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Perhaps we missed one, or like weeds it has sprung from the earth once more. No matter. We killed it before, we'll kill it again.' He reached across his massive desk and picked up a seldom-used telephone.The high-speed film was processed the same night it was exposed. Black and white grainy images typical of film pushed by aggressive development, yielded recognizable images of an elderly man of Caucasian descent, dressed atypical for his race. Shoulder length hair in odd bands of gray and black hung loosely about his head, restrained by an intricately beaded headband. His clothing was typical for the the western U.S. ranching region, but his footwear was not. His tanned leather moccasins, high-topped and laced in the style of a rider's leggings, decorated in intricate bead work designs, were not at all typical of modern western wear among anyone, let alone a white man.The elderly investigator studied the photos. The manner of hairstyle, the headband, the moccasins and leggings, all. She had to fight with her body to keep from going into panic mode, struggling to stay relaxed as the adrenaline surged through her. “Who is he?” Caleb demanded in a harsh whisper, his face so close to hers that she could feel his breath on her lips. She took a deep breath and avoided looking into his eyes, about to play innocent even though she knew exactly who he was talking about: “Who...“ But he interrupted her with another push against the wall. “Don’t play games Cali, you know who I mean.” The expression he wore was so like her father’s in that moment that it send a shudder through her, chilling her to the core. She knew that Caleb was no stranger to violence, and that, just like dad, he had a bad temper and no qualms over hitting a woman. “Jason. He’s an empath,” she said, then quickly added: “but he doesn’t know about you Caleb, I promise.” in hopes of soothing his rage before things turned nasty. His eyes narrowed suspiciously at her and she could tell that he didn’t know.
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