Close Behind (Kari Blackhorse #3)

PROLOGUE

Martin Reynolds had always believed that beauty revealed itself most honestly at the edges of the day. The dying light of sunset transformed the sandstone cliffs from their daytime orange to a deep, smoldering crimson that no camera could truly capture, though he'd spent twenty years trying.

"What are they supposed to be, Professor Reynolds?"

When he lacked definitive answers, Martin often deflected with his standard response: "Art history isn't about impositions of meaning—it's about recognizing that our interpretations tell us more about ourselves than about the original artists.

" A convenient academic dodge that usually impressed undergraduates while revealing nothing about his own ignorance.

He snapped several more photos, documenting the way the descending sun cast increasingly dramatic shadows across the carvings' grooves. The trip had been worth it, despite Sophia's objections.

"You're going alone? To the middle of nowhere? At your age?" His wife's concern had edged toward exasperation. "What if something happens, Martin? Your heart—"

"My heart is fine," he'd insisted, patting his chest where the pacemaker had been installed six months earlier. "The cardiologist cleared me for normal activity. This is just a hike, not a marathon. I'll have cell service the entire time."

That last part had been a minor fabrication. His phone showed one wavering bar of reception here in the shadow of the canyon wall—enough to ping his location in an emergency, perhaps, but not much more. Sophia would be livid if she knew.

Good thing she didn't know.

Martin carefully recorded the GPS coordinates in his notebook.

These particular petroglyphs would feature prominently in the revised Native American art history course he was teaching next semester at Phoenix College.

After fifteen years of recycling the same curriculum, the department chair had finally approved his proposed updates, emphasizing lesser-known sites and connecting ancient artistic traditions to contemporary Indigenous artists.

The notebook pages fluttered in a sudden breeze, reminding him of the approaching darkness. He should have started back to his rental car twenty minutes ago. The trail wasn't particularly challenging, but navigating by headlamp wasn't his idea of a pleasant evening.

Still, the quality of light at this exact moment was irresistible. The red-gold illumination had reached that perfect angle where it seemed to ignite the very stone, making the ancient carvings appear almost three-dimensional. He could spare five more minutes.

Martin set his backpack against the canyon wall and retrieved his tripod.

If he was going to be late getting back, he might as well capture some truly spectacular shots.

His exhibition at the Phoenix Cultural Center was scheduled for October, just three months away, and these images could serve as the dramatic opening to his presentation on "Visual Continuity in Southwest Indigenous Expression. "

That title had been Angela's suggestion.

His teaching assistant had a gift for academic phrasing that sounded both impressive and vague enough to discourage excessive scrutiny.

She also had a gift for making him feel simultaneously flattered and uncomfortable with her persistent attention.

At fifty-three, Martin found her interest both implausible and destabilizing to his otherwise contented twenty-eight-year marriage.

The thought of Angela made him check his watch.

She'd texted earlier asking about some research materials, and he'd promised to respond by evening.

He'd need to compose something professional yet not dismissive once he returned to cell reception.

The delicate dance of maintaining appropriate boundaries with a talented student who clearly wanted more than academic mentorship had become exhausting.

As he secured the camera to the tripod, the prickling sensation of being watched settled between his shoulder blades. Martin straightened, scanning the deepening shadows along the canyon floor.

"Hello?" he called, his voice sounding unusually thin in the vast space. "Anyone there?"

No response, but the feeling persisted. Martin had spent enough time in the wilderness to trust his instincts. Someone—or something—was observing him.

Perhaps a curious hiker on a parallel trail. Or wildlife, though large predators were uncommon in this area. Most likely, his imagination was playing tricks in the growing darkness, a phenomenon he'd experienced before during solo excursions.

He turned back to his camera, determined to finish what he'd started.

The tripod required minor adjustments to capture the correct angle.

Through the viewfinder, he noticed something he hadn't seen before—a small alcove in the rock wall, partly hidden behind an outcropping, containing markings distinct from the main panel of petroglyphs.

Curiosity immediately overcame his unease.

Martin abandoned the tripod and moved closer to the alcove, fishing his headlamp from his pocket.

The beam revealed symbols unlike those in the main panel—more angular, more deliberate, and somehow more unsettling.

They formed concentric circles surrounding what appeared to be humanoid figures with disproportionately elongated limbs.

"Extraordinary," he murmured, fumbling for his notebook. These weren't documented in any of the reference materials he'd studied before his trip. Could they represent a different period? A different cultural tradition? His academic instincts hummed with excitement at the potential discovery.

He was so absorbed in sketching the symbols that when the voice came from behind him, Martin nearly dropped his notebook.

"Yá'át'ééh."

He spun around, heart hammering against his ribs. A figure stood at the edge of his headlamp's beam—a silhouette against the last crimson glow of sunset. Martin couldn't make out details, only a general impression of someone of medium height, wrapped in what appeared to be a blanket or shawl.

"Hello," Martin replied, relief washing through him. "You startled me. Are you a local guide?"

The figure didn't immediately respond, instead taking a small step forward. Martin could now see it was a person carrying what looked like a bundle of dried plants or herbs.

"Doo díí baa nitsáhákees da." The voice was soft, almost melodic.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak Navajo," Martin said, smiling apologetically. "I'm a professor from Phoenix College." He gestured toward the petroglyphs. "I'm documenting these for an art history course. They're remarkable, aren't they?"

The figure took another step forward, now close enough that Martin should have been able to discern facial features, but the headlamp created strange shadows, and the person's head remained slightly bowed.

"Do you know anything about these particular symbols?" Martin asked, pointing toward the alcove he'd discovered. "I'm not familiar with this style. They seem different from the main panel—possibly from an earlier period?"

"éí doodago díí t'óó ahayóí ni? bééhózin." The figure held out the bundle of herbs, offering it with an outstretched hand.

Martin hesitated. Was this some kind of local custom he wasn't familiar with?

A welcoming gesture? Part of him—the culturally sensitive academic—wanted to accept whatever was being offered, to show respect and openness to Indigenous practices.

Another part—the cautious middle-aged man alone in a remote location—felt increasingly uncomfortable.

His pacemaker seemed to flutter in his chest, a sensation his cardiologist had assured him was normal but still felt distressingly alien six months after surgery.

"I appreciate your offer, but I should really be heading back," Martin said, beginning to gather his equipment. "It's getting dark, and I've got a bit of a hike to my car."

He turned away briefly to collapse his tripod, and when he looked back, the figure had moved with startling quickness to stand directly before him, close enough that Martin could smell something pungent and earthy from the herb bundle.

"Nidi baa nitsáhákees." The voice had changed—no longer soft but insistent, with an edge that raised the hairs on Martin's arms.

"Please," Martin said, taking a step backward. "I need to go now."

His heel caught on a stone, and he stumbled, catching himself against the canyon wall. The rough sandstone scraped his palm, and he felt a moment of irritation at his own clumsiness. When he looked up, the figure was advancing toward him.

"Look, I don't want any trouble," Martin said, losing his composure as alarm took hold of him. "I'm just a professor taking photographs for a class. I have permission to be here."

The figure paused. Then, with a movement too fluid to track in the failing light, it lunged forward.

Martin had just enough time to raise his arms in futile protection before something struck his chest with unexpected force.

Pain exploded through his ribcage—sharp, shocking, and immediately followed by a spreading warmth that confused him until he looked down and saw the darkness blooming across his shirt.

"Why?" he gasped, his mind unable to process the sudden violence, the incomprehensible shift from academic curiosity to mortal danger.

The figure said nothing, but Martin thought he detected a sorrowful shake of the head as his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the sandy ground. His camera—the ridiculously expensive Nikon—clattered somewhere nearby, and Martin found himself absurdly concerned about potential damage to the lens.

His last coherent thought before darkness claimed him was of Sophia—how she'd been right about the dangers of hiking alone, how she'd never let him hear the end of it.

Boy, is she gonna chew me out when I get back, he thought.

In the deepening twilight, as the canyon walls faded from crimson to black, Martin Reynolds's eyes fixed on the ancient petroglyphs he'd traveled so far to document—figures that now seemed to be moving, dancing in the dying light, welcoming him into their eternal, incomprehensible narrative