The Yellow Man was walking southward toward the little cluster of American flags and the United States border inspection station at the far end of the broad concrete arch. On his right, the great circle of the Horseshoe and the Niagara Falls roared at him like lions. The noise was massive, overpowering, a sound to crack the earth. The wind was racing across him, carrying the reek of ancient stones and the bite of the flying water. A huge pillar of white fumes boiled upward into the clear blue sky. The clouds of the morning had all blown away, and now a pale winter sun was shining down on the slick limestone and granite walls of the gorge beneath him. Little tugboats full of tourists in shiny yellow raincoats rode into and out of the spreading mists far underneath him, looking like water bugs against the deep roiling green of the river, and the white lace of the foam curling everywhere, as if the river were a green marble floor. The river itself rolled like a living thing, so much power and force, it shook the bridge as he crossed it.
The low gray concrete barriers of the U.S. border station were just ahead now, and he felt his heart thudding under his plaid shirt. His braids lashed at his face as he covered the final twenty feet. If they were ready, he had made his decision. He would go over the side and let the river free him.
But they would not be ready.
They never were.
Rona was beyond reach now, taken by the New York City police. They were not as stupid as the federal agents. They did not care about things beyond the city borders. Rona would go back to a prison, and someday Rona would look up and see a message in the eyes of one of the other prisoners, see his death in those eyes.
The Yellow Man would see to it. It would have been good to do it himself, but there are other forces at work in the world. No one man can see the entire face of God. You would have to step off the world to do that.
He was dressed very differently now. He had thrown away everything to do with Lucio Garcia, the clothes, even that license. The license he burned. It had been good for one use only and now it was a danger. Now he was dressed in tight black jeans and a stained white T-shirt, under a big baggy red plaid lumberjack shirt. His black hair was tied into two braids, and he was wearing a blue baseball cap with the logo of the Blue Jays. Obregon had given him a car and told him to go north. Cross into Canada—he even had the status card for him, taken from a Mohawk who had tried to cheat one of Manny Obregon’s people over a trailerload of cigarettes bound for Canada. Now the Mohawk was inside an oil drum in the Big Fishkill, along with some other people. Ernesto had practiced saying his new name, George Joe Cardinal, born in Quebec. No one knew the real George Joe Cardinal was dead, least of all the Canadian government, who were too afraid of their Indian tribes to bother them very much. The Indians who lived along the border with Canada came and went as they pleased. They had good guns, real automatic weapons. The Canadian air force would not fly over their lands, because the Indians would shoot them down. A few years ago, they had even blocked a highway leading to Canada and killed a Quebec policeman, and the Canadian Army had done very little. The Indians here had real power.
Ernesto knew how to be an Indian, so it was a good plan. Cross at the Cornwall border, where there were always Indians crossing, trust in the incompetence of governments who’d bungle the records, then drive to Niagara and come back as a Canadian—he would have to lose the New York rental car—and walk back into the United States as a thousand other people do every day. Ernesto Quijunque would no longer exist. He would be a Mohawk named George Joe Cardinal. Then he could go where he liked, go back to Guyana for a while, if he could get to Florida. He had a lot of money, and no one knew where he was now. Only Manny Obregon, and Manny Obregon would tell no one. Manny knew what would happen if he betrayed Ernesto and Ernesto was still alive.
Now the station was here. He opened the glass door and walked through into the warmth of the entrance hall. Other tourists were showing ID to a couple of bored immigration guards. The falls were always a big tourist place, and the city of Niagara Falls had told the INS and the Border Patrol not to make it hard for people to come over from the Canadian side. They needed the money badly. Ernesto had been told all of this by Obregon as they drove up the Taconic looking for the right car rental place. Ernesto was not afraid. He still had his little tomahawk.
It was funny, to have a real tomahawk. He had stopped in a gift shop on the Canadian side to buy some stupid little trinkets. One of the things he had bought was a little Indian doll in a suede cover. It was made in China, and the little tomahawk was plastic. It amused Ernesto to carry it, and it would help with the U.S. guards. He reached the guard post. The man hardly looked at his ID.
“Place of birth?”
“Kahnawake—that’s in Quebec, eh?”
He used the stiff-jawed voice and the bad French, as he had heard it spoken by the other Indians at Cornwall.
“Reason for crossing … Mr. Cardinal?”
Ernesto showed him the little doll, made a stupid face.
“Get some more toys. For the kids, eh? Kind of a joke?”
The guard, a youngster of around twenty, grinned back, handed him his status card. “Have a nice day, Mr. Cardinal.”
“Yeah, I will, eh? You too.”
He walked out through the other doors and on into the roadway. He was back inside the United States, and now he was free. He never felt free anywhere but in the United States. In many ways he loved the country, had done so ever since those Marines in the Philippines had taken him on, had helped him come to the United States. He breathed in the air and walked out in the middle of a crowd of tourists, the tourists scattering toward the overlook on the United States side or wandering into the town toward the big outlet mall. Ernesto decided to walk toward the river and then go down the road until he could get a taxi in town. He’d take a taxi to Buffalo, and then maybe a bus, or …
A man was walking toward him, a big man with a cowboy mustache and wearing a brown suit. The man had his hand inside his jacket … Crow turned.… Two more men, one dark and Italian looking, with a hunter’s face, the other shorter, with red hair—federales.… He pulled the little hatchet and stopped. The big man with the mustache had a gun out—Ernesto ran at him—the man fired—missed—and Ernesto ran him down, cut at him with the hatchet—the man was inside the strike and caught it on his forearm—but Ernesto butted him—felt him go back—he saw the trees far off—and beyond that the broad muddy-green and white-capped plain of the river—he ran—ran hard—feeling the men at his back—feeling the gun-sights on him—people were all around him and he ran into them—they could not risk a shot—the treeline bobbed and pounded in his vision as he ran—his breath rasping in his throat—anger in him now—Obregon—Obregon had sold him—there was no other answer—he smacked into a woman and spun with her—her screams scalded his cheek—and saw the men coming up—no more than forty or fifty feet—the dark-eyed man in the lead, the big cowboy-looking one far back, limping, and—where was the little red-haired man—there—off to the side—trying to cut his path—the man’s suit jacket flying open—Ernesto could see the man’s gold star on his belt—and the black holster—these were Marshals—he had seen the star before—the treeline was here, and suddenly he was onto soft dead grasses, and the trees were flying past him, and the river edge was yards away—feet away—he saw the broad river like a field of grain waving in a wind, or like a marble highway—and across the river there was a big temple-looking building—a hundred feet wide—with brown vines crawling up the pillars—the Falls was an abyss full of terrible thunder at his right shoulder—the crest of the river was as smooth as green glass—the rocks at the edges were slippery, and he saw white water foaming and curling around them—he heard men’s voices—“Freeze! Federal officers! Freeze!”—their bellowing voices whipped away on the cold wind and the rushing wind and the roaring wind—ten feet left, and the temple far across the water—the water so wide and the river rushing—if he could reach the temple—his dream! the one he’d had at Cheong Sammy’s, his temple dream—the temple was a lie—he heard the pounding of heavy feet at his back—heard the impact of the man’s boots—he could spin now and cut him down—the man was close—too close to stop—Ernesto looked back at the temple and set himself—like a bull in a corrida—he would turn now and gore this man—he set his right boot—began to turn—the hatchet coming up—he could feel the bite—knew where he would strike—to gut this man—out of the corner of his eye he saw a bright steel gun descending—he threw himself sideways—the bar caught his shoulder—pain—huge, shattering—his left arm limp—he went down on one knee—lifted his right hand—saw the black-haired man right there—arm raised—something shining—struck him hard on the side of his head—on his left ear—and he went down—went backward—the sky wheeled—on his back now—he turned—saw that distant stone temple, and the vines crawling up the pillars—and then a red wave washed it all away—his ears were filled with the buffeting roar of the water … he had a vision … he was floating … below him the cauldron was boiling and the water was all around him … white water foaming … and the roar … the sound of the wild lions roaring.
Luke stood over him, holding his right hand, the fingers buzzing with numbness, with pain. There was blood and black hair on the barrel of his Taurus. He watched as Grizzly and Walt cuffed the big man, as they wrapped him up in chains. His left hand was trembling a little, but his right was steady. He bent down and picked up the hatchet, raised it up, and turned it in the light of the pale winter sun. The blade edge shimmered. The bar was heavy and cold in his hand. Beside him the great river rolled and rushed, and the crest of the Falls shimmered with the same light that was in the blade. He lowered it and looked out across the water. There was a kind of power plant on the Canadian side, built in the manner of a huge Greek temple, with massive stone columns carrying a vaulted classical roof.
He wondered, for a time, what there had been in that vision of the temple across the water that had seemed to hold the Yellow Man.
For just long enough.
Well, he thought.
He would never know. But right now he felt at the perfect center of his world.
Yes, he said. Fine.
Bring on our next contestant.
Message Begins
United States Marshals Service
PERSONNEL DIVISION
DEPUTY MARSHAL AURORA POWYS / IN RE After consultation with Medical Services and counsellors Graumann and Warr, this office has completed the requested psychological and professional assessment of Deputy Powys, including full psychometrical analysis—MMP and DDSM / 94—and related tests. Results indicate that Deputy Powys has recovered fully and completely from the diagnosed PTSD and shows no current signs of this syndrome. Further, in view of the fact that the State of New Jersey has found insufficient causes to press charges of DUI against Deputy Powys—see reference attached—and that several individual members of the United States Marshals Service as well as a justice official have written lengthy letters of reference in support of her good character and professionalism, and that letters have been received from Lieutenant M Farrell of the New Jersey State Police and from senior officials of the Justice Department—see attached—this office is pleased to recommend that Deputy Powys be reinstated as Operational and that she be allowed to resume any and all duties that she may be assigned.
Concerning the issues raised by Deputy Powys herself, regarding possible irregularities and jurisdictional transgressions committed against her by members of other Justice branches—see attached report Deputy Marshal Zitto—Deputy Powys has, upon consultation with family members, decided that no further action is required, a decision which this office feels is a clear indication of her complete emotional recovery and her very healthy desire for closure in what has been a very trying period in her professional career.
Bart Fielding, D Psych
Office of Personnel
United States Marshals Service
Message Ends