Native Cowboy (12 page)

He wondered if their forensic team had figured out that secret yet.

Still he kept a strand for himself, one that he would weave into the bow that he hung above his bed as a symbol of his devotion to his people and their ways.

One strand for each of the women he would save.

His bow wouldn’t be complete until his mission was complete, and Dr. Winchester lay in the ground beside her lambs where she belonged.

Her hair would be the final strand in his bow, the one to make it complete.

Chapter Eleven

Cara closed her eyes while Mason drove toward Reverend Parch’s church. She hated to think that a man who professed to be serving God would use religion as an excuse to murder, but she’d read enough news stories to know that it happened.

“Are you all right, Cara?” Mason asked.

The afternoon sun was starting to fade, gray clouds moving in, adding to the gloomy atmosphere. “Yes.”

“Does Yolanda have family?”

“Just an elderly aunt who lives in a nursing home in Corpus Christi. That’s the reason she chose the adoption route.”

Mason drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “How about the baby’s father?”

“He died in Afghanistan.”

“So he’s not a suspect.” Mason sighed wearily. “Is there anyone associated with one of your patients who lost paternity rights? Or someone who might not have known about their child and only recently found out?”

Cara cut her eyes to him. Obviously that scenario hit too close to home. “At the clinic, our social worker counsels the women regarding their choices. She encourages the women to consult with their baby’s father in their decision. And the father has to sign away his rights to make it legal.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly. “How about a custody issue? A domestic issue or addiction problem that would have rendered the father unfit to see his child or have a choice in the matter?”

Cara massaged her temple where a headache pulsed. A memory tickled her conscience. A woman named Pauline... “Actually, there was a patient who had to get a restraining order against the man who fathered her baby. He was physically abusive.”

Mason perked up. “What was his name?”

“I don’t remember, but I can contact our social worker Devon and find out.”

“Do it,” Mason said as he turned into town and drove down Main Street.

Cara called Devon. After four rings, Devon answered, and Cara quickly explained the situation.

“Pauline’s husband is in jail,” Devon said. “Has been for six months. He was caught running a meth lab so he won’t be out anytime soon.”

Cara thanked her and hung up just as Mason pulled into the parking lot.

“What did she say?” Mason asked.

“It’s a dead end. Pauline’s husband is in prison.”

They climbed out, passing a sign that welcomed all denominations and advertising that the church held two services, one in English and another in Spanish, as they walked to the front of the church.

As they entered, organ music floated through the building. Cara was surprised at the interior. The outside looked faded and worn, but the walls had been painted soft muted colors that reflected the Native American and Mexican influences, and candles flickered on a table with a cross carved in stone above it like a welcoming shrine.

Inside the chapel more candles glowed, adding a somber but calming feel. Stained-glass windows hung above a raised pulpit, allowing light to spill through the crystal colors creating a rainbow effect.

Mason shifted as if uncomfortable. “Let’s see if we can find Reverend Parch.”

He led the way down the center aisle toward the organ, and a moment later the woman playing it turned toward them.

She was Hispanic with a short, robust build. “Welcome to Our Holy Cross,” she said with a beaming smile then grabbed a brochure to give them. “You come about our services?”

“No, we need to talk to Reverend Parch,” Mason said. “Is he here?”

“Sí.”
She gathered her long skirt and gestured for them to follow her. Cara winced as they left the serene sanctity of the chapel and entered a darker hallway that led to the back of the building. It appeared dreary as if they hadn’t had time to fix it up yet.

“Dr. Winchester,” he said as he stood. “I’m glad you finally decided to accept my invitation and come to church.”

Cara shook his hand, a shiver traveling up her back as he squeezed her fingers a little too tightly. His gray eyes skated over her as if he found her unworthy and in need of help.

Mason flashed his credentials, as Cara pulled her hand away. The reverend was much younger than she’d imagined. In fact, he had to be in his early thirties and with his dark hair and arresting eyes, some women probably found him attractive.

But a darkness lurked beneath that calm smile.

“I’m Detective Mason Blackpaw,” Mason said. “We have some questions to ask you, Reverend.”

Reverend Parch gestured for them to take seats on a dark purple velvet couch in the corner. Cara’s legs felt unsteady so she was grateful to sit.

The reverend fiddled with his wire-rimmed glasses then claimed a straight chair across from them, his robe billowing around him.

Cara twisted her hands together. He reminded her of a televangelist who’d charmed followers into donating all their money and worldly goods to join his flock. Just before the police had exposed his scheme, he’d convinced half his congregation to commit mass suicide.

Was she paranoid, or could this reverend actually have committed murder under the guise of saving souls?

* * *

M
ASON DISLIKED
Reverend Parch from the moment he laid eyes on him. He had the kind of eyes that told lies with a smile.

He laid the flier Parch had left at the clinic on the coffee table between them. “You brought this by the Winchester Clinic?”

“Yes,” the reverend said. “I posted them all over town.” He flipped the file on his desk over so Mason couldn’t read the name, arousing Mason’s curiosity, then leaned forward and crossed his hands on one knee. “I haven’t been here long, but my goal is to grow the congregation and to welcome all sorts into our folds.”

“All sorts?” Mason asked.

Reverend Parch shrugged. “All nationalities, races, denominations,” he said. “We’re all God’s children. We praise Him together between these walls.”

He wondered what else the man did between the walls when doors were closed.

“Did you want to inquire about our services? Or is there something more personal preying on your minds?”

Reverend Parch slanted a pointed look toward Cara, irking Mason more. “Actually, we’re here on business. Did you know a young woman named Nellie Thompson?”

The preacher frowned. “Yes, she visited our church. I was so sorry to hear that she died.”

“She was murdered,” Mason said, deciding to cut to the chase. He didn’t have time to play games. “Would you know anything about that?”

“Just what I read in the paper.” Reverend Parch’s shoulders stiffened. “I did lead a prayer group for her the night we heard about her death.”

Mason studied him. The man was meticulous, calm, cool. Too cool. “Did you know a woman named Yolanda Farraday?”

He stroked the edge of his robe. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

“She didn’t attend your church?” Cara asked.

“Not on a regular basis. But we do have people fill out visitor cards, so she could have stopped in. If so, I haven’t had time to contact her personally yet.” He went to a basket then sifted though the cards. A moment later, his eyebrows rose. “Yes, as a matter of fact, she visited us last Sunday. Why? Did something happen to her?”

“She was murdered,” Mason said. “And we believe she was killed by the same person who killed Nellie Thompson.”

Reverend Parch made the sign of the cross. “God bless her soul.” Then his eyes narrowed and he frowned. “But I don’t understand why you wanted to see me. Are their families worried that they weren’t saved before they departed?”

Mason exchanged a look with Cara. “Dr. Winchester received threatening letters aimed toward her clinic, and the killer left a message implying that he believes these women are sinners because they gave their children up for adoption.”

A muscle jumped in the reverend’s cheek. “I can hardly blame them for expressing their displeasure at what you’re doing, Dr. Winchester. You should be trying to keep families together, not tearing them apart.”

“I am trying to help them,” Cara said tightly.

“Sounds like a personal issue for you.” Mason crossed his arms. “You wouldn’t happen to be adopted yourself, would you?”

Unease flickered in the preacher’s eyes. “As a matter of fact, I was. That’s one reason I understand the deep pain a child suffers at the thought of a parent abandoning them.”

“Sometimes a mother and or the father choose adoption because they believe it’s in the child’s best interest.”

“How is it in the child’s best interest for his mother to throw her child away?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cara said stiffly.

“Obviously this topic pushes your buttons, Reverend Parch,” Mason cut in. He refused to debate the issue with the man. “We think the killer is using religion to justify his kills.”

Realization dawned in the reverend’s eyes. “So you want to know if any of my parishioners might fit this description?”

Or if you do.

But Mason held back the accusation.

“Do you?” he asked.

“I’m a man of the cloth, Detective Blackpaw.” He turned his gaze toward Cara. “It is my job to help those who are lost. Like you, Doctor, if I break that trust I am no good to those who need me most.”

“What kind of answer is that?” Mason asked.

“The only one I can give you.”

“Reverend,” Cara said. “Two women are dead, and this man may be targeting more. If you know who killed them, you have to tell us before someone else dies.”

“Listen to me, Detective, Dr. Winchester. You do your jobs and I’ll do mine.” He stood. “Now, I think it’s time for you to leave.”

“Please, Reverend Parch, think about it. If the killer has come to you, convince him to turn himself in,” Cara said.

The reverend gave a clipped nod, dismissing them, and they headed to the door. But Mason wasn’t sure if he believed the preacher. And if he found anything incriminating the man, he’d be back.

“What did you think?” Cara asked as they settled in his car.

“I don’t trust him,” Mason said. “Even if he isn’t the killer, he may know who is and he’s protecting him.”

* * *

C
ARA CONTEMPLATED
Mason’s statement as they drove toward the reservation. The reverend had chosen his words carefully.

Like Mason, she sensed he knew more than he’d said. But no judge would force him to reveal a confession if he’d heard one in confidence.

Could he be the killer? Or if he knew who was, would he convince the man to turn himself in?

The car churned over the ruts in the road as they turned on to the reservation. The sun faded, dipping into the horizon and painting the sky in reds, yellows and orange, the adobe houses blending into the Texas sunset.

“It’ll be faster if we split up.” Mason drove through the main street and parked at the clinic. “Why don’t you talk to Sadie while I visit Runninghorse and inquire about the knife?”

Cara agreed and hopped out, her bulk slowing her down as she made her way into the clinic. She greeted Aponi Bahe, the young woman who volunteered at the clinic, when she entered. “Is Sadie here?” Cara asked.

Aponi nodded and continued cleaning a little boy’s scrapes. “In exam room two. She’s splinting a hairline fracture.”

Cara waved to the little boy, then knocked on the exam room, and Sadie told her to come in.

A little girl with dark eyes looked up from the table where Sadie had splinted her finger. Her mother sat beside her, one hand on the little girl’s back for comfort. “There, sweetie,” Sadie said, “that should keep it in place so it can heal.” Sadie gave the little girl a hug, then helped her down from the table and the mother and child left.

“How are you and baby doing?” Sadie asked.

“We’re fine.” Cara explained about the murders, the navel fetish she’d received and the note written in blood.

Sadie’s face crinkled with worry. “Sit down and let me check you out,” she said.

Cara hated being mothered “That’s not necessary—”

“Sit, Cara. All this stress can’t be good for you and the baby.” She coaxed Cara to sit on the exam table then checked her blood pressure.

“Normal, isn’t it?”

“Actually it’s a little high,” Sadie said with a frown. “You need to take it easy, Cara.”

“I can’t,” Cara said. “Not until we find out who killed two of my patients.” She forced herself to take slow, even breaths while Sadie listened to her heart, then the baby’s.

“Mason thinks the killer is targeting my patients because of my work at the women’s clinic.”

Sadie’s eyes widened. “Then he thinks you’re in danger?”

Cara shrugged off her concern. “I gave Mason the hate mail I received,” Cara said. “But because of the amulet the killer left me, he thinks the killer has Native American roots.”

Sadie leaned against the sink. “You think the killer might be from the res?”

Cara hated to disparage any of the Native American people. They already faced enough prejudices. “I don’t know, but it’s possible. He buried the women in a Comanche ritualistic style.”

Sadie’s eyes flickered with unease.

“So either he has Indian roots or has studied the culture. The crimes also have religious undertones and my clinic, specifically adoptions, seem to have triggered his violence.” She stood and paced, thinking. “Is there anyone you know of on the res who fits this description? Anyone who may have a grudge against me?”

Sadie thumped her finger on her chin. “The only person I can think of is Isabella Morningside’s ex-husband.”

“Isabella?” Cara said, the name tickling her memory banks. “She did say her husband changed when he came home from overseas. He was angry, violent. I urged her to get him into counseling.”

“He refused and his behavior became so erratic, she divorced him,” Sadie said. “He lost all rights to his unborn baby and blames you. At least that’s what Isabella said.”