Hearts of the Missing

by Carol Potenza

  Nicky let him vent, absorbing the information. His cousin’s past drug habit came as no surprise. Like many other communities, the reservation hadn’t escaped the scourge of drug and alcohol addiction. It resulted in a substantial transient population that came and went as they followed their next high. Sometimes they’d only be gone days. A week, maybe. But for a few, months or years would pass before they showed up at home again. Squire’s mother had been missing for over a year now, but had disappeared for weeks or months on end before that. Nicky suspected Sandra Deering had fallen into that same common pattern.

  “I’ll need some more information from you before we move forward.” She pushed to her feet to retrieve the proper forms, mentally adjusting her day to fit in phone calls and hospital checks.

  Juanita Benami tapped the table with one of her silver rings, the sound loud and hollow. “Dza. Nah.” She stared hard at Nicky with milky eyes, turned to her grandson, and spoke rapidly in Keres.

  Squire hissed back at her a couple of times as she spoke, his face red. Then he stilled and all color leached out of his skin. When Ms. Benami finally stopped speaking, he was quiet until the old lady pinched his arm and tipped her head toward Nicky.

  “Baabaa says you must find her—all of her—or she will be lost. She says a witch holds her now, and will inject her with evil and take her heart and her soul.” The boy bit his lip hard and stared at his grandmother through the curtain of his hair. “Dza, Baabaa, dza.” His voice shook.

  Juanita cupped his cheek for a moment, her thumb moving back and forth, and shook her head. Her hand dropped back in her lap.

  Squire’s eyes were glazed with tears. “She says she chose you because you are visited, have visions, and you have … what?” He ducked his head near his grandmother and she spoke in his ear. “You are the only one here who has tee’e huwana’ani—faraway eyes—although she says you only have this much.” He held up his index finger, his thumb measuring the last joint. “She felt it when she held your hand. But she said you have other resources only cops have that will guide you.”

  Nicky’s mind spun. Though she didn’t spread it around, she’d never hidden that she’d seen visions, so Juanita Benami could have learned that from anyone. But Nicky didn’t understand what it meant to this investigation.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  Squire sat up straighter, frowning now. At least he didn’t look like he was going to cry anymore.

  “I don’t understand half of what she says sometimes, and I really don’t get this part. She says you must look for—” Brows knit, he continued slowly. “You must find the missing blood money.”

  The last three words dropped like stones into a well.

  * * *

  Nicky logged off the Rocky Mountain Information Network and sat back in her desk chair.

  Nothing. But that wasn’t unusual so early in an investigation.

  According to RMIN, Sandra Deering wasn’t in jail, hadn’t checked into a motel in the region under her name, and hadn’t been admitted to any hospital or emergency room in an eight-state area or part of Canada. But she’d still have to confirm the woman wasn’t using an alias, and she’d need to send her driver’s license picture statewide with a BOLO. Especially to Albuquerque entities.

  She’d also called Albuquerque OMI to make sure the woman wasn’t dead, and she’d checked the National Crime Information Center. Sandra hadn’t had any recent vehicle stops or interactions with the police.

  In fact, records from the Fire-Sky Police Department indicated Sandra hadn’t been arrested since her early twenties. Those arrests had been all drug- and alcohol-related, including contributing to the delinquency of a minor and a couple of loud party calls. She’d found no other arrests outside the reservation.

  A call to the University of New Mexico confirmed Sandra was registered as a student and had filed to graduate in May with a journalism degree. They’d emailed Nicky her semester list of classes, along with the names and phone numbers of her professors. But by the time she’d called a couple of them, it was late and there’d been no answer. Sandra had a class at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Nicky would swing by campus and see if she showed. She also needed to contact UNM housing about Sandra’s on-campus apartment.

  Nicky clicked on a separate screen, and the NCIC initial entry report popped up. She finished filling out the form before she signed and submitted it.

  Sandra Deering was officially a missing person.

  Standing, she arched her back and looked around the common room area. Most of the day-shift personnel were gone. The noise level had dropped, and the sky outside the west-facing windows still held a hint of gold at the horizon. A few of the swing-shift patrol officers typed out reports or held phones to their ears. Her stomach growled and she picked up her cell to check the time. Five past seven. No wonder she was hungry.

  Only a couple more things to check, then she’d stop by Savannah’s house and eat before she drove back to her place in Bernalillo.

  Nicky stepped into the small reference library and headed straight for the shelf containing the tribal registry and Certificates of Blood. She pulled those resources out and plopped them onto the table. Fire-Sky High School yearbooks were slotted tightly together along the back wall, and it took her a few moments to find the correct year and wiggle it out. A stylized phoenix etched in reds, oranges, and yellows graced the front cover. She traced her finger over the raised edge of a feather. This image and Ryan’s fire jewelry had a lot in common.

  She settled into an uncomfortable chair, flipped to the yearbook’s index, then turned to the single page entry referenced.

  Sandra Deering stared out at her, frozen young in her senior portrait, a polite smile dressing her lips. It was a much better picture than her driver’s license. Which one really looked like her, though? In the yearbook, her dark reddish hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and the smattering of freckles across her nose wasn’t completely covered by her makeup.

  There weren’t many students in Sandra’s senior class, so Nicky read over the names as possible resources for questioning. She quickly found a fresh-faced Savannah Ts’itsi Analla, round gold glasses perched on a pert nose, a huge smile on her lips, and braces covering her teeth. Nicky grinned. She’d make a copy and tease Savannah about it tonight.

  As she scanned the rest of the class, she jotted down a couple more names before her finger settled on a picture of a young man. Brown eyes made small by thick black-rimmed glasses, a long narrow face, hair sticking up over one ear. No smile. He actually looked out of it, even a little scared. And his face was familiar. She found his name.

  Howard Kie. The weird guy from the mini-mart canvass last week. She’d asked him about the white rabbit.

  Rabbits. Nicky jerked in sudden realization. Could Howard Kie be Acid Rain? She’d received a couple of bizarre emails over the weekend. One of them appeared threatening, with an image of knives and hearts, the second containing a GIF of hopping bunnies—white bunnies. She grabbed her phone and dashed off an email to her FBI contact in the Cyber Division, forwarding the odd messages and asking him to check them out.

  She closed the yearbook and opened the Tsiba’ashi D’yini Pueblo Tribal Registry. It wasn’t the actual book; that was at the Fire-Sky Cultural Center under lock and key. This one was a meticulously made copy that gave the impression of age. Glossy black-and-white photos were interspersed with the actual ancestral lineage and registrant pages. The pueblo secretary’s office kept the book up-to-date, and new revisions were issued each year recognizing births, deaths, and changes in tribal membership qualifications. There was a searchable online database, but Nicky loved the history chronicled in the pages before her. When she’d first come to work at the pueblo five years ago, she’d been so moved by it, she’d done her own genealogy, even going so far as to submit her DNA for analysis.

  The index sent her to Sandra Deering’s family entry. Part of the Hummingbird Clan, Sandra’s mother had been one-half Tsiba
’ashi D’yini, while her father was one-eighth Navajo, so she was considered a regular tribal member because she had at least one-quarter Fire-Sky blood. Nicky flipped to her Certificate of Indian Blood. Sandra had been registered as an infant. There wasn’t much more. No siblings. Mother and father both deceased.

  She closed the CIB catalog and pressed her hand on its cover as she pushed up from the chair, ready to put everything away and head to Savannah’s house. Nicky paused and looked at her hand. She splayed her fingers. Funny, the cover felt almost … warm. Suddenly curious, she sat down again, opened the book randomly, and found herself staring at Savannah’s Certificate of Indian Blood. A prickle of unease slipped down her neck.

  Sliding her chair closer, she leaned in to read the document. Like Sandra, Savannah had been registered as an infant. Nicky pulled the tribal registry back in front of her. Savannah’s family pages were impressive. Her friend always joked she was related to the Ancient Earth Mother Twins. As Nicky traced her genealogy, she realized Savannah wasn’t far off. Her ancestors were recorded for over ten generations, leading back to the start of the book 250 years earlier. Nicky turned the pages, following the ancestral tree. The year and seasons of birth were recorded along with the age and cause of death: lung fever, blood poisoning, consumption, childbed. So many had died young. The causes of death changed over the years to stroke, heart disease, cancer. Even KIA—killed in action—Great War and World War II, Korea, Vietnam. A few people were listed as either perdido—lost—or se fue—gone—with no date of death. She frowned, not understanding the difference.

  Occupations were written beside some names, in Spanish for earlier dates, then, starting about a hundred years ago, in English and Keresan, the native language of the pueblo. Weavers and warriors, teachers and truck drivers. Clans were inscribed. Savannah was from an elemental clan ancestry—Ts’itsi, or Water—practically Fire-Sky royalty. A symbol next to her name denoted she was full-blooded, also a rarity in the pueblo, whose regular and natural membership was around six thousand people.

  Nicky’s finger touched the name typed above Savannah’s. Santiago, Savannah’s brother, had died at age eighteen. Savannah had been sixteen years old. Her gaze drifted to his cause of death and she furrowed her brow.

  The cell phone on the table buzzed and a text message flashed on the screen. It was Savannah.

  It’s late. Stop whatever you’re doing and come over.

  Nicky grimaced. She felt like she’d been caught snooping.

  Give me ten, she texted and closed the books in front of her.

  She sat for a moment, rubbing her finger across her lips. Although Savannah rarely spoke about it, Nicky knew Santiago Analla’s cause of death. Suicide: train-pedestrian.

  But it was what had been scribed below that had caught her attention.

  In tiny letters, someone had written and underlined the word Witched.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nicky slipped into the darkened lecture hall about ten minutes before class ended, catching the last few slides of a talk on the integration of photojournalism in investigative reporting. The images that flashed on the screen were dramatic and poignant, and she sat, riveted. It said a lot about the professor’s ability to reach the students.

  She waited until the people sitting in front of her filed down the steps before she followed. A couple of students slowed, giving Nicky curious looks. The university required her to wear her shield around her neck along with the visitor’s pass. Even though she was in plain clothes, it was tantamount to having cop scrawled across her forehead.

  The instructor stood behind the media cabinet, answering end-of-lecture questions. Cynthia Fredrickson was hyper-slim, dressed in gray slacks and a purple blouse, and decorated with a chunky turquoise necklace, bracelet, and earrings. She was late fortyish in age and well preserved, her straight ash-blond hair and makeup enhancing a face Nicky was pretty sure anchored the evening news in Albuquerque a decade or so ago. When the last student left, Nicky stepped forward.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Fredrickson? I’m Sergeant Monique Matthews, a special agent with the Tsiba’ashi D’yini Pueblo. Could I speak to you about one of your students, Sandra Deering?”

  Fredrickson ran a quick glance over her, too. Her eyes narrowed as she pointedly glared at the bulge under Nicky’s jacket, and her rose-tinted lips pinched tight.

  “It’s Dr. Fredrickson. You called last night and left a message.”

  Nicky smiled placidly at the chilly response. “Yes, ma’am. And this morning, but you weren’t available. The department secretary was kind enough to give me an appointment after your nine-thirty class. I hope that’s convenient.”

  With a practiced motion, Dr. Fredrickson pushed her laptop into a worn leather satchel stuffed with yellow legal pads, picked up the bag, and jerked hard a couple of times. The overflow slid down into the pocket and she zipped the compartment closed.

  “I don’t appreciate your weapon, Ms. Matthews. This is a gun-free campus. You should have left it in your car,” she said, a snap in her voice.

  “I’m required to carry my weapon while on duty. Even on university grounds, ma’am,” Nicky replied. She kept her expression neutral, polite. The woman’s stance was one she encountered more and more.

  Dr. Fredrickson frowned and swung the satchel’s strap over her shoulder. She turned her back to Nicky and walked out of the classroom, her low-heeled shoes clicking against the tile with each quick step. Undeterred by the woman’s hostility, Nicky followed her down a brightly lit corridor filled with students hurrying to their next class. Fredrickson turned left into the Journalism Department’s suite of offices and unlocked a door tagged with her nameplate. The space was pleasant and tidy except for stacks of used legal pads piled under a large window. Bookshelves flanked a desk that anchored a colorful area rug, and there were numerous framed broadcasting awards hung around the room. A few of them showed a much younger Cynthia Fredrickson with the KOB Eyewitness 4 logo.

  “I have thirty minutes before office hours start.” Still frowning, she waved to an empty chair across from her. “What can I do for you, Ms. Matthews?”

  Nicky pressed her lips into a smile and laid her business card on the desk. She pulled a small notepad and pen from her shoulder bag.

  “Special Agent Matthews,” Nicky said. “Sandra Deering has been missing since Saturday. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “She was in class a week ago Friday.” Dr. Fredrickson sat back in her chair. “But I wasn’t all that worried. These students tend to be absent quite a bit.”

  “Has she missed class before?”

  “Yes, earlier in the semester. But I have no attendance policy. The only thing I ask is they must be in class for the final presentations. Sandra’s is next week.”

  “Did you receive any emails or phone calls that might explain her absence?”

  “No.”

  “Did she sit with anyone? Have any friends in the class?”

  “A couple of the other women, but not consistently. I don’t know about friends.”

  Nicky made a noncommittal noise. She had the class list and could question the other students if necessary. “When was the last time you spoke to Sandra?”

  “About two weeks ago. I meet with all the students at least three times during the semester to make sure their projects are progressing. She was very excited about her work.” Dr. Fredrickson bit her lip, thin brows creased. For the first time in the interview, she looked concerned. “She’s graduating in May and wanted to use this presentation as part of her job applications.”

  “What was her final presentation about?”

  “It was an investigative news piece she said she’d been working on since last summer, but she was very cagey about it. Secretive. Said the story was so big, she was afraid someone might steal it from her.” Fredrickson waved her hand dismissively. “They all think they’re going to be the next Hunter Thompson or Woodward and Bernstein. When I pressed her for details, she told me her pro
ject was so hot, it could put me in danger. I dismissed it at the time as overly dramatic, but now … Do you think it might have to do with the reason she’s missing?”

  Nicky made a notation before she asked, “Do you have any information about her presentation? Did she have to turn in a synopsis or rough draft?”

  “I don’t require either of those, but if I remember correctly, when we sat down within the first couple weeks of class she gave me a few details. I’d have to check my notes. I’m not sure…” She hauled her satchel to her lap and tugged out a handful of yellow pads.

  “Thank you. Also, if you have any emails from Sandra, could I get copies?”

  Dr. Fredrickson sighed and dropped the pads on her desk before logging in to her desktop computer.

  “Ma’am? Can you explain to me what you meant by ‘these students tend to be absent a lot’? Which students?”

  “You know. Native Americans. I mean, I’m very sympathetic because I’m part Cherokee and I do everything I can to mentor and help them. But, well, in all honesty, very few end up graduating because they’re academically and culturally unprepared to live on the ‘outside.’” She lifted her hand from the keyboard and made air quotes. “Their heritage is so closely linked to the natural world, it can be overwhelming here. In many ways, they’re like children, and, of course, whites have painfully exploited them, both historically and contemporarily. The chauvinistic discrimination and systematic abuse by government has led directly to—Huh.” Lines appeared between her brows. She bent over the keyboard and typed quickly. “That’s odd. I can’t find any of Sandra’s emails.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I searched for Sandra’s name in my email—inbox and sent messages—but they’re not here.”

  Nicky walked around the desk so she could see the screen and she made a mental note to speak to campus IT.

  “Could you have deleted them?”