Indian Killer (33 page)

“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.”

“M
ARK? 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.”

T
HE 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.

M
ARIE 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.