“The paparazzi. You were right. It wasn’t them.”
He nodded. “As far as Coyote Cries’s role in all this? It’s a long story.”
“I have time.” My words sounded more like a whimper.
He glanced back at me over his shoulder and grinned. “I guess you do. I did kind of kidnap you for the weekend.”
He moved slowly toward me, his gaze fixed on mine. He noticed I’d been touching my wound and his expression melted into sorrow.
“The whole weekend?” I inflected as much energy as I could muster and pulled my fingers away from my forehead.
He sat down beside me, reached for my hand, and gently touched the side of my head. “I’m so sorry about all of this.” He kissed my head. “For what happened to you Sunday night, for what I said to you on Tuesday morning, for trying to send you away. I was just …”
I wanted to hear him admit he was scared—for his sake, for his healing. Instead, I let him off the hook and said, “I know.”
I sat very still, worried any move might interrupt his train of thought.
He tore his glance from mine and turned, so we sat side by side again on the couch. It was a deliberate deflection. He was working through his demons. And he couldn’t seem to talk about them when he looked at me.
I reached over and turned off the lamp. Dusk had settled in, and the living room was cast in shades of grey. Better for him, I thought.
And it was.
He spoke, “I first ran into Jeremiah Coyote Cries during my first assignment in Rapid City. Coyote Cries was dealing drugs in South Dakota, primarily on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. He was the wholesaler. His business was supplying all nine reservations by selling to the retailers as part of a large, Midwest drug ring that was based here in Denver.”
Streeter had calmed. His words were even and cool. And he’d grown less passionate about the subject. Almost weary.
I held my breath, praying he wouldn’t stop talking again.
He rose and paced.
After several minutes, he suddenly spun on his heels to face me. His face was hard. The muscles in his jaw, taut.
In a low growl, like a disposal working on a metal spoon, he said, “This man is evil. Truly evil, and he should never be released. If he is, there’s no telling what he will do.”
I wasn’t about to tell him that Coyote Cries was already free. That he had escaped.
“I don’t know if he still carries a grudge or if he will come after me in any way. But if there is the slightest chance, your safety is not worth risking, no matter how remote the possibility. This can’t be taken lightly. I couldn’t bear to live if something happened to you.” He trembled with rage.
Startled by his vacillation between passivity and passion, I vowed not to tell him about the parole board’s decision last Thursday. He might lose it altogether.
I grabbed his clenched fist in mine and pulled him beside me on the couch and held tight. He sat stiffly on the edge of the cushions with his feet flat on the floor, his spine as rigid as rebar. I gently touched the small of his back. He recoiled, and I quickly withdrew my hand.
He was in a different dimension. In another place, at another time. I allowed him the solitude of deep thought and sat quietly beside him.
“It was the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen …”
His wife … Dillinger’s letter … I could only imagine. Another piece of this puzzle I would never allow Streeter to know that I knew. Only pain could come of that knowledge.
“I thought he would be locked up for the rest of his earthly life.”
Me, too. Especially after reading his cellmate’s letter and after hearing the fear in the warden’s voice when he’d admitted they’d all been wrong about The Reverend.
“I knew he was eligible for parole after twenty years. But I convinced myself that it was a lifetime away. And now that time has come.” Streeter’s words trailed off to a whisper.
He hung his head with his chin touching his chest.
This time when I patted his knee, he didn’t recoil. Instead, he slowly encircled me with his arms and drew me close. Tightly, like bands of indestructible steel. His trembling ceased. Heat radiated off him like a slow, simmering pot.
I felt his labored breathing and imagined his blood had been polluted with oceans of adrenaline. For the first time, I wondered how his father had died and hoped it hadn’t been from a heart attack caused by high blood pressure.
His voice tender, he said, “I didn’t know what to do, Liv. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you. It was hard enough to watch you lying there in the hospital, not knowing if you would live or die and knowing someone had attacked you.”
He was back to Chavez following me to my apartment and clocking my skull.
“My heart ached so badly holding you while you were unconscious—lying there in the hall of your apartment complex. It took forever for those emergency response people to come to help you. I swore to God that if you came through this, I would never let anything happen to you again.”
He kissed the top of my head and rocked me in his arms.
I imagined his overly protective response had been born of the guilt he carried over Paula’s death. Even after all these years. Such a burden.
“If I actually was the reason you were hurt, if Coyote Cries has found out about you, I would never be able to forgive myself. Or live with myself.”
Streeter hadn’t eased his grip on me. My shoulders throbbed beneath his hug. I laid my head against his shoulder, feeling his hot skin radiate through the cool white cotton shirt, and I kissed him gently on the neck.
I said, “Don’t talk like that.”
He continued to cling. “I tried to make you believe you meant nothing to me. I knew what I said would hurt you. And I didn’t want to do that.”
“Yeah, that was stupid. I didn’t believe you,” I said honestly.
He loosened his grip. A rumble, almost a chuckle, sounded low in his throat. I was glad I could still make him happy—at least a bit.
“The ticket to DC.”
“You knew better,” I said.
“I hoped I didn’t. Kelleher told me you refused to go.”
“Phil is a good man. So are you. But I’m the only one who can make those decisions for me. And I choose you.” I kissed him again on his neck, and he finally released his hold on me.
He slumped. “But it was all I had and better than the alternative. Liv, he can’t know anything more about you. If he finds out that you’re my Achilles heel, he will send one of his henchmen after you. He’s already exacting his revenge.”
A chill danced down my spine. “How so?”
“His attorney, his business partner, two of his retailers on the rez, an eyewitness to the murder of a teacher—a very good man and son of my best friend—all dead.”
“When?” I choked.
Streeter put his head in his hands. “This week.”
Finally, the reality of impending danger sunk in—to my bone marrow. I realized sneaking out and waltzing back into my apartment yesterday past my posted guard had been reckless behavior. I could have been killed and not just by one of his henchmen.
By Coyote Cries.
Worse, I could have caused the police officer to be killed. Or Mully.
My throat tightened.
I drew in a ragged breath.
I reminded myself I was safe for the moment. I was glad I was here and thrilled I’d been with Mully yesterday and Kelleher Tuesday and Wednesday.
Oh my word. My brother and father: I’d put them all in danger, too, because I hadn’t taken the threat seriously.
This was not the time to tell Streeter Coyote Cries had already been released and had escaped, his whereabouts unknown—that I’d confirmed all of this with the warden yesterday.
My face was flushed with heat.
“I got a letter last Friday, but I hadn’t opened my mail in a week with all the changes. Cal Lemley, Linwood, Tate, you. I w
as behind.”
“Doesn’t Jill open the mail for you?” I noticed no reaction at the mention of his assistant’s name, which was good for me. Because everyone and their dog in the office knew she had the hots for Streeter.
He shook his head. “I open my own mail. Anyway, the correctional facility forewarned me that they’d moved the parole hearing back thirteen days. It wasn’t last Thursday. It’s this Tuesday instead. I have a few days to prepare my statement.”
“A letter? From the Englewood Federal Correctional Institution in Littleton?” I knew that couldn’t be true.
There was no delay. The hearing had been held on the original date. A date Streeter would have missed anyway because he hadn’t opened the mail until Friday. One more mistake he’d never be able to forgive himself for.
Streeter shot a glance at me. “Did I mention that Coyote Cries was at Littleton?”
He hadn’t. I’d slipped. Rather than lie, I asked, “Are you planning on testifying?”
His eyes appeared tired and like they had aged. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I? I plan on going down Monday for a dry run; to confirm that I’ll be one of the people requesting to be heard at his parole. I’ll be the only one. The other agents who were qualified to testify against his parole have all passed away. His crimes happened so long ago.”
“What did the letter say?” I pressed. My curiosity was piqued.
“You mean the follow-up letter?”
I nodded, not wanting him to know why I was asking. It had to have been a mistake … or a calculated misdirection … a forgery. By Coyote Cries.
“They regretted any inconvenience it might cause me, but they had to reschedule the parole hearing for the week after next, a Tuesday … scheduling conflicts with some of the members on the parole board.” Streeter rubbed both of his hands through his hair.
“And you haven’t called to confirm?” Clearly, the second letter was forged, which meant Coyote Cries and his attorney had a sophisticated operation. I’d have to ask Mully how Coyote Cries’s organization had managed to forge the federal facility’s letterhead. He’d know.
He shook his head. “Like I said, I plan on going down Monday. And, no, you can’t come with me.”
I placed my hand tenderly on his thigh. “Just a lowly drug dealer. Keep telling yourself that. Don’t give him power over you. You’ve dealt with worse.”
Streeter mumbled, “Maybe worse situations—but not worse criminals. I have never come across anyone as ruthless as Coyote Cries.”
I watched him struggle with his internal conflict, wrestle with unspoken demons and haunting memories. And I remembered Dillinger’s letter and the account of Paula’s horrifying final minutes.
For several minutes, I sat sill and listened to him slowly regain control of his breathing. When he finally took a deep breath and folded his hands in his lap, I moved closer to him and laid my hands over his.
He smiled weakly.
He looked at me again with pleading eyes. “Liv, will you do something for me?”
“Anything,” I answered without hesitation.
“Take that job in DC. Move back there—before next Tuesday—this weekend. Please.”
His request stunned me. I’d never heard him sound so desperate.
“At least until this is all over. Maybe for a year or so. Please, Liv.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Then no contact with me, at all. We’ll stage an epic break up at work on Monday to make sure everyone knows.”
He sounded more desperate by the moment.
“If he finds out about you, he will try to get to me through you. And he will succeed.”
“Slow down,” I said, frightened by his panic and even more frightened to imagine his reaction if I revealed the secrets I’d been keeping. “He’s probably forgotten all about you. It’s been twenty years, Streeter.”
Knowing the growl through his clenched teeth was not directed at me, I listened carefully to his warning. “You don’t know this man. I do. He will not forget me. And I will not forget him. It’s not over between us, and one of us will end up dead if he’s released.”
His breathing quickened once again. The heat radiating from his skin intensified.
“I think you’re proving he’s already got a head start.”
He shot a glance my way.
“Listen, he has you worried. Worry is nothing but a bully. It takes and takes and takes until you have nothing more to give. And then you’re as good as dead, don’t you think?”
He studied me. I thought he was going to blow. Instead, his features softened.
I added, “Don’t let him have any power over you. This is your life. You gain nothing by battling old demons. Especially him.”
Streeter said softly, “I’m sorry. I’m terrified of losing you. Will you move to DC for me? Please?”
I held his pleading gaze and realized how much I loved this man. I gently kissed him on his lips, which were warm and full and unresponsive to me. I gently dragged my fingertips across the stubble on his warm cheek as he continued to hold his question in his steely blue eyes.
How could I refuse him anything? Yet, how could I possibly leave him at a time like this? I didn’t have an answer for him.
“I will do anything you ask,” I said in a low, steady voice. “Anything. But you will need to do something for me, first.”
Streeter stared at me. Waiting for my request.
“Let me get you a glass of water,” I requested tenderly. “Then, what I want you to do is tell me the whole story from the beginning. Everything you can remember. Because this is like an octopus you’ve had trapped in your gut for a long time and it needs to come out. The tentacles have to give up their grip. Then, if you choose to shove this all back inside, that’s for you to live with. And I’ll honor your choice. If you see that it wasn’t so scary to examine the beast, then maybe we can formulate a plan together.”
He blinked.
“Streeter, I love you. I want to help, in any way I can. We have to start somewhere.”
He walked out onto the deck and gripped the wooden rail. He stared out over the shapeless trees in the rugged cavern blanketed in black. There was no wind, no movement of any kind.
I sidled up behind him, wrapped my arms around his waist, and laid my right cheek against his back.
“I was once comforted by the nocturnal cries of the coyotes. Now I’m thankful only for the brightness of the sun with rays that mute their love songs like a lit basement silences crickets.”
His symmetry was lost on me.
I imagined the canine scavengers uncomfortable in the daylight, revealing their nocturnal secrets, as I laid out my proposal about his very private past.
I felt him suck in a deep breath, and he was probably gathering his thoughts on how to tell me a story he hadn’t discussed in two decades.
I encouraged him. “Everything is less frightening under bright lights. Even slimy old octopuses.”
AS HE DRANK an iced tea laced with tequila, Dick Roth stretched out lazily in his recliner and sucked down the excrement that had gathered in his nose and throat with a loud snort.
His overweight, grey poodle jerked her head in his direction. She snuffed and drifted off to sleep once she was certain that the loud noise was not her master getting up to forage for more food.
Dick lifted his ratty “Keep on Trucking” T-shirt enough so that his stubby fingers could scratch the belly that pooched over his unbuttoned pants. With the other hand, he reached up to his craggy cheeks and layered chin, stroking the stubble that had grown since this morning’s shave.
A piece of his thinning hair fell against his temple. He reached up and pushed it back into place, using the paste from the rest of his coif to keep everything neat.
The roar of the engines from the televised speedway race droned rhythmically from the old set. He lifted one hip off the recliner and passed gas that had gathered like a thunderstorm in his lower gut. The poodle stirred,
tucked herself into a tighter ball, and placed her small paws over her muzzle.
He drained the glass—his second of the early evening. He swirled the small ice cubes, making a cheerful clinking noise. Placing the empty glass on the end table beside him, he stretched his arms high above his head and grunted.
How he loved Friday nights—the end of a workweek and the beginning of each weekly holiday.
Friday nights were like Christmas Eve. Saturdays were filled with presents and Sundays were his reward days.
Sundays provided him with a day of rest generally, although sometimes they were his day of travel to the farthest outreaches of his district as he worked his second job. He had earned a handsome sum of money over the last five years in his second job, but he didn’t like the hours. He had to work extremely hard. He put in overtime and worked on the weekends.
A cranky operator was to thank for his idea to start his second business. Five years ago, that operator became intolerably belligerent toward him. All he was trying to do was conduct a follow-up inspection of a complaint filed against the guy’s quarrying operation: The crushing spread was obviously in violation of the allowable emissions in the operator’s permit. But when he told the operator he was going to issue a notice of violation, the guy became so enraged that he started shouting and cursing.
Offended, he threatened to issue a cease and desist order. He had told the operator he had an hour to comply with his recommendation, reduce the emissions from the crushing spread, or he would write the cease and desist—which just further enraged the operator.
Unfazed by the operator’s verbal blowback, he calmly explained that he was leaving to find a uniformed officer to assist with his order. The operator instantly changed his tactics, pleading with Dick to forgive him and not to take any of his reactions and behaviors as a reflection on how seriously he considered the issue of air quality.
Ignoring the operator’s pleas, he strode confidently toward his vehicle. The operator walked briskly past him and stood between him and his car and begged him to listen. He tried to reason with him and suggested he would do anything if he would simply forget the whole incident had happened.
Jeremiah’s Revenge Page 26
