All I could do was wait and hope that I was here when Daniel came back. And that he came back at all …
‘What’s he like — this Daniel Honeycutt?’
I searched Des’ face. It was concerned. ‘Marshal Honeycutt’s a military expert. He was a Marine before he became a marshal.’
‘I thought all the Time Marshals came from law enforcement?’
‘Honeycutt was in Naval Intelligence.’
‘A spy?’
‘I guess. I’m not sure.’
Daniel would never confirm it. Along with a whole lot of other details of his background he didn’t consider anyone’s business — mine included.
‘The NTA use him for their … special operations,’ I said. I didn’t add they were the really dangerous missions.
‘What’s Marshal Honeycutt doing now? He’s on a mission, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ I didn’t want to talk about it. It scared me too much. ‘All I know is that he was sent to Japan. To Hiroshima.’
‘When?’
‘1945.’
Des cast me a startled look. ‘When in 1945?’
‘I don’t know exactly … but I can guess.’ My tone gave it away.
‘You mean the NTA sent him to Hiroshima just before the first atomic bomb strike? What if Marshal Honeycutt was injured and couldn’t get out in time? That would mean they couldn’t send in a rescue team to retrieve him — he’d just disappear along with the other eighty thousand people who were vaporised!’
I didn’t answer. I’d already played that whole ghastly scenario in my head too many times. If a time traveller died in the past they stayed dead. There was no way to use the portal to save them. That was just a fact I had to live with.
‘Daniel’s smart,’ I said, trying to reassure myself as much as anything else. ‘Whatever mission he’s been assigned he’ll carefully work his way into place first, set up a good cover story.’
But why the hell did the NTA send a six and a half foot blond marshal into a suicidally desperate, wartime Japan? They’d shoot him on sight or torture him as a foreign agent.
‘Is this a normal level of risk for a mission?’ asked Des in disbelief.
I looked at Des. He’d called me reckless but Honeycutt hurtled through life like an asteroid on a collision course with the sun.
Besides, time travel was always risky …
I shrugged. ‘Look, it seems risky to me but I don’t really know all the details.’
Des sat and digested that. ‘Were you and Honeycutt …?’ He struggled to phrase it. ‘Did you …?’
‘No.’ His meaning was clear. ‘We were professional investigators working on the same case.’
I could see my ability to fool Des had faltered. But he didn’t ask more.
I hadn’t lied, nothing had actually happened between us, but what we’d seen … what we’d been through together … had bonded us in a way I couldn’t explain, even to myself.
I’d met Daniel Honeycutt when I was still getting over being dumped by my first and only love — Alex.
I still wasn’t over it.
But whatever was or wasn’t between us, Daniel had, without hesitation, put his own life on the line for me. That had to count for something.
7
JADE-GREEN
Since Des moved over here earlier this year, he’d made solid connections in the San Francisco Police Department. He could be startlingly charming when he chose, and had a fund of bizarre cases that he was open to sharing with the right audience. Now he and his cop buddies had drinks once a week. He decided to see what they could tell him about the Kershaw case, so he made a phone call and left after promising faithfully to stick with light beer.
We’d agreed that while he was busy doing reconnaissance, I’d empty the boxes, mop the floor and generally get the place ready for our first day of business — tomorrow. No, today!
A good while later, finally everything was in place … Well, to my standards anyway; Des’d probably not see it that way. I finished by watering my little Illawarra Flame Tree. I crouched next to it, holding a candle up to check its condition. It’d survived the move okay, but November was late spring in Australia and its drooping leaves seemed to implore me to send it home.
I glanced out the window and sighed. This rain had to stop soon, didn’t it?
Exhausted, I sagged onto my desk chair and, sans computer, started writing out a strategy for the Kershaw case. The candlelight shed a mellow yellow gleam on my writing pad. I really needed some caffeine for this job … I looked around for the kettle and remembered there was no way to heat the water. I checked my watch — Jake’s Place was closed.
Damn. Back to work.
Okay. So first I had to verify the evidence on which River based his claims that Hector Kershaw had a diary. And where he thought it could be. That meant I had to find where River was at Berkeley and then …
I started to nod off.
I was too tired for this. I stood and opened the window behind my desk. It was still raining but the rush of wet air brought a welcome coolness. Beyond, a single streetlight illuminated the building on the opposite side of Prendergast Street. The soft lighting disguised the ravages time and neglect had wrought on its classically lovely face. Another beauty, like the Zebulon, from an era when buildings looked like Mediterranean temples.
There was a name carved into the marble facade but I couldn’t read it. Too tired.
I rubbed my eyes and sat down to consider my empty in-tray. Soon it would be full of bills. Wanting something better to look at while I waited for Des, I pulled open my top drawer and indulged myself.
I brought the photo out and up, close to the candle flame.
Two boys in military school uniforms — the taller one fifteen, the other two years younger — stood on the front porch of an elegant Garden District mansion in New Orleans. They were both blond, with startling green eyes. The elder one had an affectionate arm around his brother’s shoulders — his expression was teasing. The younger one looked up at his big brother, pride gleaming in his eyes. They were just about to leave for boarding school.
It was Daniel Honeycutt and his younger brother, Kyle. It was the day Kyle first went to military school — a day of pride for the Honeycutt males who came from a long, illustrious line of soldiers.
It was the only photo I could find of Daniel Honeycutt. I studied his teasing face — he was so young. But even at fifteen you could see the man he’d become. Strong, open … loyal to the death. I’d found that last one out the hard way. Was he all right now? Did he need my help? I had to stop torturing myself …
The candle-lit photo swam in front of my eyes. It’d been a very long day. I put my head down on my arms and …
Next minute I woke up with my head on one side, the flickering candle casting bizarre shadows on the wall opposite. I slowly sat up and stretched the kinks out, yawning …
Then blinked.
I must be dreaming — there was an angel sitting in my client chair.
A big, unshaven archangel with blond-streaked chestnut hair, clad in torn jeans, a black T-shirt and dusty combat boots.
A fallen archangel …
He gazed across at me out of jade-green eyes rimmed in dark lashes … tiger’s eyes. It was the expression that underlined the big cat connection …
Hungry.
‘Hallo, Kannon.’
I jerked up, fully awake. ‘You’re back.’ I slid the photo I’d been cradling under my note pad.
How long had Daniel sat there, watching me sleep?
‘But I thought you’d be away for …’
‘For as long as the NTA could keep me?’ His voice was ice cold. ‘Yes, that’s what they thought too.’
We stared at each other in a kind of shock. Six months had passed since I’d last seen him. He’d been lying in a hospital bed with tubes running out of his chest. Now Honeycutt was his old self again …
Unpredictable. Dangerous.
‘But what about th
e mission? How …?’
‘I cut corners. A lot of them. I knew you’d be taking your first case around now and if I waited too long you’d be gone. That wasn’t going to happen.’
‘But you were sent into wartime Japan. How could you cut corners?’
‘I posed as a German,’ he said casually. ‘As an SS officer.’
‘You’re kidding.’
He wasn’t.
My eyes narrowed. What the hell kind of lunatic thing had he done? ‘And just what was your objective?’ No one would tell me.
‘What do you know about the mission, darlin’?’ The accent was honeyed Southern. He was Louisiana born and bred.
Honeycutt was about to lie.
We knew each other’s tells … His Southern accent disappeared into a clipped neutral when he was angry and became as thick as molasses when he was trying to slip one past me. I knew the exact same thing happened with my Australian accent.
‘What was the mission objective, Honeycutt?’ I insisted.
‘You know I can’t give you details, Kannon.’ Clipped neutral.
We stared at each other assessingly.
‘What can you tell me?’
He studied me. ‘Okay, but don’t ask me for details.’
I nodded agreement.
‘Our mission together revealed a few … let’s call them “loose threads” … concerning US wartime weapons research. I went to Hiroshima to interrogate a double agent who was there in August, 1945, reporting his findings to the Japanese High Command.’
August? I felt the blood drain out of my face. The atomic bomb was dropped on August 6th.
How close had he come? Had Honeycutt heard the sirens blaring as he left? I didn’t want to know. I’d lost too many people I cared about in my life already; I couldn’t lose another one.
Something in my face softened his.
We stared at each other with … Was that longing?
‘So, this is your new detective agency?’ He uncurled his muscular frame and moved past me to the bay windows.
My pulse quickened. I’d forgotten how Honeycutt moved — like a big cat. This time it was predatory.
I’d forgotten a lot of things …
‘How long are you back for?’ I was still soft from sleep and having trouble making sense of it all.
‘Until I’m ready to leave again, darlin’. The NTA owe me big time — and they know it.’
‘When did you arrive?’
He stared into my eyes hard. ‘Six hours ago. But I changed first; I wanted that SS uniform off me as fast as possible.’
That meant he’d come here straight from the debriefing. How did he even know how to find me straight out of the portal?
Honeycutt lounged back against the windowsill, just behind me. I swung my chair around and my knees almost touched his. Daniel stared down at me, his blazing eyes saying more than I could read. All I knew was what I felt. An overwhelming desire to run my mouth across his …
I shook my head. I had to take my time with this. He was like playing with plastic explosives — I wasn’t sure I could recover from this one.
Daniel slid his arms forwards, straining his black T-shirt against his chest, and firmly held the arms of my chair with his long, muscular fingers. ‘We need to talk, darlin’.’
His body language said we needed to do something else entirely.
We both heard it at the same time. Footsteps down the hallway; the front door opened.
Honeycutt went on alert. ‘Are you expecting someone?’ He must be still edgy from his mission.
‘It’s okay.’ I swung my chair back to the door. ‘I’ll bet that’s my partner, Des Carmichael.’
Des plunked his bag down on the secretary’s desk in the foyer, then came straight into my office. He scanned my face, then surveyed Honeycutt’s protective position next to my chair with amused interest.
‘Daniel Honeycutt, I presume?’ Des stuck out his hand. ‘Glad to see you made it back in one piece, Marshal.’
Honeycutt grabbed it and they shook with genuine pleasure.
I blinked.
Both men were prone to overly swift character judgements. But I could tell they each liked what they saw.
Honeycutt kept silent while Des and I went over the case, just asking the occasional catch-up question. But as soon as he’d heard it was to search for a diary in old San Francisco he’d relaxed. He had to return to the NTA for more debriefing and then needed to catch a few hours’ sleep at his place in Marin County. We arranged to meet after that. He said he’d find me.
Des and I locked up and went down to the street. The rain had subsided from a deluge to a heavy shower. We were both heading home to Half Moon Bay, on the coast just south of San Francisco. Des rented a place near the little seaside town; my beach house was further south.
Des got into his car, then rolled down the window and beckoned me over. The rain was slanting in his window, so I held my umbrella over us both. ‘You know, Kannon, I like your Marshal Honeycutt.’
‘He’s not my anything, Des!’ I snapped. Then felt confused at my reaction.
‘Well, that’s not what Honeycutt intends.’ He smirked at the thought.
I didn’t reply. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I was more than relieved to see Daniel well and whole, but … now that I was confronted with it, the thought of opening up again made my chest ache.
Des smiled at my indecision. ‘That’s right, Kannon, you’d better be bloody sure about Honeycutt before you start anything.’
‘Not again!’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Cease with the Ice Age dating tips, Des … please!’
He’d got sick of watching me grieve over losing Alex and had taken to giving me regular ‘Get back on the horse’ pep talks. And they were usually uttered in frank enough language to feel like blunt force trauma. When Des felt you needed to know something he didn’t hold back.
‘Some things never change, Kannon. And I recognise the look your Marshal Honeycutt has …’ Des nodded to himself. ‘Yeah, you’d better be sure. Because I don’t think this one will let you go … not once he has you.’
‘I’m not rushing into anything, Des.’ I shifted uneasily.
‘Oh, really?’ Des eyed me with amusement. ‘Well, there’s always a first time for everything, isn’t there?’
‘I am not rushing into anything!’ I insisted, now annoyed more with myself than him.
‘Hmm …’ Des studied my expression. ‘Daniel’s a good man, Kannon … You can trust him.’
I straightened up at that. ‘I’m going home. You can stay here and talk to yourself!’
‘Before you go … What’s that famous Marine motto?’
‘Semper Fi,’ I replied. ‘Always faithful.’
‘Yeah, that’s it,’ he said with satisfaction and drove off.
I stood there for a moment, listening to the rain and wondering about Daniel. I had absolutely no idea how to handle him.
8
CRIME AT THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY
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.
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