“Tell me about his plan.”
“I was supposed to have the information to him Friday, but I only got a few shots of her coming and going from work. So I didn’t get the rest of the information he was looking for. And I didn’t put eyes on her until last night. She was at some guy’s house all weekend.”
Streeter shot another glance at Kelleher. No reaction.
“He told me where to look for her car and gave me several addresses to check out. I finally found her in the mountains at an address that he’d told me would be the least likely place to find her but an option. She was there.”
This was his house. This guy was hired by someone who knew his address. Streeter’s gut twisted. He knew exactly what this was about. It was about him, not Liv. “So you followed her.”
He nodded. “She’s dead? Seriously? I killed an agent?”
His foot trembled—then his knee, then his entire leg. Instinctively, he reached for another cigarette. And the agents instantly reached for their guns.
“Give us another minute before you light up again.” Streeter acted like he was wrapping up. “One more thing. Who hired you?”
Chavez shrugged. “I never met him before. I answered a personal ad on Craig’s list.”
“But you did meet him. You saw him. What’d he look like?”
“Yeah, last Wednesday. He looked rich. A suit. How the hell do I know?” He threw up his hands in exasperation.
Streeter laced the fingers of his hands, scooted toward the edge of the couch, and shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. He wanted so badly to punch this guy in the mouth. “Try harder. Race. Height. Build. Hair color.”
“I told you, I don’t know. I need a cigarette.”
Streeter sprang to his feet and snatched Chavez from his chair. He pinned the man like a moth to the bare wall. His fist wrapped tightly around Chavez’s collar and bunched it tight. He pushed against his chest while his other hand whipped out his handgun. Then he pressed the barrel against Chavez’s temple.
“Try harder.”
Chavez’s eyes went wild. He panicked. He couldn’t breathe. He wriggled beneath Streeter’s grip.
Kelleher stepped up beside Streeter. “Easy.”
Streeter let loose of the man’s shirt. Chavez coughed and grabbed at his throat.
“Let him talk,” Kelleher urged.
Chavez’s stare bounced between him and Kelleher. “The guy was white. My height—maybe taller … soft … all shiny. Gold rings on every finger. A ginger.”
“A name,” Streeter growled.
“I. Don’t. Know.” His eyes grew hard as he glared back at Streeter.
“He doesn’t know,” Kelleher repeated.
Streeter cocked his revolver. “Then I don’t need him anymore.”
“Vic. The guy’s name is Vic.” Spittle flew from Chavez’s nervous lips. “That’s all I know.”
Streeter released the hammer and lowered the gun. “The SIG.”
“What?”
He threw his hands up in surrender when Streeter again pressed the barrel against his forehead. “Where is it? The gun you stole last night.”
Chavez’s eyes slid over to the recliner. Streeter slammed him up against the wall and let him crumple to the floor. When Streeter darted for the chair, Kelleher stepped in and stood over Chavez, his service weapon trained on his chest. Streeter slid his hand between the cushion and the armrest on the right side of the chair and pulled out Liv’s gun, stuffed it in the waistband of his khakis, and tightened plasticuffs onto Chavez’s wrists.
Kelleher helped him lift the thug off the floor. “Julius Chavez, you’re under arrest for assault and battery of a federal agent. Read him his rights before I kill the bastard.”
Streeter left Kelleher with Chavez as he rushed out the front door to cool off. The night air was brisk and fresh. He drew in a breath and told himself not to go back into that house; not to punch him liked he’d hit Liv. Instead, he focused on recounting everything he’d just learned from this creep.
Within a half hour, they were back at the bureau, with Chavez in federal custody.
It had been one of the longest Mondays on record. Or at least it felt that way. Streeter needed some sleep. Instead, he settled for stale coffee and a quick retreat to his office while Kelleher processed the criminal.
Case files, mail, phone messages, and piles of work loomed on his cluttered desk. For the first time in his career, he’d blown off work over the past week and had done virtually nothing—besides Liv—since last Monday. He didn’t regret a single consequence from his choice. She was worth it.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to address any of this work or tackle the piles of neglected mail, intercompany memos, or caseloads. Then he sighed. If he knocked out some of the tasks, he’d have more time for Liv when she was released.
The first thing he did was check his cell phone to see if he had any messages from her, but there was nothing, which hopefully meant she was fast asleep. He sent a text to the police guard on duty, inquiring about Liv’s condition. The officer quickly responded that she was indeed sound asleep in her hospital bed.
Good news. She was healing.
His spirits elevated at the thought of going to Fort Collins with her tomorrow as her personal escort and guard. He just hadn’t told her yet. He’d share the news in the morning when he picked her up to take her home and then they could spend the night together in the hotel. He smiled at the thought as he flipped through his stack of phone messages and mail.
One particular envelope caught his eye, and dread filled him as he tore open the ominous envelope. The letter dated last week was simply notifying Streeter that the upcoming parole hearing for Jeremiah Coyote Cries had been delayed.
What parole hearing, he thought? What have I missed?
His heart sank. This was a serious consequence of his neglect of his work this week.
He rifled through the rest of the mail and scattered envelopes across the desktop and onto the floor, until he found a similar envelope. He tore it open and read the parole board’s letter. It was an invitation for him to join the proceedings scheduled for last Thursday at nine. He looked at the calendar and swore.
Then he looked at the newer letter. The delay was until Tuesday next week at nine.
“Oh my God.” Streeter groaned gutturally. He didn’t even recognize his own voice. It was animalistic, fearful, and unexpected.
Jeremiah Coyote Cries.
He had almost missed it. If not for the delay, he wouldn’t have been there to testify to make sure that monster remained behind bars until he rotted. He thought of Liv and was sickened at the thought of what might have happened to her because of his carelessness.
Next Tuesday. Nine o’clock. He would be there. Nothing would stop him.
Then he remembered an earlier thought he’d had about Liv—that he’d opened up to her about topics he’d never discussed with another human being. He’d shared all his innermost thoughts—except this. There were still secrets left to share and demons to exorcise. He would tell her tomorrow night. He would share everything.
Then a name on the letters caught his eyes.
A name following the cc: at the bottom of the page. It was the name of an attorney—for Coyote Cries.
Victor Webber.
Streeter spun toward his computer, searched for the attorney’s name, and saw the image of a soft, rich lawyer with red hair, a suit, and gold rings on every finger.
Vic.
Streeter slammed his fist on the desk.
Liv’s attack was all about him.
About Coyote Cries.
Feeling the hot flash of nausea flood his cheeks, he slapped the letters onto his desk and ran for the bathroom. He made it just in time as he upchucked the coffee he’d just drunk. He splashed cool water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were wild and distant. His hands were trembling.
He gripped the sides of the cool porcelain sink and locked his elbows, allowing
his head to sag between his tense shoulder blades. Unaware of how long he’d been standing there, he was startled when a hand reached out and touched his shoulder.
He spun around, nearly jumping out of his skin.
“What’s the matter?” Phil Kelleher asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Streeter caught his breath and forced a smile on his lips. “Long day.”
He released his grip on the sink and walked past Kelleher.
“You’re a bit shaky,” he offered quietly. “What’s happened?”
Streeter saw the concern in Kelleher’s stare, but instinct told him to keep quiet until he could understand more about what was happening. He needed to find control and balance before endangering others.
“Is there something I can do?”
It was then that Streeter’s plan began to formulate. “Would you mind escorting Liv to Fort Collins tomorrow if you can spare tomorrow and Wednesday?”
Kelleher nodded. “Like old times.”
STREETER’S SLEEP WAS FITFUL.
Thoughts of Paula, his life as a young adult, and his days on his first assignment in Rapid City, South Dakota, came flooding back to him like a long-lost home movie. A horror movie.
As the painful and distant memories resurrected themselves, his insecurities and indecision about how to explain to Liv what was happening also sprang to life. His reaction to the letter and being sickened at the mention of Jeremiah Coyote Cries’s name revived his grief for Paula.
It was an instant recollection of suppressed memories of finding the mutilated remains of his once beautiful wife.
He had thrown up so many times that evening twenty years ago when he saw her in their Denver apartment that he eventually went from regurgitation to dry heaves to throwing up blood. The shock and horror of it all had nearly killed him. Only the anger and the need for revenge had motivated him to stay alive.
The blood coursed through his veins so intensely after finding her body that his heart pounded with hatred and his face reddened with fury every time he thought of it. His thick, brown hair had turned stark white—overnight. His sole focus had become finding the demon who had murdered his wife.
Coyote Cries changed Streeter’s life forever and brought a darkness to his world that was colder and more blinding than anything he could have ever imagined. Even his combat experience in the Special Forces as a US Marine paled in comparison to what he had witnessed and suffered with his wife’s brutal murder.
He had finally earned a peaceful sleep this past week, but now he was being plunged into his haunted past with the permanent reminders of the evil that existed through those damned letters. The monster was eligible for parole. He couldn’t let that happen, and he had to decide where Liv fit into all this blackness. It was smothering him and permeating his nostrils and heart.
On one hand, Streeter could not imagine how the correctional system could possibly consider parole for such an evil human being or what possible reason they could use to justify even the most remote possibility for his release. On the other hand, he realized that times had changed, and criminals who had been convicted for drug trafficking were granted much lighter sentences than Coyote Cries had already served.
If the parole board freed Coyote Cries, Streeter had no trouble imagining the thrill the lowlife would get out of further torturing him through Liv if he discovered her importance to him—which he probably already had through Julius Chavez and his attorney, Victor Webber.
How could this be happening?
The man was pure evil, and he blamed Streeter for his incarceration. Even though Coyote Cries totally devastated Streeter by murdering his beloved wife, he would not be above continuing the excruciatingly painful war that he had waged against Streeter decades ago. Death by a thousand cuts. It wasn’t over.
Streeter was rightfully concerned about Liv’s safety, especially considering the barbaric way Coyote Cries had taken his revenge before he was imprisoned. He had to decide if the chances of Coyote Cries being released were worth risking the love, trust, and happiness he had finally found with Liv. He couldn’t bear the thought of Coyote Cries touching her. He would rather die first.
His only option was to end the relationship with Liv for her own protection. He had to be convincing, and he had to do it swiftly before anyone learned of his feelings for her. He would have to figure out a way to stop Coyote Cries from finding her. He’d pay a visit to Victor Webber first thing in the morning before the lawyer passed on anything to his client that Chavez had learned about Liv.
He seethed and shuddered. Squeezing his eyes closed, he laid his hand on Beulah’s head. She lay beside him on the big feather tick comforter. She breathed heavily as he scratched behind her ear.
How could he possibly say goodbye to Liv? Convincingly?
He didn’t want to let go.
Why did he allow Coyote Cries to have such a visceral effect on him? Why hadn’t he killed the man when he’d had the opportunity?
If he had, Paula would still be alive. And Liv would be safe.
He had let them both down.
He covered his eyes and rubbed. He answered his own question and reminded himself that life was only ten percent of what happened to him and ninety percent of how he reacted to it. That was how he had always survived challenges.
The upcoming parole hearing would be held in the administrative offices in Littleton next to the Englewood Federal Correctional Institution next week on Tuesday at nine o’clock.
He rehearsed the testimony that he’d be giving at that hearing. He would vehemently request the board deny Coyote Cries’s parole. He would list not only his numerous criminal activities as a teenager and young adult but also the laundry list of inhumane treatment he had inflicted on many of the people at the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, on the federal agents, and on his own dear wife—the innocent.
Certainly, the parole board could not possibly recommend this criminal for conditional release once they saw the cold, black evil that lurked in his eyes. Certainly, they wouldn’t. He glanced at the clock. It was four in the morning.
He would go to the hospital.
And end this.
Streeter arrived at Liv’s hospital room shortly after six.
She was awake, staring out her window. She hadn’t heard him come in.
“Hey,” she said, smiling when he stepped into view.
“Morning.” His heart was heavy. Kissing her tentatively on the cheek, he said, “Sorry it’s so early.”
Liv stared at him with concern. “I was awake. Good timing. It’s shift change.”
The thought suddenly occurred to him that Liv was from South Dakota and so was Coyote Cries. He shuddered at the thought of them ever having crossed paths when she was just a young girl and shifted uncomfortably to shake off the sudden chill that danced down his spine.
“Is something wrong?”
“We arrested the guy who attacked you. His name is Julius Chavez. He said he was paid to verify where you lived. So I’ve assigned full-time police protection for you at home and at work.”
She grinned and grabbed his hand. “Are you going to be my bodyguard? Round the clock?”
He slid his hand free and turned his back to her. He couldn’t lie directly to her face. “Liv, about that. It was fun, but we really shouldn’t have. I’d like to put all that in the past and forget it ever happened.”
She said nothing. He could feel her stare boring into the back of his head trying to read him.
He continued with his lies. “It’s just not for me. I took advantage of you after Jack’s death. I was just feeling sorry for myself losing Jenna.” That was total lie. There was nothing between him and Jenna Tate.
“I’ve turned over your case to Phil Kelleher. He’ll be coordinating your protection. He’ll be here to escort you home today and then to Fort Collins. He’ll accompany you on your case tomorrow, and he’ll also be responsible for the police protection until we can get this case sorted out.”
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“Now I’m a case?” Pain dripped from each word.
“Liv, the last week has been fun, and you’re a wonderful girl …” He didn’t turn to see her reaction. “But all good things must come to an end.”
She said nothing.
“I just don’t want anyone to get hurt here. You’re such a nice young woman. And I’m just a stubborn, old man. I’m set in my ways. And I love my life as a bachelor. I just don’t want you to get any ideas about us.”
He had rehearsed a line where he depicted himself as a salty old playboy, but he knew no one would buy that story. Especially Liv. So, he had settled on the “I want to be alone” routine and hoped she’d believe it.
“What are you saying?” Liv finally asked quietly.
“I’m saying it would really be best for both of us if you would take that job that Doonsberg offered you,” he said as evenly as he could manage. “Kelleher has your ticket to DC for your official interview and transfer to CID. It’s all arranged this week.”
They had shared with one another all the offers that had been made and their thoughts through the decision-making process, both admitting their choices had depended on one another. To tell her to take the offer in DC truly signaled it was over and that he wasn’t going anywhere. He hadn’t expected her reply.
“But I love you.”
Streeter’s heart broke into a million pieces. He resisted the urge to spin around and embrace her, abandon all this malarkey, and tell her he loved her, too. He struggled to control his breathlessness and the lump that rose in his throat. Knowing it would be one of the most hurtful things he could ever say to her, he managed to feign a chuckle. “Don’t be silly. You don’t even know me.”
He’d said it—cruelly and deliberately. He hoped the words would make her hate him and that they were words that might save her from Coyote Cries’s wrath. If someday the threat of his demon’s release from prison no longer existed, then he trusted Liv would find it in her heart to forgive him and take him back. But he didn’t hold out much hope. He knew he’d wounded her deeply with his deliberate message filled with coolness and disrespect.
Jeremiah’s Revenge: A Liv Bergen Mystery Page 15