by Cassie Miles
Artifacts. There was an arrowhead, a cheap peace pipe and an eagle feather. The note was another typed poem. Flynn held it up to the light and read:
Follow the Arrow
Into night’s gloom.
There you must go
Into Russell’s cave tomb.
Marisa eyed him expectantly. “This doesn’t seem to be about any memories of your distant past. Nor mine.”
“It’s about the Russell Graff investigation. He made his last stand in a cave at Hovenweep National Monument. It’s across the border in Utah. A lot of Anasazi ruins there. It’s not hard to find pottery shards and arrowheads.”
“Like Mesa Verde?”
“No cliff dwellings,” he said. “These villages were built at the edges of fields. All that’s left are the remnants of stone and adobe walls.”
In a way, Hovenweep was another ghost town. Where once the Anasazi civilization had thrived, there was now nothing left but ruins. Nothing left but bones. Like the Judge’s victims.
Flynn was beginning to deduce a pattern. All of the clues thus far pointed toward a fascination with death, starting with the ladybug whose house was on fire and her children burning. Then, the ghost town, the saloon filled with dead animals.
Now, the Judge was sending them to Native American ruins. The cave where Russell Graff had died.
This fixation on the macabre made him think of Eric Crowe’s little shop of horrors in Taos. The objects in the shoe box could have come directly from his stock.
Was Crowe the Judge? It was almost too obvious, and his gut still said no.
“How far to Hovenweep?” she asked.
“An hour-and-a-half drive. Maybe two.”
He started the engine and made a U-turn. Their entire night was being eaten up with these long drives from one location to another. That had to be the Judge’s plan. Keep them moving. Keep them so busy racing around that they never figured out what he was doing.
Beside him, Marisa was holding her cell phone. “Do I dare put through a call to Mackenzie?”
“Why?”
“For one thing, I’d like a full forensic investigation of that fitness club and its members. Fingerprints from that locker.”
“Tomorrow is soon enough,” he said. “If the Judge is monitoring communications, we don’t want to screw everything up by checking in.”
“You’re right.” She tucked her cell phone back into her pocket.
“Besides,” he said, “I have a fairly good idea about whose name we’ll find on the Fit ’n’ Fab membership list.”
“Whose?”
“Think about it,” he said. “The clue was in the ladies’ locker room. Why would the Judge go in there? Somebody might have seen him and called the police.”
“The person who planted the shoe box in the locker was a woman,” Marisa said. “Becky Delaney.”
She was his first choice, too. Becky Delaney from Eric Crowe’s shop in Taos. The Goth assistant with the goddess tattoo on her arm. “If she belonged to the fitness center, she might have other connections in Cortez. And I’ll bet she was the person in black who fired a shot through our windshield.”
“I never had her pegged as an accomplice,” she said. “When I mentioned the Judge serial killings, she seemed frightened.”
“Good actress.”
“Or she really didn’t know what she was getting into.”
“If Becky is involved,” she said, “that brings us back to Crowe as our primary suspect.”
“It’s not him,” he said. “My gut tells me that it’s William Graff.”
“Just possibly, you and your gut are wrong.”
Thinking back to her conversation in Taos, Marisa reviewed her first impressions of Becky Delaney. An attractive young woman in spite of the dyed black hair and heavy makeup. Becky tried to look Goth and willfully alienated, but her pale blue eyes told a different story.
Marisa had seen an eagerness to please. Becky wanted to say the right things, wanted acceptance. She was young and yearning. Looking for the place where she belonged. Looking for meaning in her life. With Eric Crowe?
She’d admitted to being close to Crowe at one time. But that had faded. When Crowe had touched her, Becky recoiled.
“She didn’t seem to like Crowe anymore. She seemed repulsed by him.”
“Isn’t everybody?”
“Seriously, Flynn. Why would she take these kinds of risks for somebody she didn’t care about?”
“An ideological thing,” he suggested. “Maybe some kind of misguided protest against the big bad FBI for harassing Crowe.”
She rolled that possibility around in her mind. It didn’t click. “That doesn’t fit.”
Leaving the lights of Cortez behind, they headed west across a deserted landscape. Thin moonlight cast mysterious shadows across the fields and distant mesas. In the distance, the San Juan range loomed like sleeping giants. This investigation was about secrets. Deeply hidden fears.
“What motivates Becky Delaney?”
He shrugged. “What does your gut tell you?”
She studied the outline of his rugged profile. The gut instinct thing worked for him. But not for her.
Her opinions were based on facts and figures, expert analysis. She exhaled a frustrated sigh. “It’s difficult to be cut off from all our normal resources. The Behavioral Analysis Unit. The psychologists. Data banks.”
If she were back behind her desk in San Francisco, she’d be pulling up computer records showing if Becky had a criminal record. She’d know if there had been unusual credit card activity. Or if Becky owned a registered weapon. “Trying to figure this out without resources is like going back to the dark ages of investigation.”
“You’re trying too hard,” he said. “Relax. Let go of the tension and tell me about your conversation with Becky.”
“That’s not logical. Or scientific.”
“According to Dr. Sterling, psychology isn’t much of a science, anyway.”
“Okay. Why not?” She had nothing to lose, and there wasn’t much else they could do during this drive to Hovenweep. Settling comfortably in the passenger seat, she allowed her mind to wander. “Becky knew Russell Graff. When we talked about him, she was animated. She might have even had a crush on him.”
“Even though he was a serial murderer?”
“She didn’t know that at the time. I think she identified with him. They were both adopted. Outsiders.”
“And she met Russell’s father.”
“That’s right. William Graff came by the shop with his son.”
“If William Graff is the Judge,” he said, “and I still think he is, he could have hired Becky do to his dirty work.”
“A girl like Becky isn’t motivated by money. She wants meaning. A sense of belonging. She wants to be loved.”
Flynn cast a curious glance in her direction. “How do you know so much about the motivations of a Goth girl with leather armbands and tattoos?”
“I was an outsider, too.”
He dismissed her statement with a casual shrug. “I suppose we’ve all felt like that. Alienated.”
“Not you,” she said. “No way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Take a look at yourself, Flynn. You’re tall, very nicely built and too damn handsome for your own good.”
A grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “Thanks, but I don’t—”
“This isn’t a compliment,” she said. “It’s a profile. You have natural charisma. A born leader. Men like to hang out with you because you’re a manly guy. Women are drawn to you because you’re…”
“I’m what?”
“Frankly, you’re hot.”
“Whoa, Marisa. That’s not how I think of myself.”
“If you did, you’d be a jerk. But you’re not. I bet you were always one of the popular kids when you were growing up.”
“Hell, no. I was a screwup.”
“But everybody liked you. Everybody knew you. Wh
en you asked girls out, they never refused.” Though he made self-deprecating noises, she continued, “I know what I’m talking about. I was kind of a nerd in high school. I used to sit at the lunchroom table and stare at the guys like you, dreaming of what it would be like to have you deign to speak to somebody like me.”
She’d said too much. Insecurity was a side to her personality that she preferred to keep well hidden.
“You were a nerd?”
“How do you think I got into Stanford? I had a killer IQ and nothing to do but study.”
Though she’d obviously moved on since high school and become a fairly competent adult, those pathetic years were burned into her memory. Every once in a while her wallflower identity resurfaced.
Back when she and Flynn had been dating and spending the night together, she used to watch him after he’d fallen asleep. She couldn’t believe how handsome he was, couldn’t believe that he wanted to be with her.
“I’m getting an idea,” she said, “a theory related to your inherent coolness.”
“Shoot.”
“Ever since we got that first note, I’ve been trying to figure out why the Judge focused on us. Why us? Why did he go to the trouble of researching your past?”
“To shame me.”
“Exactly right. Think of our three suspects.” She ticked off the points.
Eric Crowe, a physically unattractive man, had inherited great personal wealth. Yet, he didn’t fit in with his peers. He associated with outsiders, like Becky Delaney, and pretended to be a guru of the dark side.
When Crowe had talked to Flynn in his shop, he’d cringed nervously and started to sweat. He resented Flynn’s standing as the Alpha male.
Dr. Alexander Sterling had skipped grades in school. A victim of his own high intelligence, it was likely that he’d never socialized properly. It must have been difficult for him to get a date. When she looked at him, she saw a man who was emotionally shut down. Expressionless.
William Graff appeared to be the opposite of the other two. Successful. Aggressive enough to run a multinational business. But she had seldom seen an angrier or more competitive man. He’d been quick to sneer at Flynn’s upbringing.
“You’re a threat to them,” she said. “They resent you. They want to bring you down.”
“Okay. And how do you fit into this picture?” he asked.
She wasn’t sure, but she had a bad feeling that she’d soon find out.
Chapter Thirteen
The road to Hovenweep veered away from the fields and mountains toward the high desert. Marisa was no stranger to wide-open spaces; she’d grown up in rural Wisconsin. But the land there was verdantly abundant in the springtime. Out here, the vegetation was sparse, featuring clumps of sagebrush, stunted junipers and scraggly stands of pine.
“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” she asked.
“Positive.” He gave her a grim smile. “Hovenweep is where the manhunt for Russell Graff ended. Was it only a week ago? Seems like a lifetime.”
“When you’re counting every hour, time slows down.”
“Anyway,” he said, “when we closed in, this desert looked like a circus with the FBI in the center ring. Motorcycles. Choppers. Vehicles. There was even a horse.”
Now, the landscape was empty.
No actual road led to the location of the cave where Russell Graff had died. There was only a narrow track winding around a redstone ridge that poked through the flat desert like the backbone of a buried dinosaur.
Flynn parked the jeep and pointed up a slope. The moonlight caught on ribbons of yellow crime scene tape. “That’s the cave.”
When she looked up, she couldn’t see the entrance. “If you hadn’t been involved in the other investigation, it would have been nearly impossible to find this place.”
“But I was part of the prior investigation, and the Judge knew it.”
“He knows too much.”
Flynn rested his hand on her shoulder and lightly massaged. The physical contact did little to soothe her jangled nerves. She feared what might be coming next. Flynn had already confronted his past, and she feared that it was her turn to face her demons.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
Hesitantly, she lifted her gaze past his stubborn jaw and his well-shaped lips to his eyes. Half of his face was in shadow, but she could clearly read his intention as he leaned toward her. His kiss started gently, then he yanked her across his chest.
Driven toward him, she responded. The passion building inside her was almost too much to bear. She desperately wanted this search to be over, wanted to concentrate on him.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard.
“Not bad for a nerd,” he said.
Though she wanted to sink deeply into these newly awakened feelings, she didn’t dare let down her guard. Following this insane trail of clues took precedence. “When this is over…”
“I know.” With a sigh, he leaned back in his seat, took out his gun and opened his car door. “On the approach to the cave, we’ll be exposed. Stay low. Try to hide in the shadows.”
The night air was crisp and bracing. She followed him on a circuitous route, dodging from one rock to the next, her own gun out. Her back prickled. Was someone watching? Would they finally come face-to-face with the Judge or was this another game of chase-the-clue?
Though her vision was accustomed to the dark, she stumbled frequently, unable to accurately gauge her footing. Flynn was far more agile, gliding through the night. Tucked into the darkness beside a ridge, he waited for her to catch up. “The cave is on the other side of this rock,” he whispered. “Once we’re in there, we’ll be hidden.”
“As long as nobody’s waiting for us inside.”
She followed him, glad that he turned on his flashlight as they entered.
The cave wasn’t what she had expected. The entrance was ten feet tall and thirty feet wide beneath an overhanging ledge, but went only about twenty feet deep, to a sloping sandstone wall. Near the front was a fire pit with scattered logs and ashes. “It’s like a room.”
“A vantage point.” He gestured toward the wide vista that spread before them. Flatlands and mesas. A night raptor soared across the clouds. “You can see why the Anasazi chose places like this for their cliff dwellings. They could see the enemy approaching.”
“But you said there were no cliff dwellings in this area.”
“This cave is too shallow. It’s just a lookout point.”
A rush of wind swirled past the entrance in a ghostly whisper. Russell Graff died here. The sandy dirt beneath their feet was stained with his blood.
She shuddered. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Do you think there’s a mini-camera in here?” Flynn asked as he scanned the back wall with his flashlight.
“We should assume that there is. Assume that the Judge is watching. And maybe listening.”
Her beam flashed on a square rock near the entrance, and she explored, finding nothing. Twice, he’d left small boxes with clues. Would this be the third? In daylight, the search would have been simple. In the dark, she had to peer into every nook and crevice.
As she moved across the cave, her toe caught the edge of a rock. She lowered her flashlight beam and saw a straight line of rocks, an obvious sign. “Flynn, come over here.”
The line ended in an arrow. Follow the arrow. At the end was a small pile of rocks.
“This must be it,” Flynn said.
“I don’t see a box.”
“He must have hidden it under the rocks so the coyotes wouldn’t get it.”
He dropped to his knees and started removing the rocks one by one. This time, the message was a padded envelope. Probably another note.
Instinctively, Marisa knew she didn’t want to see what was inside. Her lungs clenched. It was hard to breathe. Needing space, she moved toward the front of the cave.
Flynn was right beside her. “Are you okay?”
She
sat down on the sandy ledge and slipped her pistol back into the holster. “Let’s see what he left us this time.”
He opened the unsealed envelope. The first item was a folded map. When he opened it, she saw southwestern Colorado, including the intersection of four states. Hovenweep—their current location—was at the far west. The edges of the map had been cut so it was shaped in a circle.
“Why a circle?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” he said. “The circle is a sacred symbol to a lot of the Native American tribes. Like the head of a drum. Many of their dances are in a circle.”
“Anything written on the map?”
He spread the sheet on the dirt and shone his flashlight down on it. “I don’t see anything.”
What kind of clue was this? She was too tense and too tired to think clearly. “What’s on the other side?”
He flipped it and showed her the illustration labeled “Places of Interest.” In small print, all the towns were listed. “It’s more detailed than our map,” he said.
She looked toward the envelope. “What else is in there?”
He pulled out a plastic daisy that had been flattened. “Does this mean anything to you?”
She shook her head. “Is there anything else?”
He dug to the bottom of the envelope. “It’s small. Jewelry.”
He lifted a thin silver chain with a tiny red heart. Nothing valuable. A childish design. Marisa recognized it immediately.
Her hand flew to cover her mouth, holding back a scream. Though she’d been expecting something like this from the Judge, she was still shocked.
“What is it?” he asked. “What does this mean?”
Sitting back on her heels, she lowered her hand and folded it neatly on her lap, promising herself that she would not cry. Hold on tight. Don’t break down.
Though her heart raced, she retreated into a silent corner of her mind. A place more stark and lonely than the moonlit desert landscape that stretched before her.
“My younger sister wore a necklace like that. Her name was Tina. Tiny Tina with her blond curls. She looked like a cherub.”
His eyes narrowed in concern. He must be thinking that she’d never mentioned a sister before. “I was nine years old. She was five when she was murdered.”
