Howard sneaked another peek out of the dirty blinds, disturbing the thick layer of dust, and sneezed loudly. He’d tried to muffle his sneezes, but they made his head hurt too much. Like his eyes were stretching out of their sockets.
He popped a beer and guzzled half of it as he sat in the chair he’d placed by the window, tense with anticipation. They would come. They had. Almost every night. He wouldn’t have even noticed except he’d been up late, on his computer.
His hand went unconsciously to his mouth and he chewed on his thumbnail, nibbled off little bits, and spit them onto the floor. He’d have to sweep them up later, or witches might find them. They’d left him alone since he’d started sweeping his paths.
A car growled by on the road and he wanted to see. But no more sneezing. Someone might hear. He pulled his T-shirt over his mouth and nose, parted the blinds again, and froze. Eyes bulged behind the lenses of his glasses and his heart thundered almost out of his chest. They had come. Again.
His gut roiled anxiously and he brought the can up to his cloth-covered mouth for a drink before he remembered. He moved the shirt down just enough and quickly gulped the rest of his beer, then pulled the shirt back up.
It was a police car, unmarked. Well, not a car. A police SUV. But it was different than the other tribal truck that came by, the one with the medallion on the doors, or the big black pickup. It turned onto the dirt road that went right past his trailer, crawling along. He knew what would happen next. Like all the others, it would slow as it passed by his house. Or stop. And whoever was in the vehicle would stare hard at the dark windows.
Only this time he wasn’t there. Just pretended he was.
His fingers twitched on the mini-blinds.
What did they want from him? The drive-bys had started a few weeks ago. Always at night. Sometimes very late. No one ever got out, but he couldn’t see in the car windows, either. Dark tint. It saved the upholstery and dashboard from the harsh New Mexico sun. He didn’t have dark tint, and his car was trashed inside.
The truck slowed near his driveway, just like all the others.
Howard stiffened. It pulled up to his trailer. Headlights swung in a sharp arc that cut over scraggly brush and weeds before they spotlighted the white aluminum siding and dirty, curtain-covered windows. He held his breath as it stopped a few feet from the front and sat there, the engine thrumming. Felt the vibrations through the air across from the road. But he was safe, hidden.
And he waited, hardly daring to breathe. The driver’s-side door opened. It was the lady cop who’d asked him about the mini-mart break-in. The one he’d sent his emails to, the one Sandra said wouldn’t help.
His lips trembled and he pressed them into the T-shirt.
The one who hadn’t helped.
Sandra had been right, and now she was dead.
He tried to suppress the sob, but it escaped. Sandra was dead, and it was his fault. He never should have contacted the cop about the war chiefs. He never should have told Sandra about the conspiracy of the lost on the reservation. The war chiefs had taken their revenge. Sandra had been murdered for their rituals. His friend. How many was that now? Sandra knew. She’d found out, and then he’d gone and painted a target on her chest.
This bunch of war chiefs were evil people—dzaadzi dawaa han’u—craving only power, not honor. They rejected him from their ranks so they could hide their treachery, and he was qualified by blood. He would make a great war chief.
The cop, Sergeant Matthews, stood for a long while next to her car door, the dim light from the interior casting shadows across her face, before she walked to the front of his trailer, her right hand tight to her leg. She didn’t climb the cinder-block steps, but leaned over to knock, a hollow pounding he wouldn’t answer. Not tonight. Not ever, he thought with a sneer. His vision blurred and he blinked. Wetness dripped down his face.
She’d broken trust, this stupid white cop. Told someone and they invaded his computer, had fallen into one of his traps. He stopped the emails. Stopped trying to help her. Acid Rain was gone. It had been a good name, too. So had Sandstorm.
Another sob broke and he cried in earnest and watched the cop from the small adobe house across the road. It had been empty for over a year. Who would want to rent it when the tribe built new homes and apartments near stuff? All that was out by his trailer was that stupid mini-mart. He swiped his eyes.
After the online attack, he’d asked the owner, Mr. Saenz, if he could stay there awhile. Said the septic tank in his trailer needed to be pumped. That he’d pay him a hundred bucks after he got his check, but he didn’t have the money until Distribution Day. It was coming up soon. Everyone on the rez was excited because they’d heard it was going to be thousands of dollars each.
And since he was full-blood, he got more than others. That’s the way it worked since the casinos opened. But he wouldn’t get the bonus. No way was he showing up to sign the register. Too dangerous. The war chiefs would find him.
The cop went back to her truck and climbed in. His breath shuddered in and out as he waited for her to leave.
She sat there, in her cop car, for a long time. Then she backed out and drove away.
Howard slumped in his chair. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. They burned and his muscles were heavy because he hadn’t slept enough in the past few weeks.
And because of the beer. Another sob escaped.
He could have stopped all of this. All of it. He could have taken his place with the war chiefs and stopped their wickedness, their evil. If they had let him in to his rightful place in the tribe, beer would never have been an issue. Sandra would still be alive. So would a dozen others. Maryellen and Vernon and Kim and Berna and Harley and …
He succumbed to a huge yawn.
No one had listened to him. Not the FBI, not the rez police, not the tribal elders. No one.
He’d show them. He would find out when the war chiefs next traveled up Scalding Peak for another sacred ritual. Track them and take pictures. Then he would have evidence—not dreams—to give them. And the elders would let him be a war chief because he’d expose them.
And they would stop cutting out the hearts of his People.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“What do either of you know about Maryellen K’aishuni and Vernon Cheromiah?” Nicky asked.
Savannah jumped at her sudden question. Both she and Ryan laid their forks down.
Nicky’s gaze swung from Ryan’s placid frown to Savannah’s wide eyes behind her lenses.
Savannah grabbed the half-full bottle of wine and poured herself another measure before jutting her chin at Nicky’s glass.
Nicky shook her head. “I’ve got to drive home.”
“You can always stay here,” Savannah murmured.
Nicky stared at her. Savannah’s hand was trembling.
“I didn’t really know Maryellen at all,” Ryan said. “But Vernon was a conservation officer for years. After I came back to the rez, we overlapped for a few months before he retired and started guiding hunts.”
FER—Fire, EMS, and Rescue—shared a building with the Conservation Department. The two groups hung out all the time, playing pickup basketball day and night on a half-court tucked into one side of the fenced recreation yard. They had rival coed softball teams that competed against the police department in a summer league. She was recruited when they were short of girls, but she wasn’t very good. Ryan laughingly called her a warm body. Savannah was much better, but the guys still only put her in as short outfielder. At least she got on base most of the time.
“Maryellen was kind of a fixture at Feast Days and around the rez in general. She was very sweet. Her parents took her everywhere. They were devastated by her disappearance and murder. She was their only child,” Savannah said, staring down at her plate, hands in her lap.
Nicky’s eyes narrowed. Savannah knew something upsetting about Maryellen. She tamped down her need to press her friend for whatever was bothering her. She would le
t Savannah recover and circle back to it.
“What do you remember about the murders?” Nicky asked Ryan.
Ryan watched Savannah, too. “Probably not much more than you. The search went on for a couple of weeks, but they found nothing. Best theory? She wandered away, fell into a ravine or mine. The area’s riddled with them. This was probably something I read in the papers, but…” He scratched his head. “I think the K’aishunis said there was an old pickup parked at the campground. It was gone the next day. They thought someone might have snatched her, but nothing came of it.
“And Vernon. The K’aishunis hired him when the organized searches found nothing. He was legend here on the rez for his tracking,” he continued. “Biggest elk and deer guaranteed. Used to call himself the Prince after Prince Humperdinck in The Princess Bride. You know. He could track a falcon on a cloudy day.” All three of them said that last part in unison, grinning.
Nicky flashed a glance at Savannah. She’d recovered a little. Good. Hopefully she wouldn’t retreat now.
“We were all shocked when he was found murdered. Vernon could live off the land and hide in plain sight. You could walk right by him and never know he was there. How he was caught and killed is a mystery no one could explain. He was too wily. Too smart.” Ryan gave her a narrow-eyed look. “What’s this all about, Nicky?”
Something clicked in Nicky’s brain.
“This trip the K’aishunis took to the Chiricahua. They did it every year, right—like a pilgrimage?” she asked.
“Yes,” Savannah said. “Maryellen’s father, Jim, is very traditional. Very, very traditional. He was convinced there was an underworld link between the Chiricahua and Scalding Peak.” She wrinkled her nose. “And I mean a physical link—like a tunnel or caves—so you could journey from one place to the other. He said petroglyphs and pictographs deep in some of the caverns down there are exactly like those found on Scalding Peak. He’d take his family to Arizona every year around summer solstice to chant and pray, hoping the way would be opened to him.”
Nicky stared at her, eyebrows raised. Savannah squished up her face and shrugged. “Our families are of the same clan, and he and my dad were in the same class in school. They were good friends and whatnot. My dad would invite them over for dinner and they’d talk. That’s how I got to know Maryellen.” Her face closed off again.
“So…” Nicky drew out the word as pieces of the puzzle assembled in her head. “If the K’aishunis had been traveling annually to the Chiricahua for … how long?” She gave Savannah a questioning look.
“Since before Maryellen was born. Over thirty years.”
“Why did Maryellen wander away this time? Had she ever done it before?” Nicky asked.
“I don’t think so. They were very protective of her because of her Down syndrome. And other reasons…” Savannah’s voice trailed off. She took another bite of pasta.
“She disappeared in the morning, right?” Nicky leaned forward and propped her elbows on the table. “As she was going to the showers. By herself. Alone. The file said her mom didn’t follow right away because animals had gotten into their food. Maryellen had gone by herself the day before, so she wasn’t too worried.”
“That’s what her mother, Dinah, told us later. She felt so guilty about it. Said she’d failed her daughter too many times,” Savannah replied.
“Her parents believe she was snatched—kidnapped—although there is no evidence for that except the truck. And Ryan, you said Vernon was too savvy to be caught if he didn’t want to be.”
Ryan nodded.
Nicky tapped her lip. “Everyone on the reservation knew about the K’aishunis’ annual pilgrimage. What if Maryellen’s abduction and murder was planned? What if someone tampered with the food, hoping her mother would be delayed so he or she could get Maryellen alone?” Pieces of the puzzle were coming together. “What if Maryellen knew her kidnapper? Would she have willingly gone with someone she knew? What if Vernon also trusted his murderer? Could he have been tricked into helping someone who was also ostensibly searching for Maryellen?”
Ryan folded his arms across his chest, a frown on his face. “I’m sure the authorities thought of all that. Eliminated every possibility.”
“There were a lot of tribe members who continued the search after the police and rangers called off their efforts,” Savannah said. “I wanted to go, but Dad had his heart attack around that time. He really wanted to help out, too. We just couldn’t.”
“I was away, in Dulce, at Jicarilla. My cousin was getting married,” Ryan said.
“And I was at a conference and training in Seattle,” Nicky said, but she’d covered shifts later because some of the Native cops volunteered for the search. “This guy would have blended in. He might even be on a list of people who volunteered.” Her voice held underlying excitement, but Savannah was adamantly shaking her head. “What?”
“I don’t believe Maryellen would have gone with anyone, even someone she knew. She was mentally disabled, but not dumb. It had been drilled into her she was never to go with strangers or friends without her parents’ permission. I know this,” Savannah said.
“Anyone can be tricked, Savannah,” Nicky countered. “Maryellen was probably more susceptible because of her disability.”
“No. Maryellen practiced with her mom. Role-played. They made sure she was never taken advantage of again.”
“Again. What do you mean, again? Come on, Savannah. I need info,” Nicky pressed. “It might be important.”
Savannah dropped her eyes, her hands knotted on the table. Finally, haltingly, she said, “Dinah K’aishuni practiced with Maryellen because, back when I was still in high school, around the time Santiago died…” She looked at Nicky, her mouth turned down, eyes moist with tears. “Maryellen was raped and got pregnant.”
Shock reverberated through Nicky’s system. Ryan’s face paled, and his knuckles whitened as he clutched his fork.
“Dinah never told the FBI because … because she couldn’t. She couldn’t bring shame on her daughter like that. Then everyone would know on the reservation, and she had kept it so secret. Hidden.” Her expression begged for understanding.
Nicky ground her teeth. Hidden. Dammit. That meant a Family Meeting and negotiations with the perpetrator. Which meant the guy might still be loose on the rez to commit other crimes. Family Meeting was one tradition Nicky could do without.
“I need to speak to Maryellen’s parents. There are K’aishunis living in Chirio’ce.”
Savannah shook her head.
“That’s an uncle and cousins. Maryellen’s parents aren’t here anymore. Aren’t on the pueblo. After they came back two years ago, after her murder, they left. Something happened here at Fire-Sky. I—I’m not sure what it was. Something bad. Personally, I don’t think Dinah could have stayed, with all the memories. They live in Nebraska now.”
She paused, her face tight, and said, “Nicky, they are se fue. Gone.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Sergeant Matthews? Sorry to interrupt. Mrs. Benami and her grandson would like to speak to you.”
A flare of anticipation sped Nicky’s heartbeat. This was the third time they’d come to the station in the last few days. The first two times she’d been in the field and missed them, too busy with a rash of residential break-ins in Salida.
She swallowed on a dry throat. She had been too unnerved by her dream at the lookout and needed time to process it, to think about what it meant and how it fit into Sandra Deering’s case. She’d come up empty so far. But now … they must have more information. Why else did they persist? She exhaled a calming breath and something inside her settled.
Nicky flashed a smile at the young officer by her desk. Cyrus Aguilar was a graduate of the U.S. Indian Police Academy in Artesia and had been working at the department for a couple of months. He was a homegrown Tsiba’ashi D’yini kid, halfway through his sixteen-week field training. Brass had him working swing shift, but he wasn’t allowed to pat
rol alone. That wouldn’t happen until he could prove himself.
“Can you escort them into room three for me, Aguilar?” she requested. “Take them a couple of bottles of water. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Sure, Sergeant.”
“And Aguilar?”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“Ms. Benami only speaks Keresan. You speak Keres too, right?
“Yes, ma’am. Not as fluently as I would like.” He shrugged and his lips quirked up in a half smile. “But I’m taking classes at the Hummingbird Community Center.”
Aguilar was a lean, nice-looking young man, his straight black hair pulled into a long braid. His eyes were always shining with a sense of purpose. A good role model.
“Her grandson, Squire,” she said simply. “He’s a little lost now.”
“But you think he’s a good kid.” He hesitated. “I’ve seen him at the center. We’ve never spoken.”
“I want you to sit in. Squire translates for his grandmother, but I’d like a second set of ears.”
Cyrus stood taller. “Thank you, ma’am. I’d be proud to help.”
Nicky quickly completed her report and sent it to her lieutenant. She pulled on her blazer before heading to the small conference room.
Aguilar stood just inside the door. Squire sent her a sideways glance as she stepped across the threshold. He fiddled with the lid of his water, twisting it on and off. Juanita held two plastic bottles upright on the table, a third tucked into her purse. It was human nature to take something free, but in Indian Country it could also be construed as a “gift,” an offering.
“Mrs. Benami, Squire, I’m sorry I’ve missed your visits.”
Squire stared at her, his expression surly, but she thought she saw a flash of uneasiness in his eyes. He was dressed completely in black, his stringy hair hanging in his face.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like Officer Aguilar to stay,” she said pleasantly.
Squire leaned close to his grandmother and thrust his chin at Aguilar as he spoke.
The old woman’s brows knit. She stared at Aguilar. As was tradition and out of respect, he did not meet her eyes. When Squire finished speaking, Juanita nodded, and Nicky slipped into the chair across from her. Aguilar sat next to her.
Hearts of the Missing Page 8
