Coyote (6 page)

The rain was still pounding on the roof when Spud woke me up by sticking her cold, wet nose on my warm cheek. She was big and sleek — a mix of too many breeds to identify but more like a Ridgeback than anything else I'd seen. Her black coat was like velvet and her eyes honey-coloured. Those same eyes implored me to do my duty. I levitated out of bed and took Spud for her morning run on the beach. I came back soaked; showered and changed, and climbed into the car. I'd get breakfast later.

The traffic up from my old beach house near Half Moon Bay wasn't too bad, given the wet roads, and twenty-five minutes later I was in San Francisco. Following Highway 80 I got onto the Bay Bridge and headed for Oakland. I stayed in the left lane and once off the bridge took the eastbound exit for the University of California, Berkeley.

One of Des' San Francisco cop buddies had done his degree at Berkeley and did the occasional lecture
there on police procedure. He told Des that Jackson River had an office on campus — in the Department of Criminology at South Hall. But first he'd said I should talk to whoever was in charge of the Kershaw Archives, which were held in the university's de Vivar Library.

I followed the signs, turned into University Avenue and paused at Oxford Street to take in the view of the oldest university on the West Coast. It looked it too. Distinguished … august … manicured. And just a little sodden. No rubbish blocking the gutters in this place.

Now came the hard part — finding a parking spot. The road was packed with circling cars doing the same thing and tempers were short from the miserable weather.

There was nothing in sight so I turned left and started my circumnavigation of the campus. Nothing on Hearst, nothing on Gayley or Piedmont, but just as I was heading back down de Vivar Way a red sedan surged out in front of me and I had to brake to stop from hitting them. I got into the empty space before the car behind me could push its way in, bought a ticket and stuck it on my dashboard.

I opened my umbrella, got the map out of my satchel and plunged into the wet flock of students doing their morning migration onto campus. It was mid-November and they were all chirping about the Thanksgiving holiday. According to the map, I just had to find the big bell tower at the centre of campus and the de Vivar Library was right near it.

Through the pouring rain I could just make out a tower, with big clocks on each face, in the distance. I kept it in sight and eventually emerged into a busy plaza surrounded by stately buildings. To my right, the bell tower stretched up over my head.

I checked the map as I went — that meant de Vivar Library was to my left. I searched the buildings ahead and came to a sudden halt …

In the midst of all these stately white buildings, the de Vivar Library was an earth-red pueblo. It was square, three storeys high, and had a round pueblo tower rising out of the side that faced the plaza. The tower, wound around with a spiral of slit windows, rose up another three storeys in height.

The library was made of adobe — sundried mud bricks covered in a generous frosting of red mud. The thick coating made the walls smooth and rounded every line and edge, which contrasted with the dead-straight lines of the windows and doors and made it appear as though they were set into a red-chocolate mud cake. The roof was flat and directly beneath it, protruding from the smooth red walls in a decorative line, was the last yard or so of the mighty logs that acted as beams.

It looked like it should've been sitting in the middle of some Wild West desert, except that water was gushing off its flat roof. And because five stone sculptures of Native American chiefs in full war dress perched on the battlements of the tower. They stared down at the busy, rain-soaked plaza as if waiting for their worst enemy to ride past.

But that wasn't what focused my attention.

There were black and white San Francisco police vehicles parked in front of the library … And a crime-scene tape circled the entire building, preventing a crowd of irate students from entering.

I edged my way to the front of the crowd, dodging dripping umbrellas. One of the wet-weather-clad cops on the inside of the tape was battling with a student desperate to get in to use the library.

‘You don't understand. My dissertation is due at
the binders tomorrow and I have to check that my references are completely —'

‘Look, son,' growled the cop who was probably the same age. ‘No one is getting past this tape until I say so. The library is closed!'

One of the lower windows in the pueblo tower was broken. Right next to it, two men in cheap navy suits, and holding matching umbrellas, stood arguing. The taller one was pointing to the pueblo tower with darting, angry movements.

I got my leather wallet out and ducked under the crime-scene tape.

The uniformed cop sidestepped into my path and grabbed my shoulder. I let him. ‘Look, girl, this is off limits!'

I grimaced. Yep, my baby-face certainly was a handicap in this business. I flicked my wallet open. He froze, recognising the NTA certified detective's licence but unsure of what to do next.

Before the Uniform could lapse back into regulations, I nodded at the Plainclothes boys ahead and snapped, ‘Who's in charge?'

He pointed to the taller one. ‘Detective McBain.'

I strode past him. He let me.

The two detectives caught me in their peripherals and swung around, ready to bite. I could see the shorter one recognised me. McBain, caught up in his case, just scowled. I flipped out my licence again. The short detective was curious, but McBain was groping for a way to react.

‘Detective McBain, I'm Time Investigator Kannon Dupree and I'm here on a case. I need to talk to a librarian about —'

‘Well, you can't,' he bit out with perverse satisfaction. ‘All the librarians are busy answering questions.'
Obviously a morning spent out in the pouring rain had soured what good temper he'd brought with him.

‘Okay …' I eyed the broken window in the strange adobe tower. ‘Then can you at least tell me what happened?'

McBain gave me a searching look, as though weighing up whether I could be of any use. Then he decided to bait his hook and see what it reeled in. ‘Last night someone broke into the library and stole some extremely rare manuscripts.' He studied my face.

‘Rare manuscripts?' My antennae went up. If they came from the Kershaw Archives then these two boys were about to get my help — whether they wanted it or not.

I gazed around at the number of police. ‘This is a lot of attention just for some missing papers, isn't it?'

‘A librarian, who'd been working late in another part of the building, surprised the intruder as he was locking up for the night,' replied McBain. ‘He died in hospital three hours ago.'

‘So this is a homicide.'

‘Very much so,' he said dryly. ‘The librarian had his throat slit.'

I stared at McBain. That was strange for a straight break and enter. But I put that thought aside. ‘Can you tell me more about what actually went missing?'

The two detectives exchanged a glance. ‘First, I want to know about the case you're working on, Miss Dupree,' demanded McBain. ‘Exactly why are you here?'

Fair enough. I'd want to know why a Time Investigator was knocking on a crime-scene door too. ‘I'm investigating the claim that Hector Kershaw kept a diary. I need to talk to someone about the Kershaw Archives.'

Disappointment registered on their faces. McBain turned away to stare back up at the broken window.

‘Were the manuscripts taken from the Kershaw Archives?' I prodded.

‘No,' volunteered the short detective. ‘They were one-of-a-kind architectural plans of old San Francisco — but not worth a lot on the open market. Well, not enough to kill for anyway.'

No wonder the two detectives were puzzled. But if the manuscripts didn't contain Hector's diary then the whole mess was none of my concern.

‘Good old Hector Kershaw …' The short detective nodded over my shoulder. ‘So he's the centre of attention again, after all this time.'

I followed his gaze.

There was a massive tableau, a cluster of life-sized bronze sculptures depicting a dramatic scene, right in the centre of the busy plaza. It sat on a raised stone pedestal, dominating the whole open space.

Intent on my mission, I'd walked straight past it.

It was detailed … too much so. Mutilated corpses lay sprawled around a horse-drawn coach. Only one figure was upright — even the horses slumped, dead, in their harnesses. A man, half kneeling, gave succour to a woman writhing in agony in the dirt.

It had to be Dry Gulch.

 

The two cops were intent on resuming their investigation and equally as intent on denying me access to any of the library staff, so I left them studying the break-in site in the strange pueblo library.

That meant River was next. I checked my map. His office was just across the plaza in South Hall.

But the epic bronze cluster of life-sized figures caught my eye and held it. I couldn't just walk straight
past again. I avoided the too detailed slaughter, forever frozen in bronze, to concentrate on the engraved plaque on the side of the stone pedestal. It said that the Dry Gulch Memorial was dedicated to preserving the heroic deeds of Hector Quale Kershaw in the name of Truth, the daughter of Time. I bent forwards to read the fine print. The memorial had been commissioned and donated by Rodrigo Juan de Vivar in 1868.

Following a hunch, I grabbed one of the more studious-looking passers-by and asked them who this de Vivar character was.

Rodrigo Juan de Vivar was Hector Kershaw's business partner.

That told me nothing, so I scanned around the drenched plaza. South Hall, the library, the bell tower … Yeah, the Dry Gulch Memorial was certainly centre stage. Whoever this de Vivar guy was, he certainly didn't want Hector Kershaw's heroics forgotten.

Then I looked up at the five stone chiefs, perched on the very top of the pueblo tower. They refused to bend to the storm. I squinted up for a better look.

They seemed to be waiting for something.

 

South Hall was just across the plaza from de Vivar Library. It was a stately, old two-storey building, creaking with character. It seemed a fitting setting for the Criminology Department. Jackson River's office was on the top floor.

I knocked at his door. No answer.

I knocked again … No answer.

So I tried the doorknob. It opened.

River was standing at the window, staring down through the rain. His spiky, jet-black hair was still tipped with red, white and blue streaks; but this time he wore a coat, tie and good pants. The combination
didn't look as weird as it should. He emanated enough sheer bravado to carry it off. I was betting his criminology classes had a preponderance of females.

From this angle River had to be studying the crime scene in front of the de Vivar Library.

Without turning he said, ‘Come in, Ms Dupree.'

So he'd watched me walk across the plaza?

I came up to his side. McBain and his sidekick were still looking up at the broken window in the pueblo tower.

‘What are you looking at?' I scanned his face. His piercing blue eyes blazed out of his tanned skin.

‘I like seeing my enemies coming.'

‘You consider me an enemy?'

‘Not yet.' River turned to study me. ‘But why are you here?'

I wasn't going to tell him about Seymour Kershaw so I stalled. If I had to make up my mind about his story without any contextual details then I wanted more background first.

I looked around.

River's office was stuffed full of old maps and curious artefacts. The maps were mostly of New Mexico. They were in Spanish and looked pre-American occupation. The rest of the space was covered in masks, statues and craftwork. Most of them were the same figure repeated in different styles: coyotes.

I picked up a wooden figure — a howling coyote. It looked very old. ‘Interesting collection for a criminologist's office … Sure you're not an anthropologist?'

River eyed me cynically, but my question still pulled him away from the window. ‘Coyote was the first criminal mastermind.'

‘Coyote?'

‘He's our trickster god … but every culture has at least one.' River pointed to a nearby shelf. It held African and Asian statues of different kinds of animals; I recognised a fox and a raven. There was even a weird-looking Nordic warrior. ‘Coyote is just one face of the Global Trickster.'

I frowned. ‘You said Coyote was a criminal mastermind … so he's evil.' Several of the coyotes were fierce but most seemed benevolent. Some were even laughing.

‘Evil? No, not at all. But then you wouldn't want to be on Coyote's bad side either. Devious would be a better word.'

‘So who did he trick?'

‘Everyone — even the other gods.' River shrugged. ‘He's a trickster, he loves to play practical jokes.'

I scanned around his collection. ‘So I guess your field is cross-cultural criminology?'

‘Yeah, that's right … There are as many kinds of justice as there are nations on the planet.' He swung back to study the crime scene down in front of the library. ‘But I'm more concerned with natural justice than paper rules.'

‘And just why are you so interested in that crime scene?' My tone was too sharp.

‘You think this time — this San Francisco — doesn't have tricksters too?' He was being evasive.

‘That's not an answer,' I replied.

River shot me an assessing glance and smiled to himself. ‘There is a tale about Coyote — one that may help you understand my interest in tricksters.'

River was changing the subject.

‘Yeah. Go on,' I said dryly. I know when I'm being played.

‘One day, when Coyote was travelling through the desert, he saw a two-legged creature, a human, kill one of its own kind in order to steal a long wooden stick. It was a hunting flute that could call any animal in earshot to its side. This crime intrigued the ever-curious Coyote, so he followed the murderer to learn more of this strange species.