They were alone.
Two Bears showed no fear. “What’s the problem, friend?”
“Are you Jeff Two Bears?”
He nodded.
Coyote Cries swiftly covered Two Bears’s mouth with his left hand, pinning him to the seat and jabbed a hypodermic needle into his upper arm straight through his denim shirt. Two Bears struggled for a brief moment before going limp behind the wheel.
“You’re the problem.”
Wanting the death to appear to be an overdose to shake up the core beliefs of that pitiful powwow family, he worked quickly. He rolled up the sleeve of Two Bears’s shirt and strapped a rubber tie around his exposed arm. He placed the emptied needle in Two Bears’s limp, left hand and scattered a few more pieces of drug paraphernalia on the seat and floorboard.
Then he stepped away from the vehicle. He smiled when he imagined the rumors that would spread like wildfire once the news of the man’s death hit the street. Two Bears, dead—from the same vice he preached as evil and destructive. Students would consider him a traitor, a hypocrite, a liar.
Within no time, his customer base would blossom with the distractions like Two Bears’s “better way of life.”
Making sure one last time that Two Bears’s slumped body was no longer moving, Coyote Cries turned to leave. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a young woman turning off the road into the parking lot of the high school several yards away.
For a split second, their gazes locked.
The expression in the woman’s eyes was one of apprehension—maybe even fear.
He quickly disappeared behind the nearest building, hoping the woman hadn’t gotten a good look at him. As he wove his way through other random buildings and through the tall grass of the fields beyond, he heard the young woman’s distant scream.
She’d found Two Bears.
Coyote Cries recognized the woman. He knew her face. He’d seen her working with ICU nurses on Long Soldiers’s tribal and allotment status down at the hospital earlier that morning before the suit arrived. She would be easy to identify.
As he reached his Camaro, cleverly parked and hidden in the bushes beyond the high school, Coyote Cries smiled. He wondered if she’d be back at the hospital later today.
Perhaps when sweet Nurse Norma’s shift ended, and he pulled her into an empty, secluded room, she wouldn’t be able to resist whispering in his ear what he needed to know about the woman.
And where she lived.
I HAD SPENT FIVE glorious days and nights with Streeter.
Three of those days were at work—trying to stay focused on my job and rushing home in the evenings to make him dinner so we could maintain our stamina—and two of them at his cabin in Conifer. It was sheer bliss—the best weekend of my life.
By Sunday night, I was elated and fulfilled—at once energized and exhausted. I drove east on I-70 toward downtown Denver, then south on I-25 to my apartment. Beulah nestled in her kennel in the back.
At the Mousetrap, which wasn’t all that crowded compared to rush hour during the week, a grey, distressed pickup sped up and cut in between my Jeep and the car behind me. The guy looked pissed and full of road rage with his mouth set in a slash. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored shades. Kind of late to be wearing sunglasses, but who am I to judge?
The driver might have been Hispanic, although it was hard to tell. He was shouting something. Maybe to someone on a phone call? Hands-free? Or perhaps he was singing. But it appeared he was shaking a fist at the driver behind me—yelling at him as he passed.
I cornered the off-ramp from I-70, careful not to hit anyone as I merged onto I-25 South. I eased into traffic, which was backed up at 20th Street.
Must be a Rockies game about to start.
I stayed in the lane as far to the right as possible without getting entangled in the baseball traffic, hoping the road-rage driver would scoot left and pass me.
But he didn’t.
He hugged my bumper in thick traffic and dropped back when we settled into a more consistent speed. Something niggled in the back of my brain: This is not right.
I reached into my console looking for something to write on but only found a pen. I glanced into the rearview several times to retrieve the license plate numbers. I pulled up my shirttail and tucked it between my teeth and scribbled the numbers directly on my stomach—right side up for me, but upside down to someone looking at me.
I was trying to see the last number on the plate when a car squeezed in between the truck and my Jeep. I swore out loud, wishing the lady in the Lexus had waited just an instant so I could complete the plate. But it was too late. I’d get it in a minute. Besides, I’d narrowed the license down to ten plates in Colorado.
I floored the gas and lurched forward away from the Lexus that had begun to slow and ease into the right lane. I sped up enough to duck in front of three cars to my left then moved over two more lanes before reaching the high occupancy lane. I hit the gas again. Not so much that it would seem I was trying to lose the driver in the pickup, but I did want to see if he tried to keep up with me.
He tried.
I saw his grey beater weaving in and out of lanes to reach the inside high occupancy lane I was driving in, so I flicked on my blinker and merged right and then eased into another lane right. I slowed down as if I was targeting an off-ramp.
The pickup sped past me but not before I saw his head swiveling to find me in the crowded lanes to the right. It was growing dark and easy for him to lose sight of me as I dropped over and back.
I saw him shaking his fist at other drivers and heard horns honking. He’d removed his sunglasses and his hat. I didn’t recognize him, but it was definitely me he was following.
It was too late for him to follow, and I merged onto the off-ramp, one exit short of my apartment complex.
Dick Roth popped into my head, and I wondered if this guy was somehow related to his “protection” organization. But I doubted it. Roth was likely a lone ranger—more money for him and less chance of being discovered.
My brother had everything set up for me at Livermore on Wednesday, and I would be meeting him for dinner Tuesday night in Fort Collins. Everything was moving smoothly toward nailing the pig.
My cell phone rang. Streeter Pierce’s name popped up on my display.
“Missing me already?” I asked.
“Where are you?”
“Almost home. I’m on Evans.”
“Why’d you turn off so soon?”
“Had a guy following me. Just didn’t want him to know where I lived.”
There was silence. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
I chuckled. “No, Streeter. I’m fine. We’re both exhausted and need a good night’s sleep.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know. Driving a grey F150, probably a 90s model. Old, beat up. License plate … hold on.” I saw a gas station parking lot and parked under a lamppost. I lifted my shirt and read off the numbers. “Colorado license plate. I got cut off before I got the last digit.”
“Good girl. I’ll have someone do some digging.”
“It’s probably nothing. Just someone with road rage.”
Silence again. “How long had he been following you?”
I lowered my shirt and glanced around to make sure no one saw me using my belly as a tablet. “I don’t know. Figured it out on I-70 as I was coming onto I-25.”
“From my house?”
My turn to be silent for a moment. “I don’t know. What are you thinking?”
I wondered if he was worried about someone at work finding out about us. I didn’t care. I loved the man. But he was my boss, so the implications would be far more dangerous for him than for me.
“I’m just being careful. I’m worried about you. I’ll be right there.”
“No. I’m serious. I’m fine.” For some reason, his hypervigilance pissed me off. It wasn’t endearing. I’d been alone most of my life, and I didn’t need a man’s protec
tion. Then I felt bad for barking at him. “Sorry, Streeter. I just need a good night’s sleep. It’s been fun, but I need rest. You’re killing me.”
He chuckled. I told him goodnight and said I’d see him tomorrow at work.
I pulled out of the lot and merged back onto I-25, headed for my apartment off Yale. When I pulled into the parking lot of my building complex a few minutes later, I spotted the grey truck in the back row, nose out in the space. Maybe he wasn’t following me. Maybe he lived here. I had never noticed the truck here before. But maybe he was a neighbor.
The hair on the back of my neck rose, and a shiver skipped down my spine. I didn’t trust this guy one bit. I parked under a lamppost on the far side of the lot and sat in my quiet Jeep for so long the hot engine stopped pinging. I studied the grey pickup across the lot and saw no movement. No one was inside.
I gathered up Beulah, strapped on her harness, attached the lead, and headed for a neighboring apartment building. Not mine. Just to be sure. I ducked inside, ran down the hallway as quietly as I could, and exited the back. Rounding the corner, I waited to see if anyone followed. Nothing. I tiptoed near the back fence past two buildings and froze when Beulah started baying.
“Shhh.” I pulled her lead, closed the distance, and crouched to calm her. “Beulah, hush.”
But she was having none of it. Something in the distance caught her nose—a smell she didn’t like. I saw a figure standing near the back door of my building. I thought about my next move and decided to approach, using Beulah as my guide.
I instructed her: “Find.”
She did and bolted for the man near the back door. When she closed the distance, the man moved quickly around the corner of the building, tossing his cigarette in the grass. I pulled my dog away and headed for the back door. I fumbled with my key, trying to distract my bloodhound from howling. Once through the door, I took the stairs two at a time to get to my floor.
I poked my head around the corner. There was no one in the hall. Then I sprinted for my door, key ready, Beulah in tow. I stabbed the key in the lock and flung myself through the door, flipping the deadbolt as I did. Beulah immediately calmed down and lumbered to the couch. I pressed my back against the door and slid down to the floor.
How did that guy know where I lived? He was waiting out back at my building. Not the one I’d parked near. Beulah lifted her head off the couch, started a low growl, and lumbered to her feet again, moving quickly toward me and the door.
Then there was a knock.
Streeter, I thought. He decided to come after all. I had to admit, I was relieved.
I tried to hush Beulah, but she wasn’t to be comforted. I kenneled her and threw a blanket over the cage. Lights out.
Another knock.
It had to be Streeter.
I grabbed my SIG Sauer and stuffed the pistol in the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back. I peeked out my peephole. No one was there.
The peal of my cell phone startled me. The display indicated it was Streeter. He must have called when he couldn’t get me to open the door. He was worried.
I answered, turning the deadbolt to let him in.
“Streeter, I thought I told you not to—”
A man’s hand snaked around my mouth, and another wrapped around my waist.
I heard Streeter shouting my name through the cell phone I’d dropped.
I kicked and scratched and tried to get to my gun. I tried to scream.
He had me from behind, his body up against mine. I bit his hand and stomped his instep. He let go for an instant. I whipped around and reached for my gun. It was gone.
I glanced quickly at his face. The guy from the pickup—definitely Hispanic. Long, black hair. Forties. Average height and weight. A scar just under—
I saw something flash in the hand he lifted. It was my gun. Then I felt something heavy against my skull.
My world went pitch-black.
COYOTE CRIES FOLLOWED Nurse Norma under the light of the nearly full moon with his headlights off.
She hadn’t noticed him in the parking lot, nor had she noticed him pull in behind her. Within minutes, she’d parked her Kia under the carport and used her keys to enter her small, dark house.
No one was home but her. There was no movement up or down the street, except for the images from a television near the front window of a house two doors down. He glanced along the neat row of houses in her neighborhood. Every yard had been tended. Houses painted and maintained. He marveled at how much had changed since he’d been gone. When he was a child, only one house in the neighborhood would have reflected care and attention to the home and yard. Now, that attitude was the rule, not the exception. He beamed with pride for his people. Except for the neighbor’s property across the street. Movement to his left caught his eye. He spun on his heels. A collared goat tied to the base of a satellite dish stretched its tethered neck toward a rusty engine that dangled from the center of a tripod three feet off the bare, dusty ground. The driveway was strewn with parts from a stripped and aged Impala. The heart of the beastly automobile was hanging from a makeshift engine rack erected from three downed tree limbs and some old rope.
The pet could reach just far enough and, oblivious to the visitor, the goat was licking the gooey mess that had coagulated on the underside of the engine.
He saw a horse’s tail swishing as it stood near the house to the right of Norma’s. Its head was jammed into the hole where a windowpane should have been. Probably the owner had busted out the window and was using the sink as a feeding trough, so the man or woman inside wouldn’t have to brave the winter weather to keep the horse fed.
He suddenly missed his mother. He’d check to see if she was still alive before he left town.
He opened the car door, having carefully removed the dome light and dimmed the dashboard. He snuck across Norma’s perfectly manicured lawn and darted quickly into the backyard. He could see her preparing a meal in the kitchen, which gave him plenty of time to enter the house through her bedroom window.
He stood motionless behind her door and waited.
Within minutes, she came into the bedroom, flicked on the light, and unbuttoned her nurse’s uniform. She stopped suddenly when she noticed the open window.
Before she had time to react, he slid up behind her and covered her mouth, pulling her against him. She tried to bite his hand and wriggle from beneath his arm banded around her ribs, but he reached back and turned off the light, leaving them awash in the glow from moonlight through the open window and the kitchen light around the corner. The breeze against them felt cool and the bare skin of her waist soft beneath his hand.
He hushed her and whispered in her ear to be still.
Which she didn’t.
She fought him like a bearcat.
Which only made him want her more.
He chuckled. “Norma. Sweet Norma.”
His lips brushed the top of her ear. Her muffled cries and ferocious battle beneath his arms pleased him—until he felt a tear against the fingers that clamped her mouth.
He quoted Jeremiah 29:11.
For I know the plans I have for you. Plans to prosper and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future.
His words seemed to calm her. The energy behind her fight drained with each word he whispered. He pulled her closer to him, so she could feel his strength, his erection. But her back arched away from him, and her fight renewed.
“Be still. And you’ll have that future. I promise.”
She grew still.
He wanted to push her onto her bed and take her right there, because he could.
But he didn’t. He was enjoying her too much, and he wanted her to want him back. He had decided to spare her. She was too much like him.
“Now, Norma. I like you. Very much.” He tilted his hips toward her, his member hard against her back. She whimpered. “I’m going to let go—of just your mouth—long enough for you to answer my questions.”
He was also g
oing to unsheathe his knife at the same time in case she screamed.
“Two questions. And if you answer me honestly, I will slip out that window and never bother you again. If you scream, I will have to kill you.”
He felt her tense beneath his grip.
“Do you understand me? Nod, if you do.”
She hesitated, and then she nodded.
“Good girl.”
He relaxed his fingers and calculated his next moves if she tried to scream. He would clasp his hand over her mouth quickly and use his right hand around her ribs to retrieve the knife. He’d kill her quickly. He didn’t want to strangle this one. He had too much appreciation for her spirit. She deserved to die fast.
But she didn’t scream. She said only one word. “Ask.”
“The woman today giving you information about Long Soldiers—her name and address.”
She stiffened beneath him. He pulled her closer to him with his right arm, dragged his fingertips down her cheek, and wrapped them around her delicate throat as a warning.
She swallowed hard. “Why?”
“I need to know.”
“Who are you?”
“Someone very much like you.”
“We are nothing alike. I would never frighten someone like this.”
He relaxed his fingers from around her throat. He slid his hand around her neck down her chest, stopping as his fingertips touched her cleavage. “I am not trying to frighten you. This is called foreplay.”
She whimpered again. She was a smart woman. The message of consequence was not lost on her. “I don’t know where she lives.”
He believed her. “Her name.”
She remained still. Then she ripped free of his grip and bolted for the window, actually diving headfirst out the opening. She tried to scramble away, her hands and knees clawing at the ground for purchase.
But she didn’t get very far. He was on her in no time and pinned her to the ground in the backyard with his face inches from hers. He pressed his knife against her throat. Her eyes were wide.
“Norma. Why? I liked you.”
Jeremiah’s Revenge: A Liv Bergen Mystery Page 12
