CLOSE TO HIM, page 14
As she worked, her personal cell phone vibrated. It was a text from Lisa Becenti.
Kari, you were right to have me keep digging on that D. Benally note. It wasn’t a mistake. Agnes changed the locks on her house three weeks ago. The locksmith's name was David Benally.
Kari stared at the screen, the words refusing to make sense. She walked quickly to the forensics lab, the text glowing on her phone.
"Lisa, what is this?" she asked, holding out the phone.
"I thought it was a dead end, too," Lisa said, turning from her microscope. "But Daniel Benally’s story made me think. Maybe there was another relative he didn’t know about. I pulled the business license for ‘Benally Lock & Key.’ It was registered two years ago. The owner’s name is David Benally. I ran his prints from the licensing application against our databases."
Lisa paused, her expression grim. "No criminal record. But his prints are in the system. From a juvenile incident at Riverside Indian Boarding School, sealed record. For assaulting a guard."
Kari felt the floor shift beneath her feet. "It’s him," she whispered. "David Clah. He’s been hiding in plain sight this whole time. Working as a locksmith."
"It makes perfect sense," said Ben, who had come up behind them. "In the military, EOD and Special Forces guys get training in what they call ‘methods of entry.’ That includes advanced lock-picking and bypassing security systems. He didn't just become a locksmith; he weaponized a skill he already had."
"It gets worse," Lisa said, turning her monitor around. "As a licensed and bonded locksmith, he has contracts with several local property management companies. And he’s on the approved vendor list for the Navajo Nation Housing Authority." She brought up a work order from four days ago. "He was called to Howard Brennan’s neighborhood. For a lockout. Two doors down."
The calculated audacity of it was staggering. He wasn’t just watching from a distance; he was embedding himself in the community, using a trade that gave him access, that allowed him to move without suspicion. He had been close enough to touch his targets. He had probably worked on locks for half the people on his list.
"I've got the key to Agnes’s back door," Ben said. "He didn’t need to pick the lock. He had a master key or made himself a copy."
"The drugged coffee in Officer Tsosie’s cruiser," Kari added, the pieces slamming into place with brutal force. "A locksmith could get into a locked car in thirty seconds without leaving a mark."
He had been everywhere. Listening. Watching. Waiting. And they had missed him
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
The department truck bounced along the unpaved service road, its headlights cutting a lonely, jittery tunnel through the immense, pre-dawn darkness. Kari gripped the wheel, her knuckles tight, navigating the ruts and rocks with a practiced ease that felt disconnected from the turmoil in her mind.
Every sound from the surrounding wilderness—the cry of a distant coyote, the rustle of wind through dry brush—felt like a message she couldn’t quite decipher, a language spoken by the land that she only partially understood. They were deep in the killer's territory now, a landscape he knew as intimately as the scars on his own skin, and she felt like an intruder, loud and clumsy.
They parked the truck in a small, hidden alcove of rock two miles from where the trail to the ceremonial site began, the sandstone walls muffling the sound. Killing the engine plunged them into a profound silence, a quiet so deep it felt like a physical presence pressing in on them. For a long moment, neither of them moved, allowing their eyes to adjust to the faint starlight. The darkness outside was absolute, a perfect canvas for a man who had made himself a ghost.
"He’s out here," Ben said, his voice a low murmur that barely disturbed the quiet. "I can feel it."
Kari understood completely. It wasn’t a psychic premonition; it was the primal instinct of a hunter recognizing the presence of another predator. The very air felt different, charged with a watchful stillness. They geared up in the dark, their movements slow and deliberate to minimize noise. The soft clicks of ammunition clips sliding into place, the rustle of nylon packs, the slide of her Glock from its holster—each sound seemed unnaturally loud, a violation of the sacred quiet.
They left their phones in the truck; out here, they were useless blocks of glass and metal. Their only link to the outside world, to the other half of their two-front war, was the satellite phone nestled deep in Kari’s pack.
With Ben in the lead, they set off on foot just as the first hint of gray light began to bleed across the eastern horizon, silhouetting the distant mesas. He moved with a quiet, ground-eating stride that was a testament to a lifetime spent in these lands. His feet seemed to find purchase on the loose shale and uneven ground without a sound, his body a shadow moving through other shadows. Kari followed, her senses stretched taut, her own considerable tracking skills feeling blunt and inadequate compared to his. She tried to read the landscape the way he did, to see the story it was telling. He’d pause, pointing to a patch of disturbed soil where a lizard had scurried, then a few yards on, to a single, freshly broken twig on a saltbush, a sign so subtle she would have missed it entirely.
"He came through here," Ben whispered, kneeling beside a faint track near a dry wash after nearly an hour of silent hiking. He didn’t need to touch it. "Less than a day ago. The edges are still sharp. See how the weight is heavier on the right side? He’s still favoring that left foot."
They were on his trail. The knowledge was a jolt of pure adrenaline, a feeling both exhilarating and terrifying. They were closing the distance, but with every step, they were also walking deeper into his world, a world where he set all the rules.
The path grew steeper, winding up through a narrow slot canyon where the walls rose a hundred feet on either side, the strip of sky above a pale, luminous ribbon. The temperature dropped, and the air grew still, amplifying the sound of their own heartbeats.
The sun rose, and the canyon ignited. The staggering scale of the landscape was revealed in a flood of golden light, transforming the rock from gray shadow to a symphony of red, orange, and ochre. They were ants moving through a world of giants, surrounded by towering mesas and hoodoos sculpted by millennia of wind and water into fantastic, haunting shapes. The sheer, stark beauty of it was sharp and breathtaking, a powerful contrast to the ugliness of their mission. This was a sacred place, a place of power and history, a place their ancestors had walked.
The thought of it being used as the stage for a ritual of blood and vengeance felt like a profound violation, a deep wound being carved into the memory of the land itself.
After two hours of steady, upward hiking, Ben held up a hand, signaling a halt. They melted back into the cover of a gnarled, ancient juniper tree, its bark twisted like an old man’s muscle. He pointed across the small box canyon they were traversing. On the far side, almost perfectly camouflaged against a rock face that shared its colors, was a small, lean-to shelter made of weathered branches and a dusty, sand-colored tarp. A thin, almost invisible wisp of smoke curled up from a small, contained fire pit in front of it, the smoke dissipating quickly in the dry air.
"His camp," Ben breathed, the two words hanging in the still air.
Kari’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. He was close. So close.
They sank lower behind the tree, their eyes scanning the area, the ridges above, the shadows below, for any sign of movement. But the camp appeared deserted. The canyon was utterly still. They waited, motionless, for twenty minutes that stretched into an eternity, the silence broken only by the high, thin sighing of the wind as it moved through the high passes. It felt like the land itself was holding its breath, waiting.
"He’s not here," Kari finally whispered, her throat dry. "But he hasn’t gone far. The fire’s still smoldering."
"He could be watching us right now," Ben said, his gaze sweeping the high ridges that surrounded them, searching for the glint of a rifle scope, the silhouette of a man against the sky. "He picked this spot for a reason. Excellent cover, clear fields of fire."
"Let's get a closer look," Kari decided, despite the risk. "But we stay low. Circle around. If he's on Overwatch, he'll have the advantage. We can't approach directly."
They began a slow, painstaking crawl, circling wide around the canyon, using the terrain for cover. It took another half hour, their muscles screaming in protest, their lungs burning from the altitude. Every loose rock that shifted under their boots sounded like a gunshot. When they finally reached the lip of the rock shelf where the camp was situated, they approached from behind, weapons drawn, moving with the fluid, synchronized grace of partners who had faced death together before.
They cleared the camp. It was empty. The space was Spartan, brutally functional. A worn bedroll was laid out on a patch of soft sand. Beside it, a small stack of MREs, a dented metal canteen, and a well-used whetstone. But there were other, more disturbing items that made the camp feel less like a survivalist’s shelter and more like an altar.
On a large, flat rock that served as a table, several pieces of chalk were laid out in a neat row, like surgical instruments. Beside them, a coiled leather strap, identical to the one found at the Tommy Begay scene. And in the center of the rock, held down by a smooth river stone, was a single, yellowed photograph of a teenage boy with defiant eyes: Owen Peshlakai.
"He’s preparing," Kari said, a cold dread seeping through her, far colder than the morning air. "This is his staging area for the final ceremony. He’s gathering his tools."
Ben knelt by the fire pit, the heat from the embers visible as a shimmer in the air. "He burned something," he said. He carefully sifted through the gray ashes with the tip of a spare knife, uncovering the charred, half-melted remains of a wallet. The plastic of a driver’s license had warped into an unreadable shape, but the name on the embossed credit card, though blackened, was still faintly visible: Howard J. Brennan.
"He’s already been through Brennan’s things," Ben said, looking up at her, his eyes dark with the implication. "He’s claiming his trophy before the kill. But how did he get this? The transport…"
Kari felt a surge of pure, cold urgency. "The transport. They were supposed to leave at eight. What time is it?"
Ben checked the rugged watch on his wrist. "Eight-thirty."
For the past three hours, they had been carefully, quietly hunting a man in the wilderness, operating under the assumption that their second team was securing the bait hundreds of miles away. They had been playing their part, confident in their strategy, confident that they had him geographically contained. It was a logical, well-reasoned plan.
And it had been completely, catastrophically wrong.
They cleared the camp. It was empty. The space was Spartan, brutally functional. A worn bedroll was laid out on a patch of soft sand. Beside it, a small stack of MREs, a dented metal canteen, and a well-used whetstone.
But there were other, more disturbing items that made the camp feel less like a survivalist's shelter and more like an altar.
On a large, flat rock that served as a table, several pieces of chalk were laid out in a neat row, like surgical instruments. Beside them, a coiled leather strap, identical to the one found at the Tommy Begay scene. And in the center of the rock, held down by a smooth river stone, was a single, yellowed photograph of a teenage boy with defiant eyes: Owen Peshlakai.
"He's been preparing," Kari said, a cold dread seeping through her, far colder than the morning air. "This is his staging area for the final ceremony. He's gathering his tools."
Ben knelt by the fire pit, the heat from the embers visible as a shimmer in the air. "He burned something recently," he said. He carefully sifted through the gray ashes with the tip of a spare knife, uncovering charred paper fragments. "Documents, maybe. Or maps. Nothing identifiable."
"He's cleaning up," Kari said, studying the meticulous arrangement of the camp. "Getting ready for the final act. Everything is perfectly organized, perfectly prepared."
"But prepared for what?" Ben stood, dusting ash from his hands. "Brennan's out of his reach by now."
"Unless..." Kari felt a surge of pure, cold urgency. "The transport. They were supposed to move Brennan at eight. What time is it?"
Ben checked the rugged watch on his wrist. "Eight-thirty."
The satellite phone in Kari's pack suddenly buzzed, a harsh, alien sound that ripped through the pristine silence of the canyon. It made them both jump. She fumbled it out of her pack, her fingers feeling clumsy and slow, her mind already knowing what was coming. The display showed Captain Yazzie's number.
"Captain," she said, her voice tight, strained.
"Kari, where are you?" Yazzie’s voice was a blade of static, stripped of its usual calm authority. It was the voice of a commander whose battle plan had just been torn to shreds on live television.
"We’ve found his camp. High in the Chuskas. He’s been here recently. We think—"
"Abort," Yazzie cut her off. "I say again, abort your mission. Get back to the truck now. David Clah is not at your location."
Kari’s blood ran cold. The stunning canyon view suddenly felt like the walls of a cage, mocking her. "What are you talking about? We’re on his trail. We found his camp, his supplies. Everything points to him being here."
There was a pause on the line, a moment of heavy static that sounded like a dying breath. Then Yazzie’s voice came back, raw with the news he had to deliver.
"The transport van carrying Brennan was ambushed thirty minutes ago. On Route 12, mile marker forty-seven. He used a pre-planted explosive to trigger a rockslide. Blocked the road completely."
Kari closed her eyes, the beautiful, sun-drenched canyon vanishing behind a wave of black understanding. She could see it all with perfect, horrifying clarity: the decoy convoy heading north, her and Ben hiking deeper and deeper into this empty wilderness, while David Clah, the locksmith, the ghost hiding in plain sight, calmly executed a perfectly timed attack miles and miles away.
He hadn’t been watching from the ridges. He had been playing on a completely different board.
"The agents?" she asked, her voice hollow, dreading the answer.
"Both are alive, but injured. Clah disabled the van and used some kind of gas to incapacitate them. By the time the backup units arrived…"
Yazzie didn’t need to finish. Kari already knew. She opened her eyes and looked at the photograph of Owen Peshlakai lying on the rock, his defiant eyes staring up at the sky. She looked at the charred remains of Brennan’s wallet.
This camp wasn’t a staging area. It was a decoy. A ghost trail, meticulously crafted and left for them to find, to keep the most capable trackers on the force occupied while the real hunt happened somewhere else.
"He’s gone, isn’t he, Captain?" she asked, the question a formality.
"He’s gone, Kari," Yazzie said, his voice heavy with defeat. "And he took Brennan with him.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The canyon’s silence, once a symbol of pristine nature, now felt like a suffocating void. The captain’s words echoed in the satellite phone’s static, each one a hammer blow against the flimsy architecture of the plan Kari had built.
He’s gone. And he took Brennan with him.
For a long moment after the call ended, Kari couldn’t move. She stood frozen in the killer’s ghost camp, the sun warm on her face, a bitter contrast to the ice forming in her veins. It was her plan. Her strategy. She had stood in that conference room, full of confidence, and argued for a two-front war. She had convinced Yazzie, had even earned the grudging respect of Daniels, by claiming to understand the mind of their quarry. She had told them David Clah was a creature of ritual and patience, a man who would wait for them at his chosen site.
And she had been very, very wrong.
She was responsible for two injured federal agents and for Brennan's capture. This wasn't just a miscalculation; it was a professional humiliation, and worse, a potentially fatal one for Howard Brennan. She had walked right into the trap Clah had designed for her, following his ghost trail while he operated freely a hundred miles away.
"Kari." Ben’s voice was low, cutting through the roaring in her ears. He had moved to her side, his presence a solid, grounding force. He didn’t say, It’s not your fault. He wouldn’t offer such an easy, untrue absolution. He knew as well as she did how hollow those words would feel.
"He played us," she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. It was the only way to keep the guilt from overwhelming her. "He knew we’d find the fire tower. He knew we’d find this camp. He planted all of it." She looked around at the meticulously arranged scene—the chalk, the strap, the photograph of Owen Peshlakai. "This was never a camp. It was a stage. Set for an audience of two."
The shame of being so easily tricked burned hotter than the desert sun. They were both silent for a few moments, thinking.
"We have to get back," Kari finally said, forcing her limbs to move. The urgency was a fire now, burning away the paralysis. "Every minute we're out here, he's getting farther away from Brennan."
The hike back was a brutal, punishing descent. There was no caution now, no quiet stalking. It was a controlled fall down the mountain, their boots skidding on loose rock, their lungs screaming for air. The beauty of the canyon was gone, replaced by a hostile geometry of obstacles that stood between her and her duty. Kari pushed herself relentlessly, fueled by a self-recriminating fury. She replayed the meeting in her head, every word she had said, every assumption she had made. She had been so confident of his plan.
And he had used that confidence against her.
They reached the truck in just over an hour, half the time it had taken them to ascend. They were soaked in sweat, covered in dust, and their legs were trembling with exertion. Kari threw her pack in the back and slid behind the wheel, her hands shaking as she jammed the key into the ignition.
The drive back to the main highway was a reckless, jarring ride. She pushed the truck harder than she should have, the tires spinning in the dirt, the suspension groaning in protest. She had to get back to the scene of the ambush. She had to see it, to understand how he had done it.
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