Indian Killer (31 page)

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.

“M
R. 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.”

A
T 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.”