Twilight Warrior. Aimee Thurlo

here from the big city?”

      “Nancy’s dead—murdered—and I have reason to believe her killer’s living in this area.”

      “Sounds like we should go to the house and talk,” he said, leading the way up the rocky path. Constructed of pine logs and a green metal roof, his home fit into the hillside as naturally as the trees around it.

      Travis walked inside ahead of her, in accordance with Navajo customs. Although Anglo men were taught to let the women pass first, Navajo men preferred to take the lead. If there was trouble, they’d be the first to face it. Laura didn’t comment, so he didn’t offer to explain.

      “You’ve got a personal stake in this case. I’m surprised NSI is allowing you to work on it,” he commented.

      “They’re not. I’m on my own time.”

      Travis led her into the large modern kitchen. “It’s still early. Have you had breakfast?” he asked.

      Laura shook her head. “I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”

      He stepped over to the fridge. “Let me fix us something and while I’m working, you can fill me in.”

      “You cook?”

      “Yeah. I hate eating takeout all the time,” he said, bringing some eggs and cheddar cheese out of the fridge.

      She didn’t speak right away and he didn’t push. Long pauses were common when Navajos spoke. Waiting was second nature to him.

      “My friend was murdered six weeks ago,” she finally said, her voice wavering slightly. “I won’t mention her name again. I remember what you taught me a long time ago about the chindi.”

      “Thanks.” He appreciated the courtesy. Although he embraced the modern way of life, as a New Traditionalist he still lived by his Navajo beliefs. To use the name of the dead was said to call back their chindi, the evil in a person that survived death but remained earthbound, unable to merge with Universal Harmony.

      “What happened to her?” he asked as he worked.

      Laura gave him the details, pausing a few times to keep her voice steady. “The detectives didn’t find any semen. He obviously used protection. But they were able to collect blood samples from the hit he took in the shoulder. There wasn’t a DNA match in any of their databases.”

      “So he’s not on any sex-offender lists,” he said thoughtfully.

      “And you checked hospital records, right?” he asked. She nodded. “So he must have treated himself, and has probably recovered by now. We’re assuming, of course, that we’re only dealing with one suspect.”

      “I’ve got reason to believe we are.”

      “What led you here, specifically?”

      “I’ve investigated this case from every possible angle. I also searched through RMIN and national databases like NCIC for similar crimes.”

      Travis nodded, familiar with the names she’d mentioned. RMIN was the Rocky Mountain Information Network—pronounced rim-in by law enforcement—and the National Crime Information Center, with its FBI origins, was a national database. Computer searches allowed officers to compare a crime under investigation to ones committed by known criminals. Similar M.O.’s could then be used to narrow down suspects.

      “And you got a hit?”

      “Yes. Five months prior to my friend’s murder, a young high-school basketball star was found assaulted and strangled in her home in Bloomfield. That’s less than fifteen miles east of Three Rivers. Since that crime was committed prior to the attack on my friend, I’d first assumed that the suspect had left this area and was working his way west, into Arizona. Then, just a week ago, a reservation women’s softball coach was murdered in Shiprock. That’s less than an hour’s drive from the Bloomfield scene and the Shiprock M.O. matched the two previous homicides.”

      “So you’re thinking since two of three similar crimes have occurred in this area, the suspect either lives here or in one of the Four Corners communities.”

      “Exactly,” she said. “Since Three Rivers is the largest city in this part of the state, I’ve decided to make it my base of operations.” She paused, then after a beat, continued, “You and I were good friends once. You knew me and Nan—” she stopped herself short. “And my friend,” she corrected. “That’s why I was hoping you’d agree to work with me after hours.”

      “I know about the coach’s murder—all of our officers were briefed—but the crime occurred outside my jurisdiction. Cases on the Rez are handled by the tribal police and the feds,” Travis said.

      “I know, but you’ll still have access to much of the information. Intelligence on open cases is shared by local departments.” She looked directly into his eyes. “Back in high school, you and I always had each other’s backs. That’s why I came to find you when I learned that you were a police officer here in Three Rivers.”

      He stared at an indefinite point on the wall, lost in thought. Back then they’d lived day-to-day. Poverty had been an ever-present shadow neither of them could outrun. Their friendship had been forged through adversity. He’d always known he could trust Laura not to betray his secrets. She had too many of her own.

      “I need your help,” she said at last.

      Something in her voice told him how hard it had been for her to admit that. She’d always taken pride in her independence—as had he. In that way, neither of them had changed. “You’ve got a personal connection to this case,” he said, shaking his head. “You should back away and let local detectives handle it. Or take it to the FBI and point out the connections you’ve uncovered.”

      “I can’t back away. The killer swore he’d come after me. I’m a threat to him. He’s probably worried that I’ll be able to identify him if we cross paths,” she said. “The problem is, I can’t. When I hit my head, it took me a while to get everything working again, and he was hidden in shadows.”

      He added a handful of grated cheese and green chili to the mix of scrambled eggs. “Tell me more about your plan.”

      “He obviously targets female athletes, so I thought I’d join a local softball team. There are summer leagues here, I’ve already checked.”

      “If I recall, you stink at softball,” he said, trying to hide a smile. “Back in P.E., the only way you could hit a ball was by coincidence.”

      She laughed. “In those days I preferred to be inside, trying to get my old computer to cooperate. But I’ve undergone a lot of physical training since then. I can coordinate my movements more effectively now, as you’ve seen.”

      He nodded slowly. “You’ve changed a lot in some ways, I’ll admit,” he said, giving her an appreciative look. “But inside you’re as headstrong as ever. You still don’t like backing down, particularly if you think you’re right.”

      “In this case, I am right. There’s a serial killer in this area.”

      He said nothing, mulling everything over, trying to decide exactly what—if anything—he should do.

      “Remember what you taught me about restoring balance and harmony,” Laura said.

      He looked at her, surprised. “You remember?”

      “I remember a lot more than you realize.” She traced his lips with her fingertips and gazed into his eyes.

      He knew that she was recalling the first time he’d kissed her. Neither of them had been prepared for the rush of pleasure or the heat that had followed. The intense feelings they’d found in each other’s arms had scared them both.

      “We knew each other as kids, that’s true, but what you’re asking…”

      “Is dangerous and maybe a little crazy, but it’s part of what you and I do,” she said,