She had corrected him as they were showering-Will had made the error while complimenting Mrs. Thinglestadt’s breasts-and after they’d celebrated the good news about winning the essay contest and his trip to New York.
Only Old Man Guttersen knew how he’d won. First time in Will’s life he didn’t have to pretend. Will Chaser could be himself when the two of them were together, listening to Garage Logic or sharing a beer while watching cowboy westerns.
Usually, Bull called him “Pony,” but sometimes “Rookie,” like the young guy on Garage Logic, depending on whatever fit the old man’s mood. Maybe Guttersen would call him “Crazy Horse Chaser” after this. .. if Will ever made it home to tell.
Unique. The word for his relationship with the old man.
Bull… Goddamn it, Bull, I wish you were here right now.
Especially now. Because a familiar sound stirred the darkness: the Chrysler pulling up so close to the barn that for a moment Will worried the Cubans would use the car to crash on through. But the car stopped, its headlights filtering through windows, under the double doors, filling the barn with dusty, diffused light.
Next to Will, on a hook meant for tack, he had hung the handle from a broken rake. Taped to the handle was a syringe with a four-inch needle-taped to the plunger actually-so it looked sort of like a spear point.
Pony Chaser, on his horse with a spear, ready to charge.
Will liked the Indian feel of that-unusual ’cause anyone who grows up on the Rez knows the whole Indian act is bullshit. Rubber arrows, drunken Skins wearing feathers and blankets dancing for tourists, the only thing real being a mesquite fire and the sad, hungover weariness of shuffling feet.
The feeling Will experienced, though, was real. A solitary sensation that was brave-hearted, aloof and alone. It was a soaring feeling, unafraid despite the inevitable.
Warrior. For the first time in Will’s life, the word had substance, dense as granite yet weightless enough to whistle like a faraway wind in his ears.
Warrior. Yeah…
A ceremony, that’s what the moment deserved. So Will took a scalpel, grabbed a handful of his own hair and lopped it off. He tied a length of hair to the spear, sort of like a scalp, then knotted the rest to Cazzio’s candy-ass braids.
Looks nice…
Yeah, it did, the way their shadows combined on the stall’s gray wall. Shadow of the stallion’s body capped with Will’s. The spear angled vertically from his hip, its shadow silhouetted as black as a charcoal drawing. An image came into the boy’s brain: a painting sold at the souvenir shop on the Rez, End of the Trail.
Watching his own shadow, Will touched his chin to his chest, imitating what he remembered, and there it was, the painting’s ghost- Ouch! -Will’s broken rib stabbed his lungs and he lay forward again.
Then he heard another familiar sound: a crowbar prying wood… then barn doors sliding open on their tracks.
The doors were open wide now, and the Chrysler’s headlights projected giant shadows. Buffalo-head came first, hunched over as if ready to flee, moving carefully into the uncertain space of the barn.
A second shadow appeared: Metal-eyes, who stopped and leaned against the fender of the car.
Will put his mouth close to the horse’s ear. “It’s time.”
He nudged the blanket back enough to free his right arm.
Cazzio snorted, skin fluttering. He whinnied and tested his legs, steel shoes on the floor, an animal that was born for business. He sensed the Cubans approaching, a subtle change of air.
Will felt it, too: a color sensation, tan turning red.
Easy. You’ll know.
In the medicine cooler, there had been a lot to choose from once Will saw there wasn’t a weapon worth a damn in it aside from veterinarian syringes and some scalpels. Also a pack of big-gauge needles and several vials of tranquilizers, a few with familiar names.
There was Dormo, which was fast but didn’t last, and Rompon – a horse on Rompon could remain tart enough to kick. He also found a vial of Ace, a mixture of stuff that would have been Will’s choice if it was for Cazzio but it wasn’t.
He had chosen Ketamine. Ket caused quick paralysis but didn’t deaden what a horse could feel. One-third syringe would drop a horse, but Will had emptied a whole vial and part of another filling a syringe. He didn’t bother plunging out any air bubbles either before lashing the syringe to the pole.
The pole was now a spear. No, a lance, the way Will held it: the end locked beneath his arm, the point extending beyond the horse’s muzzle.
“Check the stalls! The man just called from his car, he’s only a few kilometers away,” Metal-eyes was yelling at Buffalo-head, who was now peering into Cazzio’s stall.
The man-someone the Cubans were counting on to do… what?
It worried Will, this unknown person. He wanted to be gone by the time the stranger arrived, so he was thinking, Don’t stop, keep coming
…
Buffalo-head did just that but slowly, slowly. The large Cuban appeared unsteady as he drew close enough to see into Cazzio’s stall. Sounded nervous, too, as he reported to Metal-eyes, “Nothing in here but a very big horse.”
“Keep looking!”
Hump didn’t want to keep looking. “You have never seen such a large animal. I should have the gun. Horses bite, I have been told.”
“You can’t have the gun.”
“Then come with me. On my grave, this horse is a giant, I swear.”
“Idiot! Would you rather be in an American jail?”
Will could feel Cazzio’s body heat as he wrapped his left hand in the horse’s mane, watching from beneath the blanket, as the big Cuban cracked the door and looked into the stall. Because of the headlights, Will could see the man’s shape: the sloped shoulders, the nub of horn that curved like a stem out of his pumpkin-sized head.
Cazzio nickered, sniffing the Cuban’s odor, and tested his steel shoes on the floor, as Will patted the horse’s neck and thought, Ready?
A second later, Buffalo-head called to Metal-eyes, “If the man’s only a few miles away, why not wait? It would be better if there are three of us.”
Will heard the older Cuban snap, “You’re afraid of a child? We’re not waiting!”
Buffalo-head pulled the door wider, as he turned toward the headlights, saying, “Want to know what I think?”
“No! Stop wasting time. The man is already convinced we are incompetent fools.”
“Then I won’t tell you that I believe the boy is cursed. Or possessed by demons-I have heard that it happens to teenagers.”
Will was thinking, Wait and see!, his shoulders tense, still hiding beneath the blanket. He knew he had to time it right. Move too soon, the Cubans would trap him inside the barn. So he kept his eyes focused on the angle of light, watching the door open wider… wider… until only the huge man was standing in the doorway, blocking their escape.
When Buffalo-head looked away to complain to Metal-eyes, “But the Devil Child is insane. A monster!,” Will used his boots to signal the stallion and yelled, “Now!”
The stallion was already lunging out the door.
11
Bern Heller’s body had washed ashore. There was a story about it in the regional newspaper, the News-Press. That’s why Tomlinson expected the police to show up with a search warrant.
Sections of paper were scattered beneath the man’s beach chair, where he was still stretched out sunning himself. The front page of the local section was folded open.
When I saw the headlines, I felt a constricting anxiety and thought, I’ve got to get out of here. EX-NFL PLAYER FOUND POLICE TO PROBE DROWNING OF CONVICTED MURDERER, RAPIST
It explained Tomlinson’s fears about a search warrant. A lot of people had reason to hate the man, yet my pal sounded convinced that I was the killer.
Why?
He had placed a book on the newspaper because of a breeze freshening off the bay. Wind roiled the water, whitecaps flashing near the oyster bar where pelicans and cormorants perched, leeward side, heavy in the rubbery mangroves.