Page 48 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)

A S THEY HIKED down the ridgeline, Nora was able to follow Skip’s and Edison’s footprints.

Judging from the deep impressions and frequent gouge marks left in the soft ground, it looked like they had been carrying heavy packs.

She wondered if this was evidence that they’d decided to spend a few extra days in the canyon.

She hoped so—she’d much prefer learning she and Corrie were on a wild-goose chase and they’d find Skip and his friend camped peacefully in the canyon.

About halfway down the far side, the trees along the ridgeline opened up, giving them a view northward upcanyon.

They paused a moment to take it in.

It was magnificent: sheer walls of sandstone striped in red and yellow, a lush bottomland of green grass, and groves of old cottonwoods.

Many narrow side canyons branched off at various points.

The last of the late-July sun flooded the canyon floor and gleamed off the scimitar curves of the river.

The wind was picking up, carrying the scent of flowers.

As they watched, the sun fell below the rim and a purple gloaming began to form in the valley.

“It’s like a little Eden down there,” said Corrie.

“Hard to believe this was a place of genocidal killing—by Native Americans, no less.”

“Human nature is the same everywhere,” said Corrie.

“Violent and tribal.”

“That’s a rather cynical take.”

“Think so? You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I’ve seen in my short time with the FBI. It’s not limited to modern society, either. Studying anthropology, you must’ve learned about a lot of the bad things humans do—right?”

“Maybe, but anthropologists aren’t supposed to judge. We’re trained to accept cultures as they are.”

Corrie gave a short laugh.

“We agents are just the opposite. We’re trained to judge. It’s our job to know right from wrong—or rather, know the difference between what’s legal and what’s criminal.”

Nora stopped to look at her companion.

This was—not for the first time—a more philosophical Corrie Swanson than she was used to.

“How’d you end up an FBI agent, anyway?” she asked.

“I guess I have a strong sense of justice—or rather, injustice.” Corrie hesitated.

“It started at home, really, with my mother. She was a mean drunk, and she treated me like shit. The local sheriff seemed more concerned with getting in his daily donut quotient than enforcing the law. It pissed me off, and growing up there was nothing I could do, really, but act the rebel… but, I realize now, the older I got, the more I wanted to do something about it. So I became an FBI agent, with the help of our mutual friend. Crime is simply a kind of injustice, imposed on innocent people.”

Nora listened, surprised.

“That’s an interesting way of looking at crime.”

“That’s the way our friend in New York sees it.”

They lapsed into silence as they descended into the beautiful valley.

The ridge ended in a lush, grassy benchland—and not a hundred yards distant was Skip and Edison’s camp.

Immediately, Nora saw something was wrong.

The tent was partially collapsed, its fabric torn.

Stuff lay strewn about.

The campsite had been trashed.

She was seized with a feeling of panic.

As they hurried closer, the full dimensions of the wreckage became clear.

The fire was dead. A broken tequila bottle lay on the ground.

The packs had been opened, their contents pulled out and strewn about, freeze-dried food packets lying around, clothing mingled willy-nilly with camping gear, a trowel, brushes, a compass, and even a pair of night-vision goggles.

But what horrified Nora most was the smashed musical instrument tangled up on the ground—Skip’s much-beloved ukulele in turquoise blue.

“Oh my God,” she said, horrified.

Corrie eased her sidearm from its holster and looked around.

Dusk had gathered in the canyon, twilight collecting around them.

Feeling sick with dread at what else she might find, Nora got on her hands and knees and stuck her head inside the slashed tent.

The sleeping bags were rucked up, but the tent was empty.

Then she saw a stain along the edge of the fly.

Quickly, she rubbed her fingers on it.

“Corrie, look at this. Blood.” Her insides seized up in dread.

Corrie joined her at the door.

“Oh shit,” she said.

“Okay, what we have here is a crime scene. Let’s not mess it up anymore—and talk about what we’re going to do.”

Nora tried to get her emotions under control.

“Okay, first thing,” Corrie said, “we call for backup.”

“Backup?” Nora said.

“How long will that take? It’s eight thirty. By the time we hike out of here, get in the car, and drive to where there’s reception, it’ll be after midnight. Corrie, we’ve got to do something now . Skip is out there somewhere, very possibly hurt!”

“I understand,” said Corrie.

“But, Nora, just think this through. We’ve no idea how many attackers there were, where they are, or why any of this happened. There are only two of us.”

“We can’t just abandon my brother!”

Corrie put both hands on her shoulders.

“Nora, we’re not going to abandon anybody. But if we just rush in impulsively—and fail, which is likely—nobody’s going to rescue them… or us.”

Nora was silent for a moment.

“We need to at least scope out the situation.”

“Okay. What do you propose?”

“I’m going to climb that hill over there and see what I can see.”

“All right. Maybe it’s not a bad idea to gather some intel. But carefully —and stay out of sight.”

Nora started at a jog toward the base of a small, rocky covered hill rising above a grove of cottonwoods, Corrie following.

They kept to the darker twilight under the cottonwood trees.

They soon reached the bottom of the hill and began to climb, keeping low among the scattered boulders.

In a few minutes Nora reached the top, crawling to the summit on her belly.

Corrie came up next to her.

The view from the top was unobstructed, and the sky was still light enough to see clearly.

Nora slipped off her daypack and removed the binoculars, then scanned the canyon to the south—slowly, methodically—then turned and glassed to the north.

Corrie now had her own binoculars out and was searching.

“There are people over there,” said Nora.

Corrie trained her binocs in the same direction.

“Oh Jesus.”

Perhaps a thousand yards distant, Nora could make out a group of about a dozen people on a peculiar-looking mesa top.

It had a gradual, south-facing slope that rose to a flat top, ending in a towering cliff on the north end.

Two tall tripods were sticking into the sky, one with something hanging from it.

It was hard to make out much detail, but it seemed the people were dressed in red, or maybe painted red, and wearing headdresses.

Several of them were parading around while bearing something on a litter.

And off to one side, Nora could see a figure dressed in normal clothes—a green shirt, jeans—sitting on the ground with his hands tied behind his back and watched over by a guard.

While his face was not visible, she knew right away it was Skip.

Her hands trembled and the image got shaky, then steadied as she forced her breath to stay under control.

“You see what’s hanging from that pole?” Corrie muttered.

Nora moved her field of vision from Skip to the poles.

The base of one pole was piled with wood—apparently, the makings of a bonfire.

But what was that hanging from the pole, ready to be burned?

Nora squinted, trying to make it out.

A carcass of some kind, skinned and hanging upside down.

But, she realized, not just a carcass—a body.

A human body.

As she stared, hands trembling again, she felt a lick of wind, and another, and then a gust. The body began to sway a little in the approaching storm.

And the wind brought to her, faintly, the whisper of chanting.

She turned to Corrie.

“You still think we go for backup? Nash’s dead already—and my brother’s next.”

Corrie said nothing for a moment, then spoke.

“Point made. We’ve got a gun. We’ve got a knife. Now we need a plan.”