Indian Killer

1. Mark Jones

SILENTLY SINGING AN INVISIBILITY song, the killer walked past the police car parked outside the Jones’s house. The officer was reading a Tony Hillerman novel and never looked up as the killer passed within two feet of him. Carrying the sleeping child, the killer stepped through the front door and into the living room. Fully clothed, Mr. Jones was asleep on the couch. A stack of beer cans on the end table next to him. An infomercial soundlessly playing on the television. Tall and muscular, but weak and vulnerable in sleep, Mr. Jones was an easy target. The killer could have torn his eyes and heart out and eaten them.

Mrs. Jones was asleep in the master bedroom. Wearing pajama bottoms, her breasts bare, she was curled into a ball. She was sucking on her thumb, her face drawn and crossed with new lines. Even as he slept in the killer’s arms, Mark Jones must have known his mother was close. He must have smelled her, heard her breathing, felt her presence. The restless little boy dreamed of his mother and twisted in the killer’s arms. Mrs. Jones stirred, but didn’t wake.

Carefully, the killer leaned over the bed and set Mark down beside his mother. In her sleep, Mrs. Jones draped an arm over her son. Perhaps she thought it was her husband. Perhaps she was dreaming of Mark. The boy nestled into his mother’s arms. The killer could barely breathe, and wanted to lie down with the mother and child. The killer wanted to press against the mother’s breast and suckle. Then, ever so gently, the killer leaned over the mother, and kissed her cheek. She smiled in her sleep.

The killer quickly left the room, walked past Mr. Jones in the living room, and out to the patrol car. The killer had plans. The officer had fallen asleep with his mystery novel dropped into his lap. Though the window was closed and the door locked, the killer could have broken through the glass. A shotgun, radio, pistol in the holster. The officer was young, inexperienced, on a rookie’s detail, babysitting a house. Standing beside the patrol car, the killer stared back at the house. The killer took two owl feathers out of a pocket and fastened them beneath the patrol car’s windshield wipers. Then the killer ascended into a tall tree to wait and watch.

First, the mother woke and found her son in her arms. She screamed with joy. Then came the fear as she realized the killer had been inside her house again. And a whole different kind of scream. That scream woke the young officer. He saw the owl feathers beneath his wipers and assumed the worst. He called in for backup before he bravely entered the house by himself. He climbed the stairs and saw the mother, father, and baby wrapped up together. He saw the mother’s bare breasts and had an uncomfortably erotic thought, at the same time suddenly realizing that he was pointing his pistol at the family he’d been assigned to protect.

The last day was just beginning. The killer had counted coup, had won a battle without drawing blood. The killer knew there was more work to be done before evening came. Silently singing, the killer descended from the tree and floated away from the Jones’s home.

2. Testimony

“MR. SCHULTZ, WE CAN’T find any trace that anybody was in that alley with you. Nothing in the parking lot, either. There’s nothing. None of your co-workers saw or heard anything suspicious. All they heard was you screaming. Blubbering, somebody said.”

“You listen to me, smart ass. I know there was somebody out there. I could hear him. He was after me. It was that goddamn Indian Killer. First he sends me a piece of that dead kid’s pajamas, and then he comes to kill me.”

“Listen, don’t talk to me about the Indian Killer. You’re the one starting up all this trouble. You’re the one broadcasting lies. And that dead kid is alive.”

“What?”

“Yeah, we just heard it. The Indian Killer brought the kid back to his house.”

“What?”

“Yeah, took some balls, didn’t it? Put that kid in his momma’s arms while she was sleeping. She woke up screaming bloody murder, I guess.”

“Well, that’s good news. The kid is alive.”

“You don’t sound so enthused about it.”

“Well, pardon me if I’m not dancing. But that Indian Killer tried to kill me tonight. And here you are calling me a liar.”

“I’m not calling you anything, Mr. Schultz. There’s just no evidence that anybody was in that alley except you. You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking that your co-workers played some kind of joke on you. Make the big shot Truck Schultz wet his pants.”

“I didn’t wet my pants.”

“Whatever. Now, I advise you to stay out of dark alleys and parking lots until we catch this Indian Killer, okay? Maybe there was somebody in that alley with you, so let’s not take any chances, okay? And you stay off the radio.”

“If that Indian Killer comes near me again, I’ll kill him.”

3. Seattle’s Best Donuts

AT TWO IN THE MORNING on that last day, John Smith was softly singing a Catholic hymn that Father Duncan must have sung before he went to the desert. A song about water and forgiveness. John sat in his customary chair at the long counter, which carried three chairs, or four, sometimes even five. But John recognized his chair because strange chairs were dangerous for John. They shifted shape, became unrecognizable. Once he learned to trust a chair, it stayed a chair. People worked that way, too. If John learned to trust somebody, like Paul and Paul Too in the donut shop, then those people became chairs. Comfortable, predictable. A safe chair and safe people were the most valuable things in the world. Rain fell outside, on the pavement brightly lit by neon and streetlights, where there were no chairs. John knew that Father Duncan would welcome this rain as he walked through the desert, as he tripped, fell to his knees, and began an accidental prayer. John could see Duncan with his delicate hands clasped tightly together, fingernails grotesquely long and dirty. Those nails would cut into Duncan’s palms if he made a fist. Duncan made a fist with his right hand. A few drops of blood fell to the sand.

Paul was flipping through the latest issue of Artforum. Paul Too sat in his favorite chair, reading the newspaper. Both men understood John’s need for repetition, the ceremony of a donut and coffee at two in the morning. Paul Too had already sipped at John’s coffee and nibbled on his donut to prove they were not poisoned. Both noticed that John was in an especially bad state. His face was bruised and dirty. He smelled like a week of bad weather. He was talking to himself.

“How are you, John?” Paul asked.

“I met a woman.”

Paul and Paul Too exchanged a quick glance.

“Really?” asked Paul casually. “And what’s her name?”

“Marie. She’s the Sandwich Lady.”

Paul and Paul Too were relieved this woman existed only in John’s head. They were frightened at the thought of a woman who might be interested in John.

“So,” Paul humored John. “What does the Sandwich Lady do?”

“She gives out sandwiches.” John was irritated at Paul’s ignorance. “What else would the Sandwich Lady do?”

“Oh, of course. What kind of sandwiches?”

“All kinds. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Paul raised his hands in surrender. John was definitely in a bad mood. Olivia and Daniel had visited the shop a few times lately looking for John. They had been frightened, although Daniel tried to hide it. Paul wanted to call John’s parents; their number was written beside the telephone, but he knew that John would panic if he did. Paul looked to Paul Too for help.

“Hey, John,” said Paul Too. “When was the last time you were home?”

John ignored him.

“Your mom and dad been looking for you,” said Paul Too. “Have you talked to them?”

John shook his head.

“They must be worried about you,” said Paul Too. “With all this Indian Killer stuff floating around, you know?”

“I didn’t do anything,” said John.

“That ain’t what I’m saying,” said Paul Too. “You looked at the news lately? Indians in the hospital, Indians in jail. It’s ugly out there. Makes me happy I’m black.”

John looked at Paul Too, then down at his hands. They were dark, smudged with sugar, flour, and maple. John figured he was as black as Paul, if not as dark as Paul Too. John understood slavery, how the masters whipped the darker ones more than they whipped the lighter ones. A dark Indian was better than a light Indian, John knew. For black men, it was best to be lighter, more like whites, to look like a cup of coffee with cream. A dark black man was the most dangerous kind. Indians wanted to be darker; black men wanted to be lighter. Was that how it worked?

John was five years old when he first realized his parents were white and he was brown, and understood that the difference in skin color was important. He had walked into his parents’ bedroom without knocking. He was supposed to knock. His father, with just a towel wrapped around his waist, was standing at the foot of the bed. His mother sat on the edge of the bed. She wore just a pair of black panties and a bra. His father was thinner then, with a hairless chest and flat stomach. His skin was so pale that John imagined he could see through it. Olivia was beautiful as milk. Large breasts, long legs, wide hips all creamy. Only the small mole, a few inches above her belly button, was dark. She was drying her hair with a blue towel.

“John,” said Olivia, surprised and embarrassed. John was supposed to be napping. She and Daniel had just made love, then showered together. John had no way of knowing this, but Olivia somehow assumed he did.

“Hey, buddy,” said Daniel. “You’re supposed to knock, remember?”

John slowly nodded his head and turned to leave the room.

“Wait,” said Olivia. She rose from the bed and walked across the room toward John. Her bare feet on the hardwood floor. John remembered that. She kneeled in front of John. Her skin still pink from the hot water, the soft towel. John expected punishment.

“It’s okay,” she said and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You go and play now.”

John ran from the room. His body rebelled. He felt heat and cold, excitement and embarrassment. All that pale skin. Outside, he sat in his favorite tree and studied his own skin. The pale brown of his palms, the dark brown of his arms, his legs. He did not look like his parents, especially when they were naked. They were even more pale in their nudity. A pink shirt, tan pants, navy blue shoes could make his mother look like a rainbow, but underneath, she was a snowbank, a bolt of lightning, a blank piece of paper. John understood he was not only darker without clothes, but he was different shades of darkness. His penis was very dark, the darkest part about him. John felt disturbed by all this knowledge. He wanted to look like his parents. He rubbed at his face, wanting to wipe the brown away.

Inside the donut shop, John rubbed his face against the counter. Paul and Paul Too watched with curiosity and concern. They had learned to let these episodes run their course. Sometimes, John would come back. Sometimes, he would fall further into his own little world. There was nothing to do but watch. John rubbed his face against the counter for ten minutes. His face had changed when he looked up at Paul and Paul Too.

“I could be famous if I wanted to be,” said John.

“Sure you could,” said Paul.

“You don’t believe me?” asked John, sensing Paul’s condescension.

“We believe you,” said Paul. “Don’t we believe him?”

“Damn straight we believe you,” said Paul Too.

John stood. He raised his right fist above his head. This gesture, he had learned, forced people to react. It frightened Paul and Paul Too.

“I could kill somebody,” said John. “Then I’d be famous. They’d put me in the newspapers, wouldn’t they?”

John stepped up onto his chair, then up onto the counter, his fist still raised above his head. Paul Too carefully moved the coffee and donuts away from John’s feet, then he stepped back.

“What would you do if I killed a white man?” John asked Paul Too.

“No,” said Paul Too. “I don’t want anybody to die.”

“You liar,” said John. “You’d kill white people if you could.”

John looked out the window and saw the rain. It was a light, constant rain, like many Seattle rains, which mistook persistency for power. If Father Duncan were here, he would be dancing in the rain. The priest was crazy. If God decided to send a lightning bolt, Duncan would be a perfect target. Bare feet in rain puddles. A priest who wanted to be closer to God. A priest who walked into the desert without telling a soul. A priest who never came back. Or John could be wrong. Maybe Duncan was the lightning.

“Do you believe in lightning?” John asked Paul Too.

“Hey, John,” said Paul Too. “Why don’t you come down off that counter? Your coffee is getting cold.”

John jumped off the counter, stumbled, then regained his balance. He leaned in close to Paul Too. Paul grabbed the smelly mop from behind the counter and stepped closer to the pair, ready to defend the old man. John had always kept his distance from people before. He had always maintained an invisible barrier around himself. If anybody stepped inside that barrier, John would immediately move away. But now John had his face in Paul Too’s face. He was a foot taller than the small black man, but Paul Too never blinked. John’s breath smelled of coffee, donut, and smoke, like something was burning inside of him.

“Can you hear him praying?” John asked Paul Too.

“Who?”

“Father Duncan. He’s outside.”

Paul and Paul Too looked out into the empty street.

“You’re a nigger,” John blurted out. “You’re both niggers.”

Paul tightened his grip on the mop, moved a little closer to John, who growled at Paul’s approach. Paul Too motioned for Paul to back off.

“Now,” said Paul Too. “That ain’t a nice thing to say.”

Paul was ready to smack John over the head. He was scared. John’s face looked like he had just stepped out of a late Picasso.

“What would happen if I killed you?” John asked.

“I’d be dead,” said Paul Too.

“Nobody would even care,” said John in a new strange singsong voice. “I watch the news. I read the papers. Nobody cares about you. Black people get killed every day and nobody cares. It wouldn’t even matter. Killing a black man wouldn’t get me famous, would it? Killing a black man wouldn’t solve a thing, would it?”

As he spoke, John could hear Father Duncan’s sandals scratching against the sand. A soft shuffle in the rain. A whisper. Nothing makes sense. If you kill a black man, the world is silent. You can hear a garage door opening from twenty blocks away. You can pick up a pay phone and hear only the dial tone. Shooting stars sound exactly like the soft laughter of a little girl in Gas Works Park. If you kill a white man, the world erupts with noise: fireworks, sirens, a gavel pounding a desk, the slamming of doors. John could not understand the economics of it. Read the newspapers if you can ignore the paper cuts. Watch television if you can avoid the heat emanating from the screen, which is meant to cook your brain. Nothing made sense.

John closed his eyes, rubbed his head. He could not understand. He needed help. Marie. She would help him if only he had something to give her in return.

“Hey, John,” said Paul Too. “Look at me. It’s your friend. It’s me, Paul Too.”

John opened his eyes, stared at Paul Too.

“I’m sorry,” said John. “I can’t help it. Any of it.”

Paul Too patted John’s shoulder, which caused the big Indian to recoil. He backed away from Paul Too. John looked at Paul, who was holding the flimsy mop like a broadsword.

“You could be the devil,” John screamed at both men and ran out of the donut shop. Paul and Paul Too, weak with relief, fell into chairs.

“Shit,” said Paul. “What the hell was that about?”

“It ain’t looking good. It ain’t looking good at all.”

Paul Too shook his head, picked up a donut, thought about taking a bite, but realized he probably couldn’t swallow.

“That’s it,” said Paul. “I hate this job. I’m quitting.”

“He’s worse than I ever seen him,” said Paul Too. “And he’s been coming in here for years. Since before you got here.”

“You don’t think he’s the one doing that killing, do you?” asked Paul.

“What? John? Oh, no. Don’t be saying that.”

Paul Too threw the donut down with disgust.

“Lord,” he said. “I hate donuts.”

Paul was looking down at the mop in his hands.

“Shit,” said Paul Too. “What were you going to do? Disinfect him?”

4. Higher Education

MARIE SAT IN AN uncomfortable chair in the office of Dr. Faulkner, the department chair. Faulkner and Dr. Clarence Mather sat opposite her, while Bernice Zamora, the department secretary, was busy taking notes. A replay of Reggie’s meeting, except this time Marie was the hostile Indian.

“Well, since it is your class, Dr. Mather,” said Faulkner, “and since you did file the complaint against Ms. Polatkin, we’d like you to start.”

Mather sat up straight, adjusted his bolo tie, and cleared his throat.

“Well, first of all, I’d like to point out that I have the highest respect for Ms. Polatkin. She is an extremely intelligent girl. And certainly ambitious. But I think her ambitions outweigh her intellect. She is very much like a relative of hers, Reggie Polatkin, who we have some experience with.”

“I don’t know Reggie Polatkin,” said Marie. “I mean, he’s my cousin, but I’ve only met him once or twice. I don’t know anything about him.”

“As you know,” continued Mather, “I am teaching the evening course of the Introduction to Native American Literature class this semester. As a tenured full professor, I certainly don’t have to be teaching an evening class, and as an anthropology professor, I certainly don’t have to be teaching a literature class. But I felt there was a need the University simply wasn’t meeting. I took it upon myself to fill that need. Ms. Polatkin obviously had a need for such a class, and enrolled in my section.”

“Excuse me,” said Marie.

“Yes,” said Faulkner.

“Why isn’t an Indian teaching the class?”

“Why would you ask that?” asked Faulkner.

“Well, when I take a chemistry course, I certainly hope the teacher is a chemist. Women teach women’s lit at this university, don’t they? And I hope that African-Americans teach African-American lit.”

“Do you understand why I have problems with her?” Mather said. “She is incapable of reasoned discussion. I simply will not have her questioning my authority in my class. She must be forced to drop it.”

“Ms. Polatkin,” said Faulkner. “Dr. Mather is an expert in Native American studies. He has published many books and countless articles. He has worked with dozens of Indian tribes. He has been teaching for twenty years.”

“I have been involved with Native Americans longer than you’ve been alive,” Mather said to Marie.

“Listen,” said Marie. “As long as I’ve been alive, I’ve been an Indian.”

“I hardly think this is appropriate,” said Mather with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Why should I have to prove myself to a student, and an undergraduate at that?”

“You really think you know about Indians, don’t you? You’re such an arrogant jerk.”

“Ms. Polatkin, I fail to see where this is getting us,” said Faulkner. “I mean, in light of the tension this Indian Killer situation is causing, I think we should reschedule this meeting for a more appropriate time.”

“I’ve been adopted into a Lakota Sioux family,” protested Mather.

“That just proves some Indians have no taste.”

“Ms. Polatkin, please!” said Faulkner.

“You really think you know about Indians, don’t you?” Marie asked Mather. “You think you know about the Indian Killer, huh? Well, do you know about the Ghost Dance?”

“Of course.”

“Yeah, and you know that Wovoka said if all Indians Ghost Danced, then all the Europeans would disappear, right?”

“Yes, it was a beautiful, and ultimately desperate, act.”

“Yeah, you don’t believe in the Ghost Dance, do you? Oh, you like its symbolism. You admire its metaphorical beauty, enit? You just love Indians so much. You love Indians so much you think you’re excluded from our hatred. Don’t you see? If the Ghost Dance had worked, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be dust.”

“Dr. Faulkner,” Mather said. “Please put an end to this ridiculous digression.”

But Faulkner, fascinated by Marie now, was silent.

“So maybe this Indian Killer is a product of the Ghost Dance. Maybe ten Indians are Ghost Dancing. Maybe a hundred. It’s just a theory. How many Indians would have to dance to create the Indian Killer? A thousand? Ten thousand? Maybe this is how the Ghost Dance works.”

“Ms. Polatkin, the Ghost Dance was not about violence or murder. It was about peace and beauty.”

“Peace and beauty? You think Indians are worried about peace and beauty? You really think that? You’re so full of shit. If Wovoka came back to life, he’d be so pissed off. If the real Pocahontas came back, you think she’d be happy about being a cartoon? If Crazy Horse, or Geronimo, or Sitting Bull came back, they’d see what you white people have done to Indians, and they would start a war. They’d see the homeless Indians staggering around downtown. They’d see the fetal-alcohol-syndrome babies. They’d see the sorry-ass reservations. They’d learn about Indian suicide and infant-mortality rates. They’d listen to some dumb-shit Disney song and feel like hurting somebody. They’d read books by assholes like Wilson, and they would start killing themselves some white people, and then kill some asshole Indians, too.

“Dr. Mather, if the Ghost Dance worked, there would be no exceptions. All you white people would disappear. All of you. If those dead Indians came back to life, they wouldn’t crawl into a sweathouse with you. They wouldn’t smoke the pipe with you. They wouldn’t go to the movies and munch popcorn with you. They’d kill you. They’d gut you and eat your heart.”

5. Olivia and Daniel

OLIVIA WATCHED HER SILENT husband eat his food so quickly he could not have said what he had eaten. Then, without a word, he left the table and continued his isolation in his study. He pulled an atlas from a shelf. A map of Korea, of Vietnam. Wars, wars, wars. One inch equals one hundred miles. One inch equals ten miles. The scales were always different. Nothing was ever the same as it was before. He fixed himself a vodka Collins, sat down at the desk with his atlas, and switched on the radio. For reasons he could never explain to himself or anyone else, Daniel had been a fan of Truck Schultz’s since the early days. Daniel listened.

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 signed 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, until 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.

“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 across 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?

“What 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.

“And now, the dreams of one individual, Edward Letterman, have been murdered. The dreams of a young boy, Mark Jones, have been slaughtered. The dreams of a young man, Justin Summers, have been destroyed.

“And yes, the dreams of David Rogers have also been murdered. What were his dreams? He dreamed of being an English teacher. He dreamed of marrying. He dreamed of having children, of watching them grow into capable young adults. He dreamed of a nice house, two cars in the garage, and a dog named Fido. He had the same dreams as you and I, folks, the same dreams, and the Indian Killer has taken them away. And who is this Indian Killer?

“He’s a coward, obviously. But he’s more than that, much more. I want to tell you a story, folks. It’s about Marcus and Narcissa Whitman, two of the first missionaries who ever brought God’s word to the Indians. You see, the Whitmans worked with some of the tribes over in the eastern part of the state. Tribes like the Yakama and the Spokane, the Palouse and the Cayuse. But it all seemed to be such a hopeless task. The Indians were Godless people. They were savages, folks. Let’s not deny it. Let’s not pretend to be politically correct. Oh, sure, a few enlightened Indians did convert to Christianity and lived full lives, but their fellow tribal members often butchered them. Most of the Indians refused to listen to the Whitmans. They refused to attend church. In fact, in a combined effort to save the Indians from themselves, the Whitmans and the U.S. Army sent Indian children away from their parents to attend missionary boarding school.

“Now, I know this could sound like a cruel act, but we must remember that the Whitmans were good people with a good purpose. Yet, even though Indian children were given the benefit of a wonderful religious education, they refused to learn. This is a fact, folks. The Indian children would often turn their desks away from the Whitmans and face the back of the room. The Indian children refused to speak English. They refused to give up their superstitions. They continued to practice their primitive religions. What were the Whitmans to do?

“Well, if you remember your history, you will recall that many Indians died of smallpox epidemics in the early days of this country. Smallpox was new to the Indians and they didn’t have any natural immunity. That’s a tragic fact, folks. But many revisionist historians would have you believe that we gave smallpox to the Indians on purpose. Many liberals would have you believe that we used smallpox as a weapon against the Indians. What trash! That’s like saying I’m guilty of assault if you catch a cold after shaking my hand. Am I right or am I right?

“But, back to the point: the Whitmans knew about the Indians’ terrible ordeal with smallpox. They knew about the Indians’ mortal fear of smallpox. For Indian children, smallpox was like the bogeyman. Now, I don’t fully agree with the Whitmans’ next move, but they were desperate. All of their efforts to help the Indians had been foiled time and time again. What the Whitmans did was this: they built a box from scrap wood and painted it black. Now this box was about the size of a hat box. Not too big, not too small. The Whitmans set this box in front of a class full of Indian children and told them it was filled with smallpox. The Whitmans told the Indian children the box would be opened if they refused to pay attention to their lessons.

“Yes, I know it was a hard thing for the Whitmans to do. They must have been tortured by their decision to use the box in that manner. But it provided much-needed discipline. The Indian children began to learn. They paid attention. If we only had such discipline today, we might not be graduating kids who cannot read, count to ten, or dissect a frog. Of course, the Indian children were not terribly bright, but the Whitmans persevered. Soon, the Indian children had learned enough valuable lessons to go back to their tepees and try to teach their parents, too. This is where the trouble started. The Indian parents were shocked by their children’s knowledge. The Indian children were growing beyond their parents, and their parents couldn’t stand it. They rose up against the Whitmans and slaughtered them. Marcus Whitman was tied to a tree and burned alive. Narcissa Whitman was raped by hundreds of Indian warriors before she died of fright.

“It’s all true, folks, you can look it up. Now, what does this all mean? I know you want to know, and you know that I have the answers. You see, those Indians refused to be helped, even when evidence of their children’s progress was placed in front of them. Those Indians responded in the only way they knew how to respond: with violence. And now it’s happening again. Despite all that we have done to help the Indians, they have refused to recognize it. They have refused to recognize how well we have educated them, how well have we fed them, how well we have treated them. To this day, they have responded to our positive efforts in the only way they know: violence.

“This Indian Killer is merely the distillation of their rage. He is pure evil, pure violence, pure rage. He has come to kill us because we have tried to help him. He has come to kill us because his children have moved beyond him. He has come to burn us at the stake. He has come to violate our women. When the Indians attacked the Whitmans, that missionary couple refused to fight back because they were pacifists. They died as honorably as they lived. But no matter how honorable they were, they died horrible deaths. We cannot allow this to continue. We must defend ourselves, our families, our homes. We must arm ourselves and repel further attacks on our great country. I regret to say that many white people stood back and did nothing when Marcus and Narcissa Whitman died. Ten years from now, when people ask you what you did when the Indian Killer was attacking, what will you say? A hundred years from now, when your grandchildren read about the Indian Killer, what will the history books say about you?”

13. Anger

AARON FLOPPED ON THE living room couch and screamed loudly.

“What the hell was that about?” asked Sean, trying to study at the desk in the living room. In the secondhand recliner, Barry sat and read the latest Tom Clancy novel.

“Let’s go fuck somebody up,” said Aaron.

His roommates ignored him. He got up from the couch and turned the radio up to a painful volume.

“I’m trying to study,” said Sean, whose soft, serious face contrasted sharply with his muscular body.

“It’s Truck time,” said Aaron as he tuned the radio to KWIZ. Sean pretended not to hear Aaron, but Barry threw his paperback across the room. Truck spoke. That was how David Rogers’s brother and roommates learned about the latest murder. Less than twenty minutes after they heard the news, Aaron and Barry were in downtown Seattle beating an old Indian named Lester, while Sean sat in the back seat of Aaron’s Toyota 4Runner and watched it happen. The old man wrapped his arms around his head and lay on the ground while Barry kicked him. The three white boys hadn’t even bothered to wear their ski masks this time. But Aaron’s face was so contorted with rage he looked like a different person.

“Get up, you fucking squaw!” shouted Aaron. He had a bloody nose from a wild haymaker. Lester, who had won quite a few bar fights in his youth, had managed to land that first punch. After that, Aaron kicked Lester in the groin so hard that he lifted the old Indian out of his shoes. With all the fight kicked out of him, Lester had just fallen to the ground and covered up, hoping they would not send him to the hospital. Living on the streets, he had been beaten quite a few times. It was part of the territory. The cops would be along eventually to break it up. Sometimes a few bystanders jumped into the action and stopped it. With this Indian Killer thing happening, Lester was surprised that this was the first bunch of white guys to jump him. He was also surprised that he had somehow lost his shoes.

“Get up! Get up!” shouted Aaron, totally out of control. Barry had stopped kicking the old man, but Aaron was now trying to pick him up to deliver more punishment.

“He’s had enough,” said Barry. “We’ve got to go. The cops will be here soon.”

Barry dragged Aaron away from the old man. They hustled into the 4Runner and raced away from the scene. They pulled into a parking lot near Pike Place Market a few blocks away.

“Fuck, yeah,” said Aaron. “That felt good.”

“Your nose is bleeding,” Sean said to Aaron.

“What?” Aaron wiped his face and saw blood on his hand. “Fucking squaw got lucky with the first punch, didn’t he?”

Barry laughed nervously. Sean felt sick to his stomach.

“Let’s go get us some more,” said Aaron.

“Maybe that’s enough,” said Sean.

“Are you talking to me, you pussy?” Aaron bellowed at Sean, who looked shocked. “Yeah, you pussy. I want to go kick some more Indian ass.”

“Hey, Aaron,” said Barry. “Maybe that is enough? I mean, we’re going to get caught. We’re not even wearing our masks.”

“I’m not going to do it anymore,” Sean announced. “We put those other Indians in the hospital. And this sure isn’t helping David anyway.”

Barry also wanted to stop, but he was afraid of Aaron’s reaction.

“Fuck that,” said Aaron. “The police aren’t going to do anything. Hell, the police are probably beating the shit out of Indians, too. And David would’ve wanted us to do this, man. It’s for him.”

“Listen to yourself,” said Sean. “Do you believe what you’re saying?”

Aaron leaned over and punched Sean in the forehead. Barry shrank back in fear.

“Do you hear me?” asked Aaron. “Do you hear me, you pussy? I’m saying those fucking Indians killed David.”

Sean was crying.

“I always thought you were a pussy,” said Aaron. “Look at you. Big as a fucking house, but you’re just a pussy. All fucking righteous now, aren’t you? You weren’t so righteous when we started this, were you? Now, you decide. We’re going to go kick some more ass, aren’t we?”

Aaron looked at Barry, who hesitated briefly before agreeing.

“See,” Aaron said to Sean. “Barry’s with the program. Now, are you with us or are you against us?”

“That old man didn’t do anything,” said Sean.

“He’s Indian,” said Aaron. “That’s enough. Now, I’ll ask you one more time. Are you with us or against us?”

Sean looked at Barry, who avoided eye contact, then back to Aaron, who made a fist.

“Get the fuck out of my truck,” Aaron said. “You’re done. You hear me? You’re done.”

Sean opened his door and stepped out. As the 4Runner pulled out of the parking lot, Sean touched his bruised forehead. He found a pay phone and called a cab, which took him to the Fourth Precinct.

14. A Conversation

“MOM, IT’S ME, REGGIE.”

“Oh, my God, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. How’s Bird?”

“He’s in chemo. It’s not going well.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. He’s asked about you. He watches television. He worries about you with this Indian Killer running around. He’s really sorry for everything.”

“Listen, I hate to ask, but do you got any money?”

“Reggie, aren’t you scared? Has anybody tried to hurt you?”

“Nobody can hurt me, Mom.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah, Bird would know about that, wouldn’t he?”

“He’s changed, Reggie, he really has.”

“Sure, sure. Hey, Mom, you know about the Battle of Steptoe Butte?”

“What about it?”

“Yeah, you remember how all those Spokane Indians had those Cavalry soldiers surrounded? Trapped up on Steptoe Butte? It was, what, 1858?”

“There were other tribes besides the Spokane there.”

“Yeah, well, we Indians had them white guys trapped. Had them surrounded and what did we do? Those white guys were completely and totally helpless. And we let them go.”

“What are you trying to say, Reggie?”

“I don’t know, Mom. Maybe Indians are better people than most. I just need to know if you got any money.”

“I’m broke, Reggie. You could ask Bird. He’d like to talk to you.”

“That’s okay, Mom. Listen, I got to go. See you.”

“Wait, Reggie. Wait. Reggie? Reggie?”

15. Mother

WILSON SAT IN HIS pickup outside John Smith’s apartment building in Ballard. There were too many shadows. A man could hide in a dozen different places on this block and not be seen until it was too late. Wilson was excited. He could feel John Smith’s presence.

According to the foreman, John Smith lived on the top floor. Wilson looked up and saw only one lit window in a top-floor apartment. Wilson checked the mailboxes. John Smith in 403. Hiestand in 402, Salgado in 401. Wilson tested the front door of the apartment building. Unlocked. A nonsecure building. Wilson took a deep breath. Wilson had no idea what John Smith would do when confronted.

Wilson slowly climbed the stairs, his bad knee aching with the effort. As a cop, he had been in many situations like this. A dark building, a potentially dangerous suspect somewhere up the stairs. It was never as dramatic as the movies or books. No cats springing into the frame as a false scare. No extras scrambling for cover. Only the cop, the dark stairs, and the suspect. Wilson had always enjoyed the hunt.

Wilson reached the fourth floor. He passed by 401 and 402. At 403, he stood close and listened. He could hear vague noises from inside the apartment. Smith was home. Wilson debated his options. He could bust down the door with weapon drawn. He could stand away from the door and shout orders to Smith. Come out with your hands up! But what would he do after Smith came out? Wilson thought hard, then he shrugged his shoulders, and knocked politely on the door.

“John!” cried the woman who threw open the door, an action that caused Wilson to jump back and reach inside his coat. He stopped himself when he noticed the white woman standing in the doorway.

“Oh,” said Wilson, embarrassed at his obvious error. “I’m sorry. I was looking for John Smith.”

“This is John’s apartment,” said Olivia Smith. “He’s my son.”

Wilson was confused. This beautiful blond, blue-eyed white woman could not be the mother of an Indian man.

“My name is Olivia Smith.” Wilson’s confusion was familiar to Olivia from so many faces. She was always forced to offer explanations. “And he’s adopted.”

“Oh, I see,” said Wilson. “Is John home?” He noticed how her face was drawn and pale. She looked like she’d been crying.

“No, no. Are you a friend of his?”

“Uh, not really, no.”

Olivia, suddenly nervous, took a small step back into the apartment. She had her hand on the door, ready to close it quickly.

“What do you want with my son?” asked Olivia.

“Well, ma’am, my name is Jack Wilson. I just wanted to ask him a few questions about a book I’m working on.”

“Jack Wilson?” asked Olivia. She recognized the name because she still read every book about Indians she could find. “You write those murder mysteries, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

“Aristotle Little Hawk, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Wilson, flushing with pride.

“I like your books. You really get it right.”

“Thank you.”

Olivia invited Wilson into the apartment, feeling as if she somehow knew him simply because she’d read his books. She offered him a donut from a box sitting on the kitchen table. They were Seattle’s Best Donuts, but Wilson declined. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, while Olivia sat at the table.

“What kind of book are you writing, Mr. Wilson?” asked Olivia, falling back on politeness.

“It’s about the Indian Killer,” said Wilson.

“You can’t think John has anything to do with that?” asked Olivia, alarmed now.

“No, no. I was just doing some research when I heard about this Indian guy, your son, a high-rise construction worker. I thought it was interesting.”

“It’s the last skyscraper they’re going to build in Seattle.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Can you imagine that? When we think of cities, don’t we think of tall buildings? Now we have all these computers and things. People can work from anywhere. They don’t need to be bunched up in the same big buildings anymore. They don’t even need to be in the same country to work together anymore. Things change, don’t they?”

“Yes, they do.”

Olivia picked up a donut, nibbled at it, then studied it.

“John loves these things,” said Olivia.

Wilson looked around the room. It was spare and cluttered at the same time. Prints with Indian themes hung at strange angles on the walls. The bed was made haphazardly. Boxes of assorted junk were stacked neatly in every corner.

“Where is John?” asked Wilson.

“I don’t know,” said Olivia. “We’ve been looking for him for a long time.”

Wilson looked at Olivia’s left hand. Married to a rich man, judging by the size of the diamond. She wore the standard casual outfit for middle-aged white women in Seattle: a white T-shirt, blue jeans, black blazer.

“Do you have a family, Mr. Wilson?”

“No.”

“No wife?”

“No, never.”

Surprised, Olivia quickly studied Wilson’s features. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, middle-aged, a writer, probably intelligent. He should have been married a couple times by now. Then Olivia remembered that he had been a cop, and changed her mind. He must have lots of problems. She thought about asking him to leave, but decided that it did not matter. She couldn’t see how her troubles could get much worse.

“My son doesn’t even know I’m here, Mr. Wilson. He’d be angry if he knew I had a key to his place. He’s got some real problems, with me, and his father. He’s got problems with everybody. I’m not sure he’d even talk to you.”

“What kind of problems?” asked Wilson.

Olivia hesitated for a moment, then continued, too tired to maintain secrets.

“He’s got everything and nothing,” she said. “Every time we took him to a new doctor, there was something else wrong with him. But hey, he doesn’t drink or do drugs. He doesn’t even take the drugs that are supposed to help him.”

Olivia started to cry, got angry at herself for breaking down, and then cried even harder. Wilson took a step toward her, raised his hand as some sort of clumsy offering, and stopped.

“I’m sorry,” said Olivia, wiping her face with her hands. “I’m just so tired. I can’t sleep. I’m so scared. I keep thinking about this Indian Killer. Sometimes, I wonder. I think, maybe…”

Olivia closed her eyes, swallowed hard, trying to maintain her composure. When she had visited the donut shop just before trying John’s apartment, Paul and Paul Too had told her about John’s wild behavior.

“John was such a gentle boy,” said Olivia. “He wouldn’t even kill bugs. Really. Me, I’m terrified of spiders. Just phobic. I remember this one time, John couldn’t have been more than five or six years old, and I was cleaning the upstairs bathroom. I can remember it like it was yesterday, you know?”

Wilson nodded his head, and glanced at his watch.

“I even remember the song on the radio. The Beatles. That strawberry song, remember? I was singing with the radio, cleaning the bathtub, when this huge spider came out of the drain. I screamed like crazy. Daniel, my husband, was at work. It must have been summer because John was home. He heard my screaming and he came running, you know, to save Mommy. I was trying to smash that spider with my shoe when John came into the bathroom. He just screamed at me, ‘No, no!’ and then I smashed that spider flat.”

Wilson walked a few steps closer to Olivia, who seemed lost in the memory.

“Oh, God, he cried over that spider. Just bawled. Made me bury it in the backyard. We even had a funeral. Isn’t that funny?”

Olivia looked up at Wilson and smiled. He smiled and nodded his head.

“Mrs. Smith,” said Wilson. “He sounds like a good boy.”

“He was,” said Olivia. “He was.”

“You don’t have any idea where he is?”

Olivia sat up in the chair, wiped her face again, sensing Wilson’s impatience.

“No, Mr. Wilson, I have no idea.”

Wilson took the foreman’s photograph out of his pocket and showed it to Olivia.

“Is this your son?”

Olivia stared at the photograph of her son, his face empty and dark.

“That’s John,” she said.

Wilson tucked the photograph back into his pocket and turned to leave.

“Thank you, Mrs. Smith,” said Wilson as he opened the door.

“Mr. Wilson,” said Olivia just before he closed the door behind him.

“Yes.”

“If you see John, tell him to come home.”

Wilson left Olivia alone at the table. He raced down the stairs and jumped into his pickup. He figured he could find John or somebody who knew John at Big Heart’s. As he drove away, Olivia watched him from the apartment window. She knew that everything was going wrong, but she felt powerless to stop it. Her husband was probably asleep on the couch in his study. That’s how it must be. He had been too tired to walk up the stairs to bed, so he slipped off his shoes and pants, loosened his tie, and then curled up on the couch. He had probably called out to her, had not received a response, and had assumed she was asleep. That was how it must be. He was asleep on the couch, wearing a nice shirt and loosened tie. A decent man, he was probably dreaming about his son. Daniel twisting and turning in his sleep. All of it quickly becoming a nightmare. Olivia loved her husband. She watched Wilson’s pickup until it disappeared into the rest of the city. He drove north. Olivia looked south toward downtown Seattle and counted the number of streetlights. One, two, three, then ten, then more. She counted until there were none left to be counted, and then she began again.

16. Marie

MARIE AND BOO SET out to deliver their sandwiches on that last night. They drove from the Belltown shelter south toward Pioneer Square. A white van. Three traffic signals. Red light, stop. Green light, go. A stop sign that was mostly ignored. Intermittent wipers sweeping against the windshield every few seconds.

“You know,” Boo said. “You’re like the ice cream man in this truck. Remember how they used to play that music? Man, you could hear those trucks from miles away. We should hook some music up to this rig, don’t you think? We’d have homeless folks just chasing us down the street.”

Marie laughed. She stopped when she saw King staggering across the street. His face bloody. Marie helped King into the truck and saw that his wounds were not that serious. She bandaged him up with the first-aid kit. King told her that two white guys in a pickup had jumped him.

“Jeez,” King had said. “They would’ve killed me, I think. But some other white guys broke it up.”

Marie looked at King. She saw that blood and recognized it, knew that Indian blood had often spilled on American soil. She knew there were people to blame for that bloodshed. She felt a beautiful kind of anger. On the Spokane Indian Reservation, an old Indian woman grew violently red roses in the same ground where five Indian women were slaughtered by United States Cavalry soldiers.

17. Catholicism

SEATTLE POLICE OFFICER RANDY Peone turned from Denny onto Third in downtown Seattle and saw a barefoot old Indian man staggering down the street.

“Officer, Officer,” the old man slurred. “I want to report a crime.”

“What crime?” asked Peone.

“I’ve been assaulted.”

The old man’s face was a mess of cuts and bruises. His left eye would be swollen shut in the morning.

“Who assaulted you?” asked Peone.

“A bunch of white kids,” said the old man. “They stole my shoes.”

The officer looked down at the old man’s bare feet. They were stained with years of dirt and fungus. Peone figured the old man was delusional. Who would want to steal the shoes that had covered those feet? But the old man was in a bad state, and there had been a number of racial attacks since the Indian Killer case became public, and especially since that white kid had been kidnapped. Though the child was safely home now, the Indian Killer was still at large.

“What’s your name?” Peone asked the old man.

“Lester,” he said.

Peone climbed out of the cruiser, tucked the old man into the back seat, jumped back into the car, and radioed the dispatcher.

“Dispatch,” said Peone. “This is unit twelve. I’ve got me a drunk who needs a band-aid and bath. I’m taking him to detox.”

Peone was on his way when he passed John Smith kneeling on the sidewalk farther north on Third. John was singing loudly and had attracted a small crowd. He was also holding a pair of shoes that could barely be defined as shoes. Peone figured he had found the man who had beaten up the old guy and stolen his shoes. These two Indians were probably buddies and had fought over the last drink in the jug. He pulled up close to John and turned his flashing lights on. The red and blue distracted John from his singing. Peone looked at John. A big guy, thought the officer, who only briefly considered calling for backup.

“Hey, there,” Peone said as he walked up to John, who was still entranced by the flashing lights.

“He’s crazy,” said a guy from the crowd that had gathered. “He’s singing church songs.”

The crowd laughed. Officer Peone looked at John and wondered which mental illness he had. The Seattle streets were filled with the mostly crazy, half-crazy, nearly crazy, and soon-to-be-crazy. Indian, white, Chicano, Asian, men, women, children. The social workers did not have anywhere near enough money, training, or time to help them. The city government hated the crazies because they were a threat to the public image of the urban core. Private citizens ignored them at all times of the year except for the few charitable days leading up to and following Christmas. In the end, the police had to do most of the work. Police did crisis counseling, transporting them howling to detox, the dangerous to jail, racing the sick to the hospitals, to a safer place. At the academy, Officer Peone figured he would be fighting bad guys. He did not imagine he would spend most of his time taking care of the refuse of the world. Peone found it easier when the refuse were all nuts or dumb-ass drunks, harder when they were just regular folks struggling to find their way off the streets.

“Okay, okay,” Peone said to the crowd. “The show’s over. Let’s clear it out.”

Since it was Seattle, the crowd obeyed the officer’s orders and dispersed. John had forgotten about the flashing lights and was singing again, in Latin. Peone had been an accomplished altar boy way back when and recognized the tune. He could almost smell the smoke from the thousands of altar candles he had lit.

“Hey, chief,” said Peone. “You okay?”

John stopped singing and noticed Peone for the first time. He saw the blue eyes and blue uniform, the pistol and badge. Blue sword, scabbard, white horse. The bugle playing.

“He’s gone.”

“No, he’s not gone. He’s in the back of my car.”

John stood, walked over to the car, and looked inside. He saw the old Indian man. He threw the Indian’s shoes at the window. They bounced off the glass and landed on the sidewalk.

“That’s not Father Duncan,” said John.

“Who?” asked Peone.

“Father Duncan. He’s gone.”

Peone could see the terrible sadness in John’s eyes. The officer wondered where the Indian thought he was, and who he thought he might be. Probably a schizophrenic. He was big and strong enough to hurt a man, but Peone, through years of applied psychology lessons taken on the streets, knew that most schizophrenics rarely hurt anybody except themselves.

“Hey, big guy,” said Peone. “You been taking your medicine?”

“No,” said John. “They’re trying to poison me.”

“Is that why you hurt your friend?” asked Peone, pointing toward the old man in the back of the car.

“He’s not my friend. I don’t know him.”

“Really?” asked the officer. “Well, then, what happened to his face?”

“I don’t know,” said John.

Officer Peone knew he would have to take John to the hospital. He was obviously sick and needed help. He began to wonder if John might be dangerous, might be the Indian Killer. Why hadn’t he called for backup?

“Hey, chief,” said Peone. “Let’s you and me go for a ride.”

John, suddenly frightened, took a step back.

“You could be the devil,” John said to Peone.

“I could be,” said Peone. “But I’m not. Come on, why don’t I take you and your friend to the hospital. Get you both fixed up, okay?”

“I’m afraid,” John whispered, then he kneeled and began to pray. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name, thy Kingdom come, thy will be done…”

“On Earth as it is in Heaven,” continued Peone.

Surprised, John stared at Peone.

“Give us this day our daily bread…,” said Peone.

“And forgive us our trespasses,” said John, “as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation…”

“But deliver us from evil…”

“For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever.”

“Amen,” said John and Peone together.

John closed his eyes and pressed his head against his clasped hands. He was praying. Peone reached for his handcuffs. John heard the jangle of the cuffs and keys, opened his eyes, and panicked. He leapt to his feet and ran into an alley. Peone ran a few feet after John before he came to his senses. He climbed back into his car, told the dispatcher what had happened, and then shook his head.

“Indians,” whispered Peone.

“Yeah, Indians,” said Lester, the old man in the back seat. He laughed.

“What’s so funny?” asked Peone.

“Catholic cops are funny,” said Lester.

“You were listening?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Catholic Indians are funny.”

“There’s lots of Catholic Indians.”

“There’s lots of Catholic cops.”

The old man started laughing again. Peone had to laugh a little with him.

“So, tell me the truth,” said Peone. “Why did your friend beat you up? I thought you Indians took care of each other.”

“We do take care of each other,” said Lester. “But I don’t know that Indian and he didn’t beat me up. I told you. Some white guys did it. And stole my goddamn shoes.”

Peone stepped out of the car, grabbed the shoes, and threw them into the back seat with the old man.

“There’s your shoes,” said Peone when he was back in the car. He wondered how he would fill out the paperwork on this encounter. After his fellow officers heard about this, they would probably give him a nickname. Something like Altar Boy or Shoes. Peone smiled. He liked nicknames.

18. Last Call at Big Heart’s

WILSON WALKED INTO BIG Heart’s Soda and Juice Bar. There was a small crowd of forty or fifty Indians. They all stared at Wilson as he sat at the bar, where Mick had a glass of milk waiting for him.

“Slow night?” Wilson asked Mick.

“With Indians,” said Mick, “it’s never slow.”

Wilson sipped at his milk and looked around the bar. It felt changed. He studied the patrons as they studied him.

“Hey, Casper,” said Reggie, the Spokane. Ty stood behind him. “How Indian are you tonight?”

“Indian enough,” said Wilson. “Where’s Harley?”

“He’s missing in action,” said Reggie. “Tell me again, how Indian are you?”

“Indian enough.”

“Sure you are. How much Indian blood you got anyways? Maybe a thimble’s worth?”

“The blood don’t matter. It’s the heart that matters.”

Ty and Reggie laughed.

“What’s so funny?” asked Wilson.

“You know,” Reggie said. “I was reading a movie magazine last week and found out that Farrah Fawcett is one-eighth Choctaw Indian. Isn’t that funny?”

“I didn’t know that,” said Wilson.

“Yeah,” said Reggie. “That means she’s got more Indian blood than you do. If you get to be an Indian, then Farrah gets to be Indian, too.”

“If she wants to be.”

“You really think that’s how it works, don’t you?” Reggie asked Wilson. Reggie was heating up. “You think you can be Indian just by saying it, enit?”

Wilson shrugged his shoulders.

“June 25, 1876,” Reggie said.

“The Battle of Little Bighorn,” said Wilson.

“No white people survived that, did they?”

“Nope, just a Cavalry horse named Comanche.”

“Every horse is an Indian horse.”

Wilson nodded.

“We might let you be an Indian for an hour if you buy us a drink.”

Wilson bought the two Indians their drinks.

“Hey,” asked Wilson, with little subtlety. “You guys been following that Indian Killer case?”

“What about it?” asked Reggie.

“They found another body,” said Wilson.

Reggie looked at Ty, then back to Wilson.

“How do you know that?” Reggie asked Wilson.

“Well, I don’t like to talk about it, but I’m an ex-cop.”

“We know you’re an ex-cop,” said Reggie. “And you’re a writer, too. Now, tell us something we don’t know. You think we’re so stupid. I was a goddamn history major. I’ve studied books you wouldn’t know how to read. Jeez, you come in here always asking questions about how we live, what we eat, about our childhoods. Taking notes in your head. We know it. What do you do when you leave here? Dig up graves?”

Wilson was wide-eyed.

“Don’t be so surprised, Casper. You white guys always think you’re fooling us poor, dumb Injuns.”

“Well, uh, I, ah,” stuttered Wilson, trying to regain his composure. “I was down at the station. They found the body downtown. They think the Indian Killer did it.”

“Every time they find a white guy, how come they think the Indian Killer did it?”

Reggie stared hard at Wilson. Ty took a step back. Wilson could feel the tension in the room. He could see Reggie’s blue eyes darken with anger. As casually as possible, Wilson reached inside his coat, and kept his hand there. Wilson had known Reggie for a while, had sat with him, and had tolerated the insults. Wilson had thought it all in good fun, but now he wondered if he had been mistaken.

“You know an Indian guy named John Smith?” asked Wilson with just the slightest tremor in his voice.

Reggie shook his head. Ty made no response.

“I know him,” said a woman.

All three men turned to look at Fawn, who had been watching the confrontation, along with everybody else in Big Heart’s.

“Don’t talk to him, Fawn,” said Reggie. “He’s full of shit.”

Fawn ignored Reggie.

“I danced with John the other night,” Fawn said to Wilson. “He was kind of weird. Good-looking. But off, you know?”

Wilson took the photograph out of his pocket and showed it to Fawn. Reggie stepped closer to Wilson.

“Yeah, that’s him,” said Fawn. “See what I mean? Good-looking. But goofy.”

“You think he’s dangerous?” Wilson asked.

“John? No way. Reggie’s the dangerous one. Reggie and his dipshit sidekicks beat up John. Enit, Reggie?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Reggie said. “He’s a cop.”

“An ex-cop,” corrected Ty. Reggie silenced him with a rude hand gesture. Reggie took another step closer to Wilson, who reached further into his jacket. Reggie noticed and reached inside his jacket.

Nobody moved or said a word. Wilson looked around the room. The Indians stared at him with suspicion, bemusement, anger, and outright disgust. Wilson knew he had crossed some invisible boundary. His presence in the bar had been tolerated only because he had agreed to the terms of an unwritten treaty. Now he had broken the rules and smashed the treaty into pieces. Wilson could hear the alarms ringing in his head. He was not surprised that they sounded like drums. With his hand inside his jacket, he edged toward the door.

“You ain’t being so friendly now, Casper,” said Reggie, cutting off Wilson’s path to the door. Wilson glanced at Ty, who took a few steps backward. Good, thought Wilson, he was not going to get involved. Yet Wilson still felt like an idiot. He knew he had taken everything for granted. He was all alone in a hostile place.

“You think you’re so smart,” said Reggie. “You come in here acting all Indian, thinking you fit in, thinking you belong. I got news for you, Casper. We only let you hang around because it was fun to pitch you shit. You just ate all of that shit up and swallowed it down. You just took our shit and bought us drinks. We’ve been playing you hard, Casper. You don’t belong here, man, you never did.”

“Reggie,” said Wilson, searching for a way out. “I’m trying to decide if you’ve got a gun in your jacket. Maybe a blade instead. Or maybe you’re bluffing. Maybe it’s just your wallet. Or your comb. And I bet you’re wondering what I have my hand on, aren’t you? Do I have a knife, a pistol? I’m an ex-cop. I got to have a piece, right? Now, I was never Billy the Kid when I was working, and I’ve gotten older and slower, but I’m willing to bet that I’m fast enough to beat you. What do you think?”

With his hand inside his jacket, Reggie smiled at the mystery writer. Wilson was old and fat. He limped. He was going bald. Reggie smiled. Very slowly, he pulled his empty hand out of his jacket and showed it to Wilson.

“How, white man,” said Reggie in a sternly cinematic Indian voice, which caused the whole bar to break into laughter. One small battle was over. Suddenly the victor because he had shamed Wilson, Reggie triumphantly stepped out of Wilson’s way. With his hand still inside the jacket, Wilson edged toward the exit. He saw the smiling faces of the Indians as he backed out of the bar. Fawn was shaking her head. As the door closed behind him, Wilson heard the entire bar erupt into laughter.

19. Running

JOHN RAN UNTIL HE COULD barely breathe. He ran down the alleys into the dark beneath the Alaskan Way Viaduct. He thought he might find safety there among the other Indians. But John could not find any Indians. He walked by the loading dock near Pioneer Square and found no Indians. From beneath the Viaduct, he peered north up toward the Union Gospel Mission and saw no Indians waiting to enter. No Indians in Occidental Park. No Indians among the homeless sleeping in cardboard houses down near the ferry docks. All the Indians had left the city and deserted John. He reeled with shock and fell to the ground. He pounded the pavement with his fists. He set his forehead against the damp cement and tried to quiet the noise in his head.

John was still prone on the ground when the 4Runner pulled up next to him. Aaron and Barry quickly climbed out of the pickup and jumped John, who curled into a fetal ball as protection. John could hear nothing now except the thud of boots against his body and the attackers’ violent exhalations of breath. There were no voices, no music, no wind or rain. He heard neither the sudden screeching of brakes nor the shouted curses when Marie pulled up in her sandwich truck and confronted the white boys who were beating him.

“Hey, hey, get away from him!” shouted Marie. She held a butter knife in her left hand.

Aaron and Barry stopped beating John long enough to look at Marie. She was a tiny Indian woman holding a butter knife, for God’s sake, and she was all alone.

“Get the fuck out of here,” threatened Aaron. Then he recognized Marie from his brother’s Native American literature class. “Oh, you fucking bitch. You’re next, you’re next.”

Barry heard something new and more dangerous in Aaron’s voice.

“You heard me,” said Marie, her voice steady and strong. “Get away from him.”

Aaron looked down at John, who was still curled into a ball. He looked back at Marie.

“Fuck you,” Aaron said and took a step toward Marie. She held the butter knife out in front of her.

“That’s all you got?” asked Aaron as he took another step closer to Marie.

Marie smiled.

“What you smiling at, bitch?”

She was still smiling when Boo opened the back door of the sandwich van and three Indian men and three Indian women stormed out. They were a ragtag bunch of homeless warriors in soiled clothes and useless shoes. But when John looked up from the ground, he saw those half-warriors attack the white boys. The Indians were weak from malnutrition and various diseases, but they kicked, scratched, and slapped with a collective rage. John wondered how those Indians could still fight after all they had been through. He had seen Indians like that before, sleeping in doorways, on heating vents outside city hall, in cardboard condominiums. He did not understand their courage, how they could keep fighting when all he wanted to do was close his eyes and fade into the pavement. The fight was quick and brutal. Two Indian men, clutching their stomachs, had fallen to the pavement. One Indian woman with a bloody mouth leaned against a car. Barry and Aaron fought their way through the remaining Indians and into their pickup.

“Get us out of here!” shouted Barry, who would notice his missing teeth later in jail. Aaron, who would notice the broken bones in his right hand when he fought the police officer who’d come to arrest him, dropped the car into gear and nearly ran over an Indian man as he careened off another car, jumped a curb, and drove away.

The Indians were celebrating their victory as Marie knelt beside John.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

John rolled over and looked up into Marie’s eyes.

“John?” She was surprised. His face was battered and bruised.

He nodded his head.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded his head.

“Hey, help me out here,” Marie called to the others. They carried John to the sandwich van and set him inside. The rest of the Indians climbed in and pulled the door shut behind them. The men were loudly celebrating, exchanging high fives and hugs. Boo, Indian-for-a-day, screamed triumphantly and pumped his fists into imaginary enemies, shadowboxing with his whole life. Marie sat in the driver’s seat, resting her head on the steering wheel. She wanted to cry. She was shocked by her anger, and how much she had wanted to hurt those white boys. Nearly blind with her own rage, she had wanted to tear out their blue eyes and blind them.

“Did you see them run?” asked Crazy Robert. “They ran like Custer, cousins, they ran like Custer.”

Joseph, holding his bruised belly in pain, laughed loudly.

“The Indians won again!” shouted King, forgetting that Indians had never won anything in the first place. The Indian men hugged one another, laughed into one another’s faces, eyes brighter and wider than they had been in years.

Boo, who had been busy punching the shadows, now sat quietly in his chair. The Indian men had forgotten he was there. Boo looked down at his hands.

Agnes and Annie were tending to Kim’s bloody mouth. Agnes held a handful of Kim’s teeth.

“Hey!” Agnes shouted. “We got to get her to a hospital!”

Her green eyes electric with pain, Kim stared up at Agnes and Annie, and tried a toothless smile.

“We did it,” said Kim.

“Did what?” asked Agnes.

There was no answer to that question.

“Marie!” shouted Annie. “We got to go!”

Marie sat up in the driver’s seat, looked back at her passengers. John had struggled to a sitting position.

“John,” said Marie. “You should lie down.”

John looked at Marie. He saw the large eyes, the long, black hair, and those crooked teeth. He noticed that her glasses were missing. Probably knocked off her face during the fight. Scratch marks across her forehead and cheeks. The glasses were probably broken, lying on the street outside, in pieces and fragments.

“John?” asked Marie, wanting to ask a question, but unsure what she wanted to know.

The other Indian men had stopped celebrating to watch John. The Indian women watched him, too. John could see his face in their faces, the large noses and cheekbones, the dark eyes and skin, the thin mouth and prominent chin, white teeth. He looked into the faces of these Indians who had saved him.

King, the failed college student, who walked the shelves of the Elliott Bay Book Company, picked out a book at random, and read a few pages a day until he finished it. Joseph, the recluse, who always wore a pair of nonprescription sunglasses, kept a hand drum hidden in the brush near the freeway, and would still sing old tribal songs. The newspaper man, Crazy Robert, who was a reporter for the Seattle Times when he was twenty-five and homeless by the time he was thirty-five. Obese in his youth, Robert had become impossibly thin. And the women. Agnes, who kept a menagerie of stray dogs and scavenger birds, spoke in whispers. Green-eyed Kim, the angry one, the nurse who had spent ten years in prison for killing an abusive husband. Annie, with black hair that once flowed down to her knees, now knotted and tangled beyond repair. She used to sing standards in a Holiday Inn Lounge in Norman, Oklahoma.

John did not know any of these Indians, could know nothing of their backgrounds. He did not know why they had fallen apart or what small thread kept them tied together now. Despite all their pain and suffering, these Indians held together, held onto one another.

John looked into the eyes of those Indians. He looked into the eyes of Boo, the white man who had been forever damaged in a war. Boo and the Indians all had the same stare, as if they spent most of their day anticipating the sudden arrival of the bullet that was meant for them. John saw the bruises and blood. And wanted to talk, to finally speak. To tell them about Father Duncan and the desert, the dreams he had of his life on a reservation, and those rare moments when he had stood on tall buildings and seen clearly. But there was no language in which he could express himself.

John saw that Marie, the sandwich lady, was crying now, tears rolling down her face. Falling to the floor of the van, they would collect and fill up the world. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to get on his knees before her and confess all of his sins. He wanted to rest his head in her lap, feel her fingers combing through his hair, and hear her softly singing. Hush, hush, she would sing, everything will be fine in the morning. He wanted to tell her about the desert. He wanted to give her a gift for all that she had done.

“John,” said Marie, wanting him to speak. She could see him standing at the protest powwow, not wanting to owl dance, but forced into it by tradition. She could see him, with golf club in hand, standing over Wilson and the cab driver, then curled into the smallest possible version of himself as those white boys punched and kicked him. John looked at her, through her. Marie felt a sudden rush of heat. She could smell smoke. She could see an empty landscape, golden sand, blue sky, a series of footprints leading toward the horizon. She could see the dark figure of a man in the distance. He grew smaller and smaller. No matter how far or fast she ran, Marie knew that she could never catch him.

“Hey, man,” said Boo, trying to break the tension in the truck. The other Indians were silent and still.

John turned toward Boo, who could see the emptiness in the big Indian’s eyes.

“Hey, come on,” said Boo and offered John a sandwich. It was a small and ridiculous gesture.

John looked at the sandwich. He looked at the crippled white man, who had lost almost everything. He had lost his family, his home, his country, the use of his legs.

“Here,” Boo said again and held the sandwich closer to John.

“John,” said Marie, wanting John to accept Boo’s gift.

John heard Marie’s voice in the distance. He looked at the sandwich, that small offering. He closed his eyes and imagined his birth.

John hears the slight whine of machinery. He hears gunfire. Explosions. A bird cry. The machine closer now and louder. The whomp-whomp of blades as the helicopter descends. John hears it land on the pavement outside the van. John closes his eyes and sees the man in the white jumpsuit running across the pavement, holding a bundle of blankets in his arms. The white jumpsuit man wears a white helmet and visor that hides his face. Another white man and woman wait at the end of the street. They huddle together beneath a huge umbrella. The helicopter brings the rain. The man in the white jumpsuit holds the baby in his arms. Swaddled in blankets, the baby is warm and terrified. Beneath the umbrella, the man and woman wait. He is a handsome man, pale-skinned and thin. He grimaces, tries to smile, then grimaces again, awkwardly, as if the smile were somehow painful. She is a beautiful large-breasted woman with ivory skin and clear eyes. The man in the white jumpsuit runs to the man and woman beneath the umbrella, and offers them the baby swaddled in blankets. The baby is small, just days from birth, and brown-skinned, with a surprisingly full head of black hair. The white woman takes the baby and holds him to her empty breast. The baby suckles air. The white man pulls his wife closer beneath their shared umbrella. He tries to smile. The man in the white jumpsuit turns and runs back to the helicopter. He gives the pilot a thumbs-up and the chopper carefully ascends, avoiding power lines and telephone poles.

John opened his eyes and looked around the sandwich van. Everybody was quiet and still, waiting for him to speak or move. John, feeling unworthy and too ill to be healed, looked again at Boo’s small offering. Bread, blood. John could hear the helicopter floating away.

John knew that the man in the white jumpsuit was to blame for everything that had gone wrong. Everything had gone wrong from the very beginning, when John was stolen from his Indian mother. That had caused the first internal wound and John had been bleeding ever since, slowly dying and drying, until he was just a husk drifting in a desert wind. John knew who was to blame. If it had been possible, John would have reached out, lifted the visor, and seen the face of that man in the white jumpsuit. John knew he would have recognized the curve of the jaw and the arrogant expression. John had seen it before.

Once more, Boo offered the sandwich to John, who this time shook his head at that smallest kindness. There was no time for kindness. John needed to be saved and John knew exactly which white man had to die for him. He moved to the back of the truck, opened the door, and stumbled to the pavement. He did not look back, afraid of what he might see, and nobody in the truck tried to stop him. Marie watched John go away. Her skin felt hot and dry. She wondered how it felt to kill a white man.

20. Radio Silence

TRUCK SCHULTZ LISTENED TO the police radio scanner. Dozens of calls. Bar fights, domestic assaults, arson. The Seattle Urban Indian Health Center had been firebombed. Two police officers had been ambushed by rock-throwing Indians. Random gunfire. Police were looking for a truck full of white kids who were attacking homeless Indians. After he’d announced that the Indian Killer was responsible for Edward Letterman’s death, all hell had broken loose. Worse than New Year’s Eve. Worse than a full-moon Saturday night. Truck was in awe of his own power. He had to speak. He leaned toward the microphone.

“I don’t think so,” said Officer Randy Peone as he stepped into the studio. He pointed a finger at Truck. “You ain’t got nothing else to say tonight. Not one damn thing.”

21. How It Happened

OUTSIDE THE TULALIP TRIBAL Casino, David Rogers was trembling. He was alone in the dark parking lot and was terrified. He had two thousand dollars in cash in his pocket and suddenly felt very vulnerable. As he tried to open his car door, he dropped his keys. He bent over to pick them up and he felt a hot pain at the back of his head, saw a bright white light, and then saw nothing at all.

When he woke, David was lying facedown on the back seat of an old Chevy Nova. Two white men, Spud and Lyle, first cousins, pulled David out of the Nova and dragged him through the woods to a clearing a hundred feet off the road. Still groggy, suffering from a severe concussion, David could barely focus on the two men. He looked down at the ground and saw a solitary flower. He wondered if it was a lily. He wondered if camas root grew there. He wondered how long it had been growing.

“He’s awake,” said Lyle.

“Holy crow,” said Spud as he counted the money again. “Little bastard was rich.”

“How much?”

“A lot, I think.”

David looked up at the cousins. He tried to think clearly. He wanted to tell them something about Hemingway.

“He’s seen our faces,” said Lyle.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Spud, thinking hard.

“You think anybody saw us take him?”

“Nah, those Indians can’t see for shit.”

Lyle and Spud laughed.

“What should we do with him?” asked Lyle.

“I don’t know. I guess we should shoot him.”

David tried to get to his feet. Spud pushed him backward and David sat down hard, his back against a fallen tree.

“He’s just a kid,” said Lyle.

“A rich kid.”

“That’ll be true.”

Spud pulled out his pistol, a.38 Special, and aimed it at David’s face. Lyle covered his face. Spud’s hand was shaking. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. A startled owl lifted from a nearby tree.

“Holy crow,” said Spud. “I killed him.”

“Yeah, he looks like he’s asleep.”

“Well, what should we do now?”

“I say we get the hell out of here.”

With that, Spud and Lyle climbed into their Chevy Nova, drove north through Canadian customs without incident, and into Vancouver. That same night, they lost the two thousand dollars in an illegal poker game, plus another thousand dollars in promises. When those promises couldn’t be kept, Spud and Lyle were driven to a secluded spot by a river and forced to kneel in the mud. With their hands tied behind their backs. Spud and Lyle pleaded for their lives but only the river listened, and it didn’t care.

Shot once in each eye, Spud and Lyle’s bodies were found by a hiker later that summer. David Rogers’s murder was never solved.

22. Testimony

“COULD YOU TELL US your name, for the record? And where you’re from?”

“Uh, my name is Sean Ward. I’m a student at the University of Washington. I’m from Selkirk, um, Selkirk, Washington. I need to, uh, talk about some things.”

“What do you need to tell us, Sean?”

“Well, this isn’t about just me. Yeah. It’s about my roommates, Aaron and Barry. Uh, that’s Aaron Rogers and Barry Church.”

“Yes?”

“Well, you see, we’re the guys in the masks. The ones who’ve been beating up Indians. We’re the baseball bats. Uh, yeah. We’re the masks.”

“Where are Aaron and Barry now?”

“They’re still out there, I guess. I left them earlier. I tried to get them to stop, but they wouldn’t.”

“Is that why you have that bump on your head?”

“Yeah, Aaron punched me.”

“Why are you telling us this?”

“I’m not sure, you know? I mean, I love those guys. Aaron and Barry. I mean, I think we started doing this for a good reason.”

“A good reason?”

“Well, uh, maybe it’s not a good reason. But people would understand, I think. You know that David Rogers? The guy who disappeared from the casino? He was our other roommate. I mean, David and Aaron were brothers. That’s what started us in, you know. It was for, uh, revenge.”

“How many people did you assault?”

“Well, there was the guy on the Burke-Gilman Trail. Then that couple on Queen Anne Hill. Then some homeless old guy earlier today. Uh, that makes it what, four people? Yeah, four.”

“Three of those people are still in the hospital. You almost killed them.”

“Yeah, I know. But, uh, I know you’re not going to believe me. You shouldn’t believe me. But I didn’t hurt anybody. I carried a bat and stuff but I never used it. It was mostly Aaron. Barry, too. But it was mostly Aaron. I made them quit, you know? I made Aaron stop hitting people. If I hadn’t been there, Aaron might have really killed somebody.”

“You’re in a lot of trouble, Sean.”

“I know.”

“Why’d you do this? What are you going to tell your parents? How are you going to explain this?”

“I don’t know. I mean, uh, it’s like this white-Indian thing has gotten out of control. And the thing with the blacks and Mexicans. Everybody blaming everybody. I mean, it’s like white people get blamed for everything these days. I mean, I know we did some bad stuff. I know it. I know what me and Aaron and Barry did was wrong. But it was anger. Frustration, you know? David disappeared, and we, uh, just lost control. I mean, somebody had to pay for it. Somebody was to blame for it. I don’t know what happened. I can’t explain it all. Just look around at the world. Look at this country. Things just aren’t like they used to be.”

“Son, things have never been like how you think they used to be.”

23. Dreaming

WILSON LEFT BIG HEART’S after his encounter with Reggie and drove home to his apartment on Capitol Hill. He wondered how he was going to fix things with Reggie and Big Heart’s. He had done so much for his fellow Indians. He had made the ultimate sacrifice. He wanted them to love him. He parked his pickup in front of the building, slowly trudged up the front walk, and checked his mail.

Isn’t that how it happened?

He loved his mail. There was none, of course, but he checked anyway. Then he walked upstairs, opened his door, and turned on the light. His apartment was as neat as always. The small table. Two forks, two spoons, two knives, two plates. The black-and-white photograph of his birth parents on the dresser. The foldout couch. It was cold in the apartment because Wilson always turned down the heat before he went out. Seattle was cold at night during the summer and winter. He was slightly chilled and wanted to climb beneath the covers and sleep for days. First things first, though. He brushed and flossed his teeth, undressed, and tossed his dirty clothes into the hamper.

Isn’t that how it happened?

Then he slipped into his favorite pajamas and settled into bed. He could hear his neighbors turning in for the night. Running water, flushing toilets, creaking bed springs. It was very quiet. One police siren, then another, and a third. Cars on the freeway ten blocks to the west. Muffled conversation between two men walking down the street in front of the building.

Isn’t that how it happened?

In his bed, awake and wondering about the Indian Killer, about finishing the novel. He thought about John Smith, who, in Wilson’s mind, remained as unfinished as the novel. In the dark, Wilson could still see the photograph of John at the construction site. John’s fellow workers eat together, share a joke and common laughter, slap one another on the back. John sits back all by himself, his eyes dark and impenetrable. Wilson thought that a person driving down a road and coming upon a tunnel as dark as those eyes would stop, turn the car around, and go miles out of his way to avoid it. As it was, Wilson had tried to follow those eyes. Sitting with John’s mother, he had felt it when something left her body. Something solid and substantial. Following John’s eyes into Big Heart’s, he saw Reggie’s eyes, just as dark, but lit with a more volatile fire. Quicker to burn, easier to extinguish. Reggie was probably in Big Heart’s telling stories and laughing right now, reliving his encounter with Wilson, turning a potentially fatal conflict into a series of comic escapades.

Isn’t that how it happened?

Wilson was thinking about John Smith, then fell so quickly to sleep that he effortlessly slipped into a dream about Smith. He dreamed about Smith pushing that knife into the white man in the University District. He saw Smith slit the throat of the businessman. Then Smith was smiling as he lifted the young boy from his bed. Then Wilson saw himself with that knife. Wilson saw himself pushing the knife into one white body, then another, and another, until there were multitudes.

Isn’t that how it happened?

Then the dream changed, and Wilson was pulling up in front of his apartment building again. A brown hand reached through the open window of the truck and smashed Wilson’s head against the steering wheel. Stunned and barely conscious, Wilson slumped in his seat and somebody, a dark figure, reached inside Wilson’s jacket and took his weapon. Then the dark figure opened the door and pushed him out of the way. With Wilson stuffed under the dashboard, the dark figure sat quietly at the steering wheel, waiting to see if the commotion had attracted any attention. A police siren in the distance, but nobody shouted out. No lights suddenly appeared in the apartment building. No cars passed by. The dark figure started the pickup and slowly drove down Capitol Hill.

24. Testimony

“DR. MATHER, I HEAR you know who the Indian Killer is.”

“Well, Officer, I don’t know who the Indian Killer is, but I have some information you may find useful in your investigation.”

“And?”

“Well, it’s about a former student of mine, a Spokane Indian named Reggie Polatkin.”

“Any relation to Marie Polatkin?”

“Why, yes. They’re cousins. How do you know her?”

“She’s the Sandwich Lady.”

“Excuse me?”

“She delivers sandwiches to the homeless.”

“Really. I can’t imagine her in such a role.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she always seems so impulsive, so emotional. What’s the word I’m searching for? So individualistic. Not tribal at all. I mean, she actually threatened me with physical violence earlier today.”

“How did she threaten you?”

“She said she’d eat my heart.”

“Really? Marie Polatkin said that?”

“Yes, she did. Of course, I had to drop her from my class. I’m thinking of pursuing more serious charges against her.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that. Tell me more about her cousin.”

“Reggie? Well, as I said, Reggie is a former student of mine. We had a misunderstanding and he, well, he assaulted me.”

“Sounds like you and the Polatkin family have a problem.”

“I hardly find this amusing, Officer. I must protest your behavior.”

“Protest noted.”

“Officer, Reggie and I used to travel together. And we talked. Reggie had a very violent father. Very violent. A white man. I always worried that Reggie was going to hurt somebody.”

“Why were you worried?”

“Because he said he dreamed about killing people.”

25. The Last Skyscraper in Seattle

SLOWLY, WILSON WOKE AND made several attempts to open his eyes. His head ached and he could taste blood. He tried to reach up and touch his face to see how badly he was hurt, but discovered that he was tied to a wall. He could not move his arms or legs. He tested the ropes, but they held tight. How had this happened? Wilson wondered if he was still dreaming.

But Wilson was tied to a wall. His head did ache and his mouth tasted of real blood. He couldn’t move his arms or legs. He did test the ropes that held him. He stood eagle-armed, his wrists tightly secured to two-by-fours, his legs tied at the ankles to another two-by-four. All of the two-by-fours were part of a wall frame. Wilson looked around. By twisting his head, Wilson could see that he was tied to a wall frame in an upper floor of an unfinished downtown building. He could see the other frames that would hold the walls for the bathrooms and two large corner offices. He noticed frames for rows of smaller offices between corner offices. The elevators and shafts were finished, looked strange and out of place. Various saw-horses scattered here and there. A forgotten black metal lunch box near a power saw. An open metal door just north of Wilson. An unlit exit sign above it. Wilson tested the ropes. He could see through the wooden skeleton of the floor to the buildings that surrounded him. In one building, a janitor pushed a vacuum back and forth, back and forth. A police siren many floors below him. Then another siren, and a third, a fourth, blending into one long scream. Wilson could sense that somebody was standing behind him. Wilson knew that his shoulder holster was empty and that somebody behind him was holding the pistol.

“John?” asked Wilson.

“Yes,” John answered. Wilson twisted his head violently from side to side in an effort to locate him.

“John? Where are you? Let me see you, okay? Let’s talk, okay?” asked Wilson. John heard the fear in Wilson’s voice, even as he tried to bury it beneath layers of professional calm.

“John?”

John inched closer to Wilson and touched his arm.

“Hey, John, you scared me there. Why don’t you come out here where I can see you? We can talk, right? Why don’t we talk?”

John remained silent.

“Hey, John, I met your mom tonight. She’s a beautiful woman.”

John saw his Indian mother on the delivery table. She reached for her Indian child.

“Olivia, right? She really loves you, man.”

John saw Olivia, wearing only a towel, walking across a hardwood floor. Her hair wet, her damp feet leaving slight prints on the wood.

“She wants you to come home. Don’t you want to go home?”

Wilson waited as long as he could stand for a response. His voice broke.

“And what about your dad, John? What’s his name?”

I don’t have a father, John thought, but he saw Daniel dribbling a basketball in the driveway. Like this, Daniel was shouting, like this.

“Come on, John, talk to me. It’s okay. We can talk about it. Everybody will understand. I’ll make them understand. I’m a writer, John. What do you say?”

Silence. Wilson thought hard, trying to save his life.

“Listen, John, any Indian would kill a white guy if he thought he could get away with it. Which Indian wouldn’t do it? I’m an Indian. I know. There are a million white men I’d kill if they’d let me. Talk to me, John. Indian to Indian. Real Indians. I’ll understand.”

John heard the fear in Wilson’s voice now.

“Hey, remember up by my apartment? Remember when you had that golf club? Man, I thought you were going to beat my ass. Who were you with? That Indian woman, the one who hates me, right? Maria, Marie, Mary? What’s her name?

“I knew an Indian woman named Mary. Beautiful Mary. Back when I was a rookie. She lived on the streets, man, and I looked out for her. Really, I did. I was the only Indian cop on the force. The only one. Can you believe that? There aren’t many now, but I was the only one then. And I’ll tell you. It was hard work. They always gave me the shit jobs. Called me Chief and Tonto and everything else. Man, it was awful. But I took care of the Indians, you know? All those Indians who lived downtown? Just like now, huh? Lots of them. And Beautiful Mary was my favorite. I mean, I never told anybody this before, but I loved her. I mean, really loved her. I kept thinking we were going to get married or something. I thought we’d have little Indian babies, you know? But then she was killed. Raped and killed. They stuffed her behind a Dumpster. I just wanted to die, you know?”

John stepped forward and pressed the pistol against the back of Wilson’s head. Terrified, Wilson tried to think, not wanting the ultimate indignity of being killed by his own weapon.

“Please,” Wilson said as he struggled against the ropes. He was afraid of the pistol. He was begging for his life from the man he knew was the Indian Killer.

“Don’t hurt me,” Wilson said to John. “I’m not a white man. I’m Indian. You don’t kill Indians.”

26. Testimony

“MR. WILLIAMS, I’M SURE you know why you’re here, don’t you?”

“Call me Ty. And yeah, I figure it’s because of what we did to that white guy.”

“And who is this ‘we’ you’re referring to?”

“You know, Reggie and Harley and me.”

“Reggie Polatkin, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And Harley?”

“Harley Tate, man, he’s deaf. He’s a Colville Indian.”

“And where is Harley Tate now?”

“You mean you ain’t got him? And Reggie, too? I figured you had us all nabbed.”

“Nabbed for what, Ty?”

“For beating up that white guy on the football field. Well, I should say that Reggie really hurt him. Harley and I didn’t know that was going to happen. What was that white guy’s name. I read it in the papers, but I don’t remember.”

“Robert Harris.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Reggie took that guy’s eyes. But he’s doing okay, enit?”

“Mr. Harris is fine. But he says you tried to kill him.”

“Hey, I don’t know nothing about any murders. Yeah, I beat up on that white guy. But like I said, Reggie really hurt him. I didn’t want no part of that. You got to talk to Reggie about that.”

“You know where Reggie happens to be?”

“Nope.”

“Where were you this evening about ten o’clock, Ty?”

“I was at Big Heart’s, up on Aurora. I swear.”

“And where were Reggie and Harley at ten?”

“I don’t know, man. I mean, Reggie left after he almost got in a fight with Jack Wilson.”

“The mystery writer, Jack Wilson? The cop?”

“Yeah, he hangs around the bar a lot. He’s a Wannabe Indian.”

“Wannabe?”

“Yeah, you know, wants to be Indian.”

“I see, and what time did Reggie leave the bar?”

“I don’t know. About nine or so, I guess.”

“And you didn’t go with him?”

“No, I swear. There’s about a hundred Indians who’ll tell you I was in that bar until closing.”

“We’ll check on that. How about Harley?”

“Harley took off this afternoon and I ain’t seen him since. He and Reggie almost duked it out.”

“Does Reggie own a knife?”

“A knife?”

“How many times has Reggie used this knife on someone?”

“I don’t know anything about a knife. Hey, shit, this ain’t about that Indian Killer, is it?”

“You tell us what this knife is about.”

“Hey, man, you ain’t going to pin that Indian Killer stuff on me. I didn’t kill nobody. And Reggie didn’t kill nobody, either. I know Reggie. He’s smart. He went to college, you know?”

“We know. He beat up his professor. A great student.”

“I don’t know what that was about, man. Maybe Reggie was just trying to scare him. That professor put the whammy on him, you know? Got Reggie kicked out. Reggie was smart, man. I tell you. He didn’t kill nobody. You go ahead and run your tests. Get all the witnesses you want. But I didn’t kill nobody. Reggie didn’t kill nobody.”

“Do you own a knife?”

“Yeah, I got a Swiss Army knife, a butter knife, and a steak knife at home. Shit, yeah, I own knives. I have to eat, enit?”

“Did Reggie own a knife?”

“I don’t know, man.”

“And what about Harley Tate?”

“You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“And where is he?”

“Only Harley knows where Harley is.”

27. Decisions

“DON’T HURT ME,” WILSON said to John. “I’m not a white man. I’m Indian. You don’t kill Indians.”

John wondered if Wilson knew the difference between dreaming and reality. How one could easily become the other.

In his dreams, John saw his Indian mother standing on the porch as he drove away from the reservation. It was cold and rainy, as it would be on a day such as that. Or on another day, in another dream, his Indian mother on the delivery table, in all the blood, too much blood. She has died during his birth. An evil child, he destroyed his mother’s life as she gave him his.

Standing on the last skyscraper in Seattle, John was silent as the desert. The golden sand and blue sky. The long series of footprints leading to the horizon where that stand of palm trees waits. The wind beginning to blow. A storm approaching. Soon the sand would obscure the footprints and there would be no trace that anybody had come this way before.

John looked at the pistol in his hand and understood this was not the right thing to do. He dropped the pistol to the floor in front of Wilson, who was weeping. As Wilson continued to weep, the first ferry from Bainbridge Island docked at the wharf. Cars rolled off in orderly rows. Another jet passed by overhead, the nonstop from New York’s Kennedy Airport. Indian lawyers were already in their offices. Indian doctors were sound asleep. Wilson wept. Mick, the bartender, sat alone at the bar in Big Heart’s Soda and Juice Bar. He shuffled over to the jukebox, which was still playing songs that had been requested hours earlier, and pulled the plug. Olivia Smith stood quietly in the doorway of her husband’s study. He was asleep, crumpled on the couch, a detailed map of the United States propped open on his chest. She curled up close to her husband on the small couch. In a downtown garage, the street sweepers had just finished their shift and were contemplating a long day of sleep. Fog. Rain. Wilson wept. Rescue helicopters landed at Harborview Medical Center a few blocks east of the last skyscraper in Seattle. Mark Jones stood silently at the foot of his parents’ bed and watched them sleep. The ocean pounded against the shore. The alarm clocks were ringing, and workers, Indian and not, would soon fill the streets.

“What is it?” Wilson asked John. “What do you want?”

John stepped in front of Wilson. They stared at each other. John finally understood that Wilson was responsible for all that had gone wrong.

“You’re the one,” John said.

“What?”

“You’re the one who’s responsible.”

“For what?”

John reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife. A thin blade. John didn’t know if the blade would even cut Wilson. But if it worked, Wilson would bleed out all of his Indian blood, a few drops scattering in the cold wind. Then the rest of his blood, the white blood, would come in great bursts, one for each heartbeat, until there were no more heartbeats. John’s former co-workers would find the body when they stepped from the elevator. The foreman’s face would grow even more pale when he saw Wilson tied to the wall. The building would be haunted forever then. The foreman would finish the last skyscraper in the city and move on to his government job. He would be working on a freeway exit in the Cascade Mountains when he saw his first ghost. He would see Wilson, impossibly pale and bloodstained, walking down the freeway, his thumb out in hopes of a ride. Or John could cut Wilson’s throat and then carry his body back down to the ground. He could drop his body into the cement mixer and fire the mixer up. He could bury Wilson in the foundation and nobody would ever find him. John knew that every building in Seattle contained the bones of fallen workers. Every building was a tomb. John pressed the dull knife hard against Wilson’s throat.

“What is it?” Wilson asked. “What do you want from me?”

28. Leaving

REGGIE POLATKIN WALKED DOWN the country highway. A hundred miles from Seattle, a thousand miles away, maybe more, maybe less. The sky was cloudy. It could have been night or day. Fields on either side of the road, though the crop was indiscernible. A cold breeze. Dead skunk smell saturated the air. So isolated. Reggie was startled when the car suddenly pulled up. A red truck, smelling of exhaust and farm animals. Reggie leaned into the open passenger window and saw the driver, an elderly white man. Gray hair, gray eyes, blue overalls. Chewing-tobacco stains on his large teeth. The old man smiled when he spoke.

“Hey, do you need a ride?” asked the old man.

Reggie nodded, climbed into the truck. He looked at the smiling farmer.

“Where you headed?” asked the old man.

“I’m running,” said Reggie.

“I figured that.”

“You ever hear of Captain Jack?”

“Can’t say that I have. Was he a Navy guy?”

“Oh, no. He was a Modoc Indian. His real name was Kintpuash.”

“Are you Modoc?”

“Nah, I’m Spokane. Little tribe that didn’t do much fighting.”

“Was Captain Jack a fighter?”

“Oh, yeah. He led about two hundred Modocs from a reservation in Oregon and set up camp in northern California, where they were supposed to be. Modocs aren’t Oregon Indians. They’re California Indians. Yeah, old Captain Jack had about eight warriors and the rest were women and children. Anyways, the Cavalry came after Jack. Captain Jack ran from them and hid in these lava beds, you know? Great hiding places. Miles and miles of tunnels and mazes. Captain Jack and his people fought off the Cavalry for months, man.

“Man, there was this one Modoc named Scarface Charlie who attacked a patrol of sixty-three soldiers and killed twenty-five of them. All by himself. You hear me? All by himself.”

“He must have been quite the fighter.”

“He was, he was. But they couldn’t fight forever, I guess. They gave up. Captain Jack surrendered. I mean, he had all those women and children to worry about. So, Captain Jack surrendered and they hung him. They hung him, cut off his head, and shipped it off to the Smithsonian.”

“The Smithsonian Museum?”

“Yeah, can you believe it? They displayed Jack’s head like it was Judy Garland’s red shoes or something. Like it was Archie Bunker’s chair.”

“That’s a terrible story.”

“Yeah, isn’t it? And I’ll tell you what. Captain Jack should never have surrendered. He should’ve kept fighting. He should’ve kept running and hiding. He could’ve done that forever.”

“Is that why you’re running, son?”

“That’s right, old man, I’m not Captain Jack.”

“So, where you running to?”

Reggie pointed up the highway, pointed north or south, east or west, pointed toward a new city, though he knew every city was a city of white men.

29. Flying

“WHAT IS IT?” WILSON asked. “What do you want from me?”

“Please,” John whispered. “Let me, let us have our own pain.”

With a right hand made strong by years of construction work, with a blade that was much stronger than it looked, John slashed Wilson’s face, from just above his right eye, down through the eye and cheekbone, past the shelf of the chin, and a few inches down the neck. Blood, bread.

“No matter where you go,” John said to a screaming Wilson, “people will know you by that mark. They’ll know what you did.”

John touched Wilson’s face with his left hand and then looked at the blood on his fingertips.

“You’re not innocent,” whispered John.

John dropped the knife, turned away from Wilson, quickly walked to the edge of the building, and looked down at the streets far below. He was not afraid of falling. John stepped off the last skyscraper in Seattle.

John fell. Falling in the dark, John Smith thought, was different from falling in the sunlight. It took more time to fall forty floors in the dark. John’s fall was slow and precise, often stalled in midair, as if some wind had risen from the ground to counteract the force of gravity. He had time to count the floors of the office tower across the street, ten, fifteen, thirty, forty. Time enough to look up and find the one bright window in a tower of dark glass across the street. A figure backlit in the window. Time enough to raise his arms above his head, his feet pointing down toward the street, falling that way. The figure moved in the window above him. He had time to wonder if the figure was dancing. Or shaking with fear. Or laughter. Or tears. He had time enough to watch the figure grow smaller as he fell. Falling, fallen, will fall, has fallen, fell. Falling. Because he finally and completely understood the voices in his head. Because he knew the heat and music left his body when he marked Wilson. John was calm. He was falling.

He was still watching the shadow in the fortieth-floor window when he hit the pavement. It was quiet at first. His eyes were closed, must have closed on impact. He listened to the silence, felt a heavy pressure in his spine, and opened his eyes. He was facedown on the pavement. Pushing himself up, he felt a tearing inside. He stood above the body embedded in the pavement, small fissures snaking away from the arms and legs. The body in blue jeans, red plaid shirt, brown work boots, long, black hair. A fine dust floating. An anonymous siren in the distance, on its way somewhere else. He looked up at the building across the street. The window on the fortieth floor was dark. He knelt down and touched the body embedded in the pavement. Still warm. He pulled the wallet from the body’s blue jeans, found the photograph inside, and recognized the faces. He read the clipping about Father Duncan’s disappearance. He pulled the cash out of the wallet, let the wind take it from his fingers, watched it float away. The streetlights flashed red, flashed red. He tucked the photograph and clipping inside the wallet, slid it back into the pocket of the fallen man. John looked down at himself and saw he was naked. Brown skin. Muscles tensed in anticipation of the long walk ahead of him. He studied the other body as it sank deeper into the pavement. John stood, stepped over that body, and strode into the desert. Dark now, the desert was a different place. Colder and safer. An Indian father was out there beyond the horizon. And maybe an Indian mother with a scar on her belly from a Cesarean birth. She could know John’s real name. John wanted to find them both. He took one step, another, and then he was gone.

30. Testimony

“MS. POLATKIN, MARIE, CAN you tell us something about John Smith?”

“He wasn’t the Indian Killer.”

“Why do you keep insisting on this? We have the murder weapon, we have Jack Wilson’s sworn testimony. John Smith was the Indian Killer. Case closed.”

“Jack Wilson is a liar.”

“Have you seen Wilson’s face? He looks like a car wreck. I hardly think he deserves to be called a liar. Have you even read his book about all of this?”

“No.”

“You should. It’s a very interesting portrait of John Smith. You’d like it. Wilson says that Indian children shouldn’t be adopted by white parents. He says that those kids commit suicide way too often. You ask me, John’s suicide was a good thing.”

“Wilson doesn’t know shit about Indians.”

“Have you read Dr. Mather’s book?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Really? You’re in it, you know? And it’s not too flattering, I must say.”

“So what.”

“Mather thinks your cousin Reggie is the Indian Killer. He thinks you might have been a part of it, too.”

“I hardly knew Reggie. And if I’d been a part of it, Mather wouldn’t have enough fingers left to write a book.”

“Are you threatening Dr. Mather?”

“No, I’m speaking metaphorically.”

“Did you have anything to do with the killings?”

“No.”

“Did you have anything to do with Reggie’s assault of Robert Harris?”

“No.”

“Do you know where Reggie is?”

“No.”

“Do you know Harley Tate or Ty Williams?”

“No.”

“Do you know where Harley Tate is?”

“No.”

“Besides Wilson, you were the last one to see John Smith alive.”

“Yeah. So?”

“What did you two talk about? Did you make plans for the future?”

“We didn’t talk much at all. We were busy fighting off those white assholes.”

“Barry Church and Aaron Rogers?”

“Yeah, why aren’t you hassling them?”

“Barry and Aaron have their own troubles.”

“Yeah, what did they get? Six months in county jail?”

“Weren’t you in a class with Aaron’s brother? The one who disappeared?”

“Yes.”

“Aaron Rogers has indicated that you and David had a romantic relationship.”

“That’s a lie.”

“My, my, Marie. Is every white man a liar?”

“Every one so far.”

“So, what was the nature of your relationship with David Rogers?”

“We were in a class together. I talked to him a couple of times. He asked me out. I turned him down. He disappeared. They found his body. That’s my relationship with David Rogers.”

“I see. And did you know about the camas field on the Rogers’s farm? Did you know about their land dispute with the Spokane Tribe?”

“The Spokanes have land disputes with most everybody. And no, I didn’t know about David and the camas field.”

“Did John Smith kill David Rogers?”

“No.”

“How would you know that?”

“John Smith didn’t kill anybody.”

“Did you kill David Rogers?”

“No way.”

“Did you and John Smith have a romantic relationship?”

“No. Listen to me. John Smith was screwed up. He was hurting. He didn’t know up from down. He got screwed at birth. He had no chance. I don’t care how nice his white parents were. John was dead from the start. And now you’re killing him all over again. Can’t you just leave him alone?”

“John Smith is all alone now. And he won’t be hurting anybody ever again. It’s all over.”

“John never hurt anybody. And this isn’t over.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I just know.”

“What else do you know?”

“I know that John Smith didn’t kill anybody except himself. And if some Indian is killing white guys, then it’s a credit to us that it took over five hundred years for it to happen. And there’s more.”

“Yes?”

“Indians are dancing now, and I don’t think they’re going to stop.”

31. A Creation Story

A FULL MOON. A cemetery on an Indian reservation. On this reservation or that reservation. Any reservation, a particular reservation. The killer wears a carved wooden mask. Cedar, or pine, or maple. The killer sits alone on a grave. The headstone is gray, its inscription illegible. There are many graves, rows of graves, rows of rows. The killer is softly singing a new song that sounds exactly like an old one. As the killer sings, an owl silently lands on a tree branch nearby. The owl shakes its feathers clean. It listens. The killer continues to sing, and another owl perches beside the first. Birds of prey, birds of prayer. The killer sings louder now, then stands. The killer’s mouth is dry, tastes of blood and sweat. The killer carries a pack filled with a change of clothes, a few books, dozens of owl feathers, a scrapbook, and two bloody scalps in a plastic bag. Beneath the killer’s jacket, the beautiful knife, with three turquoise gems inlaid in the handle, sits comfortably in its homemade sheath. The killer has no money, but feels no thirst or hunger. The killer finds bread and blood in other ways. The killer spins in circles and, with each revolution, another owl floats in from the darkness and takes its place in the tree. Dark blossom after dark blossom. The killer sings and dances for hours, days. Other Indians arrive and quickly learn the song. A dozen Indians, then hundreds, and more, all learning the same song, the exact dance. The killer dances and will not tire. The killer knows this dance is over five hundred years old. The killer believes in all masks, in this wooden mask. The killer gazes skyward and screeches. With this mask, with this mystery, the killer can dance forever. The killer plans on dancing forever. The killer never falls. The moon never falls. The tree grows heavy with owls.