Indian Killer
“One moment, bright moon and clear skies. The next moment, gray everywhere. At three in the morning the temperature drops, but not enough to frighten anybody but tourists. John was not a tourist. He was aboriginal. He stepped through this rain and fog without incident. He loved and needed the dark, feeling it contained more safety than the small circles of white light beneath each street lamp. He pulled his collar closer to his neck and marched through the slight cold. He walked across the Fremo...nt Bridge, north of downtown, southeast of his Ballard apartment. There were no people, no cars. John was the last person left on earth. He wanted to be home alone, in his bed, quiet. This bridge was a bad place. Then the silence was broken. Twin headlights. Illumination. A pickup, filled with curses and Brut aftershave, rattled over the bridge.
“Fucking Indian!”
As the pickup left him behind, John raised his hand, fingers spread wide. He did not understand his own gesture. The pickup slowed, brake lights almost beautiful in the gray air, then stopped, still, reverse lights suddenly bright.MoreLess
“Fucking Indian!”
As the pickup left him behind, John raised his hand, fingers spread wide. He did not understand his own gesture. The pickup slowed, brake lights almost beautiful in the gray air, then stopped, still, reverse lights suddenly bright.MoreLess
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