by Meryl Sawyer
"No wonder the Stanfields haven't announced the return of their missing son. Believe me, they're waiting to steal headlines nationwide," she told him. "Senator Stanfield is retiring and his son, Tyler, plans to run for his senate seat. This news will get media attention no other candidate can compete with."
"Maybe that's why they've kept quiet." Matt braced his elbows on the desk and studied her. For a moment it was like old times; they were sitting together, working on a story. "What if I told you that Logan McCord doesn't want to change his name to Stanfield?"
"I'd say he's smart," she replied before she could stop herself. "It's hard to believe, though, coming from a guy whose job it is to guard the embassy. The Stanfields are one of the richest families in this country. Their name alone opens doors that are forever closed to someone like that."
"Sorry if I gave you the impression the man was just a grunt stationed in front of the embassy with a rifle. He's part of the Cobra Force. They're responsible for anti-terrorist activities abroad." He rolled his eyes, then smiled at her. "God only knows what they really do. Cobra Force activities are classified top secret."
The beat of silence following his statement warned her. "Okay, Matt. What aren't you telling me?"
"I have the classified CIA report on Logan McCord out in the clunker I rented. Why don't you read it?" He checked his watch. "I've got to get back to the airport. I have a jet standing by to fly me to Dallas for a meeting. I'll give you my cell phone number."
"Save me some time. Tell me what the top-secret report says."
He turned his head slightly and gave her the half-smile she remembered so well. She couldn't help wondering what would have happened between them if Daniel hadn't come into her life. Then died so tragically.
"Kelly, the file indicates Logan has a psychological disorder. I'm not going to be surprised if the Stanfields want to distance themselves from him. The senator may be retiring, but he's still on everyone's short list to run for president. With Tyler Stanfield running for his father's senate seat, I don't think they want anyone looking into Logan's work with the Cobra Force."
"You're saying Logan was involved in one of those controversial government projects or something?"
"Absolutely." Without warning his hand closed over her right shoulder. "The military breeds certain men—like Logan McCord—who are nothing more than trained killers."
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
Kelly sat in the den of the ranch where she'd grown up, reading the file on the disappearance of Logan Stanfield that she had dug out of the newspaper's basement after Matthew had left. Last year when she had returned home to be with Pop, Kelly had moved into one of the guest houses on the property. She wanted to be near her grandfather, but allow both of them privacy. She often worked in the large den that was lined with books and family photographs rather than stay alone in the two-room casita where she slept.
There was something comforting about the room where she had done her homework in front of the river rock fireplace on cool winter evenings. Pop would be in his favorite chair, the old leather recliner, reading stories that had come over the UPI earlier in the day. When she was here, it was as if time had stood still and she was just a young girl again.
But time stood still for no man, she reminded herself as she gazed out the window into the darkness. She was grown now, and it was her responsibility to take care of Pop. Not that she minded. Even if her career hadn't just taken a nosedive when she had learned about Pop's heart attack, she would have returned home to be with him.
"Jasper, I wonder what Pop will think about Logan reappearing?" she asked the young golden retriever who was at her feet.
The dog cocked his head as if he really understood, and Kelly stroked his sleek ears. When Kelly had gone away to college and Pop had been left alone, he'd become active with Guide Dogs of America. He'd taken in a series of puppies and kept them until they were fifteen months old, getting them ready to train as guide dogs.
Pop had needed something to fill his life, Kelly reflected. He'd been a widower accustomed to living alone when Kelly's parents had been killed. Suddenly, he found himself cast in the role of being both mother and father to a young girl.
He'd done remarkably well. This room, this house, had been filled with love and laughter. If her own parents had lived, Kelly doubted they could have done a better job. She hardly remembered them now, recalling little more than vague images. Without the family photograph album, she would never have recognized their faces.
"What did Logan McCord feel when he heard the news?" she asked the dog. "Did he remember the Stanfields?"
Jasper licked her hand in response as Kelly stared at the grainy copy of Logan McCord's passport photograph that had been in the top secret file Matt had given her. The only known photograph of Logan McCord revealed a scowling man with close-set eyes and buzz cut that made it impossible to tell the exact color of his hair, but it appeared to be brown.
"Logan speaks three languages fluently, Spanish, Portuguese, and French."
Kelly spoke out loud, knowing how important it was for guide dogs to be accustomed to people talking to them. Relationships between guide dogs and their owners were exceptionally close. To that person the dog was not just a dog, it was a lifeline in a dark world. Jasper put his muzzle on Kelly's knee, listening to every word.
"His personality profile is interesting. His IQ is off the charts. But the word loner is written in caps. The psychologist scribbled 'Haas Factor' in the margin. Matthew thinks it's a psychological disorder akin to a death wish," Kelly rattled on, patting the dog. "I'm going to check with a psychologist."
She gazed down at the dozen or more photographs of the little boy the newspaper had used while covering Logan Stanfield's disappearance. He had been an adorable child with blond hair and blue eyes, yet he had grown up to be a very homely man.
"It could be this terrible picture. Heaven knows my passport photo is downright scary," she told Jasper, and the retriever wagged his tail sympathetically. "I'm going to need several current photographs of him for the Exposé article."
Kelly could almost hear Pop huffing with disgust and railing about how journalism had become nothing more than mindless images without underlying substance. He had a point, but people adored Exposé and had made it the nation's foremost newsmagazine.
"All I have to do is find Logan. I'll snap a few pictures myself."
Kelly concentrated on the photographs used when Logan had disappeared. She was struck by how young and handsome Haywood Stanfield had looked that first year he'd been in the United States Senate. His rich chestnut hair was gray now, but still thick, and his eyes were just as blue, just as compelling.
Haywood Stanfield had a certain bearing, a way about him that someone is either born with or will never possess, she decided, gazing at the photograph of the senator and his wife, Ginger, with their newly adopted son. Logan's light hair and blue eyes reminded Kelly of Ginger and the twins, Tyler and Alyx. Tyler and his strikingly beautiful sister, Alyx had inherited their mother's cool Nordic blond looks.
Kelly preferred "Woody" Stanfield's more masculine appearance. She held up the shot of him with the newly adopted child. The angular planes of the senator's face were enhanced by a square jaw and a nose some might consider too long. But his warm smile tempered his sharper features.
The smile that had won him thousands of votes was highlighted by two unusual dimples. They didn't appear in the center of his cheeks the way most dimples did, instead his smile caused indentations high on cheekbones just beneath the outer corner of his eyes. Time had weathered Woody's face and the dimples were now almost lost among the skein of lines around his eyes.
Still, he was a very handsome, charming man. Pop might berate Haywood Stanfield for his ultra-conservative politics, but people adored him. Even with Ginger's drinking and emotional problems, the man might become the next president.
"Stranger things have happened," Kelly said, but Ja
sper was now napping at her feet.
From the kitchen beyond the den, Kelly heard the back door open, and Uma Begay came in as she always did before long before dawn to begin cooking. Uma had been Pop's housekeeper since he'd unexpectedly found himself with a young girl to raise. She was part Hopi but mostly Navajo, born to the Falling Rock Clan, for the River Bend People. Begay was a common name like Smith or Jones, and Uma was related to most of the Native Americans in the area either through her Hopi lineage or her Navajo clan connections.
"Yaa' eh t'eeh," Kelly greeted Uma in Navajo.
"Yaa' eh t'eeh," Uma flounced into the kitchen, wearing a traditional dark blue velvet blouse with hand-tooled silver buttons and a pale blue skirt that brushed the beaded tops of her squaw boots. Her glossy black hair had turned a rich shade of pewter over the years, but she still wore it the Navajo way, tied in a sleek bun at the nape of her neck.
Uma was putting on a plaid apron when Kelly came in with Jasper at her heels. It was the Navajo tradition to exchange stones about everyone they knew. It was hard for Kelly to believe Logan's reappearance could have been kept quiet this long since so many Native Americans worked at the Stanfield estate.
"Is there anything interesting going on at the Stanfields?" Kelly asked.
"Get real! Tyler Stanfield is fixing to run for the senate. He's holed up with Benson Williams writing campaign speeches. That's about all that is happening out there."
Kelly banked a smile. Uma was such a kick. She practiced centuries-old Navajo rituals, yet each day she watched soap operas on the small TV in the kitchen, patterning her speech after hip Hollywood types.
Where was Logan Stanfield? After Matt had left, Kelly had called every hotel in town. Logan wasn't registered anywhere, so she assumed he must be staying with the Stanfields.
"Uma, do me a favor. Call your cousin, Jim Cree. Ask him if he's seen any strangers at all."
Jim Cree was quite elderly now, but an expert horseman who was in charge of the Stanfields' prize-winning Arabians. He was also a yataalii—a shaman. According to the files Kelly had been reading about Logan's disappearance, Jim Cree had been working at the ranch back then. A very desperate Haywood Stanfield had asked the shaman to help locate his missing son.
Shamans prided themselves on their ability to locate things that had been lost. For weeks, Jim Cree had tried in vain to find the child. If anyone would be acutely aware of his return, it would be the yataalii.
"I'll ask Jim if he's met any strangers," Uma responded.
It took a second for Kelly to realize there was an odd note in Uma's voice. Navajos rarely lied; it was against everything they were taught since they could bounce on their mother's knee. They skirted outright lies by not including every detail.
"Uma, did Jim report anything or anyone unusual anywhere around the estate?" The broadness of the question was deliberately designed to flush out the entire story.
The older woman concentrated on breaking an egg in half and pouring the egg into a small bowl to be used later. Like many Navajos, she scoffed at measuring-spoons, using half an eggshell instead, the way her ancestors bad.
"Uma?" Kelly prompted, positive she was onto something.
"Jim saw someone out at the old hogan near Sand Creek."
Kelly had often ridden horses out to Sand Creek when she'd been younger. She pictured the abandoned round stone structure with its domed earth roof and the pole corral behind it. Why would Logan McCord be out where there was no electricity and the only water came from a rusty windmill?
"What did Jim see at the hogan?" Kelly asked.
Uma hesitated, looked around, then lowered her voice. "A skinwalker."
"A witch?" Kelly couldn't keep the disappointment out of her voice. No wonder Uma had been evasive. Pop had encouraged Kelly to learn about the positive aspects of Navajo culture. They set high standards for personal conduct and valued family above all else.
Living their lives with honor and in harmony—hozro—with the world around them was important. Respect for nature and the environment were cornerstones of their beliefs. But the flip side was a world ruled by the unexplainable and that meant the supernatural. Years ago, Pop had forbidden Uma to discuss witches with Kelly.
Despite Pop's unwillingness to embrace the darker elements of Navajo culture, Kelly had managed to wheedle the Native American superstitions out of Uma when Pop wasn't around. Skinwalkers or witches dominated the dark side of life. A person became a witch by violating a sacred tribal taboo like incest or murder. Once a person had "crossed over" to the nether world, the skinwalker could take any shape. He might be a man one day, an eagle the next.
Or become invisible.
Uma turned her back to Kelly. "The skinwalker is staying in the hogan."
* * *
Ten minutes later, Kelly was driving Pop's Jeep across town to Sand Creek. "A skinwalker isn't out there," she told herself. "It's a gulcher."
Sedona, the elite haven for artists and their wealthy patrons, refused to acknowledge a problem with the homeless. Even so, drifters were drawn by the magnificent vistas and the temperate climate. They lived in the numerous gulches and ravines in the area. Locals called them "gulchers" and pretended they didn't exist.
It seemed highly unlikely that Logan McCord would be out at the remote hogan. In a few hours it would be light. She could wait until then, but her reporter's instincts told her to check out every lead now before the trail went cold again. She had her camera with her … just in case.
The hills flanking the deserted road jutted upward, ebony and jagged, blocking the moonlight except for places where it glimmered through a break in the red rocks. At the fork in the road stood a crumbling adobe church, a one-room structure dating back to pioneer days. Kelly turned left onto the single lane.
The dirt road was narrower and more rutted than she had expected. Few people traveled this way; there were no homes for miles. It was a vast track of national parkland. Her headlights cut through the darkness, revealing a sharp turn. She braked hard, sending a hail of loose gravel against the fender.
What passed for a road ended a few miles later becoming nothing more than faint grooves in the hard-packed red earth. It was difficult to imagine anyone, even a gulcher, way out here.
But Jim Cree had seen someone.
Kelly glanced down at Pop's forty-five on the seat beside her. Years ago, he'd taught her how to handle a gun, and he insisted she practice behind the barn where he had a target area. Pop had designed the targets himself. They were coyotes with the bull's eye at the base of the neck, focusing attention on the area where the animal could be quickly killed.
Coyotes were the scourge of the area, numerous and brazen. Once Kelly had dispersed a pack of coyotes who were attacking her cat. She hadn't been able to save Muffy, but she had killed the leader.
Knowing she was a crack shot made Kelly feel more comfortable venturing out into the dead of night. True, the area was safe; crime, even petty crime, was rare in Sedona, but common sense insisted that she take precautions. She'd taken Pop's gun out of the secret compartment in the grandfather clock and loaded it herself.
She stepped on the brake and put the Jeep into park where the road ended at the pair of mammoth boulders known as the Two Squaws. Behind the rocks sculpted by the wind was Sand Creek, a meandering stream that was dry most of the year, but it could be treacherous during monsoon season.
She switched off the headlights, tucked the large gun into the waistband of her jeans, and got out of the Jeep with a flashlight in her hand. She walked around the rocks, her tennis shoes sliding on the loose shale. In the distance, she saw the dome-shaped hogan that had never been occupied since Kelly had moved to Sedona.
It was eerily quiet. The wind came up at dawn, but this early not a whisper of a breeze stirred the branches of the cottonwoods along the creek or turned the ancient windmill that once provided water to the family who had built the hogan.
"This is just a wild-goose chase," she said out loud.
>
Feeling foolish, she took a deep breath. There was a purity to the air in the West, a clarity of sky that was never present in the city. The dazzling stars seemed closer, undiminished by bright city lights.
"Daniel," she murmured, recalling how much her late husband loved to gaze at the stars. "You're up there somewhere, aren't you, darling?"
Her vision blurred as the vise of sadness cinched around her heart. You could love someone so much it hurt. She thought time and moving out of New York would help. But it hadn't.
She missed Daniel more and more with each passing day. Every night she rolled over in bed, reaching for him.
Waking up alone.
She had always imagined them raising a family and growing old together. Now she had to face the rest of her life without the man she loved.
"Oh, Daniel, what am I going to do without you?"
A star twinkled at her, but it didn't have an answer. Be thankful for the time you had with someone you dearly loved, she thought. Be grateful not sad.
She blinked back the tears and started toward the hogan, her flashlight trained on the ground. It was the time of year the Navajos called "the season when snakes sleep," but the fall nights were still warm enough for snakes to hunt kangaroo rats.
The hogan was in worse condition than she had remembered. The round building had been built out of adobe mud bricks. The large chinks between the adobe had been filled with a mixture of mud and straw. Most of the mud had worn away, leaving wisps of straw sticking out.
Behind the hogan was a pole corral with a rusty water trough fed by a windmill that had tipped to one side since the last time Kelly had ridden past here. How long ago had that been? Kelly decided it must have been five years ago, the summer before she met and married Daniel Taylor.
The bleak, aching loneliness that seemed to be her constant companion swept over her again. She opened her eyes wide to keep back the tears. Another star winked in the sky brightening with the light of a new day. She liked to think of the twinkling stars as those she loved signaling to her from heaven.
