The Night Marchers and Other Strange Tales (11 page)

“Bill whatever you are thinking, don’t do it. Just come home, everything will be fine.” 

She’s right. Everything will be fine. Crisping a couple of shit sweepers doesn’t count. 

“Remember, I didn’t want to hurt anybody.” 

“Bill, I love—” 

I hang up the phone, hit the timer, and run. 

I don’t stop until I clear the maze of tanks. I stand in the fueling lot among the jumbo tanker trucks where I have a great view. Any second now.  

A plume of red shoots into the sky. A glorious burning pillar reaches for the heavens. 

Flames blossom everywhere. Tanks explode. A chain of deafening bangs and booms moves closer. 

Heat washes over me and I choke my last breath as the inferno robs the air of oxygen. A roaring wall of fire rushes to the fuel yard. Yellow. Orange. Then nothing but red. 

**** 

“Tell me. Tell me,” I beg. The pain is gone but I burn, just a thin finger of flame in the inferno. 

Fire Girl laughs. She isn’t slinky and slender anymore. She looks sort of like my little Allie.  

“What do you want to hear?” she asks. “Should I call you Daddy and say I want you to burn like I did?” 

I feel myself flickering out. Any second now there will be only black. 

I fight for focus. “You’re not my daughter, and I’m not like the Red River guy,” I say.  

“No. You’re as different as can be. Right before the current fried his brain and I asked him where the spark would jump, he thought of you, right away. No fighting at all.” 

I just want to burn. To merge into the red. To fold into the yellow and orange. “I’m a good guy,” I manage to say. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” 

“You’re almost spent now. One more thing left for you to do before you go. Show me where the spark will jump next.” 

“You’re not Allie. Why don’t you dance, like before? Tell me why? Why did all of this happen?” 

She cups her breasts, flicks her tongue, and bursts into the slender silhouette of flame I knew.  

“She was such pretty fuel,” she says. 

I’ve been sloppy. Bought what Fire Girl was selling. There is no why. Fire simply burns because it can. Because it must. I picture Nadja buttoning up her white blouse for the family portrait. The day I beat Jonas at golf. Michelle when she was just an admiring colleague. I try to banish them from my mind, hoping the spark will end with me.  

Fire Girl smiles, her ruby eyes glittering and kinetic. 

“It never ends,” she says. “They’ll always be fuel to feed me.” 

I see Michelle running out of the woods. She’s at a gas station. The attendant is calling the cops. He rips open a pack of smokes for her from behind the counter. She lights a cigarette. Fire Girl is there in the flame. 

I feel myself slipping. Losing focus. Losing fuel. The black cinder at the end of it all is close now. 

THE GHOST DANCE 

A crow bobbed its head, fluttered its wings, and took flight from its perch on the roof of the nightclub. A patchwork of hand-made band posters covered the wide glass window. The crow squawked and flew over a circle of hundreds of dancers crowding the sidewalk and street.  

The briefing said there would be crows, Erin thought. The bird’s presence made this different, more real. Erin scanned the crowd: mostly teenagers, not just from the Rez. The last rays of the late summer setting sun cast a red glow on the closed stores of the strip mall and the circle of dancers crowding its streets. No sign of the suspect. No lucky break today.  

The dancers’ feet lifted and dropped in unison, then in syncopation with the pounding bass and low grumble of guitars audible outside the small club. It smelled wrong.  

No pot. No beer. Not a single one smoking a cigarette. 

Her partner, John Avenco, got out of their unmarked Ford Taurus. Together they walked toward the circle of dancers and the nightclub. 

“You believe it’s really him?” Avenco asked. 

Erin shrugged. She didn’t know what to believe. Two days ago, agents from Squadron Thirty Seven had apprehended the girl called Sitting Bull, along with a beat-up van full of guitars and amps. All the recent chatter indicated something big was going down—tonight. Something big enough for the director to have almost every agent scouring the Reservations and every rock and roll club in the country for the suspect, Crazy Horse.  

Avenco looked around, amazed. “I never even heard of this dance thing till that first clash with the National Guard in Houston.” 

Erin pictured the image she saw on the news: a giant circle of dancers, much like this one, surrounded by lines of Guardsmen in riot gear.  

“I know my history, but come on.” 

Erin held her tongue. The Ghost Dance, the desperate protest movement of the Native Americans, had been outlawed over a hundred years ago. Since the fated massacre at Wounded Knee, it was rarely seen outside ceremonial gatherings. Its resurgence along with the rebellious and unified talk of the tribes spooked her. She couldn’t expect Avenco to know all this, but now, after the briefing, he had no excuse.  

“I mean, what the hell?” Avenco continued. “Even my sister’s kid in New Jersey is doing it.” 

The government today wouldn’t condone shooting into circles of mixed-up suburban kids, would they? Erin hoped she wouldn’t be expected to. 

“That’s rock and roll for you,” she said, not wishing to voice her concerns to Avenco. “You were a kid once.” 

“Yeah, of course,” Avenco said.  

“Let’s just clear the place, confirm he isn’t here, and be on to the next one,” she said. 

“Yeah, I heard the briefing. But rock and roll, Wounded Knee, and reservation teenagers pretending they are dead Indian heroes. It doesn’t make sense.” 

Erin agreed. At Wounded Knee, hundreds were slaughtered by American soldiers when they refused to stop dancing the Ghost Dance. The dance itself would not bring back the buffalo and herald the downfall of the invaders, like they claimed, neither then nor now. So why the Bureau-wide alert? Why all the fear?  

“Rysing Trybe,” Avenco said, shaking his head disdainfully. 

Crazy Horse’s band. Erin looked at a sun-faded poster: a silhouette of a mohawked figure, guitar slung around his back, stood in front of a rough, sketchy buffalo.  

Rysing Trybe. Tonight. First set 9 pm. We shall live again. 

The y’s in Rysing and Trybe connected. 

Problem was, intelligence reported over a hundred bands called Rysing Trybe booked all over the country. The big rock clubs in New York and L.A., county fairs, and lots of smaller clubs like this one, in sleepy downtown Phoenix. Even with the help of the local sheriffs, cops, and highway patrol, the Bureau couldn’t cover them all. This was probably a dead end, Erin thought. Most of the manpower and resources were focused near the big gatherings. The news had reported that fifty thousand were expected in the Black Hills. Twice that in San Francisco and New York. The director had said these estimates were low. 

They reached the edge of the circle of dancers. A big man all in black stepped out of the door and stood, arms crossed, watching them. The dancers’ feet moved up and down in unison like a huge single-minded animal. 

“Glad this is all supposed to be peaceful,” Avenco said. Erin watched the blank expressions of the dancers as they circled past. She knew the Ghost Dance was non-violent, but she sensed a fury, beyond the years, in the young faces. 

“I’m heading ’round back,” Avenco said, his voice echoing in her ear, as he disappeared ’round the corner of the club. 

“I copy,” she said into the tiny microphone attached to her small black earpiece. 

“Too bad we couldn’t just bag this guy at home.” Avenco always chattered when he was nervous. 

“Too bad,” Erin agreed, and she meant it. There was surprisingly little intel on Crazy Horse. Besides the CD they weren’t sure of anything.  

The music inside the club stopped. The dancers in the street continued to circle, eyes distant, as if moving to a rhythm from an unseen drum.  

“We shall live again,” a girl near her called out. The rest answered with a low murmuring moan. The crow cawed from somewhere overhead.  

Erin sighed. “All right, I’m going in.” She stepped up to the black-clad, muscular native man. A small white stone carving of a buffalo hung around his neck on a simple black cord.  

“Next set’s in 20 minutes.” He looked past her at the circle of dancers. “If you’re not dancing you better leave.” 

Erin squared her shoulders, feeling the comforting weight of the Kevlar vest beneath her suit. She pulled her badge and ID out of her suit pocket. “Federal agent. Step aside,” she said.  

The bouncer didn’t move. She looked up at him, at least a full head taller than her. 

“What sort of post-nine-eleven fascist bullshit is this?” he asked, looking at her badge. She pushed her wispy blonde hair out of her eyes. The white streetlight and red neon cast two shadows of his bulky frame, one a red penumbra of the other. 

“Federal agent, step away from the door,” she said louder. She tried for that emotionless “I’m all business this is my job and I’ll kill you if I have to” look she’d seen so often on Avenco. 

The crowd stomped. The crow cawed. The big guy didn’t move. “Crow’s got a message. Aren’t you listening?” he said. 

Her training told her not to listen, but his words had a seductive pull.  

“What message is that?” she said, but she wanted to say,
step aside or you are under arrest. 

“Dance the ghost dance. Clear your heart. Focus your prayer. Join us to praise the birth of the white buffalo.” 

For an instant it all made sense; dance, believe in peace, and the return of the buffalo. All she had to do was dance and join the power of her belief to the group.  

“You in yet?” Avenco radioed in her ear, snapping her back to the moment. 

Erin blinked her eyes and took a second to orient herself. Seeing the bouncer staring at her she moved her jacket aside, revealing her gun. She reached into her pocket and held up the warrant. 

“I’m in,” she said to Avenco. 

“Fuck you,” the bouncer said, and stepped aside.  

Erin walked into the smell of smoke, sweat, and something earthy and herbal. 

The girl collecting cover just inside the door gasped upon seeing her badge. Erin’s adrenaline kicked in, her eyes scanned everywhere for danger—for the suspect. She glanced at the girl: Rysing Trybe t-shirt, cigarette behind her ear, spiked belt, roll of cash in her hand. No weapons.  

Erin walked through the narrow hallway and entered the club. She stood at the edge of the hardwood dance floor, opposite a raised stage about a hundred yards away. Thin wisps of smoke curled around metal scaffolds and colored lights which hung from the high ceiling. Small lights inset into the old paneled walls by the tables on the left provided the only illumination, besides the small stage lights. Spinning, stomping dancers filled every inch of available space of the dance floor; big, human, concentric circles turning within each other. The sweat, moisture, and that earthy smoke, sage maybe, was much stronger. She coughed as she angled into the crowd. 

Someone bumped her—a dancing girl, eyes closed, face stern yet somehow blissful in the shadows from the low light. Erin brought her hand up in front of her face instinctively. She reached for her gun. Easy, she told herself. These are kids.  

With the smoothness and grace of a yoga pose, the girl raised her hands above her head, her shirt lifting just enough to reveal the tattoo of a sun surrounding her pierced navel. Hands in the air, she swayed like a reed, all the while maintaining the driving staccato rhythm with her feet. The girl opened her eyes and stared, oblivious to the gun. 

“You don’t stand a chance against my prayers,” she said. Her body didn’t break its hypnotic motion. 

“Step away,” Erin said. 

“You don’t stand a chance against my love,” the girl responded in a breathy voice. 

Erin edged past her as the girl danced in place, hands twirling patterns in the air. Erin craned to see over the crowd. Across the club, on the stage, a lanky teen with no shirt adjusted the rack of toms on a shiny red, silver, and chrome drum kit. He looked up and wiped a sweaty lock of long thin hair out of his eyes with his tattooed forearm as she approached. Recognition flashed in his eyes—the look of a deer before bolting.  

“Curly! Cops!” he yelled to someone on the side of the stage. 

The suspect’s childhood name according to the bio. The ancient sepia toned picture of Crazy Horse, a grizzled but regal old man, entered her mind’s eye.  

Erin turned to intercept the group of people bustling away from the stage. Girl in black jeans, CD in hand. Guy in leather jacket holding a guitar. Guy in vest, white t-shirt. No weapons. No suspect. 

They orbited around a short, hefty native teen as they moved toward the sales table. He looked at least three hundred pounds, wore big wide leather pants, a studded spiked belt, and wristlets like an eighties metal star. A single long braid snaked from his close-cropped hair. It was him. She remembered his voice from the CD—deep and guttural, an angry bear growling over heavy, dark cadences. 

“Heads up,” Erin said to Avenco. “I see him. He might make a run. Notify HQ, I have a positive ID.” 

“Got it,” Avenco said. She pictured him waiting outside the back exit, grim, zen-like expression on his face.  

“Federal agent, step away,” Erin said, pushing a dancer aside. “You,” she said to the suspect, watching his hands, “Slowly now. Hands above your head.” 

Oblivious dancers circled past, their mutters and mumbles bouncing off the old wood paneling.  

“Get in here, Avenco,” she said into her microphone. 

“Coming,” he said. “No response from HQ or Squadron Thirty Seven.” 

Erin focused on the suspect. She felt like she was trying to arrest a queen bee without alerting the hive. 

“Carrying any weapons?” 

“No,” the suspect murmured. 

“Where’s your ID?” she asked, patting him down. 

“Don’t got none,” he said slowly. His voice was soft, nothing at all like the disc.