Coyote

by Rhonda Roberts

  ‘What’s going on, River?’ I demanded. ‘You just worked something out … didn’t you!’ It wasn’t a question.

  River ignored that to cock his head towards the door, as though he could hear someone coming.

  In response I scanned the doorway, but I couldn’t hear anyone. What was he listening to?

  A sly look slid across River’s face, suppressing the excitement. ‘So you made it to Dry Gulch … Just how far north did you make it, Kannon?’

  Bloody River! I’d given him a lead of some kind … and he was trying to wriggle out of sharing it.

  ‘I went north to the Plaza de Sol …’ I paused. Two could play that game. I wouldn’t let him leave until I’d got it out of him.

  ‘You went to Big Sun Canyon, didn’t you?’ He grinned. ‘You went up onto Spruce Tree Mesa.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Now I wanted to shake the answers out of him. ‘What are you trying to —’

  ‘You met Coyote Jack, didn’t you?’

  River stood.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, wondering what he was up to. ‘Coyote Jack had just arrived back after leading Captain Bull on a wild-goose chase.’ I remembered my first view of Coyote Jack, surrounded by his furious band. ‘While he was away, someone had come on the mesa and stolen something of his —’

  I stopped in surprise.

  River had leant over me — seductively. ‘So, Kannon … just what do you think of Coyote Jack now?’

  I glared up at him, his mouth inches from mine. What the hell was he doing?

  ‘Do you believe he’s … innocent?’ River breathed the last word, like he was about to kiss me.

  The office door erupted open. Daniel Honeycutt charged through, jade-green eyes blazing with concern. ‘Kannon, are you here?’ He grabbed the hurricane lamp Seymour had abandoned on the foyer desk.

  Honeycutt stood stock-still in my doorway, the lamp held high …

  River was bending over me, as though about to plant his lips on mine.

  Honeycutt emanated enough fury to start a forest fire.

  River, a faint smile on his lips, stayed right where he was. It was as though he was provoking Honeycutt, challenging him … for ownership rights.

  Instinctively I stood and got between them.

  ‘I’ll talk to you later, Kannon,’ said River. He slipped past Honeycutt, like water easing over a stone.

  ‘No, wait,’ I called. ‘I need to know what you —’

  River made it to the front door. Honeycutt was blocking my path.

  ‘I have some things I need to check out first … I’ll call you.’ River grinned and escaped.

  I eyed the door with ire.

  ‘So that was Jackson River?’ muttered Honeycutt, with too sharp an interest.

  ‘That’s him all right!’ I snapped.

  ‘Why were you and River here, together, in the dark?’ He was jealous.

  ‘It’s not so dark … And we weren’t together in the way you’re implying!’

  Honeycutt put the hurricane lamp on my desk, then froze. ‘Kannon — what happened to you?’ He leant in to brush my hair away from my eyes with concern. ‘Are you all right, darlin’?’

  I touched my hair. My blonde, straight hair was now firecracker red and standing away from my scalp in a great rippling mane. ‘You know I had to dye my hair … and the tight braids have made it —’

  Honeycutt shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that …’ He seemed at a loss to shape the words.

  ‘What is it?’ Now he had me worried.

  There was a mirror in the little bathroom off the foyer. I stared at my reflection. Honeycutt stood behind me, his expression tight with worry.

  That weird cross and circle had disappeared from my forehead.

  And I looked … different.

  It was my eyes. Normally black as night, a molten fire seemed to light my pupils.

  ‘Kannon, are you sick? Darlin’, I’m going to take you to the hospital —’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I brushed past him and back into my office. ‘It’s just the different hair … and I’ve lost a lot of weight. That’s all.’

  I didn’t have time for this. I didn’t have time for anything that stood between me and that bloody diary.

  Honeycutt read my expression and changed tack. ‘You made it back early, Kannon. What happened?’

  I told him everything, including the fight I’d just had with my now ex-client, Seymour Kershaw.

  ‘But, Kannon, blood on the soles of a pair of Hector Kershaw’s boots, that’s not enough —’

  ‘I know it, Honeycutt — that’s why I’m looking for the diary.’

  ‘But what if you never find it? Don’t risk losing your licence for Coyote Jack and that creep, River … What a pair of master manipulators! They’re both trading on your kind heart.’

  I sucked in a deep breath, striving for patience. I knew Daniel was just trying to protect me. He couldn’t help himself. But I still didn’t like being called a fool. ‘Honeycutt, I’m perfectly capable of making my own judgements … so don’t ask me not to trust myself! And don’t try and put a protective bubble around me because it’ll just blow up in your face!’

  Honeycutt narrowed his eyes. I knew that calculating look. I snorted. And he accused River of being manipulative …

  ‘Wait a minute, Kannon, while you were away, I had a little look into the background of your friend Jackson River.’

  ‘Why?’ My hackles rose. ‘Honeycutt, this is my case!’

  ‘Listen to me!’ he snapped. ‘Seymour Kershaw was right. Jackson River reopened the whole Dry Gulch thing to support a legal case a Native American group — the Coyote Alliance — has brought to stop a land sale.’

  ‘So?’ Now I was just hostile.

  ‘Jackson River is trying to stop the Blix family from selling this land to a uranium mining company — and he’ll do anything necessary to succeed.’

  ‘The Blix family?’ The Big Swede’s descendants were involved in this case?

  ‘That’s right.’ Honeycutt nodded. ‘River wants to prove that Coyote Jack and his descendants, not the Blix family, are actually the rightful owners of the land.’

  Now Honeycutt had me. ‘What land are we talking about?’

  ‘A place called Big Sun Canyon.’

  I blinked. ‘They’re going to mine Big Sun Canyon? For uranium?’

  ‘The point is, Kannon, you have to watch that man.’ Honeycutt jerked his head back at the door River had just exited. ‘There’s something very wrong about Jackson River. I don’t trust him, Kannon … he has his own agenda and he’s using you to —’

  ‘Using me? Honeycutt, I can look after myself! Keep out of my business!’

  His jade-green eyes lit up like traffic lights. He gave me back glare for glare.

  Suddenly all my anger ebbed away. This was crazy! Why were we fighting?

  I studied his archangel’s face. I’d made it home to him okay. I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t exactly know what I wanted from him yet … but I didn’t want to fight.

  ‘Sit down, Daniel. Please … We need to —’

  But now he was furious. ‘Don’t expect me to stand idly by, Kannon, and watch you being played!’ Honeycutt stalked to the door. ‘I’m going to find out what’s really going on!’

  ‘Wait a minute, Honeycutt! What are you going to do?’

  He didn’t answer.

  42

  THE DE VIVAR LIBRARY

  We stood in the plaza between the de Vivar Library, South Hall and the bell tower — right next to the Dry Gulch Memorial. Wisps of fog billowed across the plaza, playing hide-and-seek with the chattering students on their way to classes.

  The crowd was too much … too loud … too smelly. I scowled at the students walking past. Didn’t uni students wash any more? I could even tell which girls were menstruating.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Des. He’d been watching me closely, ever since he’d arrived at the office, as though I was sick or something.
/>   I shook my head. I wasn’t going to waste time explaining my smellovision. I couldn’t anyway … Surely it had to be some weird residual from the time travel?

  Des gave the Dry Gulch Memorial the once-over. He grimaced at the carnage depicted in bronze and decided to study the library instead. ‘So this Rodrigo de Vivar was Hector Kershaw’s business partner?’

  ‘Yeah. He built the memorial to commemorate Hector’s brave deeds …’ I snorted. ‘And the de Vivar Library houses the Kershaw Archives.’ That’s where we were now headed.

  I was panting to find out what’d happened since I’d seen Hector last … when he was doing his best Jack the Ripper impersonation. Laughing his head off and trying to cut my face into ribbons with that razor-sharp knife he’d hidden up the sleeve of his prissy banker’s suit.

  That’d been only a matter of hours ago, by my experience — but it was well over a century and a half in real time.

  What had that lying psychopath done next? What had Hector effing Kershaw done in the year and a bit before he disappeared off the face of the earth and out of the history books? And how the hell had that sneaky son-of-a-bitch managed to con de Vivar — and old San Francisco too — into believing he was any kind of a hero at all?

  Hector’s crimes were still affecting this world — radiating their toxic poison down through the centuries like a nuclear waste dump.

  Des shot another look at the gruesome set of bronze statues next to us. ‘This memorial’s a bit too graphic for me, but I’ve never seen anything like that library before.’

  Surrounded by Berkeley’s stately white buildings, the de Vivar Library stood out like a cactus in a rose garden. It was an earth-red pueblo, three storeys high with a huge round tower rising out of the side that faced the plaza. The pueblo tower, which was wound around with a spiral of slit windows, rose up another three storeys above the main building.

  ‘The pueblo library just seems out of context here,’ I replied. I’d seen enough pueblo buildings in the last few days to make this one seem ordinary. ‘But those things up there … now, they make me wonder.’

  Des and I studied the top of the library tower. Five sculptures of Native American chiefs, in full war dress, were perched there. They seemed to stare back …

  ‘Why on earth did de Vivar put those statues up there?’ asked Des.

  ‘No idea. But they’re making me curious enough to want to know more about Hector’s business partner.’

  ‘Yeah,’ seconded Des. He shot another distasteful glance at the mutilated bodies lying next to us. ‘I think this de Vivar character warrants some investigation himself.’

  The de Vivar Library had twin entryways, one on either side of the great tower. One door had ‘Library of the Native American Nations’ inscribed over the top, the other door said ‘Library of the United States of America’. We went in the second door. Inside was true to the pueblo style, with exposed beams of mighty redwood dwarfing the foyer.

  I started for the information desk at the other end of the room …

  ‘Hey.’ Des grabbed my arm. ‘Kannon, look at this.’

  The display case next to the front door held material on Rodrigo Juan de Vivar. The photographic portrait showed the profile of an old man with white hair looking down from the great tower to the Dry Gulch Memorial. There was a stone Native American chief on either side of him.

  I frowned.

  The old man seemed to be patting their arms … as though urging patience.

  Below the photo the text said: Rodrigo Juan de Vivar’s ancestors were Castilian knights who earned great wealth in the Spanish Reconquista over the Moors. The dynasty’s youngest son sailed to the New World as a conquistador, seeking adventure, glory and gold. He was successful and over the next five centuries the de Vivars accumulated huge estates across Mexico and the American West.

  Hmm. ‘Given there’s a Native American section to this library, I’m guessing that the wealthy Rodrigo must’ve had an attack of the guilts at the thought of all the natives his forebears slaughtered.’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Des. ‘Nothing like guilt to prise open the piggy bank.’

  We read on: Rodrigo de Vivar inherited the family estates in the 1860s and decided to settle in San Francisco in 1868, the year that Hector Q. Kershaw, his future business partner and dear friend, became mayor. After Kershaw’s mysterious disappearance Rodrigo vowed that his friend’s deeds would never be forgotten.

  I made a gagging sound but kept reading: Rodrigo de Vivar went on to become one of the century’s great philanthropists, funding Native American causes, orphanages and in particular the drive for women’s suffrage.

  Hmm. What was a good guy like this doing in partnership with a lying psychopath like Hector?

  I snorted. ‘Hector sure blindsided you, Rodrigo my son.’

  Des raised a critical brow, but said nothing. That was probably best. We’d spent the last hour arguing about Hector Kershaw and Des obviously didn’t want to start it all over again.

  It was rough justice that I was using Hector’s loyal business partner to find a way to convict him. But what kind of lies had Hector spun this good man to draw de Vivar so tightly into his web? And to convince him to loyally perpetuate the legend of Hector even after his mysterious departure?

  Des stopped reading. ‘Kannon, this guy — Rodrigo de Vivar — sounds almost too good to be true … and he thought Hector Kershaw was a hero. Don’t you think that you could be wrong about —’

  ‘Don’t start with me again, Des,’ I warned. I ignored him and made for the information desk instead.

  Des grabbed my arm once more. ‘Kannon … no good will come of this,’ he said truculently.

  I rolled my eyes. We’d had the same conversation over and over, ever since I briefed him. ‘You haven’t even met River yet, Des!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Kannon,’ he threatened. ‘If you insist on wasting our time and resources in this way, then I’ll be ringing this Jackson River character tonight and setting up an interview he won’t forget in a hurry.’

  Des’ interrogation methods were legendary in the New South Wales police force. He’d had an uncanny knack for producing unbreakable confessions.

  I eyed him with disgust. ‘You’re only saying that because Honeycutt rang you and told you he had a bad feeling about River and —’

  ‘Don’t underestimate your Daniel Honeycutt,’ cut in Des. ‘Daniel said he didn’t trust River and that’s good enough reason for me to want to look twice before jumping into his mess.’

  ‘Well, then trust me instead, Des … I know for a fact that Hector Kershaw is guilty!’

  Des avoided that minefield like a seasoned pro. ‘Kannon — whether Hector is guilty or not is irrelevant now. This is no longer our business … literally. Our only client just fired us.’ He shot me a glance full of rancour.

  ‘Yeah, yeah … well, Des, if you know a way to tell a client that their much beloved and honoured ancestor is really a murdering mongrel without getting fired then you’re a better detective than I’ll ever be!’

  ‘Kannon, you have to cool down! You have to handle your clients, not confront them …’

  ‘Yes, Des, and I seem to remember you were pretty hard-nosed when you were still a cop too!’

  Des sent me a blistering look but changed tack. ‘Kannon, you know we haven’t got the time or the resources to adopt every non-paying case you take pity on. You have to be objective. We’re running a business, not a charity. We know next to nothing about River and what you’ve told me about Coyote Jack doesn’t make me particularly trust him either.’

  I gritted my teeth. ‘Des, we have no other cases at the moment …’

  He snorted. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Look, Des, I have to at least have a go, make a start. The diary could be right under everyone’s noses …’

  ‘Sure,’ drawled Des, resigned to sarcasm now that blame hadn’t worked. ‘I’m sure it’s just lying around somewhere really obvious.’


  ‘Look, if we find that damned diary it’ll be a huge coup — whatever’s in it! Every newspaper will run the story. It’ll be fantastic publicity for Rewind Investigations.’

  ‘Yeah … true,’ conceded Des. ‘But that’s if we find it.’

  I ignored that icy blast of discouragement to eye the information desk with longing. ‘Okay, Des, now the deal is you look for a motive — anything that could explain why Hector Q. Kershaw would travel all the way to Santa Fe to kill those six people, especially Governor Noah Magurty. I want you to look into Hector’s background. Look for any possible connections between him and his victims. That includes connections to the Kershaw family and their banking interests —’

  ‘Pull your head in, Kannon,’ huffed Des. ‘I was running homicide investigations before you were born!’ He set his jaw with fresh purpose. ‘Just leave it to me. If there’s anything there — I’ll find it.’

  I hid my smile.

  Giving Des instructions had worked. His pride was piqued and his old bloodhound instincts were aroused … Before he knew it he’d be as hooked on this case as I was.

  ‘Okay, Des, while you’re doing that, I’ll investigate Hector’s time in old San Francisco and work out where he could’ve hidden his diary.’

  Seymour had already gone through all the Kershaw family’s private papers and found nothing resembling a diary. And Jackson River had been through the Kershaw Archives with a fine-tooth comb — so it wasn’t here either.

  That meant Hector’s diary was still out there … in San Francisco itself.

  I remembered Hector clutching that shoulder bag to his chest. He’d keep the diary hidden somewhere safe from discovery, but close enough to use it on a regular basis.

  I was about to plunge into Hector Kershaw’s secret life — the dirty one I knew he must’ve kept hidden from his admiring partner and public.

  The deep dark dungeon of secrets that no one in San Francisco, past or present, knew anything about.

  43

  HECTOR THE HERO

  I’d phoned earlier and booked paid appointments for Des and myself with professional archivists. That should automatically increase our search spread. The librarian at the information desk made a phone call then sent us out of the pueblo foyer through to a super-modern computer-filled room bustling with research staff.