Coyote (34 page)

River emerged from his apartment about 10 am, heading for his car. I'd spent the night in a side street, waiting in my Buick Riviera. After what I'd seen at the Dry Gulch Memorial, I was determined to find out what River was really up to.

He took off.

I followed.

River raced down Lombard Street, where it turned into Highway 101, as far over the speed limit as the traffic would stand. I dodged and weaved but kept four cars behind him. Soon the rust-coloured struts of the Golden Gate Bridge flickered overhead and the steel blue of San Francisco Bay glinted below.

We left San Francisco, heading north.

He hugged the inner bay, zipping past Sausalito, a pretty town with all its moored yachts. We'd entered Marin County — home of the rich and famous. River turned right off Highway 101 at San Rafael, reluctantly slowing. We burst out the other side of the township and into forested land.

He turned down a private road.

I slowed as I saw him pull through the gates of a Spanish mansion. It was a private estate. Imposing … awash with money. I pulled off the private road and hid my car behind some bushes. I watched River stand impatiently, waiting for his knock to be answered. His sports bag was over his shoulder. A white-coated manservant opened the door. They spoke. The servant tried to close the door but River pushed past; the servant followed, protesting.

I scanned around; the grounds seemed deserted. I went in, using bushes for cover, and entered the house, via an open window at the side. Inside was a classically Spanish interior.

I crept forwards, straining to hear River's voice. Instead I heard the clip-clop of hurrying footsteps. I dived into the nearest room and watched the manservant flash past. He looked frightened.

Then I heard River's angry voice … he was in the next room.

I stood in an old-fashioned study, all wooden panels, the walls lined with books and memorabilia. There was a door through to the next room. It was ajar.

I crept up to it.

River was arguing with a woman. She was in her thirties at least, maybe older. She had dark eyes and hair, a hooked beak of a nose and a cultured, precise voice that was edged with the knowledge that she didn't have to take crap from anyone.

‘Look, Mr River, you can't just show up without an appointment and start making demands. This is a private estate — not a public library. Go home and call my lawyer with your request. Then I'll consider —'

‘Ms de Vivar, I have to know now, today! This is a very serious matter. If you don't know where it is …
then at least allow me to search for it. Just show me where you keep his personal belongings and I'll —'

‘I certainly will not! Rodrigo de Vivar's possessions are no one's business but his family's. You can't just burst in here and —'

‘But I have to find Hector Kershaw's diary. It is absolutely imperative!'

She cut in angrily, ‘And just why is this so serious?'

‘My ancestor, Coyote Jack, was falsely accused and persecuted because of the Dry Gulch massacre. I know that Hector Kershaw — the only survivor — wrote the truth of the matter in his diary. I also have very strong reason to believe that his business partner … your ancestor Rodrigo Juan de Vivar … found that same diary after Hector disappeared.'

Silence.

My jaw dropped open an atom's breadth.

‘That is quite an allegation, Mr River.'

‘Please call me Jackson.'

‘Well, I want proof, Jackson, before I listen to anything else,' she said defensively.

River unzipped the sports bag lying at his feet. He took out a book. I recognised the blue spine — it was the same one he'd been studying in his office.

‘Before I show you proof, Amparo, are you aware that Seymour Kershaw hired Kannon Dupree, the new Time Investigator, to go back to 1867 and search for Hector's diary?'

Amparo de Vivar shook her dark head.

‘I spoke to Kannon the day she came back from examining the Dry Gulch crime scene. She said that the man who committed that atrocity was wearing US cavalry boots. The killer had left a boot track in his victim's congealing blood at the site.' He paused. ‘Kannon also knew the identity of the real killer.'

‘The real killer?' Amparo's interest was roused. ‘Who was it?'

‘Hector Kershaw.'

‘That's impossible!' she spat. ‘How dare you? Rodrigo de Vivar was a kind-hearted, generous man! He'd never have done business with a sadistic killer —'

‘I can prove that Rodrigo found out about Hector's crime.'

‘How?' she scoffed.

‘Do you admit that Rodrigo designed the Dry Gulch Memorial outside the de Vivar Library at Berkeley?'

‘What?' Amparo was even angrier at the sidetrack. ‘Yes, of course he did. It's well known that he sketched the figures himself, a loving tribute to his dear friend.'

‘Then there is no doubt Rodrigo de Vivar saw the diary.' River opened the book he'd been studying last night.

I squinted in surprise. It was a text on US military uniforms …

River showed Amparo a page devoted to boots. He tapped a set. ‘These are the boots worn by US cavalry officers in the 1860s. And these are the boots worn by the killer at Dry Gulch.' He paused to allow her to take it in. ‘Kannon Dupree found these same boots in Hector's hotel room … the soles stained with blood.'

‘But Hector was a banker …'

River pulled out the same folder of photographs he'd been sifting through in his office last night. The same photos he'd searched with a magnifying glass.

‘See these photos.' He waved them under Amparo's beak of a nose. ‘They are all the photos taken of Hector in old San Francisco.' He pulled out his magnifying glass. ‘Look at his feet,' River demanded.

Amparo complied, shifting from photo to photo in perplexed worry. ‘But he only wears the same snakeskin boots.' She shoved them back at him, in anger. ‘You're an idiot. None of them remotely match the cavalry boots.'

He smiled. ‘That's right.'

Amparo's expression said she thought she was dealing with a crazy person.

‘When Kannon first told me about the cavalry boots, it rang a bell,' mused River. ‘But I couldn't work out why. It drove me crazy. I went through every photo I could find of Hector … but found nothing.'

‘But surely that proves my point —'

‘Now look at this one.' River handed Amparo a close-up photo of the Dry Gulch Memorial … of the bronze statue of Hector kneeling next to the dying Lucretia. ‘Is this the memorial your ancestor designed?'

‘Yes, of course it is,' stuttered Amparo in outrage.

‘Look at Hector's right foot,' ordered River.

In kneeling, Hector's pants leg was pulled halfway up his calf.

Amparo gasped. Hector was wearing cavalry boots … and there was a US military insignia stamped at the top.

‘But how …?' Amparo dropped into speechlessness.

‘There's only one way this could happen. You say your ancestor was a good man — that he wouldn't have been partners with such a killer — and I believe that … That means Rodrigo de Vivar must've found the diary after Hector disappeared and read it.'

 

So it was Hector after all!

I quietly sagged against the door in relief …

And vindication. I hadn't been wrong to trust my instincts — Hector Kershaw
was
the butcher of Dry Gulch. Which meant I'd been right to trust River and Coyote Jack.

But how did all the rest of it fit together?

The key to everything still lay in Hector's diary. It must somehow bring all these bizarre strands together. It had to!

And the diary could be in this house …

In the next room River demanded immediate access to Rodrigo de Vivar's personal possessions. Amparo de Vivar shrilly replied by demanding that River exit her property before she called the county sheriff's office. But Amparo was hiding something — I could just smell it. She strode over to an antique table. There was a phone sitting on it. She began to dial.

Adrenaline flooded my brain. I'd lose my licence if I was caught breaking and entering … But I wasn't leaving without that bloody diary.

I looked around the old study … I licked my lips. I had little time.

Amparo and her family obviously venerated de Vivar and I was betting he built this house. The study held three bookshelves. I checked the contents — all of them nineteenth-century works. The memorabilia was all old, antique.

I was also betting this'd been Rodrigo's own study — and that, like any good businessman of his time, he'd kept a safe …

I started tapping the bookshelves.

I touched one and felt an inch of give. I checked the other end of the shelf — a book concealed a hinge. I pressed and the shelf swung forwards … behind was an antique safe. It had a rudimentary combination lock.

I leant in and began to crack it.

Police sirens roared down the road to the de Vivar estate …

The safe door swung open.

There was an old letter lying on top of a long, flattish box.

The old letter was addressed in ink, in flowing cursive handwriting: ‘To whomever finds Kershaw's body'. I frowned, but put it aside.

I grabbed the box.

I scowled. Damn. It was too heavy to be the diary.

I opened it anyway.

And gaped …

It was Isabella's Cross.

 

Amparo was on the front doorstep, waiting for the sheriff's deputies as they exited their cars.

I came up behind her.

She jerked around, startled.

‘I'm Kannon Dupree.' I showed her my licence. ‘And if you don't want the Spanish government to know what missing piece of their national treasure you have hidden in Rodrigo's old safe, then I suggest you tell these nice deputies that it was all a misunderstanding and send them on their way.'

Amparo took a faltering step back from me as a burly, red-haired deputy and his partner strode towards us.

‘Miss de Vivar …'

Amparo pulled herself together and, after sending me a scowl full of loathing, said, ‘My apologies, Deputy. There's been a mistake.'

She soothed their ruffled feathers and they left.

Amparo followed me through to Rodrigo's study.

River stood as we passed. ‘Kannon, what are you doing here?'

When we didn't even pause, he pursued us into de Vivar's study.

I stood in front of the half-closed safe.

Amparo tried to block me from reaching in. ‘How dare you … and this man … break into my family's home in this way.'

‘Save it, Amparo,' I replied. ‘There's more at stake here than your hidalgo pride. Last night my partner was savagely attacked because of something to do with the Kershaw case. Furthermore, I believe the same person broke into the de Vivar Library and killed a librarian who got in their way.' I pushed my face down to hers. ‘Amparo, if they even get a hint of all your family secrets — you could be next!'

She shut up, her face white.

‘What's going on, Kannon? What are you talking about?' asked River, confused.

‘My partner, Des Carmichael, is in hospital because someone attacked him at Mission Dolores. I believe he was piecing together how Isabella's Cross fits into the Hector Kershaw case.'

‘Isabella's Cross?' blurted River. ‘That's crazy — that's just an old Mexican legend.'

I didn't waste time replying. I just reached over Amparo's shoulder and pulled out the box. I opened it so we could all see. The light streaming through the window made the great ankh sparkle … It seemed as though Isabella's Cross emitted a golden haze.

River cursed softly. ‘How can it be?'

‘Amparo,' I said. ‘Exactly how did you acquire the cross?'

‘Rodrigo bought it,' she said, her pride riled. ‘I have the papers to prove the sale was legal —'

‘From who?'

‘Hector Kershaw.'

‘Are you certain of that?' I demanded.

‘That's how he met Hector,' said Amparo simply. ‘When Rodrigo first came to San Francisco, Kershaw sold him the cross. Kershaw was low on funds because of a real-estate project he was trying to finish and —'

‘Hector Kershaw had Isabella's Cross?' River stared at her in shock. ‘But how did
he
get it?'

‘Hector told Rodrigo he'd spent years on the trail of the cross, that he'd first heard about it from some Catholic priest in … oh, I forget where … But over the years Hector had picked up enough clues to go to Santa Fe and then …' She wrinkled her brow. ‘I don't remember what exactly happened there … what clue he found … but apparently Hector bragged to Rodrigo about being the only person who was clever enough to decipher all the clues.'

I nodded. Yeah, that sounded right. Hector, the psychopath, wore all his masks well … but underneath he'd be just itching to reveal how clever he was!

‘Anyway,' continued Amparo, ‘whatever happened in Santa Fe, Hector used it to work out that the cross was actually hidden on —'

‘On Spruce Tree Mesa,' I said.

They both stared at me in surprise.

‘Yes,' said Amparo. ‘That's right.'

‘So that's it,' I muttered aloud. ‘Hector Kershaw went to Santa Fe on the trail of Isabella's Cross. That's why that bastard was really there.'

Des was wrong. And I'd been wrong too. It wasn't El Chacal after all. But together our reasoning had been right.

‘I know why Hector Kershaw committed Dry Gulch.' I eyed them both. ‘Hector staged the Dry Gulch massacre and murdered the governor to frame Coyote Jack. He wanted the cavalry to force Coyote
Jack off Spruce Tree Mesa. Then Hector was able to steal Isabella's Cross, which was hidden there. Or rather,' I said, remembering the trail of moccasins leading out of the Great Kiva, ‘so his hired flunky, Ernesto, could steal it for him.'