CHAPTER NINETEEN
Gravel spun beneath the tires of Kari's Jeep as she took the final turn toward Ruth's house faster than she should have. Ben gripped the dashboard, his face tense in the fading evening light.
"Copy that," Ben said, holding a phone to the side of his head. He ended the call and set the phone in the cup holder. "We've got patrol units en route," he said. "ETA five minutes."
"We'll be there in two," Kari said, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"Provided we survive the drive there."
Kari shot him a look—this was no time for jokes, not with her grandmother's safety on the line.
"Sorry, Kari," Ben said softly. "Ruth is going to be alright. She's as tough as they come."
Kari said nothing. She just pushed the gas pedal harder.
The familiar silhouette of Ruth's home appeared against the darkening sky.
Almost at once, Kari realized something was wrong—no lights illuminated the windows, no smoke rose from the chimney despite the cooling desert evening.
Ruth was meticulous about her evening routines, particularly the small fire she maintained in the stone hearth from sunset until bedtime.
Ruth's pickup truck remained where it always was, parked beneath the juniper tree. But did that mean Ruth was here?
Kari was out of the Jeep before the engine fully quieted, her hand instinctively moving to her service weapon as she approached the front door. "Shimásání?" she called out. "Ruth?"
No answer came from within the darkened house.
The front door stood slightly ajar—another sign that something was wrong. Kari exchanged a quick glance with Ben, who nodded and drew his own weapon.
"Tribal Police," Kari announced, pushing the door open with her shoulder. "Ruth Chee?"
The interior of the small house was shadowed and still.
Kari flicked the light switch, flooding the main room with harsh illumination that revealed immediate signs of disturbance.
The table had been overturned, its contents scattered across the floor.
Ruth's prized Navajo rug lay bunched against one wall as if shoved aside in haste or struggle.
"Clear the house," Ben said quietly, moving toward the bedroom while Kari checked the kitchen.
"Kitchen clear," she called after a moment, returning to the main room where numerous small bundles of dried herbs lay scattered across the floor—not randomly strewn but placed in a distinct pattern that Kari recognized from her grandfather's drawings. A protection circle, hastily created.
"Bedroom and bathroom clear," Ben said, holstering his weapon as he returned. "No sign of Ruth, but her medicine bag is gone, and it looks like clothing is missing from her dresser."
Kari knelt beside the scattered herbs, noting their specific arrangement with growing concern. "She knew someone was coming," she said. "She tried to protect herself." Kari's throat tightened. "Did she leave voluntarily, or was she taken?"
"Hard to tell," Ben said, surveying the room. "Signs point to a struggle, but they're not conclusive. Could be she left in a hurry, knocked things over in her haste."
"By where would she go on foot?"
The sound of approaching vehicles announced the arrival of the patrol units. Kari moved to the doorway, watching as two tribal police cruisers pulled in behind her Jeep, their headlights illuminating the yard in harsh white light.
"We need a full evidence team here," she told the first officer through the door. "Process everything—fingerprints, fibers, everything."
As the officers began securing the scene, Kari stepped outside, needing a moment to process the rising fear in her chest. Ruth was missing.
The fifth victim in the original murder sequence had been found at the Chee family's former hogan—likely a substitute for Ruth herself.
And now, as the pattern repeated, Ruth had been taken—or had fled.
Either way, she was in danger.
"Kari," Ben called from inside. "You need to see this."
She returned to find him in Ruth's small bedroom, pointing to something on the nightstand. A single white prairie aster flower lay atop a folded piece of paper.
"The same flower used in the herb bundles placed in the victims' mouths," Ben said quietly.
With gloved hands, Kari carefully unfolded the paper. Written in what appeared to be Ruth's shaky handwriting was a single line:
Where it began. Where it must end.
"What does that mean?" Ben asked, looking over her shoulder.
"I don't know," Kari admitted. "But we need those translations from Silver. They might help us decipher this."
She pulled out her phone and dialed David Silver's number. The call went straight to voicemail. She tried again with the same result.
"No answer," she said, frustrated.
"I'll call Daniels," Ben said, "get the FBI involved in the search for Ruth. Their resources could make the difference." He stepped away, already dialing.
Kari stared at the white flower and the cryptic note, her mind racing through possibilities. Where it began. Where it must end. Was Ruth referring to a location? To the original murders? To something only she would understand?
Whatever the message meant, Kari couldn't just sit around. She needed to do something, and her best lead involved Remy Silver's journals. Maybe David hadn't finished with them, but even if he only had a few pages done, there was no telling what those pages might reveal.
"Ben," she called, interrupting his conversation with Daniels. "I'm going to Silver's house."
Ben covered the phone with his hand. "I should come with you."
"No," Kari said firmly. "We need you coordinating the search for Ruth from here. You know the terrain, the possible routes. I'll handle Silver."
Ben hesitated, clearly torn between accompanying his partner and recognizing the logic of her argument. "Fine," he said finally. "But check in every thirty minutes. If I don't hear from you, I'm sending backup."
"Agreed," Kari said, already moving toward the door. "Text me Silver's home address."
As she climbed back into her Jeep, Kari felt the familiar weight of the medicine pouch around her neck—the one that had belonged to her grandfather, which Ruth had given her with such unusual sentimentality. Had Ruth known then what might happen? Had she been preparing Kari to follow this path?
The drive to Silver's residence took twenty-five minutes, the roads darkening as night fully descended across the reservation.
The councilman lived in a secluded area—not remote by reservation standards, but private, with no immediate neighbors.
His house was a modern adaptation of traditional design, its clean lines visible in the moonlight as Kari approached.
No lights shone from within the structure. No vehicle was visible in the driveway or the carport attached to one side of the house. If Silver was home, he was sitting in darkness.
Kari parked her Jeep and hurried to the front of the house.
"Councilman Silver?" she called, knocking firmly on the front door. "It's Detective Blackhorse. We need to talk."
No response came from within. Kari tried the doorknob and found it locked.
She walked the perimeter of the house, checking windows.
All secured, curtains drawn. Her growing sense of urgency battled with her training.
Breaking into a tribal councilman's home without a warrant would have serious repercussions—but if Ruth's life was in danger, those concerns became secondary.
Maybe he's out, she thought. But that doesn't mean the journals aren't in there—along with whatever he may have already translated.
Kari checked her watch. Almost twenty minutes since she'd left Ruth's house. She needed to decide quickly or call Ben for backup as promised.
The decision crystallized as she noticed a small window near the back of the house standing slightly ajar—perhaps for ventilation on the warm evening. Just large enough for someone of her build to squeeze through if she removed her jacket.
"Sorry, Councilman," she muttered, removing her service jacket and laying it carefully aside. "Exigent circumstances."
The window presented a tight fit, but Kari managed to wriggle through with minimal noise, dropping lightly onto what felt like a utility room floor.
She drew her weapon and flashlight, sweeping the beam across the darkened space.
Laundry machines, storage shelves, a door leading into the main house.
She moved quietly through the house, confirming each room was empty before proceeding to the next. The place showed no signs of disturbance—everything was organized, almost unnaturally neat. The kitchen looked barely used, its counters free of the clutter that accumulated in most homes.
Silver's office occupied what would have been a formal dining room, its walls lined with bookshelves, a large desk dominating the center of the space.
Kari searched for the journals he had promised to translate, opening drawers and checking shelves, but found nothing resembling Remy Silver's original notebooks.
Her phone vibrated with an incoming text from Ben: Check-in time. Status?
She quickly replied: At Silver's house. No one home.
Ben's response came a few moments later: On your way back, then?
Not yet, she replied. Give me a few minutes.
A few minutes for what?
Kari ignored the message. She wasn't going to leave until she was absolutely certain the journals weren't here.
The living room contained more bookshelves, these filled with a mixture of academic texts and traditional literature.
Kari scanned the titles, noting volumes on ceremonial practices, Navajo creation stories, and histories of the reservation.
One section appeared dedicated to boundary concepts—thresholds between worlds, liminal spaces, transitional states.
No journals, however.
Stepping back, she noticed something unusual on the floor—scuff marks in a semi-circular arc. The bottom edge of the shelf was scuffed, too, the paint worn through as if the shelf had brushed against the floor numerous times.
As if the shelf moved.
"Hidden door," she murmured. She tried pulling the shelf, but it didn't budge. She tried pushing instead, but that didn't work, either.
Certain there had to be another way to move the shelf, she began pulling the books out one by one and peeking behind them before replacing them. She came to a large, unmarked tome that didn't move. It was stuck, as if glued in place.
Kari grabbed the top of the book and pulled it. There was a soft click as the book pivoted downward like a lever.
Kari's heart accelerated as she grabbed hold of the edge of the shelf again. She pulled once more, and this time it moved, grinding against the floor and revealing a small doorway.
Kari stepped through the doorway into a room that should not have existed according to the house's external dimensions—a space deliberately concealed from outside view, windowless and claustrophobic.
In the middle of this small space was a low stone table, its surface covered with a hand-woven cloth upon which rested photographs arranged in a five-pointed star pattern.
Kari recognized the images immediately—the three recent victims alongside photographs of what must have been the original victims from fifty years earlier.
Kari stared at the photographs, stunned. What the hell?
Surrounding the photographs were ceremonial items—a stone mortar and pestle stained with the residue of ground herbs, bundles of sage, cedar, and juniper tied with red thread, and small cloth pouches containing what appeared to be white prairie aster flowers.
The walls held maps and diagrams, some appearing to be copies from her grandfather's original notes, others created more recently. Red lines connected locations across the reservation, forming a pattern that resembled a five-pointed star centered on an area Kari didn't immediately recognize.
Moving closer to the maps, she saw locations marked with dates—both from fifty years ago and recent days. Cold Water Canyon. Antelope Lake. Cottonwood Wash. The exact locations where bodies had been found, past and present.
But it was a fifth location, marked with today's date, that drew her attention. A remote area labeled "Shadow Cave" with detailed directions sketched beneath it. Beneath the location, written in block letters: FINAL THRESHOLD POINT. CEREMONY OF COMPLETION.
Beside this map hung what appeared to be journal pages preserved behind glass—not her grandfather's writing, but what must be Remy Silver's original notes, along with handwritten translations. By the look of them, these translations had been made a long time ago.
Which meant that David Silver had lied to her about the translations—and about a lot more, by the look of it.
Kari carefully photographed the contents of the room with her phone, careful to avoid touching anything.
Then she noticed a small shelf near the door—a wooden box containing five small bundles of herbs, four marked with check marks, the fifth still unmarked.
Written on the box in the same handwriting: SHADOW WALKER ASCENSION VESSELS.
Kari felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. David Silver wasn't just studying the original murders—he was recreating them. And tomorrow night, at Shadow Cave, he planned to complete what had begun fifty years earlier.
With Ruth as his final victim.
Her grandmother's cryptic note suddenly made sense: Where it began. Where it must end. Ruth knew about Shadow Cave, understood its significance to the original murders. She'd left Kari a clue to where Silver would take her—assuming he hadn't already.
As Kari raised her phone to call Ben, a map detail caught her eye—handwritten notes beneath the Shadow Cave location:
Original power source. Where father failed. Where son will succeed. The Shadow's threshold awaits the final vessel.
"My God," Kari whispered, the full picture finally coming into focus. "Remy Silver wasn't investigating the murders back then. He was committing them."
And now his son was finishing what his father had started.