Coyote (2 page)

Professor Wauhope moved on to the next photo. It was old, black and white with blurred edges, just like the first.

The screen showed the same murder scene, but this time you could see that a fair-haired man in cowboy clothes stood on the docks — right next to the dead banker's slack body.

‘No matter what the NTA claims …' The professor shot the three of us a vicious glare. ‘No amateur's tourist jaunt to the past can retrieve all the facts or explain how everything fits together. The past is a complex stream of individual but intertwined stories.' He puffed up his chest. ‘And it is only through carefully researched work like my own that the whole truth can be fully revealed.'

For once, Klaasen, Melnick and I exchanged a unified roll of the eyes. There's nothing like being treated like idiots to bond you.

‘The man standing next to our murder victim is
the
key to understanding old San Francisco …' Now
Wauhope glared down at the audience as a whole, resentful. ‘Not that anyone, beyond myself, knows the details of what Hector Quale Kershaw did any more. Everyone thinks crimes in the deep past are so … so boring.' His tone was bitter. ‘And that the ones in the present are so much more … relevant.'

It was obvious Wauhope didn't mean ‘relevant' — he meant ‘exciting'.

‘But after finding the body of his dead friend, Hector Kershaw went on to save this city from the tyranny of the Corsairs. How many of you remember that?' The professor spluttered at the lack of respect shown to the memory of his hero. ‘Hector Kershaw almost single-handedly destroyed the most vicious predators that have ever stalked the streets of this great city.'

Wauhope scanned the audience, as though ready for a fight. ‘Hector started life as a Boston banker … so what turned him into one of the greatest heroes of the Wild West?'

No one dared answer.

I stared up at the screen, at the fair-haired man wearing cowboy clothes, studying his face.

‘Well, I'm going to tell you!' declared a pugnacious Wauhope. His expression implied we'd better pay attention because there'd be a quiz at the end. ‘I'm going to tell you what transformed Hector Kershaw.' He changed to the next picture. ‘The answer is here …'

The new image on the screen shallowed my breath. It wasn't even a photo, just an ink drawing from a newspaper. But way too detailed …

Scalped heads, mutilated bodies, dead children …

The audience instinctively stiffened in their seats. We all recognised the drawing. It was infamous.

‘Is that the Dry Gulch massacre?' Eddie Melnick squinted at the screen. He wasn't wearing his heavy-rimmed glasses.

‘Yeah,' replied Klaasen, sitting forwards — now curious.

‘Earlier in 1867, long before his friend's murder, Hector Kershaw stopped at Santa Fe on his way west from Boston. There, Hector was to have an experience that would change the rest of his life …' The professor eyed the now attentive audience with a cynical satisfaction. ‘Invited to visit the ranch of the governor of New Mexico, Hector Kershaw accompanied the governor, his wife, young son and daughter and two others. All but Hector were savagely slaughtered in an unprovoked Indian attack north of Santa Fe. The culprit who instigated the massacre, Coyote Jack, was never brought to justice.'

Professor Wauhope stared up at the huge, lovingly detailed images of wanton savagery. ‘For more than twenty years Coyote Jack was the most wanted criminal in America. And the US army followed every trail, every clue possible to hunt the mongrel down —'

‘I've told you before — you're a fool, Wauhope. Coyote Jack is innocent!'

We all turned.

At the very back of the room, an extraordinary-looking man wearing jeans and a white T-shirt lithely uncurled from his seat. No unfit slouch this one — more like a hunter than the prey.

‘This injustice has continued long enough,' he snapped.

 

The man was a dangerous mix of too many warrior nations, at least one of which could be Native American. Fierce blue eyes set over aggressively edged
cheekbones blazed out of tanned skin. His spiky, midnight hair was streaked at the tips with red, white and blue.

The dyed tips looked like feathers.

All eyes swung back to Wauhope, keen with the promise of confrontation.

Professor Wauhope pompously sucked in his gut. ‘Sit down, River! There'll be question time at the end …' He turned back to the screen. ‘Now, as I was saying, Coyote Jack was the most infamous, depraved killer of innocent women and children the West had ever seen —'

‘Don't patronise me, Wauhope!' River stalked up the aisle and mounted the podium. ‘I'm Professor Jackson River and I'm in the same Criminology Department at Berkeley as Wauhope,' he declared. ‘I'm here to demand that the National Time Administration send back one of their marshals to right this injustice. Coyote Jack is innocent!'

‘If you people feel so strongly,' replied Wauhope snidely, ‘why don't you just hire one of the new Time Investigators?'

The audience tittered.

River shot a derisive eye at the three of us. ‘Hired guns … Paid too much to do their jobs. Let the National Time Administration pay for their own government's mistakes!'

As River locked his gaze with mine, his startling blue eyes widened. As though he was surprised. No. It was more like he recognised me …

‘If you can't afford to hire a Time Investigator then it's case closed, River,' snarled Wauhope. He shot a meaningful look at his assistant in the front row. The assistant jumped to his feet and headed for the rear exit.

‘Not by a long shot,' snapped River. ‘I have evidence …' He stumbled over the last word. ‘Or at least I will have it soon. There's a —'

The audience hooted with laughter, covering his last words. River obviously wasn't considered one of them. He was told to get off the stage and stop wasting their time.

I instinctively leant forwards, straining to hear his words. What was River talking about? What evidence? I didn't know all the details but the infamous Coyote Jack and the Dry Gulch massacre were as much a part of the Wild West as Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday and the shoot-out at the OK Corral.

Incensed, River tried to shout the crowd down. ‘There's evidence in the present! I just need —'

The audience roared again, a cacophony of derision.

Two security guards entered through the rear doors, Wauhope's assistant trotting at their heels.

Professor Wauhope backed away from River.

The two burly security guards barrelled up to the podium, motioning River to get off. He ignored them. Emboldened, Wauhope ordered, ‘Get him off my stage. Now!'

One guard grabbed for River's left arm while the other went for the right.

‘Coffee break,' snapped Wauhope. ‘Everyone out!'

Next to me, Klaasen and Melnick shot to their feet like a starting gun had been fired. They bolted for the rear doors and swung them open, only to halt as the glitter of lights erupted into the lecture theatre.

They were flashlights.

 

I followed, blinking from the lights. I moved out into the foyer and into view. There were TV cameras and journalists everywhere.

Oh no! It was an ambush.

As cameramen vied for shots of Klaasen and Melnick, the exiting audience formed a chattering semi-circle behind them. One interviewer shouted above the noise, ‘Why did you call a media conference here?'

‘Today,' said Klaasen, his unnaturally whitened teeth revealed in an equally unnatural smile, ‘we are jointly announcing our inaugural cases as Time Investigators. Cases that will make the history books.'

The bastards! This was another of their setups.

‘I am pleased to announce I have been hired by the Rand Corporation,' said Klaasen, ‘to investigate the robbery thirty-one years ago of blueprints for one of their most top-secret weapons.'

Eddie Melnick jostled Klaasen for centre stage. ‘And the Swedish government has hired me to find out what happened to their prime minister who disappeared without explanation in 1958.'

The journalists exploded into excited questions, encircling the pair like a shark feeding frenzy.

I had to get out of here. This was just what those two creeps wanted — to publicly humiliate me.

‘There's the other one!' shrieked a cameraman. They swung my way.

I tried to shoulder my way through but gave up as a cluster of microphones was stuck under my chin.

‘Kannon, what is your first case?'

‘Miss Dupree, what will you be investigating?'

The media loved me — they saw me as a big juicy stuff-up ready to explode for the cameras. That image wasn't entirely my own fault …

I struggled to mask my anger.

‘Go on, kid, tell them,' sneered Klaasen. ‘Don't be shy.'

He knew I had no clients. And he knew why too.

Klaasen and Melnick had done everything they could, including outright sabotage, to get me kicked out of the NTA training program. When that had failed Klaasen had hired a media consultant to blacken my reputation. They both thought the fewer Time Investigators the more money and clients for them.

If I'd been male then maybe they could've dealt with my youth. But, as it was, I demolished their prestige as Time Investigators. I had no right to play in this league.

Their league.

The boys' latest trick was a story that'd appeared last week. It featured a photo of me, fresh from the surf. Their photographer had caught me just as I was struggling out of my wetsuit. My blonde hair was wet and hanging down my back and I was spilling out of my bikini top. I looked like a fifteen-year-old who worked out. The caption said ‘Malibu Barbie plays at being a private eye'. The piece implied all I did was lie on the beach every day.

The end result was the only people serious enough — and wealthy enough — to hire a time-travelling detective went to Klaasen and Melnick. They already had cases backed up for the next two years.

And ‘the kid' was out of work.

‘Come on, Kannon.' The microphones pushed into my face insistently. ‘What's your first case?'

Jackson River burst through the crowd to grab the microphone stuck right to my lips. ‘I have proof,' he boomed into it, ‘that my ancestor, Coyote Jack, did not commit the Dry Gulch massacre!'

The media's collective jaw dropped.

‘And the proof is in Hector Kershaw's diary!' he declared.

All the cameras swung towards River.

‘Hector Kershaw left a diary?' replied someone.

‘The only survivor of the Dry Gulch massacre left a diary?' asked another.

The media erupted into a molten frenzy of questions.

River knew exactly what he was doing. He played them off each other like a professional.

I edged away.

This was exactly the kind of scandal that made Time Investigators so interesting in the first place.

Deep, dark secrets revealed … ancient mysteries uncovered.

Once Professor Wauhope realised the media weren't at all interested in his version of the Dry Gulch massacre, he demanded that security escort River out of the building. River complied and the journos and cameramen went with him, sticking like flies to a particularly delicious syrup. Klaasen and Melnick trailed after them, their expressions resembling those of petulant twins who'd been cheated out of their birthday party.

Wanting to avoid any more potentially humiliating questions from the media, I decided to follow Wauhope and his audience back inside the lecture theatre. I'd wait ten minutes and then head back to my office.

Professor Wauhope stamped up the steps to the front podium, bitter at having his spotlight stolen. ‘We've wasted enough time on Coyote Jack,' he snapped. ‘I want to get back to the hero of San Francisco, Hector Kershaw.' He glanced up at the screen, still filled by the horrific ink drawing of Dry
Gulch. ‘Now, as I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted —'

Suddenly the lights cut out.

There was a heavy groan from the audience, then tsking. No one was happy about how today had gone.

‘Oh, what now!' spat Wauhope in fury.

I scanned around but it was pitch black in the enclosed theatre. It was an eerie feeling. I knew everyone was still there, but it felt as though they'd all just magically disappeared. Surely the emergency lights would kick in soon?

Everyone was silent, as though in shock.

Then I heard it. A strange rasping sound. At the very back of the lecture theatre.

I turned my head a fraction to the right, trying to put an image to the sound. Was that gas escaping? I gave myself a little mental slap. You're being paranoid, girl. Not every place you go automatically explodes into mayhem.

But there it was again … that same noise.

I turned a little further.

No. That wasn't escaping gas. It was too irregular. But it seemed to have a kind of rhythm too … and there was more than one source.

I frowned. It sounded more like hissing maracas.

A whole orchestra of them.

Whatever it was, listening to it here in the dark sent an involuntary shiver up my spine. I know trouble when I hear it. I turned completely around in my seat, trying to get a better bead on the source.

It was coming from the exit.

‘What's that noise?' demanded Wauhope, outraged at yet another interruption. ‘What's going on back there?' The pompous tone promised swift retribution.

No one answered.

After all the dramas at recess, Wauhope had lost close to half his audience. Now the rear three rows were completely empty. I was sitting in the fifth row from the back wall.

I could hear the man behind me thump his arm and curse. He must've turned in his seat to try to make out what was happening too. The hissing maracas noise was getting louder but it was impossible to actually see anything. He answered Wauhope with sarcasm, ‘Can't see a thing from back here, Stanley. Maybe your colleague, Jackson River, has decided to come back and show us his proof.'

The equally exasperated audience began muttering. They'd had enough drama and were now turning on Wauhope.

‘Someone go outside and find out what's going on!' ordered Wauhope, striving to retain his authority.

No one moved. I could almost hear the steam rise off Wauhope's undoubtedly incensed head. But no one wanted to go near that exit …

‘What the hell was that?' yelled the man straight behind me. His indignant voice was sharp with fear.

‘Aarrgh!' the man next to him yowled, scrabbling out of his seat to propel himself across his loudly protesting neighbours.

‘What's going on?' barked Wauhope from the podium. ‘Stop acting the fool!'

‘I've been bitten!' yelled a hysterical voice from behind me. ‘Something just bit me!'

The room took a shocked breath.

‘What utter rubbish!' yelled back Wauhope, now beside himself with outrage.

The hissing maracas noise was getting louder and louder.

And closer.

There was a piercing scream, almost in my ear. And then another. The entire row behind me burst into motion, scrambling forwards and away.

‘What is it? What is it?' yelled Wauhope, trying to be heard over the uproar.

A heavy shoe crunched down onto my thigh. I yelped in protest and shoved it off. I jumped up as two heavy-set men tried to climb right over me in their panic. As I twisted them off, they collapsed past and forwards onto the next row, who sprang up in fear as though they were being attacked.

Like a row of falling dominoes the audience panicked, erupting forwards towards the stage. Curses and threats marked the fleshy tidal wave as they stumbled into and over each other in the pitch dark.

The maracas noise had come level with my seat. It was coming from the central aisle.

It was coming from the floor.

I jumped onto my seat and, as fast as I could, felt my way forwards and over the empty rows ahead.

I dropped to the floor in front of the first row and felt my way to the podium. I could hear the now hysterical audience above me, jostling for space on the crowded stage. I found the side of the podium and got one knee on it, ready to spring up.

The emergency lights flickered on.

I blinked in the dim light.

Then I looked down at the floor.

There was a black shadow moving towards my foot. Slipping along the floor in an S-shaped path like a …

My eyes adjusted. Holy hell, that was a snake!

The furious snake coiled and reared up, ready to strike at my leg. Its tail, a rattle, shook with reptilian spite.

A rattlesnake.

I snapped my leg up just as it struck — missing me by inches.

What the hell was going on? I crouched on the podium, gaping down at the floor below.

Another man, still struggling to mount the podium, yelled, ‘There are rattlesnakes all over the floor!' As he pulled himself up and headfirst into the tightly packed crowd, a snake coiled and launched itself at his lagging ankle. Its jaws sank into him like he was a juicy apple.

He arched his back in pain and fell forwards into the huddled mass.

I dived forwards, grabbed the rattler by its tail and wrenched it straight off him. Snapping it down, like cracking a whip, I broke its neck against the side of the podium and tossed the body back into the angry, writhing mass that now flowed just below us.

 

Bloody hell!

I rubbed the back of my left wrist. I still had a scar there from a stupid mistake I'd made as a kid. I may work as a detective in the United States now, but I'd grown up in Australia and spent years in the Outback.

I'd been a wild teenager and ranged far and wide on my periodic runaway sprees. One year — when I'd been kicked out of school for the tenth time and was being quarantined from the bad influences that Sydney had to offer a teenage girl looking for trouble — I was sent to work on a cattle station on the other side of the continent in Western Australia. Keen to escape adult supervision, I ‘borrowed' a Land
Rover and drove into the Gibson Desert, heading for the Northern Territory and hopefully freedom. My third day in the desert, I set up camp next to a rocky mound and made a billy of tea while I enjoyed the isolation and plotted my next move.

The mound had been home to a Desert Death Adder.

I'd been lucky. My overturned vehicle was spotted by the Flying Doctor Service, on their way to a routine call at a remote settlement. From then on I made it my business to know snakes.

Unless you threaten them, most are shy. But, for whatever reason, the rattlesnakes below were fired up for battle. They were malignant coils of fury that
wanted
to sink their fangs into us. And rattlesnakes could coil up and spring over a third of their length. The stage, our island in this sea of venom, was only three feet high. I searched the floor. Yep, I was just betting that some of them could make it.

We had to get out of here!

I grabbed my phactor out of the breast pocket of my suit. I flipped it open, switched it back on and tapped in 911. As though emerging from some kind of fear-induced paralysis, everyone around me pulled theirs out and began doing exactly the same thing.

I listened. There was no dial tone.

I checked the screen. It was like my phactor was dead. I checked the signal strength.

There was none.

I looked around; everyone had the same bewildered expression.

My heart started racing. The signals were being jammed.

A woman staring down at her useless phactor began hyperventilating.

Professor Wauhope shoved past her to get to the very edge of the podium. His face was stark with disbelief. ‘This can't be real,' he muttered. ‘This can't be happening … Not again.'

Again? What did he mean?

‘Someone help me!' The man who'd been last onto the podium slid down with a thump … to huddle, trembling, over his bitten ankle. It was swelling. I hunched over him, checking his pulse. It raced. He was having trouble sucking in a full breath.

I looked around. Others were gripping their arms and legs in exactly the same panic-stricken way.

Soon they'd all succumb to the venom. Soon their poison-induced anxiety would make them do stupid things — like trying to get off the stage.

But was that so stupid?

We were standing in the middle of a sea of rattlesnakes and our phactors had been jammed.

It was a carefully executed trap.

A death trap.

I stood up and searched the far doorway, dimly lit from above by the Exit sign. We had to get out of here now!

I searched the podium. Wauhope had piles of stapled handouts, ready to distribute. He'd been overly optimistic about the number of attendees.

I swiped up a thick sheaf, twisted it diagonally into a tight, long roll and stuck it under my armpit. Then I scanned the crowd. Earlier, I'd seen one of them standing in the park in the middle of Portsmouth Square, smoking. I searched the faces and found him. He was clutching his hand to his chest and moaning in fear and pain.

He was too sunk in his own desperate misery to
respond to less than a directive. ‘Give me your lighter,' I ordered.

He didn't look at me, let alone reply.

I frisked him. He struggled weakly, protesting, but I got his lighter out of his coat pocket.

I went back to the edge of the podium and flicked the lighter on.

‘What d'ya think you're doing?' someone behind me demanded, their voice sharp with fear.

‘Make yourself two rolls of paper,' I replied, nodding at the stacked handouts behind us.

‘No!' he replied. ‘We're safe if we all stay up here.'

‘Then you stay,' I snapped. ‘But someone riled up a bunch of rattlesnakes, released them into this theatre, and then jammed our phactors. I don't think I want to stick around here and find out what the punch line is!'

The man next to me stiffened, several people gasped. I'd just redefined reality in a way they couldn't comprehend, only react to. Now I had to act fast and refocus their fear into getting us all safely off the stage and out of here.

I used the lighter to ignite the end of my makeshift torch.

Everyone watched as I lowered the flame to the seething mass on the floor below. It took a little persuasion but I cleared a space. I nodded to myself. Yes, this could work …

Immediately the crowd came out of their trance. They dived for the piles of handouts and began rolling.

At first we worked as a team, but only half the crowd had made it through the rear doors before the paper torches ran out. It became a headlong race — everyone for themselves, pushing and shoving anyone in their way.

I was at the rear, a torch in each hand and holding off the snakes, when I heard the doors slam shut. There were still two of us left inside. Me and another older woman who was limping badly from a swollen bite on her leg. She was pushing on the door handle with one weak hand and banging with her other, pleading for help.

But they stayed shut.

I made it to the doors and slammed against them with one elbow but they were shut tight.

I turned to watch a wave of enraged rattlesnakes slither towards us.

The older woman turned as well. She began screaming and throwing herself against the doors. I dropped my torches with a gasp; they'd burnt down to my fingertips.

I hurled myself backwards against the doors … they gave way.

I thrust the woman out, slipped through and slammed the doors shut behind me.