Ter Martel is a troubleshooter for ruthless developers. He is a two-dimensional shark who knows all the dirty tricks it takes to win, and believes it is right to use them...

Misty is fleeing seven years of hell married to a totally amoral man. Now she is adrift, running from the courts, looking for spiritual guidance, unaware that powerful forces are shaping the essence of her life.

Arnie Cain, County Marshal, spent a horrible night sitting vigil with the body of the dead girl as she floated in the water hole, the latest in a bizarre series of murders. He knows that all of the dead have been cruelly murdered. What is eating at him is the reality that he can’t prove it and arrest the killers. He is convinced that the guilty will get away with murder. He doesn’t know about Desert Justice!

Doc Connely has amassed a fortune that he plans to pull into the grave with him...If he ever dies. He has discovered a force that will change the world and he lives on to protect its source...

Orante had escaped from a bamboo cage in Hanoi with dreams of power and position. Now he controls the fate and fortunes of thousands. Having attained his dream, he finds himself imprisoned again. Now he is trapped by his followers, forever bound, forever chaste.

Celesta believes that the Pleiadeans from the constellation Taurus have defeated their enemies from the Dog Star Canis and are coming back to Earth to rescue the souls they hid here 50,000 years ago...

Raven, once an archaeologist at the top of her profession, has discovered the desiccated bodies of the dead, deep within a cave in Prophet Canyon. Driven mad, she taps into a source of ancient wisdom and power.

576 Pages.

Descry was born in Colorado and grew up exploring wild places in search of pre-historic peoples and the wonders of nature. In his twenties, he was captured by the magnitude and magic of the Colorado Plateau and melded his life into that region.

Descry’s work emerged out of one of the most exciting and mysterious regions on the Planet, the American Desert Southwest. His works are filled with vivid descriptions of real places and events. His writings explore possibilities that are so plausible that the reader has a difficult time separating truth from fiction.

Descry and his family live, depending on the season and their whims, in Sedona or Prescott, Arizona, and Cortez, Colorado. They also spend quality time near the Sea of Cortez. He is actively involved in family, education, archaeology, environmental issues and business. In his writings, he shares his insights and love of the land and its peoples in a way that charges one with awe.

The Spirit of the Sycamore, is a tantalizing and complex mystery that explores discord and harmony in Sedona, Arizona, which is one of the Planet’s important spiritual energy centers, and one of the Earth’s most beautiful places.

This mystery follows the successful release of the historical-mystery, Spirits in the Ruins, which challenges the reader’s detective abilities with a century old murder. Descry provides insights into the illegal trade in Anasazi grave goods, and a previously untold history of the Ute Mountain Ute Indian people.

The Spirit of the Estuary, Descry’s third in this series, will be published soon. It is a historical-mystery told through the experiences of a murdered Seri Indian woman. It is set in the northern Sea of Cortez (Gulf of California) region of Mexico.

His anger was a driving force that made him take an animal trail that climbed almost straight up the rubble fields on the canyon side. He twisted and sidestepped through thick stands of manzanita and under and around catclaw and yucca plants that stood three feet high at the tops and were spiked out in a radius of more than two feet, their needle points warning off predators. Out of breath, he grabbed at the helping branch of a juniper and pulled himself up to a gravel area studded with cubes of sandstone placed like seats in an amphitheater. Puffing and feeling light-headed from his efforts, he took a center seat from which he could look out over the canyon and back the way he had come. Speaking to the beauty around him the old man confided, "They say I’m supposed to get twenty minutes of steady exercise every other day. Well, that’s twenty hard ones, and I’ve only just begun."

Up canyon, where for perhaps a hundred thousand years the wild winter flood waters had dumped tons of rock and soil which formed a mile long, half mile wide flat, he heard men yelling back and forth. He looked toward the noise and then he heard the sound of a diesel engine below. Turning his glasses slightly up and then down on his nose to better focus his sight, he saw a plume of black diesel smoke and the orange-yellow of a D-9 Cat pushing through the trees. He could see the tops of ancient pinions whip back and forth and then arc toward the ground as they were torn from the earth and brought beneath the treads of the killer machine. He heard the sounds clearly now, the awful shriek of splintering live junipers and the crack of broken limbs. It was, he looked at his watch, 6:15. Perhaps they thought no one was up this early. There was an injunction. They were breaking the law, but once the trees were down and the road was cut, it was too late, and they knew it. They might pay a fine for ‘jumping the gun,’ but it was worth it to them. He had to stop them.

Ben checked his shoes again, hitched his belt tighter around his thin waist, marked the spot where the Cat was ripping the life out of the heart of the canyon, and started down the way he had come. He had gone less then a hundred yards when he saw two men climbing toward him. He stopped, unsure whether they had seen him. The lead man stopped, looked around until he spotted Ben, then pointed so that the other could see the old man’s location. They came on, faster now.

Ben felt the awful paralyzing grip of fear. He didn’t know the smaller man, but he had seen the taller man at their meetings. He always hung back and never participated. He knew who he worked for. Suddenly, a lot of things made sense. He had long suspected that the deaths of Carri Sides and Jim Westermann, other leaders who had opposed the project, had not been accidental. He turned, urgencies driving him, and started moving away along a tangled animal trail which lead in the direction of home. He was strong, but his eighty years didn’t give him an advantage. Within minutes, out of breath and dizzy from his efforts, he leaned against the standing, bare trunk of a long dead pinon.

Puffing and sweating, cursing under their breaths, the men had him. "You smart-assed old fart," the taller of the two snarled, "you old son-of-a-bitch, you thought you and that citizen’s group you founded could stop us. You thought you could hurt us by getting court orders? You dumb old fart! Well no more! Today you have an accident... Look what we got here, Phil, a real tree hugger. Quit hugging that tree, damn you. I said let go!"

The other man, smaller, meaner looking, sweating profusely, interrupted. "Yeah, you old coot! Today you had a hiking accident. Clumsy of you to slip and fall. What were you doing spying on us anyway?"

Ben kept his arms around the tree trunk as long as possible, scratching into the old wood with his thumbnail. His breath was gone, his throat dry. He tried to yell for help, but his voice cracked and came out raspy. He couldn’t hold on any longer. The taller man grabbed him by the collar and belt, swung him up above his head and walked to the edge of the slight step that Ben had used as a trail. The next level was about five feet below, covered in catclaw, ringed with waxy-leafed manzanita.

With tremendous downward force, the tall man slammed Ben into the catclaw and onto the jumbled rocks and gravel. The old man had been much lighter than he had thought. "Nice flight old man?" he asked, taunting the broken form as Ben writhed once in horrible pain, shuddered and lay still.

"Poor man must have slipped!" the shorter killer quipped. "My goodness, someone will have to find him in a day or two."

"Not too soon Phil. The heat and critters have a lot to do."

They moved carefully now, wiping their footprints away with boughs and making their way back the way they had come.

"You gotta admit, Chris, that guy would have preferred to die out here. He was some kind of nut!"

Their laughter came from deep within reptilian parts. The canyon’s living things felt evil wafting.