The woman he’d been following must be Liv Bergen. Streeter’s girlfriend.
Why else would those files be together? he thought.
He held the photo closer to his face and studied every inch. So this is the young lady who’d been spending the weekend at Streeter Pierce’s place? Helpful. Interesting.
No wonder Pierce had been attracted to this Bergen woman. She was the spitting image of his late wife Paula Pierce. Thirteen.
His thirteenth victim.
It was a lucky number, and it was also the number of one of his favorite verses in Jeremiah. He felt a grin sneak onto the corner of his lips, but he resisted the urge and quickly composed himself.
It was best if Raven knew nothing about his plan. He’d already had to order one attorney silenced. That was number Thirty-Eight.
Most of the count since his imprisonment had happened at his direction. Not by his hand. But he was very much looking forward to getting back to practice.
And of course, as of this morning, he had left Thirty-Nine and Forty together in the prison shower room, bleeding out on the tile floor near the drains after an apparent shank fight to the death.
The shower room had been carefully selected. There was no point in making the guards who would be testifying on his behalf later today waste their time cleaning up after that mess. He needed them rested and focused—on him.
Of course, he had demonstrated just the right amount of remorse, shock, and pity that they’d come to expect from The Reverend when they found him kneeling over to the two bodies, praying. And he’d gladly obliged, along with boldly and unapologetically reciting Jeremiah 9:4.
Beware of your friends. Do not trust anyone in your clan. For every one of them is a deceiver. And every friend a slanderer.
The guards hadn’t even seemed to notice the meaning behind the passage he’d used. They probably assumed The Reverend was warning others to beware of fellow prisoners—when he was all but admitting he had killed the two men himself.
“If she has no connection to you,” the attorney said, “then I am confident I’ll be able to minimize the impact of anything she says if she shows up today, objecting to any reference made to what Pierce might say or think as hearsay.”
Coyote Cries gave his new attorney a nod.
“I just loathe surprises. So we must prepare for the unexpected. The guards’ testimonies should overwhelmingly convince the board to release you.”
“Today?” he asked.
Raven nodded. “Today. I’m requesting you be released immediately to a halfway house. On work release, at least—for a time. But soon you’ll be out of the program completely.”
This time, Coyote Cries allowed himself a smile. “Pilayama.”
“You’re welcome,” Duke Raven replied.
“You know Lakota? Tuktél yatí hwo?”
“Some. And not where you think,” he replied to Coyote Cries’s question of where he lived. “I actually live in Boulder.”
“Curious,” Coyote Cries replied. He’d misjudged this man. He knew better than to judge a book by its cover. Yet he’d done it again. And he’d been wrong.
As he gathered up his files, Raven offered him final instructions for the hearing, which was less than an hour away.
Coyote Cries could barely focus. He was reveling in the choices he’d been forced to make in the past twenty-four hours. All of them wise. Especially siding with Long Soldiers’s choice of attorney.
With everything going on inside the yard, he’d had to make a choice.
Dillinger, his longtime confidant on the inside, or Long Soldiers, the man he’d left to run the operation for him at the rez. Only Long Soldiers had been strongly influenced by Alcott and Webber over the past twenty years, whereas Dillinger had never been very far from his side during that time.
He owed Dillinger his life after everything the man had done to protect his back while imprisoned. Yet he’d known Long Soldiers his entire life. His choice had been difficult, and it had resulted in Thirty-Nine and Forty.
Both Dillinger and Snake had to die.
They had known far too much.
I SAW THE TELEPHOTO LENS before Streeter did.
“Hey,” he called to the photographer. Then Streeter bolted toward the car parked along the curb. The lens retracted into the window, which was followed by the squealing of tires.
“Streeter, let it go,” I called.
But he was too far from me now and likely too angry to listen to me anyway. I watched as he chased the car down the street, straining to make out the license plate number. I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone in the federal building was watching. I’d assumed that the security guards at the entrance would have at least taken note of an agent in pursuit of a car.
But they hadn’t. Not very reassuring, I thought.
I moseyed closer to the parking garage entrance and waited for Streeter. I leaned against the nearest column and folded my arms.
He was marching across the grass toward me.
I imagined my arms wrapped around his neck, my legs wrapped around his waist, and I smiled. I nearly purred thinking of him beneath me. Not a thought I’d ever entertained near the hallowed halls of work before, but this man was delicious.
His blue eyes pierced my soul, came alive and mischievous when we embraced. Beneath his thick shock of white hair, his rugged, cleanly shaven face was a magnet for my palms and fingertips. I absolutely couldn’t stop touching him.
I wanted to reach out right this moment and touch his cheek, make his brilliant smile come to life.
But we were at work.
And with my luck, now would be the time the security guards would take notice of what was happening out here.
I straightened when Streeter arrived. “Did you get the plate?”
He shook his head. “Partial.”
He walked in silence toward his car.
I headed off toward my Jeep. “Why does it bother you so much?”
He spun on his heels, barely noticing we’d separated. “Oh, sorry. I was thinking.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m asking. Why does that bother you so much? The paparazzi?”
He hesitated and then took a couple of steps toward me, scooping his arms around my lower back, ignoring the consequences of being discovered. He clearly didn’t care what people at work thought about our relationship. He held my gaze and said, “Because I don’t think it’s the paparazzi.”
He kissed me. Lightly. Like a butterfly lighting on my lower lip and then taking flight the instant it landed.
“I thought you told everyone on Monday to watch out for the paparazzi; that they were trying to get photos of me to keep the story alive about Jack’s death.”
He kissed me again. Twice. “I did.”
I was losing it, and I wanted to go home. Now. Or take him in the back seat of his car.
He clearly felt the same, because he kissed me and pulled me closer. I could feel him against my hip, his heart beating, his breath quickening. Our desire for one another was insatiable, and we both found it nearly impossible to separate long enough to come to work.
“It’s Friday. We have all weekend. Come with me.”
“To your cabin?”
He hummed an affirmation, kissed my ear, my throat, my chest.
“What about Beulah?” I managed.
“She’s coming with. Or leave her here. I really don’t give a damn.” His words were rushed, hungry.
I heard footsteps on the sidewalk and pulled free of Streeter’s grip. We didn’t recognize the federal employee approaching, but we both kept our emotions in check just long enough, until he disappeared up the ramp of the parking garage.
“Follow me?” he said, heading to his car.
I nodded and sprinted toward the caretaker’s quarters to collect my bloodhound, ran to my car, and put her in the back seat’s kennel. I pulled into the lane behind Streeter, who smiled at me in his rearview mirror.
Then I had a tho
ught and called him.
“You are even more beautiful when your cheeks are flushed,” he said into the phone.
I grinned. “How fast can you drive?”
I saw him smile back at me.
“Why don’t you think it’s the paparazzi?” I asked.
I could see his expression change instantly. “Think about it. This is the third time this week that someone’s taken a photo of you—long distance.”
“And? So what?”
“Have you seen your picture show up on the news or in the papers or on the Internet?”
I had to think about that. “Not like I’ve been really looking. I’ve been kinda busy.”
I tried to catch his eye in the rearview mirror, but we were both too focused on traffic.
“But we would have heard from someone.”
He was right. I would have heard. From someone at work or a neighbor. “Maybe they’re holding out for the highest bidder?”
“Three days? They’re not that patient,” he said.
“Another good point. Then who?” I asked.
I heard him sigh. “I don’t know. But I don’t have a good feeling about it. So I’m thinking I better keep you close. Just until I’m sure.”
“Promise?”
COYOTE CRIES SAT ERECT, his hands folded in his lap.
He’d been called up to “the big boss’s office” by his shop floor supervisor. He’d only been on the job one day, a few hours, and he’d been beckoned by the owner. Couldn’t they just leave him alone to make cardboard boxes in peace?
Instead, he was probably going to get a lecture about how crime doesn’t pay.
He didn’t need this shit—not from a rich asshole like this guy who hired parolees from a work release program to keep his costs down. He had plans. And this prick was interfering with them.
He read the placard on the man’s desk.
Bernie Dewitt, President.
His glance cut toward the big man standing by the picture window. To Coyote Cries, he looked like a former football player. He had big, wide shoulders—unlike his shop foreman who was slight, this guy couldn’t be snapped like a twig.
His foreman fidgeted in the chair next to him.
Dewitt stared out the window down onto the shop floor that was filled with machines in motion, scurrying employees, and cardboard—lots and lots of cardboard in various stages of production. He was staring at an empty machine that Coyote Cries should have been manning, doing a job he’d just learned how to do hours ago.
The building had no windows, but the ceiling was covered with lighting fixtures that mimicked natural daylight. Dewitt’s employees seemed to be appreciative of their shift work conditions, from what he’d heard so far. The operations for pressing, folding, and packaging the cardboard sheets into various sizes of cartons ran around the clock.
His supervisor had told him that Dewitt struggled with keeping enough people employed on all shifts. The economy in the Denver area had remained strong, which meant low levels of unemployment. Coyote Cries had experienced the same thing in his business. People just weren’t as eager to turn a quick, easy buck as they used to be.
“As president and owner of Colorado Cardboard Company, welcome,” Dewitt said, finally turning from the window and extending his hand to Coyote Cries. “It’s important to me as manager of this manufacturing facility to greet all my newest employees in person.”
The cardboard packaging building, which covered nearly half a city block southeast of Denver, was bigger than any building in South Dakota, Coyote Cries imagined. And the guy had designed the place so he could see every square inch right here from his office perch. Windows encircled the large room, and TV monitors were like guards lined up in their ceiling brackets. That meant cameras—everywhere.
Coyote Cries would use that to his advantage.
“The economy is booming. So good, in fact, that I’ve been forced to seek creative employment tactics to replace turnover.”
His foreman added, “Which is constant around here.”
Dewitt shot the twitchy man standing next to Coyote Cries a withering glance. “I’ve found the steady source of new employees through the work release program at the federal correctional facility in Littleton useful to me. And as my newest employee, I have to tell you how impressed I’ve been with your skills and work ethic.”
Coyote Cries noticed a familiar file lying on Dewitt’s desk. The file with his name typed on it. The file that his parole officer, Gilmore, had asked him to give his new employer a few hours ago at two o’clock when he’d arrived.
“I’ve already decided to offer you a job. A permanent one—on Carl Wilson’s shift,” he announced, his face beaming.
In his mind, Coyote Cries answered, And I’ve decided to offer you a reprieve and not slice your slimy throat, on behalf of all the little people who would have to mop up the mess.
Instead, he said nothing.
Dewitt nodded to the foreman. “You’ll like Carl. His shift is the Sunday through Wednesday swing shift from two o’clock to midnight.”
Dewitt sat on the corner of his desk, his leg nearly touching Coyote Cries’s knee. “I’m not intimidated by you, Jeremiah Coyote Cries, or the fact that you have committed involuntary manslaughter or that you dealt bad drugs to a junkie twenty years ago. I don’t care.”
He leaned forward, smiled, and patted his shoulder.
Is this asshole serious? Does he really think he is endearing himself to Coyote Cries?
He stood and rounded his desk. “I’ve hired much tougher characters than you over the years. And I’ve found many of them to be exemplary employees who tend to put forth their best effort and do as they’re told. I suppose that’s because it is work release.”
“Plus, you guys are usually strong and used to hard work,” his foreman added.
Here come the generalizations and stereotypes. He knew plenty on the inside who were weak, not at all used to hard work. But Coyote Cries was used to being typed.
“I’ve never regretted seeking employees through the program. An uncooperative WRP employee’s rights are suspended if they don’t perform to my standards. Did they tell you that?”
Coyote Cries said nothing.
“Not much of a talker,” Dewitt said to the supervisor. “I never have to deal with them again if they don’t do what I ask. They’re much easier to manage than normal employees.”
He picked up the file that Gilmore had sent in with him to give to Dewitt. “You are particularly intriguing. I’ve never had a Lakotan working for me before. Actually, I’ve never even met one. Are they all as big as you?”
Coyote Cries could feel his anger simmering.
“And are they chatterboxes like you?” His laugh was as pleasant to Coyote Cries’s ears as if he had dragged his knuckles across a cheese grater. “Not sure why I’m so intrigued. I’ve employed many people from various backgrounds and ethnicities, which is probably why I’m such a popular employer.”
He swept his arms in the direction of a small wall where a dozen plaques hung.
In response to Coyote Cries’s nonplussed expression, Dewitt leaned closer. “Do you speak English?”
Coyote Cries resisted the urge to snatch the guy by the throat and strangle him.
“He does. I’ve heard him,” the shop foreman said.
Coyote Cries rose from his chair, towering over Dewitt. At nearly fifty years old, he was far from aged. He was massive compared to the pudgy football star, several inches taller than Dewitt, and at least thirty pounds heavier with rock solid, well-toned muscles.
“I speak English, Mr. Dewitt. And I’d prefer to work tomorrow. On his shift,” he said, jamming a thumb toward his shift foreman. “Before you assign me to Carl Wilson’s shift on Sunday.”
Dewitt nodded. His eyes were too wide and his mouth partially open.
“Can I get back to work now?”
Dewitt tried to hold his gaze but averted his eyes and said, “Sure.”
Coyote
Cries flipped his long grey braids over his shoulders and smoothed his freshly pressed work clothes before stepping around the chair to leave. To further put the asshole in his place, he said, “Pleasure to meet you.”
Dewitt called after him, “Do you go by Jeremiah or Jerry?”
Coyote Cries didn’t answer.
By six o’clock, he was loading cellophane-wrapped cartons from the conveyor belt onto pallets alone. His foreman had finally gone about his business. Dewitt left for the night—probably for the weekend. The office hovered above like an alien spacecraft—dark.
He spent the next six hours steadily stacking pallets and working through his breaks despite his supervisor’s insistence to the contrary. By midnight, Coyote Cries had punched his card at the time clock. He met his escort from the halfway house on the corner where he was instructed to return after his shift. There was no sight of Gilmore, his parole officer. He was probably home in bed.
He noted that the escort arrived promptly at ten minutes after midnight, just as he said he would.
The next morning, Dewitt would read nothing but good things about Coyote Cries in his shop foreman’s shift report. He was a stellar new employee. He smiled, thinking how there was no doubt Dewitt would place the promised call to the coordinator of the work release program, glowing about Jeremiah Coyote Cries.
One more day, and this would be all over.
Dewitt had no clue that during his calculated bathroom break at 4:45, Coyote Cries was standing outside his door, listening to the call he’d had on speakerphone.
“Gilmore, this is Dewitt.”
“Right on time. Four forty-five.”
“It’s Friday, and you and I both have better places to be. Want some good news to end your week?”
“Sure,” came the grunting response.
“That Coyote Cries is getting great reviews from his shift supervisor. And believe me, that doesn’t happen around here. He said Coyote Cries works like a horse. First day and he’s refusing to take breaks and is getting more done than the regular guy for sure. At least when it comes to stacking pallets. You got more like him?” Dewitt asked.
Jeremiah’s Revenge: A Liv Bergen Mystery Page 9
