Native Cowboy

by Rita Herron

  Agent Whitehead followed on his tail. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. Cara took a house call. I’m going to see if she’s all right.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No, go with the sheriff and see what you can get out of Morningside. If he killed those women, find out.”

  She nodded and headed to the squad car. Isabella and Sadie and Carter were watching. “Stay here with the women,” he told Carter. “Make sure they’re safe.”

  Carter pulled Sadie to him, and she hugged Isabella to her side, and the three of them walked into the house while he tore down the drive from the Morningsides’ house.

  The place was on the other side of town, a good ten miles away. He rolled down the window, struggling to breathe, the images of the dead women’s corpses in the ground taunting him with each mile.

  He couldn’t allow that to happen to Cara.

  Not to the woman he loved.

  But what if you’re too late?

  Tremors racked his body, and his arms were jerking so badly he almost had to pull over. He cursed his weakness.

  He could not fall apart now.

  Hopefully Cara and the baby were safe. Cara was simply doing her usual thing, taking care of others. She had to be alive.

  Surely God wouldn’t allow something bad to happen to a wonderful, giving woman like her.

  He crossed through town, weaving through traffic, and using his siren to bypass the worst, then maneuvered the side streets until he reached Delia Nez’s place.

  He swiped perspiration from his forehead as he spotted Cara’s Pathfinder and parked behind it. But anxiety clawed at him as he approached the house.

  Except for a dim light burning in a back room, the house was dark.

  Not a good sign.

  He pulled his gun, inching up the steps and keeping his senses honed for sounds inside. Voices. A cry. A child.

  Anything.

  But it was eerily quiet.

  Pulse pounding, he pushed open the front screen door and crept inside. The den was dark but appeared empty.

  The light was coming from a back room. Walking as quietly as he could, he crept toward the room. To the left, he spotted a nursery. Empty, as well.

  But an acrid odor seeped from the other room, an odor that he’d smelled too much of lately.

  The stench of death.

  Praying it wasn’t Cara, he held his gun at the ready in case he was walking into an ambush, then scanned the room. He’d seen a lot of dead people in his career, and the women he’d seen buried lately had been among the worst.

  But this woman hadn’t been buried yet. Instead, the bastard had butchered her and left her in a pool of her own blood with an amulet resting on a stone at her head.

  Bile rose to his throat. Morningside wasn’t the Navel Fetish killer.

  No, some other man was.

  And he’d used Delia Nez to lure Cara into his trap.

  Chapter Twenty

  Fear immobilized Mason for a heartbeat, but his training kicked in. God help him, he didn’t have time to hesitate.

  Every second Cara was missing meant she might be closer to her death.

  He punched Agent Whitehead’s number, quickly scanning the room for any signs of Cara. Her medical bag sat on the floor, yet it remained unopened.

  Meaning the woman had been dead when she’d arrived, and Cara had been ambushed.

  Cold sweat beaded his skin, and he growled at the phone, relieved when Agent Whitehead finally answered.

  “It’s Blackpaw. Did you get anything from Morningside?”

  “Nothing new. He’s in a holding cell now. He still insists he didn’t murder those women.”

  “Dammit, I don’t think he did, either. Cara was supposed to be on a call, but I’m at the woman’s house and she’s dead. Same M.O. as the others.”

  “Dr. Winchester is there?”

  “No, she’s missing,” Mason said through clenched teeth. “The real Navel Fetish Killer has her.”

  The agent’s breath whooshed out. “What can I do?”

  “Send a crime unit over here. And see if your people can trace Cara’s phone. Her medical bag is here, but she keeps her phone on her.” The phone was a long shot, but it was the only place he knew to start. Hopefully the killer hadn’t found it and tossed it.

  Mason gave her the coordinates, then yanked on a pair of latex gloves and pressed two fingers to the woman’s body. Rigor had already set in.

  The killer had probably watched her bleed out when he’d made the phony call to Cara’s answering service.

  A photograph of a small baby sat on the woman’s nightstand, and another bolt of fear slammed into him. So far, the Navel Fetish Killer hadn’t hurt any children. He prayed he hadn’t started with this woman’s baby.

  But where was the child?

  Heart banging against his chest, he rushed into the bathroom and checked the tub and closet, but they were empty. Relieved, he combed the rest of the house, the baby’s room and closet, the pantry. A sickening thought occurred to him, stories of other cases where people had murdered children and thrown them away, and he made himself check the trashcans outside.

  When he found them empty, he leaned forward, braced his hands on his knees and drew a relieved breath.

  Still, where was the child? Had the killer taken it with him?

  * * *

  CARA BATTLED PANIC as the car rolled to an abrupt stop, jarring her so badly pain rocked through her abdomen again, fear choking her.

  What if this was the real thing? Not another Braxton Hicks contraction?

  Dear God, she couldn’t be going into labor now.

  Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back. She had to be strong. Had to figure out a way to escape, to reach Mason.

  Remembering her phone at her waist, she struggled to reach it, but her hands were bound behind her back. She raised her knees, trying to bring them high enough for her to somehow get to it, but her belly was too big.

  She fumbled, twisting and turning, desperate to untie her hands, but suddenly the trunk lid swung up. It had been so dark in the trunk that for a moment light blinded her, and she had to blink to adjust her eyes.

  The sign for the old fishing lodge at Devil’s Creek swayed unsteadily in the wind, making another knot of fear clamp her throat. The place was miles from nowhere.

  No one would see their car or hear them out here.

  Then a cold hand grabbed her arm and wrenched her upward. “Come on, Doc, it’s time we settle this.”

  Cara’s throat closed at the sound of the deep voice. A familiar voice.

  My God, no wonder he’d known her patients and their history.

  She wrestled with his grip as he hauled her from the trunk. “Why?” she whispered. “Why are you doing this?”

  But he didn’t answer. His eyes blazed a cold trail over her, then he dragged her through the woods.

  Cara screamed for help, but they were in the middle of nowhere, and she knew no one could hear her.

  He was going to kill her and bury her here with the stones.

  Then what would happen to her baby?

  * * *

  MASON MET AGENT WHITEHEAD and the crime unit at the door. Jody’s face was familiar as well as the young guy with her.

  “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to process another one,” Jody said.

  “So was I,” Mason said grimly.

  He turned to Agent Whitehead while Jody and the crime tech began to examine the body. “Any word on Cara’s phone?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Listen,” Mason said. “The victim had a baby. The child is not here, so we need to find him.”

  Agent Whitehead’s face paled. “You think he took the baby?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to look through her phone to see if I can find a relative.”

  Agent Whitehead nodded. “I’ll have one of my guys see what he can find.”

  Mason searched Delia Nez’s
purse and found her cell phone, then scrolled through her calls. He found a listing for a Polly and Larry Nez so he hit connect. The phone rang several times and rolled to voice mail, so he left a message saying they needed to contact him immediately, that it was regarding their daughter.

  “My guys are searching for an address for the parents,” Agent Whitehead said. She took a look at the body, then pivoted, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth again.

  “We’re missing something. Except for the bombing, Morningside fit the profile.”

  “There has to be someone else who fits it, as well.” Mason paced to the front room then out the door. Storm clouds rolled across the sky, the sun waning. It would be night soon, and he was no closer to finding Cara and his baby or this killer.

  Mentally he ticked over the details of the profile, over the killer’s M.O., over his conversation with Cara. Agent Whitehead stepped outside but remained silent for a moment.

  “We missed something,” she said again. “I keep thinking about the overkill with the women.”

  Mason raked a hand through his hair. “Cara was disturbed at the way the organs were removed.” He snapped his fingers. “What if our killer had some kind of medical training?”

  Agent Whitehead’s eyes widened. “You may be on to something. The other characteristics of the profile could be the same, but if he had medical training, that would narrow down our list.” She clenched her cell phone. “Let me call our analyst and have her search military records.”

  He gripped the porch rail as he listened to her talk to her associate. “Just like before, we think he’s a Native American, probably suffering PTSD, was in the military. He may have lost his family while he was deployed, the wife left him, or had a child and gave it up for adoption. Narrow it down to men with medical training, as well.” A pause. “Yes, call me back when you have something.”

  “I’ll call Cara’s assistant,” Mason said. “She knew the patients. Maybe one of their spouses or ex-boyfriends fits that description.”

  When she answered, she sounded frantic. “Did you find Cara?”

  “No,” Mason said. “But Delia was murdered and Cara’s missing.”

  A terrified sob wrenched Sherese’s throat. “You think he has Cara?”

  Mason had to swallow twice to make his voice work. “Yes, and Morningside is in custody so he didn’t kill Delia. The killer fits the same profile as Morningside except he had medical training. Can you think of anyone associated with the clinic, maybe a patient’s spouse or ex who fits that description?”

  “I don’t know about the background of all the patients,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’d have to look at their files and they were destroyed in the fire.”

  Dammit. If he had Cara’s computer he could send it to her. Maybe it was in her car. He rushed outside to retrieve it but it wasn’t inside. “If you think of anyone call me back.”

  “I will, and Mason, please bring Cara back.”

  “I intend to.” Although defeat and fear weighed on him. He had no idea how long the killer had held the other victims before he’d killed them. And if he was playing out his end game, his violence and timing might be escalating.

  His cell phone beeped that he had another call. It was the Nezes, so he quickly connected it. A moment later, the head medical examiner arrived, and Mason gestured for him to go inside.

  “Detective Blackpaw,” a male voice said into the phone. “This is Larry Nez. You called about my daughter?”

  Mason hated this part of the job. “Sir, first can you tell me where your grandson is?”

  “He’s with us,” the man said, an edge to his voice. “Why? Where’s our daughter?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Nez, I hate to tell you this, but she’s dead. I’m at her house now.”

  “We’ll be right there.”

  “No—” But before he could respond, the man hung up on him.

  Agent Whitehead was on the phone again, her body tense as she scribbled something on a notepad. “Thanks.”

  “Larry Nez is on his way over,” he told the agent.

  Worry creased Agent Whitehead’s forehead. “I have a couple of names who fit the profile. A man named Les Williams, his mother was part Comanche and he grew up on a res outside Houston. He had some medical training in the military and was released because he lost his hand and could no longer perform surgery.”

  So the man had his reasons for being bitter. “Where is he now?”

  “He’s been suffering from depression and alcohol abuse. The last address I have is a rehab center not too far from town.”

  “How about the other man?”

  “Farr Nacona, he was trained as a paramedic and was discharged from the military because of an injury. He applied to med school but was denied because of emotional problems stemming from his stint in the service. Last address for him is near the river.”

  He frowned, searching his memory banks. Where had he heard that name before? On the reservation?

  “I’ll check out Williams,” Agent Whitehead said. “You take Nacona.”

  Mason nodded. “All right. Let me know if anything comes in on Cara’s phone.”

  A second later, a car pulled up and screeched to a stop. A man in his mid-fifties jumped out, his face frantic with worry. “Where’s my daughter?”

  Mason blocked him from entering the house, and Agent Whitehead gently took his arm. “Mr. Nez?”

  The man tried to wrench away. “Where is she? I have to see her.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Agent Whitehead said. “But you don’t want to go in there.”

  “Yes, I do,” he cried. “I have to see my little girl.”

  “Not like that you don’t,” Mason said gruffly. “Trust me, you want to remember your daughter smiling at you, not the way she is now.”

  “The medical examiner is with her,” Agent Whitehead said. “He’ll take care of her and transport her to the morgue for an autopsy.”

  The man broke down into tears. “What...what did he do to her?” Shock and horror filled his eyes as he looked up at Mason. “Don’t tell me this is that monster who killed those other women.”

  Mason exchanged a frustrated look with the agent. “We’re not certain,” Agent Whitehead said, hedging. “But we have a strong lead as to who did it, and we’re going to make an arrest soon.”

  “You should have already done that!” the man bellowed. “If you had, my daughter would still be alive.”

  Guilt suffused Mason. Yes, they should have.

  And because they hadn’t, Cara might die, too.

  The medical examiner must have overheard them because he stepped outside. He was a kind, older fellow with white hair and wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Please, Mr. Nez, go home and take care of your wife and grandchild,” he said. “And let these officers find out who did this.”

  The man collapsed onto the steps, and buried his head in his arms, his body shaking with grief. The medical examiner sank down beside him to comfort him, and gestured for Mason and Agent Whitehead to leave.

  “I promise you we’ll find him,” Mason said to Nez. “I won’t stop until I do.”

  The man didn’t acknowledge him, and he didn’t expect him to. He had just lost his daughter.

  Agent Whitehead jogged to her car, and he sprinted to his, calling Sherese as he ripped from the parking lot. “Sherese, do you recall a man named Farr Nacona? Was he related to one of your patients?”

  “Oh, my God, you don’t think he’s the Navel Fetish Killer?”

  “It’s possible. Why? Do you know him?”

  “Yes, but he’s not related to a patient. Cara felt sorry for him because he was hurt in Afghanistan and gave him a job.”

  Mason’s chest clenched. “What kind of job?”

  “As a janitor at the clinic.”

  Mason cursed. The man had been right under their noses all along. And he’d used the job Cara had given him at the clinic to gather his list of victims.

  A
nd to stalk Cara so he would know her every movement.

  * * *

  “PLEASE DON’T DO THIS, Farr,” Cara cried.

  He had unbound her feet so she could walk, and he pushed her farther into the woods. Trees rose above her, shading any light, the darkness surrounding her so disorienting that she had no idea where they were or where they were going.

  “Shut up,” he hissed.

  Ahead, Cara saw the faint outline of the old fishing lodge and breathed a small sigh of relief. Maybe he didn’t plan to kill her right away. Maybe he’d keep her alive long enough for Mason to find her.

  But how would he do that? They had all been convinced that Morningside was the killer. Once Mason saved Isabella, she thought they’d be safe.

  Mason might not even know she was missing.

  A tree limb scraped her arm, and she clenched her teeth, ducking to avoid another low branch. Her back was throbbing, and another contraction tightened her belly. She winced in pain, pushing forward as Farr shoved her into the clearing, then half dragged her up the steps to the old lodge.

  “Please, Farr,” Cara begged. “I need help. I’m in labor.”

  He cursed, shoved open the door and pushed her inside.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice weak as she breathed through the pain. “I tried to help you. I gave you a job.”

  “You made me a janitor,” he said, his dark eyes blazing with a kind of rage Cara had never seen before. “I was a war hero, a medic, and after all I did, you and the others didn’t respect me. You made me clean your floors.”

  “But I didn’t know,” Cara said.

  “Then I watched you tell all those women to give up their babies. Our people believe women are supposed to be kind and loving and nurturing, yet you tell them to throw their children away. That family does not matter anymore.”

  “That’s not true,” Cara cried, but another spasm cut off her protest.

  “Please help me,” she whispered. “I need to go to the hospital.”

  Farr released a bitter laugh. “You weren’t listening, were you, Dr. Winchester? I will deliver your baby, then you will pay for your sins.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mason flew toward Nacona’s house, praying the man had taken Cara there. If not, he didn’t have a clue as to where to look.