Hearts of the Missing

by Carol Potenza

  “The rabbit, Ryan. What about the rabbit?” She kept her voice low out of respect for Savannah.

  “It represents the underworld. And in Fire-Sky culture, white represents death.”

  The wind picked up again, scratching dried leaves across the cement. Nicky shivered. “So…”

  “So, I don’t think you will be saving the living this time. The running rabbit symbolizes a restless spirit. Whoever Wind Mother wants you to rescue is either already dead or will be soon.” His voice was strangely adamant.

  Dead? A sudden coldness filled her. She didn’t want to believe him. It was her job to protect the pueblo and its people, even at the risk of her own life. But deep inside, she knew what he said held truth.

  She needed the answer to one more question.

  “How do you know she’s Wind Mother? Anaya … Ca?”

  “Ánâ-ya Cáci. Because she has been here with you all evening. Haven’t you noticed, Nicky? The breeze running through the patio tonight hasn’t touched Savannah or me. Only you.”

  As if to prove his point, a brisk gust of wind snuffed out the candle and swept over her, making her hair drift off her back and snake up and around her head. Ryan’s hair lay flat against his skull. Startled, she jerked her eyes up. The wind chimes hanging from the overhead pergola stayed still and silent, as they had all night.

  The hair on her neck prickled. She let out a slow, shaky breath, trying to maintain calm, but knowing, knowing …

  And as if her stark acceptance of Ryan’s statement were an acknowledgment of the ancient one’s message, the wind stopped.

  “But … I don’t understand, Ryan. Why me?” she whispered, her voice thready, thin. She was not an Indian. She was an outsider.

  Ryan shook his head but said nothing.

  The screen door scraped open and her thoughts scattered in a thousand directions.

  Savannah stepped outside, still scowling.

  “Anyone want dessert? I have pie.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The scratching went around and around in his head, like a child twirling in circles with a sharp stick, a garland of wavy lines inside his skull.

  Then the kid fell down.

  Thump.

  Howard Kie gasped and sat straight up in his bed, sheets tangled around his legs and feet. He held his head and whimpered, kicking frantically, struggling so hard he fell to the floor with a thud. Only by crawling and twisting did he manage to free himself. He lay there, sucking in air, his face pressed into the grimy rug.

  A sour wash from his stomach coated his throat. He groaned and rolled onto his back, arms stretched wide. For several breaths, he stayed still. His brain throbbed. Bad dream and hangover. He needed a drink. And to pee.

  Howard wobbled to his feet and squinted at the digital clock on the bedside table before fumbling for his glasses. One thirty-six. He stared out the window. Dark outside, so still night.

  His full bladder made him change the order of his needs. He brightened. Unless he’d left a beer by the sink in the toilet. That would be perfect. But no lights. His head was splitting in two. Light would make it explode. He massaged the heel of his hand against his temple as he hopped across the room to the toilet, grit and goathead thorns poking into his bare feet.

  The beer cans in the bathroom were empty. Disappointed, he zipped his jeans and flushed the toilet, wincing at the sound.

  Howard rubbed his throat to press back his nausea and stumbled into the kitchen. The dim refrigerator bulb pierced his head, so he closed his eyes as he blindly grabbed a beer. He popped the top and sat down in a chair next to his computer, downing half the can in one long gulp. He sniffed and sat there. Breathing and drinking. He might have dozed.

  What sounded like tearing paper made his head jerk up. Startled out of his stupor, he gazed blearily around the darkened room.

  The sound came again, building then fading. And again. The hair stood up on his neck. His eyes widened and rolled downward.

  They were there. Again. Right there. Under the trailer.

  The sound was persistent, repeating, but now it was like claws across metal. The floor vibrated through the soles of his feet and chills peppered his skin. Did they know he was here? Knees like water, he raised one foot then the other off the floor, wincing at the creak of his chair.

  This was what woke him, he was sure of it. They lived under the trailer, but had crawled in his head. They were calling him, chasing him.

  Warning him.

  Mouth suddenly dry, he grabbed for his beer, but his hand trembled so hard, he almost knocked the can off the table. He snatched at it again and held it over his tongue, desperate to shake out the last few drops. Anything. The scratching grew louder. Like they were trying to dig up through the floor.

  He stared down, eyes frozen open until they burned. His feet tucked tight to his butt, toes curled, arms squeezed around his legs. He didn’t want to put anything down on the floor because it moved, flowed, lived. It crawled with bugs.

  His breaths came faster. He’d forgotten to sweep. Head back, he rocked, strangling on a whimper. No, no, no. He should have swept.

  Thump. The floor buckled upward. Howard whimpered and turned on his computer. He wanted, needed the light now. The blue and green glow of the monitor flickered weakly, and the bugs streamed darkly to the corners of the room.

  Thump. The floor bulged again.

  Thump-thump, thump-thump. Merging with his own racing heart, drumming in his ears.

  A heartbeat. Heartbeat. He closed his eyes again and moaned. He’d forgotten. They were here to remind him, to set him back on track.

  He gritted his teeth. He could do this. He could!

  With a surge of terrified courage, he slammed his feet to the dirty floor.

  “Heem’e! I hear you!”

  His voice was high and shrill, like a little girl’s. Echoing off the walls and through the floor. In his head.

  He banged across the room, reeling on the undulating carpet, arms held out for balance at first. Then he settled, bringing his knees high, and moved, stiffly, gracefully, in an ancient dance he’d thought he’d forgotten generations ago. Each foot pounded the floor, slamming it smooth again as he chanted the dead away. Sang to reassure them he understood.

  That he would have—should have—been a Sky Clan war chief. From Naha’ya. From the Day Before Yesterday and from the Beginning. If only for the beer.

  Then, he could have stopped them, could have helped. And the spirits wouldn’t track him. Wouldn’t live under his trailer or in his life. And the missing wouldn’t haunt him.

  Howard stopped, his head spinning. But his mind was clear enough about two things. One, he needed another beer. And two, he needed to see if Sandra had responded. He had to ask her about contacting that cop.

  He cocked an ear for the sounds below his trailer. Silence. He breathed a sigh. The dance had done it. They would leave him alone, at least for now.

  Until the beer makes me forget something else. With a shiver, he walked around the trailer and switched on every light.

  He placed the rest of the six-pack on the table along with a half-empty bag of Flamin’ Hot Fritos, and sat down at his computer to log in. Howard smiled. His trailer might be one step from the trash dump, but it had a blazingly fast Internet connection. The cell tower on the hill above his neighborhood was the best deal the pueblo ever cut with whatever cell company owned it.

  His instant message popped up on the screen.

  Howard leave me alone.

  Sandra had replied. He tapped, No names. They know I know and are watching everything I do. Are you awake?

  He grabbed a handful of Fritos, shoved them in his mouth, and waited.

  Nothing.

  Sandstorm. You are Sandstorm. I am Acid Rain.

  The cursor blinked ten times as he munched, waiting. Those were great names.

  She didn’t respond.

  I want to tell that cop who saw the white rabbit. I’ll use code. She won’t know who you
are. I’m doing it now, he threatened.

  No!!! Remember what happened last time? Leave it, Howard. It will be over in a week. It will be done in a week!!!

  Howard smiled and popped another beer. She was up.

  Use Acid Rain. And Sandstorm. They are very good aliases. I think the cop could help. She saw a white rabbit.

  Is she a white cop? She won’t care. No whites care. No one cares.

  But she saw a WHITE rabbit!!! He tapped urgently and sent the message quickly, trying to impress Sandra on the significance of the cop’s vision.

  DON’T CONTACT HER!!! Not yet. After next week. Maybe. When I’m famous. I have one more thing to do. Then it will be over.

  Howard frowned as he wiped his hand on his jeans. What thing? OK. Until next week. Are you here or in Albuquerque? Will you come see me? I’ll sweep.

  He waited. There was no return message.

  She was gone.

  Howard chewed the inside corner of his lip. Sandra said not to contact the cop, but the sound under his trailer told him something different. He didn’t want them coming back.

  The card the cop gave him was in his wallet. He scuttled to his bedroom and grabbed it, then sat back down in his chair. His hands hovered over the keyboard.

  No one had listened before. He’d tried and they’d laughed at him, or dismissed him. Or threatened him. So many were lost in the last two years. More than ever. If only he’d become a war chief, he could have stopped them.

  His tongue worked at the Fritos in his teeth. The cop was a sign. He would leave a hint and see how she responded—cryptic symbols that succinctly described the danger. Then he would sweep and vacuum in case Sandra came.

  His fingers itched as he put in the cop’s official email address:

  MMatthews@fire_skypueblo-nsn.gov

  Sgt. Matthews:

  You Have to Help Them.

  Acid Rain

  Howard smiled. That was a very good alias. He hit send and sat back. Sandra didn’t understand, that was all. Maybe he would go see her. She sometimes came home on the weekend.

  He dislodged a piece of corn chip from his teeth and moved it around his mouth with his tongue. When she did, he’d make her understand.

  Make. Her.

  After all, the cop saw a white rabbit.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Matthews.”

  Manny Valentine’s voice barely penetrated Nicky’s concentration. She moved the cursor over the play line of the surveillance tape and drew it backward, rewinding exactly one minute. The man with the bat made a feeble swing at the plate-glass window of the mini-mart. But it was the second guy she focused on, the one doubled over in laughter. She clicked pause and zoomed to his head. His ski mask had ridden up on his neck and there was a tattoo. Her best clue so far in last week’s burglary.

  “Sergeant Matthews.” Valentine’s voice was sharper now.

  Nicky suppressed a sigh. “What do you need, Officer?”

  She adjusted the focus. It looked like … part of a hand? The bottom half was cut off by the guy’s collar. She jotted a note on the pad of paper in front of her.

  “Some old lady and a kid are here requesting to speak to you. They want to file a missing persons report.”

  Nicky flashed Valentine a glance and settled deeper into her chair. “I’m busy. Give it to whoever’s next in line.”

  “The kid specifically requested you. Says he knows you. Name’s Squire Concho.”

  Nicky pushed her chair back and stood. She leaned forward and clicked the mouse to drop down the video on her computer, then pivoted directly into Valentine’s chest. Her lips thinned as she met his slitted eyes.

  “I hear I have you to thank for my overtime assignment on the train-pedestrian last week,” he said.

  Nicky eyed him coolly, but inside, her gut burned at his challenge.

  “And I hear you contaminated the scene.” He’d puked the remains of his breakfast when he found a partial torso and head stuck in a stand of chamisa.

  His face blazed red.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Officer Valentine.” Nicky took a half step closer and tilted her head up, staring him down. He was so close she could smell coffee on his breath.

  Seconds stretched, but he finally broke eye contact. He smirked and stepped aside.

  As she brushed by him, he bent in and said in a low voice, “Captain’s watching all the time, Sergeant. He has eyes wherever you are.”

  Clenching her teeth, she strode toward the secure door that led into the waiting area. She’d never understood how the drip of Chinese water torture worked until Captain and his department cronies started a campaign for her resignation. Every day they picked and pushed. Mistakes were amplified into crises. Decisions were questioned. She’d held strong so far, and had her own support within the department and with the Feds. But she could feel her facade starting to crack around the edges. Sometimes sleep was elusive.

  Nicky gathered the paperwork from the clerk, read over the brief summary, and opened the door.

  “Juanita Benami and Squire Concho?”

  Squire scowled when he heard his name. His clothes were baggy and his long black hair was parted in the middle and fell to screen his face. She’d scooped him up for truancy a couple of times, and had brought him in once for tagging and shoplifting. His future trajectory wasn’t good, but there was something about him that made her want to try hard to reach him. Not give up on him, because then he’d give up on himself.

  Nicky caught fleeting emotion in his eyes—fear, worry?—before he stood to help the ancient Native grandmother—dya’au—who sat next to him.

  Ms. Benami was so short, Squire practically lifted the old woman off the chair to set her on her feet, and he did this with such gentleness and care. He hunched down to her height, murmured, and gestured at Nicky. The old lady nodded and tucked her hand into his arm. They shuffled across the room, Squire matching her slow, deliberate steps.

  She was dressed in a rusty-black skirt that fell to her ankles, her shoulders covered with a colorful shawl. Crabbed fingers thick with silver rings held the edges together. Her hair was a mixture of black and white, coiled and wrapped in an elaborate bun so large Nicky didn’t know how she held up her head. Maybe the bun was counterbalanced by the heavy turquoise-and-silver earrings dangling from stretched and creased earlobes. She wore half a dozen necklaces, including a squash-blossom, probably worth more than Nicky’s annual salary.

  The woman’s only concession to modernity was her black athletic shoes. Nicky recognized them because her grandmother once had a pair: SAS EZ Straps with Velcro fastenings made for arthritic hands.

  Still, the old woman came dressed in all of her wealth. It was a statement to the seriousness of the visit.

  “Ms. Benami, Squire, if you’ll follow me,” Nicky said politely.

  They walked into the bright room that served to accommodate a maze of desks, police officers, staff, and the hum of sounds that populated the day shift. Embedded along one wall were a series of interview rooms. She ushered them to an empty one with a half-glass wall facing the busy department, and held the door for them. When they passed through the threshold, she pulled it closed and turned with a smile that froze on her lips. Grandmother Benami was staring up into her face.

  Nicky’s heart beat thickly as the vision in the glass flashed in her mind. The old woman before her was hauntingly similar, skin folded and wrinkled, her mouth a pursed, lipless line under an aquiline nose. Her eyebrows were thick, straight, and white. But her eyes weren’t the clear, sharp black of the face in the glass. Age and exposure to the harsh New Mexico sun had clouded the irises blue-gray with cataracts.

  Out of respect, Nicky looked away. You did not meet an elder’s eyes for longer than a few seconds.

  Juanita Benami spoke to Squire in Keres, lifting her chin at Nicky.

  Squire gave a long-suffering sigh. “Grandmother wants to hold your hand.”

  Nicky jerked her gaze to him. “What?”

&n
bsp; “Give her your hand. Please. Otherwise we’ll stand here all day.” His voice was still high-pitched, a child’s.

  Nicky hesitated. She’d been warned by some of the traditional cops about getting “witched.” While Navajos would collect loose hair and wind it into charms, ’iińzhįįd, for sympathetic magic or curses, in pueblo cultures—Fire-Sky included—witches used sharp objects to poke through the skin, injecting evil or sickness into the hearts of their victims.

  Squire rolled his eyes. “She won’t witch you, okay?”

  Nicky held out her hand, faintly ashamed at her thoughts.

  The old woman took her fingers in a warm, strong grip, and stared into Nicky’s face with narrowed eyes before she frowned and grunted. With hobbled steps, she pulled Nicky farther into the room, before she dropped her hand and climbed onto a chair. Nicky settled across from her and Squire and noted a second contemporary touch. Juanita Benami had a beautiful set of even white dentures.

  “Now”—Nicky rubbed her palms together under the table, a little unnerved by the hand-holding—“you’ve come in about someone missing?”

  Squire answered. “My cousin, Sandra Deering. She’s a student at the University of New Mexico. She said she was coming home over the weekend, but we never saw her. I mean, her car’s here, at Grandmother’s house, so she did come home, I guess.” He squirmed in his seat under Nicky’s gaze. “She’s not answering her phone, and…”

  Nicky raised her eyebrows, her expression softening. “And?”

  “It’s weird. She’s deleted her Facebook, Snapchat, and Twitter,” he finished.

  “Could she have gotten a ride back to Albuquerque and not told you?”

  Squire shrugged. He dropped his gaze, index finger making circles on the table. His grandmother looked back and forth between the two of them as they spoke, her mouth pressed thin.

  “Has something like this happened before? Where she’s been out of contact with her family for a few days? How old is Sandra?” Nicky asked.

  “I don’t know. Like twenty-seven or -eight.” Lip curled, Squire shot her a glare. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, and she’s not like my mom. She goes to school. She’s going to graduate this summer, in May. She doesn’t use anymore.”