"Unless he had help."

  "Which brings us back to David Clah or another accomplice we haven't identified." Kari picked up the radio. "All units, maintain positions. I'm going to attempt contact."

  She and Ben approached the motel carefully, staying in the shadows cast by the building's overhang. The night clerk watched nervously from the office window but stayed inside as instructed. Room 12 was in the middle of the row, a tactical disadvantage for them—Brennan could potentially escape in either direction if he broke from the room.

  Kari positioned herself beside the door, Ben on the opposite side. The curtains didn't quite meet in the middle, providing a slim gap, but the angle was wrong to see inside. She could hear a television playing softly—it sounded like a news channel.

  She knocked firmly. "Mr. Brennan? This is Detective Blackhorse with the Navajo Nation Police. We need to speak with you."

  The television went silent.

  "Mr. Brennan, we know you're in there. Your truck is outside. We're concerned for your safety."

  "Go away." His voice came from near the door, stronger than she'd expected. "I don't have to talk to you."

  "No, you don't," Kari agreed, keeping her tone conversational. "But three people are dead, Mr. Brennan. People connected to Riverside. People who knew about Owen Peshlakai. We think you might be next."

  A bitter laugh. "Next? I'm last. I've always been last. The one they're all building up to."

  Kari exchanged glances with Ben. Brennan sounded lucid, aware.

  "Who's building up to you?" she asked.

  "You know who. The same person who's been leaving me gifts. Reminders. Pieces of the past I thought I'd buried."

  "Tell me about the gifts."

  Silence for a moment. Then: "Started two weeks ago. Found Owen's student ID card under my windshield wiper. Then a photo of his body—one I'd never seen before, taken before we... before it was officially discovered. Then came newspaper clippings about the others who died at the school. Each one with a note: 'You remember.'"

  "Did you keep them?"

  "Why would I keep them? They're harassing. Threats."

  "They're evidence, Mr. Brennan. Evidence that could help us catch whoever's doing this."

  "Evidence." Another bitter laugh. "Everything's evidence to you people. Can't you see what's happening? Someone's trying to frame me for old... for things that happened fifty years ago. They plant evidence, then you show up. It's a setup."

  Kari tried a different approach. "You said you're last. Why do you think that?"

  A long pause. When he spoke again, his voice was different. Older. Tired. "Because I was in charge. The Dean of Students. Whatever happened at that school... it was my responsibility. The killer knows that. They're saving me for last because in their twisted mind, I'm the most guilty."

  "Guilty of what, Mr. Brennan?"

  "Of running a school that broke children. Of following orders. Of doing what we thought was best." His voice cracked slightly. "Owen Peshlakai... that boy was strong. Too strong. He wouldn't conform. Wouldn't submit. And yes, I disciplined him. It was my job. But I didn't... what happened to him wasn't supposed to happen."

  "What did happen to him?"

  Silence stretched between them. Then, barely audible: "You already know, don't you? That's why you're here. Someone finally talked." His voice carried decades of rationalization worn thin. "The killer wants me to suffer. Wants me to know it's coming."

  "Then let us protect you," Kari said. "Come with us. We can keep you safe while we find who's doing this."

  "Safe?" Another laugh. "In a cell, you mean. You think I don't know how this goes? Serial killer targeting boarding school staff—you need someone to blame. Who better than the man who started it all?"

  "We're not looking for a scapegoat," Ben interjected. "We're looking for the truth."

  "The truth." Brennan's voice moved away from the door, deeper into the room. "The truth is complicated. The truth is that we were trying to educate those children. The truth is that sometimes..." His voice faltered.

  They heard movement inside, furniture scraping.

  "Mr. Brennan?" Kari called out.

  "You want the truth?" His voice was closer now, raw with emotion. "The truth is I've been running from November 17, 1974, for fifty years. The truth is that the boy's eyes haunt me every single night."

  "Owen Peshlakai," Kari said softly.

  A sound that might have been a sob. "He wouldn't break. Hour after hour in that room, and he just... looked at me. Like he could see right through me. Like he knew I was the weak one." A long pause. "I went too far. The discipline became... something else. When I finally stopped, when I saw what I'd done..."

  The confession was coming in pieces now, pulled out of him by exhaustion and fear.

  "It was supposed to be discipline," he continued, his voice barely audible through the door. "But I lost control. And then he was dead. A fifteen-year-old boy was dead because I couldn't stand that he was stronger than me."

  Kari activated her radio quietly. "All units, subject is confessing to a historical incident. Maintain positions."

  "Samuel helped me," Brennan continued, the words pouring out now like blood from an old wound. "We made it look like he ran away. The coyote story. All lies. Fifty years of lies."

  "But I didn't kill the others," he added urgently. "Tommy, Samuel, Agnes—that wasn't me. One murder was enough to haunt me for fifty years."

  "We believe you," Kari said, though she wasn't entirely sure she did. "But we need to verify your whereabouts during the recent murders. We need to talk face to face."

  "No."

  "Mr. Brennan—"

  "I said no!" His voice rose. "You want to talk? We talk like this. Through the door. Because the moment I open it, you'll arrest me."

  Kari heard something else in his voice now. Not just fear or guilt, but something harder. She made a decision.

  "Mr. Brennan, are you armed?"

  Silence.

  "Sir, I need to know if you have a weapon."

  "It's legal," he said finally. "Registered. And I'll only use it if anyone tries to force their way in."

  Kari stepped back from the door, updating the situation over the radio. An armed suspect changed the tactical considerations significantly. She could hear Yazzie coordinating with the sniper teams, ensuring they maintained clear shots if needed.

  But Kari didn't want it to come to that. Brennan was seventy-seven years old, guilty of a fifty-year-old murder but possibly innocent of the current ones. Forcing a confrontation could end in tragedy.

  "Mr. Brennan," she said, returning to the door. "I'm going to be honest with you. Yes, you'll be arrested for Owen Peshlakai's murder. You just confessed. But that also means you'll be in protective custody. Safe from whoever's hunting people connected to Riverside."

  "Prison isn't safe," Brennan said. "Too many people with too many grudges. I'd be dead within a month."

  "Not if you help us catch the current killer. Cooperation matters to prosecutors, to judges. And we need your help."

  "My help?" He sounded genuinely surprised.

  "You knew everyone at Riverside. You kept records. You know who had access to what, who held grudges, who might have snapped after all these years." Kari let that sink in. "How many more have to die before we stop this?"

  She heard movement inside the room. Footsteps pacing. The sound of something heavy being moved—furniture? Was he barricading?

  "The gifts," Brennan said suddenly. "The person who left them. I saw them once."

  Kari's pulse quickened. "When? Where?"

  "Last week. I was getting mail, and saw someone by my truck. Average height, baseball cap, couldn't see the face clearly. They placed Owen's ID card precisely in the center of the windshield, adjusted it twice to get the position exact." He paused. "And they were talking."

  "To someone else?"

  "To themselves. Or... or to Owen. Couldn't hear the words, but the tone was conversational. Like they were having a discussion with the dead."

  Kari filed that away. The killer was talking to their victims, even the long-dead ones. It suggested a level of delusion or spiritual belief that went beyond simple revenge.

  "Did they see you?" she asked.

  "Yeah, but they didn't run. Just looked at me for a long moment, then walked away. Calm as could be. Like they wanted me to see them, to know they could reach me anytime."

  "Which direction did they go? What were they driving?"

  "On foot. Headed toward the hiking trail behind my neighborhood. I went inside and locked the doors. That's when I knew I had to get out."

  "Mr. Brennan, this information is helpful. But we need more. We need you to come with us, look at photos, help us understand who might be doing this."

  More silence. Then the sound of a hammer being cocked.

  "I can't," Brennan said, his voice steadier now. "I won't spend my last years in prison. And I won't give someone the satisfaction of killing me. You understand?"

  Kari understood all too well. Brennan was considering suicide, the final escape from consequences and vengeance alike.

  "Howard," she said, dropping the formal address. "You said Owen was stronger than any of you. Do you think he'd want more death? More violence? You took his life—don't dishonor his memory with more blood."

  "His memory." Brennan's voice cracked. "You know what haunts me most? His eyes. Even at the end, they were defiant. Disappointed in us, in what we represented, but not broken. Never broken."

  "Then honor that," Kari pressed. "Show some of that strength yourself. Face what you've done. Help us prevent more deaths."

  She heard the sound of metal on wood—the gun being set down.

  "I'm tired," Brennan said. "Fifty years of carrying this. Fifty years of nightmares."

  "I know," Kari said softly. "But running won't end them. Only truth will."

  More movement inside. The scrape of furniture being moved again. Then, slowly, the click of the deadbolt turning.

  "Step back," Brennan said. "I'm coming out. The gun's on the nightstand."

  Kari and Ben moved back, weapons ready but lowered. The door opened slowly, revealing Howard Brennan. He looked older than when they'd interviewed him, as if the past few days had aged him years. His hands were empty, raised to show he was unarmed.

  "I'll tell you everything," he said. "About Owen, about the cover-up, about everyone involved. But I want protection. Real protection. Because whoever's doing this—they're not finished."

  As Ben cuffed him and read him his rights, Kari studied Brennan's face. Guilty of historical murder, yes. But guilty of the current killings? Looking at him now—exhausted, frightened, almost relieved to be caught—she didn't think so.

  Which meant their killer was still out there. Still hunting.

  And they'd just taken away his ultimate target

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The interview room at the tribal police station had witnessed countless confessions over the years, but Howard Brennan's silence was proving more stubborn than most. He sat across from Kari and Ben, hands folded on the metal table, his earlier willingness to cooperate having apparently evaporated during the drive from Chinle.

  "I want a lawyer," he said for the third time in twenty minutes. "I'm not saying anything else without representation."

  "You've already confessed to killing Owen Peshlakai," Ben reminded him. "Through a motel room door, with multiple witnesses."

  "I was under duress. Armed police surrounding me. I would have said anything." Brennan's jaw set stubbornly. "I want a lawyer."

  Kari studied him, noting the tremor in his hands that he was trying to hide, the way his eyes kept darting to the door. In the harsh fluorescent light, he looked every one of his seventy-seven years.

  "We'll get you a lawyer," she said calmly. "Court-appointed, unless you have your own. But that's going to take time. Hours, maybe until morning. And while we wait, whoever killed Tommy, Samuel, and Agnes is still out there."

  "Not my problem," Brennan said, but something flickered in his eyes.

  "It is if they come after you in custody," Kari said. "Three people are dead, all connected to Riverside. You think protective custody is going to stop someone that determined?"

  Brennan's tremor worsened.

  "Here's what I think," Kari continued, leaning back in her chair. "I think you know exactly who's doing this. Maybe not their name, but their type. Someone connected to the school who's been carrying this rage for decades. Someone who blames everyone—the abusers and the silent witnesses equally."

  "I don't know anything," Brennan insisted.

  "You said the person leaving you gifts was talking to Owen. To a boy who's been dead for fifty years." Kari watched his reaction carefully. "That's not normal revenge. That's someone who's built an entire worldview around these deaths. Someone who sees themselves as an instrument of delayed justice."

  Brennan remained silent, but she could see her words hitting home.

  "Mr. Brennan," Kari tried a different approach. "Let's not talk about Owen Peshlakai. Let's talk about the school. You were Dean of Students from 1973 to when it closed in 1982. You knew everyone—staff, students, their families."

  "So?"

  "So help us understand the dynamics. Who held grudges? Who had access to records? Who might have snapped after all these years?"

  "Without incriminating yourself," Ben added pointedly. "We're not asking about crimes. We're asking about people."

  Brennan seemed to consider this. The tremor in his hands eased.

  "The school was a closed system," he said finally. "Everyone knew everyone else's business. The staff were... complicated. Some truly believed we were helping those children. Others were just collecting paychecks. And a few..." He trailed off.

  "A few were like you?" Kari suggested gently. "Got caught up in something that went too far?"

  "I'm not admitting to anything," Brennan said quickly. "But hypothetically, the pressure was immense. From the government to show results, from the communities to return 'improved' children. When students resisted, when they clung to their culture despite everything..." He shrugged. "Some staff handled it better than others."

  "Tell us about the staff," Ben prompted.

  For the next twenty minutes, Brennan spoke in a monotone that made the horrors sound almost bureaucratic.

  "Morning wake-up was 5 AM. Anyone still in bed at 5:01 got a bucket of cold water. That was Mrs. Henderson—home economics teacher. She'd say it built character." He paused. "In winter, that water sometimes had ice in it."

  Kari clenched her jaw but said nothing.

  Brennan went on: "The barbers came monthly. Mr. Liu was gentle, tried to make it less traumatic. But his partner, Daniels, he'd grip kids' heads hard enough to leave bruises. Called long hair 'savage vanity' while he shaved them bald."

  Ben shifted in his seat, but Brennan continued without prompting.

  "Cafeteria staff were mostly locals who needed work. They'd cook whatever the government sent—powdered milk, canned meat, white bread. When kids got sick from the food, nurse would say it was 'adjustment issues.' Maria Gonzalez, one of the cooks, used to sneak traditional herbs into the soup sometimes. Small mercy. She got fired when they caught her."

  He paused. He seemed uncomfortable, though it was difficult to tell if he felt bad for what he'd participated in or simply worried about incriminating himself further.

  "Language was the big thing," he said, his eyes fixed on the table. "First offense was soap. Second was the strap. Third..." He trailed off. "Mr. Peterson, English teacher, kept a tally board. Gold stars for days without speaking Native words. Black marks for infractions. Kids with too many black marks went to special sessions."

  "With you?" Kari asked quietly.

  Brennan ignored the question. "The maintenance crew saw everything but said nothing. They cleaned up after discipline sessions, fixed broken furniture, painted over blood on walls. Tom Begay quit after three months. Said he couldn't wash away what he'd seen."

  "Samuel Whitehorse," Kari said when Brennan paused. "What was his role?"

  "Security chief. Former military. He ran the place like a prison camp—counts, searches, constant surveillance." Brennan's expression darkened. "He enjoyed the power. Some of the staff were uncomfortable with it, but he got results. Fewer runaways on his watch."

  "Because children were too scared to run?"

  "Because he always caught them," Brennan corrected. "Had an uncanny ability to track kids through the desert. Brought them back every time."

  "Dead or alive?" Ben asked bluntly.

  Brennan's face went pale. "I'm not answering that."

  But his non-answer was answer enough. Kari thought about Whitehorse, dead in his shed with packages of evidence beside him. Evidence he'd been preparing to distribute—or that the killer had been planning to distribute for him.

  "Tell us about the families," she said, changing direction. "The parents who lost children at the school."

  "They were kept at a distance. Visits were discouraged. When incidents occurred, we had standard procedures. Letters explaining that their child had run away, been transferred, or in rare cases, had an accident."

  "Like Sarah Clah," Kari said, watching him carefully. "David Clah's mother. Suicide in 1975."

  Brennan's hands clenched. "That was... complicated."

  "Complicated how?"

  "She came to the school, making wild accusations about her son. She made a big scene. I tried calming her down, but she wouldn't be reasoned with."

  "And?"

  He shrugged. "There was a confrontation. She was unstable, violent. In the struggle..." He stopped.

  "She didn't commit suicide," Ben said.

  "I'm not saying anything else about that," Brennan said firmly. "Lawyer."

  But Kari was piecing together the picture. Sarah Clah, upset about something involving her son, killed during a confrontation, after which her death was covered up as suicide. Leaving behind her thirteen-year-old son, David, who was then sent to live with relatives.

 

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