“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 confir
m 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.
“You hungry?” asked Marie. “There might be a few sandwiches in the back. Help yourself.”
John looked behind him and saw the metal racks that held the sandwiches. Other than the racks, the van was bare. John spotted a sandwich on the floor and picked it up. He worried that it might be poisoned.
“Did you make this?” John asked Marie.
“Yes.”
John knew then that it could not be dangerous. He was hungry and wanted to eat it, but felt guilty because he had nothing to offer Marie in return.
“Go ahead,” she said.
The sandwich tasted like smoke.
“Man,” Marie said. “I hate this guy.”
“Who?” asked John with a mouth full of bread and bologna.
“Wilson. He’s a cannibal. No, he’s not even eating his own kind. He’s a scavenger. He’s a maggot.”
The sandwich suddenly tasted like anger.
“And there’s this other guy, Dr. Clarence Mather. He’s teaching my Native lit class, you know? He’s one of those kind who thinks he knows everything about Indians. An Indian expert. Arrogant asshole.”
John nodded. He remembered the night he had followed Marie as she had been following Mather.
“You were following your teacher,” John said.
Marie stared at the taxi ahead of them.
“How do you know that?” she asked.
“I was following you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Marie seemed to accept that answer as being honest and decided she’d have to be more careful in the future.
“If you ask me,” said Marie. “The wrong white guys are dying.”
The sandwich soured. John quickly finished it and licked his fingers. He thought about Jack Wilson and Clarence Mather, and wondered how their fear would taste.
The taxi pulled up in front of Wilson’s, and Marie pulled up right behind the taxi, her headlights filling the cab.
“Hey!” shouted Eric as he noticed the van. “I think we’ve got company!”
Wilson turned around in his seat. He could not see who was in the van because of its headlights. Eric reached under his seat and pulled out a sawed-off golf club, a one-iron. Wilson and Eric stepped out of the taxi at the same time. When Marie turned off her headlights, Wilson recognized her as the leader of the protest, Marla or Maria or something like that, but he couldn’t quite see who was with her.
“What do you want?” screamed Eric, waving his golf club.
“It’s those protesters,” said Wilson.
“Come on out of there!” shouted Eric, “I’ll give you something to protest!”
Marie smiled at the cab driver’s bravado. He did not look like much of a fighter, or a golfer. John saw the club and closed his hands into fists. Just two white men. John knew he could hurt them.
“Come on!” shouted Eric.
John stepped out of the truck.
“No,” said Marie, but John was already marching toward Wilson and Eric. The cab driver quickly backpedaled, but John saw that Wilson held his ground with a surprising lack of fear. Actually, Wilson was too shocked by John’s obvious resemblance to his own hero, Aristotle Little Hawk, to be afraid. Wilson felt as if he’d brought Little Hawk to life through some kind of magic. Wilson had always felt magical, but he’d had no idea how much power he really possessed.
“Aristotle,” said Wilson.
John knew about Aristotle. The philosopher was required knowledge for Catholic schoolboys. But he had no idea why this white man was talking about an ancient Greek while a crazy cab driver was swinging a tiny golf club. It was very confusing. John wondered if these white men were real.
So John reached out to touch Wilson, to test his reality. Eric suddenly found his courage and, screaming like a television Indian, charged John. Wilson heard the screams and reflexively fell to the ground. Eric swung his one-iron blindly at John, who snatched the club out of the air and took it away. Disarmed and terrified, Eric fell to the ground beside Wilson. John raised the club above his head and stepped toward the men. Wilson reached inside his jacket and John wondered if the white man had a weapon. Then Wilson relaxed and showed John both hands.
“John!” shouted Marie. For a brief moment, she thought that John was going to smash the men’s brains with the golf club, but John just screamed and threw the strange weapon toward the apartment building. Glass shattered. Windows lit up. Marie dropped the van into drive and pulled up beside John. Wilson and Eric scrambled out of the way.
“Get in! Get in!” shouted Marie. John looked at her. He wondered if she was real. He turned away from her, ran away, disappeared. Marie watched him running, then she quickly drove away.
“I’m glad you saw them,” said Eric. “You can tell the cops who it was! Those damn protesters!”
“No,” said Wilson, firm in his belief that the big Indian would have valuable answers. “We don’t need the cops. I was mistaken. I don’t know who they were.”
“But you said you recognized them?”
“No, I was mistaken.”
“Jeez, it’s a good thing that wasn’t the Indian Killer, huh? We’d both be dead!”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Eric shrugged his shoulders. He was sure Wilson was lying, but not sure why. It didn’t much matter since no one had been hurt. Wilson was already unaware of Eric, of Marie, of everything but John. Wilson was enchanted with John. Wilson thought that a man who looked like that could be Little Hawk. Wilson wanted John all to himself.
21
Testimony
“MR. HARRIS, CAN I have a few words with you?”
“Hey, dude, are you, like, a cop?”
“Homicide detective, actually.”
“Well, I haven’t been homicided. At least, not yet. No thanks to those Indians, though. They blinded me, man.”
“The doctors think you’ll be able to regain some of your vision. Maybe all of it.”
“That’s what they tell me. But I don’t know, man. I’m scared. I can’t believe what those Indians did.”
“Yes, well, that’s what I’d like to talk to you about. Are you sure they were Indian?”
“Positive. Braids and all. Just like the movies.”
“Do you think you could identify them? Perhaps work with one of our sketch artists to come up with a composite? I know it will be hard without your eyes. But we’ve got to try.”
“Just like the movies, huh?”
“Just like the movies.”
“Yeah, man, I’ll do my best. Like I said, they were some righteously angry dudes.”
“Can you tell me exactly what happened that night?”
“Yeah. You see, man, I’ve been hitching across the country, trying to find myself, you know? Out there in the open spaces, man, you can see some powerful shit, I mean, some powerful stuff. But anyway, I was on my way to Canada. I, like, met these Canadian dudes down in Arizona a few weeks back and they said I could visit them anytime I was in Canada.”
“And that’s why you were camped on the Indian Heritage High School football field.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know it was an Indian school. It was some righteous grass to me. I mean, I knew it was a football field, but I don’t believe in football, you know? I was rolled up in my sleeping bag, sleeping, when these three guys pulled me out and started beating me up.”
“And you’re sure there were three of them?”
“Uno, dos, tres.”
“And did they say anything? Mention any names or places?”
“Hey, man, they were recording me.”
“Recording?”
“Yeah, with a tape recorder, you know, like it was an interview or something, like they wanted to keep a sound track or something. And they kept calling me weird names.”
“Can you remember what they called you?”
“No chance, man. I was out of it by then. I was all dizzy and everything was moving in circles. Everything spinning, and then one dude shoved his fingers into my eyes and here I am in the hospital.”
“Is there anything else you can remember?”
“I think one of them was deaf.”
“Deaf?”
“Yeah, all three were talking with their fingers, you know? Sign language. And one of them had blue eyes. A blue-eyed Indian.”
“You’re positive about that?”
“Yeah, yeah. You know, I was listening to the boob tube and heard something about this Indian Killer. You think these guys have something to do with that?”
“We’re looking into that possibility.”
“It’s so strange. It’s, like, those Indians guys hurt me just because I’m white. But I haven’t done anything bad to Indians. I like Indians, man. I even visited a couple of reservations. The Navajo, the Hopi. Beautiful. And this Indian Killer is killing white guys just because they’re white, right? And he kidnapped that little boy because he was white?”
“That seems to be the motive.”
“And that little dude, what’s his name, Mark?”
“Yes, Mark Jones.”
“Yeah, well, he certainly didn’t do anything bad to Indians. I mean, not every white guy is an evil dude, you know?”
22
Slow Dancing with the Most Beautiful Indian Woman on Earth
IF A WHITE STRANGER, completely unaware of the year, happened to stumble into Big Heart’s Soda and Juice Bar and heard the music blasting from the jukebox, he might assume that he was living in 1966. Or 1972. Perhaps as late as 1978. The white stranger would see over two hundred Indians dancing. A white stranger might have assumed the Indians were celebrating something special, and they were. Mick had opened the bar, despite the Indian Killer scare, and was pulling in the dough. The Indians were dancing to Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Roy Orbison, Johnny Cash, Chuck Berry, early Stones, earlier Beatles. Disco had been outlawed by the patrons of Big Heart’s. Black music was rare. World music never made it through the door. Lou Reed and Kiss were favorites, though. Blood, Sweat, and Tears, Three Dog Night, and Creedence Clearwater Revival were revered. But there were no white strangers in Big Heart’s that night, though a few dozen Indians were new in town, just visiting, playing in a basketball tournament, looking for love, lost. All thinking about the Indian Killer. John was there too, neither stranger nor tourist. He had no definition for what he was. Drinking his Pepsi, he sat at the bar.