He parked the car downtown in a lot near the firm and walked the streets. Little traffic, a few cars and out-of-season tourists. A heavy rain had fallen, leaving behind that particular odor which so many people associate with fresh air and nature, though that smell rises out of the damp, musty places in a city. Still, Daniel had always loved the rain and what it left behind. As Daniel wandered, he felt no love for the rain or the city. He felt lost and hopeless, searching for his son, who had become a stranger. Daniel had never done anything this desperate. He had no idea what he was doing, only that he would not find John by sitting inside, just waiting. He was shocked by the number of homeless people, especially the dozens of Indians, who were living in downtown Seattle. He was intimidated, but he soon found the courage to talk to them. Outside the Elliott Bay Book Company, which had not yet opened, Daniel saw a homeless Indian man in a wheelchair.
“Hello,” Daniel ventured. The Indian was about forty years old, with long, greasy hair. He wore a U.S. Army jacket and a red beret.
“Hey,” replied the Indian. “You got any change?”
Daniel dug in his empty pockets. Then he pulled a couple dollars from his wallet and handed them over.
“Thanks.” The Indian quickly pocketed the money.
“Listen, could I ask you something? I’m looking for my son. He’s Indian. A big guy. Talks to himself.”
“Hey, partner, most everybody down here talks to himself. How’d you get an Indian son anyways? Marry you some dark meat, enit?”
“No, no. He’s adopted.”
“What’s his name?” asked the Indian.
“John. John Smith.”
“You adopted an Indian kid and named him John Smith? No wonder he talks to himself. What’s your name?”
“Daniel.”
“Hey, Daniel, I’ve got to say I don’t know one Indian named John Smith. I know King and Agnes. I know Marie the Sandwich Lady and Robert. But I don’t know a John Smith. Ain’t nobody knows any Indian named John Smith. Ain’t no such thing. You must have dreamed him up.”
The Indian laughed, slapped his own face, twirled around in his chair.
“You know,” drawled the wheelchair Indian. “I bet you’re a cop, enit? You’re just a cop looking for that Indian Killer, right?”
“No, no. I’m really looking for my son. This Indian Killer thing has me worried about him.”
“All the cops been through here a million times already,” said the Indian. “Asking me this, asking me that. I’ll tell you what I told the others. I know who killed those white people.”
“You know who did it?”
“Damn right, I know,” said the Indian. He laughed loudly, rolling his chair away from Daniel.
“Wait,” Daniel called after him, caught in the surprise of the moment. “Who did it?”
“It was Crazy Horse,” shouted the Indian, who stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “You know Crazy Horse?”
“Of course,” said Daniel, who’d read most every Indian book that Olivia had set in front of him. “He’s Oglala Sioux, right?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s Oglala.” The Indian, slowly wheeling back, closer and closer to Daniel, kept speaking. “And he’s more. This Indian Killer, you see, he’s got Crazy Horse’s magic. He’s got Chief Joseph’s brains. He’s got Geronimo’s heart. He’s got Wovoka’s vision. He’s all those badass Indians rolled up into one.”
The wheelchair Indian dug through his pockets, pulled out a series of wrinkled news clippings, and waved them in the air.
“See,” said the Indian, “I’m keeping track. We all are. Every Indian is keeping score. What? This Killer’s got himself two white guys? And that little white boy, enit? That makes the score about ten million to three, in favor of the white guys, enit? This Killer’s got a long ways to go. Man, he’s the underdog.”
The Indian laughed loudly, slapping his still legs. He began to roll away from Daniel.
“But who is he?” asked Daniel.
“It’s me,” said the Indian, his laughter getting louder as he rolled farther away. Then, still laughing, he stepped out of his chair, pushed it quickly down the street, and disappeared.
Though unnerved, Daniel could not stop searching for John. He spent most of the day in downtown Seattle, but never found anybody, white or Indian, who had ever heard of an Indian named John Smith, though they all knew a dozen homeless Indian men.
“Yeah, there’s that Blackfeet guy, Loney.”
“Oh, yeah, enit? And that Laguna guy, what’s his name? Tayo?”
“And Abel, that Kiowa.”
After searching for hours, Daniel returned to his car and made it back to Bellevue for an early dinner.
“How was your day?” asked Olivia, hoping that he’d tell her about his search for John.
“Okay,” said Daniel.
John’s parents ate the rest of their meal in silence.
That night, Olivia Smith dreamed: Father Duncan dipping baby John into the baptismal; four-year-old John heaving a basketball toward the hoop as Daniel laughs and claps his hands; Daniel kissing down her belly; John’s naked body, bloody and brown, dumped on a snow plain. Olivia dreamed: a red tricycle; lightning illuminating a stranger standing at a window; pine trees on fire; an abandoned hound mournfully howling beside a country road. Olivia dreamed: John standing alone on the last skyscraper in Seattle as wind whips his hair across his face; Daniel holding her head under water at Lake Sammamish until she panics; the moon rising above the Space Needle; Father Duncan dipping the adult John into the baptismal.
With a sudden start, Olivia sat up in bed, awake, unsure of her surroundings. Slowly, she recognized her bedroom, maple bureau, huge closet door ajar, Daniel snoring lightly beside her. Knowing she would not sleep now, she crawled from bed and walked into the bathroom. Without turning on the light, she pulled down her pajamas and sat on the toilet. She could not go, though there was a slight pressure in her bladder. She briefly wondered if she had an infection. She held her head in her hands and waited. She thought about the Indian Killer murders, how the news was filled with photographs of the white men who had been killed. Of the little white boy, helpless and small, as John had once been. She wondered if John was safe. She wanted to pray, but felt embarrassed by her position. Then she prayed anyway as her legs fell asleep.
As Olivia prayed, Daniel dreamed: his secretary leaning over his desk with papers to sign; the Bainbridge Island ferry crossing rough waters. Daniel dreamed: young John running across a field; a stranger hammering nails into a joist. Daniel dreamed: a red truck breaking through a guardrail; a pistol firing. Daniel dreamed: a man screaming; John standing over the bed.
Frightened, Daniel sat up in bed, sure that John was there. Daniel could almost smell his son. Smoke and sweat, sweet and dank. Then Daniel could smell his son, could feel him there.
“John?” asked Daniel.
Olivia heard her husband, quickly pulled up her pajamas and stepped into the bedroom.
“Daniel,” she said. “Who are you talking to?”
“It’s John,” he said. “He’s here.”
Olivia looked around the bedroom. The windows were locked tight. The bedroom door was shut. Since the closet door was slightly ajar, she opened it and turned on the light. Daniel’s suits on one side, her dresses and blouses on the other. On both sides, above their clothes, boxes were stacked from shelf to ceiling. A dozen pairs of Daniel’s shoes scattered on the floor; ten pairs of Olivia’s. No John. She switched off the closet light.