by Lisa Libby
Johnny rolls me over on my stomach, spreads my legs, grabs my hair and pushes himself inside me. It was sex like we have never had; I can tell he isn’t happy with me. He’s aggressive during sex when he’s angry. This time he takes it too far. He is hurting my insides and I feel like my neck will break. I am vulnerable – if he wanted to kill me, he could do it now. I let my guard down when I am around him, and I don’t know why I am so trusting of him. I shouldn’t be. Before he finishes, he smacks my backside hard.
We both lie for a few minutes before cleaning up. He tells me not to bother getting dressed because he wants me again. Ignoring his wants, I get dressed anyway.
Lying on the bed smoking a joint, I text Mr. Alterman. I want him to know I’m alive.
His response comes quickly.
Ava, what the hell is wrong with you? I want to see you in my office first thing tomorrow.
I reset my phone, deleting all my voicemails and text messages.
INDIAN
CHAPTER 13
Ritual
During one of my weekly tribe rituals I dreamt of a little girl running through cornfields. Her hair was blonde with tints of red and a tiny freckled nose. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t figure out who. I felt I’ve known her for years and we were friends. The smoke-filled room and sound of the drums pushes one’s mind open and allows spirits to enter your world. Her innocence and happiness mesmerized me, running through the field. I watched on, sitting high on a rock; the grass was knee high, itchy on my legs. A man was behind me, whispering, “She’s coming to visit you. Protect her, keep her away from me.” I was never so confused during or after a ritual. I didn’t understand who these spirits were, so the message was unclear. After the ceremony, the child’s face remained etched in my head. I never saw her or heard the male spirit again.
A year later, I connected with that little girl spirit, Jimmy Coonan’s daughter. She came to my gun shop to buy a gun and learn how to shoot. I knew the moment I saw her, she was the spirit, but I didn’t know she was Jimmy’s daughter, or know he had a daughter. I only found out because she told me, and when I confronted him, he confirmed it was true. It infuriated him she’d come to our shop, but he was relieved when I told him we saved her life from the kidnappers. The kidnappers were identified as Italian Mafia members, based on their tattoos. I don’t know why they were after Ava, but I left that for Jimmy to figure out. If anyone sought revenge against Jimmy, they’d take great pleasure in killing his daughter. I can’t tell if that would bother him because in all the years, we have been friends, he has never once mentioned Ava. If I was a father, I’m sure I would talk about them from time to time.
The spirits have never guided me or my tribe wrong, so I will protect Ava, but the male spirit that whispered in my ear was not Jimmy. I would know if it was him. We’ve been in each other’s minds in other rituals.
When my father, Arawak Tzibatl, was Chief of our Abenaki tribe, he taught me the rituals and the business of the white men. Sadly, by the time I was Chief our tribe had shrunk to just a few dozen. This was the result of the poor leadership of my father. When my great grandfather, Chwewamink (pronounced Wyoming) was Chief, there were over a hundred tribesmen and women. After his death, families began to leave the tribe seeking domestication: healthier living conditions, employment for money, access to medical care, education for their children and to get welfare services provided by the government. We were starving, getting sick, and many were addicted to drugs under my father’s control. It didn’t help that the government offered free services as trickery to get us off our land so they could take over. Chief Chwewamink didn’t believe in domestication, even when our tribe was dying from simple diseases that could’ve been prevented. We were lacking resources that the land once provided. Still, he refused to believe we could co-exist with the white man and keep our many Indian traditions alive. Chief Chwewamink envisioned the tribe’s future would lay in skeleton fields. He was right; my father turned greedy, made deals with the white man, sold most of our mountains in return for more money. He even allowed to be called Chief Tob, in replacement of his tribal name, to please the white man. I used the money gained from the sale of our land to build a more modernized village and homes for the tribe. He had the motel built to produce a regular income flow, built larger farms to harvest food for the tribe and for trading for other resources and the gun shop to protect our people. He believed the gun shop would not only generate income but would also send a message to his enemies. My father’s spirits guided him to the same skeleton fields, the same fields my great grandfather visited. We know this because my great grandfather brought us to skeleton fields during many rituals. My grandfather died young, so the tribe raised my father. Out of everyone in the tribe, he was the last Indian anyone would expect to turn his back on the spirits and not follow his true path. Instead, he chose drugs, whores and money. I didn’t want to believe the stories about my father told by my elders, but I had to come to terms with the reality.
I believe my father did the best he could during the changing times. He left me as Chief with a business but a diminished tribe. Although there are only a handful of us left, we continue our journey, following the spirits. Thanks to my father’s drug problem and lifestyle, I had no choice but to continue in his footsteps and continue allowing the criminal transactions. This was the only way for the tribe to survive. I had no choice but to use the knowledge I was left with, and I know more than my share of drug dealers, mobsters and money-fueled politicians.
When my father was murdered, he left this world with many enemies and debts. I don’t own the shooting range and motel because he sold percentages of the them to pay for various debts. They have told me that his business was set up like a pyramid scheme. I’ve never been to school; everything I learned was from the elders in the tribe. I didn’t need school to figure out what a pyramid scheme was: borrowing money to pay off one debt, then borrowing money from someone else to pay off another debt, and so on. I wasn’t my father, so I ended most contracts by murdering the men he owed. The ones that could not be killed, I had to work with and renegotiate to avoid being killed. It took several years of allowing my father’s business partners to smuggle drugs from Canada using the motel as a drop-off point. The motel used to be mainly a whore house, but now it’s common for felons, drug addicts and criminals to rent rooms at the motel. The sign outside the motel always says, ‘no vacancy’. I try to keep the tourists away, and if they arrive at the motel, I lie and tell them we have no rooms. This policy is in place to protect the innocent and has been this way since a little girl by the name of Kate was kidnapped, sexually assaulted and murdered. She was just six years old, on a road trip with her family, driving across the country all the way from New Mexico. They were only planning to stay one night at the motel but ended up staying for weeks while the police invested her disappearance.
When Kate turned up missing, I didn’t know where to start. My motel was full of filthy criminals, but when Joe disappeared the same night and never returned, I had a feeling he had something to do with it. He was a frequent renter of the motel, a small petty crook who was in and out of jail for violating probation. I didn’t give the police any information about Joe because I wanted to make sure I found him before the police. The next evening, I waited until darkness fell, took my hunting dogs through Joe’s apartment until they got his scent. I grabbed a few clothes of his, to keep the dogs on his trail. I hiked all night and only rested in the morning. The ritual was conducted on my own; it’s unusual for Indians to do this because it is more difficult for one’s mind to open for the spirits to enter. A red cardinal landed on my arm and spoke using the wind. The wind sounded from the cardinal, follow me. It was almost impossible to hear, but I heard him, and he flew from tree to tree, looking back to make sure I was close behind. Just beyond the end of the trees was a wide meadow, and one large tree in the middle. The tree looked out of place. The bird flew to the
tree waiting for me, but concentration broke from the loud flock of ducks flying overhead. I knew where the meadow was, but I don’t recall a tree being in the middle. Still, I decided the meadow is where I should go.
After hours of hiking through the mountain valley, I came to the meadow. There was no tree, as I remembered, but beyond the meadow, tucked away in the trees was a small one-person makeshift tent. The blue tarp peeked from under the branches and bushes piled on top. I knew this must be Joe’s tent. I took the bullets out of my gun to prevent myself from killing him at first sight.
I unhooked the dogs from their leash, and they took no time, bolting straight towards the tent. I walked slowly through the meadow yielding my knife. The dogs positioned themselves outside the tent, but didn’t bark, so I knew he wasn’t in the tent. I removed the tarp, searching for any sign of a little girl, dead or alive, but found only a sleeping bag, boots and a small pile of clothes. There was a small fire smoldering, so I knew he couldn’t be far. I grabbed a shirt from the pile and let the dogs sniff it. I instructed them to hunt. They took off through the dense forest towards a stream that ran nearby. I heard the dogs barking, so I knew if that scent from the shirt is Joe then the dogs had found him.
“Go on, get, you darn dogs,” yelled a man flailing in the water.
I walked to the edge of the water and called to the dogs to sit and be quiet.
It was Joe.
“Where’s the girl?”
“Indian, I don’t know what you talkin’ ‘bout.”
I took his clothes hanging on the branch and threw them in the water.
“Now why the fuck did you do that for?”
“Put ‘em on, come.”
“Like fuck I’ll come with you!”
I stood in silence, looking him in the eyes without breaking my stare.
“Jesus, can I at least get some dry clothes?”
“Was Kate warm when you took her?”
“Who’s Kate?”
“The little girl you took, raped and killed.”
“Now Indian, you done lost your mind.”
I ran out of patience and sent my dogs to attack him, chasing him out of the water, biting at his limbs. I jumped on his back and turned him around, bound his hands together in front of his body with zip ties.
I tied both leashes around his hands. He wouldn’t dare run; the dogs would chew him apart.
“Where is Kate?”
“I told you, Indian, I don’t know what ya talkin’ ‘bout.”
I took my handkerchief out and tied it as tight as I could around his mouth to stop him from speaking. I was tired of his lies.
Kate’s family would choose his destiny, just as he chose Kate’s.
I walked through the meadow with Joe in tow. We weren’t walking for that long when a cardinal landed on a nearby bush, looked in our direction, then flew to another bush. This was a sign to follow the cardinal. He flew from branch to branch, leading us south to the where the stream bends into the river. The closer we got to the river, the more muffled sounds came from Joe. He was trying to get my attention and say something. I looked back at him, his eyes full of fear. I knew we were getting close to Kate.
On the edge of the riverbank was freshly dug soil. The Cardinal perched high above on a tree nearby and did not fly away. She’s here, under this pile of dirt.
With no shovel, I walked to the river to find a flat rock.
“Dig,” I said, handing the flat rock to Joe.
Joe was kneeling on the ground, his head in his hands, sobbing.
“Dig,” I said again in a louder voice.
He took the rock and crawled to the soil and dug. I sat on a rock nearby watching him dig. I needed to see the girl before I could bring him to the parents. I didn’t want to give such devastating news if it was untrue.
Joe stopped digging and laid next to the hole in a fetal position.
I hesitated before walking over to the hole. I knew whatever I was about to see would be in my mind forever. I didn’t want to see it, but I felt an obligation to the family. Allowing them to stay at my no-good motel full of criminals and danger. I owed them the closure.
I peeked over the hole to see the little girl, Kate. Her eyes were wide open, pale, blood around her mouth, a rope wrapped around her tiny neck. Fear frozen in her facial expression. Her blue dress was filthy, her underwear pulled down around her ankles. He could have wrapped her in a blanket.
“Bury her,” I said to Joe. He didn’t move, just cried.
I motioned to the dogs to attack. They growled and moved towards Joe. He rose to his knees and pushed the dirt back into the grave all the while sobbing, not for Kate, but for himself; he knew death or jail was waiting for him beyond the mountain.
I would have carried Kate to her parents, but I didn’t want to tamper with the evidence. I didn’t want my DNA or fingerprints on a dead child’s body.
We walked all day and through the night without stopping too much. Joe remained naked with bare feet. I didn’t offer food, water, or warm clothes. Likely, the same way he treated Kate, but worse. When we made our way to the motel, I left Joe in the woods with the dogs. I wanted to make sure Kate’s family got to see him first.
I knocked on the door. The father answered. I asked him to step outside and come with me. He followed me to the edge of the motel parking lot but was reluctant to follow me into the woods. Joe was sitting, still naked, leaning against the tree. My dogs sat staring at him. I cut off the bandana from around his mouth.
I turned to Kate’s father.
“This is the man that took your daughter,” I said.
“How do you know?” asked the father.
“I was out hunting with my dogs and stumbled upon his camp. My dogs sniffed out Kate’s body buried near the river,” I said.
“I haven’t called the police. You can do what you want with him,” I said.
The father stared at Joe until Joe made eye contact.
“WHY, WHY, did you take my daughter from us?” Kate’s father begged with rage.
Joe sat still cowering, avoiding eye contact with Kate’s father.
Kate’s father just stood there looking at Joe.
“Leave him with me. Call the police in fifteen minutes, no sooner, no later,” Kate’s father requested.
I cut my dogs loose from Joe and handed the knife to Kate’s father.
I did as he requested and called the police.
Kate’s father walked from out of the woods with his shirt bloodied. I thought for sure he’d killed Joe, but later saw Joe sitting up in the stretcher, bleeding from the waist down. They handcuffed Kate’s father while I gave the police my statement. I told them Joe insisted on confessing to Kate’s father. The police were confused why Joe was naked; I told them I didn’t know. I explained where they could find Kate. After this incident, I never allowed anyone to stay at my motel that wasn’t a known criminal. People find my motel only by word of mouth. There is no advertising. I promised myself and Kate that I would never again risk the lives of an innocent traveler for money.
The news stations were all over this story, since nothing like this ever happens in our town. People were obsessed with Kate’s murder, because her father sliced and diced Joe’s private parts. He would never use a bathroom the same and never have sex for sure. Kate’s father got off on most of the charges, some small-time, and fines for stabbing Joe. He pleaded insanity and most of his sentence was served in a mental facility. I never placed my hands-on Joe, so I paid a few of his jail mates to beat him up occasionally. I still regret not shooting him myself but am glad Kate’s father got some of his anger out. Occasionally, I head to the spot on the river to talk to Kate. I made a wooden rocking chair and carved a Cardinal in the back. I go there and sit and tell her stories of my ancestors. I can feel her presence in the trees and wind and every so often, a butte
rfly will land on my shoulder as if listening to the stories I tell. I have no children, so Kate is my daughter in the spirit world.
Kate’s family has never been back to the motel, and I don’t blame them for not returning to a place that reminds them of hell. I got a letter and a gift from Kate’s father some years later.
His letter read:
Dear Koda,
I never thanked you for finding Kate. God put you the right place at the right time. Our family needed closure and without your help we may have left your motel without ever finding her. I have had more than my share of dreams about Kate and nightmares of her murderer. When Kate comes to me in my dreams, she tells me to thank the Indian. In my dreams she says, “Daddy, he was looking for me and made Joe dig me up, and he visits me at the river. He tells me stories about his family.”
Our world will never be the same without Kate, but we are forever grateful for all you have done.
Enclosed is a hunting knife I had custom made for you as a token of our appreciation.
Take care,
Yours Truly,
David Dawson
I unwrapped the neatly wrapped knife. It was encased in a brown reddish leather holster with a strap attachment for my belt. The knife was sharpened on both sides, with a large grip carved wood handle. I turned the handle over to find a Cardinal carved in the handle, with the words, With love, Kate.