At the sound of her voice, two other bloodied men ran from the opening of the cave. Howard burst out of the bushes behind her, mask still on his head.
“What the hell? What’s going on here?” Peter Santibanez. His expression quickly morphed from openmouthed shock to a glowering scowl.
“Get down on your knees! Hands on your head! Do it now! Howard, go kick that knife away.” The second man obeyed her command and dropped to his knees. Santibanez kept coming.
“I said get down!” She slotted her sidearm in its holster and slipped out her Taser. “Sir, if you don’t comply and get on your knees, I will tase you,” she informed him loudly and firmly, and pointed it in his direction.
He halted, his whole face in a deep frown, and put his hands on his head. Control the leader and you control the followers. She cuffed him first.
With his hands behind his back, she patted him down, and helped him lie on his stomach. She yanked out a second pair of handcuffs and secured Brian Serachin’e in the same way. Eyes wide, he looked at her in confusion. Gore spotted his traditional shirt, jeans, and boots. His stench turned her stomach, but underneath it a tiny note of wintergreen oil sifted through. She stared at the sheen under his nose.
“Sergeant Matthews? What’s going on? Why are you here? We’re practicing a rit—”
“Shut up.” Santibanez glared at him and he broke off.
Nicky pulled out her last set of cuffs and gestured to the third man. “Hands behind your back.” Ed Jackberry, tribal enrollment manager. When he was on his stomach, Nicky retrieved the bloody knife and sternly warned the men not to move.
Howard faced the cave, his mask under his arm again. “He’s there. The lost one. The sacrifice. We are too late.” He took off running toward the cave and disappeared inside. Nicky groaned and chased after him. The closer she came to the entrance of the cave, the worse the stink.
Howard darted back out, a shining mass of bloody purple tissue in his hand, arm covered in putrid gore. He’d left his mask somewhere.
“See, see? I was right! It’s the Enemy’s Heart ritual!” he crowed and promptly threw up.
She’d paled at the sight of the fist-shaped heart in his hands. Nicky pulled her sidearm again and walked around Howard, who still heaved noisily in the bushes.
Putting the back of her hand against her nose, Nicky stood at the entrance to the cave. Inside was shaped into a room, the rock walls smoothed. A large stone against the far wall acted as an altar, and an archway in the back opened into a long, darkened tunnel that led deeper into the mountain. But she didn’t need to go that far to see why the men were bloody.
Body parts decorated the walls, and blood, glistening in the harsh lantern light, had been used to paint symbols—swirls and arrows—on the rocks.
Howard’s mask tilted on top of a flat rock, next to a severed head.
A severed deer head.
The men had performed their ritual on a dead deer.
And she’d bet dollars to donuts it was the one found poached yesterday after the shooting on Big Red Dog Cliff.
Crap.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Nicky stared dully at a bulky silhouette backlit at the cave’s entrance. Franco stepped through the arch, but his movements were tentative, even shaky. He scrubbed a palm over a very gray face and closed his eyes. Hands clenched into fists at his side. With a sigh, she turned her head away and played with her flashlight. She’d been waiting for him.
“Don’t like caves?” she asked, her voice quiet. The rock she sat on jutted out of the floor of the cave at the far end of the ritual room, a perfect chair. The Coleman lanterns hissed all around her, their lights turned to high.
Franco cleared his throat, paused as if to speak, and cleared it again. “No,” he replied. “When I was deployed—the last time—I was part of a demolition team that cleared caves. A booby trap we tried to—to disarm triggered. I was trapped by falling rock, my partner buried. Killed.”
“Your partner, huh? That’s tough. I wanted to ask once, but … Anyway, sorry.” She didn’t look at him; instead she tracked the beam of her light across the dirt floor near her feet.
He took another step, boot crunching on pebbles. “You should have waited,” he said.
Gaze on the dirt, she slowly twisted the flashlight’s head to broaden the beam. “So how did—do—you deal with your problem? With caves? I mean, you came in here.”
“I need to visualize the space. Walls, ceiling. Light helps.”
“It’s pretty bright in here.” She trained her beam upward. “There’s the ceiling. Better?” she asked, and dropped her light again, continuing to trace the floor, this time into the tunnel.
“Nicky. I know you heard—”
“Yep. I heard.” Her glance sliced through him. “I heard Dr. Laughton tell Peter Santibanez that—on Santibanez’s orders—DEA Agent Franco Martinez tried his very, very best to neutralize me. I heard him tell Santibanez that Agent Martinez talked my captain into giving me a two-week suspension, even though I could have walked away, my job intact. Thanks, partner. Second one you’ve buried, I guess,” she muttered. Nicky twisted on her rock seat, her body and heart chilled, her face as stiff as Howard’s mask. “Was I getting too close, Franco? To solving this case? Taking away the Feds’ glory? What?” Shoulders hunched, she turned away to again study the ground, trailing the beam of her flashlight back and forth in the dirt. “Never mind. I don’t care anymore.”
“It was a direct order, Sergeant.”
“And a good soldier never disobeys a direct order.” Her voice was flat. She couldn’t even work up any credible sarcasm. “And what are your orders now?” Nicky’s gaze followed the light into the tunnel and—
She stiffened and bent lower. What the…? Her heart began to pound out of her chest. Rising slowly, she took one, then another step into the tunnel, flashlight bright in the dirt.
Franco sighed. “Sergeant Matthews, my order now is to retrieve your person and make sure you leave the reservation. If you come with me, you might be able to save your job. Peter Santibanez wants your head on a platter.”
Nicky’s gaze jerked in Franco’s direction. “He’s still here? Do not let him go yet!”
“What? Why?” he asked, brows drawn down sharply.
“The tunnel. Look at the floor.” Her voice held surprised excitement. She took another step. “It’s been swept. Like the sniper’s nest. He was here, Franco. He was here!” She examined the dirt as she walked into the narrow passage, following the path as it curved away from her. “Are you all right to come?” She beckoned before taking off into the hollow darkness.
Franco didn’t reply and she didn’t look back to see if he followed, but her beam was soon joined by a second. Nicky jogged down the rocky corridor, deeper into the mountain. The stink of death thickened in the tunnel. Her light flashed and dipped in front of her as she scanned the dirt floor with arcing sweeps.
“No prints, Franco. No boots, no moccasins.”
“Just like the Chiricahua,” he said.
“You were there? Two years ago?” A harsh combination of excitement and fear rushed through her.
“I was on a team that found Maryellen K’aishuni. And Vernon Cheromiah.” He sounded stronger. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to be part of this operation because I couldn’t—
Nicky skid to a halt, Franco at her back. Their way was blocked by a black and gray barrier of smooth flowing rock.
“I couldn’t forget,” he said. “Dead end. There’s nothing here.” Franco brought his sleeve up to cover his nose.
She’d expected the intense reek of the dead deer to dissipate this far away from the ritual cave, but if anything, it was oppressively worse here. Nicky dry-heaved but stared intently at the wall of stone in front of her. She blinked and sucked in a breath.
“No. There is,” she whispered. Nicky stretched her hand, splayed wide, to the rock. It sank in and her fingers curled. “Not rock.” She tucked her flashlight un
der her arm, grabbed with her second hand, and yanked hard. A large curtain, painted to disguise the opening of another room, fell to the floor.
The stench rose to smother them. But this time, it was not from a deer or animal. It was human. There was no other smell like it.
Franco stepped around her, but Nicky followed close, fingers clutched on his arm.
She shone her light over a killing room. Franco flinched and recoiled. Like the ritual deer sacrifice, blood painted the walls, congealed and black. Body parts were scattered as if the killer had been in a rage. At the center of the space stood another rock altar. On it was a human heart, centered within the rays of a sun drawn in blood.
Nicky swept her beam of light to one side and whimpered. She pressed a hand over her lips. Impaled on a thick, listing stake was a man’s severed head, wire-rimmed glasses balanced drunkenly on his nose. A scruffy beard sprouted from the chin and jaw. Inside the gaping mouth sat a flat, rectangular piece of plastic.
“What is this? Who is that?” She stood rooted to the ground, her arm tight around her stomach. Her flashlight beam jittered.
“It’s a murder room. In the Chiricahua, we found—” He heaved and she rubbed his back. “We found one like this after we discovered Maryellen’s body.” He inched closer to the severed head.
Careful to touch only a corner, he extracted the plastic card and held it up to Nicky’s light. Blood washed it in a thin pink transparent splatter, barely obscuring the gold seal and name stamped across one side.
It was a New Mexico Office of the Medical Investigator’s security ID.
“David Saunders,” he read. “It says David Saunders.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Nicky sat on the sofa, her legs curled underneath, a large towel wrapped around her wet hair. She’d showered when she got to Savannah’s, but the stench of death stayed in her nostrils, so after she slept, she took a second one. Yawning hugely, she rubbed her head with the towel in a desultory fashion. Savannah bustled around the kitchen and Nicky found comfort in the domesticity. The smell of green chile mac and cheese wafted into the quiet den. She wasn’t hungry, but needed something in her stomach. Other than coffee, she hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s breakfast.
Dressed in cozy sweats left at Savannah’s just in case, Nicky leaned her head back against the soft cushions. She could sleep for another twelve hours, but instead had settled for a restless five. Now the sun was about to set and a warm breeze whooshed gently through the screen door, bringing in the scents of cedar and dust.
She was chilled and unsettled by what she’d seen. It didn’t take an expert to know whoever killed David Saunders acted out of psychotic rage. That the Feds kept everything under wraps made her want to punch something. Specifically, Special Agent Adonis Laughton, M.D., Franco’s superior and lead in the undercover operation. Last night, he’d laid into her about her interference, had her and Franco debriefed by FBI agents from Arizona, and sent her home with strict instructions to keep her mouth shut or she’d be detained as a material witness.
Well, she didn’t care what Laughton wanted, and she wasn’t going home. Nicky smiled grimly. The whole case was too hot, too dangerous. Tomorrow morning she’d head straight to the Fire-Sky governor’s office with everything. Peter Santibanez and the FBI could go hang.
That meant tonight’s job was to clear up a few loose threads and, most important, get a good night’s sleep. Assuming she could get the images from the cave out of her head. Her sleep deficit was starting to take its toll, and the last thing she needed was to lose control of her emotions tomorrow. It would do no good to burst into tears in front of the governor.
And, if just to salvage her pride, it would be doubly important to suppress her emotions when he fired her from the job she loved. She couldn’t see any way around that, but she was almost resigned to it.
Almost.
A bowl appeared in front of her. “Hey. Earth to Nicky. Dinner,” Savannah said. “I asked if you wanted iced tea.”
“Water’s fine.” She took a bite and forced a smile. “This is delicious.”
Savannah sat across from her in a patterned armchair, bowl cradled in her hands. They ate silently for a few minutes. Her friend’s gaze darted toward her periodically, but she kept her questions to herself. Nicky hadn’t told Savannah any details about the night before, but she needed information, and Savannah knew almost everyone and everything that happened on the rez.
“What can you tell me about the Santibanez family?” Nicky asked.
Savannah’s gaze sharpened. “Like in Peter Santibanez? Does all this have to do with him?”
“The FBI picked up him and two other war chiefs tonight on Scalding Peak. For murder. We found a body in the First Sacred Caves.”
Savannah gasped and clunked her bowl onto the side table, eyes wide. “Oh, my God. Who?”
“They think it might be David Saunders from OMI.”
“What? I don’t understand. Why would Santibanez target David Saunders?”
Nicky put her barely touched bowl of food down. “Saunders and Santibanez collaborated on the illegal DNA database. I think Santibanez used the information to target his victims.”
“Peter Santibanez? He’s the serial killer the FBI is tracking?” Savannah’s voice spiraled up almost as high as her eyebrows.
“It would explain a lot of things. Like Sandra Deering’s missing pueblo members. Even her murder, if she found out what he was doing. David Saunders might have been targeted if he figured out what was going on when he examined Sandra’s body.” Nicky exhaled a long, deep breath. “Santibanez said we interrupted a practice ritual on the mountain last night, one supposedly done for the protection of the tribe against its enemies. It involved the removal of the heart from a deer.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “We found Saunders in a second cave. His heart had been cut out, too.” Among other things.
Savannah’s face tinged green. “Just like the removal of Sandra’s heart. That’s sick.”
Nicky’s brows knit. The surgical removal of Sandra’s heart. David Saunders’s heart had been hacked out of his body. It was a discordant point.
Savannah’s glasses caught the lamplight. “Who is ‘we’?”
“The FBI. Franco—Frank—and Adonis Laughton. He’s the summer doctor working at the pueblo health center. I called Franco when I…” She described the events leading to her suspension and the reason she was on the mountain, then explained about Howard Kie and her cell phone. Howard had disappeared before the FBI showed up.
“So Frank is one of the undercover agents.”
Nicky nodded.
“And he got you suspended?” Savannah’s voice rose indignantly, but then her eyes widened. “Wait. I thought this all started with Maryellen K’aishuni. How is she connected to Sandra and David Saunders?”
Nicky hedged. “It doesn’t fit, but it appears to be the instigating event.” She adjusted the towel over her damp hair and wouldn’t meet Savannah’s eyes. “There’s no clear motive for Maryellen’s murder.” She returned to her earlier question. “Tell me about Peter Santibanez.”
“Married, one son—PJ—Stanford-educated. Before all this, I would have said he was completely dedicated to the pueblo and his people. Powerful, super-intelligent, knows everybody. He’s done a lot for Fire-Sky. Jump-started Tribal Enterprises, increased PCD. Some of the tribe weren’t too happy when he got the casino resort built, but it’s one of the most successful—if not the most successful—in the region. It rivals the East Coast Indian casinos in revenue.”
“What do you know about his wife and why don’t you like his son?”
“PJ had a less-than-savory reputation in high school. Drugs, alcohol, sex—”
“So did Ryan.”
Savannah sighed. “Yeah. There’s no good excuse, but … Ryan was like that out of anger. He resented he couldn’t be part of the Fire-Sky culture and tradition because of blood. PJ … well, PJ did it out of privilege. And when he got into any real trou
ble, his daddy bailed him out. You know”—she dropped her voice—“he even got a couple of girls pregnant during high school.”
“PJ has kids on the rez?”
“Not that I know of. I heard any of PJ’s little problems were settled by Family Meetings. Rumor was Peter Senior paid for the girls to have abortions.”
Nicky frowned. Family Meetings to settle disputes or crimes were a tradition on the reservation and a scourge to police. Instead of involving authorities, the two parties met and the elders came to a fitting punishment and decided on reparations. Not only had Santibanez paid for the abortions, but he probably gave the families of the girls something else—money, property, a plum job. And then the shame was hidden.
Hidden …
The puzzle pieces in her head suddenly cleared, pressed to the borders of her mind. Something didn’t fit. Something was out of place. Motionless, Nicky sifted through—
“Marica—his wife—is fragile,” Savannah said. Nicky’s thoughts scattered. “She was a classmate of my mom’s. Really beautiful. She was the tribe’s only Miss Indian World. She and Peter got married in between Stanford and his MBA.”
“What do you mean, fragile?”
“Healthwise. And mindwise, I guess. She had a lot of miscarriages before she got pregnant with PJ. According to my mom, it made her desperate for kids.”
“I paid a visit to Santibanez at the casino Wednesday,” Nicky said. “He used information from the DNA database to alert Bobby Koyona that Victor—Veronica Koyona’s youngest child—wasn’t his son. That’s the reason Bobby beat his wife to a pulp.”
Savannah stared at her, openmouthed. “But … but … that means a paternity test was done. How else could Santibanez know that? How did he get the DNA? Why does he—”
“Want the information? Because he wants to purge the pueblo of genetically impure members. Now that the per capita distribution is rising so rapidly, more and more outsiders are trying to register as Fire-Sky Indians—even faking ancestry documents.”
“But Nicky.” Savannah’s voice was tentative. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would Peter Santibanez need to murder anyone as part of a tribal purge when he has a DNA test that could do the same thing bloodlessly?”
Hearts of the Missing Page 23