by Ethan Cross
“That’s not going to happen.”
“But it could.”
“All the more reason for us to find that truck.”
Yazzie wiped the sweat from his close cropped hair. “I might as well ask you point blank, John. Do you have any idea what happened to Maggie Carlisle?”
In Diné culture, it was considered rude to look a person directly in the eyes. Yazzie broke that practice now to demonstrate the seriousness of his question.
Canyon replied, “Not that it should matter to you, but I never saw her. Somewhere between her talking to you and coming up to see me, she must have been bitten by a rattlesnake or fell into a ravine. I have no clue where to find her. And the crazy bastard in that cage is demanding something that I can’t give him.”
Yazzie shook his head. “I was afraid of that. I don’t scare easily, but this guy Frank… I don’t know who he really is, but I know what he is. He’s an apex predator. He won’t take ‘I don’t know’ as an answer.”
“Then I guess you had better use your deductive powers to find my son. He can’t have gone that far.”
“Far enough to make finding a single truck that could be hidden in one of a thousand ramshackle sheds across the valley like finding a specific needle in a cactus field.”
Once again, John Canyon felt like slitting Yazzie’s throat. “Then what do we do, smart guy?”
“Do you ever pray to the spirits, John?”
“No.”
“I would suggest now as a good time to start.”
“You better have a plan B. Otherwise, I’m going to turn your station into a slaughterhouse.”
Yazzie raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, let’s take things one step at a time. And right now, I’m ready for another little chat with our prisoner.”
11
30 years earlier…
The boy hated the men who visited his mother, especially those who did so on a consistent basis. Mother said he should be grateful toward the regulars. They were the clients who put food on their table. But the boy couldn’t help but daydream about murdering those men with the sweaty palms and hungry eyes. He drew dark pictures of them in small speckled notebooks at the tiny schoolhouse that served this part of the Rez. He kept the notebooks hidden, which wasn’t hard to do. His teacher was usually hungover and merely handed out worksheets. But the boy knew he would be sent to the principal’s office if anyone saw the pictures of blood and knives and severed male genitalia. The principal would call his mother and probably force him to see another counselor. And so he kept the notebooks, which also held his personal musings, in a form small enough that he could slip them down the front of his pants if a teacher came sniffing. And if they felt him up to get at the notebooks…well, then they wouldn’t be a teacher anymore. Simple solutions to everyday problems.
The boy was almost twelve now. That meant thirteen was just around the corner. And being a teenager, in his mind, meant that he was enough of a man to stand on his own, to take charge of the household and the family business. Being a good business man meant that he couldn’t actually go around killing the clients. He had to restrict those desires to the realm of fantasy. But he could still daydream; he could still create his art in the small speckled notebooks.
Having acted as his mother’s cashier, receptionist, and booking agent since the time he could add and subtract and mark appointments on a calendar—he wrote out the receipt for Dr. Chee without even looking at the paper.
The receipt was to be given to his mother as proof of the transaction and contained a few pieces of vital information. The first was the length of time each client had with her. The second was the types of sex acts they had paid to engage in. And the third was a small number code that he had developed in order to communicate other personal info about the client, including marriage status, number of children, and whether or not they had gotten rough in the past.
Dr. Chee—the man now standing in their front room sweating through a cattleman western shirt, the puddles of perspiration gathering on the sides of the man’s large beer belly—was one of those who liked to occasionally slap his mother around. She had told him that a little bit of that was to be expected, but that he should call his Uncle Red if things ever got out of hand. The boy, however, had no plans to call for help. If the situation presented itself, then he would handle it using grandfather’s old hunting knife, which rested nearby him always in the small table beside a couch that also served as his bed.
The boy handed the doctor his change and said, “Let me check that she’s ready for you.” Then he gestured toward a chair of green plastic that rested between the living room and the hallway leading back to mother’s bedroom. Dr. Chee knew the drill. He was a regular customer. And being a regular who liked to beat on his mother, the boy had featured Dr. Chee as the focus of his artwork on many occasions.
The hallway smelled like sweat and burning plastic. Mother must have been smoking some of her cheap crystal meth between clients. When he was younger, he had tried to get mother off the drugs and had failed miserably. The older he became, the less he cared. His mother was merely a cow to be milked until she couldn’t be milked any longer. And if smoking some cheap drugs helped the cow to produce more milk, then all the better for the farmer.
He knocked on the door, and after some shuffling, his mother answered in her bathrobe. She was an attractive woman, he supposed. Or at least, she probably was in her youth. His sister, who was less than a year his junior, was gorgeous and petite, and the boy could see the faint traces of the same beauty in his mother. But she was far from thin, with wide hips and a round face filled with half rotten teeth. Coughing as she cracked the door, she said, “I thought my next appointment wasn’t until 4:00.”
“It’s ten after four now. I took my time getting his change and next appointment so you could have a few extra minutes.”
“Thanks, baby. Such a good boy,” she said as she stroked his cheek, her eyes filled with the ethereal dreaminess of the high.
“I’m sending him back now,” the boy said, his expression stone.
Before closing the door, he grabbed a can of air freshener from a chipboard table in the hall and sprayed the bedroom and the hallway. His mother mumbled, “Such a good boy,” as she dropped onto a mattress on the floor.
Dr. Chee was waiting patiently at the end of the hall. The boy said, “I’ll give you a couple of minutes before I start your timer, since you had to wait, Dr. Chee.”
Standing and adjusting his belt and beer gut, the backwoods doctor said, “Hey, kid, cut the doctor crap. We’re all named John, remember.” He punctuated the sentence with a wink.
The boy replied, “Well, John, you just remember to watch how rough you get with my mother.”
With a little chuckle, Dr. Chee shoved the boy hard enough to throw him back into the brittle wooden paneling of the trailer, cracking the wall and his back along with it. The pain shot up the boy’s spine, and tears welled in his eyes.
Standing over him, the doctor said, “I’ll be damned if I ever let some ghost-eyed little freak or his junkie whore of a mother tell me what to do. And don’t bother checking your little files, kid. I already pulled mine while you were cleaning up mommy. My wife’s dead and I don’t have any kids, so there’s no one to blackmail me with either, you little shit. Next time I come here, you had better keep the commentary to yourself, or I’ll really give you something to cry about.”
The boy kept his eyes on the floor. He had found that it was often best to adopt the strategies of the opossum and the armadillo. Dr. Chee had already sauntered down the hallway by the time the boy raised his gaze from the floor.
He thought of what the doctor had called him: “A ghost-eyed freak.”
The boy had been born a partial ocular albino, which meant that his right eye had no pigment. He still had perfect vision, but the eye had always seemed to unnerve people. One of the older, more traditional Navajo men in their community had actually prayed over him as a baby, fearing
that the boy’s white eye meant that he lived half in this world and half in the spirit realm.
The other kids teased him about it, and grownups seemed uneasy around him. Many times, he had considered whether or not it would be better to wear an eye patch, even though he could see perfectly. He had read in a science magazine that they now had colored contacts that could cover his deformity, but his family could barely afford to eat. Colored contacts simply weren’t in the budget.
One day when he had come home from school crying, his mother had sat him down and said, “Anyone who is worth knowing will take the time to get to know the real you. And a little problem with your eye won’t matter a bit.” He hadn’t spoke the words aloud at the time, but in his head, he had thought: But what If I’m also a freak underneath?
Now, laying on the floor covered in chips of rotting wood and tears, the boy’s rage threatened to overwhelm him, and his thoughts focused on grandfather’s knife. But rather than going for the weapon, he pulled out a small speckled notebook and began to draw. His pencil flew over the page as he considered what he would like to do to Dr. Chee. The boy covered the white space of the page like a wildfire burning out of control, his rage and pain flowing out in the dark strokes of his pencil.
After a few moments, he paused to examine his work. The picture was of the boy slipping a condom over his grandfather’s hunting knife in preparation for violating the doctor in much the same way the doctor did the boy’s mother.
His pencil stopped mid-stroke as he heard a piercing scream from down the hallway. His thoughts once again turned to the hunting knife waiting for him in the drawer only a few feet away.
12
Ackerman had been considering what it would be like to stand on shore as a tidal wave approached. He imagined the water pulling back from the sand like a parting curtain, revealing a vast underwater kingdom. Creatures of all kind flopped and flailed about after having been thrust suddenly into a totally alien environment. The wave gained force, gathering up into itself like a mighty titan taking a deep breath. And then it rushed toward him, all the thunder and ferocity of nature amalgamated into one thrust of ultimate power. It was as if the fist of God himself was sweeping toward the coast. It had been beautiful, and he was a bit perturbed when the two children had drawn him out of his mental palace with their blathering.
But this wasn’t a pleasure cruise. He was here on business and listening in on these two oblivious fools would most definitely fall under the purview of his mission parameters.
Having decided it was time to take advantage of having the two young officers all to himself, Ackerman had walked to the bars and said, “How would you kids like to play a little game?”
It was an old and familiar phrase he had uttered in many variations to victims over the years. Unfortunately, sometimes his lack of fear had the bi-product of his mouth making promises that he wasn’t sure he could make happen in real life. However, his lack of fear also made it so that he didn’t care, and more often than not, in his experience, he could come through on nearly any promise.
In this instance, he had muttered the old familiar phrase out of habit and then searched his recollection for a game to play. Typically, he had an entire cerebral storehouse of little games he wanted to play with people. Things that he wanted to learn about the normals. But as of late, his thoughts had not been on such matters, and so he had no game in mind to play.
Which was even more fun. He loved improvisation.
Officer Pitka said, “We’re not supposed to speak to you. Please stay back from the bars, sir. Or I will be forced to incapacitate you.”
Ackerman had been about to respond to Pitka when the impetuous Liana surprised him once more. She said, “I like that idea. Let’s play a game. How about truth or dare? You ask first.”
With a shake of his head, Ackerman replied, “Sorry, I don’t play that game. Bad things happen when I do. You see, I have this deep compulsion to complete every dare. Which can be a problem if say someone dares you to assassinate the president of Zimbabwe.”
“Okay, let’s just play truth then.”
“Fair enough. I’ll ask first. Your captain is lying to me. Maggie has been here. And I saw the look on your face when he said it. You know more than you’re saying.”
She said, “Is there a question in there?”
“Did you see my friend before she went missing?”
Pitka interrupted, saying, “Liana don’t tell him anything. We’re not even supposed to talk to him.”
Ignoring her counterpart, she asked, “If I tell you the truth, will you answer a question for me?”
“Those are the rules of the game, but if it sets your mind at ease, you have my word.”
“And I want your answer first.”
Ackerman narrowed his eyes at the young officer. “That would be a deviation from the rules.”
“I’m merely adjusting the rules before we start.”
“So you want to hear both questions and my answer before you give your own answer? Where’s the trust? My nature would be to make you pay dearly for thinking that you are in any position to dictate the terms of a game to me. But I admire your spirit. Ask me your question, I will tell you no lies.”
He noticed that she hadn’t stopped trembling during the entire exchange, although she mostly kept the quiver from her voice. Officer Liana was clearly terrified, and yet she had still pushed forward to find the ever elusive “truth.” He respected that. It also meant that her acts were born of courage, not of defiance. This was important because he needed to be sure that everyone recognized his superiority under the present circumstance.
She said, “Who are you really?”
“That’s a terrible question. It would take you a decade to know who I really am. Plus, it’s more of an existential quandary than a practical one.”
She shook her head. “What is your relationship to the missing agent?”
“Professionally or personally?”
“Both. Pick one. Maybe answer my question with a statement rather than another question.”
He smiled. “You’re feisty, I like that. But be careful that you don’t turn my mood from feisty to fiery. I’m sort of like that mythological hero known as The Incredible Hulk. Like him, you wouldn’t enjoy my company when I’m in an enraged state.”
“Angry. It’s supposed to be angry, not—”
The nice thing about the drunk tank being so small was that Ackerman could easily reach one side or the other with one movement. He did so now as he spun away from the bars and rammed the sole of his tactical boot into the paneling that lined the rear wall of the cage. He aimed the kick into the same area of the thin barrier where Canyon had discharged the shotgun. The entire side wall of the station seemed to shift and crack with the blow.
In the same motion, he spun back and returned to his original position. The lights in the trailer flickered and dust shook down from the ceiling. It had the effect of making Ackerman seem to move in flash. Both of the Tribal Police officers now had their guns at the ready and very serious looks on their faces.
He smiled and said, “That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about. Don’t for a second forget that I’m on this side of the bars because I’ve chosen to be. And for the record, I was paraphrasing.”
Liana looked at him over the barrel of her Glock and said, “You didn’t answer the question.”
“Maggie Carlisle is a member of my team. She has also engaged in unmarried carnal relations with my brother on countless occasions. Well, not really ‘countless,’ I’m sure we could figure the variables and average out those numbers if you were so inclined. However, I will say that I consider her to be my little sister, despite my brother’s issues with commitment.”
Gun still drawn, she grimaced and said, “You and her are on the same team? Does that mean that you’re also a federal agent?”
“That’s a second question, and I’ve yet to receive your first answer.”
“Yes, I saw your ‘littl
e sister’ before she went missing.”
“Then why did you tell the FBI and BIA agents that you had not?”
“That’s another question. But I don’t need the answer to mine now. You must be a federal agent if you know what I told them.”
“Technically, I’m not. I’m more of an expert consultant.”
“I knew it. You’re here on some kind of sting operation.”
“Now you’re avoiding your obligation. Why did you lie? And if you lie to me…” Ackerman fixed her with his most intense gaze, letting a bit of his old gleeful madness find its way into his eyes.
“I was under orders.”
“That defense will not hold up in court. You should know that. Or did you learn nothing from your criminal justice degree?”
“How do you know I have a degree?”
Liana holstered her weapon, but the male officer kept his sidearm aimed and ready to fire.
Ackerman rolled his eyes. “You have a framed diploma sitting on your desk, as if you need to keep reminding yourself that you’re worthy. And the truth is that you lied because of that same fear. Not the fear of retaliation from your captain or his superior. But for fear that when they go down, they will take you with them. And deeper than that, a fear that you will never escape the reservation.”
She said, “I’ve heard enough. I’m calling our BIA overseer and getting him and a whole team from the FBI out here to sort out this mess. If you’re really an expert consultant for the government, then that should be fine with you.”
“It’’s not fine with me.”
Officer Pitka said, “What exactly are you an expert of?”
“I’ve put in my ten thousand hours on a great many subjects and disciplines.” Ackerman answered Pitka, but didn’t take his eyes off Liana. He added, “You asked me earlier who I really am. The truth of the matter is that I’m an infamous serial murderer whom the government recruited to be part of a clandestine task force that hunts other individuals with bloody tastes. Does that information make you feel better or worse in regard to your current situation?”