Page 16 of Close By (Kari Blackhorse #1)

Some wounds never truly heal. They simply scab over, becoming part of who we are—tender spots we learn to protect, pain we accommodate until it feels almost normal.

She smiled at her partner’s subtle sabotage before returning to the task at hand.

The business card from Harrington’s office felt strangely heavy in her jacket pocket.

Her father’s name, embossed in professional typography: Dr. James Blackhorse, Cultural Anthropology Division, Museum of Northern Arizona.

Kari had rehearsed this conversation during the drive—professional, detached, focused solely on the case.

She would be Detective Blackhorse, not a daughter with unresolved grievances.

The problem was, her father had always seen through such pretenses, identifying the emotional currents beneath her carefully constructed facades with the same precision he’d once applied to behavioral analysis at crime scenes.

“Just get it over with,” she muttered to herself, finally exiting the vehicle.

The Anthropology Building was newer than many on campus, all sustainable materials and natural lighting.

Inside, the hallways smelled of fresh carpet and coffee, a world away from the utilitarian tribal police station.

Display cases lined the corridors, showcasing artifacts with meticulous labels explaining their cultural significance.

Her father’s office wasn’t hard to find—his name on a door at the end of a quiet hallway, alongside a small plaque noting his position as Research Director. Kari paused, straightened her shoulders, and knocked with more confidence than she felt.

“It’s open,” called the familiar voice.

James Blackhorse sat behind a desk of polished hardwood, surrounded by bookshelves containing equal parts academic texts and tribal artifacts.

At sixty-five, he remained fit, his silver hair neatly trimmed, his button-down shirt pressed as precisely as his FBI days had demanded.

Time had deepened the lines around his eyes but hadn’t diminished the intensity of his gaze—the same penetrating blue that had interrogated her childhood excuses and adolescent rebellions.

His expression shifted from concentration to surprise as he registered her presence, then settled into something more cautious.

“Kari,” he said, removing his reading glasses. “I didn’t think I’d see you.”

“Hello, Dad,” she replied, closing the door behind her. Their first face-to-face encounter since Anna’s funeral held all the awkwardness she’d anticipated.

“About your mother,” he said, standing with the military posture he’d never abandoned. “I’ve been meaning to call to see how you’re settling in at her place.”

“It’s not about Mom,” Kari said, maintaining formal distance. “It’s about Mark Harrington.”

He nodded. “Paul Daniels mentioned he’s working the case with you.”

The casual reference to his former partner created an immediate tension. “You’ve spoken with Paul?”

“He called yesterday,” her father said, gesturing for her to take a seat. “We’ve stayed in touch since my retirement. Old Bureau habits.”

Kari sat, noting how her father returned to his chair only after she’d settled—a courteous gesture that exaggerated the emotional distance between them. “Harrington consulted with you about his research. I assume that’s what your text referred to.”

“Yes, about three months ago.” He turned to his computer, typing briefly. “I have the correspondence here. He was documenting geological formations that corresponded with sacred sites—specifically, places mentioned in some of the more obscure emergence stories.”

“What exactly was he looking for?” Kari asked, slipping into investigative mode.

“Patterns,” her father replied, scanning his screen.

“He believed certain geological features marked important boundaries in Navajo cosmology—places where the physical world supposedly intersected with other realms. His theory was that early Diné recognized these natural formations as spiritually significant because of their unusual mineral composition.”

“Science explaining spirituality,” Kari observed.

A hint of a smile. “You say that like your mother would.”

The tone, not the comparison itself, stung. “Harrington went to a specific formation during the full moon, against explicit warnings from his guide. Why was that location so important to him?”

Her father typed again, then turned the monitor so she could see.

On screen was a map marked with red dots, each labeled with a geological designation and a Navajo name.

“He was documenting sites along what he called the ‘emergence path’—locations mentioned in traditional stories about the Diné’s journey through the four worlds. ”

“And Monster’s Hand was one of these sites?”

“Yé’iitsoh Bitsilí,” her father corrected automatically, using the Navajo name.

“Yes. According to some versions of the stories—the ones not typically shared with outsiders—it marks a boundary where ancient beings were confined during the transition between worlds. Your grandmother would call them the enemies of the Holy People—creatures that existed before humans, some of which were imprisoned rather than destroyed.”

He leaned back, studying her reaction. “I’m surprised you’re asking me about this. Ruth would know these stories better than any academic source.”

“Ruth’s business card wasn’t found in the victim’s pocket,” Kari said. “Yours was. And you did text me.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, all I can tell you is what I’ve already shared.”

“I thought you said you had ‘important’ info.” Maybe all he really wanted was to see her, she reflected. “Did you share this with Paul?”

He blinked. “No. When Paul and I talked, he didn’t have many specifics about the case.”

That tracked. Daniels had joined the investigation only this morning.

Kari redirected the conversation. “I need to understand how someone could know enough about Navajo ceremonies to attempt them, but not enough to get them right.”

Her father considered this, his analyst’s mind visibly shifting gears. “Are we talking about Harrington’s killer?”

“There’s been a second murder,” Kari said, knowing the information would spread soon anyway. “Similar ceremonial elements, similarly incorrect.”

“I see.” Her father steepled his fingers, a gesture so familiar it sent Kari back to childhood dinner tables, where cases were discussed in careful euphemisms. “There are several possibilities. Museums and universities hold considerable documentation of ceremonies—some published, some restricted. Then there are amateur anthropologists, New Age spiritual seekers, even well-meaning cultural appreciation groups.”

“I need something more specific,” Kari pressed. “Harrington died during the full moon at a site associated with ancient beings. A second victim died near the same area early this morning. Both were arranged with ceremonial elements that suggest someone trying to contain something dangerous.”

Her father’s eyebrows rose. “Contain something?”

“That’s how Natoni Begay described it—the guide who refused to take Harrington to the site.”

“Natoni Begay,” her father repeated thoughtfully. “I know of him. His grandfather is a respected healer. The family maintains many of the older traditions.”

“Do you know someone who specializes in these protective ceremonies?” Kari asked. “Someone who might recognize the specific mistakes in the arrangements?”

“Dr. Elaine Redford,” her father said without hesitation.

“She’s in this department, specializes in Navajo ceremonial practices.

Has special permission from the Tribal Council to document certain rituals for preservation purposes.

” He checked his watch. “She should be in her office now—two doors down.”

“I’ll need to speak with her.”

“I’ll introduce you,” her father offered, standing.

“That’s not necessary,” Kari said, perhaps too quickly.

Something tightened in her father’s expression—hurt, quickly masked. “It would help establish credibility. Elaine is cautious about discussing sensitive cultural knowledge.”

Kari relented with a nod, recognizing the professional logic. As they prepared to leave, her eyes fell on a framed photograph on his desk that hadn’t been there during her last visit—her father with a woman perhaps fifteen years his junior, both smiling against the backdrop of Oak Creek Canyon.

Linda, his wife of three years.

“She’d like to meet with you,” her father said, his voice holding a quality she rarely heard from him—uncertainty.

“I know you two have met before, but you’re practically strangers.

She’d like to change that, and I think it’s a good idea.

” He paused as if suddenly coming up with an idea, though Kari suspected it was an act.

“How about dinner? When your case is resolved, I mean.”

“Maybe,” she said noncommittally. Then, sensing he was about to say more, she plunged ahead. “Speaking of the case, Daniels is treating it as serial killings by a traditional Navajo targeting outsiders who disrespect sacred sites.”

There was a flicker of disappointment in her father’s face. It passed quickly—he wasn’t the type of person to wear his emotions on his sleeve. “That’s a reasonable profile based on initial evidence.”

“It’s wrong,” Kari said flatly. “The ceremonial elements are incorrect in ways no traditional practitioner would mistake. It’s someone with academic knowledge trying to mimic ceremonies they’ve studied but never participated in.”

Her father assessed her with the evaluative gaze she remembered from childhood. “Paul has extensive experience with ritualistic crime scenes. His assessment carries significant weight.”

“So my assessment carries none?” The question emerged sharper than intended.

“That’s not what I said.” Her father’s tone remained measured. “But you need to consider the possibility that your connection to Navajo culture is influencing your interpretation.”

“And Daniels’s complete lack of understanding of that culture isn’t influencing his?” Kari countered.

“Paul approaches evidence objectively.”

“He approaches evidence with twenty-five years of FBI methodology that dismisses indigenous knowledge as superstition,” Kari said, struggling to maintain her professional composure. “Just like you taught him to.”

Her father’s expression hardened. “That’s unfair, Kari. Both to Paul and to me.”

“Is it? He practically quoted you in today’s briefing—talking about not letting ‘cultural superstitions’ cloud judgment.”

“Evidence-based investigation requires setting aside personal beliefs,” her father said, using the same tone he’d employed when explaining complex concepts to her as a child. “It’s not about dismissing culture, but about maintaining objectivity.”

“There’s nothing objective about ignoring culturally significant evidence because it doesn’t fit standard FBI profiling,” Kari said. “The ceremonial mistakes are evidence, Dad. They tell us something crucial about our killer.”

Her father studied her for a long moment. “You’ve changed since Phoenix,” he said finally. “Your mother would be pleased.”

The observation caught Kari off guard. Before she could respond, her father continued.

“For what it’s worth, I think both approaches have merit. The killer could be an outsider, as you suggest. Or they could be someone with a traditional background who deliberately alters ceremonies for personal reasons—which would align with Paul’s profile.”

It was as close to support as she was likely to get. Kari nodded, accepting the partial validation.

“I need to see Dr. Redford,” she said, rising. “And I need copies of all correspondence between you and Harrington.”

“Of course,” her father agreed, his expression troubled. “Kari, whatever you’re pursuing… be careful. These places have histories that go beyond archaeological interest.”

“You sound like Ruth,” Kari observed, surprised.

A faint smile crossed his features. “Your grandmother and I disagree on many things, but not on the importance of respecting boundaries. Some are there for good reasons, whether those reasons are spiritual or practical.”

He opened the office door and held it for her. “Let me introduce you to Elaine. She’s brilliant, if a bit formal. I think you’ll find her insights valuable.”

As they walked down the corridor, Kari realized they’d fallen into step together, matching each other’s pace as they had on countless walks during her childhood.

The familiarity was both comforting and painful—a reminder of connections that could never be fully severed, even when stretched thin by time and circumstance.

Whatever other revelations awaited with Dr. Redford, Kari had already discovered something she hadn’t expected: that the boundary between her professional and personal lives was as permeable as the mystical boundaries of the sites where the victims had been killed.

And crossing either one came with consequences she was only beginning to understand.