Nicky negotiated the corner into the clearing and the wind hit her truck so hard, the steering wheel jerked in her hands. She slowed again and sliced a sideways look at Frank’s grim face. He’d somehow found out she met with Santibanez. What other information did he hold? She needed something, anything, to fill in the gaps.
Her stomach twisted and the words wouldn’t come. Why was she having such a hard time broaching the subject with him? She’d had no trouble barging into Santibanez’s office yesterday.
Nicky shifted in her seat and pressed forward. “Frank. We have to—need to—talk about—”
“Jeez, this storm’s coming in fast,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess,” Nicky answered automatically and glanced into her side mirror at the ominous clouds obscuring the sky behind them.
She gasped and clamped the wheel.
Wind Mother’s face cleaved through the clouds and hurtled toward the truck. Her graying hair snaked wildly around her head, mouth open in a silent scream. She vanished in a bright flash of light that emanated from the top of the cliff.
Sunlight caught on the glass of a scope.
Nicky’s eyes widened. She wrenched the truck to the right. “Gun!”
The driver’s side-view mirror exploded.
Adrenaline pumped through her. She punched the accelerator and angled the truck over the edge of the road as a second shot disintegrated the back window. The vehicle slid down the bank, narrowly missed a tree, and ended up half in the stream. Nicky yanked the door open and dove out. She scrambled around to the front of the truck and crouched next to Frank. They both pulled their sidearms and checked the magazines.
“You hit?” he asked.
“No. You?”
“No. Only a taunt, huh?”
“A taunt that has morphed into a trap. Don’t rub it in, Frank.” Her blood surged through her body, every muscle and fiber focused and ready.
“Actually, it’s Franco. Francisco, really, but I go by Franco.” He captured her gaze in a steady stare. “Where is he?”
“On top of the cliff. It plateaus out. There’s a sheltered area between some of the rocks.”
He hunched forward, using the trees and bank for cover. She followed closely and dropped in beside him when he stopped.
“There’s a trail to the right, but it’s pretty open.”
He gestured to a sharp tumble of boulders on the left. “How about there?”
“Maybe. If you’re a mountain goat.”
He grinned wolfishly. “Afghanistan, baby. Cover me.”
She jerked, eyes wide. “Frank—o! No!”
He spun away and jumped back down the slope to run along the edge of the stream until he surged upward where the road opened into the clearing. Nicky followed him out of the corner of her eye, her sidearm and gaze aimed at the top of the cliff.
The wind shrieked through the pines, whipping up dust and debris, and thunder cracked and growled above them. Scalding Peak loomed overhead, its jagged edges ripping gouges in the storm clouds.
Frank—Franco—sprang over the bank of the stream and hit the bottom of the rocky slope at a dead run. Muscles bunched, he bounded powerfully up the tumbled boulders. She kept her focus above him, ready to put a bullet in the sniper’s ear if he so much as twitched into view. It took Frank—Franco—seconds to reach the top. Once there, he crouched low, then slithered over rocks on his belly. She lost sight of him.
Nicky counted in her head. Seconds stretched to one minute, then two, the only sound the howling wind and thunder. The sky darkened and black clouds covered the sun. Her palms grew slick with sweat. If anything was happening up there—a fight or struggle—she couldn’t hear it. She searched the top—pulse hammering in her throat—and formulated her own run up the hill.
“Clear! I’ll cover you!” Franco. Thank God.
She darted out from behind her tree and sprinted over open ground to the path on the right, her weapon still trained on the cliff. Movement stopped her to draw a bead, but it was Franco. She yanked her muzzle away and continued her run.
Nicky hit the top, not even remembering her climb, panting hard. A flat red-dust field stretched to a wall of trees deep with shadows.
“He’s gone.” Franco holstered his weapon. “I heard the four-wheeler start up. Found the tracks.”
“His … tracks? What … about … shell casings?” Her heart banged in her chest and her leg muscles burned. Hands on her knees, Nicky sucked in great gulps of air.
“None. He policed his brass. But you need to see this.” They walked side by side to the shooter’s box. The first drop of rain hit her back. “Look.”
There was a circle of rocks, perfect for a couple to lie on a blanket for a quick bout of outdoor sex. Or for someone to set up a sniper’s nest.
Nicky went down on her haunches. “What am I looking at?”
Franco turned on his flashlight and played the beam over the dirt. There were no footprints, no scuff marks, no … nothing. The area looked like it had been swept clean—with a broom.
“I’ve seen this before,” Franco said. “Two years ago.”
She pressed to her feet. “Me, too. A couple of times.” At Howard’s adobe and in a Wind Mother dream about Scalding Peak. She looked up at the mountain, black against a blacker sky. The wind died down as the rain started in earnest. At least it was warm.
“Do you know why?” Franco gestured to the ground.
“So spirits of the dead can’t find your tracks and follow you.”
He pulled a small plastic evidence bag from a shirt pocket. It held half a dozen cigarette butts. “These were in the dirt. Probably another taunt. I’ll get them processed ASAP,” he said. “You know, Nicky, I don’t think he was shooting to kill. I think this was a very serious warning. We’re getting close.”
“Yes.” She stood, hands on her hips. “But close to what?”
The rain fell harder. It ran down her face and darkened her shirt. It would wash away any evidence.
Franco glanced at the face of his phone. “How far do we have to walk before we get cell service?”
“If we stay on the road? Three or four miles. I have slickers in the truck.”
“Will that be long enough for you to finish the O’Callaghan story?”
They trudged down the slope.
She quirked a half smile. “Maybe. Did I get to the kidnapping part yet?”
He grinned back at her, blinking away the rain beading his eyelashes. The old, familiar Frank—Franco—was back. She wouldn’t press him now for his story. But soon.
“No, not yet. Let’s go get the guns and secure the truck. So, you speak Keres?”
She shot him another smile. “No.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
They found cell service sooner than expected and Nicky reported the incident. When Franco asked for a few minutes of privacy, she pressed her lips together and nodded. He walked down the road to make his call. On their way back to her vehicle, he requested they keep silent about the potential connection to the stalker at the blessing and the cigarette butts.
“I’m asking you to trust me,” he said.
Because of the weapon discharge and damage to a police vehicle, Fire-Sky alerted both the FBI and BIA stationed in Albuquerque. When they arrived on scene, tribal police and Conservation had already combed the cliff and surrounding forest and found the four-wheeler tire tracks. Further exploration turned up the carcass of a deer shot within the last twenty-four hours. The downpour destroyed any other evidence. Everything pointed to a poacher who fired at their vehicle in panic and fled without his kill. The case would remain open, but might never be resolved. Nicky’s unit was towed out of the streambed for processing and repair, and Conservation hauled away the deer carcass.
It was late by the time they finished and arrived back at the police station. Nicky was wet, tired, and hungry. They were told to report to the captain’s office immediately.
Funny what a difference the day made. That morning, Nicky dreaded a confr
ontation with Captain. But now, settled and confident, she knew her investigation was on track. Her meeting with Santibanez had not been a mistake, but a good hunch and good police work, and the afternoon’s adventure couldn’t have been a coincidence; now they knew that somehow Deer-Bear man and Santibanez were linked.
She knocked on Captain’s door and he barked for them to enter. He directed Franco to stand next to Lieutenant Pinkett and pinned her with a glare.
Nicky stood at ease, hands clasped behind her back. Franco and Pinkett watched from across the room. Richards stalked around his desk, stopped too close, and leaned into her personal space. She straightened her shoulders and refused to step back.
“First, that embarrassing arrest of Janet Stone at the fiesta—splashed all over the papers, I might add—then the accusation that Mrs. Stone broke out the windows of your home. Oh? Didn’t you think I knew about that? Then you also don’t know I received a phone call from her father the next day about your vendetta against his daughter. You’re gathering enemies at every turn, aren’t you, Sergeant? Now you’ve wrecked an expensive police vehicle because some poacher deliberately shot at you? Do you seriously expect me to believe that? Or was Janet Stone behind this, too?” he asked, upper lip curled. “Are you working with the FBI and DEA on their undercover drug operation?” Jealousy and envy permeated his voice.
Drugs? Nicky’s breath skidded. That was information she didn’t have.
“Yes, I have my sources too.” Captain sneered. “You’d better tell me what the hell is going on. Because—besides being a thorn in my side—you’re quickly becoming a liability to my police department, Matthews.”
Her arms went limp and her hands dropped to her side. “I’m a … what? Do I have to point out, sir, that none of this is my fault? I didn’t ask for the windows of my home to be broken, nor did I ask to be shot at.”
She swept a quick glance to Franco and her lieutenant. Both stood stoically, their expressions neutral. No help from either of those men. She clenched her teeth. Nicky looked back at Captain Richards. The lieutenant was the captain’s man anyway. But Franco … she’d given him her trust a few hours ago. Why wasn’t he helping her, defending her? She brushed away the unexpected hurt.
Richards gave a sharp bark of laughter. “None of this is your fault.” His tone dripped with sarcasm. “Off the record, Matthews?”
It was a taunt, a dare.
Lieutenant Pinkett shifted. “Captain, are you sure—”
“Off the record, Captain.” Nicky challenged him with everything she had: her look, her stance, her tone of voice. She allowed her disrespect for the man in front of her—for the men in the room—to shine like a warning flare.
“It’s only what you deserve,” Richards said. “Lifting your tail to a married man. Women like you have no shame, whoring your way to the top. I’ve had to deal with your type my whole career. Promoted over good men because you can’t get off your back and keep your knees together.”
Blood burned across her cheeks, her anger so intense, a red haze crept into her vision. It circled the ugly, leering face in front of her. Fists and jaw tight, she counted backward from ten and did it again as the captain half sat on the edge of his desk, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Smirking, he looked her directly in the eye. He thought he’d won.
Through stiff lips she asked, “Off the record, sir?”
He shrugged.
“And I’ve dealt with men like you all my life. Brown-nosing their way up the ladder, looking for the next ass to kiss, until they can go no further because their incompetence and stupidity finally catches up to them, then blaming it on someone else. The world thinks they decided to retire at forty-five because they’ve got their twenty, but everyone on the job really knows they’ve been pushed out because no one can stand them. So, they find a job on a reservation or in a small town, given the power that somehow eluded them their whole life because some guy’s dick was always longer and they never could measure up. They become spoiled tyrants who never have to take responsibility in their kingdom, because they think no one cares about Indians. And because there are no checks and balances, they fuck everything up royally.”
The captain’s face purpled with rage. “Why, you cu—”
“That’s enough, Richards.” Franco’s voice was quiet, but the command was deep and serious.
Captain stabbed his finger at Nicky. “She can’t say things like that to me! This is totally out of line.”
Franco placed a small recording device on the desk. Richards’s eyes opened wide as he stared down at it.
“What?”
“There were a number of things that shouldn’t have been said, things that could ruin careers,” Franco said. “Luckily, they were off the record.”
* * *
Nicky paced the hallway outside Captain’s office, hands pressed against the butterflies that filled her stomach. Through the closed door came muffled voices, sometimes raised in anger. She couldn’t make out the words.
Franco was still in there, along with the lieutenant. She checked her phone. Twelve minutes since Captain had dismissed her. He’d told her to stay in the hall.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Her head throbbed dully, but a smile stretched over her face. It had been so stupid to say the things she said. She’d probably poisoned any chance of promotion at the department, or at least while Richards was her superior.
But it felt so good, she didn’t care. Off the record. Captain’s order. Still, if Franco hadn’t pulled out that recorder, she’d be looking for another job. She was almost ashamed she’d doubted him.
He’d invited her to dinner during the fiesta. It seemed so long ago. Maybe tomorrow night—instead of gathering at Savannah’s—she’d invite him to her house and cook for him. Nothing fancy, and nothing more. But—
The door opened and Franco stepped out. She caught a brief glimpse of the stern faces of the captain and the lieutenant, before he closed it behind him. Nicky grinned.
He met her gaze, only to slide his away. “Two-week suspension. Effective immediately.”
She jerked back like she’d been slapped and the blood drained from her head. Dizzy, she grabbed the wall.
“But … it was off the record. The recording—” she whispered. Nicky straightened, shook her head. “No. This is wrong. I need to speak—” She reached for the door.
“Stop.” Franco grabbed her arm. “You’ve busted into enough offices uninvited lately.”
Her gaze flew to his.
He dropped his hand. “I’m sorry, Nicky. I did my best.”
She was numb, couldn’t think. What happened when a cop was suspended? Why couldn’t she remember? She knuckled her eyes. Her headache went from a dull throb to a sick pounding.
“My duty weapons … I need to turn them in.”
“No. You keep your firearms and you will be assigned another unit. Part of the negotiations.”
“But standard operating procedures—”
“Don’t apply. The only stipulation is they want you off the pueblo for the duration,” he said. “Nicky, when this is finished, I want you to appeal. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
She searched his eyes. What was going on? Nothing made sense. Except … she owed Franco an apology.
Nicky laid an unsteady hand on his arm and squeezed. “I thought—in there—I’d made a mistake giving you my trust. I was wrong. I’m sorry I doubted you. Thank you for supporting me against him,” she said. “Not many people around here have my back. It’s comforting to know you do.” The muscles under her hands tensed, and for a second she thought he would pull away.
“Richards is having someone bring around another unit. Go home, Nicky. Get some rest.” His voice sounded strained.
Tears clogged her throat. She gave a jerky nod. Ignoring the speculative looks from the night shift personnel, she retrieved her jacket and bag.
The keys to her substitute unit were in the ignition.
* * *
>
From the shadows, Franco watched Nicky climb into the SUV. Headlights reflected brightly off the glass wall of the foyer as she backed the truck out and left.
He activated his cell phone. His partner’s thread popped up immediately.
Is it done?
Franco texted his answer.
Yes. Matthews has been neutralized.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Nicky drove.
In a show of defiance, she stayed on the reservation. But it wasn’t really defiance. It was where she wanted to be. Needed to be. Where she’d found purpose and confidence and a sense of peace.
She tuned the radio to a country music station. It wasn’t late. Only nine-thirty. She wandered without direction, skimming along the roads, past open fields and scrub brush, double-wides, their yellow porch lights switched on against the night, and villages with a single streetlamp shining near the plazas.
Unthinking, she drove for over an hour and scanned the headlight-bleached land in front of her unit. It soothed her, let her mind rest and settle.
When she finally stopped the truck, she was in a familiar place. The Kuwami K’uuti overlook at the base of Scalding Peak. Hands thrust in her pockets, she walked to the edge to survey the vista laid quiet before her. Funny how she’d sneered at Peter Santibanez in his window-framed office, high over the pueblo. Had been filled with contempt because of the way he lorded over the land.
But was she any different? Wasn’t that why she came to this lookout? In the mesas and arroyos below lay her domain, her own little kingdom. She was an outsider, but had such power over these people. They called to her when they wanted help. She controlled them when they broke the law. They needed her.
But she didn’t realize how much she needed them, until now.
Nicky pulled the badge from her belt and held it up. It glinted in the moonlight, but the details were hidden by the darkness. Wind swept over her, warming her skin, tickling her neck. Reflexively, she stared at the piñon and chamisa along the edge of the overlook, braced to see Wind Mother. The vision had saved her from a bullet today.
But there was nothing—she was alone.
Hearts of the Missing Page 21