Coyote (30 page)

I scanned around.

Hector's high metal fence had long since been washed away by time, but all five of the original buildings still stood around a central courtyard. The courtyard had been paved in the dim distant past — but was now mainly clods of soil covered in weeds and dotted with a few smashed-up shelters abandoned by the homeless.

In the dead centre of the courtyard, rising up like a hand escaping the grave, was a huge, badly battered tree. It was a Canyon Oak with a massive trunk and heavy, spreading branches covered in a spiny, holly-like foliage. The coastal ranges behind my beach house were covered in the same species. But this one was a whopper, maybe ninety feet tall. It was half dead and its trunk was deeply rutted with old carvings.

Then it struck me. I hadn't even taken my flashlight out yet. I checked the night sky, looking for the moon … It had to be full — it was early nightfall — but I could still see like it was just before sunset. I shook that thought off. I didn't have time for one more complication.

I jogged one full circuit of the precinct, looking for the best routes in. The owner, Crumple Holdings, no doubt wary of squatters, had boarded the buildings up like Fort Knox on heat. There were signs everywhere warning that the area was patrolled by private security.

That explained the smashed-up shelters … But it also meant that I might find the buildings in relatively okay shape.

Maybe …

God knows I was going to need every piece of luck I could get to pick up any clues. The plan was that I'd go through them all quickly now, and then come back tomorrow after I'd pumped Gideon Webb — and maybe even Gilda — for more info.

I got out my flashlight and worked my way around them, clockwise. I broke into each building, then carefully boarded it back up again when I left. The first three were dirty and broken down, with leaking roofs and too many serious rodent nests, but they were really just empty rows of rooms that could've been used for anything.

Except that each of them had heavy iron bars on the windows …

But it was the fourth one that worried me.

I knew what kind of building it was as soon as I broke in.

I'd been through a similar place in Australia … down in Tasmania. Australia had been colonised as a penal settlement for England. They'd sent the worst of the worst down to the Great South Land, hoping they'd never see the poor bastards ever again.

But when you send troublemakers over to the other side of the world, you're just creating a new nation of troublemakers. Anyway, somewhere along the line, the British had to find a new place to put those they couldn't even bear to keep on mainland Australia.

That place was Tasmania, the island at the extreme southern tip of the continent … the place where the winds blow straight up from the Antarctic. And that's where they built Port Arthur, a prison that was so dreaded it acted as a whip handle over the rest of Australia.

Port Arthur was called a model prison, designed in the very latest mid-nineteenth-century style of
scientific control. Physical punishment was known to harden prisoners, and this lot was already as hard as they come, so Port Arthur used psychological methods to break them instead.

These new psychological techniques were embodied in Port Arthur's special prison architecture and furniture, which meant prisoners could be prevented from seeing, or even hearing, another human being. Sometimes that isolation was kept in place for the rest of their lives …

Modern torture experts call it the sensory deprivation technique.

And it worked.

In Port Arthur, there was a mental asylum built right next to the frigid prison.

And here in his very own Little Boston Precinct, Hector had created a women's prison that was even worse than Port Arthur.

I saw row after row of isolation cells. No natural light, no windows. All completely soundproof and viewproof. Boxes not much bigger than a toilet.

But it was what was in the basement that really shocked me …

It held a modified Iron Maiden — a metal, body-shaped cabinet.

The enclosed female prisoner would be completely blind, completely deaf … and completely defenceless.

The last building to be checked in Little Boston was the only one that actually faced onto Prendergast Street. It was directly opposite the Zebulon Hotel.

I checked my watch … Damn! I wanted to catch Gideon Webb at The Hue & Cry in twenty minutes.

But I studied the last building with longing …

It was three storeys high and the fanciest of the five by a long mile. The others had been mainly redbrick but this one had a marble facade with elaborately decorated Greek columns framing the doorways and windows. Sure it had been worn down by time and dulled by the elements but it must've been impressive in its day.

This was the building I'd caught glimpses of through the mist. The one across from my office window.

I just knew I HAD to go in there!

Above the main entrance was the title: ‘The Thackeray Building'. Over the top of the building's name was a marble frieze, a sculptured scene. The
elements had done their best to erode it, so it was difficult to make out exactly what the scene was of …

Then it seemed to come into focus. It was a sculpture of a handsome Greek hero slaying some fierce mythological beast. The beast had the head of a woman, her features distorted with rage, but the winged body and legs of a bird of prey.

It was a Harpy.

Then I realised the Harpy wasn't enraged — she was in agony.

The sculpture showed the very end of the battle. The Harpy was dying in his arms while the handsome marble hero smiled in triumph. He'd killed her with a sword downwards through the breast, through the heart.

Weird choice of decoration, surely?

But after seeing what was in the basement of the women's prison … maybe not.

Okay, I'd get in and get out ASAP, then come back later tonight after I talked to Gideon Webb.

I went round the back and broke in.

 

Like the other four, the Thackeray Building was ankle-deep in a layer of mouldy dust — but downstairs was definitely fancier than the others. It had moulded ceilings, a sweeping staircase with carved ironwork and no iron bars on the boarded-up windows.

But for some reason it worried me more than even that crushingly awful prison. I scanned around. What was it that was creeping me out? Except for one wall, there was no water damage and there were no major pest infestations I could see, just stately rooms stripped bare and waiting to be occupied. That must
be what it was — the place looked like Hector could stroll in the door at any time.

It seeped Hector's ghostly presence.

I headed for the staircase, planning on working my way from the top down. As I went I swung my flashlight up and across the floor.

I jerked to a halt.

Right in front of me, set into the deep layer of mouldy dust, was a trail of fresh footprints. Or rather, two sets. One set going up the stairs and the same set coming back down.

I followed them up the stairs.

The footprints led to the top floor and into a large room … They carefully circled it. I checked again. No, they didn't just circle the room — they went around and around and around.

I followed them, trying to work out what the intruder had been after. When I came full circle, I realised that the wooden board had been crow-barred off a window then too casually replaced. I took out my tools and removed the board. It was hanging by two loose nails and fell to the floor.

The streetlight opposite shone through, blinding me for just a moment.

When my eyes adjusted, I stared through … and across the road.

The big bay window of my office was in plain view.

 

Then I heard it. A soft creeping sound.

There was someone else in here with me.

Adrenaline shot into my bloodstream like a fire hose on full. I swung around, ready for anything … and caught the outline of a big black figure moving towards me at a clipping pace. They had a flashlight.

‘Stop where you are!' I warned.

‘Kannon, it's me, darlin'.' That was Honeycutt's Louisiana drawl. He came forwards, into the part of the room illuminated by the streetlight.

‘Damn, Daniel.' I exhaled. ‘You just frightened the crap out of me. What are you doing here?' I asked, confused.

But I was very pleased to see him. Far too pleased …

‘I tried ringing,' was his irritated reply, ‘but you weren't answering.'

‘Yeah,' I said dryly. ‘I usually turn off my phactor while I'm breaking and entering. How did you know I was here anyway?'

Daniel gave me a searching look. ‘I've been trying to find you. I was about to go into the Zebulon when I saw you sprint around the corner of this building. I thought I'd see why you'd turned burglar.'

‘Why were you looking for me?' My tone warned him I wasn't going to listen to any lectures about breaking and entering.

‘I came to apologise.'

I must've gaped. ‘For what?'

Honeycutt grinned and inched a little closer. The soft light brought his archangel features into relief. ‘Well, darlin', I think you may be right about Hector Kershaw.'

‘Are you feeling okay?' My eyebrows felt like they'd hit my hairline. ‘What happened? This morning you were totally convinced that Coyote Jack and Jackson River were both playing me for a fool.'

He didn't like that. ‘Kannon, I didn't say that — and I'm not saying that I have all the answers … yet. But I found out something that puts Dry Gulch in a very different light.'

‘Yeah? Go on.' Now he had me.

‘You were right.' Honeycutt moved closer again.
‘There's something very wrong with the Kershaw family. After what I just found out, I wouldn't be surprised if Hector did commit Dry Gulch after all.'

Now I was almost steaming with excitement. ‘I told you!' I softly punched his big bicep.

‘Yeah, I know.' He shrugged.

‘So tell me!' I pleaded.

‘Okay, I've found out that the Kershaws were hiding at least one VERY big dirty secret, and —'

‘About Hector?' I snapped, unable to let him finish. I needed someone else on my side in this case. And I wanted it to be him.

‘No, not Hector.'

‘Who?' I asked, startled.

‘Lysander, his elder brother.'

Damn. ‘Why were you looking at Lysander Kershaw?' Sure Honeycutt was a military specialist — but still …

My disappointment must've showed.

‘Because I was checking into Hector Kershaw's background looking for a motive … Don't worry, Kannon, when you hear what I have to tell you … it could explain what happened at Dry Gulch.'

The shadows played off Daniel's archangel features. He was simmering with a mix of excitement and some other strong emotion I couldn't identify. Whatever he'd discovered, it'd convinced him that Hector could be guilty.

My pulse started racing. ‘Go on,' I urged.

‘I found out that Lysander wasn't a hero at all.' His words were curt, disgusted. ‘The Kershaw family must've been dancing for joy after that damned state funeral they organised for him. Lysander was about to be court-martialled — before he died in battle.'

I gaped. ‘Court martialled for what?'

‘Genocide.' Honeycutt gave me a serious stare. ‘What Lysander Kershaw did to the Native Americans he encountered … even in the Wild West … shocked his own commanding officers. If Lysander hadn't died there's no doubt he would've been executed.'

‘Oh my God! So Hector wasn't the only psychopath in the family …' I muttered. This opened a whole other Pandora's Box of explanations. ‘Let me guess, the hero's funeral was staged.'

‘Yes, Lysander's parents greased the palms of the military and the politicians — both of whom were very glad not to have to charge one of their own side with genocide.'

‘Of course they did …' I muttered. ‘Can't drag the family name through the mud! So how did you get on to the cover-up?'

‘You said Hector reacted strangely whenever his elder brother, the war hero, was mentioned — so I looked up Lysander's army record. There was enough material missing to make me curious — and then the further in I got, the more I realised there'd been a huge cover-up. Then I wanted to find out what was underneath …'

Honeycutt's expression showed he wasn't entirely sure he was glad he'd found the answer.

‘Anyway, to make any sense of what was missing, I pieced Lysander's record together from the beginning. He'd been in the army since he was fifteen — and every step of the way he'd become more violent and out of control.' Daniel shrugged. ‘But Lysander came from a powerful family and he was cunning enough to find ways to force his way up the ladder … At first, his commanders would commend his brutality as overzealous bravery, then later they'd transfer him as far away as possible. Over the years Lysander was
transferred to four different theatres of war against Native American nations — and in each one he left behind a string of atrocities.'

‘A string of atrocities,' I echoed. Honeycutt was right — this really put Dry Gulch in a very different light.

‘And Lysander got away with it too.' Honeycutt shot me a look of pure revulsion. ‘That was until 1864 … and Clay River. Lysander had been transferred yet again, and this time to take charge of an outpost in Colorado. Guess the boys at the top were trying to quarantine him.' He snorted. ‘Well, it backfired. Lysander must've decided he was going to show everyone.'

‘Oh no.' I wasn't sure I wanted to hear what was coming.

‘Lysander was approached by friendly Cheyenne, at Clay River, who wanted to cement a lasting peace with the US army …'

‘Oh God no.'

‘Kannon … the Cheyenne even flew a US flag over their village. Anyway, Lysander agreed to a peace treaty … but when the braves left the village he swept in with all his troops and slaughtered everyone he could find. He left one hundred and sixty dead bodies in that village, all murdered under their own US flag …'

Now Honeycutt was upset. ‘Darlin', most of them were women and children. Lysander blew them into mince meat with his artillery.'

I felt sick.

Honeycutt sadly shook his head. ‘Lysander had a pattern. When he had the opportunity, he always went straight for the women. He was guilty of genocide all right … there was no doubt about that. But he always went for the women first.'

 

We stood there in silence. Honeycutt watched my face with concern while I digested the news.

We'd both seen bad things, Honeycutt even more so than I … But unless you let it harden your soul, you can never entirely accept the iniquity of which humans are capable. We are angels and demons. We project our own likeness onto the skies like so many shadow puppets … and then call them supernatural beings. But really they're just the choices open to our own species. We are all capable of being both.

The two brothers had made the same choice.

Exhaustion rolled over me. I moved into his arms. Daniel gave a deep, heartfelt exhalation, as though he'd finally made it home. He gently rubbed his cheek on the top of my head.

It felt good, so good to be held …

I'd forgotten what it was like. It had been too long.

‘I shouldn't have doubted you, darlin'.' He whispered his soft Southern accent into my ear. ‘I guess I need to learn to …' He stopped.

‘To trust I can take care of myself?' I gazed up into his strong face. Honeycutt was used to parachuting into dire situations and saving everyone in sight.

But I didn't need saving; I needed something else altogether.

Daniel bent his head and brushed his full lips across mine. Asking …

I caught his mouth with mine, gently opening it.

He swirled his tongue in and along mine. It was satin slick.

He groaned into my mouth.

I felt the heat explode through me. My mouth became a molten river of pleasure.

I needed this. I needed him.

I ran my hands up his muscled arms and over his broad shoulders. God, he felt good. Strong, brave, my very own archangel. I wanted to purr and growl and bite him all at the same time.

His heavily muscled arms clamped on my back, crushing me into him.

I pushed away to suck in a deep breath; the scent of his arousal was musky, male.

I stretched the neck of his T-shirt so I could kiss my way down his so very male, thick neck. I drowned in the musky scent and it sent me over the edge.

I wanted to ravage him.

From the tension in his body, the impulse was entirely mutual.

I nipped his neck, demanding action.

Daniel growled. He hoisted me up off the floor in one smooth motion.

I wrapped my legs tight around his waist.

He swung me back against the wall next to the window with a bang.

The streetlight cast eerie shadows over our tangled bodies.

I dived into his mouth like it was a swimming pool full of honey.

He pulled away, only to grab the ends of my shirt and rip.

I wasn't wearing any underwear.

His gaze ran over my bare breasts and I shivered …

But he didn't touch.

‘Darlin', I'm not gonna be able to stop soon. But I don't want our first time to be here … not in this rat-infested hole.'

I groaned with frustration. ‘But I want you now!'

He grinned like a tiger, showing his sharp white teeth. ‘Then I aim to please, ma'am.' Daniel gave me his best Marine salute and dropped my legs down to the floor — all the better to rip my clothes off.

But he stopped, his gaze going to the window — the one the streetlight shone through. The one I'd pulled the board off.

‘What is it?' I groaned.

Daniel went up to the window and looked through. His face hardened.

Damn! I'd forgotten … I should have got us out of here and back to my office.

‘Kannon,' said Honeycutt in his best interrogation voice. ‘Why are you watching your own office?'