CHAPTER NINE
The trading post near Black Mesa hadn't changed much in fifty years—still a weathered wooden structure where tourists purchased overpriced turquoise jewelry while locals bought practical necessities.
As Ben guided their department SUV into the dusty parking area, Kari spotted an elderly man waiting in the shade of the building's covered porch.
"That's Allen's uncle," Ben said, nodding toward the figure. "Hosteen Tso."
The man straightened as they approached, his lined face revealing little but his eyes sharp with assessment. Kari estimated he was in his late seventies, but he stood with the straight-backed dignity that seemed common among elders who had spent their lives on the reservation.
"Detective Tsosie," he said, acknowledging Ben with a slight nod before turning his attention to Kari. "And you must be Joseph Chee's granddaughter."
The unexpected recognition caught Kari off guard. "You knew my grandfather?"
"I knew of him," Hosteen corrected. "His investigation touched many lives fifty years ago. Some remember." He gestured toward his truck, which was parked nearby. "The man you're looking for lives about seven miles from here. I will lead you there."
No further explanation was offered, and none seemed required.
Kari and Ben returned to their vehicle, following Hosteen's aging pickup as it turned onto a narrow dirt road heading east away from the trading post. The landscape grew increasingly remote—scattered juniper and sage giving way to open vistas where mesas stood like towers against the cloudless sky.
"You think Manuelito will talk to us?" Kari asked as Ben navigated a particularly rough section of road.
Ben kept his eyes on the uneven terrain. "Hard to say. Traditional healers rarely speak openly with law enforcement. But the fact that Hosteen agreed to take us there suggests Manuelito is at least expecting visitors."
As the road became increasingly primitive, Hosteen's truck slowed, taking a small turnoff marked only by three stacked stones.
The path wound through a narrow draw before opening to reveal a modest homestead nestled against the base of a small mesa—a traditional hogan with a more modern building beside it, surrounded by carefully tended gardens despite the harsh environment.
A man stood waiting as they approached, seemingly unsurprised by their arrival.
Even from a distance, Kari could see he was much older than the figure her grandfather had described in his journal—stooped now where he had once been straight, his face deeply lined with age and exposure to the elements.
Yet something in his posture suggested he retained the intensity Joseph had noted decades earlier.
As they parked and exited their vehicle, Kari took in more details: Manuelito appeared to be in his mid-seventies, his silver hair braided and wrapped at the nape of his neck, his clothing a practical blend of traditional and contemporary—jeans and a button-down shirt beneath a vest adorned with traditional beadwork.
His hands, gnarled with age, were stained with the distinctive colors of plant materials, and a medicine pouch similar to the one Ruth had given Kari hung from a cord around his neck.
Hosteen approached Manuelito first, speaking briefly in Navajo too quiet for Kari to hear. The older man nodded, then turned his attention to the detectives.
"Samuel Manuelito," Ben said, stepping forward. "I'm Detective Ben Tsosie. This is Detective Kari Blackhorse. We'd like to ask you some questions about recent events on the reservation."
Manuelito's gaze lingered on Kari, recognition flickering in his dark eyes. "Joseph's granddaughter. I can see him in you." He gestured toward his home. "We should speak inside. Some conversations shouldn't be held beneath an open sky."
The interior of Manuelito's home reflected his dual nature as healer and scholar—bookshelves filled with academic texts on botany, anthropology, and traditional medicine shared space with ceremonial items and dried plants hanging from the ceiling beams. A worktable near the window held mortars and pestles of various sizes, along with small cloth bags and glass containers filled with powders and dried herbs.
"You've been expecting us," Kari said, not a question but an observation.
Manuelito settled into a chair, indicating that they should do the same. "The pattern has begun again. Two deaths—one at Cold Water Canyon, one at Antelope Lake. The same as before." He studied their reactions. "And you found Joseph's private notes, or you wouldn't be here now."
"How do you know about the recent murders?" Ben asked. "The details haven't been released to the public."
"I know because I've been waiting for them to begin," Manuelito replied simply. "For fifty years, I've known they would return. The only question was whether I would live long enough to see the cycle complete."
Kari leaned forward. "Mr. Manuelito, are you aware that my grandfather suspected you were involved in the original murders? He documented his concerns extensively."
"Joseph was a good detective," Manuelito said, not looking particularly surprised. "He saw connections others missed. But he misunderstood my role." A shadow passed across his features. "I was not the cause of those deaths. I was trying to prevent more from occurring."
"By leaving the reservation immediately after the fifth murder?" Ben asked, making no effort to hide his skepticism.
"By seeking knowledge I didn't possess," Manuelito said.
"The ceremonies to strengthen what had been weakened.
The traditional practices that had been forgotten even by most medicine people.
" He gestured to the books surrounding them.
"I spent decades coming and going, learning from elders across many tribes—Hopi, Zuni, Apache, Ute.
All hold fragments of understanding about thresholds between worlds. About how to maintain them."
Kari studied the herbs hanging from the ceiling—recognizing sage, cedar, juniper, and the white prairie aster her grandfather had identified in his notes. The same combination found in the victims' mouths.
"These plants," she said, pointing upward. "What are they for?"
"Healing ceremonies, sometimes," Manuelito said. "But their primary purpose is protection—creating boundaries that certain energies cannot cross."
"The same plants were found in the mouths of five victims fifty years ago," Kari said, watching him closely. "And now they've appeared again with our two new victims."
Manuelito rose with the careful movements of age, moving to a shelf where he retrieved a rolled deerskin map. Spreading it on the table between them, he revealed an intricate representation of the reservation landscape, marked with symbols that appeared to be far older than the map itself.
"These five locations," he said, indicating points that corresponded exactly to the murder sites, "have been known to healers since before the Long Walk. Places where passage is possible under certain conditions."
"Passage to where?" Kari asked, her professional skepticism warring with the growing certainty that Manuelito believed every word he was saying.
"To what exists between," Manuelito replied, his voice dropping lower. "To realms that run alongside our own, separated by boundaries our ancestors learned to maintain through specific practices."
Ben shifted uncomfortably, though whether from doubt or something else, Kari couldn't determine. "You're suggesting these killings are some form of ceremonial effort to breach these boundaries?" he asked.
"Not just breach," Manuelito said. "The pattern of five sacrifices at five sites creates a specific configuration." His finger traced lines connecting the marked locations, forming a star.
"Why would someone want to do this?" Kari asked, setting aside the question of whether she accepted the premise. "What purpose would it serve?"
Manuelito looked directly at her. "Power.
Influence beyond ordinary human capability.
The ability to command forces most people don't even believe exist." His voice grew more urgent.
"Fifty years ago, the pattern was incomplete.
The final ceremony was disrupted before it could be finished.
This time, the killer seems determined to complete what was started. "
"You know who it is," Kari said, not a question but a statement based on his detailed knowledge.
Manuelito's expression closed like a door being shut. "I have suspicions, as Joseph did. But accusations without evidence would not serve your investigation." He turned back to the map. "What matters now is preventing the remaining sacrifices."
Kari exchanged a glance with Ben, both of them recognizing the careful evasion. "Mr. Manuelito, if you withhold information about a potential suspect—"
"I'm not withholding information about the killer's identity," Manuelito interrupted. "I'm telling you I don't know with certainty. What I do know is that stopping the pattern is more important than who is creating it."
"We can't protect potential victims without knowing who might target them," Ben pointed out.
"The who is less important than the what and why," Manuelito insisted. "Focus your patrols on Whipple Creek. That's where the third death occurred before, and where it will happen again if not prevented."
Kari studied him, her instincts as a detective in conflict with what she was hearing. Everything about Manuelito suggested he knew more than he was sharing, yet she sensed no deception about his core claims—only a selective filtering of information he deemed too dangerous to communicate directly.
"Why not leave for good?" she asked. "You've left so many times, but you always come back."
Manuelito was silent for a long moment, seemingly weighing how much to reveal. "I considered not returning—believe me," he finally said. "But it wasn't long before I felt the stirring."
"The stirring?" Ben asked, keeping his face stoic.
"Even from far away, those sensitive to such things could feel the preparations beginning.
The old darkness awakening." Manuelito touched the medicine pouch at his chest. "I bear responsibility for what happened before.
For not understanding quickly enough. For not stopping it completely. That is why I cannot leave."
"You feel guilty about the original five murders," Ben said.
"I feel responsible for what might still come," Manuelito said. "Death is tragic but natural. What these killings invite is neither."
Everyone was silent for a few moments.
"What exactly is the killer trying to accomplish?" Kari asked. "Beyond breaching these metaphysical boundaries you describe?"
Manuelito's eyes seemed to look beyond her, as if seeing something neither detective could perceive. "The resurrection of a spirit that should remain dormant," he said softly. "Something ancient that hungered before humans walked these lands. Something that, if freed, will hunger again.