First, the mother woke and found her son in her arms. She screamed with joy. Then came the fear as she realized the killer had been inside her house again. And a whole different kind of scream. That scream woke the young officer. He saw the owl feathers beneath his wipers and assumed the worst. He called in for backup before he bravely entered the house by himself. He climbed the stairs and saw the mother, father, and baby wrapped up together. He saw the mother’s bare breasts and had an uncomfortably erotic thought, at the same time suddenly realizing that he was pointing his pistol at the family he’d been assigned to protect.
The last day was just beginning. The killer had counted coup, had won a battle without drawing blood. The killer knew there was more work to be done before evening came. Silently singing, the killer descended from the tree and floated away from the Jones’s home.
2. Testimony
“MR. SCHULTZ, WE CAN’T find any trace that anybody was in that alley with you. Nothing in the parking lot, either. There’s nothing. None of your co-workers saw or heard anything suspicious. All they heard was you screaming. Blubbering, somebody said.”
“You listen to me, smart ass. I know there was somebody out there. I could hear him. He was after me. It was that goddamn Indian Killer. First he sends me a piece of that dead kid’s pajamas, and then he comes to kill me.”
“Listen, don’t talk to me about the Indian Killer. You’re the one starting up all this trouble. You’re the one broadcasting lies. And that dead kid is alive.”
“What?”
“Yeah, we just heard it. The Indian Killer brought the kid back to his house.”
“What?”
“Yeah, took some balls, didn’t it? Put that kid in his momma’s arms while she was sleeping. She woke up screaming bloody murder, I guess.”
“Well, that’s good news. The kid is alive.”
“You don’t sound so enthused about it.”
“Well, pardon me if I’m not dancing. But that Indian Killer tried to kill me tonight. And here you are calling me a liar.”
“I’m not calling you anything, Mr. Schultz. There’s just no evidence that anybody was in that alley except you. You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking that your co-workers played some kind of joke on you. Make the big shot Truck Schultz wet his pants.”
“I didn’t wet my pants.”
“Whatever. Now, I advise you to stay out of dark alleys and parking lots until we catch this Indian Killer, okay? Maybe there was somebody in that alley with you, so let’s not take any chances, okay? And you stay off the radio.”
“If that Indian Killer comes near me again, I’ll kill him.”
3. Seattle’s Best Donuts
AT TWO IN THE MORNING on that last day, John Smith was softly singing a Catholic hymn that Father Duncan must have sung before he went to the desert. A song about water and forgiveness. John sat in his customary chair at the long counter, which carried three chairs, or four, sometimes even five. But John recognized his chair because strange chairs were dangerous for John. They shifted shape, became unrecognizable. Once he learned to trust a chair, it stayed a chair. People worked that way, too. If John learned to trust somebody, like Paul and Paul Too in the donut shop, then those people became chairs. Comfortable, predictable. A safe chair and safe people were the most valuable things in the world. Rain fell outside, on the pavement brightly lit by neon and streetlights, where there were no chairs. John knew that Father Duncan would welcome this rain as he walked through the desert, as he tripped, fell to his knees, and began an accidental prayer. John could see Duncan with his delicate hands clasped tightly together, fingernails grotesquely long and dirty. Those nails would cut into Duncan’s palms if he made a fist. Duncan made a fist with his right hand. A few drops of blood fell to the sand.
Paul was flipping through the latest issue of Artforum. Paul Too sat in his favorite chair, reading the newspaper. Both men understood John’s need for repetition, the ceremony of a donut and coffee at two in the morning. Paul Too had already sipped at John’s coffee and nibbled on his donut to prove they were not poisoned. Both noticed that John was in an especially bad state. His face was bruised and dirty. He smelled like a week of bad weather. He was talking to himself.
“How are you, John?” Paul asked.
“I met a woman.”
Paul and Paul Too exchanged a quick glance.
“Really?” asked Paul casually. “And what’s her name?”
“Marie. She’s the Sandwich Lady.”
Paul and Paul Too were relieved this woman existed only in John’s head. They were frightened at the thought of a woman who might be interested in John.
“So,” Paul humored John. “What does the Sandwich Lady do?”
“She gives out sandwiches.” John was irritated at Paul’s ignorance. “What else would the Sandwich Lady do?”
“Oh, of course. What kind of sandwiches?”
“All kinds. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Paul raised his hands in surrender. John was definitely in a bad mood. Olivia and Daniel had visited the shop a few times lately looking for John. They had been frightened, although Daniel tried to hide it. Paul wanted to call John’s parents; their number was written beside the telephone, but he knew that John would panic if he did. Paul looked to Paul Too for help.
“Hey, John,” said Paul Too. “When was the last time you were home?”
John ignored him.
“Your mom and dad been looking for you,” said Paul Too. “Have you talked to them?”
John shook his head.
“They must be worried about you,” said Paul Too. “With all this Indian Killer stuff floating around, you know?”
“I didn’t do anything,” said John.
“That ain’t what I’m saying,” said Paul Too. “You looked at the news lately? Indians in the hospital, Indians in jail. It’s ugly out there. Makes me happy I’m black.”
John looked at Paul Too, then down at his hands. They were dark, smudged with sugar, flour, and maple. John figured he was as black as Paul, if not as dark as Paul Too. John understood slavery, how the masters whipped the darker ones more than they whipped the lighter ones. A dark Indian was better than a light Indian, John knew. For black men, it was best to be lighter, more like whites, to look like a cup of coffee with cream. A dark black man was the most dangerous kind. Indians wanted to be darker; black men wanted to be lighter. Was that how it worked?
John was five years old when he first realized his parents were white and he was brown, and understood that the difference in skin color was important. He had walked into his parents’ bedroom without knocking. He was supposed to knock. His father, with just a towel wrapped around his waist, was standing at the foot of the bed. His mother sat on the edge of the bed. She wore just a pair of black panties and a bra. His father was thinner then, with a hairless chest and flat stomach. His skin was so pale that John imagined he could see through it. Olivia was beautiful as milk. Large breasts, long legs, wide hips all creamy. Only the small mole, a few inches above her belly button, was dark. She was drying her hair with a blue towel.
“John,” said Olivia, surprised and embarrassed. John was supposed to be napping. She and Daniel had just made love, then showered together. John had no way of knowing this, but Olivia somehow assumed he did.