Paskagankee

by Alan Leverone

  “It’s very simple,” the stranger said, maintaining a steady pressure with the knife-blade at Eagle Wing’s throat. “An item of great value was entrusted to your care many years ago. You’re going to give it to me.”

  Don had an instant to decide how to play it. What were the odds the man with the knife was talking about anything other than the sacred Navajo stone? Essentially nil. But for the heavy weight of responsibility his grandfather had laid on his shoulders, he was an ordinary Native American man living an ordinary life. He was the proprietor of the reservation’s General Store, a nearly invisible forty year old man who owned nothing of monetary value, certainly nothing worth breaking into his home and threatening murder to get.

  Nothing except the stone.

  And it was imperative the stone never see the light of day.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said evenly, and as he did, the man’s lips hardened into a thin bloodless line and he flicked his right wrist almost imperceptibly, drawing the tip of the knife-blade half an inch across Eagle Wing’s throat. Blood welled sluggishly out of a tiny gash. Eagle Wing drew in a breath, a short, panicked gasp, but seemed to realize instinctively that to scream, or even to move, would be to risk suffering much greater damage, perhaps even death.

  Kai Running Bear knew no such thing. Don’s wife let loose a roar of rage and fear, thrashing helplessly in her chair in a desperate attempt to launch herself at the silver-haired man harming her child. The man rotated his left arm at the elbow, still holding the knife to Eagle Wing’s throat, and drove his fist into Kai’s face. The crack of her cheekbone shattering was followed by a dull thud as the chair and its suddenly unconscious occupant smashed backward onto the living room floor.

  Don rushed forward instinctively, stopping after two steps as the man with the knife leapt from the stool and screamed, “Come any closer and she dies!” and Don knew he meant what he said. The stranger’s eyes were black and determined and devoid of any shred of compassion or empathy. He might as well have been a rattler coiled under a rock in the desert, alert and lurking, prepared to strike.

  For one second, then two, the men faced each other, locked in a silent standoff. Kai lay motionless on the floor, duct-taped to her toppled chair, her face beginning to swell hideously. Eagle Wing panted, the point of the knife pressed into her throat, her body shaking as it reacted to the stress and the pain of the knife wound, as well as the sight of her unconscious and badly injured mother.

  “Now,” the man said almost conversationally, “the next few seconds will determine the fate of your entire family. Do not make the mistake of assuming I won’t simply murder all three of you. I know that the object I seek is here somewhere; you would never risk storing it anywhere else. If necessary, I will kill you all and then conduct my own search at my leisure. So I ask one final time: Where is it?”

  Don wondered what his grandfather would have done. The danger the stone represented was monumental; he could not allow it to fall into this man’s hands. But he would not allow his family to be butchered, either. In the end it was an easy decision; it was no decision at all, really.

  Don Running Bear held his hands in front of his face, palms out, willing the man to relax. He could see the razor-sharp knife blade bobbing in a steady rhythm against the soft skin of Eagle Wing’s throat, keeping time with her elevated pulse. “You win. I’ll do as you wish,” he said. He began sliding sideways across the room, moving on the balls of his feet, hands still suspended in front of his face, never taking his eyes off the man with the knife.

  At the far end of the room he stopped in front of a flat-screen television atop an imitation wood-grain TV table. The table supporting the television was mounted on casters and Don bent at the waist, wrapped his arms around the table, and rolled it heavily to the side. The man with the knife watched from behind Eagle Wing’s chair, his face expressionless, his reptilian eyes taking it all in. On the floor, Kai moaned and shuddered and then once again fell still.

  Don knelt down on the spot formerly occupied by the TV table and hooked his fingers under what appeared to be a knot in the oak flooring. He lifted his hand and a hidden two foot by two foot hinged wooden square rose noiselessly, appearing as if out of nowhere. Bolted to the support beams beneath the floor with a pair of heavy iron bands was a personal safe, installed so that the safe’s door opened upward into the room upon removal of the hidden trap door.

  Don hesitated, still searching for a way out of this predicament that didn’t involve releasing the sacred stone to this stranger. He couldn’t think of one. He glanced up at the man, sighed, and punched a series of numbers into a small alphanumeric keypad built into the safe’s door. Then he twisted a heavy handle and the lock gave way with an authoritative clunk that Don knew would be audible all the way across the room in the heavy silence.

  He lifted the door and reached inside. The safe’s contents were mostly obscured by shadows but it didn’t matter. The heavy steel box contained only two items and Don knew the positions of both in the darkness of the safe like he knew the back of his hand. He bent down, maneuvering his body so that its bulk formed a barrier between the stranger and the safe. At least he hoped it did, or else he was condemning his beloved daughter, his only child, to a painful and horrific death.

  Don withdrew the two items simultaneously. One was a perfectly square wooden box, roughly ten inches by ten inches. It could have been a cigar box on steroids. Intricate Native American carvings of Southwestern animals decorated all sides of the box, similar in style and rendering to the ones adorning Don’s treasured bandanna. He lifted that item slowly and carefully with his left hand, while slipping the other item into the right front pocket of his cargo pants, praying the movement would go unnoticed. Then he stood and turned.

  The man removed his knife from Eagle Wing’s throat for a moment and flicked his wrist, much as he had done moments ago when he nicked her throat, only this time he waved it in the air, indicating Don should bring him the box. He said nothing. Don trudged across the room while the man returned the knife to its previous location, nestling it just under his daughter’s jawline. Don noticed with relief that the cut the man had made was mostly for show; it had nearly stopped bleeding already. But there was little doubt he could end her life at any moment if he so desired.

  Don stopped directly in front of Eagle Wing’s chair. Her eyes were closed and she was making an obvious effort to breathe normally. He was filled with pride for his sixteen year old child’s demonstration of composure and inner strength. He knew his grandfather would have been proud of her as well.

  “Open it,” the man commanded, and slowly, with extreme reluctance, as if by drawing the moment out he might somehow be able to keep it from happening, Don lifted the hinged lid.

  Inside the box was a stone, larger than a baseball but only slightly. The stone was perfectly round and smooth, as though it had been lovingly polished by its owner until it gleamed. It had not been, of course. Although he was aware of no more than a small portion of the stone’s history, Don Running Bear knew more than enough to maintain a healthy respect for its fearsome power. He had not opened the box, and only rarely the safe, since Eagle Wing was a very young girl.

  The man’s cold eyes flicked from the contents of the box to Don’s face and back again. “Is that it? It just looks like a rock.”

  “You think I would keep an ordinary rock locked up in a hidden safe?”

  The man gazed at Don, taking stock. Don stood impassively, box held out in front of him, waiting. “You understand what will happen to your family if I am being misled.” It wasn’t a question.

  Don shook his head in frustration. “You’re not being misled, I told you that already.”

  “Do you understand what will happen to your family if I am being misled?”

  “Yes, yes, I understand! Please, if the stone is what you’re after, just take it and go, so I can tend to my wife and child.”

  The stranger’s eyes bored into
Don’s and for a long time neither man spoke. Nobody moved. Eagle Wing sat still under the knife blade, although her eyes were now open. They were trusting and guileless as she watched her father. Don loved those eyes. On the floor, Kai groaned and twitched, pulling against her bindings. She was still unconscious but would be coming around shortly and would need medical attention for the shattered bones in her face.

  At last the man seemed satisfied. “Put the box over there,” he said, indicating a small butcher-block end table adorned with only a lamp, located between the couch and the front door. Don eased the box’s lid closed, relieved not to have to look at its contents any longer, and turned his back, walking slowly toward the couch and placing the box next to the lamp as instructed.

  “Now, go back to the safe. Close it and lock it and lower the trap door.” After Don had complied, the man said, “Roll the TV table back where it belongs,” and he did that, too.

  “Now, stand in the corner.” Don moved to the point in the room opposite the front door. He hoped the stranger would not force him to turn around and face the wall. If he did, all would be lost. He arrived in the corner and stood facing the man, who said nothing about turning around.

  The man withdrew the knife from Eagle Wing’s throat and Don breathed a sigh of relief. He had feared the man would try to kill them all before leaving with the box, but it seemed the man realized he would be in for the fight of his life if he murdered Don’s daughter in front of his eyes, and he clearly wanted simply to take the box and make his escape.

  The stranger slid off the stool, knife held chest-level between his body and Eagle Wing’s. He sidled around her chair and then began backing slowly toward the door, never taking his eyes off Don Running Bear.

  Don waited, not moving, forcing himself to maintain his impassive appearance, wondering how the hell he was managing to do it when his heart was hammering in his chest like a freight train pounding across the desert floor. At some point, the man with the knife was going to have to turn slightly to open the door, and Don had decided that was when he would make his move.

  The stranger arrived at the end table, moving slowly and cautiously. He bent and hefted the wooden box containing the mystical stone. “It’s lighter than I would have expected,” he announced to Don, who said nothing in return. Then the man swiveled his head to the right, reaching for the knob to open the front door.

  The moment the man turned his head, Don snaked his right hand into his pocket and grasped the Colt .38 revolver he had removed from the safe. His plan, if you could call it that, was to rip the gun out of his pocket and fire in one smooth motion, hopefully putting the man down. Even if he missed with the first shot, Don reasoned, the suddenness of the attack should catch the man by surprise, giving him the opportunity to fire again before the man could move in and either gut him with the knife or slice Eagle Wing’s throat open. Not a perfect plan, not by a long shot, but it just might work, and in any event, it was the best he could come up with.

  And it might even have worked.

  Except the gun’s hammer snagged on the metal ring holding the General Store’s keys. The ring hung from his belt loop and as Don pulled the big pistol out of his pocket, the hammer caught on it for an instant, not a long time at all, maybe half a second, but it was enough to twist the barrel toward the floor where Kai lay taped to her chair.

  Don cursed, yanking the gun up toward its target and squeezing the trigger. Against all odds, he hit the exact spot he was aiming for, too, but the man with the knife was no longer there. He had dived toward the floor and into the middle of the room the moment he saw the Colt appear. His reflexes were razor-sharp. The wooden box fell off the table and the stone rolled out of it, spinning on the floor like a top.

  A loud Boom! shook the tiny house on its foundation and the acrid smell of smoke filled the air. A gaping, splintered hole appeared in the front door where until a split second ago the man had been standing. Don cursed again without realizing he was doing it and adjusted his aim, preparing to fire a second shot, knowing everything was going to hell, knowing he was already too late.

  The man rolled onto his back, less than a foot behind Kai Running Bear lying prone in her chair. He flipped the knife in his hand, grabbing it by the blade without even looking at it, and with one smooth, easy motion, fired it at Don, who tried to flinch out of the way but didn’t stand a chance. The knife rocketed through the air with stunning speed, striking Don in the middle of the chest.

  Pain blasted through his rib cage and he felt his arm go numb as he toppled to the floor. He heard the big Colt clatter to the floor as well, sliding across the polished oak and coming to rest in the corner.

  The stranger rose and stepped calmly over Kai, whose eyelids were fluttering and who appeared to be on the verge of regaining consciousness just as her husband lost it. Don watched helplessly as the man stopped above him, then reached down and pulled the knife out of his chest, twisting it viciously as he did so. He screamed in pain and saw blood spurt frighteningly from the wound. Somewhere in the background he could hear Eagle Wing screaming as well, like they were performing some crazy duet from hell.

  The man wiped the knife blade on Don’s shirt, which was already becoming soaked with his own blood. Then he retraced his path, stepping over Kai again, and picked up the stone. He replaced it in the ornate wooden box and secured the lid. Then he looked the room over one more time and stepped through the front door.

  The last thing Don Running Bear heard before losing consciousness was the rumble of an engine starting up and a car driving slowly away.

  1

  Hank Williams—senior, not junior, the real Hank Williams—blasted through the tinny speakers of the Ridge Runner, warbling about love and loss and liquor, not necessarily in that order, his vocal stylings floating through the tavern like a tiny slice of down-home heaven. Earl Manning held down his usual stool and drained the last of a Budweiser, simultaneously signaling for another with his left hand as he slammed the empty mug down on the table with his right. The smoke of a dozen lit cigarettes hung thick and heavy in the unmoving stale air. Smoking in bars and restaurants was against the law in Maine, but nobody cared inside the Ridge Runner.

  Earl had lost track of how many beers he had drunk a couple of hours ago, not that it mattered. He would continue drinking until one of two things happened: He ran out of money or the bar closed. Right now the two outcomes were running neck and neck, although drinking through all his money seemed to be pulling ahead in a race that would likely come down to the wire.

  Earl had been a regular at the Ridge Runner for so long no one dared consider sitting in his spot, even when he wasn’t there. Far end of the bar, wobbly two-person table kitty-corner across the room from the entrance. Close to the john, far enough from the door to be out of the firing line of the almost lethal gust of frigid air that swept into the room any time a patron entered or exited from late October through late April, day or night. Winter was by far the longest of the four seasons in Paskagankee, Maine.

  Bartender and longtime Ridge Runner owner Bo Pellerin slopped a fresh beer on the table as Billy Ray Cyrus—the real Cyrus, not wannabe rock-star daughter Miley—whined and complained about his achy-breaky heart, whatever the hell that meant. Earl Manning considered himself something of an expert in the field of achy-breaky hearts, as his last trip to the doctor, roughly three years ago, had resulted in a stern warning from the quack to slow his drinking pace. Earl didn’t think that was what Billy Ray was talking about.

  Actually, “Stop drinking entirely,” was what the quack doctor had said, “before it kills you.” The guy spun some bullshit about mitral and tricuspid valve deficiencies and plaque buildup in the arteries—apparently Earl’s achy-breaky heart had less to do with love and loss than a weakening muscle critical to the body’s continued operation, at least if he believed the quack, which he didn’t—just before hitting him with almost a three hundred dollar charge. Earl had ignored the outrageous bill just as he had ignored
the diagnosis, vowing at that time never to return to the frigging quack’s office.

  That was three years ago, and look at him, still sitting at his table just beyond the far end of the bar, still drinking—more, if anything, not less—and still very much alive. Sure, he suffered from the shakes some mornings, most mornings if he was being honest with himself; and sure, there were those disconcerting moments when he had trouble catching his breath climbing a normal flight of stairs and was forced to stop and rest halfway, but that sure as hell wasn’t due to heart trouble. After all, Earl reasoned, he was only in his late twenties, and achy-breaky hearts were for geezers, Billy Ray Cyrus’s opinion on the matter notwithstanding.

  The front entrance swung open, then slammed closed. Earl barely noticed. It was almost midnight and the Runner was hopping, so the damned door seemed to be on a freaking swivel. Plus it was early summer, meaning the cold air that normally accompanied the arrival of a new patron had gone on vacation for a few months. It would be back soon enough, but for now, the only things that might have entered the bar were a new customer and a few mosquitoes, and Earl couldn’t care less about either one. As long as he could still get Bo’s attention when his thirst demanded another beer, he didn’t give a damn if it was Billy Ray Cyrus himself who had just walked in.

  His disinterest didn’t last long, though. He glanced up, bleary-eyed, and discovered it was a woman who had entered, and a woman he did not recognize, at that. Aside from Blanche Raskiewicz, who had been frequenting the Runner longer than Earl and whose skin was so weathered and dried out it looked like her face had been patched together out of strips of old leather, the “fairer sex” tended to stay away from the Ridge Runner. It was not an establishment that saw many female faces.

  Especially female faces like this one. The woman was young and beautiful. Long raven hair cascaded in waves halfway down her back, terminating in lazy ringlets a few inches north of her butt, which was accentuated in skin-tight faded jeans with no visible panty lines. Earl knew because it was the first thing he checked. His eyes might be red-rimmed from all the Budweiser and he might almost have reached the point where he would begin seeing double, but he was as much an expert in panty lines as he was in achy-breaky hearts, and he would have bet his miserable life this chick wasn’t wearing any.