He was still watching the shadow in the fortieth-floor window when he hit the pavement. It was quiet at first. His eyes were closed, must have closed on impact. He listened to the silence, felt a heavy pressure in his spine, and opened his eyes. He was facedown on the pavement. Pushing himself up, he felt a tearing inside. He stood above the body embedded in the pavement, small fissures snaking away from the arms and legs. The body in blue jeans, red plaid shirt, brown work boots, long, black hair. A fine dust floating. An anonymous siren in the distance, on its way somewhere else. He looked up at the building across the street. The window on the fortieth floor was dark. He knelt down and touched the body embedded in the pavement. Still warm. He pulled the wallet from the body’s blue jeans, found the photograph inside, and recognized the faces. He read the clipping about Father Duncan’s disappearance. He pulled the cash out of the wallet, let the wind take it from his fingers, watched it float away. The streetlights flashed red, flashed red. He tucked the photograph and clipping inside the wallet, slid it back into the pocket of the fallen man. John looked down at himself and saw he was naked. Brown skin. Muscles tensed in anticipation of the long walk ahead of him. He studied the other body as it sank deeper into the pavement. John stood, stepped over that body, and strode into the desert. Dark now, the desert was a different place. Colder and safer. An Indian father was out there beyond the horizon. And maybe an Indian mother with a scar on her belly from a Cesarean birth. She could know John’s real name. John wanted to find them both. He took one step, another, and then he was gone.
30. Testimony
“MS. POLATKIN, MARIE, CAN you tell us something about John Smith?”
“He wasn’t the Indian Killer.”
“Why do you keep insisting on this? We have the murder weapon, we have Jack Wilson’s sworn testimony. John Smith was the Indian Killer. Case closed.”
“Jack Wilson is a liar.”
“Have you seen Wilson’s face? He looks like a car wreck. I hardly think he deserves to be called a liar. Have you even read his book about all of this?”
“No.”
“You should. It’s a very interesting portrait of John Smith. You’d like it. Wilson says that Indian children shouldn’t be adopted by white parents. He says that those kids commit suicide way too often. You ask me, John’s suicide was a good thing.”
“Wilson doesn’t know shit about Indians.”
“Have you read Dr. Mather’s book?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Really? You’re in it, you know? And it’s not too flattering, I must say.”
“So what.”
“Mather thinks your cousin Reggie is the Indian Killer. He thinks you might have been a part of it, too.”
“I hardly knew Reggie. And if I’d been a part of it, Mather wouldn’t have enough fingers left to write a book.”
“Are you threatening Dr. Mather?”
“No, I’m speaking metaphorically.”
“Did you have anything to do with the killings?”
“No.”
“Did you have anything to do with Reggie’s assault of Robert Harris?”
“No.”
“Do you know where Reggie is?”
“No.”
“Do you know Harley Tate or Ty Williams?”
“No.”
“Do you know where Harley Tate is?”
“No.”
“Besides Wilson, you were the last one to see John Smith alive.”
“Yeah. So?”
“What did you two talk about? Did you make plans for the future?”
“We didn’t talk much at all. We were busy fighting off those white assholes.”
“Barry Church and Aaron Rogers?”
“Yeah, why aren’t you hassling them?”
“Barry and Aaron have their own troubles.”
“Yeah, what did they get? Six months in county jail?”
“Weren’t you in a class with Aaron’s brother? The one who disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“Aaron Rogers has indicated that you and David had a romantic relationship.”
“That’s a lie.”
“My, my, Marie. Is every white man a liar?”
“Every one so far.”
“So, what was the nature of your relationship with David Rogers?”
“We were in a class together. I talked to him a couple of times. He asked me out. I turned him down. He disappeared. They found his body. That’s my relationship with David Rogers.”
“I see. And did you know about the camas field on the Rogers’s farm? Did you know about their land dispute with the Spokane Tribe?”
“The Spokanes have land disputes with most everybody. And no, I didn’t know about David and the camas field.”
“Did John Smith kill David Rogers?”
“No.”
“How would you know that?”
“John Smith didn’t kill anybody.”
“Did you kill David Rogers?”
“No way.”
“Did you and John Smith have a romantic relationship?”
“No. Listen to me. John Smith was screwed up. He was hurting. He didn’t know up from down. He got screwed at birth. He had no chance. I don’t care how nice his white parents were. John was dead from the start. And now you’re killing him all over again. Can’t you just leave him alone?”
“John Smith is all alone now. And he won’t be hurting anybody ever again. It’s all over.”
“John never hurt anybody. And this isn’t over.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I just know.”
“What else do you know?”
“I know that John Smith didn’t kill anybody except himself. And if some Indian is killing white guys, then it’s a credit to us that it took over five hundred years for it to happen. And there’s more.”
“Yes?”
“Indians are dancing now, and I don’t think they’re going to stop.”
31. A Creation Story
A FULL MOON. A cemetery on an Indian reservation. On this reservation or that reservation. Any reservation, a particular reservation. The killer wears a carved wooden mask. Cedar, or pine, or maple. The killer sits alone on a grave. The headstone is gray, its inscription illegible. There are many graves, rows of graves, rows of rows. The killer is softly singing a new song that sounds exactly like an old one. As the killer sings, an owl silently lands on a tree branch nearby. The owl shakes its feathers clean. It listens. The killer continues to sing, and another owl perches beside the first. Birds of prey, birds of prayer. The killer sings louder now, then stands. The killer’s mouth is dry, tastes of blood and sweat. The killer carries a pack filled with a change of clothes, a few books, dozens of owl feathers, a scrapbook, and two bloody scalps in a plastic bag. Beneath the killer’s jacket, the beautiful knife, with three turquoise gems inlaid in the handle, sits comfortably in its homemade sheath. The killer has no money, but feels no thirst or hunger. The killer finds bread and blood in other ways. The killer spins in circles and, with each revolution, another owl floats in from the darkness and takes its place in the tree. Dark blossom after dark blossom. The killer sings and dances for hours, days. Other Indians arrive and quickly learn the song. A dozen Indians, then hundreds, and more, all learning the same song, the exact dance. The killer dances and will not tire. The killer knows this dance is over five hundred years old. The killer believes in all masks, in this wooden mask. The killer gazes skyward and screeches. With this mask, with this mystery, the killer can dance forever. The killer plans on dancing forever. The killer never falls. The moon never falls. The tree grows heavy with owls.