Hearts of the Missing

by Carol Potenza

  “But that doesn’t make sense, Ryan. If she forgave you, why…?” Nicky didn’t know how to finish her statement without being hurtful.

  The sadness was back in his eyes. But deeper—much deeper—she could see a hardness, a cynicism and anger that was so out of place she wondered if she really knew Ryan at all.

  “Why aren’t we together? Why doesn’t she love me? That’s easy. I’m not acceptable in Savannah’s world because I’m not Tsiba’ashi D’yini. For her, it’s all about blood. Everything in Savannah’s world is about blood.”

  Nicky stared at him, openmouthed. It wasn’t true. His bitterness was blinding him.

  She stood, her chair skidding back. “No. I don’t believe you.”

  Ryan watched calmly. He was back to being the man she thought she knew.

  Snatching up their plates, Nicky marched to the sink. She opened cabinets and drawers, found Tupperware to hold the leftovers. With jerky movements, she washed and put up the dishes, trying to gather her scattered thoughts, trying to put everything Ryan had said together in her head.

  But it didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. And something inside her was twisting, pushing, screaming for her to understand that somehow, in some way, this conversation was brutally important.

  All the while, Ryan sat motionless, his eyes deep in shadow. Waiting.

  Finally, when she couldn’t stand the silence any longer, she braced her arms on the edge of the sink and stared through the kitchen window into the night. The breeze had kicked up, and the branches on the chamisa swayed gracefully in the light of the moon. Wind Mother. Ánâ-ya Cáci.

  Nicky shivered. Would she ever think about the wind the same way?

  She shook the thought away, and what she wanted to say suddenly burst from her lips.

  “Savannah is the most nontraditional Indian I’ve met. She is not the person you describe. She would never be so cruel. I know she’s dated black guys, white guys, Hispanic guys. Indians, non-Indians. But you think she rejects you because of blood?” She flipped around. “I know she loves her culture, but you make her out to be some type of elitist, racist even.”

  “No.” The frown on his face was deep. “You want her to be the way you see her. But it’s an illusion. To Savannah—to many Indians—their ancestry, their DNA defines them. It colors their most important actions and decisions. It has nothing to do with traditional or nontraditional practices. It is much more elemental than that.”

  Ryan’s jaw flexed, muscles bunching as his teeth clamped tight. He jumped to his feet and snapped off the light over the table, leaving Nicky in darkness.

  “You said you had other things you needed to talk about. If you still want to stay, I’ll be in the living room.” He paused in the doorway, his neck and shoulders stiff. “If not, I understand.”

  Nicky stood for a long moment in the dark kitchen. Nothing had really changed, except her perceptions. Savannah was still her friend, as was Ryan. And it was funny that he didn’t think Savannah loved him when it was heartbreakingly obvious she did. Savannah had never told her outright she loved Ryan, but Nicky knew by Savannah’s body language, by the expression on her face when he was near her. Maybe Ryan was too close, couldn’t see because he’d already made up his mind about Savannah. Maybe. But unless Savannah had lied to Ryan about her forgiveness for the night of her brother’s death, there had to be some other very important reason she rejected him.

  She stilled, her chest tight. Although it had taken years to break through, she’d found such acceptance here on the pueblo. Sometimes it felt more like her home than any other place in the world. Her friends more like her family than her mother ever had been. Was it really about ancestry and DNA? That Ryan was not Fire-Sky? If that was true, it made Nicky even more of an outsider in Savannah’s world. Was she afraid to open her heart and mind to the real reason Savannah and Ryan weren’t together?

  Her lips quirked into a wry smile. Because, if this job had taught her anything, it was that she needed to be open-minded.

  Nicky grabbed two more bottles of Pellegrino and walked into the living room. Ryan was slumped back into the couch, arms crossed, chin resting on his breastbone. His gaze tracked her around the furniture until she stood in front of him.

  She handed him the water. “Áukî-ni?”

  “Friends.” Ryan’s hand slid over hers. “Always.” He squeezed her fingers before he took the bottle.

  Nicky sat across from him. She opened her water and took a sip.

  “What else?” he asked quietly, sitting up straighter, his expression centered, calm.

  “A couple other things that came up in the Sandra Deering case.” She paused. “Look. If you don’t want to talk about it—”

  “It’s okay, Nicky. If I can help, I’d like to.”

  “Her final UNM class presentation was on missing Fire-Sky tribal members. But she didn’t use that term. Instead she used perdido. Lost. Juanita Benami said the same thing to me. She said I had to find Sandra, or she would be lost.” She leaned forward, twisting the bottle in her hand. “And when I was researching Sandra in the tribal registry, I looked at Savannah’s ancestry, too, and saw lost, and another word next to some of her ancestors—gone. No cause or date of death. Just lost or gone. What’s the difference?”

  “Gone is easy to explain. It means that individual left their People on purpose and never returned.” His voice turned grave. “Maybe they committed a crime so unforgivable, they were banished by the elders. Banishment is rare now. They are generally allowed back after a period of time. I know of a few banished who have returned. You might say I was one of them.”

  Ryan took a drink before he continued. “They went to another People, to marry or for another reason.”

  “Another people?”

  “Another tribe. Moved away from the reservation, divorced their culture, adopted another.” He gave her a candid look. “The rez isn’t an easy place to live sometimes. Those who have gone usually don’t return. Mostly, their family or clan knows their fate. In many ways, gone is not a happy word. But it is better than lost.”

  He paused, his gaze distant. Nicky wiped the condensation on the glass bottle and waited.

  “Lost means they did not leave—or die—of their own free will. Maybe they went on a hunt and disappeared. Or maybe their body was found, but something of them was missing. Taken. Fire-Sky People and their enemies did that to each other during times of war. Killed and took part of the victim as a trophy so the spirit wanders lost, unable to return and defend their lands and their People. Tsiba’ashi D’yini caciques and elemental war chiefs perform very sacred chants and dances to heal a lost one, to calm their spirit. But it’s dangerous. Done improperly, the dead can come back to haunt the living.”

  “So, taking an organ from the body … That explains the law the state passed—disposition of Native American remains.”

  “Pueblo religious practices and culture call for a person’s body to be intact at burial, so the whole person can find spiritual peace. It’s a major reason traditional pueblo Indians don’t become organ donors. Sad there needed to be a law, huh?”

  “Yeah.” It was also why she liaised so closely with OMI when they autopsied a member of Fire-Sky. Two highly publicized cases—both from Laguna Pueblo—had led to this law. Evan Martin had been struck by a van and killed. OMI kept the man’s brain, ultimately cremating it. The family didn’t learn until eighteen months after the burial that the body wasn’t intact. A year later, Alicia Waseta was killed by a BIA vehicle. A doctor at OMI took her heart as part of a UNM study on a rare heart condition. The family eventually received the heart and was able to bury it next to her body.

  “You said the men in Santiago Analla’s family had ‘faraway eyes.’ I thought that was the Rolling Stones’ only country music song,” she said with a half smile. “I’ve heard the term a couple times in the last few days. Could you explain it?”

  “‘Faraway Eyes,’ huh?” Ryan grinned. “Tee’e huwana’ani. Psychi
c. Clairvoyant. Sixth sense. There are lots of terms to describe it in your world.” His face became serious. “You have it, I think, but you fight it. Then again, Savannah would say it’s nothing more than the fact that you do good police work.”

  He leaned back and crossed his arms again, but this time he was relaxed.

  Nicky chewed her lip. She’d never seen or sensed things until she came to the reservation. But Juanita Benami said she would need both ‘faraway eyes’ and good police work to solve her granddaughter’s disappearance.

  “Does it mean I’ve been witched?” Her cheeks heated as she asked the question.

  Ryan laughed.

  “You’ve probably been witched dozens of times over the last five years by people you arrested, or their families. Some of the traditional Indians on the force really let it get to them.”

  “No kidding. A couple of them won’t even patrol parts of the pueblo alone, or take calls from certain tribal members. There’s always complaints about the lack of police presence in some of the villages.” She hesitated. “But don’t pueblo witches have to break the skin? I thought they used sharp objects, and I don’t think I’ve ever—”

  Ryan’s face suddenly shuttered, his expression blank. There was a change in the atmosphere of the house. A door snicked closed.

  Someone was in the kitchen. She met his eyes and shifted back in her chair.

  “Some do break the skin,” he finally replied. “But that’s very powerful and awful magic.”

  “Ryan, Juanita Benami said a witch holds Sandra. She said the witch will inject her with evil if she’s not found. Take her heart and spirit.”

  Nicky rubbed her knuckles over her mouth, staring into the darkened kitchen.

  “Under Santiago’s name in the tribal registry, someone had written ‘Witched’ next to the cause of death,” she said.

  Ryan looked at her, a white pinched line around his lips. Seconds ticked by.

  Soft footsteps sounded on the floor. A slim, dark shape appeared in the archway between the kitchen and living area.

  “I wrote it,” Savannah said into the silence. “After Ryan came back and told me how Santiago really died. That he’d injected himself with drugs. He’d pierced his skin with a needle, and allowed evil to flow into his body.”

  She stepped out of the dark. The light from the lamp caught and reflected off the lenses of her glasses and the wetness of tears on her cheeks.

  Nicky’s chest constricted. Ryan dropped his head into his hands.

  “They found it, you know? During the autopsy. The needle mark on my brother’s arm. But until Ryan told me”—she came up behind him and placed her hand on his head, her face softening with such love Nicky blinked—“no one knew what it meant. Or even cared. The FBI and BIA marked him as another stupid Indian teenage suicide. He was a statistic to them.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Ryan whispered.

  Savannah wrapped her arms around his shoulders and buried her face in the back of his neck.

  “You have to stop blaming yourself, Ryan,” she murmured, her voice thick with tears. “You listened. You changed. You are a different man, and I bless the day you truly came into my life, and back home.”

  Savannah caught Ryan’s chin in her hand. She tilted his head and used her shirttail to wipe the tears from his face before she leaned down and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. He closed his eyes and swallowed. When she let him go, Ryan reached back his hand and clutched the one Savannah had placed on his shoulder. She straightened and wiped her eyes.

  “Don’t you see, Nicky? Sandra’s grandmother was talking about drugs. She either knows or is afraid Sandra’s using again,” she stated calmly. “Drugs are the ‘witch’ that gets under the skin. They’re evil and make people do unspeakable things. There’s no magic here.” Savannah’s voice was filled with quiet conviction.

  It all made sense. Based on Fire-Sky tradition and culture, it was a very short leap to link needle marks and witching.

  But there was still something she was missing, and it made her uneasy. Sandra’s disappearance didn’t fit the mold of the addicted or transient tribal members who showed up on the reservation once their drugs or alcohol or money ran out. Nor did the woman appear to be a suicide risk, even though all the signs pointed in that direction. It was all too pat, too obvious.

  Nicky stood, interrupting Savannah and Ryan’s murmured conversation.

  “It’s late. I think I’ll head home, start fresh tomorrow. I haven’t had a chance to stop by Juanita Benami’s house or search Sandra’s car—”

  Her phone rang. She recognized the Dispatch number, and was about to answer it when Ryan’s phone buzzed.

  He looked at her, and Nicky stared back at him with deep foreboding. She wasn’t on call tonight. Neither was he. There were only a few reasons they both would be contacted to come back in, none of them good.

  She walked away from Ryan and Savannah, and pressed the icon to answer.

  “Matthews.”

  “Sergeant, we have a report called in from Western Rail. One of their conductors said they’ve been involved in a train-pedestrian collision near Peetra Road. Officers dispatched to the scene have confirmation of what looks like a single fatality. Fire and Rescue has been called, and OMI is on standby.”

  Nicky’s stomach sank.

  “Ten-four, Dispatch. I’m on my way.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sandra Deering was dead.

  Nicky kept her expression flat, her hands clasped behind her back as she stood at ease in the captain’s office. Outside the large picture window, the parking lot was almost empty. It was past six P.M., and most of the day staff had left.

  Captain Richards handed the Sandra Deering folder to Lieutenant Pinkett and leaned back in his chair. It creaked loudly in the silence and her gaze slid back to the men. Pinkett shifted to stand behind the captain. A united front.

  Captain rocked forward and placed his elbows on the desk, hands steepled. He stared at her, his icy green eyes hard and cold.

  “You went to the funeral.” His gaze swept her class A’s.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I saw in the report Deering’s head was crushed. OMI had to do identification by fingerprints from a severed hand. So, no open coffin?” He smirked and watched her closely.

  Insensitive prick. She didn’t rise to the bait.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Recovery of Sandra’s body had taken hours and been absolutely brutal. The team she’d assembled walked over a mile and a half in the dark to find all the parts. They’d even had to call in Animal Control to chase off a pack of stray rez dogs attracted to the scene by the smell of blood.

  “Did you get a chance to reinterview…” He flipped the pages of a stapled sheath of papers. “Juanita Benami. Deering’s grandmother, correct? Or the boy about the toxicology results?” He snapped his fingers and Pinkett handed him the folder.

  “Squire Concho,” Nicky said.

  “What?” His gaze shot to hers.

  “The boy. Sandra’s cousin. Squire Concho. He’s devastated—they’re both devastated—by her death.”

  Nicky and Jeff Gabriel, a Keres-speaking officer, visited Juanita Benami’s home to give her the news of Sandra’s suicide. It had been gut-wrenching. Squire tried to remain stoic, but within a few minutes his face had crumpled and he’d run out the back door, sobbing. The grandmother sat white and still as Jeff haltingly told her the news, tears slipping into the deep wrinkles of her face.

  Captain stared at her unblinkingly, lips pursed under his thin graying mustache, before he dropped his gaze to the desk. His finger moved across the paper as he read.

  “Let’s see. Marijuana, alcohol, and heroin. Injected heroin. Fresh needle marks evident on her arm. This girl got around.”

  A lump lodged in Nicky’s throat. Evil had seeped into Sandra from the breaking of skin. She’d been witched, just like Santiago Analla. Same trajectory. Same ending.

  Nicky pressed her li
ps together, wrestling with her unwillingness to believe any of it. Why had Sandra polluted her body with poisons and killed herself in such a brutal manner when, according to family, friends, and her professor, she’d been actively and enthusiastically planning for her future?

  “About the reinterview, sir.” She cleared her throat. “I thought I’d schedule it next week,” she said. “Her family is still grieving and I wanted to give them some time—”

  Captain cut her off. “No. Get it done by Friday. I want a final report submitted on Monday. And press her relatives about the plethora of drugs found in her system. She may have had a source on the reservation. You know how well my zero-tolerance campaign has worked in the last year. Wouldn’t that be a feather in our caps if we rid the pueblo of another drug dealer?” he said over his shoulder to Pinkett, his mustache twitching with a smile.

  Nicky wet her lips. She wasn’t ready to let this case go. There were still too many missing pieces.

  “But sir…”

  Both Captain and Lieutenant Pinkett swiveled to stare at her, Pinkett’s eyes wide. Captain’s face took on a tinge of red and his lips turned down. Nicky set her teeth. One wrong step and there’d be another reprimand for insubordination in her personnel file.

  “Don’t you find it odd Sandra’s toxicology report came back so quickly?” She swallowed, sick about what she had to say next. “I mean, the state crime lab is backed up for months. They expedite samples on a high-profile case, but this? A suicided Native American nobody?” She tried not to choke on her words, to keep them light, casual. “We haven’t even received tox reports from the train-bicyclist fatals, and that happened before Deering’s death.”