Total Victim Theory

by Ian Ballard

  As Gary and Arturo neared the edge of the house, a light came on lighting up the area around the garage. Just then, Raul caught sight of something. A long, narrow object leaning against the side of the house. It seemed out of place in the otherwise orderly yard. Straining his eyes, Raul realized it was the ax from the barn—his father must have left it behind when he stole the truck. It was half-hidden behind a shrub, and neither man paid it any attention as they passed.

  Cholera—if he could just get his hands on that ax, the situation wouldn't be hopeless anymore.

  When they got to the porch, Gary prodded Arturo on the back making him go up the steps to the front door.

  Why was he taking him inside? Is that where Gary was going to commit whatever horrible deed he had planned?

  Arturo hesitated on the steps. He was frantically speaking to Gary, making pleading gestures. There was terror in his father's eyes. Gary gave him a little shove, and his father turned and docilely opened the door, still doing nothing to resist. The next moment they'd disappeared into the house.

  As soon as Raul saw the door swing shut, he knew that this was his chance. Who could say how long they'd be inside or even if he could make it to the house without being spotted—but it was now or never, and he sprung out and bolted for the ax.

  In a flash he was there. Doubled over, panting. Doing all he could to keep down the sound of his breathing. As far as he could tell, he hadn't been spotted. He picked up the ax and clutched it tightly by the handle with both hands, trying to get a feel for its weight, trying to decide if he'd be strong enough to swing it.

  He'd have to be.

  Ax in hand, he crept over to the corner of the house and peeked around. His heart felt like it was going to explode and his legs felt like jelly.

  What should he do? Just burst in the front door wildly swinging and take his chances? Or wait till they reemerged, so he could wield a more devastating blow from the side?

  Suddenly the front door was flung open, interrupting his thoughts. It slammed against the wooden railing on the porch with a bang. The next instant his father appeared and stumbled down the steps. Gary was right behind Arturo pushing him along.

  Adrenaline surged through Raul's body—it was now or never.

  But what happened next happened quicker than the blink of an eye. So quickly that it was over before it started. And entirely without warning, like a rattlesnake that strikes without rattling.

  Arturo cleared the steps and staggered out onto the gravel driveway. He turned halfway around and reached his hands out in front of him. It was like he was pinned to the spot. Frozen like a scarecrow. Raul could see half his father's face. His mouth a wide, silent “O.”

  Then Raul saw what his father was reaching for. A silver object that Gary gripped in his hand. A gun.

  Already pointed at his father.

  Then, in the yellow half-light, Raul saw a pink cloud flare out behind his father's head. Just for a split second, and then it was gone. As quick as a bubble pops.

  But there had been no gunshot. Just silence before and after and a sense of pressure in the air. Like a wave was pushing its way outward through the darkness.

  For a moment Arturo stood there. Though his head was hanging off to the side. His feet took a few careful, coordinated steps. Like someone practicing a dance. Then he dropped to the ground, landing in a pile at Gary's feet.

  Raul's hands tightened around the handle of the ax. There was no decision, no act of bravery in what happened next. It simply happened, as automatic and inevitable as breathing. He looked down and saw that his feet were moving. He'd jumped out from behind the corner of the house, and it was like he was flying.

  Already he was getting close.

  Gary, looking down at Arturo's body.

  Raul, not actually feeling the ground or the movement of his legs. Racing toward him, the ax drawn back.

  The sound reached Gary and he turned. Was turning. Eyes wide. Shuffling a half-step back. Still holding the gun at his side.

  But Raul saw that Gary would have no time to get off a shot. He and the blade were coming too fast.

  He looked into Gary's eyes and, even in the darkness, caught a final flash of blue.

  *

  Gary spun around, scrambling to raise his gun and point it at whoever was barreling toward him in the darkness. It was the dim blur of a boy. He had something in his hands. Something that gleamed and had a long wooden handle.

  The gun was raised and almost aimed. His finger on the trigger. Half a second, a tenth of a second from getting off a round.

  What the kid was holding—was swinging at him—was an ax.

  And just as Gary's mind formed the word, he felt a vast pressure colliding with his neck. But not a blow. Something sleeker. An edge, moving impossibly through him. Sailing through him, the way a fish moves through water. Through all the delicate and fragile structures in his throat. Skin, windpipe, esophagus, arteries. Somehow Gary was aware of every nuance of the trauma. And at the center of that sensation was the coolness of the metal.

  The boy no longer held the ax. The wooden handle hovered off to the side. Not hovered, but was held in place. Embedded deep within him.

  There was an awkward stillness. As if his body, out of some willful obstinacy, refused to bleed. But his stony, impregnable will, this one time, this one time in all his life, relented. And the blood came. All at once, and from every orifice, it gushed. He brought his hand to his throat and felt it. Felt it flow through his fingers spurting like a broken fire hydrant.

  Somehow he still held the gun. He'd managed to do at least that. But it fell limply to his side—his finger still on the trigger.

  He tried to raise his arm. To get off a final shot. But that proved an exertion beyond the scope of his present powers. An instant later he felt his lanky frame give way and crumple like a crushed soda can.

  It must have been that spic's son, thought Gary.

  Hadn't seen that one coming.

  Sprawled out on the ground now. Redness pooling around him. It was curious how it flowed out. Sort of high-pitched and distant. The way a burst pipe sounds from another room of a house.

  The insufferable brat was standing over him. Looking down.

  His spic face looked sad and terrified. Gary didn’t get it. Why wasn’t he smiling? You should relish this moment, kid, Gary wanted to say. This is revenge, one of the sweetest things in life.

  Sure, it would have felt great to dust him. Lay him out next to his old man. But it was too late for that. He'd have to entrust that task to his son’s capable hands. Staring up at the kid, there was consolation knowing he'd get his soon enough.

  Already things were growing dim—the whole circumference of the world, shrinking like a popped balloon. At the rate it was closing in, soon the world would be no bigger than a pinprick.

  This was death, and even death was overrated. No fireworks. No lighted tunnel. No highlight film flashing before your eyes. Just a darkening. A ring of nothingness getting cozy with his thoughts. It seemed like a joke. That this was all there was. He bade the blackness come. He taunted it, like some stray dog who'd followed him home. Because he wasn’t afraid of it, like all the rest.

  Coughing. The rusty taste of blood in his mouth.

  He’d heard so many last words, but he'd be afforded none of his own. All the better. He didn’t want to sum anything up. Or explain himself or try to justify how this all meant something. No, he didn’t want to pay a single syllable of respect to this shit show, to this grimy carousel that would now go careening on without him. He just wanted to jump off and be done with it, like a hobo hopping off a slow train.

  49

  El Paso

  A cab takes me across the border without incident, dropping me off at the La Quinta in El Paso. I check in and put my belongings in the room. There's about an hour of daylight left, time enough to at least scope out Glattmann Ranch before sunset. I track down the Malibu, which is in the back corner of the La Quinta parking lot
. The sun hangs low on the horizon as I leave the hotel and take the freeway east. Ramon's description was a bit vague, but I try to follow it as best I can hoping my own reemerging memory might lend a hand.

  There's not much traffic on the road at this hour and soon I'm approaching the outskirts of the city. I exit on to the farm-to-market road and keep heading east through a warehouse district. On both sides I'm hemmed in by tall chain-link fences. The only vehicles on the road are semis and the occasional pickup truck.

  Soon the warehouses subside, and cattle ranches take up the slack. It's rolling hills in all directions, covered with scrub brush and surrounded by barbed wire fences and dotted with brown-and-white cattle. The farther I go, the thicker the aroma of manure in the air. I scan the horizon, monitoring my mind for any blips of déjà vu to point me in the right direction, but nothing's familiar yet.

  Then, when I reach the summit of the current hill and my eye takes in the landscape beyond it, I'm greeted by the first prods and pokes of recognition. Yes, this is it. Traces of it linger, like a faded bruise you can just barely feel. The entrance to the ranch wasn't far from here.

  I drive past a line of windmills, giant blades revolving in an invisible breeze. Their stature so vast as to imbue them with an almost extraterrestrial feel. Next, I pass a withered-up PuttPutt golf course alongside an abandoned driving range. The trend of failed family fun venues continues with a dilapidated and disconsolate drive-in movie theater.

  There's a beeping going on inside me, like a metal detector closing in on buried coins. The ranch isn’t far off now. I can almost see it in my mind's eye. The entrance should be just up ahead.

  A bend in the road brings me to a rusty old sign that says “Wyatt’s Amusement Park.” Lightning bolt flashes of recognition. In just this spot, a sign once stood. It was white and metal and said “Glattmann Cattle Ranch.” There was a cut-out emblem of two brown cows in silhouette, facing each other.

  Offset from the road is a congregation of defunct rides. They're rusty and collapsed like the bones of dinosaurs. There’s a pirate ship ride, bumper cars, and chair swings that hang dejectedly like the branches of a weeping willow. The vibe is somewhere between junkyard and graveyard. This is where it was. All of this is sitting right on top of the old ranch property.

  I pull the Malibu up by the old sign and park.

  From the looks of it, Wyatt's has been closed down for years. All the colored bulbs on the rides are broken, signs faded, and plastic sun-warped. I bet a thousand high school kids have snuck into this place since it went belly-up to drink and fondle one another and pursue the latest teenage vices.

  My hands are clammy with nerves and with disappointment. I thought maybe I'd find here decaying versions of the barn and cabin that keep flickering in my mind.

  Surveying my surroundings, I’m struck by how desolate the area is. So much empty space and not another person in sight. The hill I just descended blocks out every sign of El Paso and the empty scene seems much farther from the city limits than it is.

  As I canvass the landscape, several spots provoke an itching in my brain. Old pictures sketch themselves right before my eyes. A few hundred yards up a road to the right, there was a big red-brick house. That's where the family lived. In front of the house, there was a shed and a red water pump, and behind it, a kennel crammed with barking dogs. I can see it all in the clearing mist of my mind's eye. Up ahead and over the first hill was a wooden cabin. It must be the one Ramon described. The one I keep picturing in flames. And then in the back left corner of the lot—that's where the red barn stood. My mind harbors ghastly associations with both those spots, as my trembling hands attest.

  There's a part of me that wants to turn tail and run. Hop in the Malibu and drive away and never look back. But another part of me, a more insistent part, wants to know all there is to know. So I screw my courage to the sticking place and cajole my reluctant feet to shuffle on.

  As I walk, the ground around me is littered with gravel and trash. There are plastic vodka bottles and green shards of broken glass. Red striped popcorn containers with smiling clowns, a grimy condom, popsicle sticks. Venturing deeper into the abandoned park, the swinging boat ride appears on my right. The “Sea Dragon” says a sign hanging overhead.

  Before long I'm standing in the spot where the main house once was. A wave of sorrow and a flurry of bloody pictures. A few unconsented-to teardrops form in my eyes. The lost parts of me are mourning this man I never knew. For this is the spot where Gary took my father's life. And this is the spot where I returned the favor.

  Every minute I'm seeing more, and yet still the faces do their best to withhold themselves from me. Faces my brain, with all its heart had sought to erase forever. But nothing is ever truly erased is it? Memory has a buoyancy and wants, always, in the marrow of its being, to resurface.

  Time passes without me knowing it. I'm thinking about my father. It's like I'm losing him at the moment we're becoming acquainted. When I look up again, the sun has gone from gold to orange and sits half-sunk on the horizon.

  I continue on past the Sea Dragon, heading deeper into the property. My path veers instinctively to where the bunkhouse was. Up ahead, a few hundred yards farther on, a tall, defunct Ferris wheel now stands, as if in eerie commemoration of the spot. A broader type of dread, beyond all the ranch's other offerings, clings to that locale, darkening the air like a swarm of distant insects. Ramon described what happened there, but I would have known without a word of hint. The sensations that seize me and creep across my skin tell the story in the supple language of terror and misgivings. I suppose this is the feeling of one's own death remembered. Because beneath that Ferris wheel was where Raul Moreno's short life ended.

  50

  El Paso, 1992

  Raul nudged Gary with his shoe, to assure himself he was really dead. The head tilted a bit to one side and the eyes rolled up in the sockets, blank and white as hard-boiled eggs. As he was dying, he'd drawn in his arms and legs and he seemed much smaller now. The way smushed spiders always did.

  His father's body lay just a few feet from the man who murdered him. Raul went over and kneeled down next to it. He kept his eyes on the ground, unable to look at what had been done to him. A shudder ran through him and he let anguish fill him up and overrun his eyes.

  But then he stopped himself.

  There would be a whole lifetime to mourn his death. But now he had to think of the other workers. They were still in danger—he recalled how earlier he'd seen Tad and Luke slink by heading toward the bunkhouse. They'd been lugging something. Canisters. He was afraid to think what it meant. And even more afraid to think that it might already be too late. He had to hurry and he had to go now.

  “I'm sorry, Papi,” he said. “I'm sorry I let you down.” He touched his father's hand. It was still warm. “Te amo,” he said, wiping away his tears and rising to his feet.

  Raul then returned to Gary's body and extracted the revolver from his grip. It lay in a pool of blood and he felt sticky wetness as he grasped the handle. The gun had a thin black cylinder attached to the barrel. A silencer, Raul realized, remembering that he hadn't heard a shot when his father was killed.

  He then grabbed the ax by the handle, pulled it out of Gary's throat, and balanced it on his shoulder like a lumberjack. Then with a final glance at his father’s body, he turned and headed toward the bunkhouse.

  *

  Raul walked along the fence line, rather than the dirt road, so that he could approach the cabin from behind—and, hopefully, without being observed.

  Soon, he reached the top of the hill overlooking the small dwelling. He hunkered down almost to his belly and peered over. Below and to the left he discerned the outline of the darkened cabin. All was still. The only sound was the chirping of nighttime insects in the distance. But then he detected movement. Just in front of the cabin. A figure. Sitting on the ring of stones that encircled the campfire—the same spot where he and his father had sat earlier that even
ing. It seemed several lifetimes had passed since then.

  Raul concluded from the shape’s slight stature, that this was Gary’s younger son, Luke. But what was he doing down there? The way he was sitting made Raul think he was keeping watch. But why? To make sure the others didn't get away? That was a good sign, he supposed. If Luke was watching them, it meant at least some of the men were okay. Or at least alive. And as long as some were alive, his help hadn't arrived too late.

  Watching the boy sit there, it crossed Raul's mind how tragic the situation was. That a kid younger than himself was being forced to participate in crimes most adults would shudder to think about. And as much as he hated Gary, the emotion didn't carry over to the sons. Whatever they might have done, there'd been no choice. What would Gary have done had they refused? Whatever was about to happen, Raul hoped it could happen without the two boys getting hurt. Enough people had been hurt for one night.

  But where was Luke's older brother—by far the more dangerous of the two? Raul scanned the area but saw no sign of him.

  Just then, a shadowy figure hidden before by the bunkhouse came into view. The lanky dimensions told that it was Tad. The figure approached Luke and leaned in close, as if whispering something. There was an object in the older boy's hand. Raul couldn't make it out, but the way Tad gripped and held it by his side suggested it was a gun.

  Raul felt his pulse race as he saw it. That was something he hadn't considered. The advantage he thought he had over them with Gary's gun was nonexistent. He imagined Tad shooting the others. If he threw open the door and started firing, they could all be dead within a few seconds.

  Who was Raul kidding? He didn't even know how to fire the damn thing. He certainly couldn't count on winning a gun fight with Tad. Instead, everything would depend on his silence. On whether he could sneak up on them, without so much as the snapping of a twig. And he wasn't going to let his fear get the better of him. He swore to himself that he wouldn't let anyone else down tonight. Drawing a deep breath, he raised himself up and began to creep step-by-step down the hill toward the rear of the cabin.