Jeremiah’s Revenge

by Sandra Brannan

  What reaction would he have when he saw him in person?

  He and Liv had a quick breakfast together before they both left for work. He knew Gates had officers watching his house all weekend and that Mully would tail Liv the instant she left his house this morning. He knew she’d be protected until he could return to her—after parole was denied.

  “Monday morning,” she said. “I used to love Mondays. Because I’d get to see you.”

  “And now?”

  “I like weekends much better. Kidnap me anytime you’d like.” Liv flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “He’s not going to win. You have a second chance. Don’t let him ruin it for us. Keep your hands on the plow and your eyes on the field ahead. Or for you, hands on the wheel and eyes on the road ahead. Not on your rearview mirror. And we stand a chance.”

  Joy consumed Streeter. He adored this woman.

  She kissed him deeply, cupping his cheeks in her long slender hands. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you tomorrow? Or on your dry run today? I can wait in the car.”

  “No, sweetheart,” Streeter said calmly. “That’s the last place I want you. I don’t want him to know you exist. You understand that.”

  Liv nodded and made her way to the Jeep. As she crawled in behind the wheel, he opened the garage door for her.

  She rolled down her window and said, “I’ll see you at the office this afternoon.”

  Streeter nodded and waggled his fingers at her.

  He watched her drive off over the hill. His smile faded along with the sound of her Jeep. Dread filled him, and he wanted to call after her. Bring her back. Shelter her.

  A shiver skipped along his spine. A protective and weary instinct conjured up frightening images to flash through his overactive mind.

  He shook it off.

  No rearview mirrors.

  Told himself that he was simply anxious about tomorrow morning’s hearing and today’s dry run.

  He would be there both days to make sure there was no snag in the process.

  He climbed into his car and peered around to see if he noticed any of Gates’s men standing guard near the driveway. He saw nothing.

  He drove through the streets of Conifer and weaved his way through traffic onto the highways heading into Denver. The roads leading into Denver in the mornings were so congested that he’d learned other routes and would probably beat Liv to work with his fancy back road maneuvers, if he were heading to the federal building. But not today.

  When the highway forked, he waved out the window toward the northeast road, knowing Liv had just taken that route only minutes earlier. He took the southeast road as a trial run for the timing tomorrow.

  He calculated that he’d arrive at Englewood at least a half hour before the hearing. Maybe even by 8:15, depending on traffic. He would have time to discuss the case with some of the parole board staff ahead of time and learn what kind of people he would be dealing with.

  The traffic congestion of rush hour slowed his progress, but he arrived in Littleton at the administrative office next to the Englewood Federal Correctional Institution by 8:30.

  Perfect.

  He’d drive the same route tomorrow and be a half hour early to the scheduled hearing.

  He adjusted his rearview mirror, so he could straighten his tie for a final time. He stepped out of the car and slid his suit coat over his short-sleeved shirt.

  The morning sun beat down on him. He had another hot day ahead of him. The reflection off the car nearly blinded him as he marched through the parking lot.

  At the security desk, he announced who he was and that he was confirming the time and place for tomorrow’s parole hearing scheduled for Jeremiah Coyote Cries. After checking his credentials, the woman behind the desk made a phone call and pushed the button for the security release on the heavy metal door.

  An obnoxious buzzing noise sounded. He entered.

  The woman said, “Down this hall. Third door on the right. Mary will help you.”

  “Thanks,” Streeter said with a nod.

  Mary was an attractive woman at least ten years his senior with stylish grey hair piled high on top of her head. Her petite, feminine voice matched her five-foot, slender frame. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to check on everything for a hearing tomorrow—to testify at nine o’clock in front of the parole board. I’m Streeter Pierce from the Denver division.”

  “FBI?” Mary said, as her eyes widened. “I don’t recall requesting your assistance on tomorrow’s hearing. Manfred Z. Rana?”

  Streeter frowned. “Sorry? Manfred who?”

  She studied him. “Manfred Z. Rana. He’s the one scheduled before the board tomorrow at nine.”

  His stomach turned sour.

  “I think there’s been some mistake.” Streeter retrieved the letter from his pocket.

  Mary quickly scanned the letter. “But this says the parole hearing was scheduled the week before last, Agent Pierce.”

  “Right.” He produced the second letter from his pocket. “But then you sent me this follow-up letter saying the parole hearing had been rescheduled for tomorrow morning.”

  Mary scowled as she read the letter. “This isn’t right.”

  Confused, Streeter asked, “What isn’t right?”

  Mary frowned and removed her cat-eye glasses allowing them to dangle from a shiny silver chain that encircled her neck. “Wait right here, Agent Pierce. Please? I want to check on something.”

  She retreated around a corner.

  Puzzled, he began to whistle to calm his nerves. He checked his watch. It was 8:40 a.m. He was glad he’d come down a day early to iron out any wrinkles. There was plenty of time to untangle any confusion that might come up.

  Mary emerged around the corner followed by a short, pudgy man in a pinstripe suit.

  The man extended his hand. “I’m Norman Sheehan, the administrative coordinator for the parole board.”

  “You send the letters. I recognize your name,” Streeter said.

  “I coordinate all the notices, yes,” Sheehan said. “But I think there’s been some mistake, Agent Pierce. We did send you the notice of Jeremiah Coyote Cries’s parole hearing for the week before last. But we didn’t send out this second letter.” Sheehan lifted the sheet of paper and waved it in the air. “See the signature? That’s not mine.”

  Dazed, Streeter stared at the letters Sheehan had extended toward him. “What are you saying?”

  “The hearing tomorrow at nine o’clock is for Manfred Z. Rana; not Jeremiah Coyote Cries. His hearing was two Thursdays ago.”

  Stunned, Streeter said nothing. He’d tumbled headlong into a nightmare. Again.

  “I told the same thing to someone from your office last Thursday since you were out of town.”

  His head spun. His vision narrowed in a kaleidoscope of greys. He reached for the desk, steadying himself before he passed out.

  “Who?” he managed to ask.

  “Special Agent Liv Bergen.”

  He sat down hard on the floor and put his head between his knees. He drew in deep breaths to ward off unconsciousness.

  He heard Mary and Sheehan call to him. They were concerned, and their voices seemed muffled and distant.

  “Water, please,” he managed.

  When the paper cup of water was shoved under his nose, he took it and dipped his fingers in it. He wiped the water over his face and drank the balance. He rose to his feet. His vision had returned but was still blurred.

  He leaned against the counter. “Where is he?”

  “Coyote Cries?” Sheehan asked nervously.

  Mary and Sheehan exchanged a concerned glance.

  Streeter growled, “Where. Is. He?”

  “We’re not exactly sure,” Sheehan stammered. “He didn’t show up at his scheduled time for his return to the correctional facility after work the weekend before last. We’re still trying to locate—”

  “YOU LET THE BASTARD GO?” Rage blinded
him. He grabbed the man by the collar.

  Sheehan batted at his hands, which made him snap out of his fury.

  The pudgy man cleared his throat and straightened his shirt. “The parole board released him. He was on work release. He had several people testify on his behalf to his good character—including some of the prison guards. No one was there to testify against him.”

  “Because I was told the hearing had been rescheduled,” Streeter said through clenched teeth.

  “That’s not our letter.” The anger behind Sheehan’s words was as passionate as Streeter’s.

  Streeter pounded his fist on the counter. “Damn it!”

  Sheehan and Mary silently studied the federal agent. Sheehan finally offered, “Would you like us to see if the warden has time to talk with you?”

  Streeter pushed himself away from the counter and quickly regained his composure. Rubbing his fingers through his hair, he asked quietly, “When was the last time he was seen? And where? Exactly.”

  “He was dropped off at his work assignment at two o’clock the Saturday before last,” Sheehan answered sheepishly. “He didn’t report to work. And he hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Work? Where?”

  “At the Colorado Cardboard Corporation. Three miles northeast of here.”

  “Liv,” Streeter gasped.

  He snatched the phone from Mary’s desk and punched in numbers. Staring intently at Norman Sheehan he ordered, “Call Denver Chief of Police Tony Gates. Tell him to put an APB out on Jeremiah Coyote Cries. Immediately. Tell him he’s armed and dangerous.”

  Liv’s cell phone went straight to message. He dialed her again and then Mully. Neither answered. Panic rose in his throat.

  He dialed the office. “Bessie? This is Streeter. Has Liv been in this morning?” She told him Liv hadn’t. “Transfer me to Kelleher. Hurry.”

  Streeter covered the mouthpiece of the phone and instructed Mary, “Tell Sheehan to inform Gates that Liv Bergen is missing. Have him put an APB out on her and her Jeep.”

  Mary nodded.

  “Kelleher, its Streeter. Jeremiah Coyote Cries was released a week ago last Thursday on parole. He skipped work release the Saturday before last. The US Marshals are probably looking for him, but I don’t know that for a fact. No one has seen him since two o’clock that day. Liv’s missing. Help her.”

  Kelleher rattled off several possibilities. Streeter’s head was swimming. “I don’t know, but let me think about it. I’ll call you from my mobile. I’ve got to find her.”

  Streeter ran from the administrative offices and jumped into his car. His tires screeched as he tore out of the parking lot. He slammed his fist against the wheel and sped through traffic, hoping a police car would stop him. He needed an escort. No luck.

  As he expertly darted between lanes and cars, his mind raced. The image of Liv as she left his home earlier that morning flashed into his memory.

  He sped through traffic. It wasn’t as bad as it had been an hour ago. People had already arrived to work for the day.

  He ran the timeline through his mind: the beatings, the murders, Webber, Alcott, Long Soldiers, Blue Owl, Norma, Jeff—not by CCG; by Coyote Cries himself, the preacher from Denver. The Two Bears had been right.

  How could he have been so stupid?

  What would Coyote Cries do next?

  The cell lying on the passenger’s seat vibrated with several short screeches. He snatched it. “Pierce.”

  “Tell me where to look,” Gates snapped.

  “Were your people at my place?”

  “All weekend. Followed you out.”

  “Anyone follow her?”

  Silence by Gates.

  “Have you sent someone to her apartment?”

  “Done.”

  “How far are any of your people from Conifer?”

  “The closest is about fifteen minutes out.”

  “Get someone back there to check my house,” Streeter ordered. “He’ll kill her if he hears any sirens, Tony. So keep them dark. Everyone on a short leash—got it?”

  “Already done,” Gates said.

  “Get Kelleher on a three-way with us,” Streeter commanded.

  “I’m working on it. Why the hell did they let this guy out anyway?”

  Streeter realized Gates had been catapulted back in time, just as he’d been—to the same stress and fear caused by the devil, Coyote Cries.

  Only this time, they knew who the man intended to target.

  Liv Bergen had also become a dear friend of Gates since her nephew Noah was abducted. And he would fear for her safety as much as Streeter did.

  The moment was very real for both men.

  Streeter didn’t have time to answer Gates.

  Phil Kelleher cut in on the call. “Streeter? You there?”

  “Gates has Liv’s apartment and my cabin in Conifer covered. Get some of our guys out there with them.”

  There was a pause and then Kelleher said, “Got it.”

  Gates interrupted, “Got a line on her Jeep. It was found on the shoulder of the eastbound lane of Interstate 70 about five miles west of Interstate 25. The rear bumper was creased, but the Jeep appeared to be operable.”

  Streeter’s stomach twisted. “He got her before she ever made it to work.”

  He remembered the instinct he had felt to call her back to him, to hold her, to never let her out of his sight.

  “Keep your cool,” Gates warned Streeter. “There’s more. We found a man at the scene. Beat up, but currently clinging to life at Lutheran Medical.”

  “Who?” Kelleher asked. “What do we know about him?”

  “Don’t know yet. His Harley Davidson was discovered next to the Jeep,” Gates said.

  Bile rose in Streeter’s throat. “Mully.”

  Kelleher asked, “Who?”

  “Carl Muldando. A friend. Head of the Lucifer’s Lot motorcycle gang. He probably tried to help her. I’d asked him to keep an eye on her when he could.” Streeter held his breath. “Is he going to make it?”

  “Touch and go,” Gates said.

  Kelleher said, “Streeter, think. You know this guy better than anybody. If she’s still alive, what would Coyote Cries want with Liv?”

  “The book of Jeremiah,” he answered in a low voice. “He warned them. The people ignored his warnings.”

  Gates and Kelleher grew silent and waited.

  Streeter added, “He’s carrying out his own prophecy. He’s annihilating everyone who’s wronged him. He kidnapped Liv to torture me.”

  “Again?” Gates gasped.

  Kelleher asked, “Think. Where would he be taking her?”

  Streeter paused. Then said, “She’s still alive. He wants me to find him, and he …”

  After a long moment, Gates asked, “What is it, Streeter?”

  Kelleher said, “Streeter?”

  Streeter answered quietly. “He’s playing the game a second time. He wants me to get there early this time.”

  “Where?” Kelleher barked. “What are you talking about, Streeter?”

  The silence that followed was broken by Gates. “Listen to me. Whatever you’re thinking, you’d better share it with us. This guy is dangerous. He’ll kill you. He’ll kill Liv. Tell me what you’re thinking. Where are you going?”

  “This is between him and me. He wants me to come alone,” Streeter answered absently, terminating the call by powering down his phone.

  He made an illegal U-turn through the grassy median on the highway.

  And headed in the other direction.

  “WHERE ARE YOU taking me?” I asked evenly.

  Coyote Cries ignored me.

  He hadn’t said anything since I first saw him on the roadside except for the guttural words he spoke as he jabbed the barrel of his pistol into my ribs, “Get in.”

  I worked the ropes that bound my hands behind my back. I strained against the seat belt, which Coyote Cries had pulled tightly across my chest and lap.

  I could feel that
the ropes had not loosened any. I had tried to ball my fists and align my knuckles to allow the greatest space between my wrists as he bound them—just like I’d learned at Quantico—to give me room to wiggle once I relaxed my muscles. But it hadn’t worked.

  I wondered if I’d made a tactical error. Maybe I should have head-butted Coyote Cries while he was tying my hands. I’d thought about it but decided against it after a quick assessment of his size and apparent strength.

  I’d underestimated him. I’d thought he was old. But his arms were huge. He clearly spent a lot of his free time in the gym.

  And then I completely fell apart after I saw what he’d done to Mully.

  Coyote Cries had rammed my Jeep from behind. I had wrongly assumed that it’d been an accident. I pulled over on the shoulder to exchange insurance information and stepped out from behind the wheel and made my way along the Interstate to the man’s car parked behind me.

  I saw him standing by his front bumper assessing the damage. He’d had his back to me, and I didn’t see his long braids tucked in his T-shirt until it was too late. He was wearing a Rockies baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

  The only thing I’d determined was that the man who had rammed my Jeep was a very large person.

  I’d approached him and stood beside him, looking down at his front bumper.

  Before looking over at him, I’d asked, “How bad is it?”

  Before I knew it, he’d spun to face me, worked the barrel of the pistol against my ribs, and grunted, “Hands behind your back.”

  I panicked at first and then quickly thought of what I should do while he bound my wrists with one hand. He yanked the twine tight and tied a knot, using his teeth to anchor it.

  He pushed me toward the passenger side of his car, and I saw his long grey braids swing free from his T-shirt.

  Before getting into the car, our eyes met.

  Instantly, I knew who he was: the lifeless eyes, black and cold; the sharp copper features; late forties, maybe early fifties; certainly Native American.

  He looked exactly as Streeter had described him to me, only decades older and much more menacing. For a brief moment, I thought Coyote Cries had noticed the recognition that must have flashed in my eyes. His eyes narrowed, and I thought I saw a slight grin on his thin, tight lips.