Hearts of the Missing

by Carol Potenza

  He leaned forward and tapped the wood of his desk, his eyes glittering. “What David Saunders found was that Fire-Sky clan members have distinct genetic profiles I can use to identify our People, to preserve our traditions and culture without the genetic pollution of outsiders. Soon it will be time to purge. To rid ourselves of the hangers-on, the genetically impure. To establish true blood quantum, controlled by the tribe, not some bureaucrat in Washington, D.C.”

  He was right. She didn’t understand, especially when it tore families apart like he’d done with Robert and Veronica Koyona. And little Victor. Would Victor be raised in a culture that ultimately rejected him because of his genetics?

  “Soon it will be time to purge?” Nicky gestured at the letter on the desk. “Haven’t you already started?”

  Santibanez’s face shuttered. “No. I’m not completely ready.”

  “You haven’t told the tribal council, have you? There are religious and traditional customs forbidding the use of DNA—”

  He slashed his hand through the air. “Don’t you talk to me about my culture. My position and influence are such that the council will agree with me once everything is in place. I’ll make them see the utility of DNA tests, because our culture and tradition demand it.”

  Nicky stood. “Then why, if you aren’t ready, did you send this letter and tear this family apart?” She picked up the paper and tucked it away. She couldn’t stay in the room any longer or she’d be sick.

  “Because a man deserves to know the paternity of his son before he wastes his time, his hard-earned money, and his love on a child that isn’t his.”

  The bitterness in his voice was severe. And extremely personal.

  DNA giveth and DNA taketh away.

  Slowly, Nicky sat back down in the chair and tried to integrate Santibanez’s statement. PJ—Peter Santibanez’s only child—wasn’t his biological son?

  Santibanez stood stiffly and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows, across the stark and beautiful land of his ancestors. David Saunders’s database had certainly served him up a nasty surprise.

  “Where is Saunders?” she finally asked. “He’s missing.”

  “I don’t know. He called me and said he’d been asked to speak at a conference. And after, he said he was going on a long-delayed vacation. I haven’t heard from him since.” Santibanez’s voice was clipped.

  “When did Sandra Deering contact you about the per capita distribution lists?” She switched topics, hoping he was still shaken and off guard.

  No such luck.

  “Sandra Deering? The train suicide? I’ve never spoken to her. I only know of her because my publicity team wanted to use her grandmother as part of the Distribution Day ceremony.” He picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip, only to grimace. “Regardless of what you think of me, or even what I think of me, I don’t know everything or everyone on the pueblo.” He smiled.

  “The FBI is undercover on the reservation. Why?” As soon as the question left her mouth, she wanted to take it back. She’d pushed too far.

  His eyes flickered coldly, but the smile stayed in place. “There are … elements at the police department with whom you do not jibe well. And you have friends employed on the reservation? You seem to be a very smart lady. If I were you, I’d halt this line of inquiry. Do you understand?”

  Her breath caught and a sudden coldness pierced her core. She held his stare for a long time. “Yes. I understand.”

  “Now, if that’s all, Sergeant, I’m a very busy man—”

  “One last question.” This was a total shot in the dark. “What do you know about the death of Maryellen K’aishuni in the Chiricahua Wilderness two years ago?”

  Santibanez’s expression hardened, but not before she saw a flash of unease in his eyes.

  “I was part of the search team. And I have read the official tribal file. Sergeant Matthews, that is all. We are done here.” He turned to the view again. “You can show yourself out.”

  * * *

  Phone pressed to his ear, Peter Santibanez traced a thin contrail—colored pink by the setting sun—across the dusky sky. “I don’t know how I can make myself any clearer,” he said. “Matthews is a loose cannon. Neutralize her or I will withdraw my support for your operation.”

  The silence stretched on the other end of the line.

  “Sir, I don’t think it would be in your tribe’s best interest—”

  Santibanez swiveled his chair and slammed the flat of his hand on the desk. “No. I don’t think it would be in your best interest if she compromises this investigation. Where would the Bureau station you then? I hear there are some nifty openings in the depths of Alaska. I can make sure they save a spot for you.”

  “I have a man on her now. Though she doesn’t know it, she’s been very valuable to us. It’s been difficult to earn the trust of the people—”

  Santibanez scoffed. “I told you that when the Bureau approached me, didn’t I? You Feds never listen. It takes years for outsiders to be accepted on the pueblo. Sergeant Matthews has earned that trust. She’s very good at what she does,” he added grudgingly. “But the protection of my people comes first. I’ll burn you—without regret—if you don’t get her off my back. And your undercover op to bring down the Coahuilan drug cartel will dissipate like so many smoke signals.” With the sleeve of his shirt, he dabbed sweat from his brow. His hand tightened on the phone as he waited for a response.

  Finally. “All right. I’ll see what we can do.” The phone disconnected.

  Santibanez slumped in his chair and dropped his head into his hands. He’d made multiple missteps today. Hopefully they could be mitigated.

  But in his heart, he knew his biggest mistake had been made almost two years ago when he let PJ return home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Nicky slunk into the police department early the next morning. She’d hardly slept, the repercussions of her rash confrontation with Peter Santibanez haunting her night, and her muscles ached with tension and exhaustion. The captain’s office was still dark. Gut roiling, she braced herself for his arrival. Would he chew her out and suspend her for reckless behavior? Or was she looking at the loss of her job? Santibanez had that power.

  Captain Richards arrived ten minutes later, but other than his normal contemptuous glance in her direction, he left her alone.

  Santibanez obviously hadn’t reported her. Yet. If anything, the knife-edged anticipation twisted her emotions tighter. He valued his control on the reservation and she’d dangled a sword over his head with her knowledge of the illicit DNA database. But that sword kept her safe—for now. All she had to do was place a discreet whisper into the ear of a traditional tribal councilman and she could completely derail Santibanez’s plans for the future of tribal membership and disrupt the power he held on the pueblo.

  That made her a threat to him. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Just like she’d been a threat to Janet and the Randals five years ago. She’d have to sell her home for sure if she lost her job, because no way Santibanez would let her even work in the state. On top of this, she’d put her friends and their livelihoods in danger, too. But how much, she didn’t know.

  Her meeting with Santibanez added even more pieces to the fractured puzzle of the murdered and missing on the reservation. And her tentative conclusions chilled her.

  Peter Santibanez had a lot at stake. But was it enough that he’d kill for it? And kill so viciously? Was he behind the missing in Sandra’s list? Had he already initiated a purge of the genetically undesirable?

  And how did Maryellen K’aishuni and Vernon Cheromiah’s murders fit into any of this?

  Nicky squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t sit in front of her computer and work. She had to get out, clear her head so she could—

  “Sergeant Matthews?”

  Nicky jumped to her feet. Her chair rocked back and she grabbed it before it crashed over.

  Shanice, one of the Fire-Sky dispatchers, stood by her desk. �
��You okay? You look like you ate a bumblebee.” She stared, eyebrows raised, at the bruise and scratches on Nicky’s cheek. “Got a call from Grandmother O’Callaghan over on the north side of Scalding Peak. She specifically requested you to come out to her place. You saved her grandson from drowning in that arroyo, remember? Said someone vandalized her house and a barn last night. I bet it’s those kids who hang out at Big Red Dog Cliff. Little derelicts.” She shoved a note into Nicky’s hands. “She also told me there’s a bear or deer or whatever—I don’t know what, my Keres is terrible—tearing up her garden or something, so I called Conservation. They’re sending an officer to drive out with you. He’ll meet you by your unit.”

  A frisson of panic trickled up Nicky’s spine. Please let it not be PJ Santibanez.

  * * *

  Frank stood next to her truck—Nicky sent up a silent prayer of thanks—AR-15 slung over his shoulder and a long black case propped up against the back tire.

  When he saw her cheek, he unslung the rifle and stepped toward her to touch her face.

  “You okay?” His look was intent and searching.

  She resisted a powerful urge to lean into his palm. “Yeah. Hazards of the job.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Nicky turned her head so he wouldn’t see her blink furiously against the burn of tears. “Maybe later,” she said gruffly. “Where’s PJ?”

  “Called in sick again.”

  “You driving with me?”

  “Yup. Might as well save a little gas. Global warming and all.” He smiled and lifted the rifle case. “Tranquilizer rifle and vials of ketamine in case that bear or deer or whatever at the O’Callaghan place is still lurking around.” He stowed the firearms in the backseat and climbed in beside her.

  There was only spotty radio and cell phone coverage on the north side of the mountain. Nicky let Dispatch know they were leaving on the call and started the long drive, still stuck in her head. Frank stayed silent, his presence a surprising comfort, and she finally relaxed.

  After about fifteen minutes, he asked, “The ranch is owned by a Native family called O’Callaghan, huh? Bet there’s a good story behind that.”

  She humphed a laugh. “How does a handsome Catholic priest falling for a beautiful Indian maiden and giving up the Church sound?”

  “Like a movie. We got time?”

  “About forty-five miles’ worth.” She glanced at him. “Which is good, because it’s a long and complicated tale.”

  At his half smile, she took a deep breath, the last of her tension leaving her shoulders, and launched into her story.

  “Father O’Callaghan was young, brash, handsome, redheaded, and from the depths of Ireland when he arrived at Fire-Sky back in the 1870s.”

  “Redheaded? How do you know he was redheaded? Is there a color picture?”

  Nicky chuckled. “And freckle-faced. You’ll see. Now stop interrupting. He came here on a painted pony, two six-guns strapped across his chest—”

  “A priest?”

  “Frank,” she chided. “Shush.”

  Her voice meandered as they drove. She slowed her unit near half a dozen battered mailboxes posted into the ground and turned off the highway onto the gravel logging road that snaked around Scalding Peak. The truck bumped through low meadows dotted with piñon and rabbitbrush, but as they climbed, up and around, the forest thickened, and tall, straight pines grew along the slopes. Nicky spun her tale, keeping a close eye on landmarks. A decaying stone house. A coil of barbed wire looped over a wooden post decades ago. A few miles later, a flat, cleared expanse that on one side dropped down a gentle bank to a tumbling stream and on the other climbed up a rocky red cliff.

  As she came to the priest and maiden’s declaration of undying love, she saw the wagon wheels that marked the narrow road to the O’Callaghan place. Trees and thick bushes lined the rutted lane. It wound another mile before it topped out and dropped into a large meadow tightly surrounded by a pine forest.

  It was a place where time had stopped. A rectangular house built of smooth river rock, with weathered, hand-cut-timber barns and outbuildings set behind. Split-rail fences bordered the dirt road, and two black-and-white-spotted ponies lifted their heads from lush native grasses, tails switching lazily. The windmill spun with a squeak and grind, and the water in an oval corrugated tank reflected towering white clouds in a blue sky. A hawk flew overhead, its wings still as it rode an unseen wind current that swept up Scalding Peak. The mountain rose close and dark, gradually, then more steeply about half a mile to the south of the homestead. To the north, the Jemez loomed against the sky, another line of rugged mountains that seemed to go on forever.

  Nicky parked her unit between an oxidized-red Datsun pickup and a shiny black side-by-side four-wheeler. When she stepped out of the truck, a breeze rippled through her ponytail. She breathed in the damp, pine-scented air with a hint of wood fire, and walked toward the open front door of the house, avoiding half-filled mud puddles. A thumbnail-sized toad hopped into the water and disappeared beneath the surface.

  Grandmother O’Callaghan stood in the doorway, her long gray braid still shot with rusty red strands of hair, the skin of her face and neck covered in freckles. Her bright red-brown eyes were narrow slits under the fallen creases of her eyelids. Nicky sent Frank a grin as he blinked his surprise.

  “After the stagecoach robbery, the buried gold, the buffalo stampede, and the sharpshooting contest and puppy, I was pretty sure you were spinning me a tall tale. I apologize profusely,” he said.

  The old woman licked her lips and stared at Frank before she looked at Nicky. Her face crinkled into a tense smile that showed a number of gold-capped teeth. She held out a warm hand to clasp Nicky’s tightly and broke into a spate of Keres, gesturing behind the house in an agitated fashion.

  As Nicky asked her to slow down in the same language, she caught Frank’s raised brows out of the corner of her eye. His mouth dropped open when Grandmother O’Callaghan pulled out a large iPhone from a pocket in her black skirt. With crooked fingers, she scrolled through pictures. Finally, she pointed to the screen and handed it to Nicky.

  Nicky looked at the phone and stiffened on an indrawn breath.

  A man stood against the dark backdrop of trees. Above medium height, slim to medium build, dark traditional clothing, and black stained moccasins. A mask fit over his whole head like a helmet, and sprouted antlers, but it wasn’t a deer. More like a bear with horns. He stared directly into the camera, a can of spray paint in one hand and a rifle slung across his back.

  It was the stalker from the blessing. Silently, she gave the phone to Frank.

  He stared at the screen, his face darkening with a scowl before he pressed the phone back into her hand. “You need to get in the house,” he ordered. “I’m going to take a look around.” He pivoted and scanned the trees. “Dammit! This guy could be hiding anywhere, and now he has a gun.”

  Nicky grabbed his arm. “If he’s out there watching, he already knows we know. He let Grandmother take his picture, for God’s sake.” She tightened her grip. “And I’m not going to hide. Ever. Besides, I don’t think this is a trap. I think it’s another taunt. Look.” This time the picture was of a spray-painted heart, the outline of a knife stabbed through it. “It’s on the back of the barn. Come on.”

  He leaned in close to her face. “Not till I get my AR.”

  * * *

  Nicky slammed the truck door and jammed the keys into the ignition. She was boiling over with frustration and a sick foreboding, and Frank wasn’t helping. Waves of anger rolled off him.

  “What’s your problem? It’s not my fault—”

  “Really?” he interrupted flatly. He yanked off his sunglasses and shoved them into his front pocket. Lip curled, he gave her a hard stare.

  She tore her gaze away and glared through the front windshield, her hands clamped tightly on the steering wheel.

  “Who told you, Frank? Who told you I visited Peter Santibanez yesterday?
Your partner?” She didn’t mean PJ.

  “Does it matter?” He looked away from her and crossed his arms over his chest.

  She started the truck and accelerated up the road. The wind had picked up and thunder rumbled behind them. An afternoon storm—common on this side of the mountain—built over the trees. The moisture gave the surroundings a green lushness, but it came at a cost. In winter, snow made the roads impassable.

  The truck slithered onto the logging road, gravel spitting behind her. Nicky took a deep breath and slowed to a reasonable speed.

  “What did you find?” she asked.

  When Grandmother O’Callaghan showed them her wrecked garden, Frank had slipped into the forest for a perimeter search. The affable, quiet man had morphed into a skilled warrior and she’d been chilled by how quickly and silently he’d disappeared into the shadows. That warrior was with her now, and she didn’t know what to do with him.

  “He came in on a four-wheeler, and parked about a hundred yards from the house.” His voice was clipped, mouth hard. “Camp sign says he didn’t sleep there and left before dawn. There was no reason to follow the tracks out. I figure he picked up this road. He wasn’t there for very long, but he still made a fire.”

  “To purify the mask,” she said. His brow furrowed. “Something to do with confusing evil spirits with the smoke, so they don’t subjugate the wearer and guide his actions.”

  Frank snorted. “Well, then I think this guy needed a bigger fire.”

  A gust of wind sent a shower of pine needles pinging against the truck. They were approaching the open area by Big Red Dog Cliff, though everyone called it Clifford, after the children’s books. It was a hangout for local teens, and fire pits littered the ground. A path wound steeply up through the rocks on one side. She’d worked an accidental death there a couple of years ago when a high, drunken high schooler had fallen the thirty feet from the top.