Jeremiah’s Revenge

by Sandra Brannan

  With his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his black leather jacket and his legs spread apart, he had blocked her only exit from the kitchen.

  It was that easy.

  She couldn’t reach the phone or the door without going through him.

  She said, “What do you want?”

  “Don’t you want to know who I am?”

  “I know who you are,” New Guy’s wife had answered. “You’re Satan. Pure evil.”

  Coyote Cries had laughed.

  She appeared confused.

  He’d pulled his hands out of his pockets.

  She’d gripped the knife with both hands, waved it between them. Slice, slice.

  His hands were empty, and he’d held them up to her in surrender.

  He remembered telling her, “You are as clever as your husband, my enemy.”

  She’d only thought she’d known fear. He’d show her. Teach her. Her hands had trembled. Her glance had darted toward the clock. Then dread had whitewashed her already porcelain features.

  “Feels like a nightmare, where you’re unable to move or speak,” he’d told her. “He won’t be home in time.”

  She’d caught his glance, and fear had enveloped her. “What do you want with me?”

  “I want to teach your husband a lesson. He messed with my business, my reputation, my freedom.”

  Coyote Cries had flicked his head quickly, sending the long, black braid that had fallen forward over his shoulder sailing.

  “Please. Don’t kill me. I don’t want to die.”

  The boiling pot of soup splashed and hissed on the stove behind her. Startled, the New Guy’s wife nearly dropped the knife.

  “Vegetable soup?” he had asked.

  She’d nodded. “I understand you’re angry. But more violence will not help your situation. It will only make everything worse.”

  Coyote Cries had laughed. “And what do you know about my situation?”

  “I know you sell drugs to the kids on the reservation. I know you must have had a difficult childhood. I know you could probably use some help.”

  Coyote Cries had corrected her. “Everybody who grows up on the reservation has a difficult childhood. I overcame my difficulties. I did something with my life. I ignored my miserable existence on that godforsaken reservation, and I became somebody. I’m rich. I’m important.”

  “You’re a murderer and a drug dealer.” She must have said it without thinking.

  “People look up to me. They want to be just like me.”

  Panicked and afraid he was about to make a move on her, she’d lunged in his direction. Jabbed the knife at him. Coyote Cries had clutched her wrist and had given it a quick twist. The knife had clattered to the floor. She’d whimpered in pain.

  He’d twisted her wrist until a bone snapped. He’d pushed her into the living room.

  Sobbing, she’d pleaded, “Stop. You’re hurting me.”

  He’d made sure she’d felt his hot breaths against her sweat-soaked neck, standing behind her, twisting her arm, and mocking her in a pathetic whine. “Poor baby.”

  The words must have triggered something in New Guy’s wife because he’d felt a change in her: complete submission. “Please stop. I’ll lose the baby. I just found out this morning. Streeter doesn’t even know. Please don’t hurt my baby. I won’t say a thing.”

  Two for one.

  He’d pushed her facedown on the carpet. He’d dug his knee into her back, pinning her against the floor. He’d unzipped his jacket.

  She must have thought he’d unzipped his jeans, and she’d begged him not to rape her. Tears streaked her face.

  His hand had gripped a clump of her hair and yanked. He’d heard a crack somewhere in her neck and felt a clump of hair pull from her scalp by the roots.

  “One thing is true. You won’t say anything. I’m making sure of that.”

  He’d pressed the long, sharp knife against the skin on her neck hard. He made one slice. Then he hacked and chopped.

  New Guy would find her.

  Complete victory.

  He had bragged to Dillinger how he’d thrown her head against the wall by the couch.

  Dillinger’s final paragraph explained that his story had been repeated by Coyote Cries so many times that he’d been able to document his words almost verbatim. And that if something should happen to him, it was probably Jeremiah Coyote Cries who’d killed him.

  And now Dillinger was dead.

  I set the letter down on my desk.

  My hands trembled. Absently, I realized I kept touching my own neck.

  I could never, never let Streeter see this letter.

  THE INSTANT THEY LANDED, Streeter pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

  “Please. It’s about Liv. I heard she didn’t fly to DC yesterday. I’m going to pick her up from work now and take her to my place.”

  Mully asked, “Who’s after her?”

  “Jeremiah Coyote Cries. The man who beheaded my wife twenty years ago.”

  The long pause at the other end of the phone unnerved him. He may have made a mistake. Mully might decide to kill him and take Liv to safety on his own.

  If he was smart.

  Streeter added, “But I need your help. I need you to shadow her. Never let her out of your sight.”

  The man agreed. “When and where?”

  “Starting Monday morning.” Streeter gave him his home address.

  “What about this weekend?”

  “She’ll be with me. Safe.”

  Mully’s ominous voice sounded, “Believe me, Pierce. If one hair on her beautiful head is harmed in any way, I will kill you myself.”

  “You won’t have to. I’ll already be dead.” He slipped the phone in his pocket.

  Streeter had never been so sure of looming danger in his life. Coyote Cries had already been busy making the dominoes fall in Colorado and at the reservation.

  No doubt, Jeremiah was behind all this destruction—even if he was still behind bars.

  He couldn’t afford for Liv to be swept up in the death toll. But the work of Julius Chavez indicated Coyote Cries had his sights set on Liv.

  He had a new plan.

  Pretending he didn’t love her wouldn’t work. No one would buy that—especially Liv. And even if she did, Coyote Cries wouldn’t spare her. The murders on Pine Ridge were proof enough that he was taking over the business, even before the parole hearing.

  Sending her away hadn’t done the trick. She was too damned stubborn for that.

  So on to Plan C. He called Denver Chief of Police, Tony Gates.

  “Did you find Vic?”

  “Exactly where you said he would be.”

  “Anything?”

  “Not yet. We’re running everything.”

  “What about Alcott?”

  “Unfortunately. He was inside. What a mess. Who would shove money down someone’s throat until they suffocated?”

  “A sick bastard like Jeremiah Coyote Cries,” Streeter said. “And I plan to prove it.”

  “Happy to help.”

  “Mind posting protection? At my cabin?”

  There was a long pause. Streeter knew he needed more of an explanation.

  “For Liv, not me. I’m picking her up now from work, in case Julius Chavez shared anything with Coyote Cries about her place.”

  “Smart move,” Gates added. “I’ll have someone up there 24/7.”

  “But not obvious. I’m not telling her about your officers. Just post them in the trees near the road to my place. There’s only one way in and one way out.”

  Streeter rang off when Gates made him promise to be careful.

  He sped down Penya Boulevard, hoping to be stopped for speeding so he’d have an escort to the office. He needed to retrieve Liv and take her to his cabin. He’d leave Beulah in the care of the bureau dog kennel. They needed to stay alert.

  Liv seemed stunned to see him. She glanced at the clock several times. She rose slowly from her chair, rounded her desk
until Streeter held up a finger to his lips and motioned her with his hands to stay where she was.

  He leaned down to write a note:

  Grab your things. We need to go. I’ll follow you to the cabin. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t call anyone. Leave Beulah.

  I’ll explain.

  She read his note. Her brows furrowed. He walked out without a word.

  The last time he’d seen her was at the hospital Tuesday morning. And he hated himself for saying the things he had. He loved her more than anything. And he hated to see the pain he’d caused.

  But now, he prayed she’d listen to him and obey.

  Her life depended on it.

  Stunned, I forced myself not to react.

  I read Streeter’s note several times. It was so cryptic. He must have been worried about bugs or office gossip or something.

  I gathered my work and tidied my desk.

  Without another word, I headed toward my Jeep in the parking garage.

  With mixed emotions, I anticipated nothing from my arrival at Streeter’s home in Conifer. I had no clue what his odd behavior was all about—both earlier in the week and just now.

  But I admittedly wanted answers.

  I was also dreading the worst; that there might be more than I could handle in all this drama. Unfortunately, the drive to Conifer was a long one. And my fertile mind conjured up several wicked reasons why he’d dumped me earlier. And why he was so cryptic now. None of the reasons were good and all of this was so uncharacteristic of Streeter.

  By the time I arrived at his house, I was trembling with worry.

  Another surprise—he ushered me into his second garage and closed the door behind me.

  When I stepped out of my Jeep, carrying nothing but some files, Streeter pointed me into his cabin through the inside garage door. “Please come in.”

  I noticed him do a quick scan of the surroundings beyond the garage windows before shutting and bolting the door.

  “What are we looking for? What’s going on?” I asked.

  He ignored me, hurrying me through the house, opening every door and closet, with his gun extended.

  He was afraid someone was there.

  When he returned, I couldn’t think to do anything but hand him a file I’d been working on in his absence. “I dropped this report off with the district attorney today. He said I had plenty of solid evidence and that he’s going to arrest Dick Roth tonight. I was going with him, until you showed up.”

  Streeter took the file, dropped it on his kitchen counter, gathered me in his arms, and held me for what seemed like forever.

  Just held me.

  It surprised me when I heard myself say, “I love you, Streeter. I know you’re in trouble somehow. And that Tuesday morning was all about protecting me. But please don’t. I don’t need your protection. I need your trust and the truth. That’s it. And no matter what game you play with me, it won’t stop me from loving and caring about you. I’m worried.”

  None of those were even one of the options I’d rehearsed or contemplated over the past several days. Not even close. But I’d said it anyway. And it had come from the heart.

  Streeter finally let me go. Cupping my hand in his, he looked at me with a sorrowful gaze. “I did not want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you. You must believe me.”

  I bit my lower lip and nodded cautiously. “I know that. But you have to trust someone. Whatever it is that’s bothering you, whatever demon you’re battling, you don’t have to fight it alone. I am here for you. You can trust me.”

  He closed his eyes and hung his head, with his shoulders slumped.

  “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s happening. Please, let me into your life.”

  He glanced up again. A familiar softness filled his expression. A hint of a smile played around the corner of his lips. “You are in my life. That’s the problem.”

  I stood perfectly still, knowing Streeter would explain in time, in his own way. He kissed me hard on the lips. His fingers gently held my head.

  We kissed until we were both breathless.

  Then he pulled away and gazed into my eyes. And then he surprised me again by asking, “Coffee?”

  I nodded. I made us something to eat from his refrigerator while he brewed a pot. Neither of us spoke. We prepared the food as if we’d lived together for a lifetime.

  We ate in greedy silence since neither of us ever remembered to eat on a regular basis. The kiwi, cheese, crackers, and grapes tasted amazing. And the coffee was heavenly.

  I stole glances at him from time to time, studying his expressions.

  He was deep in thought—and worry.

  Without looking at me, he pushed himself to his feet with the effort of an old man and walked slowly to the sliding glass doors that led to the deck. I watched him stand at the windows, with his hands deep in the pockets of his khaki pants. I could see the weight on his shoulders beneath the crisp, white shirtsleeves. He was heavy with thought, as if an invisible, beastly monkey had just climbed onto his back.

  At first, I was barely aware that he had started talking, his words were so soft and distant.

  “A man named Jeremiah Coyote Cries is up for parole. He’s been in prison on drug trafficking charges for twenty years. I was the one who put him there.”

  I tried to make it appear that the name was new to me. I leaned forward on the couch and strained to hear each word, careful not to misinterpret anything he was sharing.

  His head hung low. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, he added, “He’s scheduled to go before the parole board this Tuesday.”

  I knew differently. He’d already been before the parole board more than a week ago.

  Mully and I learned about that yesterday when we’d visited the correctional facility. The warden finally owned up to what was happening—perhaps because of my pleading, but likely it was Mully’s unveiled threats to impose bodily harm on someone “if the princess didn’t get what she wanted.”

  I admitted to myself that having a Lucifer’s Lot gang member as a friend had its advantages. On the long bike ride home, I tried to thank him by informing him that I was far from being anything like the Princess of Turandot, and I was not coldhearted. And when I waved goodbye, I was sure he hadn’t heard me call him Prince Calaf.

  Ever since our first meeting, which was more like a standoff between me and the entire biker gang, he’d referenced the three-act opera by Giacomo Puccini. I can still hear my sister Ida belting out the aria in her lead role. One time during a rehearsal, she replaced the actor who was playing Calaf, singing—just for me—the best version of “Nessun Dorma” I’d ever heard since Luciano.

  And she was the only female opera singer I’d ever known to embrace the famous aria.

  Her voice played over and over in my head as Streeter’s silence grew deafening.

  But I didn’t want to interrupt. I bit my lip and refrained from asking the hundred questions that swarmed around in my head. Just like I told Father Shannon, because I’d been armed with information, I managed to keep my lips zipped.

  I knew he’d explain, in his time.

  Streeter drew in a deep breath and lifted his head, staring blankly at the mountain ridge across from his cabin.

  My mind drifted again in the quiet to how much I loved the way the log structure blended in with its natural surroundings and perched advantageously on the edge of a cliff. It was like a nest at the entrance and like a perch out the back and was probably the most comfortable home I’d ever been in besides my mom and dad’s.

  His voice had risen slightly above a whisper, and I wasn’t straining as much to hear.

  “That’s when I came to see you—on Tuesday morning. I had just read the announcement for the parole hearing.”

  Unable to stay silent any longer, I asked, “Why did the letter upset you so much?”

  “Because of Julius Chavez. How he hurt you Sunday night. Targeted you. I didn’t want them near you. Because of me.”

&n
bsp; “You think Coyote Cries hired him?”

  “His attorney hired Chavez.”

  He held my gaze. “And Tony Gates found the attorney this week.”

  “Found him? Was he lost?”

  “He was dead. Shot in the head behind the wheel of his car.”

  I GULPED.

  Audibly. The news stunned me. I hadn’t been prepared. I felt like I’d been living under a rock.

  Maybe Coyote Cries hired Chavez. Maybe Coyote Cries murdered his attorney.

  He’d escaped on Saturday—a 102. I’d learned that from the warden yesterday. A 102—the third most serious offense by a prisoner—escape from escort; escape from any secure or nonsecure institution, including community confinement; escape from unescorted community program or activity; escape from outside a secure institution.

  Coyote Cries had escaped during his work release program without a trace—with nothing captured on the business’s elaborate security monitoring system. How in God’s name could that be? First, he was granted parole. Then, he escaped on his second day of work release.

  Clearly, Streeter hadn’t heard. And I struggled with how to break the news to him without interrupting his story or sending him into cardiac arrest. Mully had virtually threatened to choke the warden right there in front of me because of the system’s failure. It took every ounce of persuasion I had to stop him from carrying out his threat.

  I had to think. Fast.

  “Streeter, how was it your fault that Chavez hurt me? And how can you be so sure it had anything to do with Coyote Cries?”

  I touched the tender goose egg on my forehead. The knot had slowly begun to dissolve, although the bruising had worsened. The stitches would be out soon. At least my ability to think hadn’t been permanently compromised.

  Streeter pulled his hands from his pockets and folded his arms across his strong chest. With his back still turned to me, I couldn’t read his expression. I worried that my questions might have caused him to withdraw.

  “We found a file in the attorney’s possession with information about you. There were photos.”