Page 25 of Close By (Kari Blackhorse #1)

She found Agent Keller—the tall blonde woman who’d accompanied Daniels earlier—speaking with a young Navajo man in running clothes, his expression still shocked.

Kari introduced herself and observed as Keller continued the interview, taking note of the agent’s technique—professional but cold, focused on facts rather than the witness’s obvious distress.

“I always run this trail before sunset,” the young man was saying. “I’m training for a marathon next month. I noticed the car first—it was parked where nobody usually stops. Then I saw the lights.”

“Lights?” Kari asked.

“Like a small fire. I thought maybe someone was camping illegally.” He swallowed hard. “I went to check, tell them they couldn’t have open flames during dry season, and that’s when I saw… him.”

“Did you see anyone else in the area?” Keller pressed. “Another vehicle? Someone walking along the road?”

The runner shook his head. “No one. It was really quiet. Just, you know, normal desert sounds.”

Kari noticed something Keller had missed—the slight hesitation before “normal.” “What sounds specifically?” she asked gently.

The young man frowned, concentrating. “Wind. Some birds. I had my headphones in most of the time, but I took them out when I saw the car.” He paused. “There was one weird thing. Right before I found… him. A sound like someone running really fast through the brush. But I didn’t see anyone.”

“Could have been an animal,” Keller suggested.

“Maybe.” The runner didn’t sound convinced.

Kari made a note to have officers search the surrounding area at first light.

If the killer had fled on foot, they might have left evidence—broken vegetation, footprints, discarded items. The desert preserved such details better than most environments, especially with the lack of rain in recent weeks.

It was thin, but right now, they had very little to go on. And already Kari could feel the fear growing.

That someone had just committed a third murder and gotten away with it.

***

By midnight, the scene had transformed into a full federal operation.

Additional FBI personnel had arrived, along with specialized equipment.

The body had been removed for transport to the medical examiner’s facility.

Evidence had been collected, cataloged, and secured.

Photographs had been taken from every conceivable angle.

And still, Kari felt they were missing something essential.

She, Tsosie, and Daniels gathered near the command vehicle, reviewing what they knew while technicians continued processing the wider area.

“Three victims in five days,” Daniels said, summarizing.

“Each one violating tribal boundaries in some way, and the third killed with increased ritualistic precision. The profile points to someone deeply connected to the land and traditions, with both the knowledge and motivation to eliminate those they perceive as threats.”

Kari considered reminding him that no traditional practitioner would make the ceremonial mistakes someone had made with the first two bodies, but she had already made her point earlier. Many times. She doubted it would do any good to continue repeating herself.

“Someone,” Daniels continued, “who likes to play games, likes to try to throw us off the scent.”

“Maybe,” Tsosie said quietly.

Daniels glanced at him. “You have another theory?”

“Maybe they were learning.”

Both Kari and Daniels turned to him.

“Learning from what source?” Daniels asked.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Tsosie replied. “Where would someone get enough information to improve their technique this dramatically between the second and third murders?”

The question hung between them as Kari’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out, expecting Yazzie with an update. Instead, she saw three missed calls from her grandmother—the most recent just minutes ago.

A cold dread washed over her. Ruth never called multiple times unless something was wrong—very wrong. The last time Kari had received repeated calls like this was the night her mother had died.

She called her grandmother back. No answer. She tried again, but the result was the same.

“I need to go,” she said, already moving toward her vehicle. “Family emergency.”

“Now?” Daniels’s incredulity followed her. “We’re in the middle of processing a homicide scene.”

“My grandmother,” Kari called back without stopping. “Something’s wrong.”

She was vaguely aware of Tsosie saying something to Daniels, smoothing her abrupt departure, but her mind was already racing ahead to Ruth’s small house at the edge of the reservation.

Had the killer struck again while they were all focused on Mitchell?

Was Ruth’s home even on Daniels’s protection list?

No, she told herself. That doesn’t make sense. Ruth would never be a target.

But she wouldn’t know that for sure until she saw Ruth with her own eyes.

The drive to her grandmother’s house took twenty-three agonizing minutes—every second stretching as Kari imagined worst-case scenarios. She tried calling Ruth twice, but there was no answer, the calls going straight to voicemail.

When she finally pulled up to the small stone house, relief flooded through her at the sight of lights in the windows. No police vehicles, no signs of disturbance. Just the soft glow of Ruth’s home, unchanged from how it had always been.

Kari approached with caution nonetheless, her hand instinctively near her service weapon. She knocked once, then used her key to enter.

“Shimásání?” she called. “It’s me.”

Ruth sat in her usual chair near the woodstove, a blanket across her lap despite the warmth of the night, her silver hair loose around her shoulders rather than in its customary bun. She looked up as Kari entered, her weathered face showing no surprise at the late-night visit.

“You came,” she said simply. “Good.”

“You called three times,” Kari said, her heart still racing. “I thought—”

“You thought something had happened to me,” Ruth finished for her, nodding as if this were a perfectly reasonable assumption.

Kari sank onto the sofa, the adrenaline crash leaving her suddenly exhausted. “Are you okay? Why did you call?”

“I had a vision,” Ruth said, as casually as if she were reporting the weather. “Of your mother.”

Kari’s apprehension shifted to a different kind of discomfort. Ruth’s “visions” had always been a source of tension between them—Kari’s scientific training battling with the inexplicable accuracy of her grandmother’s insights.

“A dream,” Kari suggested gently.

“No.” Ruth was firm. “A vision. While I was weaving. She stood right there.” She pointed to the empty space near the door. “Clear as you are now.”

Kari said nothing, knowing from experience that challenging Ruth’s beliefs would lead nowhere productive.

“She had a message,” Ruth continued. “She said, ‘Tell Kari she has everything she needs.’”

“What does that mean?” Kari asked, despite herself.

“I don’t know. It was your mother’s message, not mine.” Ruth studied her granddaughter with sharp eyes that missed nothing. “But she seemed concerned. Urgent.”

Kari rubbed her temples, where a headache was beginning to form.

“Shimásání, we’ve had three murders in five days.

The latest victim was killed just hours ago.

I’m running on coffee and adrenaline, with the FBI breathing down my neck and a killer moving faster with each victim.

I appreciate that you’re worried about me, but cryptic messages from visions aren’t exactly helpful right now. ”

Ruth made a small sound that might have been amusement. “You think I called you here for ghost stories? At my age?” She pushed herself to her feet with surprising vigor and crossed to a small cedar chest in the corner. “I called because of this.”

She returned with a small leather pouch, its surface decorated with intricate beadwork in patterns Kari recognized from childhood—protection symbols, ancient designs meant to ward off evil.

“Your mother was looking for something before she died,” Ruth said, her voice softening. “Something old. Something dangerous. I didn’t understand then. I’m beginning to now.”

She held out the medicine bag. “Wear this. Keep it with you, especially at night.”

Kari looked at the pouch without taking it. “Shimásání—”

“Humor an old woman,” Ruth said sharply. “You’ve always had one foot in each world, Asdz?′?′ K’os. Sometimes that’s a strength. Sometimes, it’s a blindness.”

The use of her Diné name created a familiar tug of conflicted identity. Kari took the medicine bag, running her fingers over the beaded patterns that felt like braille against her skin—a language she’d once known but had forgotten how to read.

“What do you think is happening?” she asked directly.

Ruth settled back into her chair, suddenly looking every one of her seventy-eight years.

“The old stories talk about beings that hunger. That watch for weakness, for openings between worlds.” She gestured vaguely toward the dark window.

“Your killer is creating those openings. Whether they know it or not.”

“Humans kill humans,” Kari said gently. “Not spirits or monsters.”

“Is that what they teach you at the academy?” Ruth asked, an unexpected edge in her voice. “That everything that walks has just two legs? That everything with power can be seen?”

Kari had no answer that wouldn’t deepen the divide between them.

“Keep the medicine bag,” Ruth said more gently. “And remember what your mother said. You have everything you need. The answers are there if you remember how to look with both eyes.” She tapped the side of her head. “Not just these eyes. The ones that see in darkness, too.”

Kari nodded, slipping the pouch into her jacket pocket.

She didn’t believe in its protective powers, but she did believe in her grandmother’s concern.

The weight of it against her side was comforting in a way that had nothing to do with supernatural forces and everything to do with family connection.

“I should get back,” she said, rising. “There’s still work to do at the scene.”

“The digging man,” Ruth said. “The one who takes what isn’t his. Was he placed facing east?”

Kari stilled. “How did you know that? How did you know who was murdered?”

Ruth shook her head, not answering the question.

“East is for beginnings, for light entering the world. If your killer placed him facing east, they’re not just punishing.

They’re opening something.” Her eyes found Kari’s, sharp as obsidian.

“Be careful where you step, Asdz?′?′ K’os.

Not all boundaries are marked with signs. ”

The warning settled in Kari’s chest like a stone. She didn’t believe in spirits or monsters, in beings that hungered from beyond some mystical boundary. But she believed in human monsters—in killers who constructed elaborate mythologies around their violence.

And perhaps that’s what Ruth was sensing in her own way—the escalation that any experienced investigator would recognize. The increasing confidence, the ritual elements becoming more elaborate rather than less.

“I’ll be careful,” she promised, leaning down to kiss her grandmother’s weathered cheek. “Lock your doors tonight.”

“Locks don’t keep out the things I’m worried about,” Ruth replied, but she nodded agreement nonetheless. “Go. Do your police work. But remember—sometimes the old ways see what your cameras and fingerprint dust cannot.”