Total Victim Theory

by Ian Ballard

  He looks confused. “Aren't you Raul Moreno?”

  Again, the name reverberates through me, as if my brain were a tapped tuning fork. “How do you know me?” I ask.

  He stares at me. “But you must remember. How else would you have found your way to my door?”

  I'm mute for several moments, struggling for what to say. “There are things . . . pieces of my life . . . that were lost.”

  His head cocks to the side, as if he's trying to grasp the meaning of what I've said. Then he leans in very slowly toward me. He raises up his arm. He’s reaching out to touch me. Then I realize he's reaching for the scar. The one on the back of my head. He pulls my head down a bit and touches it.

  Now he smiles and the confusion from before goes away. “I was there the day that happened. . . .”

  I look into his eyes. “The day what happened?”

  “I guess it's no surprise you can't remember,” he says. “But no one's ever told you?”

  “No.”

  “We were all working on the ranch that summer. In El Paso.”

  As I listen to him, I say the name again to myself.

  Raul Moreno.

  A flurry of pictures. Hectic flashes of a former life. When I repeat the name a second time, the sound finds its way to something deep inside me and clamps on to it like a pair of powerful jaws. I know, right then, the name once belonged to me.

  “The day that it happened. . . .” Ramon continues. “You saved my life that day.”

  “Where? Where was the place that it happened?”

  “Glattmann Ranch,” he says.

  The words seem to hang in the air, like the smoke after a gunshot.

  “Glattmann Ranch,” I whisper. Not repeating, but remembering.

  42

  Colorado

  “Well, what do you guys think?” I ask.

  Ronette clears her throat. “When you're undercover, you generally want to do everything you'd normally do. So if participating in the block party is what you'd normally do—what people would expect you to do—then I'd recommend it.”

  Bryce smiles. “Ronette is all about unflinching realism.”

  “Details like this are important,” Ronette says. “You'd be surprised how even small changes in behavior can make people think something's fishy.”

  “And as soon as that happens,” Bryce says, “the cover's blown and all this hard work is for nothing.”

  “You really think not going to a party would be enough to blow our cover?” I ask, with a hint of irony.

  “It's possible,” Bryce says, “or they might just think we're nerds—which would be worse.”

  “We've discussed it,” Ronette explains. “Bryce and I are of the opinion that security concerns are minimal. The logistics of a party might sound daunting, but it's really very straight-forward. So, whatever you decide, we're going to keep you one hundred percent safe.”

  “The only point Ronette and I differ on is the odds of this guy showing up. We haven't heard from him in a month, which to me suggests you're off his radar. Besides that, there was a murder recently in Austin, Texas that might be linked to him. If so, he's long gone and unlikely to come back.”

  “And that's where we disagree,” says Ronette. “This guy typically waits about a month between killings, so the fact that we haven't heard from him might not mean much. He could still be in the area laying low. Even if he's not, there's no reason he couldn't hop on the next bus or plane back into town.”

  “All that's just FYI, Nicole,” Bryce says. “As far as your protection goes, we're going to behave as if he's right next door.”

  “So what do you think—yea or nay?” asks Ronette.

  “I trust you guys. That's not an issue.” I pause, thinking it over. “My social life has been pretty nonexistent since rehearsals started . . . so a party might be a nice distraction.”

  “So you're in?” asks Bryce.

  “I'm in. When is it, anyway?”

  “Friday, February 14th,” says Ronette. “In two weeks.”

  “Valentine's Day, huh?” I say. “Now I'm getting suspicious. Is this just a big set-up for you to ask me on a date, Bryce?” I grin at him.

  “Yeah. I'm kind of impressed with myself for thinking of it,” Bryce says.

  For the past week or so, we've been doing this mock flirting thing. I guess the joke is a natural consequence of the roles we're in, where anything social is off-limits. At first I was worried it would make Ronette uncomfortable, but she seems to enjoy playing along and poking fun at Bryce. Being together every moment for the last month has definitely led to some bonding. I used to think Bryce was such a D-bag, but now I can't imagine eating my corn flakes without him beside me at the breakfast table. Ronette, I liked from day one. She's a class act and she's a bit stricter, so she keeps Bryce in line.

  “It's a costume party, too,” Bryce adds.

  I push my glasses back on my nose. “What's the theme?”

  “Bad Romance,” he says.

  “What does that entail?” I ask.

  “You know—couples go as famous ill-fated pairs. Bonnie and Clyde, Sid and Nancy. That sort of thing,” Ronette explains.

  “Sounds fun,” I admit.

  “Decide what you want to be, and the FBI will spring for your costume.”

  “I guess I'll have to scrounge up a date as well,” I say.

  Ronette smiles. “The FBI might be able to help you with that too.”

  This is obviously Bryce's cue. Ronette and I look over at him expectantly.

  Bryce sighs and feigns sheepishness. “I know I'm probably not up to your standards, Nicole,” he says, “but in the interests of criminal justice. . . .”

  “Okay,” I say. “You can be my date. All I ask is that you wear a mask.”

  *

  Before I know it, two weeks have passed and it's the night of the party. At first I was a bit more nervous than I let on to Bryce and Ronette, but they ran through all the details and it seems like they've got the bases covered. I'm actually pretty excited about the whole deal. I'm going as Princess Leia with my date Chewbacca, a.k.a. Bryce. We think the bestiality angle fits well with the Bad Romance theme. Though I warn Bryce he better keep his paws off of me. As for Ronette, she'll be attending with one of the agents who does surveillance work in the van. They're going as Mickey and Mallory Knox, from Natural Born Killers—which my mom never let me see growing up.

  We're all decked out by 7:30 and Ronette's helping me put my hair up in giant buns, as the Leia look requires. Bryce's Wookie costume is awesome and he's been wearing it around the apartment for at least two hours, practicing Wookie noises. The final task is to make a liquor run, since each participating apartment is supposed to supply a drink for fifty people. Thus ludicrously arrayed, we pile in my Accord and head to Liquor Mart.

  “Are you guys actually going to drink?” I ask on the ride over.

  “More or less,” Ronette says.

  “More or less?” I ask.

  She grins. “We're going to be drinking Jungle Juice—”

  “Just the nonalcoholic version,” adds Bryce.

  “I found a recipe that's supposed to taste like it has liquor in it.”

  “How appropriate,” I say. “Undercover agents drinking undercover drinks.”

  “What about you?” Bryce asks. “Are you gonna pound a few?”

  “Can I?”

  “Of course you can,” Ronette says. “We're on the clock. You're not.”

  We buy the necessary ingredients and head back to the apartment. I go to my room and finish putting on my makeup—white mascara and a lot of black eyeliner—and I have to admit it looks pretty good. You can already hear the thump of bass from rooms around us and the jubilant chatter of voices outside and in the halls.

  Okay . . . just need my glasses and I'll be all set. This is exactly the kind of vulnerable social scenario where my eyewear’s protective powers most come in handy. But where did I put them? Did I ever mention that I'm not
the most organized person in the world?

  I look in the drawer underneath my makeup mirror—no dice. Then I check my purse—also no—then my desk, but still no sign of them.

  Shoot—I must have left them in my car.

  Don't particularly feel like running all the way out to the parking lot to get them . . . which brings up an interesting point—I've never needed the glasses onstage. The anxiety goes away when I'm acting. Maybe a costume works the same way. Plus, Leia will be more authentic without them. Thus, life presents another opportunity to expand my comfort zone.

  As I’m fretting in front of the mirror, Bryce appears in the doorway and makes a Wookie call. “Are you ready?” he asks. “I think people are starting to serve.”

  “Yep,” I say. “Let's do it.”

  *

  So here's how the party works. Everything is organized by floor, with each floor serving drinks to the other two floors according to some sort of schedule. Floor Number One serves first, commencing with a whistle blow. Mobs of people run around quaffing whatever’s offered in participating apartment doorways—trying to get as smashed as possible before a second whistle blow signals everyone to stop and move on to Floor Number Two.

  There's probably ten or twelve drinks on each floor. So, by drinking every drink on every floor, you could be fairly assured of having your night end in the hospital getting your stomach pumped, if that’s your goal.

  It's presently 10:40 and the mob just overtook the second floor—which has the distinction of being my level of residence. Me, Bryce, Ronette, and Bruce—Ronette's taciturn and Nordic-looking date—are all crowded in the doorway of our apartment, dutifully dispensing Jungle Juice from a green trash can.

  The Jungle Juice is basically just a giant vat of Kool-Aid. But Ronette has dressed it up a bit, adding dry ice and some sour liqueur, and calling it “Love Potion.” With all the bubbling and fizzing, no one seems to suspect the drink's shameful nonalcoholic character, a secret I'm sworn to protect. Nor—based on the slurring and stumbling—has anyone been swindled of the perilous blood alcohol levels that are the birthright of every college student on Saturday nights. The three agents make a joke of chugging exorbitant quantities of the harmless beverage to hoots of approval from the mob. Already feeling a bit inebriated myself from my four drinks on Floor One, I too, switch over to Love Potion.

  At any given moment, a crowd of ten or fifteen partygoers loiters in the doorway, their voices producing a wall of garbled and exuberant hubbub. My focus pinballs over the colorful throng, sometimes grasping whole costumes—Edward and Bella from Twilight, Ike and Tina Turner. Other times, catching just snatches—a blue spandex thigh, a cape, a leather glove with razor blades.

  “Dang, girl, you're getting down with Chewbacca?” someone asks, as I ladle out a drink.

  “Don't knock it till you've tried it,” I say, stroking Bryce on the back of his furry neck.

  “Love Potion?” a guy says. “Is there, like, Viagra in this stuff?”

  “Why? Do you need it?” his date inquires.

  In the hall, a crash. Someone on a unicycle has just fallen over. Why he's on a unicycle I have no idea. A girl runs by with her hand gripping her mouth, either seconds from, or in the process of, puking all over herself. Clearly the festivities are in full swing.

  I smile as I look around me. It's both ridiculous and kind of epic at the same time—especially with the agents here.

  I lean over and whisper to Ronette, “So, you still think this was a good idea?”

  She smiles. “I'm starting to have second thoughts.”

  “And there's still an entire floor left to go,” I say.

  “And don't forget the dance afterward in the rec room,” she adds.

  Suddenly, Bryce's arm is tapping me on the shoulder. “Hey, look who's here.”

  “What?” I say, turning.

  I recoil a half-step, taking in the imposing figure before me.

  Whoever it is—presumably some Star Wars geek—is decked out in Darth Vader garb, head to toe. And it looks like he's stepped straight off a movie set. It puts my and Chewie’s costumes to shame.

  Someone hums the Vader theme as a black-gloved hand proffers a cup with the UT Longhorn emblem on it. Bryce fills him up while emitting a bereaved Wookie coo.

  “Chewie says we're not joining the Dark Side,” I warn.

  The masked figure stares at me for a moment, then leans in close. “In due time, Princess. In due time.” The costume even has a mechanical filter that deepens the voice into a James-Earl-Jones-esque pitch. With those ominous words hanging over our heads, Darth turns and departs.

  “Darth, Chewie, and Leia—that would be a pretty wicked three-way,” says a man dressed like Michael Jackson.

  *

  By the time the mayhem wraps up on the third floor, the party has taken on the appearance of a zombie apocalypse. The throng stumbles through the littered hallway and down the stairs, gradually reconvening in our community center. There the basketball half-court has been transformed into a makeshift ballroom with lots of streamers and pink décor. On the back wall there's a giant heart with cracks through it, above which are the words Bad Romance. A giant disco ball hangs from the ceiling, hurling kaleidoscopic light on the glimmering partygoers.

  There must be at least two hundred people here.

  The perimeter of the room is lined with plastic chairs and I've taken a seat between Bryce and Ronette in the back corner.

  “I'm not feeling super-great,” Bryce says. He's removed his Chewbacca mask, which sits beside him like the aftermath of a light saber decapitation.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “My head.”

  “What did you drink?” asks Ronette.

  “Just the Jungle Juice,” he says. “And half of a drink on the third floor—not enough that I should be feeling anything.”

  “Now that you mention it,” says Ronette. “My stomach feels funny, and I haven’t had a sip of real booze.”

  “What was that liqueur you put in the Love Potion? Maybe it wasn't intended to be consumed in such mass quantities.”

  “The bitters?” Ronette says. “It's possible, I guess.”

  “Or maybe somebody spiked your punch,” I jokingly suggest.

  Bryce winces. “I guess that would be our karma for serving everyone nonalcoholic Kool-Aid.”

  Ronette gets to her feet, rubbing a hand over her abdomen. “Nicole, if you'll excuse me. I need a drink of water.”

  She walks off toward the drinking fountain.

  “I hope you two are okay,” I say to Bryce, whose only response is a sickly stare.

  The dance floor is crowded with people brandishing beer bottles and leftover cocktails in plastic cups. The DJ is playing songs randomly from all musical eras. A-ha and Vanilla Ice and MGMT in no particular order. There's even a sprinkling of slow dances. It reminds me of a less-wholesome version of the prom scene in Napoleon Dynamite.

  Bryce is leaning back in his chair with his head on his shoulder, as if he could fall asleep at any moment. I tap him on the shoulder. “Hey, are you still with us?”

  “In body,” he says. “In spirit, I'm fading fast."

  “If you need some water—” I start to say, but a voice interrupts me.

  “Do you care to dance, Princess?” asks a preternaturally deep voice in front of me.

  I look up to find Darth Vader leering down at me. You can hear his breath coming in and out of his respirator thing. I'm sure it's designed to be scary, but it sounds like he has asthma to me. Now where did he come from all of a sudden? Didn't see him out there before.

  “What?” I say—not quite hearing him over the sound of the music.

  “Did you . . . maybe want to dance?” he repeats. The slight hesitation sounds comical in the baritone pitch. I picture some gawky, zit-faced kid underneath the costume. Who else would wear something like that? There's some Dead Milkmen song playing that seems kind of good, and I'm tempted to accept. I don't think I've
set foot on a dance floor since . . . in a long time anyway.

  I glance at Bryce, curious if he's going to encourage or discourage my dancing with the Dark Overlord, but he's staring up at the costume with a half-transfixed, half-comatose gaze.

  “I'm sorry,” I tell Vader, after a second's hesitation. “I can't right now. My friends aren't feeling well. I should probably look after them.” I look over just in time to see Ronette disappear into the women's restroom.

  “Are you sure? I mean, you're Leia, I'm Vader. It was kind of meant to be.”

  “If it was meant to be, you'd be Han Solo.”

  An awkward silence.

  “But if I were Han Solo, it wouldn't be a Bad Romance,” he says. “It would just be the regular kind.”

  The comment strikes me as nerdily endearing and I laugh. But I think it comes off like I'm mocking him, which I didn't want to do.

  “Maybe some other time, then,” he says and starts to turn away.

  “No, wait, Vader.” I give a sigh, suddenly feeling sorry for him. I mean, the guy apparently came by himself and probably spent his life savings on that suit. “Sure, why not? One dance would be great.”

  I tell Bryce I'll be right back, and he nods and Vader leads me out onto the dance floor.

  “Isn't it hot and sweaty wearing that suit?” I ask, looking up at him.

  He laughs. “Yeah, a little. I think I'd choose a different costume if I had it to do over again.”

  I glance over and see Ronette stumbling back to her seat. She looks around worriedly for me and I give her a little wave.

  “So, do you live in the complex?” I ask.

  “No, I—” Vader begins.

  “Oh my gosh . . . my friends are so drunk.”

  Ronette is now prodding Bryce—who's slumped forward in his chair—as she apparently tries to wake him up. I should really be videotaping this.

  “It happens,” Vader consoles.

  “It's weird because they didn't drink much. . . .”

  “Maybe somebody slipped something in their drinks.”