Murder in Black Canyon

by Cindi Myers

  Simon reached to pull her back, but Kayla grabbed his arm. “Let her go,” she said. “You’ll have better luck with Metwater without her there, getting worked up again.”

  He pulled his arm away. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

  “She’s right,” Michael said. “Metwater might be more candid without one of his pretty followers to impress.”

  Simon said nothing, but turned and led the way up the path to the camp, Michael and Kayla walking single file behind him. The camp seemed busier than usual, with at least a dozen people moving about among the collection of tents and trailers. An older woman supervised two men who were unloading supplies from a battered blue Volkswagen bus. A trio of children played with a black dog, throwing a stick and laughing as he retrieved it. Other women milled around the cooking fire in the center of the camp, while a group of men and women worked to construct a kind of brush arbor in front of one of the trailers.

  Several of the campers stopped to stare as the trio made their way across the compound, the utility belts of the two officers rattling with each step. They climbed the steps to Metwater’s RV and Simon knocked.

  No answer. Simon pounded harder. “Maybe he’s not in,” Kayla said.

  Simon looked around. “Where’s Metwater?” he called to a passing woman.

  She stared at him, then shook her head and fled.

  Simon beat on the door again. “Metwater, if you don’t open up in three I’m going to break the door down.”

  “Can he do that?” Kayla whispered to Michael.

  “He’s concerned for the occupant’s welfare,” Michael said, stone-faced.

  “One. Two.”

  The door opened and Daniel Metwater, in jeans and a loose shirt, glared at them. “You have no right to intrude on my home,” he said.

  Simon shouldered past him and the others followed. “If you prefer we can take you back to headquarters for questioning,” Simon said. “Your choice.” He turned to the young woman who sat on the black leather sectional that filled most of the RV’s living room. “You can leave now, miss.”

  She hurried away, not even pausing to say goodbye to Metwater. After the door had closed behind her, Simon addressed Metwater again. “Do you want to come with us, or answer our questions here?”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you.” He flopped onto the couch, one arm stretched along the back, the casualness of the pose a sharp contrast to Simon’s rigid posture.

  Kayla sat on the other end of the sectional. Metwater’s eyes followed her, but he said nothing. “Andi came to see me and she was very upset by some things you had told her,” she said.

  “There was no need for that,” Metwater said. “She would have found all the comfort she needed here, with her brothers and sisters.”

  “She said you told her her father, Senator Matheson, was dead.” Simon, still standing, moved between Kayla and Metwater. “How did you know that?”

  “I have prophetic dreams,” Metwater said. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “Then you must have known as soon as we heard about this particular prophecy we’d be here to question you,” Simon said.

  “Prophecy doesn’t work that way. I only receive the messages my higher power wants me to have.”

  “So your higher power told you the senator was dead.”

  Simon’s snide tone probably wasn’t helping the situation any, but Kayla kept quiet, shifting to the right so she could watch Daniel as he spoke. “I saw Senator Matheson’s body in a dream,” he said. “He was covered in blood. Too much blood to be alive.”

  “Or maybe you saw his body in real life,” Simon said. “When you killed him.”

  “I didn’t kill the senator.” Metwater’s expression remained indifferent. “I’ve never even met him.”

  “How did he die?” Michael, who had remained standing near the door, spoke for the first time.

  “I don’t know,” Metwater said.

  “Where is he now?” Michael asked.

  “I don’t know that, either. All I saw was his body in a dream.”

  “And that was enough for you to decide to upset Ms. Matheson by telling her her father was dead?” Simon demanded. Kayla thought she detected real anger in his expression.

  “What is upsetting for her now will be better for her in the long run.”

  “And who are you to decide that?” Simon loomed over him. “The poor woman was devastated. Did you enjoy that? Did you enjoy deliberately causing her pain?”

  Metwater straightened. “Now she can grieve and get on with her life. She can finally cut her last ties with her old life and move into a brighter future.”

  “Was that your plan all along?” Simon asked. “Get rid of her lover, Frank Asher. Then get rid of her father. What about the child? Do you plan to do away with it, too?”

  Metwater shoved himself to his feet, so that he was nose to nose with him. “Get out!”

  “I could arrest you,” Simon said.

  “For what? For having a dream?”

  The two men stared at each other for a long, tense moment. Kayla glanced at Michael and saw that he had moved closer, his right hand hovering over the gun at his side, ready to defend his fellow officer if Metwater attacked.

  Simon took a step back. “If I find out what you saw was more than a dream, I’ll be back,” he said. He strode out of the RV and the others followed.

  “Kayla.” Metwater stopped her at the door.

  Startled, she turned. “Yes?”

  “Is Asteria—Andi—going to be all right?” he asked. “I thought knowing her father was at peace would be better than the uncertainty of not knowing what had happened to him. Then she left here, so upset, and I heard she had left the camp altogether. I sent people after her, but they couldn’t find her. I didn’t think she would go to the Rangers.”

  His concern seemed genuine. “Have you ever lost someone you were close to?” Kayla asked.

  His expression darkened. “My father and I were not close. I was always a disappointment to him.”

  “What about your brother? Didn’t I read he died last year?”

  “Yes.” He looked away. “Yes, David and I were close.”

  “Then you know a little of what Andi is going through right now. If her father really is dead—and she can’t be sure until the body is found—it will take her time to process what has happened and heal. You can help by letting her take things at her own pace. Be there for her, but don’t press her to behave any certain way.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. And thank you—for being a friend to Asteria, and for not judging me so harshly.”

  Simon and Michael were waiting at the bottom of the steps when Kayla emerged from Metwater’s trailer. They said nothing on the walk back to the Cruiser, but once they were all buckled in, Simon turned to her. “What did Metwater have to say to you after we left?” he asked.

  “He wanted to know if I thought Andi would be all right.”

  Simon grunted and started the car. The ride back to Ranger headquarters was as silent as the journey there had been, until they turned onto the highway. “What’s your impression of Metwater?” Simon asked.

  Kayla looked up and met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I’m surprised my opinion matters to you,” she said.

  “Dylan said you were a good observer, and a good judge of character.”

  This information pleased her more than she cared to admit. She considered her impression of Metwater. “I think a man would have to be arrogant beyond belief to kill a man, then describe seeing the body and try to pass it off as a dream,” she said.

  “Metwater is pretty arrogant,” Michael pointed out.

  “Yes, but he’s also very smart,” she said.

  “So you’re saying you think he real
ly had a dream where he saw Pete Matheson’s body covered in blood?” Simon asked.

  “Maybe. I mean, it doesn’t sound logical, but I guess stranger things have happened.” Her father liked to claim he had prophetic dreams, too—usually as a way of providing “evidence” to support whatever decision he had already made. But a few times his dreams had been eerily prescient. Kayla had always dismissed this as coincidence, but still...

  “Peter Matheson is missing,” she said. “When someone goes missing, death is always a possibility, so Metwater may be manipulating that possibility to make himself look good.”

  “How so?” Michael turned to look over the seat at her.

  “He says he saw the senator dead. If we find a body, he can say he foretold it, and show how powerful he is. He impresses his current followers and makes them even more loyal, and maybe he recruits a few new ones. If the senator turns up all right, Matheson can say what he saw in his dream was the senator injured—either physically or psychically—and he merely misinterpreted the image. He’ll manage to talk his followers into seeing this as another example of how tuned in he is with a higher power.”

  “You’ve given a lot of thought to this,” Simon said. “I’m impressed. And I agree—Metwater is up to something. And we’re going to find out what.”

  * * *

  THE SUN WAS setting by the time Dylan pulled into Ranger Brigade headquarters, and his shoulders ached from so many hours behind the wheel. Michael Dance looked up from his desk when Dylan entered. “How was Denver?” he asked.

  “It’s a big city with too much traffic.” He glanced around the empty office. “What happened with Andi Metwater? Did they really find the senator?”

  “Pull up a chair and I’ll fill you in.”

  A half hour later Dylan sat back and shook his head. “And Peter Matheson still hasn’t turned up—dead or alive?”

  “We checked and there’s been no sign of him, nor any indication of foul play. The Feds checked out his house and his office. He’s vanished. But Metwater sure convinced Andi that her father is dead.”

  “And we don’t have any proof Metwater killed him.”

  “None.” Michael drummed on his desk with a pencil. “And why admit knowledge of the crime if he did do it? He had to know it would focus all our attention on him as suspect number one.”

  “What about Zach and Abe? Did you get anything more out of them?”

  “Not really. The district attorney agreed to a lesser charge of leaving the scene of an accident and reckless driving. They both have clean records, so they’ll probably get off with a fine and probation. And they’ve agreed to remain available if we have any more questions.”

  “They’re lucky to get off so lightly.”

  “Except they’re still crying about Metwater taking their stuff. We told them that was a civil matter they needed to take up with a lawyer. After all, they did voluntarily sign everything over to the Prophet.”

  “I’m beginning to think that whole bunch over there are crazy,” Dylan said.

  “Crazy like a fox,” Michael said. “Kayla thinks Metwater is using this so-called prophecy to manipulate his followers to think he has special powers. If the senator really is dead, he predicted it. If Matheson turns up safe and sound he can offer a different interpretation of his dream and still make himself look right.”

  Dylan nodded. “I guess it makes sense in a twisted way.”

  “She’s pretty smart—Kayla, I mean.” Michael gave him a long look.

  “What?” Dylan asked.

  “Are you two, you know, together?”

  “I’m not sleeping with her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “No, that’s not what I was asking. Relax. I just thought you seemed interested in her. And you’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

  Dylan shoved himself out of his chair. “Yeah, I’m interested in her. But I’m not sure she feels the same way about me.”

  “Has she told you to back off?”

  “No.”

  “Then she’s interested.” Michael grinned.

  “Who made you an expert?” Dylan asked. “They told me you were still a newlywed.”

  “Yep. And I met my wife while working on a case. She found a body in the wilderness, too. And she wasn’t that crazy about me the first time we met, but I won her over.” He stood also. “I’m calling it a night.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” They left together, headed in the same direction out of the parking lot. But when Michael turned off toward the duplex he and his wife, Abbie, rented near the park, Dylan continued into town.

  It was almost eight o’clock when he parked in front of Kayla’s house. Light glowed from the front windows and he caught the scent of jasmine from the vine that wound up the porch post. Maybe it was too late to drop in. He sat in the Cruiser, debating, until the front door opened. “Do you want to come in, or are you staking out the place?” Kayla called.

  He climbed out of the car and went to her. He didn’t even wait for her to say anything, but pulled her close and kissed her—long and hard, not holding back how much he wanted her. She went very still at first, then melted against him, her arms around his back, letting him take what he wanted.

  When at last he released her, she took a step back, her cheeks flushed. “What was that for?” she asked, searching his face.

  “I had a hard day and I needed to kiss you.” He walked past her into the house.

  She closed the door and followed him into the kitchen, where he was leaning into the open refrigerator. “I’m starved,” he said. “I could use a sandwich, and a beer.”

  She grabbed his arm and tugged him away from the fridge. “Sit down. I’ll fix you something to eat. Tell me about your day.”

  “You first,” he said, settling into a chair. “I want to know about Andi Matheson. I hear she showed up at the office, distraught.”

  “Did you also hear why? That Daniel Metwater had a dream about her father?”

  “Yeah. Ethan filled me in. Is she going to be okay?”

  “I think so.” Kayla took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, opened it and handed it to him. “In a way, her faith in Metwater, or in whatever he represents for her, will help her in her grief, though I wanted to shake him for being an idiot.”

  Dylan took a long pull of the beer and felt more of the day’s tension drain away. “Ethan said you thought Metwater cooked the whole thing up to make himself look good,” he said.

  “Probably.” She pulled out bread, meat and cheese and began assembling a sandwich.

  He watched her work, smooth and competent, her brow creased in thought. “Did your father do that kind of thing?” he asked. “Make predictions to manipulate people?”

  “Oh, yes. He was a master at it. Even I believed him, when I was too young to know better.” She turned to face Dylan. “When I was seven, more than anything I wanted this particular doll that was popular at the time. One of those dolls that come with a storybook and matching outfits and furniture and everything. My father told me that if I prayed and had enough faith, I would get the doll for Christmas. I spent hours on my knees that November and December. By the time Christmas came I was absolutely certain that doll would be mine.”

  “And you didn’t get it.” He could read the pain in her eyes, a wound that lingered even after all these years.

  “No. I was heartbroken. When I started crying, my father told me it was my own fault, because I didn’t have enough faith.” She turned back to the sandwich. “I think that was when I stopped believing at all.”

  Dylan’s fingers tightened around his beer. What kind of person treated a child that way? “Where was your mother?” he asked.

  “Oh, she always went along with whatever my father said. She was an obedient servant, like we were all supposed to be. But
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be good and follow orders only on his say-so. I had to see a reason behind his commands, and too often there wasn’t any logic, just what he had decided he wanted, or what would make the best impressions on others.”

  “I wish I had known you then,” Dylan said. “I would have told you you were better and smarter than any of them.”

  She set the sandwich in front of him. “Don’t fret over it. I don’t. Or not usually.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “After all, you’re the private investigator of the year.”

  “On the Western Slope of Colorado. There aren’t that many of us.” She took another beer from the refrigerator, opened it and sat across from him. “There are also awards for rookie of the year for a brand-new PI, awards for senior investigators and heroism on the job and who knows what else. Apparently, when the current president took over, she was determined to wring as much publicity as possible out of what had been a fairly sedate dinner.”

  “So have you picked out a new dress to wear, and practiced your acceptance speech?” he asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t even want to think about it.” She sipped from her beer. “Tell me about your day. You saw Frank Asher’s widow. What else?”

  “That was enough.” He took a bite of sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “It isn’t the violence of this job that gets to me,” he said. “I expected that. And the danger—well, most cops will admit that can be a rush. But what grinds me down sometimes is all the ways people can be mean to each other. I sat there with Veronica Asher and all I saw was a beautiful woman, a devoted mother and daughter, who was worn out with grief and hurt. Her husband made a promise to be there for her and then he broke it. And Andi Matheson was hurt, too—by Frank Asher’s lies and by Daniel Metwater’s manipulation. You were hurt by your parents, and hearing about it makes me want to do something to make it right, but I know there’s nothing I can do—for any of you.”

  She stood and came around the table and put her hand on his shoulder. “Move your chair back.”

  He scooted it back and she sat in his lap. “Being with you makes me feel better,” she said. “Isn’t that enough?” She kissed his cheek, then his lips.