Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

A large bang caused Truck to drop to one knee. He couldn’t tell whether it had come from behind or in front of him. The fucking fog has never been this bad, thought Truck, never, not once. He’d always thought fog was a minor nuisance, at worst potentially dangerous, but this fog felt specific and alive. This fog had sharp teeth. Truck slowly rose and stepped toward an alley wall. He touched the damp stone with one hand and felt some relief. He’d begun to wonder if the world had ceased to exist outside the fog. But he knew that wall and trusted there was another wall on the opposite side of the alley. He’d driven and walked between these walls for years. He could smell the Dumpster, and he knew there was a NO PARKING sign on the opposite wall. Truck was afraid.

“You got to kill them with one shot,” Vernon Schultz had explained. “If you just wound them, all their fear rushes through their bodies, gets into the meat. All that good meat will get filled up with fear, son, and that just tastes awful.”

With one hand on the wall, Truck walked down the alley. His fear rushed into his muscles. His legs and arms ached. His head felt heavy and full. He knew he could just lie down in the alley right there and fall asleep. He kept walking, and each step seemed to take forever, as if the street beyond the alley was hundreds of miles away.

A sudden flutter of wings above him. Truck wondered what kind of birds flew in the cold and fog. Bats? Owls? He knew the Indian Killer had sent him two owl feathers, along with a piece of Mark Jones’s pajamas, but the police had refused to tell him what these things meant. He knew it was more than just a signature. It was some kind of Indian voodoo. Truck didn’t believe in magic, but he believed in evil. The Indian Killer was out there somewhere, perhaps in that alley with him, and Truck wished he were carrying a pistol. He knelt down on the ground and searched for a weapon: broken bottle, stick, stray pipe, rock, anything. He found only newspaper and paper sacks.

“I know you’re there,” Truck shouted into the fog. “And I’ve got a gun.”

No response.

“I’m walking through,” Truck shouted. “You better just get out of my way. I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

Silence.

“Here I come,” Truck shouted as he walked down the alley.

“You got to hang the deer meat up high,” Vernon Schultz had said. “The bears will get at it, or the dogs, or the wolves. You got to hang it high, and you got to camp upwind from it. A half mile away, at least. You don’t want to be between that meat and some hungry bear, son. Hang it up there high.”

Truck held his head high as he walked down that alley, deeper and deeper into the fog.

SILENTLY SINGING AN INVISIBILITY song, the killer walked past the police car parked outside the Jones’s house. The officer was reading a Tony Hillerman novel and never looked up as the killer passed within two feet of him. Carrying the sleeping child, the killer stepped through the front door and into the living room. Fully clothed, Mr. Jones was asleep on the couch. A stack of beer cans on the end table next to him. An infomercial soundlessly playing on the television. Tall and muscular, but weak and vulnerable in sleep, Mr. Jones was an easy target. The killer could have torn his eyes and heart out and eaten them.

Mrs. Jones was asleep in the master bedroom. Wearing pajama bottoms, her breasts bare, she was curled into a ball. She was sucking on her thumb, her face drawn and crossed with new lines. Even as he slept in the killer’s arms, Mark Jones must have known his mother was close. He must have smelled her, heard her breathing, felt her presence. The restless little boy dreamed of his mother and twisted in the killer’s arms. Mrs. Jones stirred, but didn’t wake.

Carefully, the killer leaned over the bed and set Mark down beside his mother. In her sleep, Mrs. Jones draped an arm over her son. Perhaps she thought it was her husband. Perhaps she was dreaming of Mark. The boy nestled into his mother’s arms. The killer could barely breathe, and wanted to lie down with the mother and child. The killer wanted to press against the mother’s breast and suckle. Then, ever so gently, the killer leaned over the mother, and kissed her cheek. She smiled in her sleep.

The killer quickly left the room, walked past Mr. Jones in the living room, and out to the patrol car. The killer had plans. The officer had fallen asleep with his mystery novel dropped into his lap. Though the window was closed and the door locked, the killer could have broken through the glass. A shotgun, radio, pistol in the holster. The officer was young, inexperienced, on a rookie’s detail, babysitting a house. Standing beside the patrol car, the killer stared back at the house. The killer took two owl feathers out of a pocket and fastened them beneath the patrol car’s windshield wipers. Then the killer ascended into a tall tree to wait and watch.

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.

“MR. 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.”