The Battle of Queen Anne
LESS THAN AN HOUR after Truck Schultz phoned Aaron Rogers and personally told him about the discovery of his brother’s body, Aaron, Barry Church, and Sean Ward were cruising downtown Seattle, looking for Indians to attack. Aaron and Barry had both tossed baseball bats into the truck before they left the house. Each of the three had a ski mask shoved into his pocket.
“Let’s do it for David,” Aaron said to his housemates, pounding the steering wheel of his Toyota 4Runner as he cruised through downtown Seattle. On any given night, a couple dozen Indians usually staggered through the downtown streets. Aaron had often seen them. Homeless drunks. Men and women. Sitting in their own vomit. Rotten faces, greasy hair, shit-stained pants. Aaron had always been disgusted before. Now he felt a hate that made his chest ache. Sean and Barry scanned the streets. Other college kids on the street walked from bar to bar, laughter and conversation. A small crowd gathered outside the Elliott Bay Book Company. Couples slowly strolled past dark windows of stores.
“Where the fuck are they?” Aaron was screaming now, his face red with frustration.
“I’ve seen Indians up by the Seattle Center,” said Barry. “On Queen Anne Hill.”
Cornelius and Zera, homeless Indians, huddled together in a doorway across the street from a Blockbuster Video on lower Queen Anne Hill. The doorway was a good spot, kept warm by the furnace beneath it. Fairly safe, too, in a busy neighborhood. Cornelius and Zera had spent a year of nights in that doorway.
“You warm?” Cornelius asked Zera.
“Warm enough,” she said. But she was shaking, and Cornelius pulled her closer. They’d been together for five years and had spent half of that time homeless. The other half, they’d shared and been evicted from three apartments. Money and jobs were seasonal. Cornelius, a Makah Indian, was a deep-sea fisherman, a job that would have kept him away for months at a time, and he just didn’t want to leave Zera, a Puyallup. She was manic-depressive and simply couldn’t take care of herself. So Cornelius worked as a manual laborer, losing the job whenever Zera showed up and terrorized customers and managers, or when he missed work to search for her after her latest disappearance. She’d been hospitalized three times and Cornelius had always missed her so much he couldn’t sleep. He would just walk around the hospital, one or two hundred times a day, until she was finally released.
“You warm now?” Cornelius asked.
She nodded her head, but he knew she was lying. He offered her a drink of coffee from the thermos. He’d always leave the empty thermos at the back door of the nearby McDonald’s, and Doug, the redheaded night manager, would secretly fill it again with leftover coffee. Small kindnesses. Cornelius also had a loaf of bread he’d bought with money he’d made selling Real Change, the newspaper written and distributed by the homeless. He took out two slices, jammed them together, and offered it to Zera.
“Hey, look,” he said. “A jam sandwich.”
She laughed, took the sandwich, and swallowed it down.
As Aaron piloted his truck through lower Queen Anne in search of Indians, he brooded about David. Frail David Rogers with his lopsided grin. Always reading some damn book or another. Loved Hemingway’s Nick Adams, the monosyllabic hero with the monosyllabic name. Nick. The first man, the essential man, the genesis of man. Adams. Everything that David was not. In high school, David tried to play football and made the team as a fourth-string receiver. He cheered on Aaron, the toughest linebacker in the league. Aaron had wanted to play college football at the University of Washington, one of the best programs in the country, but they hadn’t been interested in him. He was too small for Division I, the recruiters told him. Junior college would be best, the coaches told him. But Aaron would not accept anything less than UW, so he enrolled anyway, and David had followed him. Aaron hadn’t made it halfway through the first day of football tryouts when some behemoth knocked him unconscious and out of contention for a roster spot. After that, Aaron and David had grown even closer. More than brothers. They moved in with Sean and Barry, studied hard, and were well on their way to graduation when David disappeared. Aaron thought of his father, who was probably driving to Seattle right now.
“Fuck,” Aaron cursed while Barry held his baseball bat tightly. Sean was getting more nervous than angry. He’d never seen Aaron, who had quite a temper anyway, look so furious. Aaron had been on a short fuse since David had disappeared, and Sean could understand that. Hell, he missed David, too, but he was gone and there was nothing they could do about it. Maybe they thought they could do a lot about it, like beating the shit out of a few Indians with blunt instruments. Perhaps baseball bats. Sean shook his head. It was all getting out of control.
“They’re hiding,” Sean said. “We’re not going to find them now. Everybody must know about the Indian Killer.”
“We’ll find them,” Aaron said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Sean.
Before Aaron could respond, Barry shouted and pointed up the street at two Indians sleeping in a doorway. Aaron smiled. He slipped a ski mask over his face, as Sean and Barry did the same.
Cornelius was watching Zera sleep. She spent most of her waking hours in a struggle for emotional balance, and it showed in her face. Deep wrinkles, haunted eyes, sudden gestures and unpredictable movements. In sleep, she relaxed, sometimes smiled, and Cornelius thought her beautiful. Sleep is a little piece of death, he thought, and Zera found some peace in that temporary afterlife. He was busy looking at her while she slept when the truck pulled up to a sharp stop near the doorway.
“Hey, you fuckers!”
Three men in ski masks, white, purple, and blue, jumped out of the pickup. Two of them, white mask and blue mask, held baseball bats. Purple mask was empty-handed.
“Wake up, wake up!” Cornelius yelled as he shook Zera awake. They both struggled to their feet.
“Fucking drunks! Fuck you, fuck you!”
The man in the white mask advanced with his baseball bat. He was obviously the leader. For some reason, Cornelius held out the thermos as an offering. He looked down at his outstretched hand and couldn’t believe what he was doing.
“I don’t want your booze!” shouted white mask as he swung the bat and smashed the thermos out of Cornelius’s hand.
“Home run! Home run!” shouted blue mask. He came forward, swinging his bat as if he were a baseball player warming up. Purple mask stayed back.
“Come on, come on, you fucking Indian,” said white mask. He jabbed his bat into Cornelius’ belly. Zera was trembling beside him.
“We don’t want no trouble,” Cornelius said. “We’ll leave.”
“Go back to where you belong, man!” shouted blue mask. “Get the fuck out of our country, man!”
A crowd had gathered, though no one in it seemed eager to interfere. God, I hope somebody called the cops, thought Cornelius. When he flexed his hand, the pain told him white mask had broken it into pieces. Cornelius was still debating his options when Zera made her decision and tackled blue mask. Before Cornelius could react, white mask broke Cornelius’s jaw with a wicked swing of his bat.
“Get her off me! Get her off me!” blue mask shouted as Zera tore at his face. As purple mask tried to pull her off, white mask savagely beat Cornelius. Five, ten, twenty swings of the bat. Four cracked ribs, punctured lung, various contusions and abrasions, concussion.
Purple mask had pulled Zera off blue mask, who had smashed her across the face with his bat. The amount of blood shocked blue mask. He stepped back.
“Payback, motherfucker, payback!” shouted white mask. He kept swinging the bat at Cornelius, might have beaten the life out of the Indian, if purple mask had not pulled him away.
“We got to go!” shouted purple mask. Blue mask was already in the driver’s seat, ready to roll. White mask smashed Cornelius one last time, jumped into the 4Runner with the other two, and screamed triumphantly as they sped from the scene.
13
Night Terrors
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AS OLIVIA AND DANIEL ate breakfast, the radio announced that Mark Jones had been kidnapped by the Indian Killer. A homeless Indian couple had been assaulted by three masked men. Olivia had wanted to talk, but Daniel excused himself from the table. A few minutes before seven in the morning, Daniel Smith left home, saying he had extra work at the architecture firm.
As Daniel drove away, Olivia knew that he was really going to look for John. As he drove from Bellevue over the 520 bridge west to Seattle, Daniel could see a few sailboats out for an early cruise on Lake Washington. A man and woman, dressed warmly, were aboard a large one with a red and white sail, just a hundred feet or so from the bridge. As Daniel imagined he heard their laughter, he felt jealous. Man, woman, boat, water, freedom. Everything so simple for them. The shadow of Mount Rainier rose on the southern horizon. On a slightly overcast day, the mountain was just a ghost, a subtle reminder of itself, a brief memory. With unlimited visibility, the mountain was spectacular and surreal, rising as it did over the urban landscape of Seattle. Daniel knew that accidents had occurred on Seattle freeways because of drivers who were distracted by Rainier’s beauty. Local Indians had always believed that Rainier was a sacred place, not to be climbed or trivialized. Daniel wondered if any Indians had wrecked their cars because of a view of the mountain.
He parked the car downtown in a lot near the firm and walked the streets. Little traffic, a few cars and out-of-season tourists. A heavy rain had fallen, leaving behind that particular odor which so many people associate with fresh air and nature, though that smell rises out of the damp, musty places in a city. Still, Daniel had always loved the rain and what it left behind. As Daniel wandered, he felt no love for the rain or the city. He felt lost and hopeless, searching for his son, who had become a stranger. Daniel had never done anything this desperate. He had no idea what he was doing, only that he would not find John by sitting inside, just waiting. He was shocked by the number of homeless people, especially the dozens of Indians, who were living in downtown Seattle. He was intimidated, but he soon found the courage to talk to them. Outside the Elliott Bay Book Company, which had not yet opened, Daniel saw a homeless Indian man in a wheelchair.
“Hello,” Daniel ventured. The Indian was about forty years old, with long, greasy hair. He wore a U.S. Army jacket and a red beret.
“Hey,” replied the Indian. “You got any change?”
Daniel dug in his empty pockets. Then he pulled a couple dollars from his wallet and handed them over.
“Thanks.” The Indian quickly pocketed the money.
“Listen, could I ask you something? I’m looking for my son. He’s Indian. A big guy. Talks to himself.”
“Hey, partner, most everybody down here talks to himself. How’d you get an Indian son anyways? Marry you some dark meat, enit?”
“No, no. He’s adopted.”
“What’s his name?” asked the Indian.
“John. John Smith.”
“You adopted an Indian kid and named him John Smith? No wonder he talks to himself. What’s your name?”
“Daniel.”
“Hey, Daniel, I’ve got to say I don’t know one Indian named John Smith. I know King and Agnes. I know Marie the Sandwich Lady and Robert. But I don’t know a John Smith. Ain’t nobody knows any Indian named John Smith. Ain’t no such thing. You must have dreamed him up.”
The Indian laughed, slapped his own face, twirled around in his chair.
“You know,” drawled the wheelchair Indian. “I bet you’re a cop, enit? You’re just a cop looking for that Indian Killer, right?”
“No, no. I’m really looking for my son. This Indian Killer thing has me worried about him.”
“All the cops been through here a million times already,” said the Indian. “Asking me this, asking me that. I’ll tell you what I told the others. I know who killed those white people.”
“You know who did it?”
“Damn right, I know,” said the Indian. He laughed loudly, rolling his chair away from Daniel.
“Wait,” Daniel called after him, caught in the surprise of the moment. “Who did it?”
“It was Crazy Horse,” shouted the Indian, who stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “You know Crazy Horse?”
“Of course,” said Daniel, who’d read most every Indian book that Olivia had set in front of him. “He’s Oglala Sioux, right?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s Oglala.” The Indian, slowly wheeling back, closer and closer to Daniel, kept speaking. “And he’s more. This Indian Killer, you see, he’s got Crazy Horse’s magic. He’s got Chief Joseph’s brains. He’s got Geronimo’s heart. He’s got Wovoka’s vision. He’s all those badass Indians rolled up into one.”
The wheelchair Indian dug through his pockets, pulled out a series of wrinkled news clippings, and waved them in the air.
“See,” said the Indian, “I’m keeping track. We all are. Every Indian is keeping score. What? This Killer’s got himself two white guys? And that little white boy, enit? That makes the score about ten million to three, in favor of the white guys, enit? This Killer’s got a long ways to go. Man, he’s the underdog.”
The Indian laughed loudly, slapping his still legs. He began to roll away from Daniel.
“But who is he?” asked Daniel.
“It’s me,” said the Indian, his laughter getting louder as he rolled farther away. Then, still laughing, he stepped out of his chair, pushed it quickly down the street, and disappeared.
Though unnerved, Daniel could not stop searching for John. He spent most of the day in downtown Seattle, but never found anybody, white or Indian, who had ever heard of an Indian named John Smith, though they all knew a dozen homeless Indian men.
“Yeah, there’s that Blackfeet guy, Loney.”
“Oh, yeah, enit? And that Laguna guy, what’s his name? Tayo?”
“And Abel, that Kiowa.”
After searching for hours, Daniel returned to his car and made it back to Bellevue for an early dinner.
“How was your day?” asked Olivia, hoping that he’d tell her about his search for John.
“Okay,” said Daniel.
John’s parents ate the rest of their meal in silence.
That night, Olivia Smith dreamed: Father Duncan dipping baby John into the baptismal; four-year-old John heaving a basketball toward the hoop as Daniel laughs and claps his hands; Daniel kissing down her belly; John’s naked body, bloody and brown, dumped on a snow plain. Olivia dreamed: a red tricycle; lightning illuminating a stranger standing at a window; pine trees on fire; an abandoned hound mournfully howling beside a country road. Olivia dreamed: John standing alone on the last skyscraper in Seattle as wind whips his hair across his face; Daniel holding her head under water at Lake Sammamish until she panics; the moon rising above the Space Needle; Father Duncan dipping the adult John into the baptismal.
With a sudden start, Olivia sat up in bed, awake, unsure of her surroundings. Slowly, she recognized her bedroom, maple bureau, huge closet door ajar, Daniel snoring lightly beside her. Knowing she would not sleep now, she crawled from bed and walked into the bathroom. Without turning on the light, she pulled down her pajamas and sat on the toilet. She could not go, though there was a slight pressure in her bladder. She briefly wondered if she had an infection. She held her head in her hands and waited. She thought about the Indian Killer murders, how the news was filled with photographs of the white men who had been killed. Of the little white boy, helpless and small, as John had once been. She wondered if John was safe. She wanted to pray, but felt embarrassed by her position. Then she prayed anyway as her legs fell asleep.
As Olivia prayed, Daniel dreamed: his secretary leaning over his desk with papers to sign; the Bainbridge Island ferry crossing rough waters. Daniel dreamed: young John running across a field; a stranger hammering nails into a joist. Daniel dreamed: a red truck breaking through a guardrail; a pistol firing. Daniel dreamed: a man screaming; John standing over the bed.
Frightened, Daniel s
at up in bed, sure that John was there. Daniel could almost smell his son. Smoke and sweat, sweet and dank. Then Daniel could smell his son, could feel him there.
“John?” asked Daniel.
Olivia heard her husband, quickly pulled up her pajamas and stepped into the bedroom.
“Daniel,” she said. “Who are you talking to?”
“It’s John,” he said. “He’s here.”
Olivia looked around the bedroom. The windows were locked tight. The bedroom door was shut. Since the closet door was slightly ajar, she opened it and turned on the light. Daniel’s suits on one side, her dresses and blouses on the other. On both sides, above their clothes, boxes were stacked from shelf to ceiling. A dozen pairs of Daniel’s shoes scattered on the floor; ten pairs of Olivia’s. No John. She switched off the closet light.
“He’s not here,” Olivia said to Daniel, to herself. “You’re dreaming.”
“No,” said Daniel. “He’s here. I can smell him.”
Olivia sniffed the air. She knew her son’s smell. Was confident of that. Knew she could’ve been blind and still picked him out of a crowd. She’d held his clothes to her face and breathed in deeply. She’d held him close in her arms and buried her face in his thick black hair. When he was young, he smelled of cut grass and pine trees, band-aids and hydrogen peroxide, strawberry Kool-Aid and Ivory soap. As he grew older, he smelled of Old Spice and dirty tennis shoes, secondhand smoke and ocean, pepperoni pizza and musty libraries.
“He’s here,” Daniel said, nearly pleading now. “I know it.”
Olivia heard the obvious fear and confusion in her husband’s voice. She had not often heard him sound so defenseless. She went to his side, touched his face.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
Daniel pointed at the place where John had been standing.
“Right there,” Daniel said. “He was right there.”
Olivia looked at the spot. She wanted to see John standing there. She wanted it so much that he almost appeared. As if John was struggling to step from another world into this one, a sliver of light floated there at the foot of the bed. Olivia could see it, and knew that it was an illusion, an odd moment of moonlight, the afterimage of the closet’s bright lamp. But she wanted to believe in it.