Page 24 of Close By (Kari Blackhorse #1)

Desert darkness fell differently than city darkness—complete, unfiltered, ancient. No streetlamps softened its edges, no ambient glow held it at bay.

Kari drove with her high beams cutting a tunnel through the void, following the GPS coordinates Tsosie had sent to her phone. The narrow BIA road snaked through scrub and stone, climbing gradually toward the silhouette of Antelope Mesa.

Red and blue emergency lights pulsed in the distance, their rhythmic strobing visible long before she could make out the vehicles themselves.

As she approached, Kari counted five tribal police units, Tsosie’s SUV, and—her hands tightened on the steering wheel—two FBI vehicles already parked in a loose semicircle.

She’d hoped she might have a head start on Daniels. Apparently not.

She parked behind Tsosie’s vehicle and grabbed her field kit from the back seat, slipping the slim metal case under her arm as she approached the perimeter tape.

Officers nodded in recognition as she ducked beneath the yellow barrier.

Dr. Hatathli’s medical examiner van was positioned closest to the scene, its rear doors open, equipment waiting.

Tsosie materialized from the darkness, his expression grim. “Glad you made it,” he said, falling into step beside her. “We’ve been here about forty minutes. Daniels showed up right after we secured the perimeter.”

“Of course he did,” Kari muttered. “What are we dealing with?”

“Male victim, late fifties to early sixties. Positioned on his back with arms extended.” Tsosie lowered his voice. “It’s Alan Mitchell.”

Kari stopped short. “The archaeologist?”

Tsosie nodded. “The same.”

Professor Alan Mitchell was infamous among Southwestern tribes—an archaeologist whose academic reputation was built on excavations that pushed the boundaries of both legality and ethics.

His papers on “previously undocumented burial practices” routinely featured artifacts that tribal authorities insisted should have remained undisturbed.

Three years ago, he’d fought a bitter public battle with the Navajo Nation over artifacts he claimed were “scientifically significant,” while the tribe maintained those artifacts were sacred items illegally removed from burial grounds.

“What was he doing out here?” Kari asked.

“No official research permits filed,” Tsosie replied. “His car contains excavation equipment—trowels, collection bags, soil screens. Coordinates marked on a topographical map that doesn’t align with any authorized dig site.”

“So he was grave-robbing,” Kari said flatly.

“That would be my assessment.” Tsosie’s voice betrayed no emotion, but the tightness around his eyes spoke volumes. “Came alone, after hours, to a site within tribal boundaries.”

They crested a small rise, and the scene came into full view.

Portable lights had been set up, their harsh brightness creating sharp shadows that made the landscape seem even more alien.

In the center of the illuminated area lay the body, surrounded by the now-familiar ceremonial arrangement—but with differences Kari noted immediately.

Mitchell lay on his back, arms extended to form a cross, palms facing upward.

His head was positioned toward the east, where the moon would rise later that night.

Around him, a perfect circle had been traced in white cornmeal, unbroken this time, with the stolen herbs placed at cardinal directions rather than haphazardly around the body.

A small fire had been lit near his feet—now extinguished, but its ashes still arranged in a ritual pattern.

Daniels stood nearby, dictating notes to Agent Keller, who typed rapidly on a tablet. He looked up as Kari approached, regarding her with detachment.

“Detective Blackhorse,” he said. “Glad you could join us.”

“Time of death?” Kari asked.

“Dr. Hatathli estimates between eight and nine PM,” Tsosie answered. “Jogger found the body at nine twelve. Called it in immediately.”

The realization sent a cold prickle down Kari’s spine. She’d been watching Livingston load boxes into his car when Mitchell was being killed miles away. Whatever the curator was involved in, it wasn’t this murder.

At least not directly.

“The ceremonial elements are different,” she said, circling the body at a respectful distance. “More precise. The directional alignments are correct this time. The herbs are placed at the proper cardinal points.”

“Which supports my profile,” Daniels interjected, moving to stand beside her. “Our killer is evolving, becoming more confident in their ritual expression with each murder.”

“Or they’ve been studying,” Kari said. “Learning from their mistakes.”

She crouched to examine the cornmeal circle, noting its perfect symmetry. “This isn’t evolution. This is research. Someone learning exactly how to perform these ceremonies correctly.”

Dr. Hatathli approached, snapping off her latex gloves. “Cause of death is exsanguination from the neck wound,” she said, gesturing to the gaping slash across Mitchell’s throat. “Single cut, left to right, severing the carotid artery. Death would have been relatively quick.”

“Could it have been done with a ceremonial knife?” Kari asked.

“Consistent with the wound pattern,” Dr. Hatathli said. “I’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“And there’s this,” Tsosie said, extending a small evidence bag.

Inside was a folded sheet of paper, blood spatter visible on one corner.

Kari turned it carefully through the plastic.

It was a printout of an archaeological permit application—Mitchell’s name and institutional affiliation clearly visible at the top, the project description detailing a survey of “potential burial sites dating to pre-contact period.”

“The application was denied by the Tribal Council last month,” Tsosie explained. “Mitchell appealed the decision but was turned down again.”

“So he decided to conduct his research anyway,” Kari said.

“And someone made sure he wouldn’t get the chance,” Daniels added. He gestured to the ceremonial elements. “This level of knowledge and accuracy narrows our suspect pool considerably.”

Kari bristled. “It clears Thomas Begay, who’s still in your custody.”

To her surprise, Daniels nodded. “I’ve already called in his release. Obviously, he couldn’t have committed this murder while being questioned at our facility.”

The admission came without apology, but Kari knew it was the closest Daniels would come to acknowledging his error. “The improved ceremonial elements don’t support your profile,” she said. “They suggest someone learning, not someone with inherent cultural knowledge.”

“Or someone disguising their proficiency in earlier murders to throw us off,” Daniels countered smoothly. “Creating a false narrative of an outsider with academic knowledge.”

The circular logic was maddening. Kari turned away before her frustration became visible, focusing instead on the practical aspects of the scene.

“Mitchell’s vehicle?” she asked Tsosie.

“University-issued Jeep,” he replied, pointing to a green Cherokee parked about fifty yards away. “Keys in the ignition, excavation equipment in the cargo area, along with several empty collection containers. He came prepared to remove artifacts.”

“And someone was waiting for him,” Kari mused, scanning the surrounding terrain.

The killer would have needed to observe Mitchell’s arrival and approach without being seen, overpower him quickly—Mitchell was slight but wiry, the build of someone who spent his career in the field—and then take time to arrange the ceremonial elements.

“Prints?” she asked.

“Processing now,” Tsosie said. “But the killer has been careful so far. I’m not optimistic.”

Daniels rejoined them, pocketing his phone. “I’ve arranged for a Bureau forensic team to process the scene and Mitchell’s vehicle. They’ll be here within the hour.”

“Our evidence techs are already working,” Kari said.

“And they’ll continue to do so, under Bureau supervision,” Daniels said with the false patience of someone explaining something to a child. “Three murders with ritualistic elements on or near federal land. This is now officially a serial investigation under FBI jurisdiction.”

The power play was as expected as it was frustrating. Kari knew that legally, Daniels was within his rights. That didn’t make his dismissive attitude any easier to stomach.

“We’ll need access to all findings,” she said, making it a statement rather than a request.

“Of course,” Daniels agreed easily. “In fact, I’d like both you and Detective Tsosie to join the task force I’m assembling. Your local knowledge remains valuable, even as we scale up the investigation.”

The diplomatic wording barely masked the reality: they were being absorbed into Daniels’s operation rather than partnering with it.

“Captain Yazzie will need to approve that arrangement,” Tsosie said, his tone neutral.

“Already done,” Daniels replied with a smile. “He agreed it’s the most efficient approach, given the Bureau’s resources.”

Kari turned her attention back to the body, trying to read what the scene could tell her directly, without Daniels’s interpretative filter.

Three victims now—a professor photographing sacred sites, an environmental activist documenting mining encroachment, and an archaeologist conducting unauthorized excavations.

Each one had crossed boundaries, physical or cultural.

Each one had been killed with escalating ceremonial precision.

And if Livingston was somehow connected, what was his boundary violation? What made him part of this pattern? The stolen artifacts created an obvious link, but was it direct involvement or something else?

“We need to canvass for witnesses,” she said. “Someone might have seen Mitchell arrive, or noticed another vehicle in the area.”

“Already underway,” Daniels said. “Agent Keller is interviewing the jogger who found the body.”

“I’ll join her,” Kari said, needing distance from both the body and Daniels’s suffocating presence.