The Impressionist Murders

Redhawk Simmons turned out the lights, then locked and bolted the storefront. It had been a long busy day and he thought he needed a drink. But he knew he couldn’t do that and get away with it. What he really needed was a day off, maybe a few days to do some fishing or hunting for that big buck he’d seen two days ago as he drove onto the reservation. He couldn’t believe he was starting to think and act like someone who wasn’t a miscreant or wanted by the law.  
He stepped out onto the redwood decking that ran between the store and the three-room house the Coushatta’s had built for him as a reward for his hard work. The night was warm and clear and the smell of honeysuckle and night blooming jasmine filled the night air with sweetness he had never known before. He looked at the stars through the canopy of tall pines and another smell tickled his senses. It was the searing of white bass and onions in a frying pan on his stove.
Simmons opened the cottage door and stepped inside just in time to see Renee Harjo walking away from the table she had just set. Having a woman in his life was another thing he was learning to accept, but it came a lot easier than all the other changes he was facing.
He met Renee in his second week on the reservation. She worked as a tribal social worker and lived on the reservation working with troubled teens and unwed mothers. They had little in common aside from the fact that they had lived most of their lives as loners, until now. Maybe it was her kindness or gentle spirit that he enjoyed. Whatever the virtue was, it affected him in a way he couldn’t explain and yet had no intention of changing.
“I’m running late, Redhawk,” she apologized. “Why don’t you wash for dinner and watch the news or something? Everything should be ready in fifteen minutes,” she yelled from the kitchen. 
“I could smell the fish cooking from the store. I hope it taste as good as it smells,” he said. He listened for her to say something but when she didn’t he headed for the restroom to wash for dinner.
When he walked back into the living room Renee had turned the television on and the ten o’clock news promo was on the screen. He sat on the couch as the anchorman begins to speak.
“This just in, Channel 2 News has just learned that the bodies of two men have been found just outside the stadium complex at Minute Maid Park. The men have yet to be identified but sources close to the crime-scene said the men are believed to be Arabs. Both men had their throats cut and sources believe this could be the work of the person or persons responsible for the deaths of at least three other men of Arabia decent over the last four months. We’ll keep you posted as this story develops and will attempt to have an interview at the scene before this broadcast ends.”

Simmons moved to the edge of the cushion, and with the remote control in his hand, punched the button that turned the set off. He swallowed hard running his hands through his hair. He held his hands in front of him watching them shake uncontrollably. He stood and walked to the front door, then back to the sofa, and after a second, back to the front door. He had never wanted to run from any place so badly in his life.

But that wasn’t the answer and he knew it. If the strange man brought the knife in tomorrow to be sharpened, he’d know for sure that he was the killer, because he had done it three times before. It didn’t make much sense to get paranoid before then, he told himself. Simmons closed his eyes and tried to think of other things, quiet things, and peaceful things. It was something he’d learned to do in prison when he was thrown in solitary confinement, otherwise known as the “hole”. He almost jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand latch on to his shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Redhawk,” she said softly. “Are you alright? Is something wrong?” She walked around to the front of the couch and kneeled in front of him. “I’ve never seen you act like this, Redhawk.”

“It’s nothing,” he waved a dismissive hand through the air. “I must have dozed off and was having a bad dream or something,” he lied unconvincingly.

“Well, come to dinner. I’ve been calling you for the past five minutes. You looked as if you were in a trance or something. You frightened me,” she said patting him on the shoulder.

“It was just a bad dream, that’s all,” he said. “Just a bad dream.”