Indian Killer (27 page)

“Shit, when you going to learn,” Reggie spoke directly into the tape recorder. “My name is Black Kettle. And I’m alive right?”

The white man nodded agreement.

“Wrong,” Reggie said and kicked him. “I’m dead.”

The white man wept.

“Because you white bastards murdered me. You killed me on the Washita River in Oklahoma. You and that fucker Custer, remember?”

No response.

“Yeah, we were flying a U.S. flag above our village, remember? We saw you coming, your Seventh Cavalry, and my wife and I rode out to meet you, to ask for peace. And you shot us before we even spoke. Do you remember?

“And do you remember my camp on Sand Creek in Colorado four years earlier? Do you remember when you and Colonel John Chivington rode on our camp? Once again, we were flying a U.S. flag, and a white flag. We had no weapons, none, not one rifle. We were mostly women, children, and old people. And you rode in on us and killed three hundred. Do you remember? What’s my name?”

The white man wearily shook his head.

“It’s Black Kettle, you fucker,” said Reggie and punched the white man in the face, knocking him unconscious.

“Oh, shit,” Reggie said into the tape recorder. “He’s out.”

“That’s enough,” signed Harley. “Let’s get out of here.”

Ty agreed.

“Listen,” signed Reggie. “It’s over when I say it’s over.”

Reggie shook the white man until he came to.

“What’s your name?” Reggie asked him and he grunted something through his gag.

“No, that ain’t it,” said Reggie. “Your name is Truck Schultz.”

The white man was skinny, with an unkempt goatee. He was extremely near-sighted but had lost his glasses somewhere during the struggle with Reggie, Ty, and Harley.

“Aren’t you a white-trash asshole named Truck Schultz?” Reggie asked. “What do you think? You like that name?”

The white man shook his head.

“Really? You don’t like that name? You are positive that’s not your name? You sure?”

The white man nodded.

“Damn, you white guys look alike.” He signed to Ty and Harley. “Don’t they look alike?”

Ty and Harley nodded. Reggie kneeled down beside the white man.

“You ain’t Truck Schultz, huh?” said Reggie. “Well, you look like one of those professor types. Are you a professor? I mean, with that fucking goatee, you look like a professor. Are you sure you’re not? Speak into the mike, man.”

The white man grunted and nodded his head.

“I’m really sorry,” Reggie whispered. “I guess I confused you with someone else. Can you ever forgive me?”

The white man nodded.

“Really? That’s so kind of you,” said Reggie. “I mean, we’re all human, right? And we make mistakes, don’t we? I mean, we were looking for a white-trash asshole named Truck Schultz, and it looks like we got ourselves a whole different white-trash asshole, right?”

The white man vigorously nodded his head.

“Well, then,” said Reggie. “Let’s say we make a deal. How about I promise to let you go if you promise to keep all this between us. Does that sound okay?”

“Hm-huh, hmn-huh,” the white man agreed through the handkerchief in his mouth.

“You promise?” Reggie asked as he dropped the tape recorder into a pocket. He then placed his hands on either side of the white man’s face, leaned in close as if he was going to kiss him, and forced his thumbs into the white man’s eyes. The white man screamed as Reggie dug into his eyes, searching for whatever existed behind them. The white man fainted from shock and pain. Stunned, Harley and Ty let go of the white man’s arms and stepped back. The white man flopped facedown into the grass and did not move.

“What did you do?” Ty asked.

“I took his eyes,” Reggie said, genuinely surprised by Ty’s question.

Harley looked down at the white man’s body, then at Ty and Reggie, and ran away. Ty soon followed, and Reggie kicked the white man once more before chasing after his friends.

W
ILSON WAS EXCITED ABOUT
his reading, and worried that news of the Indian Killer would make the bookstore cancel. But Ray Simmons, the readings coordinator, who somehow found the time and energy to schedule over three hundred readings a year, had assured Wilson that it was going to happen. The Elliott Bay Book Company was a beautiful store in the heart of Pioneer Square, just a few blocks from the Alaskan Way Viaduct and the waters of Elliott Bay itself.

There was another side to the coin, though. Because of the proximity of the water, and because the Elliott Bay’s basement was actually below sea level, rats had often been seen darting through the store. Wilson had never laid eyes on the rats but had heard rumors that they were often mistaken for small dogs. It was said that Elliott Bay’s owners had once bought a small battalion of cats to take care of the rats. One night, after closing, they had released the cats into the store. When the store had opened early the next morning, the cats had disappeared. It was a wonderful rumor and, if true, more proof that Elliott Bay was a great bookstore. Wilson certainly would have hated it if rats lived in his building. Yet he believed the rats, or the rumors of rats, belonged at Elliott Bay, and gave the place mystery as well as beauty.

Wilson decided to take a taxi to the bookstore for his reading. It would save time and energy, he told himself, an excuse for arriving in as formal a manner as he could afford. Wilson, waiting outside his building when the cab pulled up, immediately recognized the driver, Eric. As an ex-cop, Wilson knew a lot of cab drivers, all kinds of emergency room doctors, and many bar owners.

“Hey, Wilson!” shouted Eric, who apparently had no control over the volume of his voice or any idea that he always yelled.

“Hey, Eric,” said Wilson as he climbed into the cab.

“Where to?”

“Elliott Bay bookstore.”

“So, you got a reading, huh?” asked Eric. He was a frustrated writer himself who found Wilson particularly interesting, although he had never told Wilson that. “You going to read from one of your old books or something new?”

“I don’t know.”

Eric and Wilson lapsed into silence for five dollars’ worth of city streets, down Capitol Hill to Pioneer Square.

“Hey!” shouted Eric. “You hear about that Indian Killer?”

Wilson nodded.

“Three’s the number, I guess! Two white guys and a little white boy! Indian Killer got them all!” shouted Eric. “It’s about time!”

“The police don’t think David Rogers was murdered by the Indian Killer.”

“Well, whatever, it’s about time!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, those Indians always get the raw end of the deal! It’s about time for some payback, don’t you think? I mean, there’s all sort of stuff going on! One Indian guy got jumped by white guys with baseball bats! And an Indian couple were about killed by the same guys on Queen Anne Hill! They’re in the hospital. One white guy got beat up by three Indians up on some football field!”

Wilson leaned back heavily in his seat.

“Hey!” said Eric. “You got some Indian blood, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well!” said Eric. “Aren’t you happy about this? I mean, it’ll teach white people not to mess with Indians anymore! I mean, I’m a white guy and I’m not about to mess with Indians now! Not that I ever did to begin with! I mean, Indians are cool, don’t you think?”

Wilson did not respond.

“Hey, Wilson!” said Eric after a long while. “You okay?”

Wilson did not even hear Eric’s question. He was lost in his thoughts, wondering if he could finish his Indian Killer novel before some hack wrote a cheap paperback. Wilson could just imagine the cover of that hack book: an obscenely muscular Indian, bloody knife in his hand; a beautiful white woman in a ripped dress; a horse. It would be called
Savage Revenge
or
Apache Vengeance
. Whatever the hack book was called, Wilson knew it wouldn’t be as serious as his.

Wilson was still thinking about his book when Eric pulled up in front of the Elliott Bay Book Company. A crowd of Indians was milling about at the entrance.

“Hey!” said Eric. “Looks like you’re being protested!”

A dozen Indians marched in a circle. They carried picket signs that said things like
WILSON IS A FRAUD
and
ONLY INDIANS SHOULD TELL INDIAN STORIES
. A handful of non-Indian spectators had gathered to watch the protest. A few people crossed the picket line and entered the bookstore. A local news reporter was interviewing one particularly vocal Indian woman.

“Why exactly do you dislike Wilson’s work?” asked the reporter, a generically handsome white man.

“Wilson is a fraud,” said Marie Polatkin. “He claims to be Indian, yet has no documentation to prove it. His novels are dangerous and violent.”

“Do you think his novels might have an influence on the Indian Killer?”

“I don’t know,” said Marie. “But I do think books like Wilson’s actually commit violence against Indians.”

Wilson paid Eric, stepped out of the cab, and walked toward the bookstore. He wanted to ignore the whole situation, but the reporter abandoned Marie and deftly intercepted him.

“Mr. Wilson,” said the reporter. “Many people in the Indian community dispute your claim of being Indian. In fact, some think that your books may encourage violence. They say your books might be a prime motivating factor for the Indian Killer. How do you respond to that?”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Wilson. “I’m an ex-cop and I happen to be a member of the Indian community. I am a Shilshomish Indian.”

“Bullshit, bullshit!” chanted the protesters.

Wilson tried to enter the store, but the reporter grabbed his elbow.

“Mr. Wilson,” said the reporter. “These protestors have presented a petition signed by two hundred Indians that asks you to quit writing books about Indians. How do you feel about that?”

Wilson blinked, stunned by the petition.

“Well,” he said, searching for words. “I don’t really know. I mean, nobody has the right to tell me what I can or cannot write.”

“There are two hundred Indians who disagree with that, and Marie Polatkin insists she can get hundreds more to sign her petition. How many signatures would be enough to make you quit, Mr. Wilson?”

“I have no comment,” stammered Wilson as he broke free of the reporter and stumbled into the bookstore. He was reeling. How many would be enough? A hundred thousand? A million? What if every Indian in the country asked him to quit? He was a real Indian himself and had done all he could to help other real Indians. He was on their side. Wilson was dizzy with confusion as Ray Simmons escorted him downstairs, where ten fans waited for him.

Outside, the protest continued. Marie, pounding a drum, led the chants. Her voice was hoarse. Her shoulders and hands ached. She could not hit the drum any longer. As she handed it over to another protester, she noticed John Smith standing all by himself. Huge and obviously Indian, he was automatically a frightening part of the protest, even though he had no idea what was happening.

“John,” said Marie and raised her hand.

He was wearing a clean T-shirt, blue jeans, and a black coat. He was clean-shaven and his hair was combed into careful braids. It was a good day for John.

“John,” Marie said again as she walked up to him.

“It’s me, Marie,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “You’re protesting again.”

“Yeah,” said Marie, smiling. “Protesting this, protesting that.”

The crowd swirled around them. John felt threatened.

“What are you protesting now?” asked John.

“Don’t you know? This writer, Wilson, pretending to be an Indian? Writes mystery novels?”

John nodded, remembering that Olivia Smith had given him one of Wilson’s books as a birthday gift. John had never read it. The book sat in one of the neat piles in John’s room. Now, as Marie talked about Wilson, John saw the anger in her brown eyes.

“Wilson is a fraud! Wilson is a fraud!” chanted the crowd. When Marie raised a fist into the air and jointed the chant, John became fascinated. She was wearing red gloves, and he reached out and touched her clenched hand with his fingertip. Her fist felt hot. Marie grabbed John’s hand and formed it into a fist. Suddenly, John’s arm shot up, his fist above his head. He began to chant along.

“Wilson is a fraud! Wilson is a fraud!”

The protest lasted until the Indians got hungry. They drifted off in pairs, in groups of four or five. The spectators and news crew had left long before. Meanwhile, Wilson’s reading had drawn a decent audience, mainly of people who wanted to see what the fuss was all about. Marie and John were sitting in her sandwich van outside the bookstore when Wilson poked his head out the door, looking for Eric, the taxi driver.

Marie spotted Wilson when the taxi pulled up and he jumped in, eager to get home. Marie decided to follow the cab. John didn’t say a word.

“So!” Eric asked Wilson. “How did it go?”

“It was an adventure,” said Wilson. His audience had peppered him with questions about the so-called Indian Killer: “Mr. Wilson, since you see so clearly into the Indian mind, I was wondering if you might know what this Indian Killer might be thinking?” “Don’t you think the Indian Killer is just another sign that the American culture is spiritually bankrupt? Don’t you think we all need to turn to the Indian religions in order to save our country?” “Are you going to write about the Indian Killer?”

The people had applauded when Wilson revealed that his next novel was going to be about the murders, and he had smiled at the applause. Then he realized that he should have kept his mouth shut. Now that his secret was out, other authors and publishers would surely confirm his worst fear and rush books into production.

Inside the sandwich van, Marie and John rode in silence. She was intent on following the taxi. She wanted to know where Wilson lived. She wanted to protest right outside his house. The police would come for sure, especially in light of this whole Indian Killer thing. That could be a big scene, all three local networks might show. John watched the taillights of the taxi. They reminded him of something he could not remember. It was a nagging feeling that hurt his head. His stomach growled loudly.