Indian Killer

  In the study, a leather couch, an oak desk and chair, maple bookcases filled with unread books and dog-eared atlases. Daniel loved maps. He would study them for hours, dreaming of places he had never been. Daniel replaced the Southeast Asia atlas on the shelf and pulled down a Montana state map. He studied Montana as he listened to Truck talk about the Indian Killer. For a brief moment, Daniel wondered if John could be capable of such violence. Then he dismissed the thought and worried about John’s safety. If people thought some crazy Indian was committing the crimes, then John would be a likely target for revenge. Daniel, unaware that Olivia was eavesdropping outside the study, sipped at his vodka.

  Olivia Smith hated Truck. Right now, she hated her husband for listening to Truck. And her hatred for Truck was growing rapidly. He was talking about Indians as if they were animals. It had been weeks since John had quit his job and disappeared.

  “Daniel!” said Olivia and walked into his study. “Did you hear that? Nobody knows if an Indian is doing this killing. This is just evil.”

  “Calm down,” said Daniel. “I’m just listening. Besides, he isn’t serious.”

  “I’m tired of you apologizing for that man. He’s going to get somebody hurt. Maybe John.”

  “Look, it’s just Truck.”

  “But what about John?”

  “He’ll be all right,” Daniel said and turned off the radio.

  He leaned over his map of Montana. Billings, Bozeman, Butte. Poplar, Wolf Point, Glendive. There were so many places to go. Olivia watched her husband ignore her and immerse himself in the Montana map. He silently read his way across the whole state. Missoula, Harlem, Crow Agency. Little Bighorn, Yellowstone, Glacier Park. He tried not to think of his son, who could be dead, or lost, without a map, a legend.

  “Daniel,” Olivia said softly, knowing he would pretend not to hear. If she said his name louder, he would look up with feigned surprise. If she touched his shoulder, he would jump in his seat, turn on her with anger. He hated to be scared. She thought of her options and left the room.

  Olivia walked into John’s old bedroom. It was decorated with photographs of brightly lit fancydancers. R. C. Gorman’s and T. C. Cannon’s prints. A Laguna pot, a miniature totem pole, a Navajo rug stapled to the wall. A gigantic dreamcatcher, which was supposed to entrap nightmares, was suspended over the bed.

  Olivia thought back to John’s nightmares. How the child often screamed himself awake. Night terrors, the doctor said, he’ll grow out of them. Olivia became an insomniac, unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time because she constantly waited for those screams. When she rushed to John’s bedside, he would be sitting upright, eyes and mouth open wide. John, she would say, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s Mom. But he could not be comforted. Some nights he did not even recognize Olivia. His eyes would be locked on some distant, invisible object: a monster, a raging river, flames. He would punch and kick Olivia when she tried to hug him. This happened a few times a week from the time John was a toddler until he was twelve years old.

  Still, during waking hours, John was a bright and happy boy, if somewhat quiet. He was affectionate, laughed easily, smiled more often than not. The doctor who measured the spaces between his bones said that John had so much room to grow. He was going to be tall and handsome.

  The change in John happened quickly. Or perhaps the change was happening all along and Olivia had simply failed to notice. Perhaps it was so subtle as to create an illusion of speed. However it happened, John had changed.

  Olivia stood in John’s old bedroom and prayed. She had watched her son, a stranger when he was first put into her arms, become a stranger again. Now, she listened for the sounds of her husband in his study. It was quiet. She could hear cars passing by their house. One, then two close together, then a long pause before another, and a fourth not long after. She could hear the dull hum of the refrigerator and the slow ticking of the grandfather clock. Neither worked well. She left the bedroom and quietly walked into Daniel’s study. He was asleep at the desk, his face pressed against a map of Alaska, the last frontier. She wondered how many vodkas he had finished. His face was damp. She touched his cheek, briefly wondered if he had been crying. Perhaps. Probably. Daniel Smith was a decent man. He worked hard for his family, brought home more than enough money, and loved his wife and son.

  Olivia stared at her husband as he slept at his desk. She thought about waking him and taking him to their bed. But she did not want to talk to him. She thought about John, all alone in the world. Then she made a decision. Olivia slipped on a jacket and a pair of tennis shoes, found her car keys, locked the front door behind her, and stepped away from the house.

  6

  The Searchers

  REGGIE’S APARTMENT WAS SMALL but surprisingly clean, with a huge stereo and television, a small bookcase holding college textbooks and a few novels, including both of Jack Wilson’s. Reggie, Ty, and Harley were watching John Ford’s classic western, The Searchers, starring John Wayne and Natalie Wood. Both Reggie and Ty tried to translate for Harley, who couldn’t read John Wayne’s lips all that well. Still, with his friends’ help, Harley understood the plot of the movie. Natalie Wood had been kidnapped by Indians, and her uncle John Wayne had spent years searching for her. He planned on killing her if he ever found her, because she’d been soiled by the Indians.

  “What would you do if some Indians took your niece or your child?” Harley signed the question to Ty.

  “I’d wonder which powwow they were going to,” signed Ty.

  “Seriously.”

  “Seriously, I don’t have a child. I don’t know.”

  “I’d kill her,” signed Reggie. “I understand what John Wayne is feeling. How would you feel if some white people kidnapped an Indian kid? I’d cut them all into pieces.”

  Reggie slashed the air with his empty hand. He thought of Bird, that brutal stranger who pretended to be Reggie’s father. Reggie wondered if he’d been stolen away from his real family. Maybe there was an Indian family out there who was missing a son. Maybe Reggie belonged to them.

  “Hey, Reggie, you got to calm down,” Ty said.

  Reggie glared at him.

  “Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” asked Reggie.

  “Now, listen,” said Ty. “Me and Harley talked it over, man. I mean, you’re just taking it too far. Beating up that white guy was one thing. Fucking up his eyes was something else. We got to stop this. People are going to think we scalped that guy. And then you recorded it, man. That’s just sick.”

  Reggie, thinking of Dr. Mather’s precious tapes of traditional stories, had listened to the recording a number of times. Who can say which story is more traditional than any other?

  “And now we’re beating up Indians. We ain’t supposed to be hurting our own kind, are we?”

  “And how do you feel about this?” Reggie signed the question to Harley.

  “You’re going to get us in trouble,” signed Harley.

  Reggie leaned close to Harley’s face.

  “Hey, Reggie, leave him alone,” said Ty.

  “There you go,” Reggie signed to Harley. “Are you afraid?”

  Harley shook his head.

  “Yeah, you’re scared,” Reggie spoke now. “Read my lips, chickenshit. You know the name of the Cavalry soldier who killed Crazy Horse?”

  Harley shook his head.

  “Well, I don’t know either, but I know the name of the Indian who was holding Crazy Horse’s arms behind his back when that soldier bayoneted him. You know his name?”

  Harley shook his head.

  “His name was Little Big Man. You understand what I’m getting at?”

  Reggie touched Harley’s nose with the tip of his finger. A single drop of blood rolled from Harley’s nostril. Ty jumped to his feet in shock. Harley pushed Reggie away and stood, signing so furiously that neither Reggie nor Ty knew what he was saying.

  “Slow down,” Ty said.

  “I’m leaving,” Harley si
gned to Ty. Then to Reggie. “You get yourself caught, but I’m not going to get caught with you.”

  Harley grabbed his jacket and slammed out of the apartment.

  “Chickenshit!” Reggie screamed after him. “Pussy!”

  “Reggie,” Ty said. “You know he can’t hear you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Shaking his head, Ty sat back down and turned up the television volume. John Wayne riding down on an Indian village. Yet again.

  “What the hell are you doing now?” asked Reggie.

  “I want to know how this ends.”

  7

  Testimony

  “MARK? MARK, CAN WE talk to you?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “You could really help us. We need you to talk, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you tell us about the man who kidnapped you?”

  “It wasn’t a man.”

  “Was it a woman?”

  “No.”

  “We don’t understand, Mark. Was it a man or a woman?”

  “It was dark there.”

  “Yes, we know it was dark, but did you see anything? Did you see the person who took you? Did he talk to you? Did you see his house? Anything?”

  “I saw what it shone with the light. Hair on the wall.”

  “Yes, Mark, and anything else? Maybe feathers?”

  “Yes, feathers.”

  “Owl feathers?”

  “I don’t know. Lots of feathers.”

  “And where did you see the feathers, Mark?”

  “On the wings.”

  “What wings? Was there an owl there? Did the kidnapper have a bird?”

  “No, it was a bird.”

  “I don’t understand, Mark. What was a bird?”

  “It.”

  “Mark…”

  “It was the bird that was there.”

  “And where was the man who kidnapped you?”

  “It could fly, I bet.”

  “The bird could fly?”

  “No, no. It could.”

  “Mark, I know this is difficult. But I need to know what you’re trying to tell me.”

  “I think it could fly because it had wings.”

  8

  How It Happened

  THE KILLER WATCHED THE businessman park his car. A magical moment, really, a bolt of lightning. No sleight of hand, no mirrors, no dark closets, no playing cards, no scarves, no rings, no doves appearing from flames. Just real magic. Just a white man appearing as the killer was coming down the street. Edward Letterman, businessman, pulling up in his rental car. Short, overweight, and white, Edward dropped a few quarters into the parking meter, though he didn’t have to at that time of night, and walked away.

  The killer followed Edward two blocks into the pornographic bookstore. The lights were bright and irritating. Inside the bookstore, the smell of ammonia was strong, but something stranger and thicker lurked beneath, a smell almost like blood. There were rows and rows of pornographic magazines and videos. Dildos and artificial vaginas sat on one shelf, while blow-up dolls sat right below them. Everything was loudly bright. There were ten or twelve white men milling about, all studiously avoiding any eye contact. The killer watched Edward work a cash machine. There was a twenty-four-hour cash machine in the porno bookstore. That was a dangerous sign, the killer knew. Edward pulled a handful of bills from the machine and smiled.

  The killer watched Edward waddle over to another machine, a change machine. Edward slid a few dollars into the machine and quarters dropped out. The whirr of the change machine sickened the killer. Edward walked over to a door, opened it, and stepped in. He was gone. The killer walked over to the door beside Edward’s and opened it. There was a stool and a television screen inside a small booth, little more than a closet.

  The killer stepped inside the booth, shut the door, and sat down. The killer saw the slots for change and inserted a few quarters into the machine. When the television screen came to life, a white man and brown-skinned woman were having sex. He was doing her from behind, like a dog would. The killer was both fascinated and repelled. A collage of enormous breasts and huge penises, frightening and blurry, trying to make the killer believe that people did these things to each other. The screen flickered, then went dark. There were so many things in the world the killer could not understand, how a white man fit himself inside a brown woman in such ways. Rage made the killer push against the walls of the booth. The world, even the tiny part of it contained in that dark cubicle, was too large. Shame washed over the killer in waves, each one larger than the last.

  Without a word, the killer walked out of the store, crossed the street with the light, and sat at the bus stop, waiting.

  While the killer waited, Edward enjoyed a number of short subjects. He knew he had parked the rental car in a great spot on a side street. He only had to walk two blocks to his car, and then drive ten minutes uptown to the Quality Inn. Simple stuff. He stepped outside the porno shop and checked his watch. He started to walk. It was a warm night, the cloud cover was low, light traffic.

  The killer reached inside between jacket and shirt and felt the handle of the beautiful knife with three turquoise gems inlaid in it. A powerful weapon. The killer sat on the bench and watched Edward leave the porno shop, jaywalk across the street to within five feet of the bench, and head north toward his car. The killer waited a few moments, then stood slowly and followed him. As the businessman unlocked his car he heard footsteps behind him. He was mildly curious about the footsteps, but was more concerned about getting back to the hotel in time to call his wife. He sat down inside the car and was just about to close the door when the killer reached inside and set the knife gently against Edward’s throat. Edward’s heart stopped for a moment, then began to beat wildly.

  Edward was pushed into the passenger seat as the killer sat in the driver’s seat. Edward didn’t want to see the killer, but the killer grabbed Edward’s face and looked into his eyes. Edward tried to reason with the killer.

  I have money. Credit cards, cash. You can have this car. It’s just a rental.

  Edward could feel nothing but the knife at his throat. The hand holding the knife was not shaking. Edward wanted it to shake. He wanted the killer holding the knife to be afraid. If the killer in the driver’s seat felt scared, then Edward thought he had a chance. It was early evening. There should have been any number of people passing by. But there was nobody. Edward pleaded for his life.

  What do you want?

  The killer drew a very shallow cut across Edward’s throat. A small trickle of blood ran down his neck. Edward was crying now.

  Please, I’m scared. Please. Don’t hurt me.

  The killer pushed the blade a little deeper into Edward’s skin, drawing a few drops of blood.

  I’m sorry. Please. I’m married. I have two sons. I’ll show you.

  Edward reached for his wallet too quickly and the killer dug the blade into his throat. Slowly now, Edward pulled the wallet out and held it up. With one hand, he flipped it open and the pictures fell out accordion-style. Edward held the photographs up. His wife in her garden. She planted tomatoes every year, but she hated tomatoes, and gave them all away. His wife reading a John Grisham novel. His wife in close-up smiling, a slight gap between her front teeth. His sons as babies, one walking, the other lying on his back reaching for his own toes. His older son as quarterback, ball held tightly in his right hand, arm cocked back as if to throw a long pass. His younger son as middle linebacker, knees bent, face partially hidden beneath his helmet.

  Oh, God, don’t hurt me. I have a family. Don’t hurt me.

  The killer took a long, deep breath, tightened the grip on the knife, and pulled the blade across Edward’s throat. The blood fanned out in an arterial spray. The killer stabbed again and again. Paused briefly to stare at the white man’s body. Then stabbed until arms and back ached from the stabbing. Stabbed and cut, sliced and hacked. Stabbed until the dark blood absorbed all the available light, u
ntil the nearby traffic signals flared and then went dark. The killer leaned over close to Edward’s chest and feasted on his heart. Then, feeling depleted but unfulfilled, the killer cut the white man’s scalp away. The killer tucked the scalp into a pocket, dropped two owl feathers on the man’s lap, stepped out of the car, and disappeared.

  9

  Marie

  MARIE KNOCKED ON THE back door of the homeless shelter in Belltown, a downtown Seattle neighborhood that was a strange combination of gentrified apartment buildings and dive bars, trendy restaurants and detox centers. Marie knocked again. No answer. Impatiently, she kicked the door with her boot. She was in a bad mood because she’d been forced out of Dr. Mather’s Native American literature class. He was a liar and she was being punished, if not seeing or hearing his rubbish could be called punishment. Still, she had been in class long enough to let the other students know the real story, and no matter what those white men said or did, she would never retreat. She’d contradict them. She’d get her degree and make them eat it. She’d beat them at all of their games.

  Rumor had it that the Indian students were going to be asked to keep a lower profile until the Indian Killer was captured. Marie had no idea how Indian students could have kept any lower profile at the University without leaving it altogether. The whole situation infuriated her. She kicked at the shelter door again, was about to go around to the front when the door swung open. Boo sat in his wheelchair with a loaf of bread in his lap and a smear of mayonnaise on his forehead. He had obviously been constructing sandwiches for the van.

  “Mayo?” she asked. “We can’t use mayo. We can’t afford it, and it goes bad.”

  “It’s good to see you, too,” said Boo, smiling.

  Marie had to smile back. Boo was a nice white guy, not intimidated by her in the least. He obviously had a crush on her, and had written poems for her. He had been helping her make sandwiches for a few months, though he was not all that dependable. When she hadn’t seen him for a couple of days, she knew she would find him later, drunk or drugged, with a sheepish look on his face. But he knew a thousand jokes and was the fastest sandwich maker in the world when he was sober. Marie had once bought him a T-shirt that gave him that title, and Boo had hidden it away in a special place.