Coyote

by Rhonda Roberts

  ‘What about Daniel Honeycutt?’ asked Des, searching for another news update to cross off his list.

  I groaned and sat up. I needed to be awake for this bit. ‘He’s fine, Des. He’s back at his place, resting.’

  ‘And?’

  I shot him a glance. I knew what Des was asking … but I didn’t want to answer. Not yet anyway. I’d come close to losing Daniel last night and it’d almost wrenched the heart out of me … But he scared me too. I knew he was so protective because of his younger brother … but he was also a force of nature in his own right — unstoppable.

  And I had no idea how to handle him. Why did we have to fight all the time?

  Des studied my confused face. ‘You have to get back on the horse again sometime, Kannon.’

  I grimaced. ‘Did you really have to use that particular phrase, Des?’

  He ignored that. ‘Aren’t you over Alex yet? Is that what’s keeping you from moving on?’

  ‘Maybe … I don’t know, Des. Maybe that’s it, or …’ I shook my head. ‘Daniel’s pretty …’ I searched for the right word. ‘He’s pretty overwhelming.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Des raised his eyes to the ceiling in disgust. ‘Funny, that sounds just like someone else I know.’

  I sighed. I wouldn’t admit it to Des — not yet anyway, everything was still too raw — but after last night I now knew I cared deeply for Daniel … maybe even loved him.

  Des was right. Why was I really holding back?

  Then I remembered what Coyote Jack said to me in the Great Kiva — that I was afraid to give my heart freely because I still felt caged by my childhood memories. Was Daniel’s fierce love for me triggering my childhood fear of being trapped and controlled?

  ‘Des, maybe I’m having trouble dealing with Daniel because of what happened to me … you know … when I was a kid.’

  He shot me a searching look. ‘Are you only just realising that, Kannon?’ he said softly.

  I didn’t know how to reply. I thought I’d healed from my past.

  Des studied me, then nodded. ‘Well, Kannon, maybe you’re right to hold back until you are sure … Because Daniel Honeycutt is playing for keeps. You know that.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe that’s what scares me. After Alex, I don’t know if I can go through it all over again.’

  Des snorted. ‘You’re trusting your fear, Kannon, not your heart.’

  I couldn’t stand being called a coward, but he was right.

  Last night when I’d looked down into that dark watery hole and thought that Daniel had drowned … that he’d gone forever … my heart had shattered into slivers of ice.

  Was I really going to lose this extraordinary man through my own stupid fear? Would I let that old cage stand between me and my future?

  I refused to. I’d go and see Daniel tomorrow … I’d talk to him about how I felt …

  But my chest ached at the thought … both with fear and longing.

  ‘There are too many loose ends in this case, Des. I don’t like it.’

  ‘Yeah, Kannon, well that’s what happens with cases that stretch back centuries,’ he replied. ‘Remember the trouble I used to have with ones that only happened yesterday? Sometimes you just never find out the full story. So get used to it.’

  I refused to be put off. ‘But what happened to Coyote Jack? I can’t imagine him giving up.’

  ‘I guess he had to.’ Des shrugged. ‘He was public enemy number one for the next twenty years, with the US army after him. He must’ve gone south to Mexico and stayed there.’ Des frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Kannon, I should’ve trusted your judgement. But I was so convinced that Coyote Jack was El Chacal. It just seemed to fit so well … that El Chacal was the key to everything.’

  The horrible night I’d found Des in the Mission Dolores cemetery, he’d just come from an appointment he’d made with Jackson River. He’d wanted to confront River about his suspicions, but River never turned up.

  ‘I know.’ I nodded. ‘It’s so strange that El Chacal was after Isabella’s Cross just like Hector Kershaw.’

  He sighed. ‘Well, Kannon, maybe we’ll never know how it all fits together.’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘It gives me a strange feeling in my bones. We’re missing something big … We’re missing the big picture.’

  He shrugged. ‘But what can we do, Kannon? We’re out of money … and time. If we don’t get a new client soon we’re finished before we’ve really even started.’

  I ignored that. It was true but I couldn’t give up just yet. ‘But what about Hector Kershaw? What happened to Hector? Why would he disappear at the end of all his successful manipulation? The Corsairs were all dead … so were half the judges and politicians who could’ve opposed him. San Francisco was his for the taking. So why would Hector leave? And where would he go?’

  A pretty, middle-aged nurse walked past, silently checking on Des. He gave her a smiling thumbs up. ‘Let it go, Kannon, you have to.’

  ‘No, Des, I’m not letting go just yet … If I can just find the diary, then we can use that to —’

  ‘Oh God … here we go again,’ moaned Des. He covered his eyes. ‘I may just stay in hospital. At least the nurses are cute.’

  ‘Gimme a break, Des! I know that diary is hidden somewhere in the Little Boston Precinct.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Des perked up with interest. ‘What’s this precinct you’re talking about?’

  ‘Little Boston was Hector’s pet development. He sank all his money into it.’

  Des gave me a wary look. ‘And why are you so sure the diary is there?’

  ‘Because Gideon Webb told me so.’

  Des’ shaggy eyebrows quivered with interest. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me right … Webb told me he’d discovered that Hector’s architect died suddenly the week that the Little Boston Precinct was finished. He’d been knifed on his way home. But before the architect was murdered he wrote to a friend telling him that Hector had asked him to put a secret room into one of the buildings.’

  ‘You’re joking! A secret room? That changes everything!’ The bloodhound in Des was well and truly roused. ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘No, not yet … but I have a plan.’

  ‘Go on,’ he urged.

  ‘Hector was an expert liar and a genius at manipulating people, but he was also a deeply vain, boastful man. When he sold Isabella’s Cross to Rodrigo de Vivar he couldn’t resist telling his business partner how clever he’d been to find the cross.’ I nodded to myself. ‘I think Hector was bursting with so many secrets he wanted to boast about —’

  ‘Hmm. I think I can see where you’re headed. You reckon Hector couldn’t resist revealing his real nature in some covert way.’

  ‘Yes, I think he did it in his pet project — the Little Boston Precinct. His hidden room, the place that reveals his true nature, is somewhere in Little Boston. And I think he made the whole precinct the symbolic setting to his private soul. I think I can decipher what Little Boston means.’

  ‘Go on,’ urged Des, intrigued.

  ‘There’s something in Hector’s past that points the way to the secret room, the hidden core of Hector’s real self. For example, why did Hector call his pet project “Little Boston” in the first place? Hector was running away from that city. But there must be something still in Boston to which he was attached … or something that happened there that he wanted to act out here.’

  ‘You sound like an FBI profiler, Kannon.’

  I smiled. ‘I think Little Boston embodies the blueprint of Hector’s twisted little mind.’

  I stood on Prendergast Street, looking across at the Little Boston Precinct. I had my break-and-enter tools in my backpack.

  Why had Hector called his pet project ‘Little Boston’? I could think of no good reason, only that it meant something personal to him, something that defined him.

  There were five buildings, which were supposed to house a reformatory for delinquent girls and a women’s pris
on, a school and a hospital. But Hector’d disappeared before all the buildings became operational and without the missing architectural documents no one knew which of the five buildings were which.

  None of the buildings were named — except one.

  I was guessing that the architect had been disposed of before they could all be similarly baptised. The only building with a name was the one directly opposite me — the Thackeray Building. And it had a marble facade while the rest were brick.

  I tapped my upper lip. I was betting that the building that housed Hector’s private sanctuary got preferential treatment.

  But why had Hector called it ‘The Thackeray Building’?

  I rang the de Vivar librarian who’d helped me with Hector before. ‘Do you know why Hector Kershaw would call one of his buildings the Thackeray?’

  ‘Hold on, I’ll check …’

  I studied the front of the building in more detail. That’s right … there was that weird marble sculpture of a Greek hero slaying some kind of monster. I moved in for a better look.

  ‘Are you there?’ asked the librarian.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s strange …’ I could hear the puzzlement in his voice. ‘The only connection I can find … is that Hector and his brother, Lysander, went there.’

  ‘What do you mean they “went there”?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Thackeray was the name of their school in Boston until …’ He stopped.

  ‘Until what?’

  ‘Hold on, I need to check this.’ He was back in under a minute. ‘They were there for only ten months. They were removed and sent to another one.’

  I frowned. ‘Why were they removed?’

  ‘There was a death at the school. A group of students killed a teacher.’ I could hear him tsking. ‘They ambushed him in an alley after school and kicked him to death. The Kershaws must’ve been horrified and removed their two boys for safety.’

  Oh, sure they had!

  So that’s where Hector had started his criminal career? I bet he’d directed that gang of boys like puppets. It was the Thackeray Building after all.

  I thanked the librarian and disconnected.

  Gilda had said that Prairie Rose would sit in her guard tree and watch Hector’s office.

  I went round into the wasteland that’d once been a courtyard, to the rear of the Thackeray Building. I stood under the huge Canyon Oak that stood in the centre of the five buildings. If Prairie Rose could see Hector’s office from this tree, then it had to be at the back of the building.

  The Thackeray Building was three storeys high … I looked up.

  The Canyon Oak had a massive trunk and heavy, spreading branches covered in a spiny, holly-like foliage. It was a whopper — maybe ninety feet tall. I climbed up, looking for Prairie Rose’s perch … but it’d been around a century and a half since she’d sat in this tree. It would’ve grown so much in that time …

  I sat in the tree, looking across at the Thackeray Building. Even given the growth, Prairie Rose would’ve had a perfect view of any of the rooms on the top floor. And — knowing Hector — that’s exactly where his office would’ve been.

  I clambered down, got out my tools and broke in.

  I climbed the stairs to the top floor.

  I had to think like Hector … Every name, every symbol in this building was part of the blueprint of his nasty little mind. Each thing here held a significance that only he could decipher.

  I heard a sound and jerked around. A rat scuttled through a doorway to my right. Wait a minute … What was that up there? There was a letter engraved in the moulding over the door. It was a C …

  I looked closer … It was part of a name — Clay River.

  I remembered Honeycutt mentioning Clay River in connection to Lysander. It was where Lysander had slaughtered the friendly Cheyenne.

  Why had Hector named this room after one of his elder brother’s atrocities?

  I walked in.

  Like all the rooms in the Thackeray Building, these walls were covered in an elaborate decorative moulding. In all the others, though, the moulding had been simple botanical images, leaves, flowers etc. But in this one the moulding portrayed a scene from Greek mythology. It looked familiar.

  It was a Greek hero slaying a beautiful woman with the winged body of a bird of prey. It was a Harpy. This was the same image that was on the front of this building!

  Close up, I could see the pair were entwined in a weirdly erotic way, almost as though the hero was raping the Harpy. The monstrous woman had one gnarled claw locked tight around the hero’s throat and the other reaching up to gouge out his eyes. But the hero leered in triumph; he’d killed the Harpy with a sword downwards through the breast.

  Why was this mythological battle so important to Hector Kershaw?

  Then I remembered back to Hector’s hotel room — that mutilated picture of his fearsome mother. If he hated strong women he must’ve loathed her with a vengeance.

  I looked at the dying Harpy. Maybe vengeance was the right word.

  I followed the moulding; it went right around the room.

  Then I saw the massive fireplace. There were two life-sized sculptures of the Greek hero and the dying Harpy on either side of the fireplace. I felt their surfaces. The head of the Harpy on the right side twisted …

  And the side of the fireplace swung open.

  60

  THE SECRET

  Except for the cobwebs, the room looked like it’d remained unchanged since its owner disappeared into thin air in 1868.

  No expense had been spared. The paint was still bright, the one tiny, external window held a stained-glass scene showing the death of the Harpy but in more sexually explicit detail. It was fully furnished, including a desk, a chair and a bed.

  The architect had made this secret room a luxurious den.

  The furniture was crowded with personal mementos and belongings. And the walls were covered in maps, annotated in red and black ink …

  On the wall straight ahead of me was a map of old San Francisco, marked with faded red ink. There were three small crosses at the docks and two big crosses further into the city. Next to each cross was a number. Next to the map was a list with annotations corresponding to each number.

  The list was a head count of people killed and how they died …

  The three small crosses were the three men, all Boston bankers, that Professor Wauhope had discussed at the Criminology Conference. The ones he’d said had been killed by the Corsairs. The big crosses were the two disasters that Hector’d set up to destroy the Corsairs — Portsmouth Square and the Montgomery Building.

  I shivered. The map and the list were yellowed with age … and the oil from Hector Kershaw’s fingerprints showed that he’d fondled both. These were his trophies, his most prized possessions.

  I glanced around …

  This was a mass murderer’s private sitting room. Where he could paw over his triumphs …

  On the wall to my left was another map dated 1864.

  I stepped in, startled at what I saw there.

  It was a US army map of the Colorado Indian Wars. The map was also dotted with red crosses. Like the old San Francisco map, next to each cross was a number. Next to the map was a list …

  It was a head count of people killed and how they died …

  Each cross was a massacre.

  I shook my head. This couldn’t be Hector the banker’s hiding place after all, surely?

  Next to the old army map was a coat rack … hanging from it was a US cavalry uniform, hat and sword.

  On the floor below sat three pairs of worn cavalry boots.

  They looked like the same boots I’d seen in Hector’s room in old Santa Fe …

  I turned, looking for more clues.

  On the wall opposite the cavalry uniform hung a map of Mexico dated 1865 …

  I leant in.

  It was of the El Camino Real de Tierra Adentro.

  I traced the route. Along the
El Camino was a series of red crosses, exactly the same sign as on the other maps.

  Zacatecas, Caliente …

  Each cross had a number and each number corresponded to a detailed list of how many had died and how …

  El Chacal …

  I swung around the room. These were El Chacal’s possessions. They were his trophies …

  He’d been a US cavalry officer who’d crossed the border to become a hired assassin, and then finally a bandito in Mexico.

  The last map was of New Mexico dated 1867. There were three red crosses on it. Two were north of Santa Fe and one to the northeast.

  I checked the list.

  The one closest to Santa Fe was the Dry Gulch massacre. The next closest was outside Big Sun Canyon. It was Ernesto, the Native American guide from Fort Marcy.

  I slid my finger to the last cross, to the northeast of Santa Fe, then checked the list again.

  I gasped.

  It said: ‘Hector Quale Kershaw’.

  I stared at the list for a moment, all the pieces coming together like iron filings before a magnet.

  The mass murderer, a former US cavalry officer and known south of the border as El Chacal, had killed Hector Kershaw and stolen his identity.

  El Chacal had come to Santa Fe, in disguise, looking for Isabella’s Cross.

  It all came together.

  I stared over at the desk. The diary I’d seen in Santa Fe was there. It was bound in black leather with a blood-red spine. A vermillion ribbon attached to the spine acted as a bookmark. It was waiting on the desk, a bottle of ink and a sharpened pen next to it … as though the author had just stepped away from it for a moment.

  I opened the front cover and read the owner’s name, signed with a coldly precise flourish.

  Yes, El Chacal had certainly been a US cavalry officer.

  But he was supposed to have died a hero’s death.

  The diary belonged to Lysander Prendergast Kershaw … Hector’s elder brother.

  The diary told the whole story …

  In too much detail for my stomach — or my peace of mind.

  When Lysander was kicked out of the Thackeray school for arranging the murder of one of his teachers, Mama Kershaw decided sonny boy needed some discipline and to be sent as far away from Boston’s high-society gossip mill as was possible. He was given a choice: join the army or the navy.