Coyote (29 page)

If I wasn't careful Webb could be on the trail of the diary too. The same publicity that would help me would help him.

I avoided the question. ‘Do you have any idea where Hector would hide something like that … something he didn't want found?'

Webb perused me again as though weighing up whether giving me information would get him where he wanted to go …

He decided it wouldn't. ‘San Francisco is a big town — has been since the Gold Rush. You're asking me for the address of a needle in a haystack from centuries ago.' He tipped the brim of his cowboy hat and waded into the adoring crowd.

Gideon Webb wasn't going to give out any information that could help his competition.

I scanned the costumed cast. Most of them were still handing out those flyers. I grabbed one. They advertised authentic re-enactments of old Barbary Coast entertainments at The Hue & Cry, the original house of ill repute that was the Corsairs' headquarters. Every Thursday to Saturday night you could get dinner and a show.

Next to me, the pirate captain of the Corsairs and his bosun were having their photographs taken hugging gushing tourists.

‘So come along to The Hue & Cry,' persuaded the captain. ‘Princess Prairie Rose will perform her act, the Circle of Death … That's the act she was famous for before Hector saved her.'

A man in the crowd chortled. ‘And what happened after Hector took her home?'

The captain replied, with mock outrage, ‘I'll have you know, sir, that Hector Kershaw was a married man.' He leant in. ‘But I will say that Hector continued to look after his Indian princess … and that Prairie Rose remained his ever-grateful … er … friend.' He waggled his bushy false eyebrows.

The implication was clear.

The image of Hector drooling over Prairie Rose's porno picture came back to me with a jolt. It'd been more than simple lust, it'd been … like a predator scenting its favourite kind of prey.

I shook that detail away and focused. So Hector had a mistress …

‘Where did Prairie Rose live after she was saved?' I asked.

‘We're talking about the nineteenth century, ma'am,' replied the captain. ‘Prairie Rose was an
Indian girl saved from slavery in a brothel and Hector was married to the daughter of one of the most prominent men in San Francisco.' He shrugged. ‘Sorry, ma'am, I don't think her address ever became public knowledge.'

An illicit mistress hidden away in a secret location.

Had Hector hidden all his secrets in the one spot?

‘But if anyone would know where Prairie Rose lived,' said the actor dressed as Captain Shaker, the leader of the Corsairs, ‘that would be Mr Webb … or maybe Gilda; she knows Prairie Rose's past pretty well too.'

I scanned the block; Gilda was nowhere to be seen and Gideon Webb, still wallowing in the adoration of the crowd, was happily allowing two Californian blondes to paw his leather vest with open intent. I gave him a stony stare. An obnoxious playboy or an agro Amazon …

Well, I was going to have to find a way to squeeze details out of one of them …

My phactor rang. It was Des.

I weighed not answering. Webb was just over there … ‘Look, Des, I'll have to get back to you —'

‘No, Kannon, you have to get over here right away!' It was his No Bullshit tone — the one Des used when he'd hit pay dirt. That or the alarm button.

‘What is it?' I watched Webb swagger back towards The Hue & Cry, a blonde on each arm. No wonder Gilda was so cranky.

‘No! I'm not going to try and explain, Kannon — you have to see it. This changes the whole investigation — so get over here fast!'

I trusted Des so I left.

I met him in the de Vivar Library foyer. ‘What is it, Des?'

‘Read this.' He handed me a computer printout. ‘It's a translation of the front page of
The Mexican Star
from the same year as Dry Gulch.'

It said El Chacal had started his rampage through Mexico the year before, when he killed a family in Durango. A well-to-do landowner and his family were found dead beside their carriage at a remote promontory and …

I stopped reading. ‘But, Des, this is about the Mexican bandito that all the bounty hunters were after? This is the guy that my cover, John Eriksen, went south to hunt —'

He jerked his head at the page. ‘Just keep reading, Kannon.'

I eyed him sceptically but complied.

The wealthy family had gone out to visit neighbouring relatives and their bodies were found later that night by their anxious vaqueros. El Chacal had been hired by a rival landowner to eliminate his enemy, and as proof the bandito had left what was to become known as his personal signature carved into the soles of their bare feet — a C …

Oh no …

Governor Gortner'd said all six bodies at Dry Gulch had a C cut into the soles of their feet. But he'd claimed the C stood for Coyote Jack.

I shot Des a confused look; his face was stiff, neutral … waiting for me to react to something.

I read on.

The article said El Chacal had been operating along the El Camino Real de Tierra Adentro for the past year.

‘What's the El Camino Real de Tierra Adentro?' I asked without lifting my head.

I knew about the El Camino Real in California. I used a remnant of that ancient road every time I drove from San Francisco to the NTA training facility at Menlo Park. My road had been built by the Spanish in the eighteenth century. It connected the twenty or so Catholic missions that they established along the Californian coastline to secure their territory. San Francisco and Los Angeles were both missions along that Imperial highway.

‘The El Camino Real de Tierra Adentro was built when the Spanish owned New Mexico,' answered Des brusquely, more than ready for a demand for details. ‘The road connected Santa Fe to Mexico City.'

I nodded, then read on.

El Chacal and his cut-throats started out as a highly mobile band of contract killers who'd eliminate anyone who stood in the way of their employers. Then they went freelance and looted towns and villages along the El Camino Real de Tierra Adentro at will. And, each time, their leader left his calling card — a C — on the feet of the dead.

‘So … what are you saying, Des?' I frowned, searching for a way to connect these startling new dots. ‘You think that El Chacal could've taken a contract from one of the people who wanted Governor Magurty dead and crossed the border for the job?'

Des didn't answer.

I shook my head. ‘Des, trust me — this has to be a weird coincidence. I'm certain Hector did it …' I scanned for the date of the newspaper edition. ‘What if Hector was El Chacal?' It sounded crazy even to my ears, but I was reaching for any possible explanation that could fit with what I knew to be true. ‘You'd better check if that's at all possible —'

‘I already have, Kannon,' cut in Des bluntly. ‘Hector Q. Kershaw was highly visible in Boston at the same time El Chacal was operating in Mexico.'

‘But have you checked specific dates and places?' I demanded. I wasn't backing down.

‘Yes, I have!' bit out Des. ‘When El Chacal was laying waste to the Mexican city of Zacatecas, Hector Kershaw was busy escorting his mother to the opening of Boston's new opera house.' Des shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, Kannon, but Hector didn't commit Dry Gulch …'

I studied Des' face; he was keeping it carefully neutral. That meant he was hiding something, keeping it back because he knew it would make me so angry I'd …

I stared down at the newspaper translation. It was from a different part of the de Vivar Library — the Mexican section. ‘And just why were you checking material south of the border, Des?' I said through gritted teeth.

‘Look, Kannon, I've been through everything I can find on the Kershaw family that links them to New Mexico … and there's absolutely no reason why any of them would want Governor Magurty — or any of the other five victims — dead. The Kershaws were a stuffy East Coast dynasty who did nothing illegal, or exciting, in all their narrow little lives.' Then he shrugged. ‘Except, of course, for Hector's elder
brother, Lysander … but that's a whole other story I haven't had time to follow up … In fact, the Kershaws' financial interests in New Mexico were not served by the new governor and they ended up selling off their properties at a loss.'

‘But you have to dig deeper, Des, because there's something weird going on with that family —'

‘No, Kannon, you have to face it!' Des paused to eye me warily. ‘Hector Quale Kershaw was a spoilt banker's kid who was tied to his mother's apron strings. He never stepped a foot away from the East Coast until his father finally kicked him out of the nest, hoping a dose of the Wild West would make a man out of him … which to all reports it did!'

‘No!' I shook my head. Now I knew where Des was heading.

‘Kannon, I looked south of the border because you told me Coyote Jack would disappear there at regular intervals —'

‘It wasn't Coyote Jack, Des!'

‘Stop thinking with your soft heart, Kannon. It makes sense! El Chacal used the same signature as Coyote Jack because —'

‘No!'

‘… because Coyote Jack WAS El Chacal, south of the border. That's why they have the same signature — a C.'

I stared at him coldly. ‘But you have no proof … do you?'

If he did, Des would've shoved it in front of me before he made this accusation.

‘Kannon,' he sighed. ‘Coyote Jack and El Chacal both disappear from the history books at exactly the same time in 1867 … two weeks after Dry Gulch.'

Des and I parted on bad terms. I'd demanded he dig deeper for Hector's motive for Dry Gulch, but Des was convinced the culprit was this Mexican bandito, El Chacal. When Des set his jaw and went mute, I dropped the fight. He'd just do what he wanted anyway. I left saying it'd take a whole lot more than what he'd just dug up to make me abandon what I knew to be the truth.

I had to find that bloody diary — and fast!

Where had Hector hidden his illicit mistress, Prairie Rose? Chances were he wouldn't have more than one hiding place for the secrets he wanted to keep close.

One way or another, once I found the diary the case would be closed on who committed Dry Gulch.

Furious with Des, I marched outside the library, my phactor in hand, and rang the number on the Wild West Club flyer. Despite my best efforts, the receptionist kept firm — both Gideon Webb and Gilda were busy getting ready for tonight's show and
couldn't be disturbed. I could try again after the show.

What was I going to do until then?

Dredge my memory for a start … I already knew stuff about Hector and Prairie Rose.

I remembered back to the Hen's Coop Saloon in old Santa Fe … Sigvard Blix proudly showing Hector his pile of pornographic postcards from the Corsairs' brothel. Hector'd zoomed straight in on Princess Prairie Rose, the wild teenager clutching a lethal green bow in one fist and with a red quiver full of deadly sharp arrows slung across her naked back.

Hmm … Hector had dismissed a whole deck full of lingerie-clad, lounging beauties to pick her. Now exactly why had prissy Hector gone for such a direct sexual challenge? What'd he seen in that ferocious girl that'd lit his campfire?

And what about Prairie Rose? Even nearly naked, her fierce black eyes had dared the beholder to even think about putting a finger on her.

Why had that angry girl stayed with someone like Hector Kershaw? What'd happened after Hector rescued her from the Corsairs?

I pieced together a rough answer …

Okay, so, after her rescue from the Corsairs, Prairie Rose was stuck in merciless boom-town San Francisco. Her little sister, Running Deer, was dead … She was the only survivor of her nation and far from her homelands. So Prairie Rose was penniless, lost in hostile territory and, no doubt, now hunted by the Corsairs, who wanted their starring attraction back.

Prairie Rose didn't have a choice. That had to be the reason she went with Hector … and probably why she stayed with him too. In fact, I'd bet real money that the fierce warrior princess even helped Hector
destroy the men who'd kept her and her little sister captive.

I silently asked Prairie Rose, ‘Where did Hector take you, girl? Where did he hide you?'

No one answered.

I gazed back at de Vivar Library.

 

The librarian at the information desk made a phone call and directed me up to what he called The Model Room. It was at the very top of the strange pueblo tower at the front — Rodrigo's Tower. Apparently when Rodrigo de Vivar visited the library, he used to spend most of his time up there.

‘Make sure you check out the view from the lookout at the top,' the librarian said.

The computer room had been as efficiently gleaming as modern technology — and a whole lotta dough — could make it. But the tower looked, and even smelt, like it hadn't been used since it'd been built. There was no elevator, only a narrow spiral staircase running up the centre. There were rooms off to the side at each level but no sound of occupation from behind the old wooden doors. As instructed I continued up to the top floor at the end of the spiral staircase.

There was a choice of two doors. I opened the one on the left. It led onto a narrow set of stairs, which I climbed up to find another door. I opened it and …

Suddenly, I was on the tower battlements.

I sucked in an impressed breath. The fog had momentarily cleared and, to the west, I took in the San Francisco skyline. It was dusk and the lights were starting to glimmer. To the east, the view was blocked by the five stone chiefs.

They perched there like massive gargoyles, contemplating their targets on the plaza below. I
shook my head at that thought. No, not gargoyles … they weren't that kind of caricature.

I took a closer look.

They were intricately carved red basalt, inlaid with semi-precious stones. Each statue was lovingly portrayed, from the clothing down to their scars …

These were statues of real people. Five real chiefs. But who were they? And why had Rodrigo de Vivar put them up here? From their clothes and decorations, they were certainly from different nations …

I studied them. They may've been different people, but their expressions were all the same. They were watching for something, waiting …

Holding onto the shoulder of the nearest chief, I leant over to see what they were all focused on.

It was straight below — the Dry Gulch Memorial.

I checked again. Every pair of eyes was focused on the Dry Gulch Memorial.

The more I learnt about Rodrigo de Vivar, the more I was beginning to suspect he was a significant part of the puzzle I was trying to …

A sudden flash of light from my right blinded me.

I spun to face South Hall. I searched for the light source — but it was gone. Then I noticed I could see straight into Jackson River's office from up here. I searched for a better view. River was sitting at his desk, talking on the phone. He put the phone down and moved to his open window. He was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt. He was staring down at the plaza, just like the first time I went to his office.

I pulled my binoculars out of my bag.

River placed both his wrists on the window frame above his head and stretched. I felt my temperature rise. Oh yeah, he was in just as good shape as his ancestor, Coyote Jack.

I frowned. Every time I saw him, I could only see Coyote Jack with different eye colour and a punk haircut.

 

I climbed back down the stairs from the roof and opened the right-hand door instead.

It was like another world … the old West, even to the dusty smell.

The round room at the top of the tower extended right out to the original pueblo stonework and the roof and supporting beams were made of huge tree trunks. It was lined with bookshelves crammed full of dusty old volumes and faded manuscripts.

But it was what was in the middle of the room that caught my eye.

It was an immense antique model of old San Francisco, full of authentic detail. There was no Golden Gate Bridge, and sand dunes and countryside surrounded the city, but San Francisco Bay sparkled the same steely blue it does today. There was no mistaking that hilly peninsular. The cityscape even had little model figures climbing its steep streets, all in tiny little nineteenth-century costumes, and ships rode at their moorings in the crowded harbour.

Hector's diary was somewhere in that very city. I leant over the old model like Gulliver, ready to reach down and grab it.

A librarian, standing at one of the shelves, heard me and came over. He looked almost as old as the model, but had an intelligent twinkle in his faded blue eyes. I told him what I was after and we both stood and pondered the miniature city.

‘Well, you're in luck,' he said. ‘Rodrigo de Vivar had this model made in 1868, so it's accurate to the right period.'

‘That's good …' I said, silently urging him on.

‘Hector Kershaw and his wife, Edwina, lived here on Nob Hill.' He pointed to a fancy house sitting on the top of one of the hills in the centre of old San Francisco. ‘This is where Kershaw's father-in-law lived.' He pointed again, to an even bigger mansion that sat on the crest of the same hill and loomed over Hector's. ‘His wedding gift to the newly married couple was the house next door.'

I eyed Hector's ritzy new house. Bet daddy-in-law wanted to keep an eagle eye on his little teenage princess … But, fancy new house or not, I bet Hector'd been just itching to get away from his nosy relative.

‘Thanks, but I'm looking for Prairie Rose,' I said. ‘Have you got any ideas where she would've lived?'

The librarian scratched his head. ‘Could be anywhere. As soon as Hector arrived he began building what is now the Kershaw real-estate empire. Hector owned tracts of land all over the city.'

‘Well, I don't think even Hector would've kept his mistress anywhere near to his doting father-in-law …'

The elderly librarian shrugged. ‘The real-estate development furthest away would be Mr Kershaw's pet project, the Little Boston Precinct, of course.'

Hector had a pet project? The excitement began to rise. ‘That sounds much better. Does it still exist?'

He nodded. ‘Little Boston was in a part of San Francisco that survived the earthquake and fire of 1906, but the precinct is derelict now. After Hector went missing the Kershaws just boarded the whole thing up. I believe it passed out of the family in the 1960s … and I know the present owners originally intended to bulldoze it … but it's still there.'

This description was starting to sound very familiar. ‘Is Little Boston in SoMa?'

The librarian was surprised. ‘Yes, that's correct. How did you —'

‘Where is it?'

‘In the street Hector Kershaw had specially named to commemorate the memory of his elder brother, Lysander. You know — the one who died a hero in the Indian Wars.'

‘Oh, really?' That made me suspicious. In old Santa Fe, every time Lysander's name had been mentioned, Hector'd looked ready to detonate. So why would he name a street after someone he hated? ‘My office is in SoMa but I don't know any Lysander Street —'

‘No, he used Lysander's middle name, which was Prendergast … Little Boston is on Prendergast Street.'

That was just too weird … Little Boston was on the same street as the Zebulon Hotel. My hotel.

But then I'd moved into the Zebulon because it was cheap and full of character. And it was cheap because it was falling down … and it was falling down because the city wouldn't let the owners demolish it along with the other historic buildings in the area …

Maybe there was some cosmic justice after all …

I leant over the model, orienting myself.

The librarian moved with me, squinting down. ‘That's Prendergast Street there. And that's Little Boston Precinct.' He pointed.

Five buildings, arranged around a central courtyard, sat on the northern side of Prendergast Street. A tall fence enclosed the compound.

There was no Zebulon Hotel.

I studied that tall fence — it was made of iron bars with sharp points on the ends of them. Was Hector keeping people in … or keeping them out?

‘Okay, I need everything you have on Little Boston … everything from the blueprints through to the —'

‘I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't help you —'

‘What d'ya mean?' I snapped, already mentally hot on the trail.

‘I'm sorry but everything we had — all the original documents, the plans, the architect's notes … Everything on the Little Boston Precinct was stolen in the break-in.' He looked down at the old model. ‘This is all we have left.'

‘Break-in?' I squeaked, unable to believe my ears.

‘Yes — the one that happened about a week or so ago.'

 

Night was falling and there were still thick patches of fog here and there … but I left Berkeley like I had rockets attached.

According to the librarian, Mayor Hector Kershaw had declared that new role models were the only way to really change brutal, corrupt old San Francisco. So Little Boston was to be a model precinct, one that'd create patterns that could be replicated in the wider society. It held a reformatory for delinquent girls and a women's prison, a school and a hospital. But Hector'd disappeared before the buildings became operational and now, without the missing documents, no one knew which of the five buildings were which.

I'd had trouble keeping a straight face while the archivist raved about Hector Kershaw being so progressive … so far ahead of his time. What a pity it had never come to fruition.

Psychopathic Hector had built a model community designed to improve San Francisco's moral fibre?

Oh, sure!

And named Prendergast Street after his hated elder brother?

Oh yeah, I was definitely checking out that little hive of lies and deception. Apart from a driving need to know what that fiend, Hector Kershaw, had been really up to, Prairie Rose could've been kept in any one of those five fenced-in buildings.

I parked in front of the Zebulon Hotel, changed into dark clothes in my office, put my break-and-enter tools in my black backpack and went downstairs. It was still early but there was live music pouring out of Jake's Place on the ground floor. Some country and Western singer was playing the banjo and pleading for another chance. He kept underlining his torment with a chorus of yodelling trills. Even so the bar and grill appeared full. There was no one in sight on the street, but if the singer kept making that demented racket it wouldn't stay that way for long.

I stepped out onto the pavement, then heard someone whistling to my left. I pressed myself into the shadowed wall of the Zebulon. No point in letting anyone witness what I was about to do — not if I could avoid it.

It was Jake, the ex-con restaurateur. And from the delicious fragrance wafting out of the boxes he was carrying, he was making a home delivery. The scent almost lifted me off my hungry feet and pulled me out of the shadows. I salivated as I watched him whistle his cheerful way down Prendergast Street.

But I'd thought he said he didn't make deliveries?

Jake made a right turn into the homeless shelter on the corner.

Interesting … One day soon I'd have to look into that man's story …

I mentally slapped myself. Come on — focus. I peeked out, checked both ways, then sprinted across the road and deep into Little Boston.