The Kingmaker

“Okay,” I say after a brief pause. “Put him on.”

“Lennix?” A smooth, deep voice comes over the line.

“Uh, yes, Mr. Nighthorse?”

“Please call me Jim.”

“Alright. Jim.”

“Thanks for talking with me. I understand you’re on spring break in Europe.”

“Of course.” I allow a beat before going on. “Mena has told me a lot about your campaign, and I’d be honored to work with you.”

“I’m the one who would be honored. I remember the Cade Energy pipeline protests and I’ve read about the sacred runs you organized throughout college on other projects. Your transcript and resume are outstanding. You’re an impressive young lady.”

A smile spreads over my face and I lean against a nearby glass showcase counter. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me.”

“Just the truth.”

“Mena said you need me to come there Friday? Like—”

“Tonight if you can,” he interrupts. “We have a situation down here I think you’re uniquely equipped to help us with. A young girl is missing.”

That was how the police described my mother at first.

Missing.

We’ve lived in the agonizing limbo between missing and murdered ever since.

“She went missing two days ago,” Jim continues. “Her family is Cherokee and they live not too far from one of those pipeline construction sites. Third girl to go missing this year from this community. I don’t have to tell you what this could be.”

No. Tales of young girls missing, held hostage, raped by horny men far from home for long stretches of time, certain if they could hurt any woman with impunity, it would be one of ours.

“Time and visibility are of the essence,” Jim says. “We need as many people to hear about this as fast as possible. The longer this goes, the less chance we find her.”

“Yes, for sure.”

“This is happening all the time to our women. Underreported. Undervalued. We want to make some noise and get her face everywhere. Any leads we can find. Anyone who can help. At the town meeting, I’ll talk about her, but I’ll also talk about how she’s one of too many.”

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, keeping my voice level even as panic rises on the young girl’s behalf.

“Speak. I want you to tell your story, Lennix. I want you to tell your mother’s story.”

My mother’s story has no end. Her life was interrupted mid-sentence—a dangling participle. An infinite etcetera of dots, but no period. I know what this girl’s family is feeling right now, and I can only pray they won’t have to live with the unending mystery of what has happened.

“I don’t want to seem like I’m exploiting this situation,” Jim goes on, “but I do believe gaining visibility for this case may help us find her, and also raise the issue of why this keeps happening. With the election coming up, I want people to know I care about this—that if they elect me, I’ll work hard for our women. I want them to know that I see them. I hear them.”

Can you see me? I don’t think you can.

My own words from the pipeline protest four years ago drift into my memory. That moment and this one feel like two ends of a cord finally tying together. And at that point, in that knot, my passion and my purpose meet.

“Jim, I’m on my way.”

23

Maxim

“You’re distracted.”