The Coyote's Cry (10 page)

Willow heaved a sigh. “I…I'm not sure how to answer that. I'm not physically ill, but I've really been down in the dumps, Jenna. Gran's part of it, of course, but I…” She hesitated, then blurted, “I'm tired of my brothers watching every move I make! They're not my keepers and I'm hardly a kid. Why can't they live their own lives and leave mine to me?”

Jenna was stunned. “I had no idea you felt that way. Actually, I had no idea your brothers made such demands on you. Bram does it, too?”

“Lately he's been too busy to harangue me, but he used to all the time.”

“What does he expect from you?” Jenna hated hearing anything negative about Bram, even something as normal as big-brother overprotectiveness for his baby sister, and she felt a strong urge to tell Willow just how wonderful Bram really was. In fact, she would like nothing better than to tell Willow everything going on between her and Bram. She took a big swallow of tea instead.

“That's a darned good question,” Willow said. “What do any of them expect from me?”

So filled with her own wild and wonderful emotions for a man, Jenna couldn't help thinking that Willow needed the same thing—a man that gave her goose bumps and more physical pleasure than she'd even known existed.

“I think you should get out of town for a few days and let your hair down,” Jenna said.

Willow's cheeks got pink. “I…I already did that, Jenna. Now I'm worried about…”

“About what?”

“Oh, forget it. It's probably nothing. Let's have some of that cake now.”

It was after Willow had gone that Jenna realized no one had told her about George WhiteBear's dire prediction of an impending death in the Colton family. Then something occurred to Jenna that gave her a chill. Why was everyone so positive the prediction was about Gloria? There were a lot of other Coltons, and accidents happened all the time.

However, worse than everyday accidents was what Bram did for a living. “My God,” Jenna whispered, shaken to her soul. Law enforcement officers worked every day in the line of fire. What if Gloria wasn't the endangered Colton, and Bram was?

 

It was almost four that afternoon when the medical examiner, John Burnam, surprised everyone working in the sheriff's station by delivering his autopsy report in person.

John laid the report on Bram's desk, then sat down. “That's a surprise package,” John said. “I'll wait while you read it.”

Bram read quickly, then sat back, stunned. “Powder burns on his right hand?”

“Bram, all things considered, it looks like that man shot himself.”

Bram got up for a cup of stale coffee. “Want some?” he asked Burnam.

“No, thanks. I've got some battery acid in the car.”

John's droll sense of humor usually brightened Bram's day, but at the moment he was in a state of shock over the autopsy results and barely heard the man.

Resuming his chair, coffee cup in hand, Bram went over the report again. Then he sat back and regarded John somberly. “Your conclusion isn't the only possibility, John. He could have had a gun of his own and shot at the person who killed him.”

“That would make a fine plot for a movie, but it's a bit far out for Black Arrow. Suicide makes the most sense.”

“Since when has a homicide made sense?”

John shrugged. “I've given you my opinion—based on scientific fact, of course, and my many years of experience with violent death. But you interpret that report any way you wish.”

“You know damned well I respect your opinions.”

John grinned. “Of course you do. We all do.”

Bram shook his head. “Burnam, you're a case all by yourself.” Then his face took on a faraway, thoughtful expression and he murmured, “Suicide. If that's what happened, then the gun and his valuables were stolen
after
his death. And I've run the department ragged looking for an unclaimed car parked anywhere near the old depot. How in heck did he get down there?”

“You have nothing conclusive on his identity?”

“Not yet. His fingerprint data—hopefully there is some—should be coming in at any time. I've been waiting for it most of the day.”

“You need direct access to that kind of information.”

“Tell that to the county bigwigs at their next meeting,” Bram said dryly. “More powerful computers just don't hit that group's hot button. They immediately start talking about raising property taxes or something else that the voters would nix.”

“And yet everyone expects fast action from county and city employees.” Burnam got to his feet. “Oh, well, such is life in the trenches.”

Bram rose. “Thanks for the personal delivery of your report.”

“Kind of you to say that, but I'm afraid it was strictly for my own benefit. I wanted to witness your reaction to it with my own eyes.” John grinned. “But I did make your life much easier, didn't I? Instead of a homicide to solve, you now only have to ferret out and arrest a morbid thief. Good luck.”

“Thanks a lot,” Bram drawled as John walked away. The medical examiner waved his hand in farewell without turning around, and Bram slowly sank back into his chair.

He sat there thinking for a long time. What in the devil was happening to Black Arrow and Comanche County? Until a few months ago there'd been few crimes to solve, very few thieves to ferret out and arrest, few mysteries to puzzle over. Now they seemed to be popping up everywhere he looked.

After muttering a curse under his breath, Bram shouted, “Lester, check on those fingerprint requests again! And don't be nice about it!”

 

Jenna dealt with one Colton after another all day. The family was in chaos, each member seeking confirmation that their beloved Gran was still alive. Obviously George WhiteBear's prediction had been making the rounds.

Jenna felt for each one of them, she truly did, but she also wanted to say, “Why are you all so certain the prediction is about Gloria? Haven't you considered that it could be about one of you…or about Bram? My Lord, think of what he does day after day, night after night.”

In truth she was worried sick, and though she did everything for her patient that she did each day, same as
always, and spoke nicely to the arriving and departing Coltons, her thoughts were with Bram, wherever he was, whatever he was doing. Jenna looked out a window at every opportunity, praying to see his SUV or prowl car, whichever he was driving today.

The dinner hour arrived and she made a tempting tray for Gloria, which, as usual, was returned to the kitchen virtually untouched. Jenna warmed some soup and made a sandwich for herself, and then realized that her own appetite wasn't much better than her patient's.

By eight o'clock Jenna's thoughts were almost too painful to bear. She was living and breathing for someone else, for a man who didn't care enough about her to pick up the telephone and call her. She would have been overjoyed to receive a thirty-second phone call just to hear Bram's voice saying, “Hi, how are you today?”

If this awful heartache was love, did she want it?

 

The fingerprint reports finally were faxed in late in the day, and Bram and several of the deputies read with great disappointment that the dead man's fingerprints were not on file with any law enforcement agency.

“He wasn't a criminal,” Bram said. “So who is he?” If they didn't find out his identity in a reasonable length of time he would be buried as a “John Doe,” which Bram always felt bad about. A person should be buried with his or her loved ones, or at least among friends.

And there were so many other unanswered questions. Given the good quality of his clothing the man hadn't been poverty stricken, so had he worked somewhere in the county right under Bram's nose? Or owned a business? Inherited from his family?

But if he'd been a county resident, wouldn't someone have filed a missing person's report by now?

Bram sat down and placed a call to the local radio sta
tion. “This is Sheriff Colton. Would you do me a big favor and broadcast the description of an unidentified man who died in Black Arrow last night?”

The station manager said that he would be happy to cooperate in any way. After thanking the man, Bram phoned the newspaper and made a similar request. “We have a John Doe in the morgue. Would you please publish his description?”

“I'll send a reporter by in the morning.”

Bram stayed at his desk long after the shift change. He took the medallion from his shirt pocket and absently toyed with it while he thought about the many convolutions his life had taken in recent days. Would things ever get back to normal? Was there any connection, even a tiny one, between John Doe and the other events rocking Bram's world of late?

And then there was Jenna. Bram heaved a mighty sigh. What in God's name was he going to do about Jenna? Fire her? Call Dr. Hall and request another nurse?

Keep your hands off her and everything will even out, you moron!

It was a simple solution to a complex problem, and maybe he could go one better by having a heart-to-heart with Jenna.
“I'm sorry, but nothing is ever going to come of you and me sleeping together. It has to stop. You have to stay in your bed and I have to stay in mine. Alone. That's it. The end.
Finito,
finished.”

Feeling an abnormal burning sensation on his palm, Bram dropped the medallion onto his desk and looked at his hand. “What in hell?” he muttered, and touched the medallion with one fingertip. It wasn't at all hot. In fact it was downright cool.

So what had burned his palm? he wondered, and then realized it wasn't burned at all. His imagination must have gone wild.

Still, he sat and looked at that medallion without touching it for a long spell, marveling again at the odd coincidence of him, George WhiteBear's great-grandson, stumbling across a medallion with a coyote's head embossed on it.

Bram shook his head. This sort of thing was his great-grandfather's specialty, not his. He had no psychic powers, nor did he have a guardian spirit. Doggedly he turned his attention back to his work, only to worry about John Doe's suicide gun. Someone had it, and did that make Black Arrow a more dangerous town in which to reside?

And dare he forget that
two
men had been asking questions about the Coltons? The second one had been described as a fairly forgettable character, except he seemed out of place in Oklahoma. He had medium brown hair and eyes, and seemed like a sneaky sort of fellow. It was, in Bram's estimation, a pretty poor description, but it was all he had. At least after talking to Sheila, he knew with certainty that he
was
dealing with two different men.

Feeling as though he was spinning his wheels whichever way he turned, Bram checked out with the duty officer and left the station. Driving his own vehicle, he made the rounds of Black Arrow's motels, this time missing none of them.

Completely worn out, Bram finally headed home. He tiptoed into the house and went directly to his bedroom. He moved so quietly that he was sure Jenna couldn't possibly have heard him come in.

But he was wrong. She heard his SUV drive in, then heard Bram enter the house with barely a sound. And she knew why he was being so silent. He wanted to avoid seeing her, just as he had early that morning, when he'd gotten up and left the ranch.

Jenna stared at the shadowy ceiling for a very long time. She could hear Gloria's labored, raspy breathing, but she
was able to listen to every tiny sound her patient made and still think about Bram.

And she finally had to admit, heartbreaking though it was, that Bram Colton was carrying around too much baggage to let himself love Carl Elliot's daughter.

B
ram sat on the edge of a table to talk to his deputies, some of whom were seated at desks, while others leaned against file cabinets or walls, coffee in hand. They were a fine group of dedicated officers, and Bram was proud of his staff. He didn't usually speak to them en masse like this, but today he felt that he had to convey the importance of their mission.

“We're all familiar with the medical examiner's autopsy report. John Doe wasn't murdered, as we first thought—he committed suicide. Why he chose that particular place to end his life we might never know, but I suppose he could have chosen it because of its isolation from family and friends. If he had family and friends, that is. The man's description is being aired and published as we speak—I'm sure you've heard it on the radio and read it in the
Chronicle
—but no one's come forward.

“Does that mean Mr. Doe wasn't from around here, or
does it mean he lived quietly, maybe off in the country somewhere, and had no family? So we have that problem to deal with. The county will bury him, we know that, but his only crime was illness or whatever drove him to suicide, and he deserves a proper ceremony with folks who cared about him in attendance…if we can find them.

“A more serious problem is the gun he used. It's a .22 caliber handgun, and someone took it that night. It's debatable whether John Doe was carrying valuables, although I've been considering a wallet and a watch—the watch because of the slight indentation on his left wrist indicating longtime usage of one. But maybe he carried nothing, because he didn't want his identity known, in which case the gun would be the only stolen article.

“That gun worries me. Who took it? Who has it now? I want that gun found. The people hanging out at the old depot are transients, and it's entirely possible that whoever grabbed that weapon is long gone by now. But maybe not, and I want all of you to talk to every stranger on every street, in back alleys, in the homeless shelters and anywhere else you run across them. We're not rousting out the homeless, not by any means, and every officer should keep that in mind. But if anyone has something to say about that night, I want to hear it.”

One of the men spoke up. “We've been keeping an eye on the old depot and haven't seen anyone hanging there since the incident.”

Bram nodded grimly. “Doesn't surprise me. Word travels like quicksilver among the homeless, and no one would want to be connected to the theft of that gun. Remember, though, that any number of people might have seen who walked away with it. There's information out there—we just have to find it.”

The meeting broke up and Bram returned to his office. As was becoming a habit when he was thinking, he took
the medallion from his shirt pocket and toyed with it, agilely moving it from finger to finger on one hand as some people did with a coin.

Mentally he ran down his list of problems. Gran was number one, Jenna number two and the gun number three. Then there was his great-grandfather, who somehow seemed to overwhelm everything else on the list, and the two different strangers asking questions about the Colton family. And last but certainly not least was the courthouse fire. Oh, yes, there was also the break-in at the newspaper office.

It shook Bram that he wasn't making much headway with anything on his list, although he had been pretty successful in avoiding Jenna lately. He left the house before she and Gran awoke in the morning and didn't get home again until midnight or later. He was working sixteen-hour days and using the other eight to catch a little shut-eye, spend time with Gran and worry about the next day's agenda. He had not eaten a meal at his own table for…well, since Jenna showed up as Gran's nurse. He didn't much care for his avoidance routine, but it was the only way to keep them apart. He loved her, and…

Bram winced. He had been trying so hard to keep from saying or thinking that, and now the words seemed to be printed on his forehead for all the world to see.

“Damnation,” he muttered, and got to his feet. There was always paperwork to be done, but he would rather drive around and interview people about John Doe and that damned gun. He glanced down at the medallion in his hand and sank back into his chair. Could this shiny little object, which he'd assessed as immaterial to the tragedy at the old depot, in reality have a story to tell, if only he had the wits to decode it? Should it be locked in the evidence room instead of residing in his pocket?

Bram decided to take another look at the items picked
up by the two officers the night of John Doe's suicide, and headed for the evidence room. Everything gathered had been gone through, examined and labeled “Junk,” but they still kept it and would until they could stamp the word “Closed” on John Doe's file.

Bram checked each item again—empty cigarette packs, candy wrappers, torn bits of old newspapers—and finally shook his head. There was nothing there. The most valuable piece of junk picked up that night was the medallion he carried in the pocket of his shirt. He took it out and looked at it again. Was it evidence? It had no fingerprints—other than his own now—and nothing on it to identify its origin. But how in heaven's name had it found its way into the old depot? And why had whoever transported it there left it behind?

A final—and recurring—question had actually been haunting Bram. Why had he been the officer to find the medallion? The other guys had searched the old building. Why hadn't
they
spotted it gleaming in the beam of a flashlight?

Frowning in serious thought—had the medallion been destined for his eyes alone?—Bram returned to his office, dropped the medallion in his shirt pocket and tried to forget it. Immediately he thought of something else that needed doing.

He dialed Annie McCrary's phone number and waited through six rings before she answered.

“Annie…Bram Colton here. Sorry to bother you, but have you seen anything of Granddad lately?”

“I saw him only yesterday, matter of fact, and you're not bothering me, Bram. Call anytime. I know you're concerned about the old fellow.”

“You must have gone by his place, then?”

“He came by here. Surprised the heck out of me, I don't mind admitting. Actually, Bram, I think he was going to
walk on by, but I spotted him and his dogs and called out to him.”

“He was on the road? Annie, that road comes to a dead end less than a quarter mile past your place. Did he say where he was going?”

“Bram, I've been hearing coyotes howling every night this week, and George said he was going to talk to them. I probably shouldn't be saying this, but are you sure he's all right? I remember what you said about coyotes being some kind of spiritual thing to him, but…”

“Annie, talking to coyotes, or believing he talks to coyotes, is perfectly normal for Granddad. I'm more concerned with his physical health. How did he look to you? I mean, did he appear to be his usual hale and hardy self?”

“Well, yes, but… Bram, he's so old. Should he be living all alone? I realize this is your business and none of mine, but I can't help worrying about him.”

“I worry about him, too, Annie. So does the rest of the family. But no one could get Granddad to live anywhere else no matter what they did. I honestly believe you couldn't pry him from the place with a crowbar. I've told him many times that he's welcome to move in with me and he won't even consider it. So all I can do is keep an eye on him. I wish he would let me have a telephone put in his house so I wouldn't have to bother you, though. I would have driven out there and seen him for myself but things are kind of crazy in town right now.”

“So I've gathered. What about that dead guy? Has anyone contacted your department with information about him yet?”

“No, we haven't had one single call about him. Annie, I would appreciate your calling me if you happen to see Granddad wandering off again. He…he's in mourning, and apt to do some things that you would find strange. But the
one thing I'm afraid of is his taking a fall and no one knowing about it until it's too late.”

“He's in mourning? Oh, my goodness! Who passed away, Bram?”

Bram cleared his throat. “No one yet. It's a Comanche thing, Annie. Thanks for talking to me.”

“Call anytime,” Annie murmured, and Bram could hear the puzzlement in her voice because an old man was mourning the death of someone who hadn't yet died.

Bram set down the phone, thanked his lucky stars for Annie's kindness and wished he knew how to explain George WhiteBear's beliefs in a way that she would understand. It simply wasn't feasible.

 

Jenna awoke angry and stayed that way all morning. How dare Bram treat her in such a callous, cavalier way? He was deliberately leaving at an impossibly early hour every day and not coming home until late. She was usually asleep, but even if she sometimes did hear him come in she knew he didn't want to see her, so she stayed in bed and felt bad about being in love with a heartless oaf. She suffered over him and he didn't give a damn about her. It wasn't fair! She resented the very air he breathed…and
still
loved him. Was she mad?

Gloria ate a few bites of breakfast and another two or three around noon. In the interim Jenna did all of the things she was supposed to—bathing her patient, seeing to Gloria's medications and finally attempting to convince her to work on facial exercises. Gloria's response to that request was always the same: she simply turned her head and shut her eyes.

It was around two that Jenna heard an approaching vehicle, and her heart leaped crazily because just for a moment she thought that maybe Bram had come home.

But it wasn't Bram, nor was it any Colton. It was, Jenna saw from the kitchen window, Dr. Hall.

She went to the front door and let him in. “Hello, Doctor.”

“Hello, Jenna. How's Mrs. Colton today?”

“She's slipping away before my eyes,” Jenna said quietly. “I'm glad you're here.”

Dr. Hall surprised her by laying his hand on her shoulder. “I'll take a look at her and then we'll talk.”

“Uh, yes…fine,” Jenna stammered, and then watched the doctor walk to the master bedroom and go in. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that Dr. Hall was young—no more than forty—and quite nice looking. He was also a divorced man, she recalled from rumors that had titillated several of the single nurses about six months ago.

The gossip hadn't thrilled Jenna, for the only man on her mind had been Bram. Now, hurting from Bram's ambivalent treatment—he slept with her when the mood struck, apparently, and then deliberately ignored her very existence—she wondered about Dr. Hall's gesture. Was he just being kind because of her downcast expression over her patient's failing health, or had he meant something personal by laying his hand on her shoulder?

Should she find out? Wishing for a way to repay Bram for the hurt he kept inflicting upon her was rather dangerous business, Jenna knew. But Bram Colton deserved to be taken down a notch. And if dating another man while sleeping under Bram's roof would cause him the slightest bit of anguish, she'd be a spineless wimp not to do it.

And she was tired of being spineless. Tired of being dressed down by her father for having become a nurse and for liking people of all colors, races and creeds. She hated bigotry so much that she could make herself nauseous just
thinking about it, and it hurt terribly that her own father was the worst bigot she'd ever run into.

It was all so senseless—her dad's rigid attitude and Bram's pigheaded pride. Se was caught in the middle, and neither man cared that his silly self-righteousness hurt her.

She should never speak to either one of them again, she thought bitterly while preparing a pot of tea in the kitchen.

The tea was beginning to cool a bit before Dr. Hall walked in. Jenna rose and gestured at the table. “Join me for tea and cookies?”

Dr. Hall smiled and looked pleased. “Why, thank you. This is a most pleasant surprise.” He pulled out a chair and Jenna served the tea.

“How did you find her?” she asked.

The doctor's forehead creased with a concerned frown. “She's listless and losing ground. Jenna, I know you're doing everything you can, but I'm beginning to think she should be back in the hospital.”

Jenna frowned as well. “I'm not sure her family would permit it. Would it benefit her to be hospitalized? I mean, would she have a greater chance of recovery?”

“Maybe. It's possible. But it could also be detrimental. Jenna, to be honest, I can't give you a positive answer to that question with any real confidence. She seemed glad to see me, but it was only a moment before her eyes became dull again.”

“She's been doing the same with her family.”

“She's giving up, Jenna. She's tired of living.”

“But she had a good life! And she was very active and full of fun. I've heard about her from members of her own family, and they're truly devastated by what's happening to her. They love her, and she always loved them.”

“But still she's tired of living. Jenna, I've seen it before and so have you. I know it makes no sense to a beautiful
young woman like yourself, but serious illness changes people.”

He'd said she was beautiful, and she couldn't help responding to the compliment. Then and there she decided to give Bram a run for his money, the jerk, and she did it in a flirtatious way, blushing a little and saying, “Goodness, I'm not beautiful, Doctor. Wherever did you get such an idea?”

“I'd rather you called me Richard,” he replied with an admiring gleam in his eyes and a sexy half smile. “And you
are
beautiful. I've never seen another woman with hair like yours.”

“I guess I'll just have to accept your compliment and say thank-you,” Jenna murmured, assessing his nicely cut dark hair and gray eyes. But could she really go out with him? Let him kiss her? Lead him on while wishing every second they were together that she was with Bram instead? Misery suddenly shaped itself into a ball in her midsection and extended clawlike tentacles throughout her being. She couldn't deceive this nice man just to get back at Bram. How could she even have thought of something so disgusting?