Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

“What would you do if some Indians took your niece or your child?” Harley signed the question to Ty.

“I’d wonder which powwow they were going to,” signed Ty.

“Seriously.”

“Seriously, I don’t have a child. I don’t know.”

“I’d kill her,” signed Reggie. “I understand what John Wayne is feeling. How would you feel if some white people kidnapped an Indian kid? I’d cut them all into pieces.”

Reggie slashed the air with his empty hand. He thought of Bird, that brutal stranger who pretended to be Reggie’s father. Reggie wondered if he’d been stolen away from his real family. Maybe there was an Indian family out there who was missing a son. Maybe Reggie belonged to them.

“Hey, Reggie, you got to calm down,” Ty said.

Reggie glared at him.

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” asked Reggie.

“Now, listen,” said Ty. “Me and Harley talked it over, man. I mean, you’re just taking it too far. Beating up that white guy was one thing. Fucking up his eyes was something else. We got to stop this. People are going to think we scalped that guy. And then you recorded it, man. That’s just sick.”

Reggie, thinking of Dr. Mather’s precious tapes of traditional stories, had listened to the recording a number of times. Who can say which story is more traditional than any other?

“And now we’re beating up Indians. We ain’t supposed to be hurting our own kind, are we?”

“And how do you feel about this?” Reggie signed the question to Harley.

“You’re going to get us in trouble,” signed Harley.

Reggie leaned close to Harley’s face.

“Hey, Reggie, leave him alone,” said Ty.

“There you go,” Reggie signed to Harley. “Are you afraid?”

Harley shook his head.

“Yeah, you’re scared,” Reggie spoke now. “Read my lips, chickenshit. You know the name of the Cavalry soldier who killed Crazy Horse?”

Harley shook his head.

“Well, I don’t know either, but I know the name of the Indian who was holding Crazy Horse’s arms behind his back when that soldier bayoneted him. You know his name?”

Harley shook his head.

“His name was Little Big Man. You understand what I’m getting at?”

Reggie touched Harley’s nose with the tip of his finger. A single drop of blood rolled from Harley’s nostril. Ty jumped to his feet in shock. Harley pushed Reggie away and stood, signing so furiously that neither Reggie nor Ty knew what he was saying.

“Slow down,” Ty said.

“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.”

“MARK? 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.”

THE 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.