“Well, then,” Reggie said. “What do Coeur d’Alenes drink?”
“Blood,” said Ty.
“Hey, Mick,” said Wilson. “Make that one Pepsi, one Coke, and a tomato juice.”
Reggie and his friends laughed.
“Good one, Casper, good one. Come sit with us.”
Wilson received very few invitations to sit with the Indians in Big Heart’s, so he jumped at the chance.
“Get some popcorn, too,” Reggie said to Wilson, who filled up a couple of bowls and brought them to the table.
“You’re a good man, Casper,” said Ty. “I don’t care what everybody else says.”
Wilson blushed. These Indians could still make him blush. Harley the Colville made a few frantic hand gestures, sign language. Since they were frantic, Wilson figured he was telling a joke. Ty and Reggie, who had learned sign language, made a few signs in return. They all laughed again, Ty and Reggie loud and baritone, Harley high-pitched and slow.
“What did he say?” asked Wilson.
“Nothing important,” said Reggie, still laughing a little.
They talked and laughed, signed and laughed, although Wilson understood few of the jokes, signed or spoken.
“Hey,” Reggie asked Wilson. “Where are all the white women?”
There were a dozen or so white women who liked to sleep with the Indian men who frequented Big Heart’s. Though Reggie generally preferred Indian women, he would fuck an Indian groupie now and again. He liked the power of it. He liked to come inside a white woman and then leave her lying naked on a hotel bed she’d paid for, or in the backseat of her car, or on a piece of cardboard in an alley outside Big Heart’s.
During his senior year of high school, Reggie had been sitting with his white girlfriend and a few other white friends when a drunk Indian had staggered into the pizza place. Reggie had pretended not to see the Indian, who’d flopped into a seat, laid his head on the table, and passed out. The Indian smelled like he hadn’t bathed in weeks. As if to tell a secret, Reggie’s white girlfriend had leaned forward. Reggie and his white friends had leaned toward her.
“I hate Indians,” she’d whispered.
Reggie had tried to laugh it off, but he’d felt as if he’d been torn in half. Later that night, his girlfriend had tearfully tried to apologize to him. They’d parked on a dirt road a few miles outside of Seattle.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said. “I didn’t mean you. I love you. You’re not like those other Indians. You’re not like them.”
Reggie had not said anything. Without a word, he’d kissed her hard, stripped her naked, and fucked her for the first time. She’d cried out when he roughly penetrated her. She’d been a virgin, though Reggie hadn’t asked and wouldn’t have cared. Every night for a week, he’d picked her up from her house, driven her to that same dirt road, and fucked her. No condom, no birth control pills, no withdrawal. He came inside her and hoped he’d gotten her pregnant. He’d wanted her to give birth to a brown baby. He’d wanted to dilute his Indian blood. He’d wanted some kind of revenge. He’d wanted some place to spill his pain. After a week of painful and angry sex, his white girlfriend had broken up with him. She had not been impregnated. She would never speak to him again.
“Hey,” Wilson said. “I heard something crazy.”
“What?”
“I heard a white guy was scalped.”
The Indians stopped laughing. They stared at Wilson.
“You’re full of shit,” said Reggie.
“No, really,” said Wilson. “Somebody killed him and scalped him.”
No laughter. Harley signed. Reggie signed back.
“What did he say?” asked Wilson.
“He thinks you’re full of shit, too.”
Wilson could see that Reggie was uncomfortable.
“You already knew about it, didn’t you?” Wilson asked Reggie.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Reggie, who had moved his chair away from Wilson. Harley and Ty signed back and forth.
Reggie stared angrily at Wilson, who could not think of anything to say. He knew he had crossed some line, had violated an invisible boundary. He was not being a good cop, it was all too obvious, but he could not help himself.
“How did you hear about it?” Reggie asked suspiciously.
“I heard some guys talking about it downtown,” Wilson lied, still assuming the Indians didn’t know he was an ex-cop. “And they were talking about that young boy, too. They think he was kidnapped by the same one who scalped the white guy.”
Reggie nodded his head slowly, took a sip of his Coke. Ty and Harley exchanged nervous glances.
“Do you think an Indian would do something like that?” asked Wilson, leaning forward in his seat, ready to take mental notes.
Reggie stared at Wilson, a hard stare.
“What do you think?” asked Reggie.
Wilson sat back in his chair, drummed his fingers on the table.
“No way,” said Wilson. “I don’t think so. Not a real Indian.”
“No, huh? Is that your answer?”
Wilson shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” said Reggie. “I think an Indian could do something like that. Maybe the question should be something different. Maybe you should be wondering which Indian wouldn’t do it. Lots of real Indian men out there have plenty enough reasons to kill a white man. Three at this table right now.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Reggie looked at his friends. Ty and Harley stood as if to leave.
“Wait, hey,” said Wilson. “I was just talking. Come on, I’ll buy you another round.”
“No thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, we’re sure.”
“Okay, then. I’ll see you around, right?”
“Listen,” said Reggie. “You know about Bigfoot? That Sioux Indian?”
“Yeah,” said Wilson. “He died at the Wounded Knee massacre in 1890. He was Minneconjou Sioux, I think. He was killed because he was leading the Ghost Dance.”
“The Ghost Dance?”
“Yeah, it was a dance that was supposed to destroy the white men and bring back the buffalo. Ghost Dancing was thought to be an act of warfare against white people.”
“Yeah, and who killed Bigfoot?”
“The Seventh Cavalry.”
“No, I mean, who killed him?”
“Some soldier, I guess. Nobody knows for sure.”
“You’re not paying attention. What color was the man who killed Bigfoot?”
“He would’ve been white.”
“Exactly, Casper. Think about that.”
The three Indians left the bar. A dozen other Indians walked in soon after and greeted Wilson. Reggie, Ty, and Harley bumped into a few friends in the parking lot. Ty and Harley were eager to talk about Wilson and the murders, but Reggie remained quiet. He knew that Wilson was probably trying to write some book about the scalping. And he’d get it wrong. Wilson didn’t understand anything about Indians. Ty, with his voice, and Harley, with his hands, told other Indians about the scalping. The word spread quickly. Within a few hours, nearly every Indian in Seattle knew about the scalping. Most Indians believed it was all just racist paranoia, but a few felt a strange combination of relief and fear, as if an apocalyptic prophecy was just beginning to come true.
6
Testimony
“MR. TWO LEAF, HOW are you feeling?”
“My eye hurts.”
“Yeah, that’s a nasty black eye. Any other injuries?”
“A couple bumps and bruises. Nothing serious.”
“Can you tell us anything about who did this to you?”
“Three guys in masks.”
“Excuse me?”
“Three guys in masks jumped me on the Burke-Gilman Trail. I was coming back from class.”
“You’re a student at the University?”
“Yeah, a chemistry major.”
“And can you tell me exactly what happened???
?
“I was walking and these three guys jumped out of the bushes. One of them, the white mask, the leader, was talking smack at me.”
“Talking smack?”
“You know, talking smack, talking trash, giving me shit about being Indian.”
“And you are Native American?”
“Yeah, Makah.”
“And then what did you do? Did you provoke the attack?”
“You mean, aside from being Indian, did I provoke the attack? No way. Three guys, one of them holding a baseball bat? They could’ve called me anything they wanted to call me.”
“And what did they call you?”
“They called me an Indian pig. Oh, and they called me a prairie nigger. Pretty colorful, enit?”
“I suppose.”
“That one pissed me off, though. I ain’t no prairie Indian. I’m from a salmon tribe, man. If they were going to insult me, they should’ve called me salmon nigger.”
“I’m surprised you can laugh about this.”
“It’s what Indians do.”
“Weren’t you afraid?”
“Yeah, I was afraid, but I’m afraid most of the time, you know? How would you feel if a white guy like you got dropped into the middle of a black neighborhood, like Compton, California, on a Saturday night?”
“I’d be very afraid.”
“And that’s exactly how I feel living in Seattle. Hell, I feel that way living in the United States. Indians are outnumbered, Officer. Those three guys scared me bad, but I’ve been scared for a long time. But, you know, I think something crazy is starting to happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve been hearing rumors, you know?”
“What kind of rumors?”
“That Indians are organizing. They’re looking to get revenge.”
“Revenge?”
“Yeah, Indians have been scared for a long time. Now they want to scare some white guys. Things are starting to get tense, you know? I mean, it’s like fire and hydrogen. All by themselves, fire and hydrogen are fine. But you mix them up and boom! Volatile.”
“Is there anything you can remember about the three men who attacked you?”
“The leader was the meanest one. The other two weren’t angels, but that leader wanted to kill me, I think. If those joggers hadn’t come along, he might have done it. He was plain crazy, you know? Crazy white guys.”
“How can you be sure they were white?”
“Blue eyes, man, blue eyes.”
7
Mark Jones
MARK JONES WOKE UP in a very dark place but knew instantly that somebody was sitting near him. The frightened little boy tried to talk and to move, but found he was gagged and his arms were tied behind his back. He struggled against the ropes. The killer reached out and touched him. Mark couldn’t see the killer, but felt something familiar, and almost comforting, in the touch.
Mark closed his eyes against the sudden painful glare of a flashlight. At first, when he slowly opened his eyes, Mark could see only that glare and the vague shadow of the killer. Then, as Mark’s eyes adjusted, the killer used the flashlight to illuminate the prized possessions. The beautiful knife, that silver blade with three turquoise gems inlaid in the handle, hanging in a special place on the wall. Mark started to cry, understanding the power of the knife. The killer then illuminated a bloody scalp nailed to the wall, which made Mark scream behind his gag. He wanted to go home, home, home. He coughed and gagged around the cloth shoved roughly into his mouth. Fearing the boy might choke to death, the killer pulled the gag out and Mark breathed deeply. Fresh air, relief, a slight taste of hope. The killer held a juice box in front of him and the boy nodded.
Mark’s hands were still bound, so the killer poked one end of the straw into the juice box and then put the other end of the straw into Mark’s mouth. The boy drank greedily and quickly, broke into a spasm of coughs. After he regained his breath, Mark emptied the juice box. The killer let it drop to the floor. Then he put the gag back into Mark’s mouth.
The boy started to cry again. The killer was lost in thought. By now, the killer had assumed the whole world would know about the power and beauty of the knife. But the police had managed to hide the truth. The newspapers knew nothing about the killer. The television knew nothing about the killer. And there was so much to know. Such as the fact that the scalping was just preparation, the prelude to something larger. The killer knew that the kidnapping of Mark Jones was the true beginning, the first song, the first dance of a powerful ceremony that would change the world. Killing a white man, no matter how brutally, was not enough to change the world. But the world would shudder when a white boy was sacrificed. A small, helpless boy. The killer, like a Christian plague, had swept into the Jones’s house and stolen the first-born son of a white family.
The boy was frail, weeping himself into exhaustion, and the killer felt a shallow wave of compassion. But there was no time for that. The owl had no compassion for its prey. Without tears or hesitation, the owl ripped its prey apart to get at the eyes, at the heart, the sweetest meat of all. The owl hunted to eat. It had no message. But the killer wanted people to know about the message of the knife, and knew who would be the messenger. With a flutter of wings, the killer pulled the beautiful knife from its place on the wall, leaned over the boy, and began cutting.
8
The Messenger
TRUCK SCHULTZ CHEWED ON his cigar, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. He was looking forward to a few days off. He was thinking about a fishing trip when his assistant walked into the studio with an open box.
“Truck,” said Darla. “I think you better look at this.”
Inside the box, a ragged piece of Mark Jones’s Daredevil pajamas and two bloody owl feathers.
9
John Smith
AT NIGHT, RAIN AND fog invades the city of Seattle, an occupying force that pushes people inside homes, restaurants, and offices to escape it. One moment, bright moon and clear skies. The next moment, gray everywhere. At three in the morning the temperature drops, but not enough to frighten anybody but tourists. John was not a tourist. He was aboriginal. He stepped through this rain and fog without incident. He loved and needed the dark, feeling it contained more safety than the small circles of white light beneath each street lamp. He pulled his collar closer to his neck and marched through the slight cold. He walked across the Fremont Bridge, north of downtown, southeast of his Ballard apartment. There were no people, no cars. John was the last person left on earth. He wanted to be home alone, in his bed, quiet. This bridge was a bad place. Then the silence was broken. Twin headlights. Illumination. A pickup, filled with curses and Brut aftershave, rattled over the bridge.
“Fucking Indian!”
As the pickup left him behind, John raised his hand, fingers spread wide. He did not understand his own gesture. The pickup slowed, brake lights almost beautiful in the gray air, then stopped, still, reverse lights suddenly bright. John watched the pickup. He raised both hands in the air. He heard a man screaming, then realized he was screaming. As the pickup stopped short of him, the passenger door was flung open, and a big, black boot stepped down to pavement. John looked up into the night sky. The Aurora Bridge hung in the sky a couple hundred feet above the Fremont Bridge. Suicidal people jumped off the Aurora Bridge. Nobody jumped off the Fremont Bridge. More cars on the Aurora Bridge. Just the solitary pickup on the Fremont. John could hear every car and bridge in the city. So many cars and bridges in the city. John had lost count years before.
“Fuck you, Geronimo!”
A big white man in black boots. Driver’s door open now. Two white men. No, two white boys, tall and skinny. Laughing and drinking at a safe distance from John. Seattle was a safe city. The news proved it every day because every murder, rape, and bank robbery made the papers.
“What the fuck you staring at?”
John was staring at the white boys. They were pale and beautiful. John pointed at them.
“What the fuck you pointing at?”
John knew these white boys. Not these two in particular, but white boys in general. He had been in high school with boys like these. He had sat in their pickups, showered with them after gym class, shared pizzas. He had leaned out the windows of their cars and screamed at downtown drunks. Sometimes he had leaned out the window and screamed at everybody they passed.
John was still screaming. He stood on the Fremont Bridge and screamed. The two white boys shouted curses at him, but they kept their distance, ready to jump into their pickup at the slightest provocation. John saw them as Catholic boys, in their junior year at private school. One played varsity basketball; the other played baseball. Both were class officers. They were the boys who forced their hands down the pants of girls who pretended to like it.
“She wanted it, you know? But I let her go, you know? I took pity on her.”
John remembered how these boys talked. He had tried to talk that way himself. He had tried to lie as often as possible, understanding that lying was a valuable skill. High school taught white boys the value of lies, and John knew this. He knew these white boys intimately. He knew these two white boys standing on the Fremont Bridge were publicly loved and admired by their classmates and teachers. These were the boys who were secretly hated and envied, too. Their deaths could create a hurricane of grief and confusion.
During John’s senior year in high school, one of his classmates had been killed in a car wreck on the Interstate. John had been sitting in his homeroom when the principal walked into the class with the news.
“I have some tragic, tragic news,” said the principal without subtlety. “Scott O’Brien was killed last night.”
John began to cry for reasons he could not understand. He had not liked Scott O’Brien. A few weeping girls huddled together in the corner. Scott’s friends, all white boys, sat quietly and stoically, fighting back tears, sucking in their bottom lips, occasionally pounding their desks in imitation of the pointless, masculine methods of grief they saw on television. Sidney Bush, the only Jewish Catholic in Seattle, had his head down on his desk. His acned face was hidden, his fat shoulders were shaking. He might have been crying. But John knew better. Scott had been extremely cruel to Sidney.