Coyote (7 page)

‘Coyote tracked the human to his village and, reluctant to let his quarry go, he shape-shifted from four onto two legs. Coyote watched the murderer lie to his fellow humans … telling them their hunting flute was gone forever, stolen by the missing man. And they, unable to smell the villain's deceit, believed him.

‘So the trickster god decided to unmask him. While the murderer slept, Coyote stole the flute and wedged it in the sleeping man's backside. The next morning, when the man woke, he farted and the flute called the whole village to his side.

‘And that's how Coyote taught humans that a villain's truth has a front and a back — a liar's mouth and a more honest rear.'

River grinned cheekily, showing sharp white teeth in his tanned face.

I had to grin back. ‘So you're saying Coyote teaches about truth.'

‘Yes. But Coyote is an unusual teacher. He always breaks the rules, does the unexpected. And he particularly likes tripping up anyone who needs a lesson.' He shrugged. ‘Coyote's appearance usually heralds great change, upheavals.'

‘And what does your nation think of Coyote?' I eyed his red, white and blue hair streaks. They looked like feathers on a war bonnet.

He evaded my gaze. ‘There are too many branches in my family tree to claim one single people, so I claim
them all …' River deftly changed the subject again. ‘Now. Are you going to tell me why you're here?' River's faint smile showed his sharp white canines … and told me that he already knew the answer to that question.

I got the feeling that River had taken lessons from his favourite deity.

Okay … I'd play along. ‘Why are you so sure Hector Kershaw kept a diary?'

‘I've been on the trail of that diary for years now. Everything points to it, I'm certain he had one.'

‘Years? That's a long time to search and not find something.'

That roused his ire. ‘Dry Gulch is why I became a criminologist in the first place. Coyote Jack is a hero — yet another victim of the white injustice system!'

When River saw I was listening sympathetically, his anger receded. ‘Five years ago I found letters written by one of Coyote Jack's white friends just after the Dry Gulch massacre. A Franciscan friar living in Santa Fe. The friar said that Hector Kershaw's diary would prove Jack's innocence. So I've been searching for that diary ever since.'

I frowned. ‘But how on earth does Hector's diary fit into this? What do you think it could possibly show?'

‘I believe it'll identify the real killer. Hector Kershaw was a greenhorn, a Boston banker's kid in Santa Fe on his first trip west. He'd never seen Coyote Jack before …' River snorted with contempt. ‘… and probably thought all Indians looked alike. Hector didn't even accuse Coyote Jack of the killings. It was the commander of Fort Marcy — Captain Uriah Bull — who named Coyote Jack as the culprit.'

‘But how —'

‘I believe,' River said, brooking no disagreement, ‘that Hector saw the real murderers but didn't know who they actually were.'

Hmm … maybe River had a point. ‘On what basis did Captain Bull make the identification?'

‘The corpses were scalped and mutilated, so Bull said it was an Indian attack and took Coyote Jack as a convenient scapegoat. But I believe Hector put a description of the real killers in his diary.'

‘But then who attacked the governor's coach?' I asked, intrigued.

‘Someone with a real motive to kill those specific passengers. Coyote Jack had no reason to kill them and everything to lose by it. He spent the rest of his life hunted by the US army.'

That was interesting. If River was telling the truth … I shot a look around the room at his favourite role model, the trickster god. ‘So … do you have any idea where Hector's diary is?'

‘It's not over there.' He nodded towards the de Vivar Library. ‘I've been through it all.'

But I could tell he was leaving something out. ‘Then where is it, River?'

‘Do you really think I'd tell you that?'

I waited.

He waited too.

‘Why the paranoia?' I asked.

‘Why should I trust you?' River stared down at the crime scene below. ‘Since I've been in San Francisco there's been a few too many coincidences — ones that indicate that someone else is looking for the diary.'

It was afternoon by the time I made it back to the Zebulon but the heavy rain made it as dark as night. The line outside the St Francis homeless shelter was no shorter than yesterday, but I noticed that none of the faces looked the same. The shelter had to be doing a cracking job because, unlike other parts of Prendergast Street, I'd never seen even one homeless person living on the pavement in our block.

I'd rung Des from outside South Hall — he'd been just about to leave the office for an appointment in town. We would meet up after he was finished.

I parked in Prendergast Street just as thunder began to crackle. I looked around for my umbrella but it was nowhere to be found. Damn, I'd lost another one. I hiked my black trench coat over my head and ran for the Zebulon.

I clambered up the stairs, unlocked the external office door and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened.

Oh, crap! Des hadn't mentioned the electricity wasn't on yet.

Then I stopped. What was that sound? The hackles on the back of my neck stood up and sang the national anthem.

There was someone else here in the darkness.

I felt under my coat for my holster but didn't draw my gun. I'd almost left it off this morning. Of course, I had a permit, but I didn't like wearing it. In Australia pretty much only the police were licensed to bear arms, and firearms were dangerously messy in confined spaces. At close quarters, I preferred using my hands.

I reached into my satchel for the flashlight and then silently lowered the bag to the floor. Standing in the doorway they could see me but not vice versa and my eyes were still getting used to the dark. No home court advantage if I stayed here. I moved inside and swung the flashlight up and around.

No one in sight in the foyer. Maybe I was too paranoid?

I checked Des' office — nothing was disturbed and no one popped up.

Then I looked back to the external door. A tall shadow now blocked the light streaming in from the hall.

A deep voice whispered softly, ‘Kannon?' It was Daniel.

‘I'm here, Honeycutt.' As soon as the words left my mouth, there was a crashing noise from my office.

I raced in, Daniel at my heels, to see a black-clad figure slipping out my bay window and up. Daniel grabbed for his feet but the burglar was fast. Too fast.

The rain drenched us as we hung out the window. The burglar shimmied up a rope to the roof, pulling it with him as he went.

Damn, he could climb!

Bam … Bang. Above the roof the thunder roared, promising that finally the real storm had arrived.

Daniel started to go out the window after the burglar.

‘No!' I barked instinctively. He had no rope to climb and I wasn't going to watch Honeycutt break his neck scaling a slippery building bare-handed. ‘There's a way onto the roof.'

We raced down the corridor, up the narrow flight of stairs at the end and burst out the external door, panting. I shone my flashlight over the roof … to find nothing.

The flat roof was empty.

Overhead, thunder cracked out a challenge to the earth and the rain came down in sheets. Without speaking we each picked a side to scan. No, the burglar hadn't climbed back down either. So where had he gone?

Daniel stood over the rope; it was tied to a steel hook. He checked the hook, which had been drilled into the concrete, and then examined the knots fastening the rope to it.

The rain poured down my face, blinding me. ‘What is it, Honeycutt?'

‘Are you working on any other cases than the one you talked about last night? The Kershaw diary …'

‘No, that's it and we don't even have that case yet. I'm still trying to find the right bait to reel in our prospective client, Seymour Kershaw.'

Honeycutt shook his head. ‘Then, Kannon, we need to talk about what else is going on here. I haven't seen a knot tied like this since I was in the Marines. That burglar has special ops training.'

That scared me. Des could've been caught there by himself.

‘I want to know why he was in my office!' I stared around, angry. ‘He's got to be hiding, he couldn't have climbed back down that fast …'

We checked the building over to make sure that my new special friend had really gone, but still no luck. Whoever it was had disappeared into thin air. So we went over the Rewind offices with a fine-tooth comb. But all I found was my empty in-tray lying upturned on the floor. The crashing sound must've been it hitting the floor as the burglar rushed past to the window.

I handed Honeycutt one of the freshly cleaned towels from our tiny office bathroom, and we both tried to dry off.

‘Your window wasn't broken,' said Honeycutt, ‘so he must've secured the hook and rope on the roof as an emergency escape route. Then he picked the door lock to get in.'

I nodded. ‘He must've been watching the building. Des only left ten minutes before I arrived.'

That thought was a relief — at least Des'd avoided a nasty confrontation.

We fell silent, trying to process it all.

‘So the intruder was in here for maybe five minutes, tops?'

‘Yeah.' I shrugged. ‘But I don't know what he was looking for, Honeycutt, I can't see anything obvious. The filing cabinets are still locked and the desk computers seem as intact as I can tell without power … Maybe he didn't have time to get what he came for?'

Lightning blazed outside, briefly illuminating my office like a searchlight.

‘But what did he come for, Kannon?' Honeycutt's voice was clipped so far back to neutral I could barely
understand him. Another lightning flash showed that he was furious. ‘What's happened since I've been gone? Who's sending military-trained personnel after you?'

Then I remembered the strange letter I'd found in our mailbox yesterday. The one with the skull and cross bones drawn on the front of it, in dark red ink. What had I done with it?

‘What?' Daniel read me like a book.

I walked back out to the foyer.

‘My visitor could be all about the previous tenants … I found a threatening letter addressed to them yesterday.' I leant over the secretary's desk and flicked through the pile of mail to be readdressed and sent to the real-estate agent.

‘That's strange.' I went through the pile twice but the threatening letter was missing. ‘It's gone.'

‘Who was the last tenant?' Honeycutt picked up the pile of mail and started opening the letters. ‘These are all demands for payment.' He dropped the last one back onto the desk.

‘All I know is the mail's addressed to Lindthorpe Enterprises.'

Had the burglar been after that weird letter?

 

Honeycutt was not so quietly seething on the foyer lounge.

He hadn't taken the break-in well. It seemed as though he'd decided to make being my personal bodyguard his full-time job. I didn't need one. That's what I usually did for everyone else. But after he risked his life for me on our last mission together, I felt the same way about him. So I understood.

I'd lit as many candles as I could muster and was seated at the secretary's desk in the foyer, trying to
make some sense of the break-in. I had the real-estate agent on the line and was trying to squeeze out what information she had about Lindthorpe Enterprises.

While I was busy railroading the spluttering real-estate agent, I shot Honeycutt a quick glance … Yep. His expression said he was still ticking over like a time bomb, just waiting for the right detonator to stroll through the door.

The office door swung open with a crash.

Honeycutt looked at our sudden visitor with vicious intent, as though scenting a legitimate outlet for his anger.

Seymour Kershaw barrelled through the doorway, focused on his mission. He stumbled when he met Honeycutt's gaze, then swerved like a puppy on ice to stand over me. ‘I need to talk to you!' The last word was bellowed.

I paused mid-sentence and covered the mouthpiece of the old telephone. ‘Please go through to my office, Mr Kershaw.' From the red colour of his cheeks, his efforts to hire Klaasen or Melnick had not gone well.

I spoke into the phone, ‘I'm sorry, but can I hand you over to my associate? A client has just come in.' While she was still spluttering, trying to get rid of me, I handed the phone to Honeycutt. ‘Do your Southern charm thing, will you?'

Honeycutt gazed past me to my office, as though keen not to miss a potential brawl, but nodded anyway. He went to work, his Southern accent in full force.

Kershaw sat rigid in the chair opposite my desk, hammering his fingers on the armrest like he was trying to communicate with me in Morse code.

I wanted to rub my hands and dance with glee. I restrained myself. ‘Now, Mr Kershaw, how can I —'

‘I want to hire you to find Hector Kershaw's diary, but I need you to leave immediately.'

So much for the formalities.

‘Okay,' I replied, as calmly as humanly possible. ‘Yes, Mr Kershaw, I think I could fit your case in … I'll need some prep time, of course. Nineteenth-century San Francisco may sound easy to you, but in fact it's not without its dangers. And, of course, I'll have to get a good focus on Hector's life in the right time period and —'

‘No!' Seymour broke into my professional recital with a scowl. ‘Not old San Francisco … I want you to go back to Santa Fe in 1867.'

‘Old Santa Fe?' That was a jolt. ‘But I thought San Francisco was where —'

‘If there ever was such a diary,' butted in Seymour, ‘then Hector must've left it in old Santa Fe … or Coyote Jack stole it there … or something happened to it. I've been through every family paper that Hector kept in San Francisco and there's no diary here.'

I frowned. Now I knew why Seymour couldn't bribe Klaasen or Melnick to take his case. Nothing was getting me back to Santa Fe in 1867. Not at the time of Dry Gulch.

Seymour read my face. ‘I don't care if it's in the middle of an Indian War!'

‘But,' I said, desperate to steer Seymour away from the impossible, ‘the diary could still be here somewhere. If I go back to old San Francisco first I can check, then go to Santa Fe only if necessary. That's a lot easier than —'

‘No! There's no time to be wasted! I've just come from Jackson River's office … I went to confront him about his allegations. And he was packing up, getting ready to fly back to Santa Fe. River just found a lead
that shows Hector's diary was hidden in Santa Fe all along.'

I studied his face. ‘In that case, Mr Kershaw, why can't you wait until River has found it?'

Seymour eyed me with acute distaste; I wasn't catching up fast enough. ‘Because, Miss Dupree …' He made my name drip sarcasm like a defrosting fridge. ‘I believe Coyote Jack was guilty of Dry Gulch, and if my relative's diary convicts that villain rather than vindicating him, then River will destroy it.'

I considered his point. ‘Mr Kershaw, do you really think Jackson River would go that far?'

‘Oh yes, he certainly would!' spat Seymour. ‘I now know exactly why Jackson River started this whole media circus in the first place. He would do anything to clear Coyote Jack of the massacre of those poor people at Dry Gulch.'

Seymour shot a challenging look at Honeycutt who'd just appeared in the doorway.

‘That's one of my associates, Mr Kershaw, you can have perfect confidence in his discretion.' I was almost bug-eyed to hear what Seymour could possibly have found out.

Seymour sucked in a lungful and announced, ‘Jackson River heads up a protest group in New Mexico, which is trying to stop the sale of supposedly sacred Indian land to a mining company.'

‘What kind of mining company?' interposed Honeycutt quietly.

‘Uranium,' stated Seymour Kershaw, obviously unconcerned by that which did not directly affect his interests.

I shot a careful glance at Honeycutt. The matter-of-fact answer had deepened his scowl. I was guessing that his mission to Hiroshima had caused it. I couldn't
imagine after that close call that he'd be heavily in favour of mining anything radioactive.

‘River's protest group,' said Seymour dismissively, ‘had a court case going to stop the sale. It's just failed. Now these local tribes claim that this land was originally owned by Coyote Jack anyway. That it was illegally seized and sold by the US government after he was blamed for Dry Gulch.'

Great! I fought back a sigh. Why did my only potential case have to be so morally complicated?

‘River is desperate to stop this sale!' raged Seymour. ‘He doesn't care about the truth of Dry Gulch. All he cares about is winning his court case. So if River finds my ancestor's diary first and it doesn't say what he wants it to then he will most certainly destroy it.' Seymour paused, panting with ire.

‘I'm not going back to old Santa Fe, Mr Kershaw,' I stated.

‘Oh yes, you will.' He nodded disparagingly at my empty in-tray. ‘I'm your only client — and if you don't take this case I'll make sure I'm your last one too.'

I reluctantly bit my tongue. It wasn't the threat that'd worked but the harsh reminder that if we didn't get money rolling in soon, I'd have to close Rewind Investigations before we'd even really opened it. And this was the case I wanted anyway. As high profile as they come … Wasn't it?

‘Therefore, Miss Dupree …' Seymour had recognised my unspoken assent. ‘You will go back to old Santa Fe and find out if there is a diary — and if so, where it's hidden. Then come back and tell me its location so I can personally retrieve it.'

‘But, Mr Kershaw, surely we can find another way to —'

He started yelling, ‘This is Hector Kershaw we're talking about — the hero of San Francisco! Half this city is named after him. I have to beat River to the diary and stop him from destroying it.'

I didn't bother to respond.

Seymour Kershaw nodded, satisfied. He knew he had me.