The two cases, Natanii’s and Sandoval’s, circled in her mind, two points of data beginning to form a terrifying line. And the ghost of a third case, her mother’s, was the gravitational pull she was trying her best to ignore.

  “This is a long shot, Kari,” Ben said after nearly an hour of silence. He wasn’t being critical, just stating a fact. “Two different ceremonies, different locations, different counties. The only thing they have in common is the peyote.”

  “They have more than that in common,” Kari countered, her eyes fixed on the shimmering ribbon of asphalt ahead. “They were both ruled accidents. Both victims were experienced participants who, according to the initial reports, more or less slipped out without a word. And nobody saw anything.” She shook her head. “We've both been doing this too long to think that's a coincidence.”

  Ben grunted but offered no further reply.

  The address for Samuel Sandoval was a few miles outside Sanders, down a dirt road that kicked up a plume of fine white dust behind them. The house was small and neat, a rectangle of pale stucco with a bright turquoise door. A lovingly tended garden, dormant for the winter, was laid out in tidy, rock-lined beds.

  On the porch, covered by a heavy canvas tarp, was the unmistakable shape of a large, upright weaving loom. It was a home filled with a life’s work, a place of color and creation, now sitting under a heavy blanket of grief.

  A man who had to be Samuel Sandoval opened the door before they even knocked. He was in his late fifties, his hair more gray than black, his face a mask of exhausted sorrow. His eyes were red-rimmed and hollow.

  “Mr. Sandoval?” Kari began. “I’m Detective Blackhorse with the Navajo Nation Police. This is my partner, Detective Tsosie.” She held up her badge. “I am so sorry for your loss. I know this is a terrible time, but we were hoping to ask you a few questions.”

  He just nodded, his gaze distant, and stepped back to let them in. The house smelled of juniper and fried potatoes. The living room was filled with Maria’s work. Two stunningly intricate rugs hung on the walls, their geometric patterns vibrant and perfectly executed. Others were folded neatly in a pile on a wooden chest. It was the room of an artist at the height of her powers.

  They sat at a small kitchen table while Samuel poured them glasses of water.

  “I already told the other deputy everything,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “Maria… she went for the ceremony. Sometimes she did. For her spirit. For her hands.” He looked down at his own hands, then clasped them on the table. “She had arthritis. It was getting bad. She was afraid she would have to stop weaving.”

  “We understand,” Kari said gently. “Mr. Sandoval, another death occurred last night, under very similar circumstances. A man named Jerome Natanii. He also supposedly wandered away from a ceremony and had an accident. That’s why we’re here. We think there may be a connection.”

  Samuel looked up, and for the first time, a flicker of something other than grief crossed his face. Confusion. A sliver of fear.

  “Can you tell us about the ceremony Maria attended?” Ben asked, his tone soft. “Who was the roadman? Were there many people there?”

  “It was led by a man named Haske,” Samuel said. “He’s a good man. Very respected. I don’t know how many people. Twenty, maybe? Maria knew most of them. It was her community.”

  “Were there any outsiders there?” Kari asked. “Anyone who wasn’t part of the community?”

  Samuel shrugged, a weary movement of his shoulders. “Those university people are around sometimes. The botanist."

  "Botanist?" Ben asked.

  Samuel made a vague gesture. "The woman who studies the plants. I don't remember her name. Anyway, Maria said she was respectful." He sighed. "I don’t think she was there that night, so I don't know why I mentioned her." He trailed off, looking lost.

  He hadn’t been there. He had kissed his wife goodbye, told her he hoped she found the healing she was looking for, and had woken up the next morning to a world where she no longer existed.

  “Did she seem worried about anything before she left?” Kari pressed. “Other than her hands?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “She was hopeful. She believed in the medicine. She believed in the protection of the circle.” His voice broke on the last few words, and he looked away. “She would not have just… wandered off. Not Maria. She was strong. She knew the desert. Even in a vision, she knew the rules. You stay with the fire. You stay with the songs.”

  He stood up abruptly. “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

  He led them to a small, sun-filled room at the back of the house. It was Maria's studio. The large loom stood in the center, a work in progress still stretched upon it. A complex pattern of deep reds and blacks was about a quarter of the way finished. Spools of brightly colored yarn filled baskets on the floor. A design was sketched out in a notebook on a nearby table. It was a space humming with arrested energy, a conversation stopped mid-sentence.

  Kari walked over to the loom, her fingers hovering just above the tightly stretched threads. She could feel the intent, the years of skill, the spirit woven into the work. This was not the creation of a careless person. This was the work of someone with deep focus and a powerful connection to her heritage.

  A woman like Kari's mother.

  “The deputy said it was an accident,” Samuel said from the doorway, his voice hollow. “He said she got lost. But I look at this… and I know he’s wrong. Something took her from this. And it wasn’t an accident.”

  The drive back was even quieter than the one to get there. The sun was low in the sky, painting the clouds in shades of orange and bruised purple. They had a name, Haske, but little else. No concrete evidence. Just the conviction of a grieving husband and the echo of her own suspicions.

  They were nearly back in their own territory when Ben finally spoke.

  “He’s a heartbroken man, Kari,” he said carefully. “He’s looking for a reason for something that makes no sense. It’s easier to believe in a monster than a random accident.”

  “And you think that’s all this is?” Kari asked, her voice flat.

  “I think we have two deaths, miles apart, with different participants and no physical evidence of foul play at either scene,” he said. “All we have is a feeling. We can’t build a case on a feeling.”

  “It’s more than a feeling, Ben,” she insisted, turning to look at him. “It’s a pattern. Both victims were grounded, experienced. They knew the rules. Something happened in those circles that made them break the rules.”

  “Or the medicine was just stronger than they expected,” he countered. “It happens.”

  “Not like this,” she said, her conviction a hard knot in her stomach. “Not twice in three days.”

  She turned her attention back to the road, her mind working, turning over the pieces. Ben was right about one thing. They had nothing tangible. They were on the outside of a protected world, trying to understand a crime that had been designed to be invisible to them. She could feel the jurisdictional walls closing in, the cultural barriers that made this investigation a minefield. Federal law protected the sanctity of these ceremonies, and the community’s deep-seated reluctance to discuss sacred practices with law enforcement was a shield she didn’t know how to get past.

  Every question she needed to ask felt like a trespass. She didn’t know the right way to approach the roadmen, the participants, the families. She didn’t have the language for it, the deep, instinctual understanding that came from a lifetime of participation. Her own avoidance of that world, the professional and personal distance she had so carefully cultivated, was no longer a strength. It was a crippling liability.

  How could she investigate a crime if she didn't understand the world in which it took place? How could she spot a lie if she didn't know the shape of the truth?

  "So what's our next move?" Ben asked, pulling her from her thoughts. "We can't just go knocking on the door of every tipi. Metaphorically speaking."

  Kari’s focus sharpened, seizing on the single, concrete detail. “We can start with the one thing we know,” she said. “The roadman from Maria Sandoval’s ceremony. Haske.”

  Ben looked at her, confused. “He’s in Apache County. We have no jurisdiction to question him about a death they’ve already put to rest.”

  “We’re not going to question him about Maria’s death,” Kari said, a new line of inquiry forming in her mind. “We’re going to find out if he was also the roadman at Jerome Natanii’s ceremony last night.”

  Ben was silent for a moment, processing the implication. If the same roadman presided over both fatal ceremonies, it would transform their fledgling theory from a vague pattern into a hard, undeniable link. It would give them their first real suspect.

  “You think one roadman is connected to two deaths in three days?” he asked, the skepticism in his voice tinged with a new note of concern.

  “I think it’s the only direct connection we can prove or disprove right now,” she replied. “We need to talk to the participants from Jerome’s ceremony again. We need to find out who was leading the songs last night at Red Point.”

  It was a long shot, but it was a concrete step, a way to cut through the fog of feelings and jurisdictions. If the name was different, they were back to square one. But if the name was the same... if the name was Haske…

  Then their investigation was about to get very real, and very dangerous

  CHAPTER SIX

  The sun had long since set by the time they got back to the station, leaving the sky a cold, star-pricked sheet of black. It was nearly eight o’clock on a Saturday night. The fluorescent lights of the squad room felt harsh and unforgiving after the soft twilight of the drive. The adrenaline from the day had curdled into a bone-deep weariness, but the central question—Who had been the roadman at Jerome's ceremony?—was a live wire in Kari’s mind, making rest impossible.

  “The participants from Red Point have all gone home,” Ben said, scrolling through the preliminary contact list Officer Begay had compiled at the scene. “Most of them have residences scattered across the reservation. We’re not going to get anyone to talk to us tonight.”

  “We just need one,” Kari insisted, leaning over his shoulder to scan the names. “Someone who lives close. Someone who might still be awake.” She pointed to a name near the top of the list. “Eleanor Begay. Address is just outside Chinle. That’s less than twenty minutes from here.”

  “Kari, it’s late,” Ben said, a note of caution in his voice. “She’s an elder. We can’t just show up on her doorstep demanding answers about a sacred ceremony.”

  “We’re not demanding anything,” Kari countered, grabbing her jacket. “We’re going to ask one question. It’s the most important question of the entire investigation right now. It can’t wait until morning.”

  Ben sighed but didn’t argue. He knew that look on her face. It showed the same relentless drive that had made her a star detective in Phoenix, a motor that simply didn’t have an off switch when she was on a case.

  The address was a small, well-kept home at the end of a long dirt driveway. A single light burned in a front window. As they pulled up, a dog started barking from somewhere inside, a frantic, territorial sound.

  Kari took a deep breath before she got out of the SUV. Ben was right. This was a delicate situation, a collision of worlds. Her badge and gun felt like intrusions here, symbols of a system that had a long and troubled history with the very traditions she was now investigating.

  An older woman opened the door a crack, her face framed by a cascade of graying hair. She peered out at them, her eyes wary. The dog, a scruffy terrier mix, continued its tirade from behind her legs.

  “Mrs. Begay?” Kari said, keeping her voice soft, holding her badge up but not thrusting it forward. “I’m Detective Blackhorse. This is Detective Tsosie. I’m so sorry to bother you this late. We were at Red Point this morning. We just have one quick question about the ceremony.”

  The woman’s expression hardened. The word 'ceremony' seemed to cause a wall to go up. “The police have no business with the Church’s ways.”

  “I understand, ma’am,” Kari said, choosing her words carefully. Her lack of personal experience felt like a chasm between them. She was a cop asking about a sacred rite, and she didn’t have the language to bridge the gap. “We’re not investigating the ceremony itself. We’re investigating Jerome Natanii’s death. We believe he may have been harmed.”

  “The roadman said he had an accident,” Eleanor Begay stated, her voice flat, final. “The medicine was strong. Jerome’s spirit wandered. It is a tragedy, but it is a spiritual matter.”

  Kari felt a surge of frustration. She was speaking the language of law enforcement—harm, investigation, evidence. The woman was speaking the language of faith, spirit, medicine, and tragedy. They were talking past each other.

  “We have reason to believe his death may be connected to another one,” Kari pressed, feeling like she was losing ground. “Another accident. Another ceremony.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What other ceremony?”

  “One that took place three nights ago, near Sanders.”

  Eleanor Begay was silent for a long moment. The dog finally quieted down, as if sensing the shift in tone. “I don’t know anything about that,” she said, but her voice lacked its earlier conviction.

  “We just need to know one thing,” Kari said, deciding to be direct. “Who was the roadman at your ceremony last night? We just need his name.”

  The question hung in the cold night air. It was, Kari knew, a profound violation of protocol. The identity of a roadman, the specifics of who attended, these were matters for the community, not for outsiders with badges. She was asking this woman to break a deeply ingrained code of silence, to trust her, a stranger who represented a system that had rarely earned that trust.

  Eleanor Begay stared at Kari, her gaze sweeping over her, taking in the uniform, the determined set of her jaw, the braid pulled tight down her back. It was a long, silent assessment.

  “You are Anna Chee’s daughter,” she said finally.

  Kari was taken aback. “Yes.”

  “Your mother understood things,” the woman said, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. “She knew how to ask questions with respect.” The implied criticism stung. “This roadman… he is a good man. A respected man. These questions can only cause harm.”

  “Two people are dead, Mrs. Begay,” Kari said, her voice low. “If their deaths are connected, then we must figure out who is responsible. They're a threat to the very ceremonies you’re trying to protect.”

  The woman’s gaze flickered. Kari had struck a nerve. The idea of a threat from within, a corruption of something sacred, was a more potent fear than any police investigation. Kari expected Eleanor to invite them inside, or at the very least to relent and share the name of the roadman.

  Instead, she held her ground.

  “I cannot help you,” she said, and quietly closed the door.

  The click of the lock echoed in the silence. Kari stood on the porch, feeling the cold seep into her bones. She had failed. Her direct, cop-first approach had been a mistake. She had pushed when she should have listened, demanded when she should have invited.

  She knew how to ask questions with respect.

  They walked back to the SUV in silence.

  “I told you, Kari,” Ben said, his voice gentle as he slid into the passenger seat. “It’s not going to be that easy.”

  “She knows something,” Kari said, starting the engine. “She almost told me. I just… I pushed too hard.”

  “You’re a detective. It’s what you do. But in this situation, it might not be the right way.”

  Kari drove back toward the main road, her frustration a bitter taste in her mouth. She was a good cop. She knew how to read scenes, how to interview suspects, how to find the lie in a story. But this required a different skill set, one she had deliberately let atrophy. She didn’t know how to navigate this world of unspoken rules and spiritual loyalties. As much as she'd like to believe otherwise, she was still in some ways an outsider.

  By her own choice.

  They were almost back at the station when Ben’s phone buzzed. He answered it, his side of the conversation a series of quiet, “Yes… I see… Thank you.”

  He hung up and turned to her. “That was my cousin, Ira. The nurse at the IHS clinic.”

  “What about him?” Kari asked, distracted.

  “I called him after we left the Sandoval house,” Ben said. “I asked him to do something for me. Unofficially. The clinic keeps records of the roadmen who are certified with the NAC. It’s an informal list, mostly for community reference, for families looking for a reputable ceremony.”

  Kari’s head snapped toward him. “And?”

  “He said it took him a while to get a hold of the person who keeps the list. But he called him back.” Ben swallowed hard, looking troubled. “The roadman who filed the paperwork to hold the ceremony at Red Point last night, the one Jerome Natanii attended… his name is Haske.”

  The name landed in the quiet cab of the truck with the force of a physical blow.

  Haske.

  The same man who had led Maria Sandoval’s ceremony.

  It wasn’t a coincidence. It wasn’t a random tragedy. It was a hard link. A solid, undeniable connection between two deaths that were made to look like accidents.

  They had their first real lead. And they had their first real suspect. A respected traditional practitioner, a man known for his healing, was now at the center of a double homicide investigation. The case had just become infinitely more complicated, and infinitely more dangerous

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The name Haske hung in the air between them, a single word that changed everything. The weariness that had settled in Kari’s bones was burned away by a fresh surge of adrenaline.

  “Where does he live?” she asked, her voice tight with urgency.

 

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