Page 47 of Not This Night

"Any particular tribe?" Rachel probed, her heritage clawing for recognition in the unfamiliar patterns.

"Hard to say without more context," Dr. Simmons admitted, "but the craftsmanship suggests a southwestern origin. Hopi, perhaps, or Zuni."

She raised her eyebrows, impressed. “Are you Native?”

“No.” The small, twitchy man smiled. “My wife is.”

“I see.”

“Anything else you posit by looking at this? Why would two non-Natives have these talismans and totems in their closet?”

A shrug. “An obsession? Fascination?”

Now that he’d said it, she realized even the other items were all somehow connected to fertility. She scanned the items, cataloguing them one by one in her mind, remembering moments where she’d spotted them as a child, or where her Aunt had pointed them out.

There was a rattle made from turtle shell, the hollow chime it gave off said to signify the woman's womb in some tribes. A sand painting in a tray, depicting a spiral—a symbol for eternity. A woven basket, shaped like a cornucopia, filled with dried corn and pumpkin seeds—both signs of a bountiful harvest.

Rachel's gaze lingered on an intricate silver pendant, its design mimicking shapes found in nature interlaced with human forms, giving life flowing from one form to another. There was something unnerving about this juxtaposition of life and death. The fact that these items had been positioned so close to the violent tableau was no accident. It smacked of ritualistic intent.

"This looks like the work of someone very familiar with Native symbols," she said slowly, her gaze pinned on the gruesome scene.

"Or someone who researched well," Dr. Simmons corrected gently. "The internet can tell you just about anything these days."

She picked up a dreamcatcher adorned with turquoise and feathers off the shelf, considering its weight in her palm. She wondered what dreams it had been meant to catch and protect. More importantly, why it failed so gruesomely.

Behind the catcher, her eyes fell on a pair of Kokopelli figures, their hunchbacks carrying seeds for planting, a symbol of abundance. A hand-woven Hopi basket, the pattern reflecting the life cycle of the butterfly, symbolizing transformation and rebirth. A clay figure of a woman with wide hips and heavy breasts—a representation of the Great Mother. A necklace made of corn husks, symbolizing sustenance and survival. A painted pot with snakes—symbols of fertility and rebirth in many Native American cultures.

Now that she’d realized the key, her mind made the connection, darting from one item to the next.

She swept her eyes across the collection again, her mind working furiously. It wasn't just a random assortment of artifacts; they all represented life, growth, fertility—themes that stood in stark contrast to the violence that had unfolded in this room. It was as though someone wanted to offset the death they had planned with symbols of life.

Unless… what if the killer hadn’t brought the symbols? There were too many. He couldn’t have lugged them all in here, could he have? Blood on the beads.

It meant they were here, likely, before the attack. So what if Miguel and Lucy were interested in native culture?

It explained the scars on the first two victims’ legs. Old scars, the coroner had said. Raised bumps in the skin in tribal tradition.

What, exactly, was going on, and why was Scott Hawkeye the only Native involved?

She was missing something, and part of her wondered if she’d taken a wrong turn. She paused, inhaling slowly and holding the breath. She closed her eyes, allowing her senses to momentarily take over. She needed to focus on the details that weren’t just in front of her.

Sometimes, the best hunter had to ignore the initial tracks in favor of the fainter ones, those missed by others in their haste. The smell of sage and cedar smoke lingered in the air, musky yet soothing, an incense coming from the closet… Fresh?

She frowned, approaching the small decanter sitting amidst the other items. But no, it was empty.

Still, the scent lingered on the air, along with other, fetid odors. The whimsical fragrance was undercut with a metallic note of blood. She opened her eyes again, focusing on the collection once more.

A tribal mish-mash. Not someone harkening to a specific tribe: not the Sioux or Cheyenne or Navajo. A mix. Like a pawn shop of different tribal items. Someone who had an obsession with the culture, but no direct connection to any actual tribe. It was an assault on the senses, a bizarre and unsettling display.

A poser?

A fanatic?

Someone who’d lost their way?

She knew of some natives who were adopted young, and then when older wanted to find their tribe of origin. She couldn't rule out anything, but in a way, that was the problem. The killer was still too far ahead.

One thing was certain: the killer knew of the friendship between the victims fifteen years ago. Was he from their past as well?

---