CHAPTER TWENTY ONE #2
"It went deeper than that," Kari said, shifting to a more upright position. "Remy Silver—David's father—was the original Shadow Walker. He killed five people in 1973, targeting researchers documenting sacred sites. He was also Grandfather's partner."
Her father's expression changed subtly—a tightening around the eyes, a slight withdrawal that most people wouldn't notice. "Did Joseph suspect Remy?"
"More than suspected," Kari said. "He kept separate notes, documented his partner's movements without officially accusing him. I found the journals in David Silver's house."
James sank into the visitor's chair. "That explains so much," he said quietly. "Joseph changed during those years. Became more guarded, more protective of Ruth. Started carrying medicine bundles even though he'd always been skeptical of traditional practices before."
"He knew his partner was the killer but couldn't prove it," Kari said. "And then the murders stopped after the fifth victim—Laura Yellowhair, Ruth's friend. Grandfather realized Ruth had been the intended target."
Her father's face paled noticeably. "Ruth was supposed to be the fifth victim?"
"According to David Silver, yes. When his father couldn't get to Ruth, he targeted her friend instead—as a warning to Grandfather."
James stood abruptly, moving to the window where he stared out at the desert landscape. His shoulders were tense.
"That's why we never knew the full story," Kari continued. "Grandfather was protecting Ruth. And probably Remy's reputation too, since he couldn't prove anything."
"And now Remy's son tried to finish what his father started," James said, still facing the window. "With Ruth as the final victim again."
"He believed completing the ritual would allow some entity called the Shadow Walker to fully manifest," Kari explained. "To cross completely from whatever boundary space it exists in. Apparently, his father's attempt fifty years ago only achieved partial manifestation."
Her father turned, his expression troubled. "And you believe this? This talk of entities and boundaries?"
The answer would've been obvious a few months ago. Now, after everything she'd experienced since returning to the reservation, Kari couldn't dismiss it so easily.
"I believe David Silver believed it," she said carefully. "And I believe something was happening in that cave beyond ordinary explanation."
James nodded, not arguing the point. "The doctors say you were exposed to some kind of plant-based compound?"
"A yellow powder," Kari said. "Silver used it on Jennifer Holbrook, too. It's primarily datura, along with other elements they're still analyzing. Causes disorientation, sensory distortion, and temporary paralysis in higher doses."
"Traditional knowledge turned into a weapon," her father murmured.
A brief silence settled between them. Kari studied her father's profile as he gazed out the window again, noticing the tightness in his jaw, the unusual stillness in his normally energetic presence.
"You're really shaken by this," she said.
James sighed, turning to face her. "When Yazzie called me..." His voice caught unexpectedly. "All he said was that you'd been hurt during an operation. For a minute, before he gave details, I thought—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
"I'm fine, Dad," Kari said, gentler than usual. "Really."
"I know." He returned to the chair beside her bed, his movements suddenly revealing his age in a way Kari rarely noticed. "But it hit me that I could lose you. Just like—"
"Like Mom?" Kari suggested when he didn't continue.
"Yes." The single word carried unexpected weight.
"You and Mom were divorced long before she died," Kari said, watching him closely.
James met her gaze directly. "That doesn't mean I stopped caring about her, Kari. Anna was... special. Always."
The simple admission hung in the air between them.
Kari had spent years assuming her parents' divorce had been a clean break—emotionally as well as legally.
Her father's remarriage to Linda had seemed to confirm this narrative.
Now, seeing the genuine pain in his eyes, she recognized the oversimplification of her assumptions.
"I didn't know you still felt that way," she said finally.
"We had our problems," James said. "Serious ones. But Anna was part of my life for almost twenty years. Mother of my child." His gaze softened. "There were good years, Kari. Really good ones."
"You never talk about those."
"No, I don't." He looked down at his hands, the gold band of his second marriage catching the afternoon light. "It seemed... disloyal, somehow. To Linda. To the life I've built. And maybe I thought you didn't want to hear it."
Kari considered this. "I might not have. Before."
"And now?"
She shrugged, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "I've been learning about Grandfather since I came back. About the kind of man he was, the challenges he faced. Maybe I should know more about Mom, too. The parts I was too young to remember or too teenage-angry to appreciate."
James smiled. "She was brilliant. Passionate about preserving traditional knowledge while making it accessible to younger generations. Stubborn as hell." He chuckled softly. "Where do you think you got that from?"
"Hey," Kari protested, but without heat.
"When you were maybe four, you fell and cut your knee pretty badly," James continued, his expression distant with memory.
"Anna cleaned the wound and started singing this traditional healing song—something Ruth had taught her.
You stopped crying immediately, just watching her with these huge, fascinated eyes.
I asked her later what the song meant, and she said, 'It reminds the body that it knows how to heal itself. '"
The memory struck Kari with unexpected force. "I don't remember that."
"Like I said, you were very young," James said. "But I've never forgotten it. That blend of practical care and traditional wisdom—it was so essentially Anna."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment. Kari felt an unfamiliar warmth in her chest—not the absence of her typical reserve where her father was concerned, but something new. A bridge, perhaps, being carefully constructed between them.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there when she died," James said suddenly. "I should have been, regardless of our history."
"You couldn't have known what would happen," Kari replied, the words surprising her even as she spoke them. She had carried resentment about his absence during her mother's final days for years, but now found it suddenly less important.
"Still. If I'd stayed in closer contact..." He shook his head. "Regrets don't change anything, I know."
"No," Kari agreed. "But understanding might."
He looked at her questioningly.
"I thought I came back to the reservation just to take care of Ruth," Kari explained. "Not that she would let anyone take care of her. But I think I really came because I needed to understand my own connections—to this place, to my family history. To the parts of myself I've been ignoring."
"Your mother would be proud of you," James said quietly. "Not just for solving these cases, but for how you've embraced both sides of your heritage. She always wanted that for you—to find value in both worlds instead of feeling trapped between them."
The comment touched something deep in Kari, a wound that had never properly healed. "I wish I could talk to her now. Adult to adult. There's so much I'd ask her."
"I know." James reached out hesitantly, then took her hand. "But you have Ruth. And me, if you want. I know I'm not a replacement for Anna, but I'm here."
The simple offer, so unlike their typically reserved interactions, brought unexpected moisture to Kari's eyes.
"I'd like that," she said softly.
A nurse entered with a clipboard, breaking the moment. "Vitals check, Detective Blackhorse. And good news—doctor says you can be discharged tomorrow morning as long as tonight's blood work looks good."
"Thank you," Kari said, composing herself as the nurse efficiently checked her vital signs.
"Your grandmother called," the nurse added as she finished her task. "Said to tell you she's resting comfortable at home and not to worry."
"That sounds like Ruth," James observed after the nurse departed. "Practical to the core."
They were both silent for several long moments.
"I'll come back tomorrow to drive you home," James finally said, rising.
"You don't need to do that," Kari said automatically.
"I know," he replied with a small smile. "But I'd like to. If that's okay."
Kari found herself returning the smile. "That would be nice. Thanks, Dad."
He moved to the door, then turned back. "Oh, and about the exhibit this weekend—"
"I'll be there," Kari said. She smiled. "I'll make it a priority."
James smiled back. Then he walked out.
After her father had left, Kari leaned back against her pillows, watching twilight settle across the reservation landscape.
The yellow powder's lingering effects had mostly subsided, leaving only a slight haziness at the edges of her perception.
Tomorrow she would return home, check on Ruth, begin the process of documenting what had happened at Shadow Cave.
She would examine the physical evidence of Silver's ritualistic intentions and write official reports that carefully omitted certain details beyond rational explanation.
But tonight, in the quiet aftermath, Kari allowed herself to simply exist in this moment of unexpected connection—with her father, with her family history, with parts of herself long held at a protective distance.
It wouldn't change everything. One conversation rarely did. But it was a beginning, and for now, that was enough