CHAPTER SIX
Sage found comfort in the process of meticulously cleaning the pair of well-worn hiking boots. He brushed away each grain of sand, polished out every scuff mark. The process was methodical, almost meditative.
A radio crackled softly in the background, tuned to a local station. The news had just finished—no new developments in the investigation of Amanda Weller's death. Sage allowed a small, satisfied smile.
The less they knew, the better.
Setting the boots aside, Sage turned his attention to a backpack. He emptied its contents onto a worn wooden table: a first aid kit, a water filtration system, high-energy snack bars, a compass, and a well-thumbed guidebook to the local flora and fauna. Each item was checked, cleaned if necessary, and carefully repacked.
Sage spread out a map of the Coral Pink Sand Dunes State Park, creased and softened from frequent use. His fingers traced familiar routes, lingering on the restricted areas. So much of the park was off-limits, supposedly protected. But what good were boundaries if they were so easily crossed?
The cabin itself was sparse, functional. A narrow bed in one corner, a small kitchenette in another. The walls were adorned with photographs—close-ups of delicate desert flowers, panoramic views of the dunes at sunrise and sunset, detailed shots of animal tracks in the sand. Each image was perfectly composed, revealing both Sage's technical skill and intimate knowledge of the landscape.
A shelf held an eclectic collection of books: field guides to desert ecology, texts on Native American history and symbolism, modern novels about the American West. A well-worn copy of Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire sat on the bedside table, its margins filled with Sage's handwritten notes.
Moving to the kitchenette, Sage filled a kettle and set it to boil. While waiting, he examined more photographs—these weren't the artistic shots on the walls, but surveillance images. Visitors to the park, caught unawares as they ventured off designated trails or discarded trash on the pristine dunes. Each photo was dated and annotated with meticulous detail.
The kettle whistled, and Sage prepared his tea. Chamomile—good for staying calm, focused. There was still much to do.
Sipping the hot liquid, Sage's thoughts drifted to Amanda Weller. Her death had been... necessary. Regrettable, perhaps, but necessary. She had been warned multiple times. Her disregard for the fragile ecosystem, her entitlement, her influence over her followers—it had all become too much. The dunes needed to be protected at any cost.
The symbol painted on her forehead—that had been an impulsive addition. A message, though its meaning seemed lost on the investigators so far. Good. Let them chase false leads and misinterpret clues. The truth was written in the sand for those who knew how to read it.
Sage glanced at the clock—early afternoon. He finished his tea, washed the cup, and put it away. Everything in its place, no trace left behind. That was the key.
Sage shouldered the backpack and laced up the hiking boots. He did a final check of supplies—water, snacks, first aid kit, flashlight. All present and accounted for. His hand reached for the cabin door, then paused. After a moment's hesitation, Sage added a small notebook and pencil to the pack. Just in case.
Outside, the heat hit like a physical force. But it was a familiar discomfort, almost welcome. The air was dry, scented with sage and juniper. In the distance, the dunes shimmered like a mirage, their color shifting from pale pink to deep coral as the sun's angle changed.
Sage had only just stepped out when the radio clipped to his backpack crackled to life.
"...reports of disturbances in Sector 7. Beer cans and remains of a campfire found in the restricted area. All available personnel, please investigate."
Sector 7. Deep in the dunes, far from the designated camping areas. A fragile ecosystem, home to several endangered species. Anger flared in Sage's chest, hot and familiar. Would they never learn?
Sector 7 wasn't far—maybe an hour's hike. Plenty of time to get there before dark. And if the trespassers were still there...
Well, then Sage would just have to teach them a lesson. A lesson they'd never forget.