Manhunt On Mystic Mesa. Cindi Myers

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      The last two officers he would be working with introduced themselves—Michael Dance was the rugged outdoorsman who had been seated at the other end of the conference table, and Lance Carpenter was the Montrose County Sheriff’s Deputy who was heading up the stolen-plant investigation.

      “Are you married?” Marco asked.

      “No. The job hasn’t given me much time for girlfriends.”

      “You might be surprised,” Marco said. “But if you’re not interested in a relationship, you might want to avoid drinking the water around here.”

      The others laughed, and, at Ryan’s confused look, Randall said, “A lot of us have gotten engaged or married recently. It’s starting to look like it’s contagious.”

      “But some of us are still immune,” Simon said.

      “Thanks for the warning,” Ryan said. “I think.” He hadn’t come to the Rangers to find romance, but to jump-start a career that was beginning to feel stale.

      Ethan clapped Ryan on the back. “Ready to talk to the archaeologists?” he asked.

      “I am,” Ryan said, grateful to have the conversation focused on the job once more. “Where are they located from here?”

      “Come here and I’ll show you.” Ethan led the way to a map that took up much of one wall of the headquarters building. “We’re here.” He pointed to the national park entrance, then traced a path northeast to a flattened ridge. “And this is Mystic Mesa. The archaeologists have been excavating on the eastern side of the Mesa.”

      Randall, who had followed them, pointed to a draw Ryan guessed was about a mile from the archaeology dig. “Daniel Metwater and his followers are camped in here,” he said.

      “A prophet and his followers in the wilderness.” Ryan shook his head. “That sounds so—I don’t know—Old Testament.”

      “He isn’t that kind of prophet,” Randall said.

      “What do you mean?” Ryan asked.

      “No beard or robe in sight,” Randall said. “He’s the son of a wealthy industrialist and supposedly inherited the family fortune. Most of his followers are young people, searching for something.”

      “A lot of them are really beautiful young women,” Ethan said.

      “So you think he’s killing some of them?” Ryan asked. “But it doesn’t sound like the women who disappeared were part of his group.”

      “They weren’t, but we know that at least one of them—Lucia Raton—had expressed an interest in Metwater’s writings,” Ethan said. “And it’s a weird coincidence that she and Jennifer Lassiter were last seen near his camp.”

      Ryan’s phone vibrated and he glanced at the screen. “This says Alicia Mendoza disappeared when the group she was traveling with stopped for water at a spring at the base of a mesa that ran north-south,” he said. “The people she was traveling with didn’t know a name and couldn’t be more precise than that.”

      “Mystic Mesa runs north-south,” Randall said. He pointed to a spot on the map. “And there’s a spring right at the base of it. The only one for miles.”

      “That’s only a stone’s throw from Metwater’s camp,” Ethan said.

      “Too much of a coincidence,” Ryan said.

      “Then I guess you know who else you need to talk to.” Randall clapped Ryan on the shoulder. “Have fun,” he said. “Metwater may or may not be a murderer, but he’s definitely a pain in the backside.”

      * * *

      JANA LASSITER GRIPPED the steering wheel of her Jeep and studied the barren landscape where her sister, Jenny, had disappeared. Red-rock chimneys and hoodoos jutted up from a flat plain of yellowed bunchgrass and dusty green piñon trees, their soot-gray trunks stunted and gnarled from years of fighting harsh winds and scorching sun. Dry washes and deeper canyons made fissures in the dusty surface of the land. Jenny had texted that she loved this place—that the remoteness and wildness of it made her feel so free. But the vast emptiness put Jana on edge. Compared to this great expanse, a single human was insignificant. With no signposts or roads or buildings, she already felt lost. Was that what had happened to Jenny? Had she wandered away from her group and simply forgotten where she was? Or had something more sinister taken her away?

      Fighting a feeling of dread, Jana got out of the Jeep and was immediately buffeted by a stiff breeze. She held on to her straw sun hat and started toward the white pop-up canopy she had been told indicated the archaeologists’ base of operations, dodging to avoid an honest-to-goodness tumbleweed and muttering a prayer that there be no snakes lurking behind the clumps of sagebrush she skirted.

      A tall, graying man with a deeply pockmarked face looked up from a clipboard as she approached, his mouth turned down in a frown. She recognized Jeremy Eddleston, Jenny’s supervisor. “I’m Jana Lassiter,” she said, before he could order her away. “We met briefly at my sister’s orientation.”

      His face relaxed, and he set the clipboard on the folding table in front of him and walked out to meet her, extending both hands. “Ms. Lassiter, it’s good to see you again, though not under these circumstances. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

      She froze at his words, anger warring with panic in her chest. She opted for anger. “Is there some news I don’t know about?” she asked. “Is my sister dead?” She had to force out the last word.

      Eddleston’s face turned the color of the iron-infused sandstone around them. “Of course not. I mean, we don’t know... I only meant...”

      She decided to let him off the hook. “It’s always difficult to know what to say in a situation like this,” she said.

      The stiffness went out of him, his shoulders slumping so that he appeared several inches shorter. “Exactly. We’re all so terribly worried about Jenny. She was such a valuable part of our team, and so well liked. We can’t imagine what happened to her.”

      “What did happen to her?” Jana asked. “That’s what I came from Denver to find out.”

      “We don’t know.” Eddleston turned and gestured toward the mesa that rose up a quarter mile or so away, its slopes heavily pocked with large boulders and clumps of scrub oak and juniper. “We’ve been excavating in this area all summer. Jenny, as you probably know, joined us at the beginning of June. She was helping to sift through some of the material we had recently extracted and after lunch said she was going to take a short break to stretch her legs. Her friends thought that meant she was going to use the portajohn.” He indicated the bright blue portable toilet under a tree to Jana’s left. “Everyone was so engrossed in the work no one noticed she hadn’t returned until the team began packing up for the day a couple of hours later. They called and looked everywhere, but she didn’t answer and no one could find a trace of her.”

      “Why didn’t you call the police right away?” Jana asked. “I understand they didn’t get out here until this morning.”

      “There’s no phone service out here,” Eddleston said. “It’s a ten-mile drive over rough roads СКАЧАТЬ