Then he waited.
There was a knock. A courtesy, he supposed, extended to the other students in the dorm. No point in ruining everyone’s night. He took in a breath, wrapped his hand around the knife and opened the door. The man on the other side was an inch shorter than him, roughly fifty years old, and balding. The crown of his head shone under the hall fluorescents. His face was pudgy, much like his stomach. He held an expression of deep concern. “Lance?”
“Yes.”
“Can I please come in?”
There was no SWAT team behind him.
“Sure.” Lance stepped back and opened the door wider with his left hand, while his right was gently touching the blade in his pocket. He wondered if the anxiety he felt showed on his face. “What’s this all about?”
The detective stepped inside, looked around, pulled out the computer chair and said, “I think you better sit down, son.”
Lance placed both hands into his pockets, his right tightening around the handle of the knife. “I don’t want to sit down, I want to know what this is about.”
The second he says anything about the murders I’ll cut his throat.
“There’s been a fire,” Hayward said and sighed.
Lance tightened his grip, readying himself.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, son, so I’m just gonna come right out and say it.” He stared directly into Lance’s eyes and his voice seemed far off. “There was a fire...”
I knew it! I don’t have a choice.
“I am afraid I have some really bad news for you.”
“Bad news?”
“There was a fire, son. Your parents, they died in a house fire.” The detective studied him, waiting for a reaction. They were still investigating the fire, but he doubted this kid had anything to do with it, but still, he waited. He’d seen a few rich kids murder their parents. But he didn’t think that was the case here. Then again, he was getting a weird vibe off this kid.
“A fire?” Lance was computing what he’d said. My parents? I never killed my parents? Was this some sort of cop ruse? Some misdirect?
Hayward reached out and placed a hand on Lance’s shoulder. He stared directly at him, trying to get a bead on what the kid was thinking.
Lance thought that if he knew, Hayward would be reaching for his gun.
Hayward didn’t think the kid was guilty. He’d been waiting for a sign, and thus far, there had been none. “I am very sorry, Lance.”
Lance lowered his head, unknown to Detective Hayward, he was suppressing a smile.
They’re dead, he thought. A fire. He wanted to laugh out loud, but he couldn’t. There was the knife to think about. He had to say something. “They’re dead? Both of them?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Safe, he thought. But his reaction. Was it authentic?
He sat down on the edge of his bed, and in turn, Detective Hayward took a seat in the computer chair. It creaked under his girth. Hayward was eyeing him, and Lance suddenly realized he was going to be free.
Not if you smile and spook this fat, pig detective. But a smile was coming, completely involuntary, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to stop it. He took evasive action. “I’m sorry, but I think I’m going to vomit.” He popped up and pushed passed the detective, opening the door and running down the hall.
Hayward was completely caught off guard. Lance was out the door and halfway to the shared bathroom before Hayward thought of following. The return spring on the door closed behind him, and that was enough time to pull out the knife and dump it into the garbage can as he ran by. When he reached the bathroom, the detective was opening the door and following.
I have to do this fast, he thought. Then he pushed into the toilet stall open and dropped to his knees. Simultaneously, he thrust two fingers, the middle and index, into his throat—accidentally scraping the nail of his index against his uvula. He did not hold back and a second later, the contents of his stomach came up, splashing down over his hand and into the waiting bowl. By the time Hayward got to the stall, he was unspooling the toilet paper to wipe his mouth.
Lance stared into the bowl. A slick of yellow bile, peppered with half-digested food, floated in the center of the toilet water. Like an acidic iceberg, it held its molecular form. A sour stench permeated from the stall. Tears welled up in his eyes, not from remorse, but from the forced discharge of stomach content. This is good, he thought and was pulling a large wad of the roll just as the detective entered the stall. He did not wipe the tears, he instead let them track down his face.
“They’re dead,” he moaned. “I’m... I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, son,” Hayward said running his hand between his shoulder blades. “This is a perfectly natural reaction.”
“I’m alright,” Lance said. “Shit, it stinks in here.”
“I understand completely.” Hayward removed his hand and stepped back as Lance stood up and wiped his mouth.
“I’m not gonna throw up again, Detective,” Lance said. “We can go back to my room.” He tossed the toilet paper into the bowl but didn’t bother to flush. Then he led the detective back to his room.
When they got there, Hayward filled Lance in on what he could. He still didn’t know what had caused the fire. The detective was sympathetic and compassionate considering what he’d seen that day. Lance had no idea that Hayward had been on the scene of two fires. The first being set by Lance and the second being coincidence. Hayward only attended the second fire thinking there might be a connection. Normally, a uniformed officer would have been dispatched to deliver the news. Hayward was doing this as a courtesy; he was pretty sure the second fire had nothing to do with the individual he sought. Or with this young man who sat across from him.
“For now, it has been deemed a fire of unknown origin. It’s under investigation. Once the fire investigator is done, we’ll know more.” He patted Lance on the knee. “I’m sorry, Lance. There is no easy way to deliver news like this. Is there someone who can come down and stay with you? A relative maybe?”
Lance nodded. “I have a few friends here. And an uncle in Clarence.”
“Would you like me to contact them?”
“No, Detective. I can do that.”
Hayward felt guilty relief. As much as he felt sorry for this kid, he was on the hunt. There was a killer out there. A monster that had taken the life of a young woman and her child. He wasn’t up for babysitting the bereaved. That might sound insensitive, but he had to get back to his case.
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Prologue - The Hunt Begins
1
Spirit Woods, Chocktee Nation Village
1995: One Day after Spring Equinox
He was packing the small knapsack with provisions for the trip, yet he really had no idea what to take. At his side, his mother wept. Once so upright, so proud, now she was barely a skeletal shell of the woman she had once been. Cancer was consuming her, had turned her thin, gray. The death of her father, coupled with her son’s erratic behavior, drained her even further, and he was too entrenched in his own selfishness to appreciate the depth of her pain.
The freshly bandaged cut on his cheek was swollen and had been stitched closed the night before. Small dots of crimson peppered the cotton dressing. Pulses of fire radiated from the gash, stopping maybe an inch below his right eye. Not being able to touch it only made matters worse. It hurt just to blink.
He picked up his knife from the bed, wrapped a piece of cloth around it and placed it into the bag. Then the dreamcatcher and feather. Suddenly his hand reached up and tugged at the medicine bag hanging around his neck. Grandfather had given it to him. That was more than he could take.
&
nbsp; This is all so unbelievable. Only yesterday morning the old man had been smiling and joking around, and now he’s gone! Gone! Anguish rose above all else and anger pushed him into a tantrum. Let this be a dream! Fuck! Please let this be a dream! Tell me I didn’t get my Grandfather killed!
But he had.
Janice Blackbird finally broke her mournful silence. “You don’t have to leave. I will talk to the Elders. They will let you stay.”
He stopped what he was doing, turned in her direction, his voice sharp and spiteful. “I’m not doing it for them! I have to go, Mother.”
Her eyes welled up with fresh tears, her voice quivered. “Daniel, this is crazy.”
Finished packing, he fastened the straps, not wanting to look at her. “I can’t stay here. I have brought disgrace to your name; to Grandfather’s name.”
“I know all about disgrace, Daniel. When I brought you back here, I faced their looks of disapproval, but I knew in time that they would come around. Our people are good. They will forgive you. It is in their nature to forgive.” Her voice rose and fell, rife with anxiety. But it was futile: she knew, no matter what she said, he would not change his mind.
Again, he stopped, but this time his eyes met hers. With gentle care – so as not to harm her feeble form – he reached out and pulled her toward him. She was so frail; this brittle body hardly contained her strong spirit. Physically she looked that of a woman twenty-five years her senior.
She cried harder in his arms, her body convulsing gently, knowing that she would never see him again and that there was a distinct possibility that he may die before her. She tried to take solace in his arms, but there was no use: his embrace only epitomized the sheer hopelessness of the situation.
Gently he caressed her back, feeling the bones protruding through the light sweater she wore, and he felt hopeless and conflicted. “I have to go, Mother. I don’t want to, but I must.” He shoved away the urge to cry. “I need to speak with the Elders. They won’t even acknowledge me, but if you talk to them, maybe they’ll listen. There are many things I don’t know. I need their counsel.”
Janice Blackbird had been a Den Mother of the Chocktee people for three years and was now a respected member of the nation and its council. They would grant her son an audience if she asked, but that would be the last of her political clout. They would do it because of her Father, but only grudgingly. With their help and magic he had a chance; without them, he would be going to slaughter.
She pulled away from his embrace. Her long, silky black hair, flecked with grey, flowed down over the protruding collar bones which poked through her sweater. Even now, in the throes of this terrible disease, she still held onto her beauty. She mustered her strength, wiped the tears with the heel of her hand, and then used her sleeve to rub her nose.
“They will see you, Daniel. They will give you what you need. I will make sure of it.”
2
He met with them that afternoon, standing in shame, before their dissecting and accusatory eyes. They were seated behind a large wooden table. Crafted from cedar, it was engraved with Chocktee symbols and the names of all the Elders who sat before them. There were five seats – but one stood empty, and the remaining occupants shifted inward. In the center sat Jake Toomey in what was, until yesterday, his grandfather’s chair. Now Old Jake Toomey had assumed the position of Chief Elder. Toomey had been his grandfather’s closest and oldest friend.
They talked amongst themselves in Ancient Chocktee, and though Daniel tried to interpret their words, he was unable to equate it to the modern language of his people. Chocktee dialect was similar to Cree, but the Elders’ tongue was of the ancient times and indecipherable to Blackbird. Only the chosen were taught the ancient language.
The four men barked back and forth, raising their voices over each other, but among the four one voice held stable in its tone – and that was Jake Toomey’s. He was Blackbird’s only hope. The remaining Elders – Fortier, Machino, and Monias – cast an angry glance his way as they individually waved their hands, making their points and pontificating. Daniel could only guess they were making arguments for putting his head on a stick. But Toomey was calm, patient. While all Elders oversaw the good of the Nation, the Chief Elder reigned supreme, and his word was law.
Finally, Toomey raised his hand to silence them and turned his attention on Blackbird as the others listened. “Daniel Blackbird, you are wepinikewin.” (One who walks alone) “You cannot return to Spirit woods unless you undo this. Here are the things we can give you.”
Fortier passed a leather roll made of deer hide across to the Chief Elder; he unrolled it on the cedar table. Blackbird stood motionless, his eyes fixed upon the objects before him, afraid to move. But Toomey motioned him forward, and he did so cautiously. An old crossbow, collapsed and dismantled, sat next to ten small arrows. The tip of each arrow sparkled with amber, the fire inside the room reflecting off the precious metal they had been dipped in.
“Silver is said to be hard enough to break the icy heart of wendigos and skinwalkers, but this creature is more dangerous and powerful than others. Use these arrows only for protection. If the time comes when you think you can trap it, you will need our help.” Toomey rolled the hide up and handed it to Monias, who then passed it across to Blackbird. His face was an expressionless mask. Like the others, his anger was muted by the Chief Elder’s authority.
Blackbird started, “What can…”
“Close your mouth and listen to the Chief Elder!” Fortier’s voice was venomous, laced with spite. Toomey remained silent, his expression plain. The Elders were the enforcers of discipline in Chocktee, and he would not second-guess them, even if he felt they were heavy-handed.
“You are omachiw,” [a hunter] Daniel Blackbird. You accept this burden?” The light from the fire flickered across the span of Toomey’s wrinkled forehead, setting his curly grey hair ablaze with amber.
“I do.”
Blackbird waited to see if the others would scoff or grunt. They did not. At least not with their mouths―but their eyes were angry spheres that did not require words to convey their sentiment.
“You bear its mark.” Toomey touched his index finger to the pocked landscape of his cheek, drawing an imaginary cut from eye to cheekbone. “As the wound heals you will feel a pull taking you in whatever direction it moves. You are a hunter now, and it is your quarry. The walker is fast and smart, but a slave to its hunger. You must make this weakness your weapon and try to catch up to it. Have you any questions?”
Blackbird had a thousand but limited himself to only those that were most pressing. This conversation alone was a blessing, one that he would not sniff at. “Are there any signs it will leave behind or clues to its whereabouts?”
Toomey looked at the other Elders then cleared his throat. “It must feed daily. It will eat animal. But craves to eat of man. In its wake you will find many bodies, the organs removed. Read the signs and concentrate on the beckoning. You have many roads ahead of you, Omachiw. Trust the pull as it guides you.”
Monias reached across and handed him an envelope. In it, Daniel correctly speculated, was a sum of money. “Spend this wisely. Live as a man who has but the clothes on his back.”
Blackbird took the envelope and lowered his eyes.
“You are done, Daniel Blackbird. Leave us now,” Toomey said.
Daniel had not expected to be turned out this way. The sudden finality was akin to the death of his grandfather, in that he could not argue or undue his misfortune. He sighed―but minutely, so it would not draw criticism. He stowed the items they had given him, lifted the knapsack, and exited the shelter.
Toomey watched the young man go as the others spoke amongst themselves. He had known this young man and his cousin, Johnny Proudfoot, their entire lives. He took no satisfaction in banishing him, but as Chief Elder, he had a duty to his people.
Watch over him, Ne
koneet. Protect him with your wisdom, he thought sadly.
The hunt was on.
***
Chapter 1 - Rituals and Intersections
1
Chicago, Illinois
October 2001
Roosted on a building high above the city’s red-light district, a group of pigeons congregated, trying to ward off the autumn cold. The ledge where they gathered was spattered with droppings that wafted the vile stench of ammonia. Below, the cityscape was filled with the noisy activity of cars and people moving along the gridwork of streets, illuminated by the fluorescent glow of night lighting. In the distance, adding to the chorus of sound, an ambulance siren cried out.
Not far from where the pigeons huddled together, a lone raven stared obsessively down upon the nightlife. But this was no typical raven. It was not a parasite content to pick over the remains of the dead, but a predator always hungry, always stalking. It was a magnificent creature, with a wingspan that spread four feet across. It was slightly ragged looking, its feathers unkempt, and it had eyes that were as cold and silver as steel ball bearings. The streets below reflected in those shiny globes as it scanned the panorama for new prey.
The pigeons cowered. They saw through the chameleon cloak, right into the grotesque and macabre thing it truly was. They saw the embryonic monster pulsing beneath the black feathers and skin, felt the spiral of madness pulsing from it in waves.
Must eat! So hungry! So very hungry!
It cast a fleeting glimpse their way, and they squawked huddling together even tighter; though they had nothing to fear, because the creature’s appetite could not be sated by the meat on their scrawny bodies. It smelled the air hungrily, tasting it – and a scent caught in its nasal cavities. The giant bird spread its wings and took flight, descending from the ledge, down towards the ignorance of its prey.
The Red Son Page 40
