Hearts of the Missing

by Carol Potenza

  “See? What did I tell you?” Nicky dug into hers. They ate in companionable silence.

  The noisy chatter in the tent dropped when a cluster of newcomers entered, but picked back up quickly when the crowd recognized them. Lights flashed as people held up cell phones and cameras.

  “Is that the governor?” Frank asked.

  Nicky twisted around on the folding chair and studied the group by the grill.

  “Yes. Both of them.”

  “Both of them?” Frank stared at the knot of well-dressed individuals behind them.

  “Both of them.” She picked up the last piece of her burger, popped it into her mouth, and sighed at the flavorful burn of green chile.

  “The governor of the state of New Mexico and Fire-Sky’s governor, along with most of the tribal council, a couple state senators and reps, and casino people.”

  Frank raised his eyebrows. He sat with his elbows on the table, empty plate in front of him.

  “The New Mexico governor has shown up for Distribution Day ever since she was elected. The tribe’s done amazing things with jobs and employment, even during the last recession.”

  Frank dropped his light blue gaze to her face. Nicky jolted every time she saw his eyes.

  “So, let me get this straight. Fire-Sky Pueblo hands out a certain amount of money every year to each member of the tribe because…?”

  “Because of blood.”

  Frank raised his eyebrows. “Blood.”

  “Ancestry.” Nicky took a drink of water before she explained. “To be a registered member of the pueblo, you must prove you possess one-half degree Tsiba’ashi D’yini blood. A naturalized member must prove they are one-quarter degree Fire-Sky blood, but contain a total of one-half degree Indian blood from federally recognized tribes.”

  “Degree?”

  “Percent. So, fifty percent means one-half degree. The more Fire-Sky blood you possess, the larger your distribution check.”

  Frank frowned. “And how large are these checks?”

  “It changes every year, depending on the profits from tribal industries,” Nicky said. She lowered her voice. “This year, full-bloods will receive over ten thousand dollars each.”

  “Jeez. And they hand the checks out tonight?” His voice held an incredulous note. “Isn’t that asking for trouble?”

  “Not real checks. The actual money gets deposited into special accounts at the end of the month once all the signatures and other information is confirmed. But, if you show up tonight to sign the register, you get a bonus.” She tilted her head to indicate the group of VIPs behind her. “Peter Santibanez—PJ’s father—came up with the idea after the casino opened. He sold it as a way to show unity on the pueblo. A we-are-one-people-and-can-be-successful kind of thing.” That statement was straight out of Savannah’s mouth, only she said it in a way more cynical tone of voice. “The press and politicians love it. Tribal members and families are invited onstage to shake hands and receive their money as part of the show tonight.”

  A cool breeze blew into the tent from an open flap. Nicky shivered and rubbed her arms.

  “You’re cold,” Frank stated. “Why don’t you stay here and clean up? I’ll go over to the command center and grab our jackets.”

  “Thanks.” Nicky smiled at him.

  Time seemed to stop.

  His mouth quirked up on one side. “Well.” His voice was rough. He cleared his throat. “The burger was great. I owe you,” he said and walked out of the tent.

  Was it Frank’s voice that caused goose bumps to break out on her skin? Or was it the dropping temperature?

  Nicky stood and gathered the remnants of their meal. She dropped the trash in the large plastic barrel tucked in a small alcove, before arching her back in a long stretch. The rear of the tent was open. She’d wait there for Frank. Turning, she ran into a hard body standing directly behind her.

  Nicky stepped back to apologize, looked up into Dax Stone’s dark blue eyes, and froze.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Nicky cursed under her breath as she stumbled back. Dax’s hands steadied her, his gold wedding band winking in the flashing lights of the cameras. Shouts of, “Governor! Over here,” rang out. The VIPs, their backs to her and Dax, laughed and held up plates filled with Fire-Sky burgers as the press and tourists snapped photo after photo.

  “Dammit,” Dax muttered. “Quick, outside.”

  He tugged her through the back opening of the food tent. It was pitched at the edge of a large dirt lot that held a few dozen cars and trucks. The fiesta-goers must all be at dinner, because it was otherwise deserted.

  Great. Her arm gripped in his hand, Nicky trailed a half step behind him.

  The sun had dropped low on the horizon and glowed golden through thin, streaky clouds, but there was still enough light that the two of them threw shadows on the hard-packed ground. Applause from a distant audience watching the traditional dances carried on the breeze.

  Dax guided her to the side of a panel truck and Nicky mentally kicked herself for the situation she was in. It was her own fault. Given his political aspirations, she should’ve known he’d be nosing around the governors.

  He must have been watching her, because the one time her partner was out of her sight and useless as a guard dog, Dax had pounced. And if she couldn’t get away from him, she’d have to deal with stupid introductions and awkward explanations when Frank came back with their jackets.

  “So who was that guy you were sitting with? You looked pretty cozy. Is he why you turned me down in Santa Fe?” The hand on her arm tightened.

  Nicky’s anger flared. She shrugged off his grip.

  “That would make it easier for you, wouldn’t it, Dax? If I were involved with someone, there’d be a justifiable reason for me to say no.”

  Instead of becoming angry at her declaration, his body relaxed, and a dark, sexy smile quirked his lips.

  “So, you’re telling me there’s a chance.” He quoted one of his favorite movies. “Come on, Nicky. Remember how great we were together? We could have that again.”

  She was in no mood to be charmed.

  “I don’t get it,” she said. “We’ve barely seen or spoken to each other for the last five years. Why are you bothering me? Why now? Why here?”

  But he didn’t answer her questions. Instead he stiffened, his cool charm dissipating like smoke. His brows snapped into a hard line. He took a step toward her, crowded her back against the truck.

  “I’m bothering you?”

  She blinked up at him, her face going slack. His gaze dropped to her mouth and he leaned in, lips quirked into a half-smile. Warm breath bathed her cheeks. Nicky took a deliberate half step forward and raised her face to his.

  “Do you think this little display of masculine intimidation is going to work on me, Dax?” She kept her voice musing, curious.

  His eyes widened. He slowly arched his head and shoulders away from her.

  “Do you think after a whole year where your wife’s family and their lawyers threw everything they had at me—and ruined my life—that I would fall into your arms?”

  He shuffled a cautious step back from her. “Uh, look, Nicky, all I wanted to do was talk—”

  “You need to stand down, Dax. I’m a completely different woman now. And this woman doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

  “But what about all the help I’ve given you over the years? The tips? The back-channel information? I’ve tried to make up for what I did. Dammit, Nicky, you owe me.”

  Nicky’s chest swelled as she drew in a long breath. Her hands closed into fists. Dax took another step back.

  “I owe you?” she snarled. “Why, you son of a—”

  “Sergeant Matthews?”

  Both of them snapped their heads around. Frank Martin walked toward them but held Dax’s gaze. He handed Nicky her jacket, settled in beside her, and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Nicky eyed both men. Frank wasn’t as tall but he probably outweighed D
ax by twenty-five pounds. She smirked. Not that she’d needed him.

  Dax recovered quickly. He flicked a hard glance at Nicky. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Sergeant Matthews?”

  Nicky pinched her lips tight at Dax’s tone.

  “Agent Martin, Dax Stone, chief of the New Mexico State Police,” she said in a clipped voice. “Chief Stone, Conservation Agent Frank Martin, Fire-Sky Pueblo.”

  Dax Stone held Frank’s stare for drawn-out seconds, then gave him a politician’s smile and extended his hand. “Agent Martin.”

  Frank widened his stance and dropped his arms to tuck his thumbs in his belt.

  Dax withdrew his hand and the smile melted off his face.

  “Well, it looks like you have yourself a champion, Nicky. But there was no need to step in, Agent Martin. Nicky and I are old … friends.” His lips curled. “She’s perfectly safe with me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Chief. I didn’t step in to help her,” Frank replied.

  Nicky snapped her head toward Frank. A slow smile stretched her mouth.

  “Sergeant? We’re wanted by the stage,” Frank said. “If you’ll excuse us, Chief.”

  They pivoted and strode away, leaving Dax Stone alone in the growing shadows.

  As they walked around the tent toward the street, he muttered, “Dax. What the hell kind of name is Dax?”

  Nicky gave a crack of laughter. He cocked an eyebrow at her, but she shook her head. Frank matched her step for step.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Nicky crossed her arms and smiled. Another Tsiba’ashi D’yini family ascended the steps of the outdoor stage. The mother helped a little boy of about three up each rung—step-stop, step-stop—and the crowd was eating it up. The child jumped the last step and ran to his dad, already onstage. An older girl dressed in traditional costume followed Mom. White shells sewn into her shirt declared her elemental clan as Water.

  “Darlington Xavier Stone.” She glanced at Frank.

  “You’re kidding.” A smile tugged his lips, but whether it was because of Dax’s real name or the antics onstage, she didn’t know.

  The little boy took the ink-dipped eagle feather and made his mark in the registry, but he didn’t want to let the pen go. The crowd laughed as his father chased him a few steps before he scooped him up and snagged the feather.

  “Nope. That’s his real name,” Nicky replied.

  Dax was onstage now, part of a long line of VIPs glad-handing the invited families. He stood taller than all of them, his black peaked cap with its chief’s insignia pulled over his brow.

  “Well, he seems like a real jack-hole to me. So, what’s on the scroll?” Frank asked as the tribal governor handed one to the father.

  Some of Nicky’s tension drained with the change in subject.

  “It’s a signed commemorative certificate, suitable for framing. Personalized with the family’s name, the date, and the amount of the per capita distribution check. But only people invited to the stage actually get a certificate. They have to apply for that privilege, too. Peter Santibanez chooses those he considers worthy.”

  “Worthy?”

  “People who won’t embarrass the tribe if the press researches them. Individuals without criminal records, full-bloods.” She gestured to the stage. “Intact families like the Bahes. Joshua, the dad, works as a sous chef at the Fire-Sky Resort. His wife, Celia, is a cashier at the casino. They have the requisite two cute kids.” She smiled as the little boy gave Santibanez a hearty handshake and the crowd laughed in coordinated response. “Good people. It’s all very political.”

  “Peter Santibanez is PJ’s father, my partner at the Conservation Department.”

  “Yeah. Peter Senior is the head of F-S Tribal Enterprises. He’s the man at the mic. A lot of people on the rez think he’s where the real power lies because he controls the purse strings of the tribe.”

  Santibanez’s teeth flashed white against his skin as he grinned and shook the hand of the next person on the stage. His long hair was wound into a traditional wrapped bun, but he was dressed in a stylish black suit and a stark white shirt. He wore a silver and turquoise bolo tie and a chunky turquoise ring and watchband on his hand and wrist, his declaration he was elemental Sky Clan.

  Frank nodded to a line of tables underneath canopies that bracketed one side of the audience. “What’s going on over there?”

  “Tribal members signing in to get the bonus.”

  Savannah sat at the nearest table. Nicky caught her eye and waved. Her friend said something to another volunteer, got up, and hurried toward Nicky and Frank. She, too, was dressed in traditional clothing.

  She hugged Nicky. “Don’t say a word. Peter Santibanez insists that anyone who works the registration tables has to come ‘Full-Indian.’” She mimed air quotes and rolled her eyes. “I wanted to back out, but my mom wouldn’t let me. Since I didn’t have anything appropriate, she dug this up from her grandmother’s stuff.”

  Even with her owlish glasses and modern haircut, Savannah looked beautiful and exotic in her Native dress. The soft deerskin had been brain-tanned white, contrasting gorgeously against her golden skin. Her shirtfront and the ridges that ran along her shoulders and down the sleeves were beaded with iridescent mother-of-pearl. A colorfully woven wool belt wrapped around her slim waist, and her straight white skirt dropped over cream-colored moccasins. Ryan’s comment about Savannah jumped into her mind:

  To Savannah—to many Indians—their ancestry, their DNA defines them. It colors actions and decisions. Has nothing to do with traditional or nontraditional practices. It’s much more elemental than that.

  “So, aren’t you going to introduce me to your partner?” Savannah winked at Nicky.

  “Frank Martin, Savannah Analla. Savannah works with Public Safety at the police department. Frank was just hired at Conservation.”

  Savannah held out her hand to Frank. “Ryan Bernal has told me a lot about you.” She grinned. “So are you enjoying DAP Day? Has Nicky been filling you in on the history? Do you have any questions? Can you tell I’ve had too much coffee?”

  Frank, who initially looked a little taken aback by Savannah’s chatter, chuckled.

  “I was about to ask Nicky—Sergeant Matthews—about how the registration works. Does everyone have to sign in tonight to get their check?”

  “Nicky, huh?” Savannah’s grin widened. “The sign-in during the fiesta is to get a bonus payment, but the actual registration starts on the first of January. It goes until June first. If a tribal member—regular or naturalized—wants to receive their check, they have to”—she held out a hand and ticked off her fingers—“one, bring their written ancestry and Certificate of Indian Blood to the enrollment offices, and two, update their registration in a database set up specifically for per capita distribution.”

  “Certificate of Indian Blood? There’s a DNA test that proves a person is specifically from the tribe?” Frank asked. “I imagine with a large payout you get people coming out of the woodwork saying they have Fire-Sky ancestry.”

  “No DNA test or blood test or anything like that is officially recognized,” Savannah replied. “The CIB is a federal requirement that calculates the degree of Indian blood from our lineal ancestry. A lot of tribes use it as part of their documentation.”

  An infant wailed in the background.

  “Even babies born this past year get a check with the right paperwork,” Nicky added.

  “Yep. And the casino hotel is filled with tribal members who don’t live on the reservation but come in specifically for DAP Day and the bonus.” Savannah’s gaze swept the crowd. “The number of people on the pueblo swells for a few days because a lot of our transient population return.”

  Nicky gave Savannah a sudden, sharp look. A light switched on at the edge of her mind. Transient population returning to register … But before she could grasp its meaning, new names were announced over the PA system.

  “Juanita Benami and Squire Concho. We
welcome you today. Grandmother Benami has endured the tragic loss of her granddaughter this year,” Peter Santibanez said in sorrowful tones.

  The crowd quieted and stood. Squire, his hair in a tidy braid, was dressed in cheap black slacks and a wrinkled white dress shirt buttoned all the way to his chin. He helped Juanita up each step. The old woman paused to catch her breath at the top before she hobbled toward Peter Santibanez. He bowed and took both of her hands in his, murmured his condolences, then passed her to the governors, who, with sad smiles, gave her the rolled certificate.

  But instead of continuing down the VIP line for more handshakes, Juanita shuffled to the front of the stage, Squire by her side, and searched the crowd. She tugged his sleeve and Squire bent down, nodded, then he, too, searched the audience. He caught Nicky’s gaze and said something to his grandmother. Juanita turned her face toward Nicky. Slowly she held out and shook her certificate.

  Nicky’s focus blurred and, for a flickering instance, the tiny woman dressed in black became the ancient one. She sucked in a faint gasp and stilled.

  “That son of a bitch. Peter Santibanez just exploited Sandra Deering’s family,” Savannah said.

  Her vision cleared. Nicky shook her head and stared at the stage.

  “Sandra Deering?” Frank asked, his tone sharp.

  “Dear God, how could I have missed this?” Nicky whispered. Pieces of Sandra’s puzzle that had been haunting her started to fall into place. With a quick, “Excuse me, Frank, I need to speak to Savannah,” she caught Savannah by the arm and dragged her out of his earshot.

  “Savannah, what happens to Sandra’s per capita distribution? Does the family get it?” She flicked a glance at Frank. He stood where she’d left him, but his body was stiff and his arms were crossed.

  “No. It gets added to the money used for tribal improvements and new business ventures. Why?”

  “Does the PCD database list include the individuals who didn’t register for their annual checks?” Nicky asked. “And the reason why they didn’t register?”

  “Yes, if there is one. The tribal council would need that information to justify taking the money.”