Coyote Read Free Page B

top. I looked like a fifteen-year-old who worked out. The caption said ‘Malibu Barbie plays at being a private eye’. The piece implied all I did was lie on the beach every day.
    The end result was the only people serious enough — and wealthy enough — to hire a time-travelling detective went to Klaasen and Melnick. They already had cases backed up for the next two years.
    And ‘the kid’ was out of work.
    â€˜Come on, Kannon.’ The microphones pushed into my face insistently. ‘What’s your first case?’
    Jackson River burst through the crowd to grab the microphone stuck right to my lips. ‘I have proof,’ he boomed into it, ‘that my ancestor, Coyote Jack, did not commit the Dry Gulch massacre!’
    The media’s collective jaw dropped.
    â€˜And the proof is in Hector Kershaw’s diary!’ he declared.
    All the cameras swung towards River.
    â€˜Hector Kershaw left a diary?’ replied someone.
    â€˜The only survivor of the Dry Gulch massacre left a diary?’ asked another.
    The media erupted into a molten frenzy of questions.
    River knew exactly what he was doing. He played them off each other like a professional.
    I edged away.
    This was exactly the kind of scandal that made Time Investigators so interesting in the first place.
    Deep, dark secrets revealed … ancient mysteries uncovered.

3
THE TRAP
    Once Professor Wauhope realised the media weren’t at all interested in his version of the Dry Gulch massacre, he demanded that security escort River out of the building. River complied and the journos and cameramen went with him, sticking like flies to a particularly delicious syrup. Klaasen and Melnick trailed after them, their expressions resembling those of petulant twins who’d been cheated out of their birthday party.
    Wanting to avoid any more potentially humiliating questions from the media, I decided to follow Wauhope and his audience back inside the lecture theatre. I’d wait ten minutes and then head back to my office.
    Professor Wauhope stamped up the steps to the front podium, bitter at having his spotlight stolen. ‘We’ve wasted enough time on Coyote Jack,’ he snapped. ‘I want to get back to the hero of San Francisco, Hector Kershaw.’ He glanced up at the screen, still filled by the horrific ink drawing of DryGulch. ‘Now, as I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted —’
    Suddenly the lights cut out.
    There was a heavy groan from the audience, then tsking. No one was happy about how today had gone.
    â€˜Oh, what now!’ spat Wauhope in fury.
    I scanned around but it was pitch black in the enclosed theatre. It was an eerie feeling. I knew everyone was still there, but it felt as though they’d all just magically disappeared. Surely the emergency lights would kick in soon?
    Everyone was silent, as though in shock.
    Then I heard it. A strange rasping sound. At the very back of the lecture theatre.
    I turned my head a fraction to the right, trying to put an image to the sound. Was that gas escaping? I gave myself a little mental slap. You’re being paranoid, girl. Not every place you go automatically explodes into mayhem.
    But there it was again … that same noise.
    I turned a little further.
    No. That wasn’t escaping gas. It was too irregular. But it seemed to have a kind of rhythm too … and there was more than one source.
    I frowned. It sounded more like hissing maracas.
    A whole orchestra of them.
    Whatever it was, listening to it here in the dark sent an involuntary shiver up my spine. I know trouble when I hear it. I turned completely around in my seat, trying to get a better bead on the source.
    It was coming from the exit.
    â€˜What’s that noise?’ demanded Wauhope, outraged at yet another interruption. ‘What’s going on back there?’ The pompous tone promised swift retribution.
    No one answered.
    After all the dramas at