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Indian Massacre
By D.E. Fredd
Lester Connors explained to the Maine state troopers that the raid happened just after dawn. The arrow markings and other telltale signs pointed to the Algonquin nation, probably the Iroquois tribe although here in Kittery the usually peaceful Abenakis tribe couldn't be ruled out totally. He and Margaret were early risers, even on Saturday. She had set the new Gevalia coffee maker brewing. They received it free for joining a
coffee club by dialing an 800 number. She was sitting down to her own hot breakfast. It was beyond her to prepare anything decent for him. He was in his pajamas in the living room, the TV tuned to ESPN as the Red Sox were on the west coast that week. He wanted to know the score because he dozed off just after eleven, although against Seattle it was usually bad news.
***
He hadn't heard much; they were a stealthy lot. One of the few perks he'd allowed himself when he retired from Bainville Wood Products was a set of Bose earphones. It bypassed the hundred watt, surround sound system he had installed, but it sometimes kept the peace with Margaret when she wanted to knit or read in the same room with him. Since his bursitis and sciatic hip began to bark at him at all hours, the thermo massage recliner in front of the TV was where he spent most of his time. In her view it was a hideous color and took up half the room, but he was glad he'd stuck to his guns and bought it anyway. And thank God he had gotten interested in sports when he was younger. There was always something to follow. He had DirecTV with all the sports' packages. Margaret hit the roof when the monthly bill came, but he never asked her how much she spent
on that junk from the Christmas Tree Shop or over at those rip-off outlet malls on Route 1. And he wasn't nearly as addicted to sports as she ranted and raved to the kids. In fact, if anyone was addicted, it was her when it came to those stupid shopping channels. She even had the audacity to poke fun at the History Channel he liked as well as those stations, AMC and TCM which screened the old time movies. He did knuckle under to her rule of no TV during meals even though he was certain she deliberately picked crucial moments of games to announce dinner.
***
It sounded like several thunks as if someone was banging a palm on a hollow crate many times in quick succession. He took his earphones off and listened more intently but heard nothing. He called out. She never answered to anything but Margaret. He repeated her name. Silence. He struggled up from his chair and hobbled out to the kitchen. She was spread out by the sink, feet splayed towards the dishwasher. They had evidently surprised her from behind. As he went to check on her, that's when the flaming arrow struck. Right through the screen it swooshed and hit just above the decorative shelf, the impact shattering her Hummels and porcelain cat figurines collection. It's like they were aiming for it, hating them almost as much as he did. Yet, as shocked as he was, he couldn't just
stand there. By instinct, it seemed, he grabbed the burning arrow with his bare hands. No time to consider personal safety. He doused it in the sink nearly blinded by the wet smoke. Then he dialed 911.
"I figured you boys knew how to handle these situations," he told Officer Kyle Moody whose grandfather belonged to the same Legion post as he did.
***
Lester Connors had never shown prejudice towards any Indian tribe. He even felt Chief Wahoo, the Cleveland Indian logo, was a bit over the top with respect to political correctness, unlike the Atlanta Braves mascot. Margaret had dragged him to the Foxwoods casino on a few occasions; the last being two months ago with the senior citizens group. He didn't gamble and it was a smoke-filled waste of time in his book, but she'd won eighty dollars at the slots so they may have had their tribal dander up on that
account. Except he wasn't so sure these were from any Connecticut tribe. Just something about their war paint and the array of feathers they'd decorated themselves with.
"Was it possible they weren't Indians at all, but doped up teenagers dressed like them?"
"I suppose anything's possible in this day and age, Mr. Connors."
The coroner on scene figured a heavy, blunt instrument had been what killed her. Death was instantaneous. There had been a crude attempt to crop off her hair, but the culprit was interrupted. A tomahawk was found in the back yard just off the deck near the property line with the Hughes'. Lester led the police to where the soil had been disturbed.
"This is where I saw them run to. They must have tied their ponies here while they had their fun. They rode bareback, and I caught sight of the tail end of them headed towards Torrence Ave. Maybe they took the rotary and Route 16 after that. I didn't do much but scream at them. Afraid I used some impolite language which I should go next door and apologize for."
***
The crime scene boys dusted for prints. Mr. Connors went over his story again. The body was removed. The house and grounds were searched. Evidence was bagged. Phones calls were made to Western New York State to his son and daughter. Lester said he'd like to have at least one of them drive back to Maine to help with arrangements. He could handle the rest of the day and the night himself so no need to speed and risk a ticket.
***
By eleven the next morning the house was somewhat back to normal. Mrs. Billings came over with a macaroni and lima bean casserole and set to work on the kitchen floor. By two they got everything spic and span and Edith said she'd call later to see how he was holding up. After he saw her out, he slumped back into his Strato-lounger, hit the massage button and began to channel surf the Saturday afternoon college football games.
He spent an enjoyable three hours although the spicy lunch gave him cause to take some antacid tablets around four. In the early evening NASCAR racing came on from Daytona, and he rooted for the J. C. Penny car until he kissed the wall in turn four a bit too hard and was done for the day. There was some thought of a snack, but he was just too comfortable where he was. By eight it was time for his favorite sport, baseball, and he reflected that late September was a great month for sports, like several planets being in
conjunction with one another, providing such a wide variety of athletic activities.
He must have dozed off because, when he came to, it was tied in the bottom of the seventh. The Phils had evidently come back from their 5 to 0, early inning deficit to the Reds. He was ready to answer a call of nature when he heard an unusual sound. It sounded like a hoot owl only its notes were lower and more evenly spaced. His flesh froze as he detected the smell of bear grease. In the reflection of the 42 inch HDTV screen, he spotted a form crouching behind him. It must have come from upstairs, an obvious stranger to the house as the second from the bottom step groaned loudly. Outside he heard a horse clear its nostrils.
He looked around for something to defend himself with. His genuine replica Louisville Slugger signed by Manny Ramirez was in the cellar for safe-keeping. There were several TV remotes within reaching distance. In a last ditch effort, he grabbed one and hit the volume control bringing the Philadelphia announcers to overbearing life as the veneer scale hit fifty. The act had momentary success as there was some hesitation on his assailant's part. The knife which was meant for his throat came in too high and slashed across the bridge of the nose. Lester screamed, but the sound was absorbed by the home crowd's reaction to a four hundred foot blast to straight-a-way center. The next slash was truer and the arteries on both side of the neck were opened. Other dark and dusky figures then slunk into room, opened windows and doused the furniture with coal oil. A bone handled blade cut a deep circle around the top of Lester's scalp and, in a single, deft movement, a shock of white hair was peeled from back to front leaving the victim looking like a bloodied, bald-pated monk.
Then they were gone in different directions, the last one dragging a tree branch across the bare patches in the back yard to obliterate any tracks they may have made. When all was quiet, an arrow arced through the sky, glided through the open window and thudded into the sofa. It sputtered against the protective plastic cover for a moment then caught the scent of the coal oil and exploded into a full fledged conflagration. It was the beginning.
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