Read Online Indian Killer by Sherman Alexie - Free Book Online

unhappiness. A slight limp in uncomfortable shoes. Eyes closed, head thrown back while waiting for the traffic signal. The slight hesitation before opening a door. The men in gray suits wanted to escape, but their hatred and anger trapped them.
    The killer first saw that particular white man in the University District. Confidently, arrogantly, the white man, Justin Summers, had brushed past the killer. With his head high and shoulders wide, Summers took up as much space as he possibly could. He strolled down the middle of the sidewalk, forcing others to walk around him. So when the arrogant white man rudely brushed past, the killer wanted to teach him a lesson. Nothing serious, just a simple and slightly painful lesson. Then, without reason or warning, the killer suddenly understood that the knife had a specific purpose. But the killer had to be careful. There were rules for hunting.
    The killer knew that particular white man in the University District was all alone, and that was good. Men in a pack could protect each other. When threatened, they could scatter in many directions and confuse the killer. A solitary man was vulnerable. Easy to follow, that white man, so self-absorbed he failed to notice much of anything. Muttering to himself, looking down at the sidewalk, he walked block after block. He ate Thai food by himself and read a magazine. After he finished eating, the white man walked toward the Burke-Gilman Trail. The killer followed him closely, and once stood beside him as they waited for the walk signal. So close. At any time, the killer could have reached inside the jacket and pulled out the knife. The late evening streets were so quiet that the killer could have slid the knife into the white man’s kidney and then walked away. But the moon was terribly bright and illuminating. There was a chance the killer would be caught. Thrilled by the idea, the killer moved closer to the white man, until they were almost touching. The white man glanced at the killer. A superficial glance, nothing more important than a wind blowing a newspaper down the street. The killer reached inside the jacket and touched the knife.
    The killer especially hated the white man’s clothes and followed him as he walked south for a few blocks, then turned west on the Burke-Gilman Trail. The killer could see and smell the white man. Aftershave, leather jacket, Thai food. It was late, a few bicyclists flashed by, but the trail was mostly deserted. The killer walked a few feet behind the white man for a few minutes, then reached out and tapped the white man on the shoulder.
    “Whoa,” said the white man. “You scared the shit out of me.”
    The killer was silent.
    “Hey,” said the white man. “Do I know you, man?”
    The killer took a step back, knowing that anger would change a face. The killer had seen other people do it. Other people could change the shape of their faces at will. Through a trick of shadow and moonlight, or through some undefined magic, the killer’s face did change.
    “What’s going on?” asked the white man, now really frightened by what he saw in the killer’s face.
    The killer saw the fear in the white man’s blue eyes. The man’s fear inspired the killer’s confidence. The killer slid a hand beneath the jacket and felt for the knife. It was there in its homemade sheath, blade sharp and beautiful. It would soak up all the moonlight. The white man was not stupid. When he saw the killer reach beneath the jacket, the white man began to desperately hope that somebody would walk along the trail soon. A dozen University cops were always breaking up unauthorized parties on campus, but very few ever patrolled the trail.
    “What do you want?” asked the white man loudly, trying to inject anger into his voice. Be strong, he said to himself, don’t show any fear.
    “Hey, let’s be cool about this. I don’t want any problems,” the white man said.
    The killer moved quickly. With fingers wrapped around the handle,