"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.
"Thewhois less important than thewhatandwhy," 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.
CHAPTER TEN
The Shadow's Apprentice ground the dried herbs between his palms, inhaling the sacred smoke that rose from the smoldering bundle on his altar.The familiar scents of sage, cedar, and juniper filled the underground chamber, mingling with the musty earthiness of damp stone walls.Far above him, the July sun beat down on the desert floor, but here in the cool depths of the abandoned mine shaft, time moved differently.
As it had for fifty years.
He spread the photographs across the rough wooden table, handling them with the reverence due to holy relics.Black and white images captured moments frozen at the instant of transformation—three faces from 1973-1974 arranged in perfect ceremonial poses, their eyes reflecting the last glimpse of this world before passing to another.Professor William Travers at Cold Water Canyon.Assistant Professor Laura Yellowhair near Antelope Lake, her dark hair spread like a halo around her head.Harold Miller at Cottonwood Wash, whose body had been discovered by a geology student who'd wandered too far from his field trip group.
Beneath each photograph lay the meticulous case notes his father had compiled—not the official reports filed with the tribal police, but private documentation that detailed the true nature of each killing.The original Shadow Walker had been methodical in his recording, writing in a hybrid code that merged Navajo syllabics with anthropological notation systems.A language designed to be understood by only one other person.
The son who would continue his work.
"Your power grows stronger," he said aloud to the spirit presence he felt building in the chamber, the ancient consciousness that had chosen his father and now stirred within him."Two complete.Three remain."
Martin Reynolds had been the first of the new cycle, his academic interest in petroglyphs making him the perfect opening sacrifice.The woman professor, Jennifer Holbrook, had been more challenging—they'd arrived at Antelope Lake within hours of each other, but she had been much more wary than Reynolds.
He remembered crouching in the tall grass near the lakeshore, watching her set up her camera equipment to photograph the sunset.His heart had pounded so loudly he feared she would hear it, ruining the delicate timing required for the ritual.But the power had guided him, as it had guided his father before him.She had underestimated him and trusted too much in her own experience and skills.
Until it was too late.
The Shadow's Apprentice carefully added Professor Holbrook's photograph to the altar arrangement, positioned precisely as his father's notes prescribed.Her death at Antelope Lake had created the second cardinal point in the five-point star that would, when complete, pierce the veil between worlds and allow the full transference of power.
Already he could feel the changes within himself.His senses had sharpened to the point where he could hear mice scurrying in the mine tunnels fifty yards away.His dreams carried him to places that existed between moments, where the Shadow Walker's true form moved with predatory grace.Colors appeared more vivid, smells more distinct, and most importantly, his intuition had evolved into something that bordered on precognition.
He'd known exactly when to leave Cold Water Canyon, minutes before the hikers discovered Reynolds' body.He'd sensed the precise moment to approach Professor Holbrook at the lake, when the setting sun's position would create the perfect distraction.This heightened awareness was proof that the ritual was working—that with each properly executed killing, more of the Shadow Walker's essence flowed into his vessel.
It was almost enough to make him glad that the original murders had been interrupted.Almost.
His father had nearly achieved success before succumbing to the heart attack that medical records attributed to natural causes.But the Shadow's Apprentice knew better.His father had pushed too hard, too fast.The ancient power had been too much for an unprepared vessel.
This time would be different.The Shadow's Apprentice had spent decades preparing his body and mind, following the strict regimen of physical conditioning and meditation his father had prescribed in his final journal entries.He had studied the case files until he could recite every detail from memory, ensuring each recreation would be perfect down to the smallest ceremonial element.
Three more sacrifices.Three more academics whose documentation of sacred sites marked them as worthy offerings.He could already taste success.
