Coyote (26 page)

It was early morning in San Francisco. The drenching rain had passed. But now the fog billowed down the thoroughfares like a fluffy grey pillow in search of a bed, suffocating the faint autumn light and stalling the early traffic. After the shining turquoise heaven of New Mexico, it was like stepping into the black and white version of reality.

I unlocked Rewind Investigations and flipped the light switch … Nothing happened.

I thumped my bag onto the secretary's desk in the foyer.

At least, despite the dismal weather outside, the office wasn't dark enough to need all the gas hurricane lanterns and boxes of matches Des'd left laid out in uniform order on the desk … in his usual police haute couture, everything at exact right angles.

For some reason it reminded me of the silver-handled brushes standing at stiff attention in front of Hector Kershaw's hotel mirror.

I shook my head free of that thought and walked through to stare at my desk. It was still buried under the mound of highly inaccurate research notes about Hector Q. Kershaw I'd managed to drag together before I left. My in-tray was the only empty space visible. At least the avalanche of bills hadn't arrived yet.

I was four hours too early and still furious that, courtesy of Captain Bull's cavalry charge, I'd missed out on reading that bloody diary …

Well, at least neither Honeycutt nor Des were here, ready to grill me for details I didn't have. I had to think this through; I needed time to piece it all together. What possible motive could a spoilt Boston banker's kid on his first trip out of his mama's steely grip have for committing an atrocity like Dry Gulch?

I moved over to the big bay window, glaring through the rolling wisps of fog at the old hulk of a building directly across the way. On the marble edifice, the head of a Grecian hero seemed to mock my confusion, as though it could reveal the answers to my questions but wasn't letting me in on the joke …

Because there was no doubt in my mind that Hector Q. Kershaw was the butcher of Dry Gulch. When he'd had nothing to lose by it … at the very last moment … Hector had revealed his true nature.

The other thing I knew for sure was that I had to come up with bloody strong evidence for my conclusion. I needed a strong motive to convince people, Des included, that it was possible that San Francisco's greatest hero was a cold-blooded killer … And then I needed the diary to prove it.

There was a rapid knock and then the front door swung open. I'd left it unlocked.

A dark-haired man stuck his head through. ‘Is anyone in there?' It was Seymour Kershaw; his voice was tense, nervous.

‘Come through, I'm in my office,' I grouched. Bloody too eager client had arrived before I even had my story straight.

‘Arrrgh!' There was a crash then a heavy thud as Seymour fell over the secretary's desk, knocking my bag off it as he fell.

‘For God's sake,' he growled from the floor, ‘can't you put a light on? It's pitch dark in here!'

I ignored that to grab Seymour's arm and hoist him upright. He glared angrily as I struck a match and lit a hurricane lamp. I ignored his glare too, instead showing him into my office with the lamp held high. I put it on my desk, but as far away as possible — it was too bright and hurt my eyes.

Seymour hunched down in my comfy client's chair. ‘You're back early.' His voice was as strained as consommé … as though he wasn't sure he wanted me back at all.

Then Seymour focused on my face, stiffening at the sight.

That amped up my anger … so I wasn't looking my best after just evading a cavalry charge?

But that wasn't distaste in his eyes; it looked like fear.

I studied his now sweating face, wondering. Seymour certainly wasn't happy to see me, yet he was so desperate he hadn't been able to wait for our appointment tomorrow.

Seymour Kershaw looked nothing like his fair-haired relative, Hector. Instead he was lean and dark … but with the exact same arrogance that growing up with wealth and position had moulded into his ancestor's features.

Had Seymour acquired the other less acceptable qualities as well?

Seymour, unused to a critical reception, took a second to recognise my suspicious expression. When he did, his dark eyes changed from fear to aggression. ‘So … what happened?' he barked. ‘Did Hector keep one? Was there a diary?'

I paused, considering my options. The Kershaws were the only people who had the incentive to spend the mucho dough necessary to send me back to old San Francisco and find out where Hector hid his diary.

I tried to wipe the belligerence off my dial, wavered at neutral, and had to settle for stiffly blank. ‘Yes, he did, I saw him with the diary myself. But it's not in Santa Fe; Hector took it with him on the stage as he headed for San Francisco.'

Seymour reared back at that. ‘So there was a diary after all …' he muttered. That thought scared the living crap out of him …

Which made me prick up my ears.

Did Seymour Kershaw know what was in that diary? Did he know about his ancestor's dark past?

I refrained from lunging across the desk. ‘Of course, I'll have to go back to old San Francisco …' I said, as smoothly as my temper could manage, ‘and find out where he left it.' I waited, monitoring his expression like a lie detector on high.

Startled, Seymour's dark eyes bulged. ‘No! Not San Francisco! I don't want you to. This has gone far enough —'

‘You know what's in that damned diary, don't you?' I yelled. I couldn't help myself.

‘What do you mean?' he spluttered defensively. It was cold in my office but there was sweat pouring
down his face. He was lousy at this; a child could tell he was lying his head off.

Hmm. So that's why Seymour was afraid that there really was a diary. But why had he sent me back anyway?

Of course! He didn't want River to find it first!

I stood and leant over the desk. ‘You slimy bastard, you sent me blind into that mission to shadow a stone-cold killer. You already knew Hector committed the Dry Gulch massacre!'

Seymour's expression went from fearful to blank, like a switch had been thrown. ‘What?' he barked in outraged disbelief. The snooty leader of San Francisco society was back in charge. ‘What did you just say?'

Hmm … His surprise was utterly genuine, no doubt about that. But Seymour was sure worried about something in that diary.

And if it wasn't Dry Gulch then what the hell was it? ‘You heard me!' I countered. ‘Hector Kershaw is not the innocent banker's kid that I was led to believe. Hector —' I reined back, grasping for what diplomacy I could muster, ‘Hector had something to do with the Dry Gulch massacre … and I aim to find out exactly what it was.'

Seymour lurched to his feet. ‘How dare you …' he spluttered. ‘I gave you very specific instructions and you come back with these … these lies!'

I grinned my wolf's smile. ‘I'll be able to prove them, Seymour … when I find his diary.'

‘You!' He stuck his finger in my face like a gun with the safety off. ‘You're fired; you're off this case. And if you come anywhere near my family — if Rewind Investigations continues to look for my ancestor's diary after this — I will sue you for everything you
and your company has. And I will personally see your Time Investigator licence is revoked.'

He meant it.

‘So the trip went well,' chuckled Jackson River — now lounging in the doorway behind Seymour.

We both jumped.

Seymour swung around to glare at the interloper, then swung back to me for one final blast. ‘If I hear you're continuing with this case, Miss Dupree, you'll be hearing from my lawyers!'

Seymour snatched up the hurricane lantern to light his way out. He slammed it down on the secretary's desk in the foyer, almost breaking the glass.

My eyes felt like headlights on high beam, searching Seymour for secrets … My ex-client was masking his true feelings with anger. Seymour was petrified.

Seymour slammed the front door, rattling the glass pane.

A quick glance showed River watched me with a curious satisfaction. He slid into the seat Seymour had just vacated. ‘You didn't find out where the diary is hidden, did you?'

My eyes still on the door Seymour had just exited, I answered, ‘No, but I saw it. I know Hector kept one. And that he took it with him when he headed for San Francisco.'

‘So it's here after all.' River gloated over that thought for a moment. ‘What else did you find out?'

I sat. ‘You were right about Coyote Jack. He didn't do Dry Gulch.'

River leant in, eager. ‘You know who did it, don't you?'

‘I believe I do. But, as yet, I have no hard evidence. I need the diary for proof.' I whispered to myself, ‘And to find the motive.'

‘Who was it?'

‘Hector Kershaw.'

His black brows shot up in disbelief.

‘Look, River,' I growled, ‘I went over every inch of the massacre scene at Dry Gulch and it's the only answer that makes any sense. The killer wore US officer's cavalry boots.'

‘But doesn't that mean that Captain Bull was the —'

‘Let me finish!' I hadn't the patience for that particular dead-end argument yet again. ‘The killer trod in the victims' blood while he was looking for something in the stagecoach … I don't know what. I found the exact same boots, with blood encrusted on the soles, in Hector's hotel room.'

‘Hector Kershaw wore US cavalry boots?' A strange expression crossed his face. A painful grimace. As though he was trying to remember something but couldn't quite get the right key in the right lock for the memory to be revealed. Then River narrowed his eyes. ‘But wait a minute, Kannon, much as I'd love it to be true — Hector was just a spoilt greenhorn. How could he —'

‘I know!' I snapped. ‘But that same tenderfoot banker's kid mercilessly carved up a dance hall girl's face because she dared to look in his damned diary. Hector Kershaw had a dark side … a very dark side indeed.'

River sat back in surprise. ‘But even supposing Hector Kershaw had a motive, how would he know how to set up the massacre to frame Coyote Jack? Because that's what happened.'

I hate it when people ask me questions I don't know the answer to. ‘So Hector did his homework before he came to Santa Fe …' I shrugged. ‘That just shows it
was planned. I know, without a doubt, that he did it. What I want to know is why he did it … Why would Hector travel so far to kill those particular people?'

River sat in deep thought. ‘But cavalry boots … why would Hector Kershaw wear cavalry boots?' A startled look exploded across his face, as if the answer had just jumped out from under my desk and yelled, ‘Surprise!'

‘What's going on, River?' I demanded. ‘You just worked something out … didn't you!' It wasn't a question.

River ignored that to cock his head towards the door, as though he could hear someone coming.

In response I scanned the doorway, but I couldn't hear anyone. What was he listening to?

A sly look slid across River's face, suppressing the excitement. ‘So you made it to Dry Gulch … Just how far north did you make it, Kannon?'

Bloody River! I'd given him a lead of some kind … and he was trying to wriggle out of sharing it.

‘I went north to the Plaza de Sol …' I paused. Two could play that game. I wouldn't let him leave until I'd got it out of him.

‘You went to Big Sun Canyon, didn't you?' He grinned. ‘You went up onto Spruce Tree Mesa.'

‘That's right.' Now I wanted to shake the answers out of him. ‘What are you trying to —'

‘You met Coyote Jack, didn't you?'

River stood.

‘Yes,' I said, wondering what he was up to. ‘Coyote Jack had just arrived back after leading Captain Bull on a wild-goose chase.' I remembered my first view of Coyote Jack, surrounded by his furious band. ‘While he was away, someone had come on the mesa and stolen something of his —'

I stopped in surprise.

River had leant over me — seductively. ‘So, Kannon … just what do you think of Coyote Jack now?'

I glared up at him, his mouth inches from mine. What the hell was he doing?

‘Do you believe he's … innocent?' River breathed the last word, like he was about to kiss me.

The office door erupted open. Daniel Honeycutt charged through, jade-green eyes blazing with concern. ‘Kannon, are you here?' He grabbed the hurricane lamp Seymour had abandoned on the foyer desk.

Honeycutt stood stock-still in my doorway, the lamp held high …

River was bending over me, as though about to plant his lips on mine.

Honeycutt emanated enough fury to start a forest fire.

River, a faint smile on his lips, stayed right where he was. It was as though he was provoking Honeycutt, challenging him … for ownership rights.

Instinctively I stood and got between them.

‘I'll talk to you later, Kannon,' said River. He slipped past Honeycutt, like water easing over a stone.

‘No, wait,' I called. ‘I need to know what you —'

River made it to the front door. Honeycutt was blocking my path.

‘I have some things I need to check out first … I'll call you.' River grinned and escaped.

I eyed the door with ire.

‘So that was Jackson River?' muttered Honeycutt, with too sharp an interest.

‘That's him all right!' I snapped.

‘Why were you and River here, together, in the dark?' He was jealous.

‘It's not so dark … And we weren't together in the way you're implying!'

Honeycutt put the hurricane lamp on my desk, then froze. ‘Kannon — what happened to you?' He leant in to brush my hair away from my eyes with concern. ‘Are you all right, darlin'?'

I touched my hair. My blonde, straight hair was now firecracker red and standing away from my scalp in a great rippling mane. ‘You know I had to dye my hair … and the tight braids have made it —'