“No,” said Wilson, firm in his belief that the big Indian would have valuable answers. “We don’t need the cops. I was mistaken. I don’t know who they were.”
“But you said you recognized them?”
“No, I was mistaken.”
“Jeez, it’s a good thing that wasn’t the Indian Killer, huh? We’d both be dead!”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Eric shrugged his shoulders. He was sure Wilson was lying, but not sure why. It didn’t much matter since no one had been hurt. Wilson was already unaware of Eric, of Marie, of everything but John. Wilson was enchanted with John. Wilson thought that a man who looked like that could be Little Hawk. Wilson wanted John all to himself.
21. Testimony
“MR. HARRIS, CAN I have a few words with you?”
“Hey, dude, are you, like, a cop?”
“Homicide detective, actually.”
“Well, I haven’t been homicided. At least, not yet. No thanks to those Indians, though. They blinded me, man.”
“The doctors think you’ll be able to regain some of your vision. Maybe all of it.”
“That’s what they tell me. But I don’t know, man. I’m scared. I can’t believe what those Indians did.”
“Yes, well, that’s what I’d like to talk to you about. Are you sure they were Indian?”
“Positive. Braids and all. Just like the movies.”
“Do you think you could identify them? Perhaps work with one of our sketch artists to come up with a composite? I know it will be hard without your eyes. But we’ve got to try.”
“Just like the movies, huh?”
“Just like the movies.”
“Yeah, man, I’ll do my best. Like I said, they were some righteously angry dudes.”
“Can you tell me exactly what happened that night?”
“Yeah. You see, man, I’ve been hitching across the country, trying to find myself, you know? Out there in the open spaces, man, you can see some powerful shit, I mean, some powerful stuff. But anyway, I was on my way to Canada. I, like, met these Canadian dudes down in Arizona a few weeks back and they said I could visit them anytime I was in Canada.”
“And that’s why you were camped on the Indian Heritage High School football field.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know it was an Indian school. It was some righteous grass to me. I mean, I knew it was a football field, but I don’t believe in football, you know? I was rolled up in my sleeping bag, sleeping, when these three guys pulled me out and started beating me up.”
“And you’re sure there were three of them?”
“Uno, dos, tres.”
“And did they say anything? Mention any names or places?”
“Hey, man, they were recording me.”
“Recording?”
“Yeah, with a tape recorder, you know, like it was an interview or something, like they wanted to keep a sound track or something. And they kept calling me weird names.”
“Can you remember what they called you?”
“No chance, man. I was out of it by then. I was all dizzy and everything was moving in circles. Everything spinning, and then one dude shoved his fingers into my eyes and here I am in the hospital.”
“Is there anything else you can remember?”
“I think one of them was deaf.”
“Deaf?”
“Yeah, all three were talking with their fingers, you know? Sign language. And one of them had blue eyes. A blue-eyed Indian.”
“You’re positive about that?”
“Yeah, yeah. You know, I was listening to the boob tube and heard something about this Indian Killer. You think these guys have something to do with that?”
“We’re looking into that possibility.”
“It’s so strange. It’s, like, those Indians guys hurt me just because I’m white. But I haven’t done anything bad to Indians. I like Indians, man. I even visited a couple of reservations. The Navajo, the Hopi. Beautiful. And this Indian Killer is killing white guys just because they’re white, right? And he kidnapped that little boy because he was white?”
“That seems to be the motive.”
“And that little dude, what’s his name, Mark?”
“Yes, Mark Jones.”
“Yeah, well, he certainly didn’t do anything bad to Indians. I mean, not every white guy is an evil dude, you know?”
22. Slow Dancing with the Most Beautiful Indian Woman on Earth
IF A WHITE STRANGER, completely unaware of the year, happened to stumble into Big Heart’s Soda and Juice Bar and heard the music blasting from the jukebox, he might assume that he was living in 1966. Or 1972. Perhaps as late as 1978. The white stranger would see over two hundred Indians dancing. A white stranger might have assumed the Indians were celebrating something special, and they were. Mick had opened the bar, despite the Indian Killer scare, and was pulling in the dough. The Indians were dancing to Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Roy Orbison, Johnny Cash, Chuck Berry, early Stones, earlier Beatles. Disco had been outlawed by the patrons of Big Heart’s. Black music was rare. World music never made it through the door. Lou Reed and Kiss were favorites, though. Blood, Sweat, and Tears, Three Dog Night, and Creedence Clearwater Revival were revered. But there were no white strangers in Big Heart’s that night, though a few dozen Indians were new in town, just visiting, playing in a basketball tournament, looking for love, lost. All thinking about the Indian Killer. John was there too, neither stranger nor tourist. He had no definition for what he was. Drinking his Pepsi, he sat at the bar.
He felt guilty for having left Marie alone with Wilson and the cab driver, but John had been frightened by his anger. He stood over those two white men and wanted to kill them both. He wanted to smash their faces, break their bones, and crush their blue eyes. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of Marie, who would have witnessed it. She should not be subjected to such things. She was special and deserved something better. John had wanted to trust her, the woman who gave sandwiches away, but her thick glasses were frightening. Her crooked front teeth were absolutely terrifying. John could feel the heat spreading in his belly when he thought of her, the Indian woman with small breasts and thick hips. He wanted to tell of his plan, his need to kill the white man who was responsible for everything that had gone wrong. But she might misunderstand. John could not risk that. He had not meant to leave her behind, but he had to protect himself. He could have crushed the writer and cab driver, but that would ruin everything. There were too many eyes watching. John had to sacrifice his time with Marie so that he could live. He had to have priorities, make schedules, budget his time and energy. He had found his way to Big Heart’s because he knew he would be safe there. So many Indians. Though he knew he wasn’t a real Indian, John knew he looked like one. His face was his mask. John knew all of this to be true.
If John had happened to look at the Big Heart’s dance floor right then, he would have seen two Indian women, tired of waiting to be asked, dancing all by themselves. He would have seen dozens of other dancing couples, and large groups of single Indian men. Too shy to dance, they sat in large groups, whispering about their romantic intentions.
“Hey, you see that one?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to ask her to dance.”
“When?”
“Pretty soon. I’m taking my time.”
Those discussions went on for hours while the women waited, or danced with each other, or left the bar. When an Indian man finally found the courage to dance, he usually stood in place, shuffled his feet back and forth, snapped his fingers in time with the music. The only Indian men who danced with abandon were the same ones who danced traditionally during the powwows. Whenever a fancydancer or a grassdancer took the floor at Big Heart’s, he was the object of much curiosity.