“Tell Dan I’ll call him.” He picked the day and exact time to expect the call. “I’ll have my answer by then on whether or not I want back in the business.”
Vic glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone had moved into earshot. He leaned forward and removed his glasses, catching his gaze. “Alcott’s going to be pissed if you drag this out too long.”
Coyote Cries squinted. He resented being lectured.
Nervously, Vic explained, “I’m just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying.” Coyote Cries leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Just get everything on that list. Have it at Dan’s by noon tomorrow. Tell Dan I’ll call him. Got it?”
Vic nodded, averting his gaze.
No one was paying attention to them.
Vic sighed and stuffed the scrap of paper into his shirt pocket.
Coyote Cries casually pushed the ratty Bible he had laid on the table toward Vic. His attorney sat perfectly still, staring at the book. This idiot would eventually figure out that he was trying to give him something.
Vic’s eyes grew wide. Clearly from his body language, he didn’t want anything from his client. He never did.
Coyote Cries knew exactly what he was thinking. That something from the Lakotan always meant trouble. That he hadn’t even wanted to visit this client today. Or ever.
But Vic knew if he hadn’t come, it would be worse. Jeremiah Coyote Cries was probably the most ruthless man Vic had ever known. And he’d known his share of merciless people. Coyote Cries hoped these types of thoughts raced through this idiot’s mind every time they met. He wanted that amount of control over Vic. All he needed was to manipulate this asshole for one more day until he successfully argued for his freedom tomorrow.
Vic stroked his cropped hair with his thick, gold-studded fingers, and it sprang back into place like a thick shag carpet.
He was the epitome of ridiculousness in Coyote Cries’s mind. He was weak and greedy. He probably lost sleep wondering how he ever got himself into this mess in the first place. He was a wealthy, successful lawyer who boasted about his mansion in Cherry Creek and his profitable law practice. His third wife, a gorgeous blond, was nearly half his age and wanting nothing more from life than to shop for expensive clothing and to be sexually pleasing to him, with the former being a prerequisite to the latter.
Yet look at him. He was pathetic—a prisoner to his fortune.
“Galeshka,” he said aloud, not intending to have voiced his thoughts.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Coyote Cries said. But he’d said “spotted” in the Lakota language, thinking of 13:23 and knowing the answer. This leopard certainly couldn’t change his spots. He was disloyal twenty years ago, and he was the same today. Still spotted.
Between Dan Alcott, his primary client, and Coyote Cries, his most feared client, Vic Webber had built his practice on defending the most prominent and profitable drug traffickers in North America and winning. Most of the time.
No doubt, he hoped Coyote Cries was going to lose tomorrow.
Coyote Cries saw the sweat dripping down Vic’s temples. He no longer needed proof that he had double-crossed him, purposely worked toward him losing the parole hearing tomorrow. He knew in his gut the man was spotted, and he was going to make sure Vic Webber’s obituary ended up in The Denver Post within the week.
Vic had accomplished everything exactly as asked over the years. Not the least of which was in his Bible. Vic had obtained the forged letterhead for him and gave it to Coyote Cries during the last visit. Now Coyote Cries was giving it back to Vic. Only this time, the letterhead was no longer blank. Coyote Cries had never told Vic why he’d requested it. Instead, Coyote Cries personally typed and sealed the letter that would be hand-delivered today.
It was a forged letter from the parole board office in correctional services at the Englewood Federal Correctional Institution in Littleton. Board of Prison terms were stenciled across the forged blue and black emblem embossed on the crisp, white paper. Beautiful. He’d been pleased with Vic’s ability to get him what he wanted. And it was better for Vic that he’d asked no questions and knew as little as possible. He’d be safer.
He was nearing the finish line.
But Vic stared at the Bible as if it were a coiled rattlesnake ready to strike. Eventually, in response to Coyote Cries’s stillness and silence, he sighed, wiped the sweat from his groomed brows, and reached for the worn, tattered book.
Coyote Cries curled his thin lip. “Try Jeremiah chapter four, verse thirteen.”
Vic rifled through the pages slowly with trembling hands. He was flipping the pages, clearly unfamiliar with the references to books such as Jeremiah. Not a spiritual man.
Just as he retrieved the small sealed envelope marking the page, Coyote Cries chanted, “Look, the enemy is coming like clouds. His war chariots are like a whirlwind and his horses are faster than eagles. We are lost. We are doomed.”
Vic grimaced and slipped the envelope into the inside pocket of his suit coat. “So dark. Morbid. Ever try reading Penthouse?”
Coyote Cries simply stared and remained silent.
“What’s your fascination with the Bible, anyway? With the book of Jeremiah, specifically?”
Coyote Cries’s voice was low and quiet. “Besides being my namesake? It’s the longest book in the Bible. His people ignored him. He warned them. They disregarded the increasing danger that resulted in their disobedience.” What he chose not to reveal was that Jeremiah was accused of being a false prophet since his prophecies never came true.
“God’s wrath and all, right? Disobedience of His laws?” His lawyer wasn’t at all good at casualness or interpretation.
Jeremiah blamed all for disobedience, warning of God’s impending wrath that never came. So instead, he blamed God and took matters into his own hands. He grinned. “Sure.”
Vic shuddered and looked away.
He would eventually figure out that the passage was intended as a distinct message for the leopard whose spots had never changed—a warning for him. But by the time he did, it would probably be too late for the greedy lawyer.
Coyote Cries knew more than he was letting on. But he didn’t know everything yet. Vic would find out soon enough that Coyote Cries had discovered that Vic and Dan Alcott had intended for him to be imprisoned two and a half decades ago; that they’d screwed him; that Coyote Cries now knew that Dan had felt threatened and wanted a part of his action—which is exactly what he’d gotten.
But Coyote Cries would exact his revenge. It was all part of his plan.
Pretending to ignore the ominous message, Vic steadied his trembling hand and casually slid the Bible back toward Coyote Cries.
He stared at Vic. “Put the envelope in locker twenty-two across from gate twelve in concourse C at Denver International Airport by noon. Today.”
“What’s your plan?”
Coyote Cries didn’t answer.
“Do you really think you have a chance to get out of this place?”
He sat rigid. Staring.
“Because, I’m good, but I’m not that good.”
Coyote Cries didn’t respond.
Finally, Vic added, “He has a girlfriend.”
This got Coyote Cries’s attention. “After twenty years?”
“A new fling. But they’re spending a lot of time together. It’s not a one-night stand. We’ve got some photos, and we’re trying to get a name and anything else we can get.” Vic recited a license plate number and address that Coyote Cries committed to memory. “My guy did what you told him to do last night. Now what?”
For a moment, Coyote Cries didn’t respond. Then, he said, “As humans, we cannot avoid blood from being shed, since we are predestined for guilt despite being born innocent.”
Vic said nothing.
Coyote Cries slowly wrapped his fingers around his Bible and left Vic sitting at the corner table.
To ponder.
THE WAKE-UP AL
ARM startled Snake.
He nearly dropped his soap as he glanced around the shower room. He hurried to finish up before everyone arrived but froze when he noticed Dillinger walking toward him. He tossed the bar aside and reached quickly for the shank he stored in the soap tray. He stepped out of the streaming shower, naked, and squared off with the fully dressed man. He, too, had a blade in his hand.
Dillinger stopped two feet from him. “Asshole.”
He darted as the man stabbed at him and sliced his right forearm. His breath quickened.
He lunged again, narrowly missing Snake’s ribs. The blade glanced off his side. Blood spilled on the tiles.
“What did I do?” But Snake knew. He’d ratted him out to Coyote Cries. And Coyote Cries had ratted on Snake to Dillinger.
So why was Dillinger still alive?
Snake jabbed back at the big man, missed his chest, and struck his left arm as he turned away. More blood flowed onto the floor.
People started to congregate in the shower room and huddled around the battling pair. Snake barely noticed, knowing none of them would come to his rescue. That was an unwritten rule in the population. The best he could hope for was to stay alive until the guards caught wind of the fight. Then maybe he’d survive.
Dillinger rushed him again, only this time Snake’s wet foot landed on the bar of soap, and he slipped directly into Dillinger’s blade. In that instant, he tried to catch himself by grasping at Dillinger’s shoulders, but the only thing that was still gripped firmly in his hand was the shank.
He felt a pain in his gut just as his own shank buried deep into Dillinger’s neck.
Both men collapsed on the slippery floor.
Snake could hear the mumbles of the other prisoners. Someone instructed them to get out, clear the room.
He felt the pain overwhelming his belly, and he could hardly keep his grip on consciousness. But he didn’t want to die. He had to make sure Dillinger wasn’t going to kill him. He squeezed his eyes shut to chase away the grey that clouded his vision.
Then he opened his eyes and found himself staring directly at Dillinger’s face. His eyes were wide and lifeless. Blood spurted out of the hole in his neck. Without aiming, Snake had sunk his shank into a jugular. He had won. He would live.
Then he saw movement. Two legs were behind Dillinger. It wasn’t the uniform of a guard—it was a prisoner. He blinked hard and tried to call for help. Then he saw the prisoner squat behind Dillinger’s body.
He heard the man ask, “Snake? Are you okay?”
He blinked. The man’s face came into focus. The man who’d come to help was The Reverend.
He hadn’t ratted him out to Dillinger after all. He’d come to help him. To save him.
Snake tried to smile, to nod, to thank him. But the pain was too intense. And he felt his consciousness come and go in waves. He felt the blood ooze from between his fingers as it poured around the shank Dillinger had stuck in his belly.
He thought he’d seen The Reverend retrieve a towel from a nearby hook. His towel. He was coming back to help him, to cover him while he went with him to the infirmary. Snake held Coyote Cries’s gaze as he squatted beside him.
The Reverend laid the towel over Snake’s shivering body. He was grateful for the man’s gesture, his kindness. Then he felt Coyote Cries’s hand through the towel cover his own, over the shank. He felt the blade twist in his gut and probe deeper. Then he heard him say, “Forty,” before passages from the Bible, from the book of Jeremiah, escorted him out of this world and into hell.
COYOTE CRIES SCANNED the visiting room through the thick glass as he followed the guard down the hall.
He spotted the man immediately. The guy had never been to a prison. Ever. He could tell immediately from the skinny man’s body language. His spine was too erect. His shoulders were bunched up around his ears. His eyes were wide, and his hands were folded and stretched on the tabletop—to stop himself from fidgeting.
A newbie.
He shook his head and tried not to show his disappointment.
The new mouthpiece appeared weak. Fragile, even. And he, only hours away from a hearing that meant more to him than any other, had hired this string bean … He should have listened to Dillinger. He’d suggested a local defense attorney. A guy from Denver who had a winning track record at parole hearings. He would have been a familiar face to the board deciding his fate.
Not this yahoo from the boonies that Todd Long Soldiers had recommended.
But something told him to trust Long Soldiers over Dillinger. He couldn’t put his finger on what had changed in the past few days.
But everything had.
Maybe the rumors were true. Maybe the prison guards had really abandoned their belief in him. Maybe they’d indeed yank their support of him for release today rather than testify to his demonstrated change and good behavior.
Maybe it was the way Vic Webber had backpedaled over the past week. A bit too eager to remind Coyote Cries he just might not get out of prison today.
Maybe the prison yard gossip about how the feds had planted a fish to uncover a conspiracy had made him doubt the secrecy of his plan and caused him to be paranoid.
Which only Dillinger had known.
No matter what the answer, his sense was that traitors had penetrated his inner circle. Somewhere. Somehow.
And Snake had confirmed his suspicions late last night about Dillinger’s betrayal, setting this morning’s brutal event into motion. Both men had to die.
But no matter.
He was on his way home.
Or he’d better be.
All heads turned as he and the guard weaved through the occupied tables to where his visitor sat. He glowered at his new attorney, chose a chair directly across from the man, and slumped hard into the seat. The guard offered a nod and retreated toward the door, standing post between the visitor’s corridor and the hall leading to the cells.
The man flashed a nervous smile, followed by an even more awkward greeting. “Jeremiah Coyote Cries?”
Coyote Cries stared at the small man.
“I’m Duke Raven.” He stuck out his spindly fingers.
Coyote Cries grabbed them and shook, tempted to break every little bone in the man’s limp-fished hand.
He also wanted to tell the asshole what a stupid name Duke Raven was—too big a name for a skeleton of a man.
Instead, Coyote Cries said nothing.
The big-eared man’s smile faded. His serious expression matched his tone. “You called me. You don’t want to talk? Fine. I am perfectly content letting someone else help you.”
He gathered his papers and stuffed them into his briefcase.
He rose from his chair, startling Coyote Cries—which pleased him. The man might be worth something after all.
Coyote Cries grabbed his wrist as the attorney spun to leave. “I did call you. I’d heard you were good.”
“Then no games. We’ve got work to do,” the attorney said, settling back into his chair. “My job is to make sure you receive a fair chance to be heard by the parole board.” He cleared his throat. “Without any surprises.”
Coyote Cries snapped to attention. “Such as?”
The dork retrieved a file from his case and slid it across the table.
At first, Coyotes Cries’s stomach lurched, thinking the file would reveal he’d sent a fraudulent letter to Special Agent Streeter Pierce or that his parole hearing would be canceled or at best postponed pending investigation for interference of due course.
The weasel attorney asked, “Know her?”
Coyote Cries noticed the name on the file with today’s date: his. He flipped it open.
Then he gasped, thinking he’d seen a ghost.
The photo was of an attractive white woman. Number Thirteen. He’d remember her anywhere.
Striking sea-green eyes.
But instead of hair the color of wheat, the woman in this photo had chestnut brown locks. Were they dyed?
He gl
anced up at Duke Raven. “Is this a joke or something?”
The new attorney shook his head and demanded, “Look again. It’s not Paula.”
Coyote Cries slid his gaze down to the photo and studied the woman’s face.
No, this wasn’t Thirteen. It wasn’t Streeter Pierce’s wife, after all.
Her eyes were the same color but far more intense and purposeful. This woman had a mission. And she seemed to be taller, more athletic than the woman he’d dominated and annihilated twenty years earlier.
“Their daughter?” Thirteen had told him she was pregnant. Maybe the fetus lived. He thought his research was thorough and accurate. Could he have missed such an important piece of information? Was there a Pierce offspring?
The woman in the photo could be Thirteen’s twin.
Raven shook his head. “No relation. She’s thirty. Works with Pierce.”
“A special agent?”
He nodded. “Her name’s Liv Bergen. I found this photo in Vic Webber’s case files.”
Coyote Cries’s heart raced. The name didn’t ring a bell. Webber hadn’t mentioned her. He held his breath, waiting for his attorney to deliver bad news.
“You think she’s going to show up today to testify?”
Coyote Cries shrugged. “Perhaps. But I don’t know the woman.”
“If she does, I’ll argue that her testimony has no bearing on your case. That she has neither firsthand knowledge of you during your incarceration, nor of your crime. All I need to know is if she knows you in any way.”
Relief flooded Coyote Cries and his brain freed itself from the fog. “I’ve never seen this woman before in my life.” And he hadn’t. “Where in Webber’s files did you find this particular folder?”
The attorney shrugged. “In the case file box. It was with another file called Julius Chavez. Know him?”
He furrowed his brow and shrugged.
But he had heard of him. He was the guy Webber had hired to shadow Pierce’s girlfriend. Lady friend. Whatever they’re called these days. So that’s the woman who belongs to the license plate and address Vic had given him.
Jeremiah’s Revenge Page 8