The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear

it. I do not wish—”
    “Of course, I understand.”
    Browser scanned the boulders and crevices in the cliff. “Catkin, after we have buried my son, and wife …” His voice broke. He took a few instants to collect himself. His mouth worked, opening and closing. More softly, he said, “After that, I wish you to complete a task for me.”
    Catkin folded her arms to keep her hands under control. She longed to touch him, to ease his hurt, but that would just make things worse. She said, “Of course. What is it?”
    He turned to her, and his eyes sparkled with tears. “We do not know why someone would wish to kill my wife, but we must assume that it was not an accident. The Ceremony of the Longnight begins in seven days. If we have not discovered who did this before then, we may all be in grave danger. Major ceremonials make excellent hunting grounds. With all the commotion, the Dances, the masks people wear, a killer could walk through the gathering unhindered, picking his targets one by one.”
    “Why do you think the killer is a man?”
    “If my wife had been dragged, we would see the evidence of it. There would be bits of scraped-off skin on the rocks or hair tangled in the brush. He must have carried her. After we have searched the canyon, we will know more. For now, just call it a feeling.”
    “What makes you think he wishes to kill again?”
    “His souls are twisted.” Browser reached down and retrieved another red feather from near the crackling fire. “Did you realize that the red cape Hophorn was wearing belonged to my wife?”
    Catkin started. “Are you certain?”
    “I recognized the yucca ties on the front. My wife wove them for many people, but she used a mixture of rabbitbrush and ground lichen to dye her ties a distinctive shade of yellow. She breathed part of her souls into her own ties.” He nodded. “It was hers. That is why the trail of feathers led from the burial pit to Hophorn. The
killer removed it from my wife’s body, and placed it around Hophorn’s shoulders.”
    Catkin’s gaze roamed the cliff while she thought about that. Father Sun had chased away most of the shadows, leaving the weathered sandstone bright and golden. “Why would a killer take the time to remove a cape and walk sixty paces to—”
    “Why would he take the time to undress his victim and then redress her in a man’s clothing?”
    Catkin could think of no answer.
    Browser massaged his forehead again. “I don’t know either, but I know someone who might.”
    “Who?”
    “I want you to find old Stone Ghost, Catkin. Bring him here.”
    Catkin’s jaw dropped. When she’d been a little girl, her mother had told her stories about the terrible crimes the old madman had solved and several he’d committed. No one dared speak his name too loudly, lest he hear and chase them on his flying rawhide shield.
    She said, “I—I thought he was dead.”
    “No, I don’t think so, though I haven’t seen him in twenty summers.”
    “You know him?”
    “He used to have a house down near Smoking Mirror Butte. I will give you directions—”
    “You were there? You visited him?”
    Gently, he said, “No, but he is my grandmother’s brother.”
    Catkin had never heard the old lunatic spoken of with anything other than loathing and fear. Browser’s reverent tone captivated her.
    She stared into Browser’s eyes. “Is he mad?”
    He shrugged. “Everyone says so. But I never saw it. He …”
    Browser stopped and seemed to be struggling for what to say next. Then he closed his eyes a long moment. As if in apology he placed a hand on Catkin’s shoulder, and got to his feet.
    “Later,” he said. “We will speak more later. I must go and see about Hophorn, and consult with Matron Flame Carrier. Will you”—his hands started shaking—“could you guard my son while I am gone?”
    “Of course.”
    “And let no one disturb this place. I want to search for a sign more carefully when I can.” He looked toward his