Murder In Black Canyon. Cindi Myers

good-looking? He filed the information away for future reference. “I’m not trying to be arrogant,” he said. “Cops are trained to get the facts of a situation as quickly as possible. That can come across as brusque sometimes.”

      She nodded. “I get that. It’s just been a tough day. A tough week, really.” She glanced at him, her expression a little less guarded. “I thought I was applying for a secretarial position when I answered the ad for the job,” she said. “My boss got sick and trained me to take over the business. When he died from cancer last year, he left the business to me.”

      “And you like it enough to keep at it.”

      Another sigh. “Yeah, I like it. Most of the time. I mean, it beats a job in a cube farm. I like it when I can help people, even if it’s just finding a lost pet or helping a woman locate her deadbeat ex so that she can collect child support. But you see the ugly side of people a lot.”

      “What you saw today wasn’t very pretty.”

      “No.”

      She fell silent again, and he was sure she was back at the camp, picturing that bloody body again. He wanted to pull her away from the image, to keep her focused on him. “Who are the handsome, arrogant men who rubbed you the wrong way?” he asked.

      “Daniel Metwater, for one.”

      “The Prophet of this so-called Family?”

      “Yeah. Have you met him?”

      Dylan slowed for the turn onto a faintly marked dirt track that veered away from the canyon and the park. “No. What’s he like?”

      “He talks a good game of peace and love and spirituality, or at least, that’s what he writes in his blog. But it all sounds like a con game to me, especially considering he preaches about the futility of cell phones and technology, yet he has a website he updates often when he’s away from the camp. Maybe I’m too cynical, but I wanted to shake all those women who were making cow eyes at him and tell them he didn’t really care about any of them. He’s the kind of guy who looks out for himself and his image first.”

      “What makes you think that?”

      He halfway expected her to slap him down again. Instead, she relaxed back into the seat. “My dad was a charming swindler like Metwater—good-looking, silver-tongued and scary intelligent. His game was as a traveling preacher. I spent most of my childhood moving from town to town while he conned people out of whatever they would give him.” She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face. “I guess that experience has come in handy in my work. I can usually spot a grifter as soon as he opens his mouth. Daniel Metwater may be preaching peace, love and communing with nature, but I think he’s hiding something.”

      “Do you think he killed the guy you saw?”

      “I don’t know. It depends on when the guy died, I think. Metwater was standing with me for a good while before his followers dragged the body into camp. He was wearing white linen trousers and there wasn’t a speck of blood or dirt on him, so he didn’t strike me as a man who had just come from a murder.”

      “So you think the man was murdered.”

      “I think he had been shot. Whether the wound was self-inflicted or not is up to you people to determine.” She shuddered. “I’m going to spend my time trying to live down the sight of him. The only dead people I’ve seen before were peacefully in their coffins, carefully made up and dressed in their Sunday best.”

      “Violence leaves an ugly mark on everything.”

      “Yeah, well, I guess you could say reality does that, too.”

      She turned away, staring out the side window, as unreachable as if she had walked into another room and closed the door. Dylan focused on the landscape around him—the low growth of piñon and scrub oak, and formations of red and gray rock that rose up against an achingly blue sky. He had grown up surrounded by this scenery. The country here didn’t look desolate and hostile to him, as it did to some, but free and unspoiled.

      Simon’s brake lights glowed and he stuck his arm out the open driver’s-side window, gesturing toward a gravel wash to their left. He stopped and the passenger window slid down as Dylan pulled alongside him. “That’s the south entrance to Dead Horse Canyon,” Simon said. “Where do we go from here?”

      “Turn in here,” Kayla said. “There’s a trailhead about a quarter mile farther on. I parked there, but apparently the campers have been driving right into the camp.”

      “I’ll follow you,” Simon said, and waited for Dylan to pull ahead of him.

      As camping spots went, this one lacked water, much shade or access, Dylan thought, as the FJ Cruiser bumped over the washboard gravel road into the canyon. But it did offer concealment and a good defensive position. No one would be able to approach without the campers knowing about it.

      As if to prove his point, a bearded man in camouflage pants and shirt stepped into the road and signaled for them to stop. Dylan braked and waited for the man to approach the driver’s side of the Cruiser. “You can’t drive back here,” the man said, his eyes darting nervously to the Ranger Brigade emblem on the side of the Cruiser. The words Law Enforcement were clearly visible.

      “We’re here to talk to Daniel Metwater,” Dylan said. “Officers Woolridge and Holt.”

      “I’m not supposed to let anyone drive into the camp,” the man said. He was sweating now, jittery as an addict in need of a fix.

      “What’s your name?” Dylan asked.

      “Kiram.”

      Dylan waited for more, but Kiram had pressed his lips tightly together. “Well, Kiram, we’re here on official business and you don’t have the authority to stop us. We don’t want trouble, but you need to step out of the way.”

      Kiram ducked his head and peered into the car. “Hey, what are you doing back here?” he asked Kayla.

      “I brought them to see your dead body,” she said, giving Kiram a chilly stare.

      Dylan let off the brake and the Cruiser eased forward. Kiram jumped back. The two vehicles proceeded at a crawl up the wash, around the knot of trees and into the side canyon the Family had chosen as their home in the wilderness.

      Dylan shut off the engine, but remained in the car, assessing the situation. The motley cluster of campers, tents and vehicles shimmered like a mirage in the midday heat. A child’s ball rolled a few feet, stirred by the wind, which made the only sound in the area. “The place looks deserted,” Kayla said. “Do you think they left?”

      “Not without all their stuff. Do you notice anything missing?”

      She studied the scene for a moment, then shook her head. “Only the people.”

      “Stay in the vehicle.” With one hand hovering near his weapon, Dylan eased open his door, ready to dive for cover if anyone fired on them. But the camp remained silent and still.

      “Daniel Metwater!” he called. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

      No answer came but the echo of his own words. Simon joined Dylan beside his car. “What do you think?” Dylan asked.

      “They could have all headed for the hills, or they could be lying low inside these tents and trailers,” Simon said.

      “Come out by the time I count to ten or we’ll start taking this place apart,” Dylan shouted. “One!”

      At the count of five, the door to the largest RV, a thirty-foot bus with solar panels on the roof, eased open. A slim but muscular man, naked except for a pair of white loose trousers, moved onto the steps. “I wasn’t aware we had company,” he said. “We adhere to the custom of an afternoon siesta.”

      “Are you Daniel Metwater?” Dylan asked.

      Sharp eyes scrutinized the three of them. “Yes,”