Then I see headlights coming down the road behind us.
“All right, all right, get your game face on, kid,” says the other FBI. “Things could get ugly real quick.”
He pulls out his pistol and checks the ammo.
“Are we going to have a gunfight?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says.
So I pull out my pistol and check the ammo. Okay, I think, I have to be in some kind of dream. This can’t be real. I cannot be getting ready for a gunfight. I’m excited and scared. And then I realize something.
“Hey,” I say to the other FBI. “What’s your name?”
He reacts like I just slapped him.
“You’re not okay, are you?” he asks. I can see big fear in his eyes. That fear doesn’t seem fake. It doesn’t feel like a dream. The headlights behind us move closer.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I just forgot your name.”
“You lied to me,” he says. “There is something wrong with you, isn’t there? Jeez, you had one of them strokes, didn’t you? Ah, man, we’re in trouble.”
He looks back at those headlights traveling toward us. There must be seriously dangerous dudes in that car.
“Just tell me your name,” I say.
“Art,” he says. “My name is Art. You and I have been partners for twelve years.”
“That’s a long time,” I say.
The other car pulls up beside us. I look inside and see two Indian guys. They look familiar. I stare at them. And they stare at me. And then I realize who they are. They’re activists from IRON, which is the acronym for Indigenous Rights Now!
“Hey, Art,” I say, “those guys are famous.”
Art almost gasps and lets out this squeaky whine, like a little girl on a roller coaster.
“The passenger, what’s his name?” I ask.
I remember that the members of IRON gave up their birth names because they were “colonial poison” and named themselves after animals.
“Oh, I remember, his name is Horse,” I say.
“Yeah,” Art says. His voice cracks.
“And the driver, that’s Elk,” I say.
Art just nods his head. He looks at me bug-eyed.
“Those guys are super famous,” I say. “Famous for Indians, at least. I saw them both in this documentary about the civil war in Red River. You know, that’s where IRON was protecting traditional Indians from the evil Indian tribal government dudes. What were they called?”
“HAMMER,” Art says.
“Yeah, HAMMER,” I say. “What was that short for?”
“Nothing, they just call themselves HAMMER.”
“Yeah, IRON versus HAMMER. It was like a goddamn monster movie,” I say.
Art’s eyes are wide like he’s looking at a ghost. And he’s looking at me, so I guess he is looking at a ghost. He looks over at Horse and Elk, the IRON dudes in the other car. They’re talking to each other. But we can’t hear them through the glass. Everybody has secrets.
“Oh, yeah, man, I remember now,” I say. “Those HAMMER guys were killing everybody back then. And then the FBI joined up with HAMMER and started killing people, too. Man, when was that, back in 1975 or 1976?”
“Hank, you are fucking crazy,” Art says. “This is 1975, and — you and me — we are the FBI.”
I laugh. But Art is not kidding. He’s telling the truth. Oh, my God! Those damn doctors changed my face and body and put me in a time machine. No, wait. I realize the bank guard did kill me when he shot me in the brain. And I did die, and now I’m living in Hell. I’ve been sent to Hell. And Hell is Red River, Idaho, in 1975.
“Am I in Hell?” I ask.
Art’s anger suddenly changes. There’s a little bit of water in his eyes. He looks all compassionate.
“Kid,” he says, “I’m sorry, but I think your mind just snapped. But you got to hold it together — okay? — just for a little while. I’ll get you through this shit, and we’ll get you out of here as soon as we can, okay? We’ll get you a head doctor, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. I wonder if maybe I did survive that bank guard’s bullet but it put me into some kind of coma. I hope this is just a coma nightmare.
“Art,” I say, “I’m getting a little freaked out here.”
My partner’s compassion runs away. His eyes get mean.
“I love you, Hank,” he says. “I really do. You’re my best friend. You and me, man, together we’ve been partners for twelve years. I respect you for that, okay? I love you for it. But if you screw this up, I’m going to shoot you in the face.”
I believe Art does love me. I am his best friend. And despite all that love and friendship, I am convinced that he will kill me if he has to.
Art rolls down his window. Horse rolls down his window. He has a blue feather tied to his long black braid.
“Hey, Art,” Horse says.
“Hey,” Art says.
“Hey, Hank,” Horse says.
He knows me.
The driver, Elk, who has a square face like he’s some kind of Indian Frankenstein, doesn’t say anything. He just tries to look tough, and he’s doing a pretty good job of it. I’m scared of him.
And then I wonder why these two famous Indian guys are having a meeting with us, the white FBI. I thought they hated the FBI. I thought they were fighting against the FBI.
And then I realize that Elk and Horse are double agents. They are traitors to IRON.
This is major news. Back in the future, these guys are still heroes. Everybody still thinks they fought against the FBI. My heart is beating a punk rock song against my chest.
“You ready to do this?” Elk asks Art.
“Ready steady,” Art says.
All four of us get out of the cars.
Then Elk and Horse open their trunk and pull out another Indian guy: a young dude, maybe twenty. His hands are tied behind his back. His mouth is gagged. And his face is bloody and beaten. He’s terrified. And then I notice that all the fingers on his right hand are missing. Somebody cut them off.
I think I’m going to die tonight. Again.
“Is this him?” Art asks. “Does he know what we need to know?”
“Yeah,” Elk says. “But he won’t tell us.”
“What’s his name?”
“Junior.”
“Looks like you tortured poor Junior,” Art says.
“Yeah, but we heap primitive Injuns,” Elk says. “We don’t have fancy interrogation techniques like the F and B and I.”
“I don’t know anything fancy,” Art says. “Take off his gag.”
Elk pulls the gag out of Junior’s mouth. All of his teeth are smashed and broken. I almost vomit.
“How’s he going to talk with a mouth like that?” Art asks.
“Didn’t mean to punch him that hard,” Horse says.
“You did that much damage with one punch?” Art asks.
“Yeah,” Horse says. He’s proud. And I do vomit a little bit into my mouth and swallow it back down.
“All right,” Art says. “Hold his arms.”
Elk and Horse hold Junior’s arms. He doesn’t fight back.
“All right, Junior,” Art says. “Are you going to tell me what I want to know?”
Junior shakes his head.
In my head, I scream, Tell them, Junior, tell them everything!
I wish I knew what Art wanted to know. Maybe I could save Junior if I knew.
Art takes out his pistol and presses it against Junior’s forehead. Poor Junior barely even reacts. He’s already given up.
I look at Elk and Horse. They’re smiling. I realize they aren’t freedom fighters or anything like that. They don’t care about protecting the poor and defenseless. No, man, these guys just like to hurt people. And I look at the weird light in Art’s eyes. He isn’t a lawman. He doesn’t protect our country. He just likes to hurt people, too.