MARK JONES WOKE UP in a very dark place but knew instantly that somebody was sitting near him. The frightened little boy tried to talk and to move, but found he was gagged and his arms were tied behind his back. He struggled against the ropes. The killer reached out and touched him. Mark couldn’t see the killer, but felt something familiar, and almost comforting, in the touch.
Mark closed his eyes against the sudden painful glare of a flashlight. At first, when he slowly opened his eyes, Mark could see only that glare and the vague shadow of the killer. Then, as Mark’s eyes adjusted, the killer used the flashlight to illuminate the prized possessions. The beautiful knife, that silver blade with three turquoise gems inlaid in the handle, hanging in a special place on the wall. Mark started to cry, understanding the power of the knife. The killer then illuminated a bloody scalp nailed to the wall, which made Mark scream behind his gag. He wanted to go home, home, home. He coughed and gagged around the cloth shoved roughly into his mouth. Fearing the boy might choke to death, the killer pulled the gag out and Mark breathed deeply. Fresh air, relief, a slight taste of hope. The killer held a juice box in front of him and the boy nodded.
Mark’s hands were still bound, so the killer poked one end of the straw into the juice box and then put the other end of the straw into Mark’s mouth. The boy drank greedily and quickly, broke into a spasm of coughs. After he regained his breath, Mark emptied the juice box. The killer let it drop to the floor. Then he put the gag back into Mark’s mouth.
The boy started to cry again. The killer was lost in thought. By now, the killer had assumed the whole world would know about the power and beauty of the knife. But the police had managed to hide the truth. The newspapers knew nothing about the killer. The television knew nothing about the killer. And there was so much to know. Such as the fact that the scalping was just preparation, the prelude to something larger. The killer knew that the kidnapping of Mark Jones was the true beginning, the first song, the first dance of a powerful ceremony that would change the world. Killing a white man, no matter how brutally, was not enough to change the world. But the world would shudder when a white boy was sacrificed. A small, helpless boy. The killer, like a Christian plague, had swept into the Jones’s house and stolen the first-born son of a white family.
The boy was frail, weeping himself into exhaustion, and the killer felt a shallow wave of compassion. But there was no time for that. The owl had no compassion for its prey. Without tears or hesitation, the owl ripped its prey apart to get at the eyes, at the heart, the sweetest meat of all. The owl hunted to eat. It had no message. But the killer wanted people to know about the message of the knife, and knew who would be the messenger. With a flutter of wings, the killer pulled the beautiful knife from its place on the wall, leaned over the boy, and began cutting.