulse. It was slow but still beating. He was breathing.

  I rang 911, then Father Angelo.

  Moving him as little as possible, I searched for injuries. My hand came away wet with blood from the back of his head.

  His battered old briefcase was gone. I checked his breast pocket; his wallet was still there … Who’d cared enough about our investigation to attack Des just to get his briefcase?

  I gently cradled his grey head, whispering, ‘I’m here, Des. Help is on its way.’ Tears slipped down my cheeks, soaking his shirtfront. ‘Hold on, Des. Just hold on …’

  It was late morning and the hospital waiting room was still half full from last night. I stared at the ER door, willing it to open. They’d put Des straight into surgery. I was going crazy …

  I went through the same ritual that’d kept me sane for the past few hours: going through Des’ things.

  I reached into my bag and took out Des’ wallet for the tenth time. Yes, the dollar bills, the credit cards, everything was still there. Then I started on his battered leather briefcase. Father Angelo had found it abandoned on the pavement around the corner. I could just picture the attacker sitting in his car, chucking what he didn’t want straight on the ground.

  Everything concerning El Chacal and Isabella’s Cross had been carelessly ditched. But anything Des may’ve kept in his briefcase on Hector and his diary was gone. There was nothing on Hector at all.

  Who could have attacked Des?

  I sifted through this evening.

  The de Vivar Library archivist said Des had been excited about something when he’d passed her carrying a bundle of books and papers.

  The three piles of material on his desk were all about Isabella’s Cross and El Chacal.

  I pulled the note Des’d left on my desk out of my pocket and reread it: Kannon, I’m sorry but I have to follow El Chacal — too many things are starting to add up. I’ll be back here around 11.30 pm. I just have two appointments to make and then I can tell you what’s really going on. Des.

  Two more appointments? That meant he’d met with someone else before his meeting with Father Angelo … the one he never made it to.

  Who had he gone to see first? And about what? Had it been about Hector’s diary?

  Had Des uncovered too much and they’d followed him out to Mission Dolores to silence him? What had been in his briefcase about Hector’s diary? Had they stolen his proof?

  One thing was clear — someone dangerous was stalking Rewind Investigations.

  I looked down at Des’ blood still under my fingernails and folded my right hand into a fist. Oh, I wish they had picked me to deal with instead!

  The door swung open and a doctor in green surgical gear emerged to read from a clipboard. ‘Kannon Dupree?’

  I leapt to my feet. The doctor spotted me and came over. ‘Ms Dupree, your …’ He checked the clipboard. ‘Your business partner, Desmond Carmichael, is going to be okay.’

  I nodded.

  ‘We need to keep him in for observation for a few days but he should be all right …’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘No, not yet, maybe tomorrow. But don’t worry, he’ll be okay.’

  I nodded. ‘Okay.’ I couldn’t stop nodding. ‘Okay.’

  I looked over the surgeon’s shoulder to see Honeycutt burst into the waiting room. He scanned around then zeroed in on me.

  Honeycutt came up to me just as the surgeon left. ‘Kannon?’

  ‘Des is okay, Honeycutt.’ My voice wavered.

  Daniel wrapped his strong arms around me. He pulled me close. It felt good. Too good.

  I was starting to need him.

  And that scared me.

  I briefed Honeycutt on the trail of breadcrumbs that’d led me to the Mission Dolores cemetery. Now Des was safe, I was determined to track down who’d hurt him. I told Honeycutt I was going back to the office. Surely Des had left some clue as to who could’ve attacked him there. Honeycutt followed me in his car.

  I opened the door to Rewind Investigations Offices — and stopped …

  It’d been ransacked. The filing cabinets hung, broken open, and our two computer hard drives were missing. There was paper everywhere.

  Honeycutt and I sifted through the mess carefully. It was the same pattern as had happened with Des — anything on Hector’s diary was gone, the rest was dumped.

  ‘It’s pretty clear that whoever attacked Des was the same person who burgled your office last week,’ said Honeycutt, a little too calmly. ‘The same person who’s been watching you from across the street.’ His steely expression wasn’t so objective.

  I nodded. ‘That’s what I think too. They’re after the same thing I am — Hector’s diary. They want to know what we know.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Honeycutt, ‘and I want to know who Des had that first appointment with. They’d been careful until last night, but first Des and now this.’ He glanced at the mess around us. ‘Whoever they are, something’s got ’em riled up.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Then it struck me …

  Des’d said he intended to interview River … that Honeycutt didn’t trust him, so Des was going to check him out too. I turned my back and pretended to recheck the contents of one of the broken filing cabinets. Honeycutt could read me too well.

  But why would River attack Des and ransack our offices? What possible motive could he have?

  I now knew that El Chacal had committed Dry Gulch to get Coyote Jack off Spruce Tree Mesa … but Des still believed Coyote Jack was El Chacal. Had Des picked a fight with Jackson River? Threatened River with discrediting Coyote Jack? Des was certainly capable of it. Had River overreacted? Followed Des to Mission Dolores and gone ballistic?

  My skin crawled.

  I turned back to Honeycutt, keeping my face carefully blank.

  We agreed that Honeycutt would talk to the de Vivar librarians and track whoever Des had telephoned that day. I’d continue digging for Hector’s diary. Hopefully we’d meet somewhere in the middle.

  And then we’d know who had attacked Des.

  If I told Honeycutt about Des’ suspicions he’d gladly use it as an excuse to dismantle Ja
ckson River a piece at a time.

  But I intended to work that trail myself.

  52

  RODRIGO’S TOWER

  River parked his car and then opened his trunk. I pulled the focus on my binoculars. There was nothing in there except one sports bag, which he lifted out and dumped on the pavement. River slammed the trunk shut, then reached into the front seat to pull out a take-away coffee. He hefted the sports bag over his shoulder, locked up and strode onto Berkeley campus.

  River was headed for his office.

  I sprinted ahead, keeping well out of sight. In my stalking clothes I was just a fleeting shadow.

  I made straight for the de Vivar Library.

  It was locked down tight for the night with the alarm set. I looked up. Rodrigo’s tower loomed above me.

  There was always the short way.

  The pueblo tower beckoned.

  The fog had cleared and the stars twinkled in the clear night sky. I could see every crack and cranny in the tower. I secured my backpack and slid up the round pueblo wall smoother than a knife over butter …

  I crouched on the battlements, between two stone chiefs, and got out my binoculars. The view from the top gave me the full sweep from de Vivar Library to South Hall and the plaza in between.

  I checked my watch; River should be walking up Schlessinger Way, the corridor between de Vivar Library and his office in South Hall.

  I adjusted the focus on my binoculars.

  Bingo. River was right on time.

  He bounded up the stairs to South Hall, fiddled with his keys then unlocked the front door. A progression of lights flicked on as River made his late-night trek through the empty building and up to the top floor. His office window lit up …

  I smiled. I could see every inch of it.

  River came into view. He dropped his bag on his desk and sat the take-away coffee next to it. He pulled up the window then brought his coffee over to peruse the night sky. He twisted off the top, took a sip and dropped his gaze.

  I flinched … River appeared to stare across at me, but his eyes held that unfocused look, as if he was thinking rather than seeing.

  So, sonny boy … what are you doing here, so late?

  Have you been busy mugging old men for proof of your ancestor’s crimes?

  I growled.

  River went back to his desk, slapping down the coffee cup. He opened his sports bag, pulled out a thick book with a blue spine and a folder, and laid them on the desk. He opened the book and studied a page, then flicked the folder open and pulled out a fistful of stiff sheets. He peered at the top sheet intently, then used a magnifying glass to zoom in on a detail in the bottom right-hand corner. He compared what he saw to the page of the open book lying on the desk.

  I growled, ‘Move, stupid!’ The angle was wrong. I couldn’t make out what he was studying.

  River put the magnifying glass down and bent to better refocus his desk light on the sheet.

  Ah, that’s more like it!

  The sheet was a black and white photograph of a man wearing a Western hat. I adjusted the focus on my binoculars. That was Hector in full lawman gear, badge and all. He was standing in front of The Hue & Cry, surrounded by dead bodies … Corsairs, from their pirate dress.

  River flipped to the next photo. Again it was Hector being heroic …

  They all were.

  In each photo River used the magnifying glass. But I couldn’t make out what he was searching for.

  After the last photo River threw the pile on his desk in disgusted anger. He grabbed his coffee and went over to stand in front of his white board.

  I adjusted the lens again then jerked back …

  The white board was covered in a sketched portrait of Coyote Jack. It seemed to peer up at me knowingly, like the giant eye on the side of Spruce Tree Mesa.

  River picked up an eraser and rubbed out the portrait, the uncanny eyes disappearing last. He drew a black square in the upper left-hand corner, then the big square was joined by a red circle then five more. This was no fresh portrait; it was a map …

  Six red circles …

  I knew that map, I’d drawn it myself a few days ago. That black square was the coach; this was the layout of the Dry Gulch crime scene.

  River stood there for ten minutes, just staring at the map on the white board and sipping his coffee.

  I was just about to give in to impulse and go over and demand some answers when River suddenly slammed his coffee cup down on his desk. He flung himself out of his office, not even stopping to close the door. One minute later he was out in the plaza and heading for de Vivar Library.

  Correction, River was heading for the huge bronze group of statues opposite de Vivar Library — the memorial to Dry Gulch.

  He circled it once then zeroed in on the two entwined statues at the very front — Hector holding the dying governor’s wife.

  River knelt in.

  It appeared as though he was studying Lucretia’s agonised face.

  River moved back and laughed with delight.

  I grabbed my phactor and rang.

  River searched in his coat pocket to answer. He checked my call and thought for a moment.

  ‘Answer the bloody thing!’ I muttered.

  He clicked the button. ‘Hallo, Kannon, how’s tricks?’ He sounded very, very pleased with himself.

  River was still staring at the governor’s wife.

  I went for as friendly a tone as gritted teeth would allow. ‘Hi, Jackson, how’s the search going? Found any more leads yet?’

  River paused. ‘No, Kannon, not really. How about you?’ Now his tone was light, pleasant, as though he was getting ready to wind down for the night — not standing in front of the statue of a dying woman with an excited grin.

  ‘No, nothing new … but I wanted to ask you about something I’ve heard you’re involved in.’

  His curiosity was piqued. ‘Oh yeah, what’s that?’

  ‘I’ve heard that this whole Dry Gulch thing is really about a legal case to —’

  ‘To stop a land sale going ahead in New Mexico?’ River nodded to himself. ‘Yeah, sure it’s true.’

  ‘So …’ I tried to keep the edge out of my voice. ‘Just how far would you go to make sure this land isn’t sold?’

  ‘All the way, baby. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do.’

  Yes, I thought so.

  ‘Where are you, River? I want to come over for a chat.’

  ‘Not tonight, Kannon. I’m too tired. I’m at home in my pyjamas and about to hit the hay. What about tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure,’ I replied, keeping the fury out of my voice. ‘I’ll call you in the morning.’

  I hung up.

  River went back to his office, carefully cleaned off his white board, repacked his bag and left. He was whistling.

  What the hell just happened?

  53

  RIVER’S CLUE

  River emerged from his apartment about 10 am, heading for his car. I’d spent the night in a side street, waiting in my Buick Riviera. After what I’d seen at the Dry Gulch Memorial, I was determined to find out what River was really up to.

  He took off.

  I followed.

  River raced down Lombard Street, where it turned into Highway 101, as far over the speed limit as the traffic would stand. I dodged and weaved but kept four cars behind him. Soon the rust-coloured struts of the Golden Gate Bridge flickered overhead and the steel blue of San Francisco Bay glinted below.

  We left San Francisco, heading north.

  He hugged the inner bay, zipping past Sausalito, a pretty town with all its moored yachts. We’d entered Marin County — home of the rich and famous. River turned right off Highway 101 at San Rafael, reluctantly slowing. We burst out the other side of the township and into forested land.

  He turned down a private road.

  I slowed as I saw him pull through the gates of a Spanish mansion. It was a private estate. Imposing … awash with money. I pulled off the pri
vate road and hid my car behind some bushes. I watched River stand impatiently, waiting for his knock to be answered. His sports bag was over his shoulder. A white-coated manservant opened the door. They spoke. The servant tried to close the door but River pushed past; the servant followed, protesting.

  I scanned around; the grounds seemed deserted. I went in, using bushes for cover, and entered the house, via an open window at the side. Inside was a classically Spanish interior.

  I crept forwards, straining to hear River’s voice. Instead I heard the clip-clop of hurrying footsteps. I dived into the nearest room and watched the manservant flash past. He looked frightened.

  Then I heard River’s angry voice … he was in the next room.

  I stood in an old-fashioned study, all wooden panels, the walls lined with books and memorabilia. There was a door through to the next room. It was ajar.

  I crept up to it.

  River was arguing with a woman. She was in her thirties at least, maybe older. She had dark eyes and hair, a hooked beak of a nose and a cultured, precise voice that was edged with the knowledge that she didn’t have to take crap from anyone.

  ‘Look, Mr River, you can’t just show up without an appointment and start making demands. This is a private estate — not a public library. Go home and call my lawyer with your request. Then I’ll consider —’

  ‘Ms de Vivar, I have to know now, today! This is a very serious matter. If you don’t know where it is … then at least allow me to search for it. Just show me where you keep his personal belongings and I’ll —’

  ‘I certainly will not! Rodrigo de Vivar’s possessions are no one’s business but his family’s. You can’t just burst in here and —’

  ‘But I have to find Hector Kershaw’s diary. It is absolutely imperative!’

  She cut in angrily, ‘And just why is this so serious?’

  ‘My ancestor, Coyote Jack, was falsely accused and persecuted because of the Dry Gulch massacre. I know that Hector Kershaw — the only survivor — wrote the truth of the matter in his diary. I also have very strong reason to believe that his business partner … your ancestor Rodrigo Juan de Vivar … found that same diary after Hector disappeared.’