Native Cowboy (22 page)

His cell phone beeped that he had another call. It was the Nezes, so he quickly connected it. A moment later, the head medical examiner arrived, and Mason gestured for him to go inside.

“Detective Blackpaw,” a male voice said into the phone. “This is Larry Nez. You called about my daughter?”

Mason hated this part of the job. “Sir, first can you tell me where your grandson is?”

“He’s with us,” the man said, an edge to his voice. “Why? Where’s our daughter?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Nez, I hate to tell you this, but she’s dead. I’m at her house now.”

“We’ll be right there.”

“No—” But before he could respond, the man hung up on him.

Agent Whitehead was on the phone again, her body tense as she scribbled something on a notepad. “Thanks.”

“Larry Nez is on his way over,” he told the agent.

Worry creased Agent Whitehead’s forehead. “I have a couple of names who fit the profile. A man named Les Williams, his mother was part Comanche and he grew up on a res outside Houston. He had some medical training in the military and was released because he lost his hand and could no longer perform surgery.”

So the man had his reasons for being bitter. “Where is he now?”

“He’s been suffering from depression and alcohol abuse. The last address I have is a rehab center not too far from town.”

“How about the other man?”

“Farr Nacona, he was trained as a paramedic and was discharged from the military because of an injury. He applied to med school but was denied because of emotional problems stemming from his stint in the service. Last address for him is near the river.”

He frowned, searching his memory banks. Where had he heard that name before? On the reservation?

“I’ll check out Williams,” Agent Whitehead said. “You take Nacona.”

Mason nodded. “All right. Let me know if anything comes in on Cara’s phone.”

A second later, a car pulled up and screeched to a stop. A man in his mid-fifties jumped out, his face frantic with worry. “Where’s my daughter?”

Mason blocked him from entering the house, and Agent Whitehead gently took his arm. “Mr. Nez?”

The man tried to wrench away. “Where is she? I have to see her.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Agent Whitehead said. “But you don’t want to go in there.”

“Yes, I do,” he cried. “I have to see my little girl.”

“Not like that you don’t,” Mason said gruffly. “Trust me, you want to remember your daughter smiling at you, not the way she is now.”

“The medical examiner is with her,” Agent Whitehead said. “He’ll take care of her and transport her to the morgue for an autopsy.”

The man broke down into tears. “What...what did he do to her?” Shock and horror filled his eyes as he looked up at Mason. “Don’t tell me this is that monster who killed those other women.”

Mason exchanged a frustrated look with the agent. “We’re not certain,” Agent Whitehead said, hedging. “But we have a strong lead as to who did it, and we’re going to make an arrest soon.”

“You should have already done that!” the man bellowed. “If you had, my daughter would still be alive.”

Guilt suffused Mason. Yes, they should have.

And because they hadn’t, Cara might die, too.

The medical examiner must have overheard them because he stepped outside. He was a kind, older fellow with white hair and wire-rimmed glasses.

“Please, Mr. Nez, go home and take care of your wife and grandchild,” he said. “And let these officers find out who did this.”

The man collapsed onto the steps, and buried his head in his arms, his body shaking with grief. The medical examiner sank down beside him to comfort him, and gestured for Mason and Agent Whitehead to leave.

“I promise you we’ll find him,” Mason said to Nez. “I won’t stop until I do.”

The man didn’t acknowledge him, and he didn’t expect him to. He had just lost his daughter.

Agent Whitehead jogged to her car, and he sprinted to his, calling Sherese as he ripped from the parking lot. “Sherese, do you recall a man named Farr Nacona? Was he related to one of your patients?”

“Oh, my God, you don’t think he’s the Navel Fetish Killer?”

“It’s possible. Why? Do you know him?”

“Yes, but he’s not related to a patient. Cara felt sorry for him because he was hurt in Afghanistan and gave him a job.”

Mason’s chest clenched. “What kind of job?”

“As a janitor at the clinic.”

Mason cursed. The man had been right under their noses all along. And he’d used the job Cara had given him at the clinic to gather his list of victims.

And to stalk Cara so he would know her every movement.

* * *

“
P
LEASE DON’T DO THIS
, Farr,” Cara cried.

He had unbound her feet so she could walk, and he pushed her farther into the woods. Trees rose above her, shading any light, the darkness surrounding her so disorienting that she had no idea where they were or where they were going.

“Shut up,” he hissed.

Ahead, Cara saw the faint outline of the old fishing lodge and breathed a small sigh of relief. Maybe he didn’t plan to kill her right away. Maybe he’d keep her alive long enough for Mason to find her.

But how would he do that? They had all been convinced that Morningside was the killer. Once Mason saved Isabella, she thought they’d be safe.

Mason might not even know she was missing.

A tree limb scraped her arm, and she clenched her teeth, ducking to avoid another low branch. Her back was throbbing, and another contraction tightened her belly. She winced in pain, pushing forward as Farr shoved her into the clearing, then half dragged her up the steps to the old lodge.

“Please, Farr,” Cara begged. “I need help. I’m in labor.”

He cursed, shoved open the door and pushed her inside.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice weak as she breathed through the pain. “I tried to help you. I gave you a job.”

“You made me a janitor,” he said, his dark eyes blazing with a kind of rage Cara had never seen before. “I was a war hero, a medic, and after all I did, you and the others didn’t respect me. You made me clean your floors.”

“But I didn’t know,” Cara said.

“Then I watched you tell all those women to give up their babies. Our people believe women are supposed to be kind and loving and nurturing, yet you tell them to throw their children away. That family does not matter anymore.”

“That’s not true,” Cara cried, but another spasm cut off her protest.

“Please help me,” she whispered. “I need to go to the hospital.”

Farr released a bitter laugh. “You weren’t listening, were you, Dr. Winchester? I will deliver your baby, then you will pay for your sins.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Mason flew toward Nacona’s house, praying the man had taken Cara there. If not, he didn’t have a clue as to where to look.

His cell phone jangled and he quickly connected the call.

“Detective Blackpaw, I’m at the rehab facility where Williams has been,” Agent Whitehead said. “He has an alibi for all the murders. The woman who runs the halfway house confirmed he hasn’t left the premises for two weeks.”

“Nacona is our man,” Mason said. “Sherese, Cara’s assistant, said he worked as a janitor at the Winchester Clinic and at the clinic on the reservation, as well.”

“That fits,” Agent Whitehead said. “After receiving service awards and having medical training of his own, that job must have been demeaning to him.”

“I’m on my way to the address I have for him now. Ask your people to see what they can dig up on him. Maybe he has family or some property where he might take Cara.”

“I’m on it.”

“Anything on the phone yet?”

“Not yet, but I’ll check on it right now.”

He thanked her and hung up, then called his partner, Miles McGregor. He’d taken off a few days to be with his new wife Jordan, but he needed him now.

“McGregor,” Mason said without preamble. “Dr. Winchester has been kidnapped by the Navel Fetish Killer.”

Miles muttered an obscenity. “What can I do?”

“We believe the man’s name is Farr Nacona. He worked as a janitor for Cara. I’m on my way to his house to look for them, but since the first body was found on the BBL, it occurred to me that he might bring her back there.”

“I’ll call Brody and get his security teams to comb the property.”

“Thanks. I’ll alert the tribal police on the reservation.”

They disconnected, and he dialed Liam Runninghorse as he swerved onto the old dirt road. The hogan where Nacona lived was on the far end of the reservation in a deserted area that offered privacy.

And far enough from neighbors so no one could hear a woman’s cries for help.

The phone finally clicked as Runninghorse answered, and he quickly explained the situation. “Call Sadie and Carter and alert them. I’m almost to Nacona’s place now.”

“Do you want me to meet you?”

“Let me see if he’s there first. Meanwhile, you and the chief check other places on the res. Look for any deserted hogans and ask around. Maybe someone on the res knows where he might go.”

“Good idea. I’ll let you know if we turn up anything.” Liam paused. “And call if you need backup, Blackpaw.”

“I will.” Although if the bastard had hurt his son or harmed one hair on Cara’s head, he’d kill him with his bare hands.

He hung up, then pressed the accelerator and raced past shrub brush, barren soil, mesquites and a row of vacant hogans that were in disrepair. Suspicion nagged at him, and he slowed, looking for a car but didn’t see one anywhere in sight. Still, he scanned the bushes beyond in case he’d stowed it behind some trees, but nothing stuck out.

Deciding they were clear, he pushed the gas again and bounced over the ruts in the road, his teeth clenched as he spotted the cabin at the edge of the woods.

He didn’t see a car there, either.

Hell, the man could have ditched it, or maybe he knew a side road and left it there then walked in on foot to throw him off.

Gun at the ready, he climbed from his car and strode toward the wooden framed structure that looked as if it was rotting on its frame. An old tire rim lay to the side along with some gardening tools, the yard was overgrown, and two windowpanes were broken out.

Not a comforting sight.

He inched closer, ears cocked for sounds of Cara or Nacona, but the sound of the wind rocking an old porch swing screeched eerily like a ghost pushing it back and forth.

Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he slipped up to the window and peeked inside. Dusty furniture covered with old blankets filled the front room, liquor bottles were piled on the kitchen counter, and the bed was unmade.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his instincts telling him the place was empty, but still he had to be sure. So he crept around back and pushed at the door. Unlocked.

Nothing to steal in the place anyway.

He slowly entered, senses honed, but a quick sweep of the bathroom, then the bedroom and den, and defeat settled in.

The house was empty.

Where in the hell was Cara?

* * *

C
ARA SHUDDERED AS ANOTHER
pain ripped through her, then she felt a gush of warmth on her thighs. She didn’t have to look down to know her water had broken. Nacona had shoved her into a chair and stood back and watched as she suffered one contraction after another.

“My water broke,” she said, lifting her chin with a defiant tilt. “Please let me go to the bathroom and clean up.”

He folded his arms and studied her for a moment, then walked over to a duffel bag, removed a hospital gown and pair of scrub pants and flung them at her. “All right, but make it quick.”

So he had come prepared.

The very idea that he’d planned this made bile rise to her throat.

He jerked her toward the bathroom. Cara cringed at his touch, the memory of what he’d done to those other women buried deep in her soul.

“You’ll have to untie me,” she said when he stopped at the bathroom door.

His gaze met hers, an emptiness in the depths that terrified her more than words. “You can’t escape, so don’t even try.”

He didn’t have to tell her that. For heaven’s sake, she was in the throes of labor, and too exhausted to run. Slowly he untied her, and she rubbed at her sore wrists, then she slipped into the bathroom and shut the door.

Grateful for a moment of privacy, she shrugged off her maternity pants, glad to get rid of the soiled clothes. Thankfully her maternity shirt had covered her phone so he hadn’t taken it from her. Knowing this might be her only chance, she called Mason’s number, but she heard Farr at the door and hid it back in the soaked pants then pushed it into the corner of the floor. Her shirt came next but she left on her bra, then dragged on the scrubs and tied them loosely at the waist.

Another pain seized her, and she leaned over the sink and breathed through it. When she glanced at the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. Her hair was wildly disheveled and sweat-soaked, dirt from the trunk of the car streaked her face, and her eyes were red and puffy from holding back the tears she desperately wanted to cry.

But she refused to give him the pleasure of showing her fear.

She splashed cold water on her face, then noticed a dry cloth hanging on the towel rack, doused it in cold water and pressed it to the back of her neck.

Suddenly the door swung open, and his gaze scorched her with contempt. Grasping for control, she ignored him, rinsed her face again, then clutched the washcloth in her hand as he yanked her from the bathroom and shoved her toward the metal bed in the corner.

Tears threatened but she blinked them back. She might have her baby here, but she would not die today.

Somehow she’d find a way to save herself and her son.

* * *

D
ESPAIR THREATENED TO
knock Mason to his knees. His phone buzzed and he snatched it up, relieved to see Cara’s number. He answered immediately. “Hello, Cara, are you all right?” But no one was on the line. Still, hope budded. If she’d tried to call him, she was still alive.

He put the call on hold, then called Julie and told her to have the call traced. “I’ll get back you ASAP,” Julie said.