Missing In Blue Mesa. Cindi Myers

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 ever having to risk being seen on the highway.”

      “That doesn’t mean Metwater or any of his people had anything to do with the car thefts,” Ethan said.

      “No, but it doesn’t mean they didn’t,” Simon said. “I find it interesting how many recent crimes have a connection to that bunch.”

      “Metwater would point out that he’s never been convicted of a crime,” Ethan said. Not that he didn’t agree with Simon. He had made a study of cults as part of his FBI training and he knew that groups like Metwater’s attracted the disaffected and disenfranchised. Some people in the group would have less respect for laws and authority. A certain smaller percentage would be criminally dangerous.

      “My mother thinks I never swear,” Simon said. “That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

      “Do you plan on questioning Metwater?” Ethan asked.

      “I thought we should drive over to his camp tonight and see if anyone is missing—someone who might be out boosting cars in the dark.”

      “I like the way you think,” Ethan said. He hadn’t been to the camp in a few weeks. The Rangers were under orders not to harass Metwater and his followers, though each side had different definitions of what constituted harassment. Metwater felt the presence of any member of the Ranger Brigade anywhere near his camp infringed on his rights to live as he pleased. The Rangers contended Metwater and his followers were potential witnesses to any of the many crimes that occurred on public lands, by virtue of being the only people living in the area.

      They took Simon’s FJ Cruiser, heading out of the national park and into the adjacent Curecanti National Recreation Area, toward the distinctive mesa where Metwater had made his camp. Forty minutes later Simon parked the cruiser between a rusting pickup and a doorless Jeep in the lot outside Metwater’s camp. He switched off the headlights, and inky blackness closed around them. The moon hadn’t yet risen, and though what looked like a million stars sparkled overhead, they didn’t give much light. The two men waited a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. Ethan breathed in deeply the scents of sagebrush and wood smoke. “Ready?” Simon asked.

      “Ready.”

      They made their way up a narrow path toward the camp. Something skittered into the underbrush to Ethan’s left and he flinched, hand on the butt of the Glock on his hip, then forced himself to relax when he realized it was only an animal—maybe a fox or a raccoon. Voices drifted to them as they neared the camp. They emerged into a clearing surrounded by more than a dozen trailers, tents and cobbled-together shacks. The remains of a bonfire glowed in a stone-lined pit in the center of the area, and the shadows of adults and children flitted about the dwellings, voices rising at the officers’ approach.

      Metwater lived in the large, modern motor home at one end of the camp. A pregnant young woman with long blond hair emerged from the white tent next to the motor home, a flashlight in one hand. Ethan recognized Andi Matheson, a former socialite and senator’s daughter, who had taken the name Asteria when she moved in with Metwater.

      “Miss Matheson.”

      She jerked her head up when Simon addressed her, and froze. “Is something wrong, Officers?” she asked.

      “Just a routine patrol.” Simon stopped in front of her, his lanky frame towering over her.

      “At this time of night?” she asked, her expression angry.

      “People think they can get away with things with the darkness to hide them,” Simon said. “We like to catch them by surprise.”

      “You won’t find anyone trying to get away with anything here.” She tried to move around him, but he took a step to the side, blocking her.

      “So everyone is tucked tight in their beds?” Simon asked. “No one missing?”

      “I don’t keep track of everyone.” She darted around him and walked past Ethan. The two men turned and followed her to the motor home. She stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked at them. “You can’t see the Prophet without an appointment,” she said.

      “We know Mr. Metwater is always happy to cooperate with an investigation,” Simon said. Did Asteria note the sarcasm in his voice?

      “What investigation?” she asked.

      “Have you seen any strange cars around camp?” Ethan asked. “Newer models? Anybody in the group get a new ride recently?”

      “No. What is this about?”

      “Maybe Metwater will know.” Ethan had started to move past her when the door burst open and a woman stumbled out. She caught her foot on the top step and fell—right into Ethan’s arms.

      He staggered under the impact, but managed to stay upright and hold on to the woman. She stared up at him, eyes wide and full of terror, dark, curly hair a tangle around her sharp-featured face. Blood trickled from one corner of her mouth.

      “Hey, it’s okay.” Ethan spoke softly. “What happened?”

      The terror in her eyes didn’t abate. “Help me,” she whispered, before slipping into unconsciousness.

       Chapter Two

      Michelle fought past the fog that surrounded her, struggling back into consciousness. She had to flee or something terrible would happen. She opened her eyes and stared into the face of a man she didn’t know. A new wave of fear revved her heart and she tried to pull away from him.

      “Shh. It’s okay.” His voice was soft, his hands gentle, even as he continued to hold her arm. “Look at me,” he said. “My name is Ethan. Ethan Reynolds. I’m not going to hurt you.”

      She stared into moss-green eyes so full of compassion and tenderness, tears burned at the back of her throat. She never cried. Crying was a sign of weakness and she couldn’t afford to be weak. Especially not now.

      She pushed herself into a sitting position on the cot where she had been lying, though he kept one hand on her arm, steadying her. They were in the tent she shared with Asteria. Someone had lit the big oil lamp that hung from a post in the center of the room, a wavering circle of yellow light shining down on them. She had only a vague memory of rushing out of the motor home and falling... A fresh shudder of terror rocked her at the recollection.

      “You must have hurt your head when you fell,” Asteria said. She sat on the cot beside Michelle and pressed a wet washrag to the side of her face.

      Michelle winced as pain radiated across her cheek and jaw. “I don’t remember,” she lied.

      Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the man, Ethan. He had released his hold on her and moved to sit at the end of the cot. He had short, dark hair and good shoulders that filled out his khaki uniform shirt in a way she would have admired if she had been less distracted. As it was, he studied her with an intensity that sent a tremor through her. His eyes reflected