Total Victim Theory

by Ian Ballard

  “The age of the victims?” Bloom asked.

  Porter’s face took on a haunted, almost fearful look. “Victim,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  “You’re referring to one event in particular?”

  “I'm done talking about this.”

  “Was this a crime that you participated in?”

  “I said I'm done talking about this.”

  A few moments passed in silence. Then Bloom reached out and stopped the recorder.

  55

  Colorado

  I just committed suicide for the third time in three nights.

  This being night three of Antony and Cleopatra. I being Cleopatra.

  I wonder if I will eventually develop an immunity to asp venom?

  I wear a blue Egyptian gown and sandals. A yellow bracelet with hieroglyphs.

  The performance just ended.

  I’m backstage. Hand-in-hand with the rest of the cast, waiting for the curtain to rise.

  Dark. Exhausted. Panting.

  My first lead since the Pajama Game in high school. A lead in a Shakespeare play. This was always my dream.

  Sometimes your dreams come true and you barely even notice. Things just fall in your lap and you don’t stop and say holy shit, this is really happening.

  Well, it's happening.

  It’s been such a crazy year.

  I have to admit that before I got the role, I was only lukewarm about the play. I liked it, but was never head over heels. Macbeth and Othello always had my heart.

  Now I am in love with Cleopatra.

  She’s part of me. Like a Siamese twin that shares my brain, and I think her thoughts and she thinks mine. And if a surgeon tried to cut us apart, both of us would die. I spend so much time with Cleopatra inside me, I've become so familiar with her poetry, that there are moments when she disappears completely, and it's just me thinking her thoughts. Or maybe it's me that disappears completely in her. But there is just one person, one Cleopatra, alone on stage.

  It’s nice to have places like that to escape to.

  And the reviews of my performances have been good. A few, even glowing. I worry that some of the praise is out of pity—a lot of people know what happened to me this year. But I think some of it may be genuine. I like to think that what happened deepened me the way a flood carves out a river bed, so that now I can lend that sorrow to the people I become onstage. I like to think the audience senses this.

  Finally, the curtain rises and we walk out. Deafening applause. Blinding lights. Six hundred smiling faces.

  We take a collective bow and the applause reaches a crescendo. The sound is so loud and uniform it has the monotony of silence.

  I look out at the crowd.

  My eye catches a smile, a pair of lips that remind me of his. About twenty rows back on the right side of the mezzanine. Just this tiny flash is enough to make my heart skip a beat.

  Someone in the front row calls to me and I turn. When I turn back, the face is gone. I scan the section. But nothing.

  And that’s all it takes. For my mind to be back in that place. Back in the thick of it.

  I picture him standing before me. When he brought the knife down on my finger.

  My body begins to shake.

  Of course that wasn’t him in the crowd. This happens two or three times a week. He’s always lurking just beneath the surface. Waiting for any excuse, any flimsy association, to make an appearance in my thoughts.

  He too is part of who I am, like Cleopatra. The seeds of that experience were scattered all through me. They grow like ivy on a tree, and he tangles and winds into everything that’s happened since. Fusing with everything that I become.

  Yet, I would have sworn that smile was his. Or his twin’s—

  Or his brother’s.

  Now, there's a thought with a bit more purchase. Luke’s safely under lock and key, so being afraid of him is irrational. We can't say the same for his brother, who's still on the loose. Bloom told me all about him—the whole twisted story. Of course, he said there was nothing to worry about. That he's never been anywhere near Colorado. As far as we know.

  Tad. The Monster of Juárez. He's still out there, free to stalk the open night.

  A chill runs down my spine.

  This isn’t the first time the notion’s crossed my mind—that Tad might “take an interest in me.” It’s not so far-fetched, really. I sent his brother to jail. That could be a motive, if he were really looking for one.

  We take a second bow and I again scan the crowd.

  I wonder if they have the same smile.

  *

  I’m still jumpy in the dressing room. No one notices though. I’m good at keeping things like that under wraps. I run a sponge over my face, taking off the pink makeup that brightens my pale skin. I change out of my costume and into a blouse and blue jeans.

  Already thinking about the walk to my car in the parking lot. Thinking about the vulnerability of those steps.

  Tad, if he were inclined to do so, could find me. Could be waiting in the parking lot, or anywhere. And there’s nothing I or anyone could do to stop him. My safety rests on the hope that I never cross his mind.

  Why is it always the spooky ones that get away? It's almost like they know they'll never catch him—at least that's the vibe I got when Bloom talked about him. Like it's just his nature to be at large—a bit of him sprinkled in every alleyway and beneath every parked car, and right over every shoulder. Like it was just his role to keep us scared shitless.

  The fear is just something I need to learn to live with.

  The cast is going to a bar on Pearl Street for a beer. I guess I should join them, but I’m not sure I’m up for the company.

  Leaving the dressing room, I run into Greg—he plays Octavius in the play. I ask him if he’ll walk me to my car. I don’t offer him an explanation but the look of sympathy in his eyes says that he understands.

  We walk out of Mackie Auditorium, down the main stairs and out into the parking lot. There are overhead lights. Enough that you can see the shapes of people, but not their faces. It’s been thirty minutes since the play got out, and the parking lot is mostly empty. Maybe fifteen cars are left.

  I feel stupid for asking Greg to do this. There’s obviously nothing dangerous here. Getting bent out of shape about a smile in a dark audience is delusional. That tiny glimpse gave rise to a whole rippling of unfounded fear. And now, instead of basking in my success, I’m worrying about someone stalking me.

  Greg and I don’t say much as we walk to my car. When we get there, I stand, facing him.

  “Thanks a lot,” I say.

  “It looks like the coast is clear,” he says.

  “I was being silly. Just a paranoid moment. But it's past.”

  “No, it's smart. No one would say it's silly after . . . what's happened.” He glances at my hand. At the prosthetic thumb and the scar where my index finger was reattached.

  I smile and fumble through my purse. Keys jingle.

  I take the key fob into my hand and push the button. But something's not right. It doesn’t make the sound it should.

  “So you're going to join us over at Catacombs?” Greg asks.

  I’m not sure I heard the shifting of the car lock. The way I should when it goes from the locked to the unlocked position. I must look worried because Greg asks me if anything's wrong.

  “No . . . nothing,” I say. “I just thought my car door was unlocked. It’s nothing.”

  Greg peers into the car window, presumably to check that no one is hiding within.

  Exhibit two of paranoia twisting things, turning a harmless detail into the plot of a horror movie. I say “twisting” but it's really “inventing.” How sure am I what sound that lock made? It’s somewhere in that gray zone between the two that you start officially losing your marbles.

  “I’m being an idiot, Greg,” I say and give a sigh. “Yeah, I’ll see you guys over there—Catacombs, sure.”

  “Okay, great,
” he says. “Winding down with a beer will take the edge off.”

  “For sure.”

  He reaches down and gives me a hug. I pat him on the back and he releases me, then turns and walks away.

  I start my car and sit there for a moment. I'm really not feeling up to the Catacombs. Way too frazzled and jittery. It would be too much effort to pretend I was having fun. I turn my lights on and drive toward the gate at the edge of the parking lot.

  Literally two seconds later, a car at the far side of the parking lot flips its lights on as well. I watch it in the rearview mirror. A maroon Audi with a black shape in the driver’s seat.

  I didn’t see anybody come out and get in their car. So that means someone was waiting. Sitting there.

  Shut up, Nicole. You have to stop yourself right when you feel this happening. You know when. Not every pair of headlights portends a mass murderer. Normal people sit in cars. I was just sitting in my car. Or the person could have walked up when I was talking to Greg.

  That’s how you talk yourself down—and keep a lid on the crazies.

  I drive up to the toll gate and stop. In my rearview mirror, I watch the car with the lights on. It doesn’t move. I scan my parking pass and the toll gate rises. I hit the gas and drive out, turning right onto Arapahoe. The car doesn’t follow me and vanishes from my sight as I round the corner.

  Going home is a good idea. My roommates will be there. My new ones that is—which makes me wonder how my old ones, Bryce and Ronette, are doing. It turned out Chris didn’t hurt them that night, after all. He just drugged them and tied them up, though at the time I was sure they were goners.

  Sometimes you convince yourself things are bleaker than they really are. That’s bad because it means you live in a world that’s worse than the real one. That’s what I’m doing now by telling myself I’m in danger—

  I’ll calm down once I’m inside behind a locked door. I'll drink a glass of wine and take a bubble bath.

  Campus is a circle and I take the longer counterclockwise route, rather than the quicker clockwise one. Just in case someone's following me.

  I pull up outside my apartment and flip my headlights off. Look around to make sure nothing seems out of the ordinary. A car a half-block away approaches from the other direction, parks a ways down and turns off its lights. My mind doesn't like the timing. But it came from the other direction, so I'll let it slide.

  Feeling less afraid now. Fear is such a discretionary emotion. You can invite it in or shut the door in its face, as you wish. You can make a monster out of the flimsiest shadow or you can ignore a real one that's breathing down your neck.

  I take a deep breath. Let fear out. Let serenity in. All there is around me is a calm, nurturing Boulder night.

  Ready now for the walk to my door. I can see the lights on. No more than fifteen or twenty seconds till I'm home safe. No problem. I take a final breath and step from my car's warm interior out into the chilly night air.

  I look around. Nothing's moving. I slam the door closed. It's loud. It breaks the silence.

  Somewhere far away, but not too far, I hear footsteps. But it’s a public street. That's normal too. People walk around, just like they sit in cars.

  Where is the moon when you need it? And where are the street lamps? I can feel the darkness on my heels. It seems like it could swallow me or spirit me off to the place vanished things go when they never come back.

  I hurry along the sidewalk up to the path leading to the front door. My footsteps click and echo. Makes me think of some cobblestone street in Victorian England—with Jack the Ripper stalking some hapless woman through the foggy, gas-lit night.

  Again I hear, or think I hear, a second set of footsteps, clicking away in the downtime between my own. Whosever they are, they're still far away. Don't even think about them, because in ten or fifteen seconds you'll be inside. I can already see myself breathing a sigh of relief on the other side of the door. Chiding myself for getting worked up about nothing.

  But at the same time I can see Tad materializing from the darkness. A flash and I'm gone, and in my place, an overturned purse on the welcome mat.

  Jesus, the air is full of footsteps now. Mine, another’s, and the echoes of both. They seem close now. Running. Or is that just my own?

  I look back over my shoulder. Nothing.

  Almost to the porch. Just a few feet away.

  Pull my keys out of my purse. Then bound up the three steps and aim the key at the keyhole.

  Shit. I cleanly miss the hole, and somehow in my panic, the keys fall from my hands. They plummet to the doormat with a jangle. Shimmers of silver in the yellow porch light.

  I stoop down to get them. I see the house key. I have it.

  Standing now.

  It makes it in the lock no problem now. One second and the handle will turn. I’ll be inside.

  But no.

  No such luck in this life.

  A gloved hand alights upon my lips. A real leather one. Not the fake kind made of fear.

  I smell the leather and something pungent that makes me think of hospitals.

  56

  El Paso

  It’s been two weeks since I was arrested and charged with the kidnapping and murder of my daughter. I've been placed in solitary confinement in the El Paso County Jail—considered a suicide risk based on the noose that was around my neck when I was taken into custody.

  The evidence against me is pretty hard to refute at this point. I told the detectives all about Silva and they were kind enough not to laugh in my face. All the forensic evidence points to me having murdered Danielle about two days before I crossed the border. There apparently never was a safe house or any officers to guard it. He never contacted a witness protection program, and he has no wife and no child. That was all just made up for my benefit.

  Indeed, the sole corroborating fact I can point to tying Silva to any of this is the registration of a 2008 Ford pickup in his name. The color was black, not red, and the police haven't been able to locate it—so nothing's come of it yet. However, I would bet my last dime this is the truck that's popped up time and again during the Ropes investigation. I'm sure Silva painted it red and fitted it with some comfy hidden compartments in the back—just like his old man's. It’s a curious question whether he chose that make for practical or for sentimental reasons?

  As for Silva himself, the man's conveniently disappeared—a fact which does little to incriminate him, since missing police personnel in Juárez is the rule rather than the exception. In the investigation into his disappearance, I am myself, ironically, considered a person of interest. My guess is that he's long gone. In a different place far, far away beginning his next villainous incarnation.

  From what little I can piece together, he'd probably been plotting all this for at least a year. He was drawn to the Juárez Police department long before I was on his radar. He chose the job because it let him relive his crimes by investigating them. And because he could lead the police on every wild goose chase he could devise, whenever they were getting close. Among the numerous red herrings he dangled before us in his suspect roster was one that wasn't. Silva was, of course, Adrian Caiman, as well as Tad Glattmann. The dates of Caiman's crimes, along with his brief period of imprisonment, fill in most of the missing years between the fire at Glattmann Ranch and the start of the Ropes killings.

  My hunch is that Silva first became aware of me when he saw my border crime seminar on video. His next step was to phone, on the pretext of signing up for the next course. During the conversation, he buddied up to me so deftly, I divulged a few key details about my memory loss and my missing past. That day, the outline of all that was to follow began taking shape in his vile and giddy brain.

  It started with that phone call eight months ago, and it ended with the destruction of all meaning in my life.

  When I think about what he did to her—to Danielle—I sometimes vomit.

  I want to convince myself that there's nothing I could ha
ve done. That he was some criminal mastermind whose schemes no one could have foreseen or foiled. But, of course, that’s bullshit. You have to be careful with bullshit now, because there’s so much incentive to lie to yourself. But I promised myself I wouldn't go down that road, because lying disrespects the dead. A better detective or a better man than me could have stopped him. Could have saved Danielle and all the future victims that are out there now, unwittingly awaiting that day when, for a few hours, the world will become a hell.

  But to tell the truth, those other deaths add little to the guilt I feel. The death of my daughter made a blown eardrum of my conscience.

  When nothing matters, the world suddenly abounds in irony. The prosecutor wants to seek the death penalty against me—for the premeditated murder of a child. Meanwhile, they take every precaution to keep me from killing myself, even as they threaten to do it for me.

  I have a half a mind to just confess to everything they allege. To sign their affidavits and be done with it. My negligence and selfishness and stupidity caused her death, almost to the point where you could call it murder.

  I tried for a while to build a life around despair and self-loathing. But even those modest pastimes wear thin over time, and I cannot claim the pale satisfaction of deserved suffering.

  The one thing I do possess is my memory. Pictures of my moments with Lisa and Danielle. Their faces, their hands, their voices. These are mine forever—all the enduring, exuberant detail of the times I spent with them.

  You might think there'd be some consolation there. You might think recalling those times might whisk me from this cell, this world, this fate, and let me repose a while in some sealed sanctuary, shielded from all the rest of this. However, that’s not at all how it is.

  The smell of decay wafts backwards into the clean air of the past. Ropes has contaminated everything. Made death spread to every part of my soul like a gangrene rot. He’s made a dump sight of my memories. Lisa's lips were rotten the first time we kissed. And Danielle was blind and blue and mutilated from the first moment I saw her.