Page 7 of Close By (Kari Blackhorse #1)

Sacred and profane—the two words circled in Kari’s mind as she stood at the edge of Canyon de Chelly, waiting for Tsosie.

The sacred: ancient stories embedded in stone, ceremonies performed for countless generations, boundaries that were not to be crossed. The profane: a professor’s broken body arranged in a mockery of ritual, blood soaking into sandstone older than human memory.

The visitor center parking lot shimmered in the late afternoon heat. Tourists clustered around their vehicles, applying sunscreen and adjusting hats before setting off on the approved trails. None of them knew that just a few miles away, a man had died violently after venturing where he shouldn’t.

Kari checked her watch. Tsosie was three minutes late, unusual for him. As if summoned by her impatience, his department SUV appeared, dust billowing behind it as he pulled into the lot. He parked beside her Jeep and climbed out, his expression unreadable as always.

“Traffic on the reservation?” she asked, the hint of a smile softening the question.

“Sheep crossing,” Tsosie said, completely serious. “Half a mile back.”

Of course. Some things about reservation life never changed, no matter how urgent your business.

“I didn’t tell you everything Dr. Hatathli told me,” Tsosie said, cutting straight to the point. “There was more.”

They moved to a patch of shade cast by the visitor center building, away from curious tourists.

“What are you talking about?” Kari asked.

“The ME found multiple types of injuries,” Tsosie continued. “The lacerations we saw were caused by a knife, but there were also numerous contusions from direct impact—fists, most likely. And the blunt force trauma came from a rock, based on mineral fragments embedded in the wounds.”

“A rock,” Kari repeated, picturing the stone-strewn landscape where they’d found Harrington. “Could have been grabbed in the moment.”

Tsosie nodded. “The overall picture is one of uncontrolled fury. The attack was frenzied, excessive—personal.”

“Which suggests our victim and his attacker knew each other,” Kari said.

“Or Harrington represented something the killer hated.” Tsosie glanced toward the visitor center entrance. “Natoni’s inside. Rangers say he just finished giving a tour.”

“What’s your read on him?” Kari asked.

“Respected in the community. Knowledgeable about the old ways. Strong opinions about outsiders accessing sacred sites.” Tsosie’s expression remained neutral. “But no history of violence.”

“Let’s see what he has to say.” Kari started toward the building, then paused. “How do you want to handle this? Good cop, bad cop? Or straight down the middle?”

“Just be yourself, Blackhorse,” Tsosie said. “I’ll follow your lead.”

The visitor center was cool and dim after the harsh sunlight outside.

A few tourists browsed the display cases of pottery and baskets, while a ranger answered questions about trail conditions.

Near the back, a man in his early thirties stood examining a large topographical map of the canyon.

His long black hair was pulled back in a traditional bun, his khaki guide uniform crisp despite the day’s heat.

“Mr. Begay?” Kari approached, showing her badge. “I’m Detective Kari Blackhorse, Navajo Nation Police. This is my partner, Detective Ben Tsosie. We’d like to ask you some questions about Dr. Mark Harrington.”

Natoni turned, his eyes narrowing as he took in their badges. “The professor who went missing.” It wasn’t a question. “I heard they found him.”

“We’d prefer to speak somewhere private,” Tsosie said.

Natoni nodded once, gesturing toward a door marked “Staff Only.” “The break room should be empty this time of day.”

The room was small but functional—a table with four chairs, a mini-fridge, a coffee maker. Natoni took a seat facing the door.

“You know why we’re here,” Kari said, sitting across from him.

“I assume it’s because I was supposed to be Dr. Harrington’s guide before I refused,” Natoni said. “And now he’s dead.”

“Why did you refuse?” Kari asked, keeping her tone neutral.

Natoni’s gaze was steady. “Because he wanted to go somewhere he shouldn’t. At a time he especially shouldn’t.”

“The formation called Monster’s Hand,” Kari said. “During the full moon.”

Something flickered in Natoni’s eyes—surprise, perhaps, that she knew the specifics. “Yes.”

“Why was that a problem?” Tsosie asked.

Natoni looked between them, seeming to weigh how much to say. “That site is sacred. It’s not for tourists, not for academics, not for photography.”

“Dr. Harrington had a research permit,” Kari pointed out.

“Permits are issued by people who don’t know what they’re permitting,” Natoni said sharply.

“Or care.” He leaned forward. “Every year, more sacred sites are vandalized. Pictographs defaced with spray paint. Ceremonial spaces turned into picnic grounds. Ancient burials disturbed for their pottery.” His voice had taken on an edge.

“Dr. Harrington saw Monster’s Hand as geology.

As a photo opportunity. He didn’t understand what it was. ”

“What was it, then?” Kari asked.

Natoni sat back, his expression closing. “That’s not for me to explain to outsiders.”

“I’m Diné,” Kari reminded him.

“Are you?” Natoni’s gaze was challenging. “Your badge says Navajo Nation, but from what I hear, you’ve been living out in Phoenix.”

This surprised Kari. Then again, people talked, and word spread quickly on the res.

“When was the last time you attended a ceremony, Detective?” Natoni continued. “Do you even know the stories of your own people?”

The questions stung more than Kari wanted to admit, but she kept her expression professional. “This isn’t about me, Mr. Begay. It’s about a man who was murdered at the site you warned him not to visit.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Natoni said flatly.

“You argued with him,” Tsosie said. “Witnesses at the ranger station described it as heated.”

“Of course it was heated. He was arrogant, dismissive. Called our traditions ‘superstitious nonsense.’” Natoni’s jaw tightened at the memory. “I told him the site was dangerous during Náhásdzáán Yee Adees’ee?ígíí. He laughed.”

“The Walking Earth,” Kari translated. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Natoni studied her for a long moment. “It’s a time when the boundary between worlds thins. When things that normally can’t cross over can.” He paused. “My grandfather would say it’s when the older beings stir in their sleep.”

“Older beings,” Kari repeated carefully.

“The ones that were here before the Holy People brought the Diné into this world.” Natoni’s voice had lowered. “The ones the emergence stories warn about.”

Tsosie shifted in his chair—the smallest tell, but Kari caught it. These were stories he knew, perhaps even believed.

“Where were you two nights ago, during the full moon?” Kari asked, changing direction.

Natoni’s answer came without hesitation. “At home, with my family. My mother, my two younger sisters. We live near the south rim.”

“What were you doing?”

“Preparing for my sister’s Kinaaldá ceremony. Many people saw me there.”

“All night?” Tsosie asked.

“Until about midnight. Then I slept. My mother will confirm this.”

Kari made a note to verify his alibi. “Did you tell anyone that Dr. Harrington planned to visit Monster’s Hand despite your warning?”

Natoni hesitated for the first time. “I mentioned it to my grandfather. He was… concerned.”

“Concerned enough to take action?” Kari pressed.

“My grandfather is eighty-four years old and uses a walker,” Natoni said with a flash of anger. “He didn’t kill your professor.”

“What about friends, colleagues?” Tsosie asked. “Anyone who might have felt strongly about protecting the site?”

“I didn’t broadcast it. But yes, I spoke with other guides, with the elders. We were concerned.”

“Names,” Kari said, pushing her notebook across the table.

Natoni looked at it but didn’t pick up the pen. “So you can interrogate respected elders based on nothing but their desire to protect sacred knowledge? No.” He turned to Tsosie. “You understand what I’m saying. You know what’s at stake.”

Tsosie’s expression remained carefully neutral. “We’re investigating a murder, Natoni. That takes precedence.”

“Does it?” Natoni leaned forward. “Over knowledge that’s survived for thousands of years? Over powers that your detective training doesn’t prepare you for?” He turned back to Kari. “You’re just another outsider with a badge. You left your heritage behind in Phoenix.”

The accusation hung in the air between them. Kari waited for Tsosie to defend her, to remind Natoni that she was his colleague, a fellow officer. The defense didn’t come.

“Calm down, Natoni,” Tsosie said instead, his tone even. “We’re just doing our job.”

The subtle shift in alliance wasn’t lost on Kari. She kept her expression neutral through years of practice, but made a mental note of the moment.

“Dr. Harrington’s body was arranged after death,” she said, redirecting to the case. “Herbs were placed around him in a specific pattern. Does that hold any significance to you?”

Something changed in Natoni’s posture—a new tension, quickly suppressed. “What kind of herbs?”

“Cedar, sage, something with purple flowers,” Kari said, watching his reaction closely.

“Purple flowers?” Natoni’s face grew thoughtful. “Sounds like globemallow.”

“And the significance?”

“That’s not part of any blessing ceremony. That sounds more like…”

“Like someone was trying to ensure something stayed where it was,” Tsosie said.

Natoni nodded, his eyes solemn. “How was the body positioned?” he asked.

“On his back, arms at his sides, facing east,” Kari said.

Natoni shook his head slowly. “That’s not right. That’s all wrong.”

“Wrong how?” Kari asked.

“If it were a true blessing, there would be cornmeal, different herbs. The positioning would be different.” Natoni appeared to be thinking aloud. “This sounds like someone with partial knowledge trying to… I don’t know, improvise a protective ritual.”

“To protect the body?” Tsosie asked.