Reggie was feeling very tough.
“You’re lucky I don’t kill you,” whispered Reggie. “I eat Navajos for lunch. Then I eat white men for dessert.”
John looked up at Reggie.
“You don’t believe me?”
John kept shaking his head, sure that Reggie was lying.
“Thing is,” said Reggie, “I’m not Chief Joseph, man. None of that ‘I will fight no more forever’ crap. I’m going to keep fighting, Sheep Boy. I’m going to fight forever.”
“You’re the devil,” John said to Reggie.
“No, I’m not. I’m God.”
Reggie stood and kicked John in the ribs. John grunted with pain, closed his eyes, and searched his mind for a better place to be. Ty and Harley stared at Reggie.
“What the hell you doing?” signed Harley, genuinely afraid.
“Just giving him shit,” signed Reggie and winked.
John opened his eyes and slowly stood. He towered over his tormentors. He raised a fist in the air. Ty, Harley, and Reggie, laughing loudly, all did the same. They were still laughing as John staggered out of the parking lot. He stepped onto Aurora Avenue, turned south, and walked away from Big Heart’s. With the police patrols increased, two black-and-whites slowly cruised by John. He walked past the Oak Tree Cinemas, the World’s Greatest Sushi, Chubby & Tubby’s sporting goods and home supply store. Green Lake to the east, the ocean to the west. Water everywhere. So many places to drown.
23. A Conversation
“AARON, SON, WHAT’S HAPPENING over there?”
“I don’t know, Dad. Things are getting pretty crazy.”
“I read some Indians got jumped by three guys with baseball bats. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, son?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you telling me the truth? You know how much I hate liars.”
“Dad.”
“Tell me the truth, son.”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“And Barry and Sean?”
“Yeah.”
“Why, Aaron?”
“For David. It’s all for David.”
“You’ve got to stop this, son. You’re going to get caught. Or hurt. I don’t want to lose you, too.”
“Dad, I miss him.”
“I miss him, too. But those Indians aren’t worth it. They’re not worth anything.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember that night when we shot at those Indians in the camas field?”
“Of course. We scared the crap out of them.”
“Remember how you told us to shoot above their heads?”
“Yeah.”
“I aimed for that Indian guy. I aimed right for him. And when he fell down, I thought I got him. And I was happy.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“What if I caused all of this? What if David is dead because I tried to shoot that Indian?”
“That’s nonsense, Aaron. You were just a kid. You didn’t know any better.”
24. Mark Jones
THE KILLER WATCHED MARK sleeping in the dark place. The little boy had been sleeping constantly. It was getting harder and harder to wake him, and then he wouldn’t eat or drink much when he was awake.
The killer knew that a decision had to be made. The world now knew of the killer’s power and beauty. The newspapers were filled with interviews with the mother and father of Justin Summers, the first murder victim. Justin’s parents wept, and the killer loved their pain. Mark’s parents were subdued, in shock, too numb to show much emotion.
I just want the person who kidnapped Mark to know this, said Mrs. Jones in the largest article. Mark is a very special boy. He’s got a mother and a father who love him very much. He’s got a grandmother and two aunts. His nanny, Sarah, loves him like a son. He’s just a little boy. Please give Mark back to us.
The killer looked at the sleeping boy, dirty, smudged with dust from the dark room. His face was stained with juice and food. The killer sat in the dark and thought about the future, the ceremony. The killer left the dark place, filled a bucket with warm, soapy water, grabbed a hand towel from the bathroom, and went back inside to clean Mark. The killer was gentle. Mark didn’t wake as the killer carefully undressed him, removing the filthy Daredevil pajamas. Mark didn’t wake as the killer washed his face and body, his arms and genitals, his legs and feet. Mark didn’t wake as the killer dressed him in a large T-shirt.
The killer took the special knife down from the wall, slid it into the handmade sheath, and looked down at the sleeping boy. The killer picked up Mark Jones and, holding the boy as a parent would hold a child, left that dark place, and went out to finish the ceremony.
25. How He Imagines His Life on the Reservation
JOHN SEES THE SADNESS in his mother’s eyes as he prepares to leave the reservation for college. She wears a simple dress, something she sewed herself late at night. Lately, she has not slept well because she constantly worries about her son. She had given birth to him when she was very young, fourteen years old, and had greeted his arrival with a combination of fear, love, and ignorance. Her own mother had died while giving birth to her, and her father had been killed in Korea. Raised by a series of cousins and near-relatives, an orphan, she was not sure she knew how to be somebody’s daughter, let alone somebody’s mother. When John was born, the result of a random powwow encounter, he might as well have been an alien. Brown-skinned and bloody, twisted with the shock of birth, John screamed. But was he screaming out of rage, hunger, terror, or something more? She held him to her chest and prayed. Please, she whispered to him, stop. Ever since his birth, she has expected those screams, even now as she stands on the porch and watches John pack the car with his last piece of luggage. He is leaving her, leaving for college, and she is terrified of the life that awaits him in the white world.
“Are you sure about the car?” he asks.
“Yes, yes,” she says. “I don’t need it. I can use the tribal van. Or I can walk if I need to go to town. It’s not far.”
“But what about winter?”
“I’ll walk faster,” she says, and they both laugh.
She looks at her son. He has grown into a handsome man, tall and strong. But more than that, he is smart and generous, good to children and the tribal elders. For ten years, she has driven the tribal lunch van, which delivers meals to the elders, and John has often helped her. That was the way they both learned to speak the tribal language.
“Etigsgren,” said the elders upon their arrival.
“Etigsgren,” said John, perfectly mimicking the elder’s guttural stops and singsong accent.
“Ua soor loe neay. Reliw yerr uo hove?” asked the elders.
John smiled and shook his head. He did not have a girlfriend. He spent most of his free time with the elders. He vacuumed their carpets. He chased down rogue spiders in their bathtubs. He never killed the spiders; the elders had taught him that was bad luck. But the elders didn’t want little monsters slinking around their houses either. So John would gently scoop the spiders into his hands and carry them outside. He could feel the spiders’ legs wildly kicking and tickling his palm. He had always felt guilty about taking the spiders from their familiar surroundings and abandoning them in the wilds of a reservation backyard. John was not sure what spiders had to fear, but he was sure it was out there somewhere, waiting and watching. While the elders watched from their kitchen windows, John would kneel in the grass, set his hand close to the ground, open his fingers, and let the spiders loose. In their panic, the spiders would blindly scramble away, somehow convinced that they had broken free of their prisons and needed to quickly hide. John studied the grass as the spiders climbed over leaves and twigs, small stones and broken glass, until they disappeared into the small shadows.