“I bet you can’t get cell phone reception out here,” I say.
“What’s a cell phone?” the other FBI asks.
It’s my turn to laugh.
“Is the FBI too cheap to give cell phones to its agents?” I ask.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.
Wow, this guy isn’t kidding. He doesn’t know about cell phones. I guess he’s old-fashioned. I want to ask him if he’s heard of electricity.
Then I see headlights coming down the road behind us.
“All right, all right, get your game face on, kid,” says the other FBI. “Things could get ugly real quick.”
He pulls out his pistol and checks the ammo.
“Are we going to have a gunfight?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says.
So I pull out my pistol and check the ammo. Okay, I think, I have to be in some kind of dream. This can’t be real. I cannot be getting ready for a gunfight. I’m excited and scared. And then I realize something.
“Hey,” I say to the other FBI. “What’s your name?”
He reacts like I just slapped him.
“You’re not okay, are you?” he asks. I can see big fear in his eyes. That fear doesn’t seem fake. It doesn’t feel like a dream. The headlights behind us move closer.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I just forgot your name.”
“You lied to me,” he says. “There is something wrong with you, isn’t there? Jeez, you had one of them strokes, didn’t you? Ah, man, we’re in trouble.”
He looks back at those headlights traveling toward us. There must be seriously dangerous dudes in that car.
“Just tell me your name,” I say.
“Art,” he says. “My name is Art. You and I have been partners for twelve years.”
“That’s a long time,” I say.
The other car pulls up beside us. I look inside and see two Indian guys. They look familiar. I stare at them. And they stare at me. And then I realize who they are. They’re activists from IRON, which is the acronym for Indigenous Rights Now!
“Hey, Art,” I say, “those guys are famous.”
Art almost gasps and lets out this squeaky whine, like a little girl on a roller coaster.
“The passenger, what’s his name?” I ask.
I remember that the members of IRON gave up their birth names because they were “colonial poison” and named themselves after animals.
“Oh, I remember, his name is Horse,” I say.
“Yeah,” Art says. His voice cracks.
“And the driver, that’s Elk,” I say.
Art just nods his head. He looks at me bug-eyed.
“Those guys are super famous,” I say. “Famous for Indians, at least. I saw them both in this documentary about the civil war in Red River. You know, that’s where IRON was protecting traditional Indians from the evil Indian tribal government dudes. What were they called?”
“HAMMER,” Art says.
“Yeah, HAMMER,” I say. “What was that short for?”
“Nothing, they just call themselves HAMMER.”
“Yeah, IRON versus HAMMER. It was like a goddamn monster movie,” I say.
Art’s eyes are wide like he’s looking at a ghost. And he’s looking at me, so I guess he is looking at a ghost. He looks over at Horse and Elk, the IRON dudes in the other car. They’re talking to each other. But we can’t hear them through the glass. Everybody has secrets.
“Oh, yeah, man, I remember now,” I say. “Those HAMMER guys were killing everybody back then. And then the FBI joined up with HAMMER and started killing people, too. Man, when was that, back in 1975 or 1976?”
“Hank, you are fucking crazy,” Art says. “This is 1975, and—you and me—we are the FBI.”
I laugh. But Art is not kidding. He’s telling the truth. Oh, my God! Those damn doctors changed my face and body and put me in a time machine. No, wait. I realize the bank guard did kill me when he shot me in the brain. And I did die, and now I’m living in Hell. I’ve been sent to Hell. And Hell is Red River, Idaho, in 1975.
“Am I in Hell?” I ask.
Art’s anger suddenly changes. There’s a little bit of water in his eyes. He looks all compassionate.
“Kid,” he says, “I’m sorry, but I think your mind just snapped. But you got to hold it together—okay?—just for a little while. I’ll get you through this shit, and we’ll get you out of here as soon as we can, okay? We’ll get you a head doctor, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. I wonder if maybe I did survive that bank guard’s bullet but it put me into some kind of coma. I hope this is just a coma nightmare.
“Art,” I say, “I’m getting a little freaked out here.”
My partner’s compassion runs away. His eyes get mean.
“I love you, Hank,” he says. “I really do. You’re my best friend. You and me, man, together we’ve been partners for twelve years. I respect you for that, okay? I love you for it. But if you screw this up, I’m going to shoot you in the face.”
I believe Art does love me. I am his best friend. And despite all that love and friendship, I am convinced that he will kill me if he has to.
Art rolls down his window. Horse rolls down his window. He has a blue feather tied to his long black braid.
“Hey, Art,” Horse says.
“Hey,” Art says.
“Hey, Hank,” Horse says.
He knows me.
The driver, Elk, who has a square face like he’s some kind of Indian Frankenstein, doesn’t say anything. He just tries to look tough, and he’s doing a pretty good job of it. I’m scared of him.
And then I wonder why these two famous Indian guys are having a meeting with us, the white FBI. I thought they hated the FBI. I thought they were fighting against the FBI.
And then I realize that Elk and Horse are double agents. They are traitors to IRON.
This is major news. Back in the future, these guys are still heroes. Everybody still thinks they fought against the FBI. My heart is beating a punk rock song against my chest.
“You ready to do this?” Elk asks Art.
“Ready steady,” Art says.
All four of us get out of the cars.
Then Elk and Horse open their trunk and pull out another Indian guy: a young dude, maybe twenty. His hands are tied behind his back. His mouth is gagged. And his face is bloody and beaten. He’s terrified. And then I notice that all the fingers on his right hand are missing. Somebody cut them off.
I think I’m going to die tonight. Again.
“Is this him?” Art asks. “Does he know what we need to know?”
“Yeah,” Elk says. “But he won’t tell us.”
“What’s his name?”
“Junior.”
“Looks like you tortured poor Junior,” Art says.
“Yeah, but we heap primitive Injuns,” Elk says. “We don’t have fancy interrogation techniques like the F and B and I.”
“I don’t know anything fancy,” Art says. “Take off his gag.”
Elk pulls the gag out of Junior’s mouth. All of his teeth are smashed and broken. I almost vomit.
“How’s he going to talk with a mouth like that?” Art asks.
“Didn’t mean to punch him that hard,” Horse says.
“You did that much damage with one punch?” Art asks.
“Yeah,” Horse says. He’s proud. And I do vomit a little bit into my mouth and swallow it back down.
“All right,” Art says. “Hold his arms.”
Elk and Horse hold Junior’s arms. He doesn’t fight back.
“All right, Junior,” Art says. “Are you going to tell me what I want to know?”
Junior shakes his head.
In my head, I scream, Tell them, Junior, tell them everything!
I wish I knew what Art wanted to know. Maybe I could save Junior if I knew.
Art takes out his pistol and presses it against Junior’s forehead. Poor Junior barely even re
acts. He’s already given up.
I look at Elk and Horse. They’re smiling. I realize they aren’t freedom fighters or anything like that. They don’t care about protecting the poor and defenseless. No, man, these guys just like to hurt people. And I look at the weird light in Art’s eyes. He isn’t a lawman. He doesn’t protect our country. He just likes to hurt people, too.
“All right, Junior,” Art says. “You get one chance. Tell me what I want to know.”
And then Junior, amazing little Junior, he gets this look in his eyes. It’s peaceful and defiant at the same time. It’s like he’s saying, Kill me if you want. It doesn’t matter. I’m still a better person than you.
“Are you going to talk?” Art asks.
Junior shakes his head.
“Are you going to talk?” Art asks again.
“No,” Junior says.
Horse and Elk release Junior’s arms and step back. He could run now if he wanted to, but he wouldn’t get far.
“Are you going to talk?” Art asks for the third time.
“Fuck you,” Junior says.
Art shoots him in the face and Junior drops. He’s gone.
“You got blood on me,” Elk says to Art.
“We all got blood on us,” Art says.
He’s right about that.
Art looks at me. I stare back. And then I spin around and vomit all over the place.
Art killed that guy so easily. You don’t kill that easily unless you’ve done it lots of times before. I wonder who taught Art how to shoot people with a real gun.
And all of this just makes me vomit some more.
When I look up, Elk and Horse smirk at me.
“What’s wrong with you, FBI?” Elk asks. “It’s not like this is your first one.”
“What?” I ask.
“Don’t play dumb,” he says. “I know what you did. I saw you.”
Elk smiles. I hate that smile. He knows me.
Have I killed somebody out here on the reservation? Why don’t I remember it? Maybe Hank Storm killed people. But then I remember the bank. I’m not any better than these men. I’m not any better than the real Hank Storm.
I am Hank Storm, too.
“Don’t worry about Hank,” Art says. “He isn’t himself tonight.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I am most definitely not the old Hank Storm. I’m a whole different kind of Hank.”
“What are we going to do about Junior’s body?” Elk asks.
“Let him rot,” Art says.
“He’s a traditionalist,” Elk says. “His soul won’t get to Heaven if we don’t bury him the Indian way.”
“Why do you care?” Art asks.
“Because I was taught to,” Elk says. He’s thinking hard. Then he surprises me. “Why don’t you guys get going,” he says. “We’ll bury him the right way.”
Horse grunts in agreement.
Elk and Horse tortured Junior and delivered him to his murderers. But now they are going to bury him with respect. I don’t understand people.
“All right,” Art says. “But I need something else first.”
“What?” Elk asks.
Art looks hard at me. “Shoot Junior,” he says.
“What?” I ask.
“Shoot Junior,” Art says again.
“He’s already dead.”
“Shoot him,” Art says and points his gun at me. “Or I’ll shoot you.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “He’s already dead. You can’t kill him twice.”
“I want your bullet in him,” Art says. “I want us to be in this one together.”
“But that’s not respectful, is it?” I ask Elk. “That’s not the Indian thing to do, is it?”
“You’re not Indian,” Elk says.
“Shoot him,” Art says. “Now.”
Scared, I pull out my pistol and stand over Junior’s body. He looks so young. He’s a kid. Like me. I aim my gun at his chest. At his heart.
I can’t do this. It somehow seems worse to shoot a dead body than to shoot a living man. Justice made killing make sense. But it doesn’t make sense, does it?
I’m going crazy. I am crazy. I want somebody to tell me that I’m not real.
“Shoot him,” Art says.
I close my eyes and pull the trigger.
Maybe you can’t kill somebody twice for real, but it sure hurts your heart just the same.
Six
WHEN I OPEN MY eyes, I’m in a hospital room. For a moment I wonder if I’m back to being myself, to being Zits, but then I see Art sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed. I’m still trapped inside Hank Storm. But then I wonder if I’ve always been Hank Storm and was only Zits in a nightmare. Maybe I didn’t shoot up that bank full of people. I hope I’m just the man who shot an already dead guy in the face. Jesus, what kind of sick consolation can that be?
“Hey, Hank,” Art says. “Welcome back.”
“Where have I been?” I ask.
“Asleep.”
I just stare at him.
“How you feeling?” he asks.
Fucked by time, I think, and fucked by memory.
“Art,” I say, “you have no idea where my brain is right now.”
“You’re talking about that thing back on the reservation?” Art asks.
Not really, I think, but I might as well talk about that awful shit, too.
“Yeah,” I say. “The last thing I remember was standing over that guy, and—”
I can’t finish the sentence.
“After you did what I told you to do,” Art says, “you passed out.”
Can you blame me? I want to get out of bed and run away from Art, but I’m too weak.
“What happened after I passed out?” I ask.
“I thought you’d gone mental,” he says, “but it turns out you had some virus.”
“I’m sick?”
“Yeah. After you passed out, I shoved you into the car and drove fast. I barely got you to the hospital in time. I thought you were going to die.”
I think about Elk and Horse.
“What happened to those two other guys?” I ask.
“I left them there,” Art says. “They had stuff to do.”
“How long have I been out?” I ask.
“Three days.”
“Wow,” I say.
“Yeah, the doctors thought you maybe damaged your brain with that fever.”
“Am I going to be okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, the docs say you’ll be here a few more days; then they’re sending you back to D.C. You’re going to work a desk until you get strong again.”
“Listen,” I say. “About last night—”
“Just shut up about it,” Art says. “We don’t need to talk about it anymore. We’re at war. We’re soldiers. And soldiers have to do some tough things. That’s why we’re soldiers. And some of the things we have to do, they hurt us, you know? They hurt us inside.”
Art’s eyes fill with tears. But he doesn’t even notice he’s crying. He just keeps talking.
“In order to fight evil, sometimes we have to do evil things,” he says.
Art gasps for breath. I don’t think he’s ever said these things before. I don’t think he’ll ever say them again.
“I believe that what we did the other night was necessary,” he says. “Horrible and necessary. Do you understand that?”
Art and Justice fight on opposite sides of the war but they sound exactly like each other. How can you tell the difference between the good guys and the bad guys when they say the same things?
“I’m scared of you, Art,” I say.
“Oh, kid,” he says, “I’d never hurt you. Never. I love you, man. So many people love you.”
Three beautiful boys and a beautiful woman walk into the room. I don’t know who they are, but they know me.
“Daddy! Daddy!” the boys scream and jump on the bed with me. They jump on me.
I’m a father.
“Okay, okay,” Art says, and
pulls the kids off me. “Your daddy is sick. You got to give him some room.”
“Uncle Art, Uncle Art!” the kids shout. “Do you have any toys for us?”
They call him Uncle Art.
This guy and I are best friends. This guy loves me. He loves my children. He loves my wife. This guy is part of my family.
Yes, this is the loving man who shot another man in the face.
“Hey, kids,” Art says, “why don’t we head to the cafeteria and let your mom and dad have a little time alone?”
My kids cheer as their Uncle Art, the killer, takes them downstairs for chocolate pudding.
After they’re gone, the beautiful woman leans over me. She is my wife and I don’t know her.
“Oh, Hank,” she says. “It’s so good to see you awake.”
“Yes,” I say.
“Are you contagious?” she asks.
If you can catch crazy, I’m a walking epidemic.
“It’s only a virus,” I say. “I don’t think you can catch what I have.”
“Maybe I want to,” she says.
I can’t believe this woman is my wife. She is beautiful. Black hair, blue eyes, pale skin. She is maybe the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in person.
I wonder if I’ll get to have sex with her.
I know this sexy woman is Hank’s wife. But I’m Hank right now. And she loves him so she loves me, too. I wonder if she knows that Hank kills people. I wonder if she knows that Hank helped kill a man a few nights ago. I wonder if she would still love Hank if she knew. I suspect she might. I suspect she sees Hank as her protector, as her children’s protector.
Hank makes the world safe. He is a good and loving husband and father. He is one hundred different versions of himself, and only one of them is a killer.
“I hear you’re coming home,” my wife says.
“I think so,” I say.
“That’s good, we’ve missed you so much.”
She kisses me on the mouth. It makes me feel powerful. I close my eyes again and kiss her back as hard as I can.
God, I think I would kill for her kiss.
Seven
I’M RUNNING THROUGH THE dark. I run toward the sound of laughter. I run toward a bright light in the distance.
I run super fast. And I wonder if I’m not running at all. What if I’m flying? What if I have become that bank guard’s bullet? What if I’m the bullet that blasted through my brain?
Flight: A Novel Page 4