Missing In Blue Mesa. Cindi Myers

little Michelle out of their trailer while she was entertaining her boyfriend, or when she was sick of the kid? Then she’d get drunk and forget to let her back in.

      Or that was what she said.

      Better to thank Joey Staskavitch for teaching her how to pick the lock to get back in on her own. She wondered whatever happened to Joey. He was probably in jail, or dead. That was where most of the boys from her neighborhood had ended up.

      Starfall—her real name was Michelle Munson, though nobody here knew that—pushed open the door to Daniel Metwater’s motor home and stepped into the darkened living room. The noise from the festivities in the center of the encampment faded, though orange light from the bonfire cast grasping shadows across the walls and furniture. “Prophet” Daniel Metwater was dancing around the bonfire, leading his followers in mesmerizing chanting. They loved it. They could listen for hours to their Prophet’s words about how they were special and better. Most of them had never been special to or better than anyone, but he made them believe it.

      Michelle tiptoed across the room, headed for the back of the motor home, and Metwater’s bedroom. That was where he would keep anything private. Anything he didn’t want his adoring followers to know about.

      The bedroom door, at least, wasn’t locked. No one but his closest disciples were allowed in here—and the women he bedded, who considered it a privilege to sleep with the Prophet. Michelle wasn’t one of those women. He had tried to seduce her when she first joined his little cult, but she’d put him off with a chilling stare. The gorgeous Daniel Metwater, like his twin, David, wasn’t used to being turned down, but he must have seen something in her that made him wary, because after that he left her alone.

      Alert for any sounds outside the room, she eased open the top dresser drawer and riffled through the contents. She worked quickly, passing over the clothing and toiletries. The bedside table held only books and sex toys. She wrinkled her nose. Not going to go there. She shut the drawer and hurried to the closet. Dropping to her knees, she felt along the floor and the back wall. That was where she would stick a safe, but all she encountered was two pairs of shoes and a pile of dirty clothes.

      After glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone, she flicked on the penlight she had tucked into the pocket of her jeans and swept the beam along the floor and up the walls. Nothing interesting there. Frowning, she rose. Where was the locket? Her tent mate, Asteria, Metwater’s “secretary” and the person closest to him, had described it in such detail. “Gold, with a pear-shaped diamond in the center that is at least two carats,” Asteria had said. She would know. Before hooking up with Metwater, she had been Andi Matheson, wealthy socialite and only daughter of a high-profile senator. She had seen her share of two-carat diamonds, though she claimed to now prefer the simple, nonmaterialistic life of following the Prophet through the wilderness. Right. Only people who had spent all their life around money could make a spiritual discipline out of giving it up.

      “It looked old,” Andi had said about the locket. “He said it was a family heirloom. He plans to give it to the baby after she’s born.” She had cradled her eight-months-pregnant belly and smiled. “To think that he loves her so much already that he’d want to give her something so valuable.”

      Michelle had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from pointing out that Daniel Metwater didn’t love anyone but himself. The locket was an heirloom, all right—but not from his family. Michelle’s foster sister, Cass, had inherited the necklace from her grandmother. She had been wearing it the night she was murdered by David Metwater.

      Michelle left the closet and returned to the front room. She should have asked Asteria about a desk. Metwater probably had one, and maybe he kept the locket there. Maybe he had other things that had belonged to his brother, too—papers or a diary or anything Michelle might be able to use to prove that David had killed Cass.

      The police said Cass had died of an accidental heroin overdose, but that wasn’t true. She didn’t do drugs. The night before she died, she had confided to Michelle that she had learned some things about her new boyfriend, David, that upset her. “I’m going to confront him,” she said. “I need to know the truth.”

      The truth was, David Metwater had murdered Cass so that whatever she had learned about him wouldn’t get out.

      Michelle spotted the desk between the living and dining areas—a built-in shelf with a couple of drawers. A laptop sat open on the shelf, and her fingers itched to take it. She’d probably find all kinds of interesting information on that...

      She shook her head. Too risky. She had come here for the locket, and time was running out. The drums outside had quieted, which meant the evening “services” were winding down. She pulled open the desk’s center drawer and swept the beam of the penlight over the contents—paper clips, pencils, pens, business cards, a tube of lip balm—no locket. She shut the drawer and was reaching for another when light flooded the room. She froze, heart hammering painfully, unable to breathe.

      “What do you think you’re doing?” Daniel Metwater demanded.

      Michelle turned to face him, but before she could reply, he crossed the room in four strides and grabbed her by the shoulders. His normally handsome face was a mask of rage. He shook her so hard she bit her tongue, tasting blood. I’m dead, she thought, as she stared into his cold, hard eyes. I’ll never see my son again.

      * * *

      SPECIAL AGENT ETHAN REYNOLDS, FBI, stared down at the collection of half a dozen battered metal license plates arranged on the conference table at the headquarters of the Ranger Brigade, the multi-agency task force he was attached to. Before joining the Rangers, who were responsible for dealing with crime on the vast stretches of federal land in southwestern Colorado, Ethan had never realized how many criminals operated in the relatively deserted interior of national parks, wilderness preserves and protected recreation areas.

      “You’ve verified these are all from stolen cars?” he asked his fellow agent, Immigration and Customs Enforcement Officer Simon Woolridge.

      “Every one,” Simon said. “A wildlife biologist with the Forest Service found them in an abandoned badger den near the end of Redvale Road. The Forest Service laid down a traffic counter on that road a couple of weeks ago and noticed heavier-than-expected traffic, so they were on the lookout for anything unusual.”

      “That’s right about when this latest rash of thefts started,” Ethan said. “So the thieves take the stolen cars to that remote area and strip the plates—then what?”

      “Replace them with new tags,” Simon said. “Probably forged dealer tags. They could print those up on any laser printer. Then they wait until dark and drive them out again, to a chop shop or even straight to Mexico.”

      “Then we need to stake out the site and grab them when they show up again,” Ethan said.

      “Unless they’ve moved on to a different location,” Simon said. “The heavy rains two days ago washed out the road pretty badly. It doesn’t look as if anyone has been up there since that storm. My guess is they’re still in the area, but they’ve relocated.”

      Ethan glanced toward the large map of the Rangers’ territory that filled one wall of the conference room. “How do we find that location?”

      “We’ve alerted the park Rangers and the Forest Service, and anyone else who’s likely to be in the area to be on the lookout for cars with dealer tags and anything meeting the description of the stolen vehicles,” Simon said. He stabbed a finger at a point on the map. “The biologist found the license plates here. Does the location make you think of anything?”

      “It’s very near Daniel Metwater’s camp at the base of Mystic Mesa.” Ethan nodded to the red flag someone had positioned on the map. Metwater, scion of a wealthy industrialist and self-styled Prophet, had finagled a long-term camping permit for himself and roughly twenty followers in the Curecanti National Recreation area.

      “It’s less than ten miles by road,” Simon said. “You could travel between the two sites over a network of old logging roads without