“Vulture,” Marie said to herself as she watched Wilson inch closer to the Indian man on the phone. Marie knew he was King, a Flathead from Arlee, Montana. Jesus, Marie thought, if that white guy gets any closer to King, they’re going to be dancing.
“Nah, I’m okay,” King said to the person on the other end of the phone line. “Yeah, been saving up some coins. Thinking about coming back home, you know?”
King had left the reservation in 1980 to attend college and become a teacher. He had made it through one semester before he ran out of money. Too ashamed to return to the reservation, he’d worked on a fishing boat for a few years, then was struck by a hit-and-run driver while on shore leave. Too injured to work, without access to disability or workers’ compensation, King had been homeless for most of the last ten years.
“Sir,” said the telephone woman. “Your three minutes are up. We have to close up shop.”
“Okay, okay,” King told the woman, then said a few more words into the phone and quietly hung up. He cleared his throat, blinked back tears, and walked away.
Wilson began to picture the Indian Killer using the free telephones. But who would he call? An ancient ancestor, somebody from the sixteenth or seventeenth century, a wise old medicine man? Maybe a medicine man who was murdered by white people. The medicine man wants the Indian Killer to get revenge. Wilson cursed himself for not bringing along a notebook. Walking north out of the park, he hoped he could catch the next bus home to write this down.
With head low and shoulders hunched, King walked south across the street toward the sandwich van. His telephone call had been a failure. He had talked to a stranger, a young boy, maybe fourteen. An Indian stranger, but still a stranger. King had dialed that number hoping to hear his sister on the other end of the line, but it was some other Indian. It was a number on the Flathead Reservation, King’s rez, but it wasn’t his family’s number. A Flathead boy answered but did not know if any of King’s relatives still lived on the reservation. Maybe all of his relatives had left. Disappeared, or died. The Indian boy had been polite and had listened to King rattle on for three minutes. The boy had even asked about King’s health. Somebody had taught that little Flathead boy how to be a good Indian.
“Hey, King,” said Marie. She was leaning out the window of her van, holding a couple of sandwiches. Her glasses were slipping off the bridge of her nose, but she couldn’t do much about it with sandwiches in one hand, the other hand clutching the steering wheel as she leaned out the window.
“Marie,” said King. “What kind you got?”
“Ham and cheese, turkey and Swiss. And peanut butter and jelly.”
“Jeez, ain’t had P.B. and J. in a long time.”
“How long?”
“A long time,” said King, stretching out the vowel sounds.
“Well,” said Marie. “Come sit in the truck with me. I can’t feed anybody until the band leaves anyhow. Give me some company, enit?”
“Enit,” said King. He climbed into the cab. He smelled bad, but Marie was almost used to it. The band played horrible music for another hour, as the tourists left the park by twos and threes. Marie gave sandwiches to a few men and women who recognized the van. Clouds arrived. Rain fell. A light rain. Enough to make you consider a heavier coat, but not enough to make you wear one. The tourists were gone; the homeless had returned. Marie wanted, just once, to have enough sandwiches. There were never enough sandwiches. King kept telling her stories about his reservation and she kept smiling.
15. Mark Jones
MARK JONES WAS SURE he was alone in the dark place. He listened for the killer, and heard only his own breathing. Mark was very young, only six years old, but he was smart. He knew the killer would never let him leave.
A few hours, or days, or weeks earlier, the killer had cut a piece from Mark’s pajamas. When the killer had first started cutting, Mark had screamed, thinking he was going to die. But the killer hadn’t hurt him at all, had just taken the pajama piece and left Mark alone in the dark place. Mark had cried at the damage to his Daredevil pajamas. The blind superhero who didn’t need light to see. Mark wished he could see in the dark.
As frightened as he was, Mark somehow found the strength and courage to stand. With his hands bound and his mouth gagged, Mark shuffled through the room, trying to find a door, an escape. He didn’t want to make any noise. He wanted to be as silent as the killer. Mark searched. He stumbled, staggered, and finally fell. As he fell, he screamed through his gag.
16. The Last Precinct
WILSON DRANK ONLY MILK at The Last Precinct, a cop hangout in downtown Seattle. It was a small place, one room with ten tables, forty chairs, and a jukebox. Nobody ever sat at the bar. The men’s and women’s bathrooms were used interchangeably, since the patrons were rarely women. The cops tended to segregate themselves by beat, homicide detectives sharing one table, narcs another. The vice squad took up half the place, and a few patrol cops sat in a corner. But whatever their beats, the men were loud and drunk. The drinks were cheap and strong. Wilson felt no need to sit with a certain group, or to get drunk. Let the others drink themselves stupid. Wilson understood that need, but would not allow himself to lose control.
This evening, Wilson sat with Randy Peone, a patrol cop from downtown, who was seriously considering a change of careers; Bobby, a SWAT sharpshooter with ulcers; and Terrible Ted, an especially drunk and belligerent homicide detective.
“Look at us,” said Ted, waving his huge arms to show surprise at the group around the table. “We got a Mick, a Wop, a Kraut, and a fucking Indian.”
“Indian?” asked Bobby. “Who’s Indian?”
“Wilson’s a fucking Indian,” said Ted. “What? Apache or something, right, Wilson?”
Smiling, Wilson shook his head.
Bobby studied Wilson’s features in the dark of the bar.
“Jesus,” said Bobby. “You don’t look Injun. You look like an American to me.”
“He’s got some Indian blood in the woodpile, don’t you?” asked Ted. “Yeah, his grandmother liked her some dark meat.”
Wilson just smiled.
“You know about that scalping?” asked Ted. He leaned awkwardly over the table.
Wilson stopped smiling and said, “Yeah, you working on it?”
“Nah, George has got it,” said Ted. “Why? You hear anything?”
“Not much,” said Wilson.
“I thought you might have,” said Ted. “You being an Indian and all. I hear you fuckers tell each other everything.”