Murder in Black Canyon

by Cindi Myers

  “Hello, is this Kayla Larimer?”

  “Yes.” Kayla checked her phone. Caller Unknown. Had someone from the press gotten hold of her number?

  “This is Madeline Zimeski, with the Colorado Private Investigators Society. I noticed we hadn’t received your confirmation for the awards banquet this Thursday.”

  “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “So I can put down that you’re coming? And how many guests?”

  “Just me.” She shifted her water bottle, digging in her purse for her car keys.

  “You don’t have someone you’d like to invite to see you receive your award?”

  She thought of Dylan, then pushed the idea away. Why would he want to sit through a boring awards banquet? Besides, he had to attend Frank Asher’s funeral. “Just me,” she repeated. “And I really have to go now.”

  “I’ll put you down for one then. Let me know if you change your mind about bringing a guest. I look forward to seeing you there. And congrat—”

  Kayla ended the call and headed out the door to her car. With luck she could make it to the camp before either Dylan or someone who had seen the television reports got there. She could break the news of this latest development to Andi gently and avoid sending the girl into tears yet again.

  Traffic was light and she pushed the speed limit on her way out of town. She had just cleared the city limits when her phone rang again. A check of the screen showed an unknown number once more. If Madeline Zimeski had called back about that stupid awards banquet, she was going to get an earful.

  Kayla was tempted not to answer, but what if it was Andi, calling from a pay phone? With one eye on the road, she took the call. “Hello?”

  “Kayla? It’s Pete Matheson. I need your help.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kayla’s car swerved and she almost dropped her phone. Heart pounding, she pulled over to the side of the road, leaving the engine idling. “Senator? Are you all right? Where are you? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m not physically injured, but I need your help.”

  “Of course. Do you want me to call someone for you? Do you need money or someone to come get you?”

  “Promise me you won’t go to the authorities. Promise me now or I’ll hang up and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “Of course. I promise. Don’t hang up.” Was someone there with him, telling him to say that? Did he have a gun to his head? What were the chances of Dylan and his team tracing this call?

  “How is my daughter?”

  The question was so conversational and unexpected that for a moment Kayla couldn’t find the words to answer.

  “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?” the senator asked. “You told me you were going to see her.”

  “Uh, yes, I’ve seen her. She’s well. Though she’s very worried about you.”

  “Is she? I thought she might be glad to be rid of me.”

  “No! That isn’t true. She was beside herself when she thought you were hurt. She loves you very much.” The truth of those words made Kayla’s chest hurt. Andi did love her father, no matter their differences.

  He was silent for so long she thought he might have ended the call. “Senator? Are you still there?”

  “I’m still here.” He cleared his throat, and when he spoke his voice was rough with emotion. “I never meant to hurt her. You must believe that. Nothing I have is worth as much to me as my child.”

  “I believe Andi knows that. All she wants is for you to be safe.”

  “I need you to help me.”

  “To help you do what?”

  “Can you take me to see Andi? Without anyone else knowing?”

  “Why don’t you want anyone else to know?” she asked. “So many people have been looking for you.”

  “No.” His voice was sharp. “It’s too dangerous at this point. When the time comes, I will notify the police. But not yet. Not until I’ve spoken with Andi.”

  “All right. I can do that.” He wasn’t really giving her a choice.

  “I have an address for you, where you can pick me up. If you show up with any law enforcement, I’ll go away and you won’t hear from me again.”

  “I’ll come alone, I promise,” she said. “And I won’t tell anyone where I’m going.”

  “Then get something to write this down. It will take you a while to get here, but I’ll be waiting.”

  * * *

  DYLAN TRIED TO reach Kayla, but her phone went straight to voice mail. Was she deliberately avoiding his calls? “Hey, Kayla, it’s Dylan. I’m going to be out of touch for a while, on a stakeout. I’ll call you when I’m back in cell range and maybe we can get together for dinner or something. Take care.” He wanted to add something else—I miss you? I love you? But maybe it was too soon for that. He didn’t want to scare her off. He settled for a simple “Bye” and stowed the phone once more.

  Veronica Asher had scanned the money cards she had received and emailed the file to Simon, who was back at Ranger headquarters, combing through the identification numbers on the cards, trying to determine where they had originated from. Graham had made some calls to the FBI and the Bureau had promised to send a sympathetic agent to collect the cards from Mrs. Asher. They had agreed to work with the Rangers on canvassing Grand Junction area gas stations, convenience stores and grocery stores with pictures of as many of the Family members as they could obtain, in hopes of getting a positive ID on the purchaser of the cards. Once they had nailed that individual, they could use him or her to get to Daniel Metwater, or whoever had sent the cards.

  The Rangers were also trying to get a warrant to access Metwater’s bank records. A withdrawal in the amount of the payment to Mrs. Asher would be another strong indication of guilt. He might say he was only doing an anonymous good deed for the widow of the man who had been killed near his camp, but a prosecutor was likely to see things differently.

  For now, Dylan was taking his shift watching the camp for any suspicious activity. He parked his Cruiser out of sight about a mile from Dead Horse Canyon and hiked to the rocky overlook DEA Agent Marco Cruz had selected as the best vantage point to survey the action in the compound without being seen.

  “Anything going on?” Dylan asked Marco after the two had exchanged greetings.

  “That big RV is Metwater’s, right?” He handed over the high-powered binoculars he’d been using to surveil the camp. “He’s had a lot of people going in and out of there—mostly women, but a few men. But I haven’t seen him come out.”

  “How do we know he’s still in there?” Dylan asked.

  “No vehicles have left the camp, and Randall is watching the road. If Metwater tried to climb out over the rocks we’d see.”

  Dylan settled more comfortably among the boulders and raised the binoculars. “Any sign of Andi Matheson?”

  “She visited Metwater about an hour ago. When she came out it looked like she’d been crying. Any news on the senator?”

  “Nothing yet. The FBI is canvassing the neighborhood near where they found the car, hoping to find a witness who saw something.”

  “It will be interesting to see whose blood is on those clothes,” Marco said.

  Dylan lowered the binoculars. “You don’t think it’s the senator’s?”

  Marco shrugged. “Who knows? It will just be interesting. One more piece of the puzzle.” He stood and picked up his backpack. “I’m outta here.”

  “Hot date?”

  He grinned. “You know it. Lauren is flying in from filming a documentary in Texas.”

  Dylan had forgotten that Cruz was married to television newscaster Lauren Starling. The two had met when she’d been kidnapped last summer and he’d been involved in her rescue. “I’m looking forward to meeting her soon,” Dylan said. “Tell her I’m a fan.�
��

  “When I see her again, you are going to be the last thing on my mind.”

  Marco left, moving soundlessly down the rocks, and Dylan settled back to watch. The summer days were growing shorter and here in the canyon the sun set quickly, plunging the area into darkness. As the air cooled and stars began to appear, activity increased in the camp. Dylan trained the binoculars on the center area, where two men were building a bonfire while a third man swept the dirt around the fire pit. About eight o’clock Metwater emerged from his trailer and walked over to supervise the preparations. Even at this distance, Dylan had a sense that something important was about to happen down there. Were they initiating another new member? Celebrating some religious rite he wasn’t aware of? Throwing a birthday party?

  He had a hard time picturing Metwater involved in something as innocent as a birthday party, but that was the kind of thing families did, wasn’t it?

  Metwater must have heard the news about Peter Matheson by now. Had Andi’s tears when she left his trailer been because he had told her her father’s car had been found in the quarry? Could whatever ceremony the group was preparing for have anything to do with the senator?

  Carefully, Dylan moved a few feet farther down the slope, hoping for a better view of the action. He had no way of calling headquarters or summoning help without leaving his observation post and traveling back to the road. Better to see if he could figure out what was going on before he did that.

  * * *

  ANDI DROVE SLOWLY in the fading light, craning her head to read the addresses on the ramshackle buildings she passed. Her shoulders ached with tension, and her gun lay on the console beside her, loaded and ready. Everything about this setup felt like a trap to her. She wished now she had disobeyed the senator’s orders and had at least let Dylan know where she was. He had tried to reach her shortly after she pulled onto the highway after talking with the senator, and she had let the call go to voice mail, knowing if she spoke to him directly she would give in to the temptation to share the news that Senator Matheson was alive and here in Montrose.

  She hit the brakes as she spotted the address she wanted. She double-checked the number against the notes she had made, but this was the place. A faded sign identified the collection of boarded up buildings as the Shady Rest Motel. Judging by the prices on the gas pumps out front, this place hadn’t been in business for at least a decade. Was someone holding the senator hostage here? She picked up the gun and climbed out of the car. “Senator Matheson!” she called, keeping her voice low.

  “Hush. I’m right here.”

  She turned and saw him climbing into the passenger seat of her car. She might not have recognized him if she had passed him on the street. Instead of his usual tailored suit and tie, he wore a faded Hawaiian shirt and baggy khaki pants with a rip in the knee. He was unshaven and his hair needed combing. He looked more like a homeless person than a United States senator.

  “Don’t just stand there. Get in the car,” he ordered.

  The voice was the same at least, and the imperious tone. She slid back into the driver’s seat, but kept her weapon at her side. “Senator, what happened to you?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped, and fastened his seat belt.

  “Do you need something to eat? Some water? Medical care?” She should have thought to bring him some food. She had a bottle of water and a first-aid kit, but if he needed more...

  “I told you, I’m fine.”

  “The police found your car last night,” she said.

  “I heard on the news. I was hoping they wouldn’t discover it for a while yet—that I’d have more time. Does Andi know?”

  “I imagine she does by now.” Surely someone would have reached the camp with the news.

  “You said she was upset before. I imagine this won’t calm her fears any.”

  “Daniel Metwater told her you were dead. He said he had a dream in which he saw your body covered in blood.”

  Matheson snorted. “Maybe he really is a prophet, after all.” He leaned closer, studying her more intently. “What happened to your face?”

  The bruises from her kidnappers’ attack had faded to a sickly yellow-purple and most of the swelling had subsided, though she still wouldn’t win any beauty contests. “I was attacked while working a case,” she said. Not exactly a lie.

  “What case? Who hit you?”

  She started to tell him that was none of his business, but she wanted to keep him talking. Eventually, she would work the conversation around to where he’d been and what he had been doing. “Two men attacked me outside Frank Asher’s hotel room,” she said. “They tried to kidnap me, but law enforcement intervened. One of the kidnappers was killed and the other one is in the hospital.” Memory of the senator’s connection with the event surfaced and it was her turn to scrutinize him. “Oddly enough, they were driving a van that was registered to you,” she said. “A vehicle you used in your last campaign.”

  “None of that was supposed to happen,” he said. “They were supposed to grab the laptop and any papers and leave. They weren’t supposed to interfere with anyone or anything else.”

  She blinked, letting his words sink in. “Senator, are you saying those men were working for you? Under your orders?”

  “I should have known better than to hire two petty criminals,” he said. “I’m sorry you were injured. That should never have happened.”

  “Why did you hire them to steal Agent Asher’s things?” she asked.

  “I take protecting my daughter very seriously. I had to insure he didn’t have anything incriminating in his possession.”

  “But, Senator—”

  “Start the car.” He motioned to the ignition. “We need to get out of here.”

  She turned the key. “Where are we going?”

  “I want to see my daughter. I want you to take me to her.”

  “Do you want to stop and get something to eat first? Maybe a change of clothes?” Seeing her father like this was going to be a shock for Andi.

  “No. I know what I look like. Now get going. We don’t have any time to lose.”

  * * *

  THE FAINT SCRAPE of a boot on the rocks above alerted Dylan that he wasn’t alone. He turned to see Ethan Reynolds making his way toward him. “I came to relieve you,” Ethan said. “Anything happening down there?” He jutted his chin toward the camp.

  “They’re building up the bonfire,” Dylan said. “They’re into rituals. I think they’re getting ready for something like that.”

  “Cults use ritual to bond the members together,” Ethan said. “They can also be useful in reinforcing the leader’s message, applying peer pressure, even brainwashing.”

  “I forgot you were the cult expert.”

  Ethan settled more comfortably onto the rocks. “I’m not sure this group qualifies as a full-fledged cult. The members seem to have autonomy, and the freedom to come and go.”

  “Yet none of them are leaving,” Dylan said.

  “Some of them may have nowhere else to go,” Ethan said. “Groups like this tend to attract the disenfranchised.”

  “Andi Matheson has somewhere else to go, yet she’s staying.”

  “She’s found something she’s looking for here.”

  “So what’s your opinion of Metwater—twisted murderer or charismatic creep?”

  Ethan shrugged. “Maybe neither. Maybe he’s a sincere spiritual follower who rubs you the wrong way.”

  “Is that really what you think?”

  “No. I’m voting for charismatic creep. He’s slippery and manipulative and I think he’s probably hiding something, but I can’t see him pulling a trigger and blowing Agent Asher’s head off. That’s too emotional and visceral for him. He’s a plotter, not a hothead.”

  “W
hat about the money someone sent Asher’s widow?”

  “Maybe the money came from somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “Maybe someone who read about the murder in the paper and felt sorry for the widow and three kids. Someone who wanted to remain anonymous.”

  “For the sake of our case, I hope it’s not something that innocent.”

  “What about Andi Matheson?” Ethan asked. “Maybe she killed Asher because he left her high and dry with a baby.”

  “Maybe. But she seems even less likely than Metwater to kill a man in cold blood.”

  The fire below blazed up and Dylan shifted to look through the binoculars again. “Something happening?” Ethan asked.

  A group of people had gathered around the fire, men and women in various stages of undress, their bodies painted, colored ribbons in their hair. As the flames leaped higher, they began to chant, the sound drifting up with the scent of piñon smoke in the clear night air.

  “What are they saying?” Dylan asked. “I can’t make it out.”

  “I think it’s Latin,” Ethan said.

  Dylan lowered the binoculars. “You know Latin?”

  He grinned. “I was a Catholic altar boy—but I’ve forgotten pretty much everything.” He listened a moment. “I think it’s something about sin. And maybe redemption or penance.” He nodded. “Definitely penance in there.”

  Dylan raised the binoculars again. The door to the RV opened and Metwater emerged, dressed in the loincloth again, symbols traced in red and black and white paint on his chest and arms—circles and stars and arrows. They looked, Dylan decided, like a poor attempt at Native American imagery.

  “Is that a dagger in that sheath at his waist?” Ethan had pulled out a second pair of binoculars and was focused on the scene below.

  “It looks like the one I saw him with before,” Dylan said.

  “Maybe he’s going to finish the ceremony you and Kayla interrupted the other night,” Ethan said.

  “Maybe.” Or was he up to something more sinister?

  Metwater clapped his hands over his head and the chanting ended midsyllable. When all eyes were on him he spoke, his voice loud and clear enough that Dylan could make out most of what he was saying. “We are assembled tonight to address the sin in our midst. We must break the chains of iniquity that bind us and purify our souls going forward.”