Total Victim Theory

by Ian Ballard

  *

  The three or four minutes it took Raul to reach the back of the bunkhouse felt like an eternity. He was convinced the soft crunch of every footfall might give him away and bring a sudden and tragic end to the whole business. But his approach must have been just stealthy enough to go unnoticed, and soon he stood pressed to the shelter's back wall.

  Struggling to catch his breath, he became aware of an odor in the air around him. Fumes so strong they made his eyes water.

  Gasoline.

  The smell came from all around. Thick and dizzying. Raul glanced down and in the moonlight made out an oily residue where gas had been splashed on the sides of the dwelling.

  Is that why they were keeping watch? Were they going to burn the bunkhouse down with the workers still inside?

  Panicked feelings renewed themselves. A new set of pictures in his head. People, his friends, burning to death. Just stay calm, he kept telling himself, as he silently slunk along the right side. A dozen soundless steps, and he was at the cabin's front corner. Just twenty or thirty feet from Luke and Tad.

  Poking his head around the corner, Raul was barely able to stifle a gasp. Standing barely five or six feet from him was Tad—fortunately, facing the opposite direction. Luke still sat on the ring of stones, head resting on a folded arm as if drifting off to sleep. Had the younger boy been more attentive, he might have spotted Raul standing there. But his half-closed eyes took no note of him. Tad was within striking distance. A blow to the back of the head with the blunt end of the ax would put him out of commission without killing him. After that, Raul could make quick work of the smaller and apparently unarmed Luke. Raul gently set Gary’s gun on the ground so he could grip the ax with both hands. He held it out in front of him, blunt end down, preparing to pounce.

  Suddenly Luke, tipped off by something—a rustle of clothing, or the gleam of the ax—began to to shriek, “Tad, behind you!” as he thrust a finger in Raul’s direction.

  Needing no better cue, Raul sprang at Tad, ax raised.

  Before Tad had time to turn, the heavy butt of the ax landed hard on the roof of his skull. There was a sound somewhere between a crunch and a thwack, and Tad dropped to the ground, as suddenly as a marionette with its strings cut. He landed face down, one arm outstretched above his head, with the gun resting on the ground beside him.

  Luke was screaming hysterically. Meanwhile, Raul leaned over and dealt Tad a second blow to the head with the butt of the ax. Then a third, to ensure he'd do no further harm to the others. He then bent down and picked up the gun, slipping it beneath his belt for safekeeping.

  The commotion had awakened the workers. There was a murmur of alarmed voices. Someone rattled at the door, trying to get out. Glancing over, Raul saw that a padlock had been placed on the latch of the cabin door, locking the eight workers inside. Luke was frozen in place, as if unsure whether to flee or try to help his brother. Raul, not knowing what trouble the younger boy might cause if left alone, decided not to risk it. Sprinting over, he soon overtook Luke and meted out an incisive, if somewhat softer, blow than those Tad received. Standing over the boy, Raul felt a twinge of remorse and decided against a second swing. He then doubled back and was relieved to see Tad still lying unconscious on the ground. The light in the bunkhouse was on and several of the workers' faces were crammed into the two slender windows. They'd smelled the gas and were at a near-panic now, demanding to be let out.

  Raul implored the others to stay calm—telling they’d be freed as soon as he could figure out a way to remove the lock. When they demanded to know what was going on, he told them something very bad had happened on the ranch that night, but that the danger had passed. They peppered him with questions, and the more he told them, the more incensed they became. Someone was ramming himself against the inside of the door—though it was made of sturdy metal and barely seemed to budge. Someone else busted out the window on the left side and a hardbound Bible tumbled to the ground. The windows, however, were far too narrow for anyone to pass through.

  Raul drew near the door and inspected the padlock used to imprison them. It was very thick and required a combination rather than a key to open. Since the only two people who'd be likely to know the combo were out cold, the best options were to either bust the lock or break down the door. Raising the ax, he took a swing at the lock. Though the blade fell right on target, the lock remained intact. He tried several more times, without success. The door mount was also made of solid metal and seemed similarly unmoved by his efforts. After a dozen swings, Raul stood winded, considering what else to try.

  The voices of the workers had changed. Suddenly, all he heard was a frantic, incomprehensible jumble. Then he caught a few snatches. They were warnings. “Cuidate!," “Mire, mire!” “Detras de ti!”

  Before he could heed the cries, he heard something else. Close by and barely audible amid the din of voices, it was the sound of a match being struck. Being dragged across the phosphorescent strip. Once, twice, and then the third time, he heard it ignite. Turning, he saw that Tad had gotten to his feet. He wasn't far away and was holding the lit match in his hand. The light framed his face and illuminated a sinister grin.

  “No!” Raul shouted, moving toward him. But it was happening too fast.The match was already somersaulting through the air. He saw it hit the ground less than a foot from the cabin. The next instant the night exploded into a wall of orange light, and pressure, and sound.

  *

  Raul came to. Lying on his back.

  Raising his head, he saw the bunkhouse engulfed in flames. It was as if an orange flower had closed up around it. Above, a billowing cloud was blotting out the stars. The air was filled with popping and crackling, and heat wafted off the blazing structure like a hot wind. The blast had thrown him back about twenty feet. A searing pain sang out from several spots on his body—from his neck and ear and hands. A crowd of agonized faces crammed into the windows of the bunkhouse. Flames lapped up around them. The sound of the inferno all but drowned out their screams.

  He scrambled to his feet so he could help them.

  But where was Tad?

  Raul looked around but didn't see him. Then, when he turned back toward the main house, he saw the older boy’s willowy silhouette in the moonlight. He was fleeing. Already far away. Halfway back to the main house.

  But now the workers in the bunkhouse were the main concern. They were dying and Raul had to get them out. Had to somehow bust the lock.

  Then he remembered the .38 he'd taken from Tad and tucked into his pants. Maybe he could use it to blast the lock off. But where had the gun gone?

  He looked frantically about him—and, thankfully, there it was. On the ground just a few feet away. He picked it up and rushed over to the burning structure—getting as close as the wall of wafting heat would permit. The metal in the doorway glowed a molten red. He yelled to the workers to stay away from the door and he fired three shots at the lock.The first two bullets missed the mark, but the third struck dead on. The next instant the lock was gone, shattered into pieces. Instantly the door was thrown open and four workers rushed out. Their hair and clothes on fire, they threw themselves on the ground, shrieking and rolling around.

  Next, two more stumbled forth, likewise, collapsing to the ground. That was six so far. There should be eight all together. Raul stepped closer and peered through the open doorway. On the floor, beneath the dense cloud of smoke, he discerned the outlines of two bodies. Whether they were dead or just alive and unconscious, he couldn’t tell.

  Raul pulled his shirt up over his face to provide at least some minimal defense against the flames and streaked through the open doorway. The heat of the air was unbelievable. And the flames instantly singed his hair and scorched his skin each time they touched his body.

  He just pretended it wasn't real. That this was someone else's body going through this. That was the only way he could make himself go on. He grabbed hold of the closer of the two and, tugging with all his might, managed to
drag the man across the threshold. He pulled so hard he thought the man’s arm might be yanked from the socket. But he kept going until they were a safe distance away. Then he rolled the man on the ground and put out his smoldering clothes with handfuls of dirt.

  But then, seeing the man's face, he cringed in horror. His mouth and nose and every inch of flesh was burned to a charcoal black. The eyes were liquified into a yellow gook and the mouth gaped in an expression of perpetual agony.There was no doubt that the man was dead. Panting, Raul sprang to his feet. There was still one more person inside. The second man may have been dead too, but he couldn’t know for sure until he'd gotten him out. So once more, Raul rushed through the flaming doorway.

  The last worker was farther back, face down on the floor. The flames were concentrated near the walls and roof, somewhat away from where he lay. So maybe this one had a chance. Raul did his best to stay low and not inhale the smoke as he moved toward him. The next moment he was there. Reaching out and touching him on the back. He felt the man move. Alive.

  Loud pops and whooshes from above. Raul grabbed hold and began dragging the man out. Soon they were nearing the doorway. The man was conscious now and had drawn himself up into a crawling position. The man's face was badly burned, but Raul recognized him. It was Ramon. A friend of his father's. Raul yanked violently at his clothes, trying to drag him over the threshold. “Just a few more feet,” he yelled to the man.

  A loud boom came from overhead. Like a part of the roof had given way. A dim awareness of something falling. And then a crunch that echoed through his skull. He collapsed forward alongside the other man. They lay stretched out in the open doorway.

  Raul felt the flames burning him. But he was losing consciousness. He couldn’t summon the strength to make his body budge. What a shame, he thought.

  He’d come so close. He’d come so close.

  51

  El Paso

  The sun is setting. Slanting shadows inch outward with predatory slowness. Like a panther creeping up on its bright prey. The dimmer the landscape grows, the more the past blazes within me—till memories of what was here before are as vivid as the toppled objects that surround me.

  The decrepit Ferris wheel looms above me. The whole structure slouches slightly forward, covering the ground with a dark and intricate ellipse. The metalwork is rusty and several of the massive spokes that hold up the outer edge have collapsed. Twenty carriages dangle at varying heights, while two have fallen and lie smashed on the ground, shattered into pieces like a downed alien spacecraft.

  This is right where it happened.

  I can see the wooden cabin wreathed in fire. Above it, a black, tumor-like cloud fattened and grew tentacles. In the broken windows, melting faces. Mouths frozen in wide, contorted “O”s. I can almost hear the screams, the crackling wood.

  My body reacts as if I were really witnessing these things. Nauseous and terrified—I've never had a panic attack, but this can't be too far removed from that experience.

  I take a few deep breaths. Trying to calm myself down. Hoping these images will go away if I give them a moment.

  Something catches my eye.

  A metallic glint flashes in the final rays of sunset. Something lying on the ground, not more than fifteen feet away. Next to the railing where people once stood in line for the Ferris wheel. Right about where—if these newly restored memories can be relied on—the door to the bunkhouse was.

  I walk over to it. Halfway there, I realize it's a shovel. One with a silver head and a long wooden body. It looks new, except there's some dirt on the tip. It's a few feet over from the railing and parallel to it. But precisely parallel, like it's been positioned in just that way and not casually left behind. It's clearly out of place amid the trash and debris all around me.

  I feel a shiver run up my spine.

  So much for the notion that I lost him back in Midland. He’s obviously still a step ahead of me. How that’s possible, I don’t know. Is he just all-fucking-knowing or is there a transistor planted in my head?

  I look around me.

  He must be watching me right now.

  The final rays of daylight are being extinguished on the orange horizon. Greedy shadows are gobbling up every last trace of light.

  I reach into my shoulder holster and take out my gun.

  Of course he's watching me.

  Then again, didn't I half-expect this? Didn't I feel it in my bones that he or someone or something had been leading by a leash all along?

  I guess it's a credit to his schemes that they begin to feel a lot like fate. Is that just the angle he's going for? You convince yourself he's always gonna stay a step ahead until you just stop trying. Or until you lose it and start firing your gun into a crowd of people, convinced he’s somewhere among them.

  I scan the darkened grounds around me. Each toppled ride reduced to its silhouette. There must be a thousand crannies and metal underbellies where a pair of eyes could squirrel itself away.

  If he's here, there's nothing much I can do about it. That's a consolation. And Ropes, to my knowledge, has never used a gun. He likes death to be up close and personal. So, I doubt I need to worry about him taking a shot at me. How’s that for staying positive?

  Movement. A rustling.

  I point my gun at it.

  A cheeseburger wrapper scuttles by in the breeze.

  Stay calm. Won't help a damn thing if you flip out.

  Just now, I notice some markings on the ground. Just a few feet to the right of the shovel.

  I take out my flashlight and shine it at the area.

  The markings are actually a rectangle—maybe four feet long and two feet wide—of discolored dirt. Dirt that's darker than the dirt around it. As if the soil had been shifted or moved from somewhere else. Or like a hole that had just been filled in.

  My first thought is that it looks like a little grave.

  A sick feeling solidifies within me as I study the markings.

  Has he led me here to show me another body?

  It's too small to be a grave. At least the grave of an intact person. And besides, who's left to kill who'd deserve so much pomp and circumstance?

  But then the thought crosses my mind—could something have happened to Ramon? But no. The logistics wouldn't make sense. Maybe it's technically possible, but the timing would have to be perfect to pull it off. It's only been a few hours since I left Ramon's house.

  But I guess there's only one way to find out for sure.

  I tuck my gun into my belt and set the flashlight on the ground so it illuminates the patch of earth. Then I take the shovel in my hands and start digging.

  The dry dirt is loosely packed. I work steadily. The hole begins to grow. As afraid as I am to know what he's left, a burning curiosity spurs me on. Being that we’re at Glattmann Ranch, what’s happening has a note of ominous finality. There must be some last piece of the puzzle buried here, some ultimate link to tie it all together, past and present. I pick up the pace till I'm feverishly slinging dirt to either side and gasping for breath.

  Before I know it, the hole's already a foot deep, a mound of discarded earth rising unevenly around the edges.

  Then two feet deep.

  My shirt drenched with sweat, I keep shoveling faster and faster. Accelerating.

  Two-and-a-half feet deep.

  The bottom is out of reach now from ground level and I have to step down into the hole to keep making progress.

  A truck passes by on the road. Nice to hear some sound other than my own breathing.

  The muscles in my hands and wrists are starting to cramp. I wipe the sweat off my brow and roll up my shirt sleeves.

  Then I continue.

  A half-foot farther down, the tip of the shovel meets something that isn’t dirt. Something soft that yields when I prod it.

  I adjust the flashlight so it's directed at the spot.

  The edge of something black, maybe it’s plastic, peeks above the level of the dirt.


  I cautiously remove a few shallow shovelfuls, uncovering more of the buried object.

  Lowering myself to my knees, I brush the rest of the dirt away with my hands.

  Something plastic. A plastic bag. I recall with considerable trepidation that Ropes’ prior MO was to bury a victim’s belongings in a plastic bag, alongside the body.

  I dust away the dirt until I can pull the bag out of the hole.

  I'm holding it now. Out in front of me. Looks like a run-of-the-mill garbage bag. The top is fastened shut with a twist tie. But I guess the issue is what's inside. Whatever it is is pretty light. Not more than a few pounds. And that's a relief. We've ruled out both a body and a head.

  I set the bag on the ground and holding the pin light in one hand, unfasten the twist tie with the other. I hold the bag open and shine the light inside. The beam hits a swath of something white. Cloth perhaps. At first blush, nothing sharp, or severed or dangerous that I can discern.

  I hold it open as best I can and shine the light inside.

  A swatch of something yellow and something blue. Is it cloth? Can't quite make it out.

  I set the bag down and put on a pair of latex gloves and pick it up again. Then I stick my hand cautiously inside, and my fingers curl around something smooth and thin.

  I pull it out and shine the light on it.

  What I'm holding is a segment of yellow rope. About ten feet long, tied into a large noose-like knot at one end.

  It's not tough to recognize. This is Cattleman rope tied into the three-point lasso. Ropes’ trademark, present at every one of his crime scenes, including the Neruda Dune.

  Not sure why it's here though or what it adds at this stage. I already knew it was Ropes who was behind this.

  I peer out into the darkness. Wishing his eyes would glow in the dark and rat him out.

  I set the rope down at the edge of the hole and pick the bag up. Whatever's left inside—the blue thing I glimpsed before—weighs next to nothing.