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1976?”
    “Hank, you are fucking crazy,” Art says. “This is 1975, and—you and me—we are the FBI.”
    I laugh. But Art is not kidding. He’s telling the truth. Oh, my God! Those damn doctors changed my face and body and put me in a time machine. No, wait. I realize the bank guard did kill me when he shot me in the brain. And I did die, and now I’m living in Hell. I’ve been sent to Hell. And Hell is Red River, Idaho, in 1975.
    “Am I in Hell?” I ask.
    Art’s anger suddenly changes. There’s a little bit of water in his eyes. He looks all compassionate.
    “Kid,” he says, “I’m sorry, but I think your mind just snapped. But you got to hold it together—okay?—just for a little while. I’ll get you through this shit, and we’ll get you out of here as soon as we can, okay? We’ll get you a head doctor, okay?”
    “Okay,” I say. I wonder if maybe I did survive that bank guard’s bullet but it put me into some kind of coma. I hope this is just a coma nightmare.
    “Art,” I say, “I’m getting a little freaked out here.”
    My partner’s compassion runs away. His eyes get mean.
    “I love you, Hank,” he says. “I really do. You’re my best friend. You and me, man, together we’ve been partners for twelve years. I respect you for that, okay? I love you for it. But if you screw this up, I’m going to shoot you in the face.”
    I believe Art does love me. I am his best friend. And despite all that love and friendship, I am convinced that he will kill me if he has to.
    Art rolls down his window. Horse rolls down his window. He has a blue feather tied to his long black braid.
    “Hey, Art,” Horse says.
    “Hey,” Art says.
    “Hey, Hank,” Horse says.
    He knows me.
    The driver, Elk, who has a square face like he’s some kind of Indian Frankenstein, doesn’t say anything. He just tries to look tough, and he’s doing a pretty good job of it. I’m scared of him.
    And then I wonder why these two famous Indian guys are having a meeting with us, the white FBI. I thought they hated the FBI. I thought they were fighting against the FBI.
    And then I realize that Elk and Horse are double agents. They are traitors to IRON.
    This is major news. Back in the future, these guys are still heroes. Everybody still thinks they fought against the FBI. My heart is beating a punk rock song against my chest.
    “You ready to do this?” Elk asks Art.
    “Ready steady,” Art says.
    All four of us get out of the cars.
    Then Elk and Horse open their trunk and pull out another Indian guy: a young dude, maybe twenty. His hands are tied behind his back. His mouth is gagged. And his face is bloody and beaten. He’s terrified. And then I notice that all the fingers on his right hand are missing. Somebody cut them off.
    I think I’m going to die tonight. Again.
    “Is this him?” Art asks. “Does he know what we need to know?”
    “Yeah,” Elk says. “But he won’t tell us.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Junior.”
    “Looks like you tortured poor Junior,” Art says.
    “Yeah, but we heap primitive Injuns,” Elk says. “We don’t have fancy interrogation techniques like the F and B and I.”
    “I don’t know anything fancy,” Art says. “Take off his gag.”
    Elk pulls the gag out of Junior’s mouth. All of his teeth are smashed and broken. I almost vomit.
    “How’s he going to talk with a mouth like that?” Art asks.
    “Didn’t mean to punch him that hard,” Horse says.
    “You did that much damage with one punch?” Art asks.
    “Yeah,” Horse says. He’s proud. And I do vomit a little bit into my mouth and swallow it back down.
    “All right,” Art says. “Hold his arms.”
    Elk and Horse hold Junior’s arms. He doesn’t fight back.
    “All right, Junior,” Art says. “Are you going to tell me what I want to know?”
    Junior shakes his head.
    In my head, I scream, Tell them, Junior, tell them everything!
    I wish I knew what Art wanted to know. Maybe I could save Junior if I