by Rita Herron
He stroked the edge of his robe. “No, I can’t say that I do.”
“She didn’t attend your church?” Cara asked.
“Not on a regular basis. But we do have people fill out visitor cards, so she could have stopped in. If so, I haven’t had time to contact her personally yet.” He went to a basket then sifted though the cards. A moment later, his eyebrows rose. “Yes, as a matter of fact, she visited us last Sunday. Why? Did something happen to her?”
“She was murdered,” Mason said. “And we believe she was killed by the same person who killed Nellie Thompson.”
Reverend Parch made the sign of the cross. “God bless her soul.” Then his eyes narrowed and he frowned. “But I don’t understand why you wanted to see me. Are their families worried that they weren’t saved before they departed?”
Mason exchanged a look with Cara. “Dr. Winchester received threatening letters aimed toward her clinic, and the killer left a message implying that he believes these women are sinners because they gave their children up for adoption.”
A muscle jumped in the reverend’s cheek. “I can hardly blame them for expressing their displeasure at what you’re doing, Dr. Winchester. You should be trying to keep families together, not tearing them apart.”
“I am trying to help them,” Cara said tightly.
“Sounds like a personal issue for you.” Mason crossed his arms. “You wouldn’t happen to be adopted yourself, would you?”
Unease flickered in the preacher’s eyes. “As a matter of fact, I was. That’s one reason I understand the deep pain a child suffers at the thought of a parent abandoning them.”
“Sometimes a mother and or the father choose adoption because they believe it’s in the child’s best interest.”
“How is it in the child’s best interest for his mother to throw her child away?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cara said stiffly.
“Obviously this topic pushes your buttons, Reverend Parch,” Mason cut in. He refused to debate the issue with the man. “We think the killer is using religion to justify his kills.”
Realization dawned in the reverend’s eyes. “So you want to know if any of my parishioners might fit this description?”
Or if you do.
But Mason held back the accusation.
“Do you?” he asked.
“I’m a man of the cloth, Detective Blackpaw.” He turned his gaze toward Cara. “It is my job to help those who are lost. Like you, Doctor, if I break that trust I am no good to those who need me most.”
“What kind of answer is that?” Mason asked.
“The only one I can give you.”
“Reverend,” Cara said. “Two women are dead, and this man may be targeting more. If you know who killed them, you have to tell us before someone else dies.”
“Listen to me, Detective, Dr. Winchester. You do your jobs and I’ll do mine.” He stood. “Now, I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“Please, Reverend Parch, think about it. If the killer has come to you, convince him to turn himself in,” Cara said.
The reverend gave a clipped nod, dismissing them, and they headed to the door. But Mason wasn’t sure if he believed the preacher. And if he found anything incriminating the man, he’d be back.
“What did you think?” Cara asked as they settled in his car.
“I don’t trust him,” Mason said. “Even if he isn’t the killer, he may know who is and he’s protecting him.”
* * *
CARA CONTEMPLATED Mason’s statement as they drove toward the reservation. The reverend had chosen his words carefully.
Like Mason, she sensed he knew more than he’d said. But no judge would force him to reveal a confession if he’d heard one in confidence.
Could he be the killer? Or if he knew who was, would he convince the man to turn himself in?
The car churned over the ruts in the road as they turned on to the reservation. The sun faded, dipping into the horizon and painting the sky in reds, yellows and orange, the adobe houses blending into the Texas sunset.
“It’ll be faster if we split up.” Mason drove through the main street and parked at the clinic. “Why don’t you talk to Sadie while I visit Runninghorse and inquire about the knife?”
Cara agreed and hopped out, her bulk slowing her down as she made her way into the clinic. She greeted Aponi Bahe, the young woman who volunteered at the clinic, when she entered. “Is Sadie here?” Cara asked.
Aponi nodded and continued cleaning a little boy’s scrapes. “In exam room two. She’s splinting a hairline fracture.”
Cara waved to the little boy, then knocked on the exam room, and Sadie told her to come in.
A little girl with dark eyes looked up from the table where Sadie had splinted her finger. Her mother sat beside her, one hand on the little girl’s back for comfort. “There, sweetie,” Sadie said, “that should keep it in place so it can heal.” Sadie gave the little girl a hug, then helped her down from the table and the mother and child left.
“How are you and baby doing?” Sadie asked.
“We’re fine.” Cara explained about the murders, the navel fetish she’d received and the note written in blood.
Sadie’s face crinkled with worry. “Sit down and let me check you out,” she said.
Cara hated being mothered “That’s not necessary—”
“Sit, Cara. All this stress can’t be good for you and the baby.” She coaxed Cara to sit on the exam table then checked her blood pressure.
“Normal, isn’t it?”
“Actually it’s a little high,” Sadie said with a frown. “You need to take it easy, Cara.”
“I can’t,” Cara said. “Not until we find out who killed two of my patients.” She forced herself to take slow, even breaths while Sadie listened to her heart, then the baby’s.
“Mason thinks the killer is targeting my patients because of my work at the women’s clinic.”
Sadie’s eyes widened. “Then he thinks you’re in danger?”
Cara shrugged off her concern. “I gave Mason the hate mail I received,” Cara said. “But because of the amulet the killer left me, he thinks the killer has Native American roots.”
Sadie leaned against the sink. “You think the killer might be from the res?”
Cara hated to disparage any of the Native American people. They already faced enough prejudices. “I don’t know, but it’s possible. He buried the women in a Comanche ritualistic style.”
Sadie’s eyes flickered with unease.
“So either he has Indian roots or has studied the culture. The crimes also have religious undertones and my clinic, specifically adoptions, seem to have triggered his violence.” She stood and paced, thinking. “Is there anyone you know of on the res who fits this description? Anyone who may have a grudge against me?”
Sadie thumped her finger on her chin. “The only person I can think of is Isabella Morningside’s ex-husband.”
“Isabella?” Cara said, the name tickling her memory banks. “She did say her husband changed when he came home from overseas. He was angry, violent. I urged her to get him into counseling.”
“He refused and his behavior became so erratic, she divorced him,” Sadie said. “He lost all rights to his unborn baby and blames you. At least that’s what Isabella said.”
Was he killing her patients and cutting out their reproductive organs because he really wanted to do that to his ex-wife?
* * *
HE LET HIMSELF INSIDE Dr. Winchester’s cabin, eager to leave her his gift.
The scent of some kind of lavender bath wash swirled around him as he walked through the small den. The Native American decor in the room soothed him, but it was lost on Cara Winchester.
She was not a Native. She had no ties to his people.
Except for the baby she carried.
Anger churned through him, heating his blood, and he made his way to her bedroom. The sight of her flannel gown at the
foot of the bed belied the fact that she had seduced Blackpaw into getting her pregnant.
And that she’d planned to leave him out of his child’s life just as she encouraged other women to do.
The bitch had no moral code.
But he did. He honored the sanctity of the family unit.
Hatred for the doctor emboldened him and he smeared blood on her gown, then laid the navel fetish on her pillow. His pulse pounding with adrenaline, he carefully placed the note he’d written with Yolanda’s blood beside it.
Sweet pleasure stole through him as he imagined the
doctor’s face when she found it.
Time for him to hunt another now.
He had too much work to do to linger....
Chapter Twelve
Mason always felt at home on the reservation. After all, he’d grown up on this land, and knew every inch of it by heart. He treasured the culture of his people, and it pained him to suspect one of his own as the ruthless killer who’d robbed two women of their lives.
But crime knew no boundaries or lines. And if it was one of his own, he’d do whatever necessary to bring him in.
Runninghorse was working on sharpening a set of knives when he approached. Liam served on the Tribal Council, but he’d also built a business selling Native American weapons. Local tourist shops as well as stores in San Antonio, El Paso, and Corpus Christi carried his wares. They’d been friends since they were boys.
He shook Mason’s hand. “Nice to see you, man.”
“I wish it was a social visit,” Mason said. “But I’m afraid it’s about a case I’m working on.”
Liam gestured for Mason to step outside with him. Mason breathed in the fresh air, the sound of wildlife rustling through the neighboring woods a reminder of his early childhood days when Liam’s father had taught both of them to hunt and fish.
“It’s about the woman who was murdered?” Liam asked.
Mason nodded. “There are two victims now.” He explained what they’d uncovered so far. “Do you have a repeat customer who bought this particular knife?”
“I sell a lot of those,” Liam said. “Most collectors want a variety though instead of multiple versions of the same weapon.”
“Anyone on the res favor the buffalo skinner?”
Liam’s jaw hardened. “Half the men on the res have one, and so do the adolescent boys. I can give you the names of the stores I serve, too. Maybe they can check their orders and see if anything jumps out.”
Probably a dead end.
He had another thought. “Has there been trouble on the res lately? Anyone the tribal police had to deal with?”
Liam quirked his head in thought. “Actually Lapu Morningside. When he returned from the service, he wasn’t the same. Think he suffered a head trauma. Has PTSD. Whatever the cause, the police were called to his house several times before his wife divorced him.”
The hair on the back of Mason’s neck bristled. At the second crime scene, he’d found that button that looked as if it came from a military uniform. “Does he have children?”
Liam nodded. “Wife had a baby last year while he was deployed. But she took out a restraining order against him and cut him off from seeing the child.”
Mason frowned. Not exactly the background scenario he’d expected of the killer, but Morningside apparently had issues. Maybe he was venting his rage against his wife on other women?
“Does he live on the res now?”
“No.” Liam stuffed his hands in the pockets of his suede jacket. “Tribal police forced him to leave. I don’t know where he is.”
So the man had served his country, was suffering PTSD, had been cut off from his child and the reservation?
All those circumstances could have triggered him to snap and start killing.
His cell phone buzzed, and he thanked Runninghorse, then headed to his car to meet Cara. He connected the call as he slid behind the steering wheel. “Blackpaw.”
“Detective Blackpaw, this is Special Agent Julie Whitehead of the FBI.”
Mason frowned. He’d been expecting this call. “Go on.”
“I spoke with Sheriff McRae about your serial killer.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be in town in an hour, and I’d like to meet with you and comprise a profile. The press is hungry for information. It would be better if we issue a statement before they print something that’s going to blow your case or create panic.”
She had a point. “All right, I’ll meet you at the sheriff’s office in a couple of hours.”
“Do you have any leads?”
Mason clenched the steering wheel as he parked at the res clinic. “Nothing concrete. But you can have your people do background checks on Reverend Webber Parch and another man named Lapu Morningside. I’ll explain my suspicions when we meet.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Agent Whitehead said.
Mason thanked her, then disconnected the call and climbed from the car just as Cara stepped outside.
Suddenly the air around him stirred, and Mason’s gut instincts spiked, warning him something was wrong.
A heartbeat later, a bullet whizzed by his head, racing toward Cara.
* * *
THE HISS OF A GUNSHOT skimmed by Cara’s face, startling her.
Suddenly Mason shouted her name and threw himself at her. Another shot rang out, the air hot with fear as she clawed at Mason to remain upright.
Mason yanked her into the doorway and shoved her behind him. “Dammit, Cara, stay down.”
Two kids playing nearby screamed and ducked inside the diner next door. A pickup truck rolled past, another car’s muffler rumbled from somewhere in the distance. Three teenagers smoking across the way must have heard it because they hightailed it to a beat-up Chevy.
Panic robbed Cara’s breath as Mason wielded his gun, then used the edge of the door for cover and searched for the shooter.
Dear God, someone had tried to kill her.
Protective instincts for her unborn child kicked in, and anger surged through her.
Mason looked left then right and muttered a curse. “I don’t see him.”
She scanned the street, but she didn’t see anything out of place, either. “Maybe he was on a rooftop.”
Mason nodded and glanced up, his gaze moving from one rooftop to another.
“I called the tribal police,” Sadie said from behind her.
“Stay back,” Mason warned.
A second later, a siren wailed, and the chief’s car swerved up in front of the clinic. Bradford Pann, the chief of the tribal police, emerged from the SUV, his gun poised, Liam Runninghorse with him.
“Someone shot at Dr. Winchester,” Mason said as he inched from behind the doorway.
Chief Pann conducted a visual sweep, then strode toward them. “You all right, Dr. Winchester?”
“Yes, thanks to Detective Blackpaw.”
Mason must have seen the blood on her face because his eyes blazed with rage. “He did hit you.”
“It’s just a flesh burn,” Cara said shrugging it off.
“Did you see the shooter?” Chief Pann asked.
“No,” Cara said.
Mason growled in his throat. “Me neither. I pulled up and saw Cara coming out then heard the shot.” He gestured to Cara. “Go inside with Sadie while we search the streets. For all we know, he’s still out here waiting to take another shot.”
Cara wanted to help, but he was right. She couldn’t take chances when she was nine months pregnant.
Her gaze met Mason’s. “Just be careful.”
Anger hardened his expression but underneath it, other emotions simmered. Mason was a lawman, a protector.
And he was the father of her baby.
Even if he didn’t love her, he would protect her and their child with his life.
* * *
MASON BARELY CONTROLLED his rage. If anything had happened to Cara and his son, he didn’t know what he would do.
But he woul
d damn well find the bastard who’d shot at her and make him pay.
“Do you have any idea which direction the shot came from?” Chief Pann asked.
Mason struggled to calm himself. Cara was safe inside with Sadie. The best thing he could do was focus on his job.
He forced himself to analyze the situation from a lawman’s perspective and tried to recreate the shooting in his mind. He had been parked, about to get out when he’d heard the gunshot. He closed his eyes, mentally summoning the details. The sound of the gunshot cracking the air, the speed of its movement, the angle it had come from. To his right...
He pivoted, mentally judging the angle and trajectory and studied the buildings. “I think it came from somewhere over there.”
Chief Pann scowled. “The feed store?”
Mason nodded, and Liam gave him an understanding look. “Probably from the roof.” Mason and Liam went to check it out while the chief searched the clinic front for bullet casings.
The feed store was deserted and in need of repairs. Mason strode up the back stairs to the roof, climbed on top and began to scavenge the area.
The rotting boards of the ceiling squeaked as he crossed to the spot where he thought the shooter had probably been standing. He gauged the distance and studied where Cara had been.
“There are footprints here,” Liam said.
“We’ll take a cast of the prints.” Mason knelt and examined the print, then noted something sticky and yellow on the floorboard. Maybe resin of some kind.
He’d take a sample of that for analysis.
“Here are the shell casings,” Liam said.
Mason used a handkerchief to pick them up. He’d have them tested, as well.
“Someone didn’t like you asking questions on the res,” Liam commented.
“Obviously,” Mason muttered.
Was it the same man who’d killed Nellie Thompson and Yolanda Farraday?
Probably.
But the killer had preferred the buffalo skinner as his weapon in the murders. So why shoot at Cara?
Because they were getting too close to the truth, too close to finding him?
Or did Cara have more than one enemy?
“Did you find out anything from Sadie?” Mason asked.
Cara explained about Morningside.