Native Cowboy

by Rita Herron

  The couple left together, holding hands.

  “Sherese said there was another victim,” Cara said as soon as the couple disappeared out the door.

  Mason nodded. “I just talked to the sheriff.”

  “How can you be sure it’s the same guy?”

  “I can’t until we look at the scene and the victim, but he buried her in the same Comanche ritualistic manner.”

  Anguish flickered across Cara’s face. “Let me get my bag and I’ll go with you.” She disappeared down the hall.

  Mason wanted to shield her from the sight of another murder, but he couldn’t do that. She was a doctor, the assistant coroner for God’s sake, and too entrenched in the investigation for him to hold back.

  Besides, if he’d even suggested it, she would have balked.

  Sherese shifted, obviously anxious. “You have to find this creep, Detective Blackpaw.”

  “I will,” Mason promised.

  Although how many more women would die before he did?

  * * *

  CARA AND MASON lapsed into a strained silence, both lost in worry over the case as they drove toward the dump. By the time they arrived at the dump on the country road, her nerves were completely frayed.

  The stench of the landfill clogged the air as they climbed out, and Cara paused to catch her breath while Mason retrieved his crime kit.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Mason said, his voice gruff.

  “Yes, I do.” Cara lifted her medical bag from the car, then forged ahead, leading the way to the sheriff’s car.

  “Where are the kids who found her?” Mason asked.

  “They were pretty shook up, so one boy’s father picked them up.”

  “They were clean?” Mason asked.

  The sheriff nodded. “Just a couple of adolescents,” McRae said. “Father assured me they’re good students. They had a science project, something about recycled products. That’s why they came here. I have their contact information in case we need to follow up.”

  “They didn’t see anyone?” Mason asked.

  “Naw. And we haven’t dug her up yet,” McRae said. “Waiting on you and the crime lab to do that.”

  Cara spotted the mound of dirt and stones and paused.

  For a moment, the cruelty of the killer’s disregard for the woman’s life, and her death, immobilized her. The poor

  woman’s eyes and forehead had been exposed, but the rest of her body was still underground.

  She glanced around the landfill, a chill engulfing her at the stench and piles of trash and garbage. “This is...even more vile,” she said. “Why bury her out here in this pit?”

  “Because he saw her as trash,” Mason suggested.

  Cara frowned. “It’s different from Nellie.”

  “Yet the same,” Mason said. “It’s almost as if he didn’t care if this woman wasn’t found.”

  “Like she didn’t deserve our attention,” Cara said, repulsed by the killer’s lack of respect for another human.

  “Yet he still used the stones when he could have just left her here,” Mason added, as if that fact perplexed him.

  “Which means this ritual is important to him,” Cara interjected. “It’s so ingrained in his belief system that even if he wanted to discard her body differently, he couldn’t do that or he’d defy his own faith.”

  Mason began to snap pictures while Cara snapped a few of her own. By then the crime unit arrived. They photographed the grave site, then Mason worked with one of the techs and the sheriff to comb the area for forensics. The problem was that there was so much territory and junk along with tire prints from garbage trucks that it would be hard to pinpoint anything out of place.

  Cara donned latex gloves, and she and the second crime tech brushed the dirt away to reveal the woman’s face. Cara prayed she wasn’t one of her patients, but as soon as the tech exposed her hair, she knew her prayers had gone unanswered.

  The woman’s name was Yolanda Farraday. She had brought a baby boy into the world two months ago and then given him up for adoption because she was terminally ill.

  Tears filled her eyes.

  Had the man who’d killed her known that she was sick?

  Or had he assumed she just hadn’t wanted her child?

  * * *

  MASON CURSED AS HE scanned the area near the grave site. The son of a bitch had to know that burying the victim here would make finding any evidence nearly impossible.

  Which was probably another reason he chose the spot.

  He found a button near the grave and bagged it. It looked like it came off a military jacket, but had a feeling it would be a dead end. The button could easily have come from the trash pile.

  “This is a nightmare,” the crime tech said. “Like a needle in a haystack.”

  Mason squinted as the Texas sun shimmered off the metal in the trash pile. The temperature was rising which would only make the stench intensify as the day wore on.

  “Hell, we didn’t turn up anything that would help us at the first crime scene. No surprise if he was just as careful here.”

  “I’ll take another look around,” the crime tech said.

  “Look for any signs of a navel fetish,” Mason told him. Although he hadn’t left one with the first victim—he’d given that gift to Cara.

  Antsy to check on her, he handed the button off to the crime tech to log into evidence, then returned to the grave site. Cara’s skin looked ashen as she leaned over the grave.

  “Cara?”

  She glanced up at him from where she was kneeling on the ground, and he saw the victim’s face, deathly white, covered in dirt, her hair a stringy mess, tangled in the soil.

  “Do you know her?” he asked, half praying she didn’t, that he was wrong and that this case didn’t revolve around her and the clinic.

  But pain flashed in her eyes and she nodded. “Her name is Yolanda Farraday. She’s thirty-four.”

  “Her injuries?”

  “The same as Nellie,” Cara said in a gravelly voice.

  Damn sick bastard.

  Cara pushed to her feet, swaying slightly, and he caught her. “Do you need to sit down?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not fair, Mason, it’s just not right.”

  He swallowed back his own disgust. Worry for her superseded anything else. “I know.”

  Cara gestured toward the body. “No, you don’t. The way he left her here, it’s not right.”

  “Of course it’s not right,” he said, anger lacing his voice. “He’s a maniac.”

  “But if he’s mad at these women for giving their children up for adoption, he should learn the whole damn story.” She walked to the edge of the landfill near a cluster of trees and leaned over as if she had to get some air.

  He didn’t blame her. Between the putrid odors of the landfill and the dead body, his own stomach was churning.

  Concerned about her and the baby, he strode over to her. “Cara?”

  A low sob ripped from her throat. “Yolanda did agree for another couple to adopt her child, but it wasn’t because she didn’t want her baby.”

  Mason frowned. He understood that sometimes people felt trapped in their circumstances whether it was poverty, lack of education, an abusive relationship. “What happened?”

  Cara wiped at a tear trickling down her cheek. “She was diagnosed with cancer shortly after she learned she was pregnant. She couldn’t carry the baby and undergo treatment, so she chose to give her baby life instead of saving her own.” She sniffed. “That’s the kind of unselfish woman she was.”

  Mason chewed the inside of his cheek. Had the killer known her history?

  If he had, would it have made a difference?

  Or was he too demented to possess any sense of moral decency at all?

  The sheriff approached, his boots crunching the gravel. “Are you finished, Dr. Winchester?”

  Cara nodded and dried her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Cause of death?” the sheriff asked.<
br />
  “It appears to be exsanguinations, just like Nellie Thompson. He cut out her reproductive organs, as well. But we’ll need to verify that with the autopsy.”

  “So we definitely have a serial killer,” Sheriff McRae mumbled. “The press is gonna be all over this.”

  “We aren’t going to reveal the details of the crime,” Mason said. “We have to hold back or we’ll have copycats trying to take credit for the murders.”

  “So what do we say?” Sheriff McRae asked.

  “I’ll talk to one of the profilers from the bureau. She can handle the press and offer a profile to help law enforcement and citizens know who to look for.” He showed the flier he’d taken from Sherese to the sheriff and Cara.

  “Do you remember this guy, Cara?”

  She studied it for a moment, then shook her head. “He could have left it with Sherese when I was gone. You know I divide my time between the BBL, the Winchester Clinic and the res.”

  “I’m going to question this preacher,” Mason said. “Then we’ll head to the res. You can talk to Sadie Whitefeather while I meet with Liam Runninghorse about the knife the killer used.”

  “What about the knife?” Cara asked.

  “It’s a handmade Native American piece,” Mason said. “Since this killer has used the same M.O. twice, he probably used the same type of weapon. If Runninghorse knows someone who favors this knife, maybe it’ll lead us to the killer.”

  * * *

  HE SAT PERCHED on top of his black stallion, watching as the sheriff and that half-breed Blackpaw combed the grounds near the grave. He’d done his homework on Blackpaw.

  The bastard boy had become a tracker for the police.

  But he had Indian blood in that brown body of his. And a mean streak that he tried to channel into hunting down those who broke the law.

  He was a worthy adversary. A man who would play the game until the end.

  Until death came for one of them.

  It would be for Blackpaw, but the man didn’t know it yet.

  He smiled, his blood heating as he’d watched tears fall from Dr. Winchester. She acted like a damn saint.

  But she wasn’t a saint. She was just as much a whore as the woman in the ground now. Just as much of a sinner.

  No, worse. She led the other lambs astray. Taught them to give away their young.

  But his people treasured their children more than life itself.

  And for her transgressions she had to pay.

  A vehicle arrived to transport Yolanda Farraday’s body, and he watched the men lift her from the grave. Dirt and debris fluttered down like brown snowflakes, her human remains stiff with rigor and ready to begin the descent into ashes.

  He glanced down at his palm and traced a finger over the strands of hair he had removed before he’d put her in the ground. He would thread them into the navel fetish he planned to leave on Dr. Winchester’s pillow tonight just as he had threaded Nellie Thompson’s hair through the first one.

  He wondered if their forensic team had figured out that secret yet.

  Still he kept a strand for himself, one that he would weave into the bow that he hung above his bed as a symbol of his devotion to his people and their ways.

  One strand for each of the women he would save.

  His bow wouldn’t be complete until his mission was complete, and Dr. Winchester lay in the ground beside her lambs where she belonged.

  Her hair would be the final strand in his bow, the one to make it complete.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cara closed her eyes while Mason drove toward Reverend Parch’s church. She hated to think that a man who professed to be serving God would use religion as an excuse to murder, but she’d read enough news stories to know that it happened.

  “Are you all right, Cara?” Mason asked.

  The afternoon sun was starting to fade, gray clouds moving in, adding to the gloomy atmosphere. “Yes.”

  “Does Yolanda have family?”

  “Just an elderly aunt who lives in a nursing home in Corpus Christi. That’s the reason she chose the adoption route.”

  Mason drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “How about the baby’s father?”

  “He died in Afghanistan.”

  “So he’s not a suspect.” Mason sighed wearily. “Is there anyone associated with one of your patients who lost paternity rights? Or someone who might not have known about their child and only recently found out?”

  Cara cut her eyes to him. Obviously that scenario hit too close to home. “At the clinic, our social worker counsels the women regarding their choices. She encourages the women to consult with their baby’s father in their decision. And the father has to sign away his rights to make it legal.”

  His shoulders relaxed slightly. “How about a custody issue? A domestic issue or addiction problem that would have rendered the father unfit to see his child or have a choice in the matter?”

  Cara massaged her temple where a headache pulsed. A memory tickled her conscience. A woman named Pauline... “Actually, there was a patient who had to get a restraining order against the man who fathered her baby. He was physically abusive.”

  Mason perked up. “What was his name?”

  “I don’t remember, but I can contact our social worker Devon and find out.”

  “Do it,” Mason said as he turned into town and drove down Main Street.

  Cara called Devon. After four rings, Devon answered, and Cara quickly explained the situation.

  “Pauline’s husband is in jail,” Devon said. “Has been for six months. He was caught running a meth lab so he won’t be out anytime soon.”

  Cara thanked her and hung up just as Mason pulled into the parking lot.

  “What did she say?” Mason asked.

  “It’s a dead end. Pauline’s husband is in prison.”

  They climbed out, passing a sign that welcomed all denominations and advertising that the church held two services, one in English and another in Spanish, as they walked to the front of the church.

  As they entered, organ music floated through the building. Cara was surprised at the interior. The outside looked faded and worn, but the walls had been painted soft muted colors that reflected the Native American and Mexican influences, and candles flickered on a table with a cross carved in stone above it like a welcoming shrine.

  Inside the chapel more candles glowed, adding a somber but calming feel. Stained-glass windows hung above a raised pulpit, allowing light to spill through the crystal colors creating a rainbow effect.

  Mason shifted as if uncomfortable. “Let’s see if we can find Reverend Parch.”

  He led the way down the center aisle toward the organ, and a moment later the woman playing it turned toward them.

  She was Hispanic with a short, robust build. “Welcome to Our Holy Cross,” she said with a beaming smile then grabbed a brochure to give them. “You come about our services?”

  “No, we need to talk to Reverend Parch,” Mason said. “Is he here?”

  “Sí.” She gathered her long skirt and gestured for them to follow her. Cara winced as they left the serene sanctity of the chapel and entered a darker hallway that led to the back of the building. It appeared dreary as if they hadn’t had time to fix it up yet.

  “Dr. Winchester,” he said as he stood. “I’m glad you finally decided to accept my invitation and come to church.”

  Cara shook his hand, a shiver traveling up her back as he squeezed her fingers a little too tightly. His gray eyes skated over her as if he found her unworthy and in need of help.

  Mason flashed his credentials, as Cara pulled her hand away. The reverend was much younger than she’d imagined. In fact, he had to be in his early thirties and with his dark hair and arresting eyes, some women probably found him attractive.

  But a darkness lurked beneath that calm smile.

  “I’m Detective Mason Blackpaw,” Mason said. “We have some questions to ask you, Reverend.”

  Reverend Parch ge
stured for them to take seats on a dark purple velvet couch in the corner. Cara’s legs felt unsteady so she was grateful to sit.

  The reverend fiddled with his wire-rimmed glasses then claimed a straight chair across from them, his robe billowing around him.

  Cara twisted her hands together. He reminded her of a televangelist who’d charmed followers into donating all their money and worldly goods to join his flock. Just before the police had exposed his scheme, he’d convinced half his congregation to commit mass suicide.

  Was she paranoid, or could this reverend actually have committed murder under the guise of saving souls?

  * * *

  MASON DISLIKED Reverend Parch from the moment he laid eyes on him. He had the kind of eyes that told lies with a smile.

  He laid the flier Parch had left at the clinic on the coffee table between them. “You brought this by the Winchester Clinic?”

  “Yes,” the reverend said. “I posted them all over town.” He flipped the file on his desk over so Mason couldn’t read the name, arousing Mason’s curiosity, then leaned forward and crossed his hands on one knee. “I haven’t been here long, but my goal is to grow the congregation and to welcome all sorts into our folds.”

  “All sorts?” Mason asked.

  Reverend Parch shrugged. “All nationalities, races, denominations,” he said. “We’re all God’s children. We praise Him together between these walls.”

  He wondered what else the man did between the walls when doors were closed.

  “Did you want to inquire about our services? Or is there something more personal preying on your minds?”

  Reverend Parch slanted a pointed look toward Cara, irking Mason more. “Actually, we’re here on business. Did you know a young woman named Nellie Thompson?”

  The preacher frowned. “Yes, she visited our church. I was so sorry to hear that she died.”

  “She was murdered,” Mason said, deciding to cut to the chase. He didn’t have time to play games. “Would you know anything about that?”

  “Just what I read in the paper.” Reverend Parch’s shoulders stiffened. “I did lead a prayer group for her the night we heard about her death.”

  Mason studied him. The man was meticulous, calm, cool. Too cool. “Did you know a woman named Yolanda Farraday?”