by Jeff Altabef
Three students have surrounded Troy’s bike. Crushed beer cans have been tossed about and a small, gross looking puddle sits right by his back tire. The student closest to the puddle fumbles with his fly.
“Hey, move away from my bike,” Troy shouts as he slows into the clearing.
All three guys appear sloshed with flushed faces and unsteady gaits. Two stand off to the right and one farther from the rest to the left nearest to the bike. They all have “State” t-shirts on with different designs. Of the three, the middle one looks the most dangerous. He seems the steadiest with beady, calculating eyes.
The guy farthest to the right is the largest, his thick arms bulging with muscles. The extra extra large white and red t-shirt he’s wearing says “Rugby” on it and barely fits over his barrel-chested frame. “Cool bike,” he mutters with a smirk. He must weigh fifty pounds more than Troy.
The beady-eyed fella sweeps his vision over Troy and sneers. “I want to take it for a ride. Tell me the combo for the lock.”
Troy tenses, the vein in his neck pulses, and his body coils. He looks explosive. “No one needs to get hurt.” He lifts both of his hands above his head. “Just step away, and we’ll take off.”
The student on the left wobbles toward me. His greasy hair hangs down to his shoulders. Sunburns blotches his face and arms and he grins stupidly. He’s thin, about my height, and reeks of beer and stale cigarettes.
“You’re cute. Why don’t you come with me and leave the chief with them?” He stumbles a half step toward me.
His two friends snicker.
I turn to face the greasy haired idiot. He’s only a little wider and heavier than me. His eyes are dilated and glassy and he smirks like a spoiled child in an ice cream shop. I smile at him and wave him closer. “Boy, you’re a real prize, aren’t you?”
The dope doesn’t hear my sarcastic tone and continues to stagger unsteadily toward me. Beer in the form of sweat pours down the sides of his face. He stops five feet away and flashes me crooked, yellowish teeth. He’s only one step away.
I glance at Troy and say, “K.”
He shrugs. “Is for kick.”
I turn back to the drunk and boot him right in the balls with all my weight behind the kick. He seizes up into a fetal position and collapses on the dirt. One hand grabs his privates while the other pounds the ground. He mutters something. It’s hard to make out, but it sounds like he wants his mother.
When I turn, Troy has already grabbed Rugby Shirt by the arm and twisted hard. When he squeals, Troy drives his elbow into his arm. The bone breaks, but Beady Eyes lands a right hook against Troy’s jaw when he isn’t looking. The punch sends him spinning.
I don’t like Beady Eyes’s confident swagger as he stalks after Troy. My chest tightens. I move toward him ready to jump on his back when my foot kicks the ridiculously large and slightly smelly helmet.
Troy straightens himself and darts at Beady Eyes, clenching his arms around his waist. I grab the helmet and step toward them. Beady Eyes hits Troy with another right, this time in the side, and Troy grimaces.
My eyes narrow. The helmet feels heavy in my hand. I focus on the back of Beady Eyes’s head and swing it down hard, bashing it into his skull. He goes limp and tumbles to the ground.
I turn to face Rugby Guy who’s holding his right arm gently with his left. He’s sweating profusely and fear fills the white portion of his wild looking eyes. He speaks fast and groans a little at the end. “We’re just messing around. We didn’t mean nothing. I think my arm’s broken, man.”
Troy moves next to me. “Step away from my bike.”
“No problem. Just keep away from me.” Rugby Guy joins his greasy haired friend who’s still groaning and squirming on the ground off to the side.
Troy works the lock to the chain while I watch over the two drunks. In a minute, he starts the bike and spins the back tire, spraying loose stones at Beady Eyes, who starts to moan and throws up.
Did my earlier unease have anything to do with the college kids?
As I leap on the back, the creepy feeling returns and settles in my bones. No, something else is wrong.
Troy navigates the bike along the narrow side road that leads out of the park. Tension knots his back.
“I wish we could ban drunk college kids from our town,” I yell in his ear. “Now I’ve paid you back for Matt Flynn.”
He chuckles and the rigidity is gone. “That still leaves Janice Joyce, and—”
I punch him on the shoulder. “What did I say about that on the cliff?”
We both laugh as he turns left on Route 100. He opens the throttle, and the wind embraces me and distracts me from the horrible things I’m sure Mom will do once she learns that I skipped school. My distraction is short lived because sirens wail behind us and I jump.
Troy glances in the side mirror and grumbles under his breath. “What now? I hope my dad hasn’t done anything else.”
Troy’s relationship with the sheriff’s department is sketchy. Nothing seriously bad, but his dad gets into bar fights, so they like to know what he’s up to. Small towns suck that way. I want to live somewhere big like New York or Paris or London, a city where no one knows my family tree or his, and we can be free to be ourselves without the past getting in the way.
When he slows the bike, the two police cars scream past us with a whoosh, sirens blaring. “I wonder what that’s about?” I shout, trying to compete with the wind. “When was the last time two police cars raced in the same direction?”
“Let’s find out. That’s Sheriff Daniels’s car.” He twists the accelerator, and the Honda spurs forward. The wind roars and I’m flying. I tighten my arms around his waist and my body bends toward his. I can feel his heartbeat through his t-shirt. He smells like summer.
Within a few miles, the police cars turn right onto Canyon Avenue. “They’re headed into the Reservation,” Troy says. His body stiffens, and the knot returns. He lives in the Reservation.
The Reservation isn’t technically a real reservation. It’s paradise when compared to the real Rez, which is 50 miles away in the middle of nowhere. Many families on the Rez don’t even have electricity, and only half the kids graduate from high school. Broken down cars and trucks litter the yards like weeds. There are no chain stores or malls or Starbucks. Only a few mom and pop stores are permitted on the Rez. It seems like a third world country stuck in the middle of Arizona.
Sicheii goes there often, bringing supplies and help when he can. I used to go with him, but that was a while ago. Last year, Mom and I only went during the harvest celebration to see the tribal dancers.
This Reservation is actually a run down neighborhood where most of the residents are poor and have some Native American blood. Troy swings the bike on Canyon Avenue and follows as far behind the flashing lights as he can while still keeping an eye on them.
We pass dozens of ranch-style houses clustered close together with peeling paint, slanted walls, and weed infested, rock-filled yards. The difference between this neighborhood and my gated community is stark. They might as well be on different planets, which brings a guilty lump to my throat. We have so much and they have so little. As we move farther from Route 100, the houses become more dilapidated. Some are missing windows, and one has its front door leaning against the porch.
Troy slows the bike as the police cars turn left on River Road. “This is a dead end,” he says. We crawl along the winding street, turn a corner and find three police cars their lights spinning parked in front of the last house.
He swerves to the curb a few hundred feet from the cruisers and turns off the bike.
I squint at the home in front of us. “That’s Old Man Roundtree’s house. Why would three cruisers stop at his place? How much trouble could Roundtree get into? He’s as old as dirt.”
“Maybe one of his potions backfired. Jack bought a sickness curse from him last week and cast it on Mr. Stevens our chemistry teacher. He was out for a week with strep throat.”
/> “Rumor has it you’ve been buying love potions again.” I poke him in the ribs with my elbow.
“He’s been making potions and casting spells for a long time, Jules. Science can’t explain everything.” Troy jumps off his bike. “Come on, let’s take a closer look.”
I groan. “Do we really need to snoop around?” I’m in plenty of hot water for skipping school already, but he ignores me and jogs toward Roundtree’s house. Why look for trouble? But what choice do I have? So I slink after him, trying to stay in his shadow.
Roundtree’s house is set back fifty yards from the road. It’s older than the other houses on the street, a small clay ranch-style home with a red-tiled roof. At least the walls are sturdy and all the windows and doors are intact.
A wooden sign by the front door proudly proclaims Medicine Men Make the Best Lovers. A small smile spreads across my face. Sicheii would not be happy.
Troy scoots toward the right side of the house, bent at the waist, stopping behind an ash tree. I run behind him, doing my best to keep up. Roundtree’s property stretches all the way to Fishkill River. An old chicken coop leans precariously behind his house and directly in front of us. A few bushes, four trees, and a discarded lawnmower separate us from the coop. Patches of green dot the yard, although there’s little grass. At least not the type you’d find in my neighborhood.
I tug on Troy’s shirt. “Let’s turn back. We’ll find out what happened soon enough through the rumor mill.”
He shoots me a mischievous look. “Come on. We can run along that line of trees and hide behind the coop.” He points to three trees, which make an uneven line toward the coop. “If the coop doesn’t collapse on us, we should be able to see what’s going on in the backyard. No one’s going to catch us.”
He races out from behind the ash tree before I have a chance to protest. He knows I want to go back, but once he starts, he also knows I’ll follow him. Best friends can really be a pain in the ass sometimes.
We run from tree to tree, trying to be as quiet as we can, but the rocks crunch under our sneakers. When we reach the coop, we’re breathing hard. Sweat soaks my shirt and my heart pounds. Luckily, no chickens are home.
A surreal quality fills the air as if I’m standing in the middle of a photograph. It’s hard to explain. Something just seems weird, as if the world is not quite right, and I should be able to figure out what’s wrong, but nothing jumps out at me. We hear Sheriff Daniels’s muffled voice, but other than that, it’s quieter than it should be. The air is crisper, the colors brighter.
When we shuffle to the back of the coop, we edge along the rotten wood until we see Sheriff Daniels and the rest of the backyard. Three goats graze together along the river’s edge. They watch Daniels and the other officers who stand in a loose circle around the base of a wide maple tree.
I strain my eyes to check out what they’re looking at, and then Deputy Johnson moves. I wish he hadn’t. Roundtree is tied around the trunk of the maple by his arms, his bare chest smeared with blood, his body slumped lifeless against the rope. We are too far away to see him in detail, but the blood pooled at the base of the tree tells the story well enough.
I want to pull my eyes away, but they’re stuck. I’ve never seen a dead body before. Sure, there are tons of television shows where dead bodies are as common as sunrises, but it seems a lot different in person. I’m struck by the complete lack of motion as Roundtree’s body pulls against the ropes. Even when you sneak up on someone who’s sleeping, his or her chest still moves up and down. Here, there’s nothing.
Troy flattens his body against the back of the coop, which leans with his weight and creaks a little until it steadies back in place. “Who could have done that?” He looks at me and all I can do is shake my head.
“We’d better sneak out of here. They’re not going to be happy with us snooping around a murder scene,” he whispers.
Finally, we agree, but a sharp pain knifes through my skull and a waterfall of noise cascades in my head. I bend over at the waist. My head’s dizzy and I gasp for breath. My lungs explode. The coop sways against my back. Images flash in my mind—close-ups of Roundtree’s body: cuts ripped into his chest, a jagged gash down his face, purple bruises mar his neck, his open eyes lifeless, blood everywhere.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight, but the visions only intensify. He has a tattoo on his chest of two arrows twisted together with a circle around them. Both arrows have different arrowheads and feathers. I know this tattoo. My grandfather has the same one.
I gasp for air, chest tight. Short bursts of oxygen spurt into my lungs. The ground sways under my feet. My mind turns fuzzy and my head’s on fire. My stomach churns and bile fills my mouth. The ground rushes up to meet me when Troy grabs my shoulders and steadies me.
“Argh.” I clasp my head because it feels like it’ll shatter if I don’t hold it together.
The images linger for another heartbeat and then vanish. I lean against Troy and breathe deeply. Air fills my lungs, and my legs feel stronger. I open my eyes and concentrate on Troy’s face. It looks fuzzy and then focuses.
“Are you okay?” His eyes are wide and his lips are turned down softly.
“I’m fine.” I shake my head to clear it. Fine is definitely not the right word to describe how I feel. I’ve never experienced pain like that before, but at least I didn’t toss my lunch. My hands tremble as air begins to flow more smoothly into my lungs.
Movement catches my eye. Deputy Johnson wanders in our direction. He hasn’t seen us yet, but if we move he’ll spot us for sure. “We’ve got to wait,” I whisper. We push flat against the coop. A pointy piece of wood stabs me in the back, and I shift away from the jagged edge.
Only a few yards away, Deputy Johnson’s steps are slow and cautionary. He hesitates and stares at something on the ground. My skin crawls. He’s sure to catch us. He squats low and picks up a broken piece of stone in the dirt. Holding it close to his face, he turns to face Sheriff Daniels. “This is the tip from some type of ceremonial carving knife. It has blood on it. This could be from the murder weapon.”
When Johnson stands up, he scans the area, looking for other clues. He glances toward the coop and looks right past us. Just when it seems that he’ll definitely spot us, one of the goats darts toward him, grunting with its head down, brandishing its horns.
“Make sure that goat doesn’t come near the body!” Daniels shouts.
Johnson curses as he dodges the goat’s charge and races after the angry animal to keep it away from Roundtree.
With Johnson chasing the goat, I tug on Troy’s t-shirt. “We’d better go.” He follows me to the side of the coop, and we sprint back to the bike, no longer worried about staying behind the trees.
When we reach the Honda, his face is screwed together angrily and his eyes burn. “Do you think someone used a ceremonial knife to kill Roundtree?”
“Beats me, but why would it matter?”
“It matters to me.” He starts the bike with a hard kick.
People judge others by their appearances—what clothes they wear, the color of their skin, whether they have tattoos. It makes no sense, but it happens all the time. When most people see me, they only see a Native American teenaged girl, and with that come a slew of judgments and prejudices having nothing to do with me. The baggage for Troy is heavier, and sometimes he gets tired carrying the weight.
Joe, the security guard, smiles at me from the little hut at the entrance to my neighborhood, but scowls at Troy distastefully. It’s obvious what he’s thinking. Troy’s too wild looking for him. He doesn’t fit in our gated community. He could be a troublemaker and deserves careful scrutiny. Joe’s attitude makes me angry, but I’m not going to say anything now. Roundtree was murdered. Bigger worries occupy my mind.
The same must be true for Troy because he grins back at Joe. Without a word, Joe presses a red button and the metal bar rises out of our path. Troy winks at him and continues on, pulling the Honda to a stop in front of Mrs. Jo
nes’s house. This is our second stop after leaving Roundtree’s house. First, we visited the Dairy Freeze on the way home where I changed into my school uniform just in case Sicheii arrived home before I did.
I hop from the bike.
“Are you okay, Jules? Has your headache gone away?”
I had a hard time describing what happened to me by the chicken coop. I’ve never felt anything as intense as that before. The headache was real enough and simple, so that’s all I told Troy. Why talk about visions, which were probably just another product of my overactive imagination anyway? The blood pooling by Roundtree’s feet must have caused my imagination to fly into hyper-drive fueled by my NCIS addiction.
I yank off the helmet. “I’m feeling better now that this thing is off my head. It makes a better club than a hat.” I manage a weak grin. At least the noise in my head has quieted down to a manageable level. “I still can’t believe someone killed Roundtree. Who would do that?”
Troy rubs his face with his hands and takes the helmet from me. “Beats me, but he must have really pissed someone off. I’ll call you later. Maybe I’ll find some clues when I dig around the Reservation.” He dons his helmet, starts the Honda, waves, and motors away with a squeak of the tires.
I trudge up our driveway toward the front door. The door opens, but it moves only a few inches and jolts to a stop as the shiny metal chain bars entry. Sicheii is home. Why would he use the chain? We never use it.
“I’m home, Sicheii. Let me in.” Thirty seconds pass. My foot starts tapping against the stoop and there’s no answer. The day is still hot and sweat starts to coat my forehead and back. What weirdness is he up to now?
I drop my backpack with a thud, amble over to the three-car garage and peek into the windows. Next to Mom’s Volvo is Sicheii’s mint condition, burgundy, 1973 Porsche 911. The license plate reads, “MED MAN.” Wherever he goes, everyone recognizes the sports car as my grandfather’s, which is only one reason I hate driving in the thing. It’s also loud, has no cup holders, gets only AM stations, and smells like oil. Still, Sicheii loves the car. It’s old, but he drives it fast.
