CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ben Tsosie stood at the trailhead studying the photograph on his phone, comparing it to the landscape before him.
The rock formation in Evan Naalnish's photo was distinctive—three pillars of sandstone rising from the desert floor, their surfaces weathered into shapes that suggested faces if you looked at them right.
Fifteen years ago, Evan had stood in this same spot, excited about geological features he'd discovered somewhere in the canyons beyond.
Now Ben was trying to retrace those steps, following a trail that had gone as cold as ice.
He checked his gear one more time—water, first aid kit, rope, his radio and phone both fully charged, emergency beacon in case things went sideways.
He'd grown up on the reservation, had spent his youth hiking and camping with his grandfather, learning to read the land and respect its dangers.
The desert could kill you if you weren't careful, if you got lost or injured or simply underestimated how quickly conditions could change.
Evan Naalnish had known that too. He'd been an experienced hiker, someone who understood wilderness safety. Yet he'd disappeared without a trace, his truck found locked at a trailhead with his wallet and phone inside, his camping gear and camera gone.
That detail had bothered Ben from the start.
If Evan had gotten lost or injured, search teams should have found his remains or equipment.
The area had been searched thoroughly—grid patterns, aerial surveys, search dogs.
They'd found nothing. Which meant either Evan had wandered much farther than anyone expected, or something else had happened to him.
Something like what Anna Blackhorse had suspected: that Evan had discovered something on this land, something that had gotten him killed.
Ben started walking, following the canyon that matched the topography in Evan's photographs.
The morning was already hot, the sun turning the desert into a furnace, but Ben had started early enough that he had a few hours before the real heat set in.
He moved carefully, watching his footing on the rocky terrain, scanning the landscape for landmarks that matched Evan's documentation.
His radio crackled with routine traffic from the station—officers checking in, dispatchers coordinating responses to minor incidents.
The normal rhythm of reservation law enforcement, the daily work of keeping communities safe and responding to problems both mundane and serious.
Ben had left a message with Captain Yazzie about following up on a cold case, but he hadn't gone into detail about the connection to Anna Blackhorse's research or Kari's request for help.
He'd been cagey partly because it sounded like a conspiracy theory when you laid it out plainly: that indigenous people were being murdered to protect corporate interests, that deaths ruled as accidents were actually calculated killings, that there was a pattern spanning decades and multiple cases.
Ben believed Kari, trusted her judgment, but he also understood why others might be skeptical.
The canyon narrowed as Ben progressed, the walls rising on either side, the vegetation changing from scattered creosote bushes to hardier plants that could survive in the shade.
He'd always liked this kind of terrain—the way desert canyons created their own microenvironments, the geology visible in layers of stone that told stories spanning millions of years.
Evan Naalnish had liked it too, from what his sister had said.
He'd been fascinated by the way water and wind shaped rock over time, by the minerals and formations that revealed the earth's history.
He'd taken hundreds of photographs, documented dozens of sites, built a personal catalog of geological features that might have become the foundation for a career in earth sciences.
Instead, he'd disappeared, and all that knowledge had vanished with him.
Ben stopped to drink water and check his progress.
He'd been walking for about forty-five minutes, covering maybe two miles of increasingly difficult terrain.
The GPS coordinates Evan's sister had provided were still another mile ahead, in an area where the canyon system branched into smaller tributaries.
According to the coordinates, Evan had been particularly interested in one specific area—a place he'd visited multiple times in the weeks before his disappearance.
A place that was now owned by Devco Holdings, the mysterious company that had purchased the land for four times its market value just weeks after Evan vanished.
Ben continued walking, his mind turning over the details of the case.
The timing was suspicious—Evan disappears, the land sells immediately for an inflated price, access is restricted, and fifteen years later no one knows what Devco Holdings actually does with the property.
Anna Blackhorse had tried to investigate and hit walls everywhere.
Corporate shell companies, layers of ownership, no public statements about development plans or land use.
It was the kind of opacity that suggested something worth hiding. Which might explain not only Evan's death, but Anna's as well.
Ben had to remind himself, however, not to jump to any conclusions.
The last thing he wanted to do was stoke Kari's suspicions without hard evidence.
He didn't want to see her get worked up thinking she was about to discover what had happened to her mother, only to be devastated when she realized they'd gotten ahead of themselves.
The canyon branched ahead, just as the topographical maps had indicated.
Ben consulted Evan's photographs again, trying to determine which tributary matched the rock formations in the images.
The left branch seemed right—he could see the distinctive layering in the canyon walls, the way water had carved smooth channels through the stone.
He followed the left branch, moving more slowly now, paying attention to details.
If Evan had been documenting geological features here, there might still be evidence—marks where he'd taken samples, areas where he'd set up equipment for photographs, maybe even carved initials or notes in the soft sandstone the way hikers sometimes did.
Twenty minutes later, Ben found something interesting: a small alcove in the canyon wall, protected from direct sun and rain, where someone had clearly spent time. There were marks in the sandy floor where equipment had been set up, depressions that suggested a tripod or similar support.
And carved neatly into the stone, protected from weather: E.N. 2010.
Evan Naalnish, marking his presence fifteen years ago.
Ben felt a strange mix of triumph and sadness.
He'd found evidence of Evan's explorations, confirmation that this was indeed where the young man had been working.
But it also made his disappearance more real, more tragic.
Evan had been here, alive and excited about his research, and then he'd been erased from the world.
Ben photographed the carved initials and the alcove, documenting everything carefully. Then he continued up the canyon, following what he hoped was Evan's path.
The terrain became more challenging—loose rock, steep sections that required careful climbing, places where flash floods had reshaped the landscape since Evan's time.
Ben moved cautiously, aware that a twisted ankle or fall out here could turn a research trip into a rescue situation.
His grandfather had taught him to always assume the desert was trying to kill you, not out of malice but simply because it was indifferent to human survival.
Respect that indifference, prepare for it, and you'd probably be fine.
Underestimate it, and you'd become another cautionary tale.
After another thirty minutes of careful navigation, Ben rounded a bend in the canyon and stopped abruptly.
A chain-link fence stretched across the canyon, eight feet high and topped with barbed wire. It was new—certainly not fifteen years old—with metal posts sunk deep into concrete footings. Signs every twenty feet read: "PRIVATE PROPERTY - NO TRESPASSING - VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED."
Ben had expected to encounter a property boundary eventually—he'd known from the land sale records that this area had been purchased by Devco Holdings.
But the fence was more substantial than he'd anticipated.
This wasn't a simple property marker or token barrier.
This was serious security infrastructure, the kind you might expect at a military base or research station.
It seemed excessive for land that, according to public records, sat unused and undeveloped.
Ben walked along the fence, looking for a gate or access point.
He found one about fifty yards from where the fence first blocked the canyon—a heavy metal gate secured with a padlock and another prominent warning sign.
Beyond the gate, the canyon continued deeper into the property, the terrain looking much the same as what Ben had already traversed.
He pulled out his phone, checking for signal. Surprisingly, he had a couple of bars—enough to make a call. He'd brought the number for Devco Holdings with him, figuring he might need to contact them about accessing the property.
Now seemed like a good time.
The phone rang four times before someone answered. "Devco Holdings, how may I direct your call?"
"Hi, my name is Ben Tsosie. I'm an officer with the Navajo Nation Police Department, and I'm investigating a cold case missing person from fifteen years ago.
The person was last seen in an area that's now part of your property, and I'd like permission to access the land to continue my investigation. "
There was a pause. "One moment please."
Ben waited, listening to hold music that sounded like it had been recorded in the 1980s and never updated. He looked at the fence again, at the heavy-duty construction that seemed designed for more than just keeping out casual hikers.
A different voice came on the line. "This is Michael Petrus, site security coordinator. You said you're with tribal police?"
"That's right. Navajo Nation Police Department. I'm investigating the disappearance of Evan Naalnish, who went missing in this area in 2010. I have reason to believe he may have been on what's now your property when he disappeared."
"I see. And you're requesting access to conduct a search?"
"Yes sir. Just for a few hours, to check the canyon system and see if there's any evidence of what happened to him. His family has been waiting fifteen years for answers."
"I understand that's difficult for them." There was a brief pause. "However, this is private property, and we have liability concerns about allowing access. If something were to happen to you during your search—an injury, an accident—the company could be held responsible."
"I'm a trained officer with wilderness experience. I've been hiking this terrain for years. And I'm conducting an official investigation into a missing person case."
"I appreciate that, Officer Tsosie. But our policy is very clear on this matter. No unauthorized access to company property, regardless of the reason. If you need to conduct a search, you'll need to obtain a warrant through the proper legal channels."
Ben felt his frustration building. He'd expected some bureaucracy, but this level of resistance seemed disproportionate.
"Mr. Petrus, I'm not asking to search buildings or secure facilities.
I just want to walk through a canyon looking for evidence related to a fifteen-year-old missing person case.
Surely the company can make an exception for something like this. "
"I'm afraid not. The land is posted as private property, and entering without authorization would constitute trespassing. I have to insist that you respect that boundary."
"Can I speak to someone with authority to grant exceptions? Maybe a manager or—"
"I have full authority over site access decisions, and my answer is no.
If you want to search the property, get a warrant.
Otherwise, I'll have to ask you to leave the area.
" Petrus's tone hardened. "And Officer Tsosie?
We have security patrols that monitor this property.
If you're standing at the fence line right now, which I suspect you are based on this conversation, you should know that you're being observed.
Any attempt to cross that fence will result in immediate notification to local authorities and potential charges. "
Ben looked around, suddenly aware that there might be cameras he hadn't noticed. "I'm conducting a legitimate investigation—"
"Then conduct it through legitimate channels. Get your warrant, come back with proper authorization, and we'll cooperate fully. Until then, stay off our property."
The line went dead.
Ben stared at his phone, surprised. He'd expected bureaucratic delays, maybe some back-and-forth about liability and procedures. What he hadn't expected was outright hostility, threats about being observed, and a flat refusal to even consider accommodating a missing person investigation.
That reaction—that level of defensiveness—suggested Devco Holdings was protecting something more important than just liability concerns or property rights.
Ben photographed the fence, the gate, the warning signs, and the area beyond as thoroughly as he could from his position. Then he made his way back down the canyon, troubled.
As he hiked back toward his truck, his radio crackled with a call from dispatch about a domestic disturbance that needed response.
Regular police work, the daily responsibilities that filled most of his time.
He'd spent half a day following a cold trail, and what did he have to show for it?
Some initials carved in stone, a fence, and a hostile phone call.
But as he walked, Ben kept thinking about Michael Petrus's tone, about the threat of being observed, about the way Devco Holdings had immediately escalated to warnings and legal language instead of simply explaining why access couldn't be granted.
That wasn't the response of a company with nothing to hide. That was the response of a company protecting a secret worth keeping.
And he was going to figure out what that secret was.