Read Online Indian Killer by Sherman Alexie - Free Book Online Page A

the killer snapped the knife out of its handmade sheath. The killer’s feet moved forward, and the sharp blade forced its way into the white man’s belly.
    The killer had not necessarily meant for any of it to happen. The killer picked up the white man’s body, carried it on a shoulder, and walked along the trail in a daze. A group of UW students staggered past, on their way home from some party, and laughed loudly at the killer. The killer stopped, ready to drop the body, and run.
    “Shit, you’re a strong one, huh?” one of the students slurred to the killer, and then tugged on the white man’s leg. “Jesus, you got wasted, huh? Shit, wake up, wake up. The party’s just starting.”
    The white man groaned and shifted. The killer was surprised that the man was still alive. His blood ran down the killer’s back.
    “Shit,” said the student. “Don’t you two be doing anything nasty now, huh?” Laughter. “You’re both going to be hating it in the morning. Hangover City, you’ll be hating it.”
    The students laughed and staggered away. The killer watched them go, breathed deeply, and kept walking down the trail. The killer wanted to drop the body and leave it where it landed, but felt responsible for the white man. Honestly, the killer had not necessarily meant to hurt him and wanted to make sure the man was buried properly. There had to be a ceremony, a wake, silent prayers. That was how it was done. The killer had learned many ceremonies, but rarely practiced them.
    The killer walked off the trail into a dark neighborhood. Silently singing an invisibility song learned from a dream, the killer carried the body to an empty house. A FOR SALE sign. Bare windows. A broken lock on the back door. The killer carried the body inside the house and gently set it on the living room floor. Kneeling beside the body, the killer cut the white man’s scalp away and stuffed the bloody souvenir into a pocket. So much blood. The killer was drenched with blood, soaking shirt, jacket, and pants. The blood was beautiful but not enough. One dead man was not enough. The killer was disappointed. Disappointment grew quickly into anger, then rage, and the killer brought the knife down into the white man’s chest again and again. Still not satiated, the killer knew there was more work to do. The dead man’s blue eyes were open and still, pupils dilated. With hands curved into talons, the killer tore the white man’s eyes from his face and swallowed them whole. The killer then pulled two white owl feathers out of another pocket, and set them on the white man’s chest. Blood soon soaked into the feathers, staining them a dark red.

6
Truck Schultz
    “H ELLO OUT THERE, FOLKS , this is Truck Schultz on KWIZ, the Voice of Reason, and boy, do I have a problem!”
    Schultz sat in the radio station, smoking a cigar, drinking coffee. A tall, muscular white man with a receding hairline, blue eyes, and large ears, he was the host of the most popular talk-radio show in the city and was ready to go national, sure that he would be more popular than Rush Limbaugh. Truck had started with a late-night jazz show on KWIZ a few years earlier. Not long after conservative radio hit it big, KWIZ changed its format to talk and Truck became a star. His promotional billboards were everywhere: KEEP ON TRUCKIN’! Now Truck had a hundred thousand listeners and a drive-time slot. He never played jazz anymore. Leaning close to his microphone, Truck exhaled a cloud of thick, gray smoke and spoke loudly and clearly.
    “Through my sources in the Seattle Police Department, I’ve just learned that the body of a white man was discovered in a house in Fremont early this morning. My sources say that the man was scalped and ritually mutilated. That’s right, folks. Scalped and ritually mutilated. My sources say certain evidence makes it clear that an American Indian might be responsible for this crime. My sources would not reveal what that evidence was, but they did