6. Testimony
“MR. TWO LEAF, HOW are you feeling?”
“My eye hurts.”
“Yeah, that’s a nasty black eye. Any other injuries?”
“A couple bumps and bruises. Nothing serious.”
“Can you tell us anything about who did this to you?”
“Three guys in masks.”
“Excuse me?”
“Three guys in masks jumped me on the Burke-Gilman Trail. I was coming back from class.”
“You’re a student at the University?”
“Yeah, a chemistry major.”
“And can you tell me exactly what happened?”
“I was walking and these three guys jumped out of the bushes. One of them, the white mask, the leader, was talking smack at me.”
“Talking smack?”
“You know, talking smack, talking trash, giving me shit about being Indian.”
“And you are Native American?”
“Yeah, Makah.”
“And then what did you do? Did you provoke the attack?”
“You mean, aside from being Indian, did I provoke the attack? No way. Three guys, one of them holding a baseball bat? They could’ve called me anything they wanted to call me.”
“And what did they call you?”
“They called me an Indian pig. Oh, and they called me a prairie nigger. Pretty colorful, enit?”
“I suppose.”
“That one pissed me off, though. I ain’t no prairie Indian. I’m from a salmon tribe, man. If they were going to insult me, they should’ve called me salmon nigger.”
“I’m surprised you can laugh about this.”
“It’s what Indians do.”
“Weren’t you afraid?”
“Yeah, I was afraid, but I’m afraid most of the time, you know? How would you feel if a white guy like you got dropped into the middle of a black neighborhood, like Compton, California, on a Saturday night?”
“I’d be very afraid.”
“And that’s exactly how I feel living in Seattle. Hell, I feel that way living in the United States. Indians are outnumbered, Officer. Those three guys scared me bad, but I’ve been scared for a long time. But, you know, I think something crazy is starting to happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve been hearing rumors, you know?”
“What kind of rumors?”
“That Indians are organizing. They’re looking to get revenge.”
“Revenge?”
“Yeah, Indians have been scared for a long time. Now they want to scare some white guys. Things are starting to get tense, you know? I mean, it’s like fire and hydrogen. All by themselves, fire and hydrogen are fine. But you mix them up and boom! Volatile.”
“Is there anything you can remember about the three men who attacked you?”
“The leader was the meanest one. The other two weren’t angels, but that leader wanted to kill me, I think. If those joggers hadn’t come along, he might have done it. He was plain crazy, you know? Crazy white guys.”
“How can you be sure they were white?”
“Blue eyes, man, blue eyes.”
7. Mark Jones
MARK JONES WOKE UP in a very dark place but knew instantly that somebody was sitting near him. The frightened little boy tried to talk and to move, but found he was gagged and his arms were tied behind his back. He struggled against the ropes. The killer reached out and touched him. Mark couldn’t see the killer, but felt something familiar, and almost comforting, in the touch.
Mark closed his eyes against the sudden painful glare of a flashlight. At first, when he slowly opened his eyes, Mark could see only that glare and the vague shadow of the killer. Then, as Mark’s eyes adjusted, the killer used the flashlight to illuminate the prized possessions. The beautiful knife, that silver blade with three turquoise gems inlaid in the handle, hanging in a special place on the wall. Mark started to cry, understanding the power of the knife. The killer then illuminated a bloody scalp nailed to the wall, which made Mark scream behind his gag. He wanted to go home, home, home. He coughed and gagged around the cloth shoved roughly into his mouth. Fearing the boy might choke to death, the killer pulled the gag out and Mark breathed deeply. Fresh air, relief, a slight taste of hope. The killer held a juice box in front of him and the boy nodded.
Mark’s hands were still bound, so the killer poked one end of the straw into the juice box and then put the other end of the straw into Mark’s mouth. The boy drank greedily and quickly, broke into a spasm of coughs. After he regained his breath, Mark emptied the juice box. The killer let it drop to the floor. Then he put the gag back into Mark’s mouth.
The boy started to cry again. The killer was lost in thought. By now, the killer had assumed the whole world would know about the power and beauty of the knife. But the police had managed to hide the truth. The newspapers knew nothing about the killer. The television knew nothing about the killer. And there was so much to know. Such as the fact that the scalping was just preparation, the prelude to something larger. The killer knew that the kidnapping of Mark Jones was the true beginning, the first song, the first dance of a powerful ceremony that would change the world. Killing a white man, no matter how brutally, was not enough to change the world. But the world would shudder when a white boy was sacrificed. A small, helpless boy. The killer, like a Christian plague, had swept into the Jones’s house and stolen the first-born son of a white family.
The boy was frail, weeping himself into exhaustion, and the killer felt a shallow wave of compassion. But there was no time for that. The owl had no compassion for its prey. Without tears or hesitation, the owl ripped its prey apart to get at the eyes, at the heart, the sweetest meat of all. The owl hunted to eat. It had no message. But the killer wanted people to know about the message of the knife, and knew who would be the messenger. With a flutter of wings, the killer pulled the beautiful knife from its place on the wall, leaned over the boy, and began cutting.
8. The Messenger
TRUCK SCHULTZ CHEWED ON his cigar, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. He was looking forward to a few days off. He was thinking about a fishing trip when his assistant walked into the studio with an open box.
“Truck,” said Darla. “I think you better look at this.”
Inside the box, a ragged piece of Mark Jones’s Daredevil pajamas and two bloody owl feathers.
9. John Smith
AT NIGHT, RAIN AND fog invades the city of Seattle, an occupying force that pushes people inside homes, restaurants, and offices to escape it. One moment, bright moon and clear skies. The next moment, gray everywhere. At three in the morning the temperature drops, but not enough to frighten anybody but tourists. John was not a tourist. He was aboriginal. He stepped through this rain and fog without incident. He loved and needed the dark, feeling it contained more safety than the small circles of white light beneath each street lamp. He pulled his collar closer to his neck and marched through the slight cold. He walked across the Fremont Bridge, north of downtown, southeast of his Ballard apartment. There were no people, no cars. John was the last person left on earth. He wanted to be home alone, in his bed, quiet. This bridge was a bad place. Then the silence was broken. Twin headlights. Illumination. A pickup, filled with curses and Brut aftershave, rattled over the bridge.