Page 13 of Close By (Kari Blackhorse #1)

The morning sun had climbed higher by the time they reached Red Rock Canyon, its rays illuminating the sandstone in vibrant hues of crimson and burnt orange. Under different circumstances, Kari might have appreciated the stark beauty.

Today, the shadows between the rocks only suggested places where evidence—or worse—might be concealed.

Officer Nez’s patrol vehicle was parked at the trailhead, along with an ambulance and two other tribal police units. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, marking a perimeter that extended from the parking area into the rocky terrain beyond.

“Stay sharp,” Kari told Tsosie as they exited the SUV. “We need to establish if this connects to Harrington before Daniels tries to claim jurisdiction.”

Tsosie nodded, his expression grim. “If it’s the same killer, the ceremonial elements will tell us.”

Daniels pulled up behind them in his Bureau-issued SUV. He’d followed them at a distance during the drive, close enough to maintain visual contact but far enough to suggest independence. Even his driving style broadcast his intentions—parallel but separate, ready to take the lead when necessary.

As he approached, Kari noted the shift in his demeanor—the friendly “Uncle Paul” persona completely subsumed by Agent Daniels, senior FBI field officer. He’d even donned sunglasses, completing the federal agent stereotype.

“I’ll need to contact the Flagstaff field office if this is connected to Harrington,” he said without preamble. “Serial killings on tribal land will require additional resources.”

“Let’s establish the facts first,” Kari replied, keeping her tone professional. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet.”

Officer Nez met them at the crime scene tape, his normally stoic expression strained. “Detectives. Agent,” he acknowledged with a nod to Daniels. “Victim’s about a quarter mile up the trail. Medical examiner’s already on site.”

“Hikers still here?” Kari asked as they ducked under the tape.

“Couple from Minnesota, first time in Arizona. They’re pretty shaken up.

” Nez gestured toward the ambulance, where a middle-aged couple sat on the rear bumper, blankets around their shoulders despite the warming day.

“Gave their statements, but not much help. They were just following a marked trail when they found her.”

“Who made the ID?” Tsosie asked.

“I did,” Nez said. “Wallet was in her jacket pocket. Rachel Delgado, forty-three, Las Cruces address. Business cards identify her as an environmental consultant with the Southwest Justice Coalition.”

“Environmental activist,” Daniels said, his tone suggesting a profile already forming in his mind. “On the border of reservation land and a mining claim. Interesting.”

Kari kept her focus on Nez. “Any sign of the killer?”

“None that I could see, but I secured the scene and waited for you before doing a thorough sweep.” Nez hesitated. “There’s something else. Her backpack was found about fifty yards from the body, contents scattered. Looks like she was collecting soil samples and taking photographs.”

“Building a case against the mining company,” Tsosie suggested.

“Let’s see the body,” Kari said.

Nez led them along a narrow trail that wound between rock formations.

The terrain grew more rugged as they progressed, requiring careful footing on loose shale.

Kari noted details automatically—good visibility in all directions, difficult approach without being seen, multiple escape routes for someone who knew the landscape.

Not an ideal location for an ambush unless the killer knew the victim’s intended route.

The small clearing where Rachel Delgado lay came into view suddenly, framed by two weathered sandstone outcroppings. Dr. Susan Hatathli knelt beside the body, her medical examiner’s kit open nearby. She looked up as they approached, nodding in silent greeting.

Kari took in the scene with practiced detachment.

The victim lay on her back, arms at her sides, palms up—similar to Harrington but not identical.

She wore hiking clothes—cargo pants, sturdy boots, a light jacket now darkened with dried blood.

Her throat had been cut with a single deep slash, the wound gaping beneath the desert sun.

But it was the arrangement that captured Kari’s attention.

Small bundles of herbs had been placed at the woman’s head, feet, and hands—sage, cedar, and globemallow.

A circle of what appeared to be cornmeal surrounded the body, interrupted in four places by small objects Kari couldn’t immediately identify.

“Same signature,” Tsosie said quietly, crouching to examine the herbs without touching them.

“Similar,” Kari corrected. “The positioning is slightly different. Harrington was facing east. She’s facing north.”

“The herbs are placed differently too,” Tsosie added.

Dr. Hatathli stood, pulling off her latex gloves. “Cause of death appears to be exsanguination from the neck wound. Single cut, left to right, consistent with a right-handed attacker. Sharp blade, possibly a hunting knife.”

“Very different from the way Harrington was killed,” Kari said.

Dr. Hatathli nodded. “His cause of death was cervical fracture after significant trauma. This is cleaner, more efficient—without any signs of the fury with which Harrington was attacked. This one’s more recent, too.

Based on body temperature and lividity, I’d estimate she’s only been dead a few hours. ”

“So sometime early this morning,” Kari said, scanning the surroundings.

The scattered equipment drew her attention—a backpack with collection vials spilled nearby, a broken camera at the base of a rock formation about twenty yards away.

An oak walking stick lay on the ground, partially covered in sand.

“She was running from something,” Tsosie observed, following Kari’s gaze. “Dropped her gear while fleeing.”

Daniels had been circling the scene, taking photos with his phone. He rejoined them, his expression thoughtful. “Two killings in the same general area within days of each other. Different causes of death but similar ritual elements. We’re looking at a serial offender with a ceremonial fixation.”

Kari registered his use of “we” but didn’t comment on it. “The ceremonial elements are wrong,” she said instead. “Inconsistent with authentic practices.”

“Wrong how?” Daniels asked, his attention sharpening.

Kari glanced at Tsosie, a silent question passing between them: how much to share? She suspected Daniels would use any information they gave him to assert federal control, but withholding details could hinder the investigation.

Tsosie gave a slight nod, deferring to her judgment.

“The placement of herbs isn’t consistent with any traditional Navajo ceremony,” she said, keeping her explanation minimal. “The directional orientation is incorrect for protective purposes, and the use of cornmeal in this pattern doesn’t align with blessing ceremonies.”

“The killer is mimicking ceremonies they’ve studied but don’t truly understand,” Tsosie added.

Daniels considered this. “So we’re looking for someone with knowledge of Navajo ceremonies but not practical experience. That narrows the field considerably.”

“It’s one possibility,” Kari said, not wanting to commit to any theory yet.

She turned her attention to the scattered equipment, moving carefully to avoid disturbing potential evidence.

The broken camera was high-end, its lens cracked from impact with the rocks.

Nearby lay the bag it had likely been carried in, along with a soil sampling kit similar to what the tribe’s environmental officers used when testing for contamination.

Something glinted beneath a juniper bush a few feet away. Kari approached, spotting a smartphone in a heavy-duty protective case.

“Got a phone,” she called, pulling on latex gloves before retrieving it.

The screen was intact, protected by both the case and the soft soil it had landed on. Kari pressed the power button, relieved when it lit up. A red recording indicator flashed in the corner of the screen.

“It’s still recording,” she said, stopping the audio file that had been running for hours. The battery showed 12% remaining—the phone’s rugged case must have included an extended battery.

“Play it,” Daniels said, moving closer.

Kari navigated to the audio files, finding one that had started at 5:43 AM that morning and run until she’d just stopped it. She scrolled back, looking for the final moments of recorded sound before the phone had been dropped or lost.

She pressed play, and Rachel Delgado’s voice filled the clearing:

“I’m an environmental consultant conducting legal soil sampling. My location and activities have been logged with my office.”

A pause, then: “Good morning. Beautiful sunrise coming.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Are you from around here?”

The tension in her voice was subtle but unmistakable to Kari’s trained ear. Rachel had been speaking to someone who made her uneasy.

“I should get going. My colleagues are expecting me back by seven.”

A few seconds of silence followed, then Rachel’s voice again, now clearly concerned: “Are you okay?”

What came next sent a chill through Kari despite the morning heat—a sound that didn’t translate well through the phone’s speaker but registered as a low, guttural noise, neither speech nor animal call but something unsettlingly between.

Then chaos—the sound of rapid movement, something striking something else with a solid impact, Rachel’s quickened breathing as she ran, the rhythmic sound of her footfalls on rocky terrain.

Behind her, that same guttural sound, now with a quality that Kari could only describe as anger.

The recording captured several more seconds of desperate flight—Rachel’s labored breathing, the slip and slide of boots on loose stone, a muttered curse as she stumbled. Then a clatter as the phone apparently fell, followed by receding footsteps and one final, distant vocalization from the pursuer.