“How we doing?” asked Marie.
“I don’t know how you’ve been, but I’m doing fine. Just a couple dozen sandwiches to go.”
Marie rolled Boo into the kitchen, a relatively small space for the number of meals that were prepared there. Industrial sinks and ovens, stand-up freezer and two large refrigerators, a small door that led to the large pantry. A big table in the center of the kitchen was stacked high with sandwiches and sandwiches-to-be. For the thousandth time, Marie wondered why she kept returning to this depressing place.
“Hey,” said Boo. “Earth to Little Dove. You having a vision or something?”
“What did you say?” Marie was startled back to the kitchen.
“Are you communing with the Great Spirit?”
Boo often teased Marie about her supposedly genetic connection to Mother Earth and Father Sky. And she did enjoy a walk in the woods as much as anybody else. But the earth could take care of itself. She had learned that, every once in a while, the earth would cram a hurricane or earthquake down people’s throats as a little reminder. Other people, Indians and not, could run around on the weekends pretending to be what they thought was Indian, dancing half-naked and pounding drums, but Marie knew there were hungry people waiting to be fed. Dancing and singing were valuable and important. Speaking your tribal language was important. Trees were terrific. But nothing good happens to a person with an empty stomach. Suddenly, she laughed, pushed Boo’s chair into a corner between boxes, and left him stranded.
“Hey, hey,” he said. “No fair.”
Marie picked up a loaf of bread and lay down a row of slices. She quickly set a slice of bologna on each piece of bread, then threw another piece of bread on top of that. A very simple sandwich.
“Man,” said Boo after he finally managed to free himself and roll up beside her. “I don’t know how you expect us to choke down those dry sandwiches.”
“No mayo!” shouted Marie, surprised by the anger in her own voice.
“Listen to you,” said Boo, just as surprised. “You sound like that Indian Killer or something.”
“That’s not funny,” she said sharply.
Boo had been trying to lighten the mood but he realized his mistake. He tried to make up for it.
“I was just kidding. I mean, it’s not like you’re the Indian Killer, right?”
Marie stared at Boo. He swallowed hard.
“You’re not the Indian Killer, are you?”
Marie wanted to scream at him. She felt the anger in her belly and hands. But she could not lose her temper.
“I mean,” said Boo, “it’s not like a woman could have done those killings. A woman wouldn’t have kidnapped that kid.”
“Why not?” asked Marie.
“A knife just ain’t a woman’s weapon of choice.”
“Of course it is. Men kill with guns. Women kill with knifes. It all goes back to the beginning of time, Boo. Men hunted and women cooked. We use what we’ve been taught to use.”
“But these are men being killed. It would’ve taken a big man to kill them.”
“Or a magical woman,” said Marie, as she picked up a butter knife and waved it in the air. She turned toward Boo with a crazy look in her eyes. She vaguely threatened him with the knife. Boo feigned, and felt, fear. He rolled back in his chair.
“You know what I’ll turn you into, don’t you?” asked Marie as she tossed the knife from hand to hand.
“Yeah,” said Boo, at last. “Toast.”
Boo helped Marie with the last few sandwiches. As they loaded them into the delivery truck, Marie kept thinking about what Boo had said about the knife. Marie thought about John Smith. He was huge and had easily disarmed that cab driver outside Wilson’s apartment building. When he had towered over Wilson and the cabbie in the sandwich truck’s headlights, Marie had briefly wondered if John was going to kill the white men. No. No, that was not it at all. She had wondered if John was going to hurt them, maybe rough them up a little. She had never worried that he was going to kill them. John was a little strange and quiet, but most Indian men were kind of strange and quiet. Besides, John had not hurt either of the men. He threatened them with that sawed-off golf club and then ran off. After all, that golf club was the cabbie’s weapon, and Wilson was a vulture. She remembered being a little disappointed that John had not hurt them.
“Hey,” Marie said to Boo. “Come to think of it, what makes you think this Indian Killer is an Indian man? How many Indian serial killers do you read about?”
Boo shook his head.
“None is right,” said Marie. “Everybody is talking Indian Killer this, Indian Killer that. Reporters all over the place. What if the Indian Killer isn’t an Indian guy? What if this Indian Killer is just trying to make people think an Indian guy did it?”
Marie picked up a bologna sandwich that had fallen to the floor and threw it at Boo, who fielded it cleanly and tossed it into the back of the truck. Marie rolled Boo into the back of the truck, secured his chair, and then climbed into the driver’s seat. She started the truck, let it warm up for a few minutes, and pulled out of the shelter’s parking lot.
10
Truck
TRUCK WAS SMOKING HIS fifth cigar of the day and receiving dozens of phone calls, as he did every hour that he was on the air. The police had told him not to tell the public about his experience in the back alley.
“Listen,” the detective had said. “I don’t think there was anybody in that alley with you, but psycho bastards like the Indian Killer thrive on this kind of attention. They feed on it, breathe it. Don’t give him what he wants.”
Truck agreed not to talk about it, though he did so mainly because he was ashamed that he’d been so frightened. Truck watched the red lights on his phone blinking. George on line one knows who the Indian Killer is. Ronnie on line two is worried about the Indian Killer. Helen on line three wants to put all Indians in jail.
“Helen,” said Truck. “You’re on the air. What’s your problem?”
“Well, Truck, it’s about this Indian Killer. You see, I just don’t think we should take any chances. We should lock up all the Indians, just like we locked up the Japs during World War Two. I mean, it’s for our own safety. Once we catch the Indian Killer, we can let the other Indians go.”
“And where do you think we should keep these Indians?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe on some island somewhere.”
“Well, Helen, that’s a very interesting idea, but it wouldn’t work very well. Indians are damn good swimmers. Folks, we have to take time out for some commercial messages. Stay with us. We’ll be back in a few.”
Truck dropped off the air, toked on his cigar.
“Truck,” said his assistant over the intercom. “It’s Johnny Law.”
Truck sat up quickly to take the call from his source in the Washington State Patrol office.
“What’s up?” Truck asked.
“They just found another body. Downtown. A white businessman. A guy named Edward Letterman.”
“Indian Killer?”
“Indian Killer, for sure. He was scalped. Two owl feathers left behind. And the fucking sick bastard ate his heart.”
“Ate his heart?”
“Like a fucking sandwich.”
Truck whooped. He turned to his microphone.
“Folks,” he said. “The Indian Killer has struck again.”
11
Wilson
WILSON FELT TIED TO a dying typewriter. The writing had always come easy to him before, but he could barely manage to write a few paragraphs of Indian Killer before he had to stand up, stretch, read a magazine, watch television. Any excuse not to write. He knew he had to finish the book, but he was somehow afraid of it. His agent and publisher were waiting. But he had to find the ending, had to write the book that was more true than any of the other Indian Killer books he knew would be published. He dreamed constantly about the murders. He saw the face of that man in Fremont when the knife slid acro
ss his throat, and felt the weight of that little boy’s body. After those dreams, Wilson would lie awake for hours, staring at the walls.
Wilson looked at the blank page in his typewriter and at the Indian Killer manuscript stacked haphazardly on the table beside it. His manuscripts were always a disorganized mess, in stark contrast to his tidy apartment, balanced checking account, and simple eating habits. He supposed it was easy to be well-organized when you lived alone. Roommates, wives, kids, pets—they all added an element of randomness that Wilson could never have tolerated. That was probably why Wilson’s dreams troubled him so much. They were beyond his control. Still, he knew that Indians were supposed to listen carefully to their dreams. Aristotle Little Hawk had solved more than one crime by using information he had obtained in dreams. Wilson felt he’d been chosen for a special task. Maybe that was the reason for his dreams. People were dying horribly for reasons he alone understood, and he was the only one who could truly talk about the Indian Killer. Wilson knew that he was writing more than a novel. He would write the book that would finally reveal to the world what it truly meant to be Indian.
Obsessed with all of it, Wilson knew that more people were going to be hurt, and killed, and he also knew his book would be ignored when it was published. He was positive a dozen knockoffs were already on their way to the printers. Wilson picked up the ringing telephone.
“Hey, Wilson,” said Rupert, his agent in New York. “What the hell is going on out there? I thought you people gave up that cowboys-and-Indians shit.”
“Jesus,” said Wilson. “You wouldn’t believe the mess. Cameras everywhere. It’s a race war.”
“Yeah, well, I hope you’re getting it all down. It’s great material.”
“I’ve almost finished a first draft,” Wilson lied.
Rupert whistled.
“Hot damn, you should send me the pages. You got my Fed Ex number?”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure what to do.”
“Well, you stick the pages in an envelope and then mail them to me.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I mean, there must be a dozen books coming out of this thing, right?”
“Listen up. You’re writing a novel, champ. That’s fiction. You get to make up shit. Besides, you know how this will turn out in real life. In the third act, they’ll find some white guy in eagle feathers is doing the killing. White guys are always the serial killers. Think about it. Bundy, Gacy, Gilmore. Where’s the drama in that? It’s been done. You get to tell a new story. You’re the Indian writer. This belongs to you, Wilson.”
Wilson hung up the phone. His little apartment seemed so much smaller with all the uncertainty shoved into it. He wanted the world to know about the real Indian Killer, and not just somebody else’s invention.
It was past eight in the evening on that last day when he grabbed his keys off the hook near the door, walked quickly to his truck, and drove down Capitol Hill to the Fourth Precinct. A number of television vans were parked at haphazard angles outside. It seemed like half of the reporters in the city had converged on his source of information. After parking in his usual spot, Wilson walked into the lobby and saw a large number of reporters and cameramen milling about. The bright lights of the television cameras were painful to the eyes. The desk sergeant who always supplied Wilson with inside information was using his usual methods to maintain some sense of order.
“All of you, get the fuck out of here!” yelled the sergeant.
Nobody paid much attention. Wilson saw a white man standing alone in the corner between the water fountain and the pay phone. A short, stocky guy, big belly, strong arms, a red flannel shirt, looking confused. Wilson wondered if he knew what was happening.
“Hey,” said Wilson.
“Hey,” said the man.
“Kind of crazy in here, isn’t it?” asked Wilson.
“Yeah, they told me to pick a number a couple of hours ago. I got number three. I figured it wouldn’t take long. I ain’t heard much since then.”
“Maybe they start at a hundred and work backwards.” Wilson laughed at his own weak joke, that sort of short, loud, staccato laugh that men use in social situations. The man smiled and studied the number in his hand.
“So,” asked Wilson. “What is going on anyhow?”
“You a reporter?” asked the man, studying Wilson carefully.
“No,” said Wilson, lying only a little.
“I guess they found a body downtown.”
“A white guy?” asked Wilson.
“Yeah, I heard it on the radio coming over here. On the Truck Schultz show. Do you listen to him?”
“No,” Wilson lied.
“Well, you should. Truck heard about the body and went live with it. I guess it was some visiting businessman. He was all cut to hell, I guess, just butchered.”
“Do they think the Indian Killer did it?”
“That’s what Truck said. All I know is this place was empty when I first got here. And now it’s a zoo. All these reporters are just trying to catch up with Truck now.”
“Life is crazy,” Wilson said to the man, who promptly agreed.
“And you know what else?” asked the man. “I came here because I thought I might know who the Indian Killer is. There was this Indian used to work for me. I was his foreman, you know? Working on the last skyscraper in Seattle. The last one. Guy’s name was John Smith. Kind of a funny name for an Indian, don’t you think?”
Wilson nodded his head.
“Anyways, he was a great big kid. Always kind of goofy, you know? Talking to himself all the time. Don’t get me wrong. He was a good worker and all, but he was just plain weird. He never talked to anybody but himself.”
Wilson was fascinated. A weird Indian climbing through the skyscrapers of Seattle. The foreman noticed the faraway expression on Wilson’s face and was suddenly uncomfortable.
“I know it don’t sound like much,” said the foreman. “I mean, John was a good worker, but there was something wrong with him. Really wrong. He just up and quit on me a while back. I didn’t think much of it at the time. But with these murders happening, it just kept nagging at me.”
As much as Wilson liked the foreman’s story, he didn’t believe it. Every Indian in the city was probably suspected by his neighbors and co-workers. Wilson needed to talk to the desk sergeant, who was still trying to control the crowd. Finally, Wilson caught his friend’s eye, and the sergeant waved at him.
“You a cop?” asked the foreman, noticing the exchange.
“Yeah,” said Wilson, another half lie.
“Listen,” said the foreman, nearly pleading now. “I know I sound goofy. But I mean it. There was something really strange about John. I feel it in my gut. I think he’s the one. Here, look at him.”
The foreman handed Wilson a photograph taken at the construction site. Wilson studied it carefully. In the foreground, a group of workers were eating lunch together. One worker held a hammer above his head, like he was going to drive a nail into his own skull. Everybody laughing. In the background, a tall Indian man sat apart from the others. He stared into the camera with obvious anger. He had eyes like the eyes of all those old-time warrior Indians who were forced to sit still for Army photographers. Those defeated warriors always had smooth faces and flat expressions, but their eyes were dark and filled with a feral, kinetic hate. The foreman’s photograph was color, but the Indian looked like he might have been photographed in sepia tones.
Wilson studied the Indian’s face for a few moments longer and felt a faint sense of familiarity. Then it came to him. The Indian in the photograph was the same Indian who had attacked him outside his apartment. Wilson remembered the Indian’s eyes, how odd they looked when he had taken the golf club away from Eric the cabbie and then towered over Wilson. Out of habit, Wilson had reached into his jacket, ready to pull his weapon. The Indian had come with that Indian woman protester. She was quite the nuisance at his reading. What was her name? Marla? Maria?
“Wh
at did you say his name is?” Wilson asked the foreman.
“John. John Smith.”
Wilson stared at the photograph of John Smith, remembered how he’d thought the Indian was Aristotle Little Hawk come to life. Wilson had really thought he saw Aristotle for the first time when he saw John, but it had been so dark and confusing. Later, Wilson just assumed he had seen what he wanted to see, his hero, conjured by a frightening moment. Now he was unsure of what he had seen.
“Can I keep this?” asked Wilson. “For the investigation.”
The foreman was hesitant.
“Listen,” said Wilson. “Why don’t I just sign this into evidence, okay? Just leave me your phone number and somebody will contact you tomorrow. You don’t want to wait around here all night, do you?”
“Not really.”
“Well, then, let’s do it,” said Wilson. “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to have a home address for John Smith, would you?”
“Sure I do.”
The foreman gave Wilson his phone number and John’s address and then left, feeling that he had performed his civic duty. As soon as the foreman drove away, Wilson dodged a reporter, pushed the precinct door open, and walked toward his pickup.
12
Truck
“CITIZENS,” TRUCK SAID. “THE Indian Killer has done it again.
“Folks, I’m tired.
“I’m tired of witnessing the downward spiral of this country. Its culture, its history, its hopes, its dreams. The first Europeans sailed to this country with the hopes of building a new civilization, a better civilization. We dreamed of a country where every man was equal, where we were all given the opportunity to live, love, and die as free men. We didn’t come here to suckle at the morally bankrupt teat of the government. Oh, sure, we made some mistakes along the way, but we learned from those mistakes and put them behind us. Together, we have created the greatest civilization that man has ever known. All along the way, there were many naysayers and cynics. There were traitors and subversives. There were beggars and sycophants. There were those who would have us cater to the lowest common denominator. There were communists and socialists. There were atheists and nonbelievers. My fellow Americans, five hundred years ago, we came to this untamed land as God-fearing individuals who wanted to live individual lives.