Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

“Get up! Get up!” shouted Aaron, totally out of control. Barry had stopped kicking the old man, but Aaron was now trying to pick him up to deliver more punishment.

“He’s had enough,” said Barry. “We’ve got to go. The cops will be here soon.”

Barry dragged Aaron away from the old man. They hustled into the 4Runner and raced away from the scene. They pulled into a parking lot near Pike Place Market a few blocks away.

“Fuck, yeah,” said Aaron. “That felt good.”

“Your nose is bleeding,” Sean said to Aaron.

“What?” Aaron wiped his face and saw blood on his hand. “Fucking squaw got lucky with the first punch, didn’t he?”

Barry laughed nervously. Sean felt sick to his stomach.

“Let’s go get us some more,” said Aaron.

“Maybe that’s enough,” said Sean.

“Are you talking to me, you pussy?” Aaron bellowed at Sean, who looked shocked. “Yeah, you pussy. I want to go kick some more Indian ass.”

“Hey, Aaron,” said Barry. “Maybe that is enough? I mean, we’re going to get caught. We’re not even wearing our masks.”

“I’m not going to do it anymore,” Sean announced. “We put those other Indians in the hospital. And this sure isn’t helping David anyway.”

Barry also wanted to stop, but he was afraid of Aaron’s reaction.

“Fuck that,” said Aaron. “The police aren’t going to do anything. Hell, the police are probably beating the shit out of Indians, too. And David would’ve wanted us to do this, man. It’s for him.”

“Listen to yourself,” said Sean. “Do you believe what you’re saying?”

Aaron leaned over and punched Sean in the forehead. Barry shrank back in fear.

“Do you hear me?” asked Aaron. “Do you hear me, you pussy? I’m saying those fucking Indians killed David.”

Sean was crying.

“I always thought you were a pussy,” said Aaron. “Look at you. Big as a fucking house, but you’re just a pussy. All fucking righteous now, aren’t you? You weren’t so righteous when we started this, were you? Now, you decide. We’re going to go kick some more ass, aren’t we?”

Aaron looked at Barry, who hesitated briefly before agreeing.

“See,” Aaron said to Sean. “Barry’s with the program. Now, are you with us or are you against us?”

“That old man didn’t do anything,” said Sean.

“He’s Indian,” said Aaron. “That’s enough. Now, I’ll ask you one more time. Are you with us or against us?”

Sean looked at Barry, who avoided eye contact, then back to Aaron, who made a fist.

“Get the fuck out of my truck,” Aaron said. “You’re done. You hear me? You’re done.”

Sean opened his door and stepped out. As the 4Runner pulled out of the parking lot, Sean touched his bruised forehead. He found a pay phone and called a cab, which took him to the Fourth Precinct.

“MOM, IT’S ME, REGGIE.”

“Oh, my God, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. How’s Bird?”

“He’s in chemo. It’s not going well.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. He’s asked about you. He watches television. He worries about you with this Indian Killer running around. He’s really sorry for everything.”

“Listen, I hate to ask, but do you got any money?”

“Reggie, aren’t you scared? Has anybody tried to hurt you?”

“Nobody can hurt me, Mom.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah, Bird would know about that, wouldn’t he?”

“He’s changed, Reggie, he really has.”

“Sure, sure. Hey, Mom, you know about the Battle of Steptoe Butte?”

“What about it?”

“Yeah, you remember how all those Spokane Indians had those Cavalry soldiers surrounded? Trapped up on Steptoe Butte? It was, what, 1858?”

“There were other tribes besides the Spokane there.”

“Yeah, well, we Indians had them white guys trapped. Had them surrounded and what did we do? Those white guys were completely and totally helpless. And we let them go.”

“What are you trying to say, Reggie?”

“I don’t know, Mom. Maybe Indians are better people than most. I just need to know if you got any money.”

“I’m broke, Reggie. You could ask Bird. He’d like to talk to you.”

“That’s okay, Mom. Listen, I got to go. See you.”

“Wait, Reggie. Wait. Reggie? Reggie?”

WILSON SAT IN HIS pickup outside John Smith’s apartment building in Ballard. There were too many shadows. A man could hide in a dozen different places on this block and not be seen until it was too late. Wilson was excited. He could feel John Smith’s presence.

According to the foreman, John Smith lived on the top floor. Wilson looked up and saw only one lit window in a top-floor apartment. Wilson checked the mailboxes. John Smith in 403. Hiestand in 402, Salgado in 401. Wilson tested the front door of the apartment building. Unlocked. A nonsecure building. Wilson took a deep breath. Wilson had no idea what John Smith would do when confronted.

Wilson slowly climbed the stairs, his bad knee aching with the effort. As a cop, he had been in many situations like this. A dark building, a potentially dangerous suspect somewhere up the stairs. It was never as dramatic as the movies or books. No cats springing into the frame as a false scare. No extras scrambling for cover. Only the cop, the dark stairs, and the suspect. Wilson had always enjoyed the hunt.

Wilson reached the fourth floor. He passed by 401 and 402. At 403, he stood close and listened. He could hear vague noises from inside the apartment. Smith was home. Wilson debated his options. He could bust down the door with weapon drawn. He could stand away from the door and shout orders to Smith. Come out with your hands up! But what would he do after Smith came out? Wilson thought hard, then he shrugged his shoulders, and knocked politely on the door.

“John!” cried the woman who threw open the door, an action that caused Wilson to jump back and reach inside his coat. He stopped himself when he noticed the white woman standing in the doorway.

“Oh,” said Wilson, embarrassed at his obvious error. “I’m sorry. I was looking for John Smith.”

“This is John’s apartment,” said Olivia Smith. “He’s my son.”

Wilson was confused. This beautiful blond, blue-eyed white woman could not be the mother of an Indian man.

“My name is Olivia Smith.” Wilson’s confusion was familiar to Olivia from so many faces. She was always forced to offer explanations. “And he’s adopted.”

“Oh, I see,” said Wilson. “Is John home?” He noticed how her face was drawn and pale. She looked like she’d been crying.

“No, no. Are you a friend of his?”

“Uh, not really, no.”

Olivia, suddenly nervous, took a small step back into the apartment. She had her hand on the door, ready to close it quickly.

“What do you want with my son?” asked Olivia.

“Well, ma’am, my name is Jack Wilson. I just wanted to ask him a few questions about a book I’m working on.”

“Jack Wilson?” asked Olivia. She recognized the name because she still read every book about Indians she could find. “You write those murder mysteries, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

“Aristotle Little Hawk, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Wilson, flushing with pride.

“I like your books. You really get it right.”

“Thank you.”

Olivia invited Wilson into the apartment, feeling as if she somehow knew him simply because she’d read his books. She offered him a donut from a box sitting on the kitchen table. They were Seattle’s Best Donuts, but Wilson declined. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, while Olivia sat at the table.