CHAPTER NINE

Boots clicking against sun-baked pavement, Rachel's shadow stretched before her as she approached Scott Hawkeye's Antique store. The air was thick with dust and the musk of old wood. She paused, a hand resting on the door's wrought iron handle, and shot a glance across the street. Ethan Morgan leaned against the brick fa?ade of the bakery, feigning interest in a day-old croissant. His nod was almost imperceptible. She pushed forward.

She'd pose as a customer—that was the initial approach.

On reservation land, even land bordering the rez, they couldn't act in an official capacity without jumping through some hoops. But Hawkeye's lease extended between one world and another. Rez and US soil.

Still, they had to tread lightly, so Rachel approached without a badge in hand.

The door swung open with a creak that betrayed its age. The interior was a cavern of treasures, walls lined with shelves groaning under the weight of history. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light, piercing the dimness. Rachel's gaze swept over the display cases, past the glint of aged silver, until it snagged on the turquoise pendants.

The bell overhead chimed as Rachel let the door swing shut. Silence clung to the air, thick and unbroken. She frowned. A store like this should echo with the footfalls of browsing customers or the creak of floorboards under the proprietor's watchful rounds. But there was nothing—just the hum of a neglected silence that filled the space like cobwebs in the corners of a long-abandoned room.

"Scott Hawkeye?" Her voice cut through the stillness, strong and clear. No reply came. Only her own words seemed to bounce back at her, as if the cluttered shelves absorbed all other sound.

She glanced along the wares on the wall. Mostly jewelry, antiques, perhaps… but some looked newer than the signs boasted. She leaned in, studying some tribal pieces dangling from a length of hemp. It seemed out of place in this historic collection. Rachel's hand hovered to touch it, then froze. A soft padding from the back of the store reached her ears—footsteps.

She turned, frowning towards a bead curtain.

"Hello?"

No reply. She wondered if their two victims had both found themselves in this shop, perusing the wares. Neither woman was Native, and yet they'd both been posed in their deaths as if buried like one. And then there were the scars on their legs…

Scott had sold a bracelet to Sinclair. And Jenna's boyfriend had mentioned the store, Artifacts, as well.

So where was the shop owner?

Rachel advanced, boots whispering across the worn wooden floor, toward the back where a woven bead curtain hung like a shroud between the storefront and secrets beyond. The delicate clatter of beads tapped out a rhythm as she parted them slightly, peering into the dimness.

A foul, damp scent wafted from the room beyond, a mix of leather, mildew, and something darker. Rachel steeled herself, eyes narrowing, as she pushed through the curtain. The beads clicked together behind her in an eerie chorus, the only sound in the otherwise silent interior.

Her boots echoed hollowly on the stone floor as she stepped further into the room. Dim light filtered from a single small window at the back, painting elongated shadows that danced and shifted across the space. There was an unsettling stillness to this place that set her instincts on edge.

The walls were covered in a macabre tapestry of bone and skull; animal trophies of hunts past diverted her attention away from the handful of tribal artifacts scattered about. Deer, boar, even what appeared to be a bear skull skewed grotesquely on a wooden mount, teeth bared in a forever snarl. Interspersed among them were smaller skulls—rabbit or fox perhaps; fragments of life once lived now serving as eerie ornaments.

"Scott?" Rachel called again into the murkiness, voice strong but laced with a hint of unease. She had faced far worse than decorative bones in her tenure as a Texas Ranger, but something about this place felt off.

The silence hung heavy as tar around her. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled; she was not alone in this sinister gallery. Rachel reached for the gun holstered at her hip, thumb brushing over worn leather in reassurance.

Suddenly, a noise pricked her ears—a low sound emerging from an alcove…

She'd nearly missed it—a small doorway wreathed in shadows. Steps cut into the floor, leading down into the basement.

She could hear murmurs coming from down there. Into the shadowy expanse, Rachel stepped. She squinted, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the area, before they finally made out a descending staircase. The air felt heavy, thick with the musk of aging leather and the faint trace of cedar oil. She moved silently now, instinct pulling her toward the darkness.

Descending carefully, each step echoed in the hollow belly of the building. The wood was old, groaning under her weight with every cautious move she made. Her heart pounded in rhythm with her footfalls, a steady beat in an otherwise silent world.

A low murmur sifted up from the basement below. Indistinct, rhythmic—a cadence that didn't belong amongst relics of the past.

"Scott?" she called again, a notch louder, her tone edged with authority. The murmuring persisted, steady and oblivious to her presence.

The staircase groaned beneath Rachel's cautious tread, each step a deliberate descent into the unknown. Shadows clung to the walls of the narrow stairwell, swallowing the weak light that tried to pierce the gloom. Her hand hovered near her sidearm, the weight a familiar comfort.

At the foot of the stairs, the basement opened up, a cavernous space dimly lit by a solitary bulb that flickered like a faltering heartbeat. In its erratic glow, figures huddled in a semicircle, their low chant rising and falling with the rhythm of ancient ritual.

Rachel froze, her gaze locked on the scene before her. Three Native men, their faces etched with the lines of unwavering purpose, sat cross-legged on the dusty floor. Streaks of blue paint covered their bare chests. Beside them, two women were clad in hides, their expressions obscured by the dance of shadows, swayed gently to the cadence of whispered incantations.

In the center of their circle lay a man, still and silent as if in the grip of a deep slumber—or something more sinister.

The air hung heavy with the scent of sage and a tension that made the hairs on the back of Rachel's neck stand at attention. She absorbed every detail, muscles coiled tight, ready to spring into action. This was no ordinary gathering.

Adrenaline surged through Rachel's veins, the chant a drumbeat to her swift reaction. With practiced ease, her hand shot to the concealed firearm at her hip. Leather brushed against metal, the sound almost swallowed by the murmurs that filled the room.

"Hands where I can see them! Hands up, hands up!" Her voice cut through the chanting, sharp and commanding. Authority resonated in each syllable, demanding compliance, leaving no room for challenge.

The figures jolted upright, their ritual interrupted. Eyes cast towards her, sharp gasps followed. And then a flurry of movement.

Curses hissed between teeth as they scattered. Two darted toward a basement window, hands fumbling with the latch in desperate haste.

The man on the ground sprang to life—the feigned lifelessness abruptly dropped at the sound of the command. Eyes wide, he rolled to his feet, the play-acting washed away by the tide of fear.

"Freeze!" Rachel barked, gun leveled. But the basement had erupted into chaos, each figure a blur of motion trying to escape the ranger's grasp.

The figure, now recognizable from his DMV photos as Scott Hawkeye, snatched his shirt from the dusty floor and shoved his arms through the sleeves. His feet pounded against the concrete as he bolted for the back door—a narrow escape hatch that groaned on its hinges as he slammed it behind him. A woman's voice, shrill with betrayal, sliced through the chaos.

Rachel's focus narrowed on the fleeing man, her training kicking in. She reached for the radio clipped at her shoulder, thumb pressing the call button with urgency born of countless pursuits.

"Ethan," she snapped into the device, her voice low, "Scott's making a run for it out the back. Heading your way—be ready."

With no pause for confirmation, Rachel crashed through the squealing back door, distantly hearing the radio crackle with Ethan's brief acknowledgment as she charged after her quarry.