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Rachel Blackwood's boots crunched on gravel, her approach stirring the stillness that had fallen like a shroud over the ghost town.
With Wyatt now in reservation custody, she doubted they'd be treating him too nicely after he'd killed one of their colleagues, but her concerns had already moved onto another lead.
The image on Wyatt's phone. The security video showing a man who'd mounted the ATV like a rodeo rider.
People who rode in rodeos had a distinct look about them and their motions. Their movements were fluid, yet controlled. They were trained for quick mounting, rather than a slow haul. In addition, they might seat themselves forward, over their hand, to avoid a whipping motion from a bucking horse. All of this had been apparent in the muscle tension of the rider in the video. Plus, his boots.
Rodeo boots. Rachel had spent countless hours studying the art of rodeo riding, fascinated by the skill and grace displayed by these riders. She had grown up in a small town where rodeos were the highlight of the year, and she had always admired those who'd participated in such events.
The moon was a sliver in the sky, casting silver light that danced across the hood of her truck parked at the town's edge. She checked her phone again, frowning down.
On my way. The message had replied.
She tapped her fingers against the side of her leg. It had taken some doing to track down the tourist coordinator for the ghost-town. But who better to speak with about local activities than someone who's job it was to recommend such things to visitors?
Her eyes scanned the area and then landed on a middle-aged woman in a tight business suit looking out of place on the steps of an old structure.
Rachel approached the woman, raising a hand.
She sent a quick text. Think I see you.
The woman in question glanced down, her eyes landing on her phone, then darting back up again.
"Excuse me," Rachel called out, her voice cutting through the quiet. The figure detached itself from the darkened doorway of what once might have been a saloon and glanced in the direction of Rachel.
"Evening, ma'am," came the response, cautious but polite.
Rachel approached, tipping her hat under the moon above in greeting towards the tight-suited tour-guide. The woman in question had silver curls and wisps of white hair peeking out from beneath a cap, framing her face. Her suit clung to her like a second skin, save more than one wrinkle, suggesting it had been put on in some haste. The woman looked equal parts professional and frazzled; given the police presence in the tourist town, Rachel couldn't blame her.
"Are you... Ranger Blackwood?"
"That's me."
"I see..." A swallow. "Well... I don't know anything about what happened."
"I'm not here about that."
"Oh... umm... You'd mentioned you needed my help on something."
"Looking for information on local rodeo events. Heard there might be some around here." Rachel watched the tourist guide closely, the woman's eyes darting like trapped sparrows.
"Rodeos?" The guide's hands fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. "Yeah, we get those sometimes. Impromptu-like."
"Got a list of them?" Rachel's gaze didn't waver, reading the play of nerves on the other's face.
"Sure do. Hold on." The guide slipped inside the building, her movements hesitant, a dance of shadows against the flicker of a dying light bulb.
Rachel leaned against the wooden frame of the doorway, her mind a tangle of thoughts. She thought of her childhood, of the silence in a house too empty after her parents vanished. She learned to listen to the quiet, to hear what it whispered. Now, the silence spoke of secrets, of things hidden in plain sight.
"Here." The guide thrust a crumpled paper into Rachel's hand, her glance skirting away as if afraid to tether too long to Rachel's searching eyes. Some people simply didn't like cops. Others liked them... but at a distance. The tour guide seemed of the second variety.
"Thank you." Rachel unfolded the list, the paper crackling like a fire not yet lit. Her thumb brushed over the dates and locations, each a potential haven for trouble—or worse.
"Anything else?"
"Which one's the closest?" Rachel asked.
"Uh, there's one... near the old mineshaft. But it's not exactly..." The guide trailed off, biting her lip.
