"Brain damage."Kari thought about the neurological effects described in the articles."Depending on what parts of his brain were affected, it could have changed his personality, his judgment, his perception of reality."
"That's pretty weak," Maria said."People don't become serial killers just because they've got brain damage."
"No, but it could contribute to it.I'm not saying he has to be the killer—I'm saying we need to know more."
She found one more detail that made everything click: Brightwater's military service.Army, two tours overseas before returning to civilian life and discovering ultra-running.Someone with military training would know how to plan operations, how to avoid detection, how to use violence effectively.
She shared this information with Maria, who frowned thoughtfully.She didn't look quite as skeptical as she had before.
Maria pulled out her phone.
"Who are you calling?"Kari asked.
"Rodriguez's family.If Brightwater was contacting Rodriguez, that's our direct connection."
She dialed, putting the call on speaker.Mrs.Rodriguez answered, her voice still weighted with grief.
"Mrs.Rodriguez, this is Detective Santos.I'm sorry to bother you again, but I need to ask about the training advice Jordan was receiving.Do you remember if the person's name was Thomas Brightwater?"
A pause.Then recognition."Yes.Yes, that was it.Thomas Brightwater.Jordan was so excited that someone so accomplished was helping him.He showed me the emails—all this advice about heat adaptation and desert running techniques."
Kari and Maria exchanged looks.Direct contact.Training advice that would have included information about routes and schedules.
"Did Jordan ever meet Mr.Brightwater in person?"Maria asked.
"I don't think so.It was just emails.Jordan mentioned wanting to thank him properly, but I don't know if that ever happened."
They thanked her and ended the call.For a moment, neither of them spoke, both processing what they'd just confirmed.
"We need to check the other victims," Kari said."See if Brightwater established contact with Hayes, Ramirez, or Hartman too."
"I'll reach out to their families."
Kari stared at Thomas Brightwater's information on her screen.Everything fit.The capability, the access, the physical evidence, the connection to the victims.
"We need a warrant," she said."For his property, his communications, everything.If we're right about this, we need to move before he targets someone else."
"I'll start the paperwork," Maria said, pulling up the forms on her laptop."What are you going to do?"
Kari looked at the address for Brightwater's property.It was remote, isolated, far from anyone who might notice what he was doing."I'm going to put together everything we have.Build the case so when we go to a judge, there's no question we have probable cause."
As Maria worked on the warrant application, Kari compiled their evidence—the footprint analysis, the volunteer list connection, the contact with Rodriguez, the neurological damage that explained the physical evidence.Each piece alone might be circumstantial, but together they painted a clear picture.
Thomas Brightwater was hunting ultra-marathon runners through the desert.And they were about to stop him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Thomas Brightwater woke at four-thirty in the morning, the way he always did, his internal clock more reliable than any alarm.The bedroom was dark and still, the desert night pressing against the windows of his small house.
He lay there for a moment, listening to the silence, feeling the familiar disconnection between what his mind wanted his body to do and what his body actually did.
Getting out of bed required concentration now.His right leg didn't always respond correctly to the signals his brain sent, and his left arm had a tremor that worsened when he was tired.The neurologist at the VA had explained it in terms Thomas only half understood—damaged neural pathways, disrupted motor control, permanent changes to the way his brain processed movement.
What it meant in practical terms was that everything took longer, required more thought, demanded more patience than it had before the Desert Sky 100.
Before he'd achieved transcendence.
Thomas swung his legs out of bed—left first, then right, giving the right leg extra time to cooperate.He stood, feeling the familiar asymmetry in his balance, the way his weight distributed unevenly across his feet.In the early days after his injury, he'd fought against these changes, had raged at his body's betrayal.
