Total Victim Theory (16 page)

Putting her full weight into it, she pried the shovel up. A sizeable chunk of earth came with it. She cast the dirt aside and thrust the shovel in again. Again, she pried it back with all the strength she could muster. The wooden handle bent under the force, but this time the ground did not give. She pushed even harder, leveraging the weight of her body.

A sharp crack rang out and the shovel snapped. A splintery maw opened up midway down the broken shaft.

“Fuck,” she muttered.

Her hands were shaking. Partly from fear, mostly from rage. A
growing, blinding rage at what she knew had been done to Roscoe and at what must have been done all around her. She knew she was close to crossing a line. The line where she was no longer in control.

She headed back to the shed for a second shovel, leaving the broken one standing at a slant. Stepping inside, she cringed. She was imagining all the vile acts the room had witnessed. It was almost like she could feel the suffering trapped around her, as if shrieks could be absorbed into the walls, the way blood could soak into the ground.

She felt sick. Nauseous. She just wanted to erase this place. Erase it from the face of the fucking earth. She lunged at one of the small metal shovels and took it in her hands. Then she swung it at the structure’s aluminum walls. Trying to level it. Blows landed on the window, the desk, and on two plastic tool boxes sitting on a shelf.

The swings landed wildly, hitting the ceiling on the upswing and the floor on the follow-through. She smashed a cardboard box, and two pairs of dusty cowboy boots tumbled out, along with a piece of pink satiny cloth—what might have been a shredded shirt or nightgown.

Next, she hit the aquarium, crushing its glass sides. Water flowed out on the floor and the three small alligators wiggled desperately about, trying to escape through the resulting holes. She swung the shovel at one of the fleeing reptiles, hitting it on the back. The creature squirmed violently from side to side, pink entrails spilling from its burst midsection.

The rampage continued. She took aim at the two tarantulas. They were in a glass vase on top of a shelf, curled in smug hairy balls. The vase shattered, and the spiders frantically eloped in a barrage of legs and glass and crawled across the adjacent walls, casting diabolical shadows across the dim interior.

Rose cringed, then stomped her foot against the wall with savage gusto, annihilating the closer of the two fugitives and leaving a pulpy eight-pointed figure on the wall. She then turned and overtook its spindly fellow, who'd almost descended to the floor. She aimed the tread of her shoe and felt the smoosh. She liked how that felt.

But then, to her surprise, as the spider’s crushed body dropped
the last six inches from wall to floor, dozens—no hundreds—of tiny black spiders appeared in its wake, each scrambling about. They diffused outward in a disgusting arachnid wave. Rose gasped. The dead spider must have been a recent mother, toting a hoard of babies on her underside.

Rose lowered the shovel and leaned on it, watching the spiders and listening to the sound of her labored breaths.

The interior of the shed suddenly grew a shade darker. As if someone were blocking the light from the open doorway. She felt a palpable eeriness invade the air, a diabolical energy that wafted over her like a bad smell. She knew its source without having to look. You felt it anytime you were in
his
presence.

It was a feeling Rose had known too well and twelve years too long.

19

Austin

Courtney’s looking up at me from the empty bathtub with wide attentive eyes. They really are quite striking. As green as a pair of lime Life Savers. And they couldn’t be more attentive. Like I’m the only person in the world.

The eyes study me. They make tiny, staccato movements. Focusing on different points on my face. Collecting the slivers into a picture of me.

I wish I could see myself the way she sees me. That bleak, primal face, hovering in her mind. Like the God of some rubbly, wound-down universe.

Her lips are motionless beneath the tape. She’s stopped trying to chew through it or scream. A few minutes ago, she banged her head on the faucet. Six or seven smeared and cherry-red drops stain the bottom of the tub. There must be a wet, blackberry scab forming somewhere beneath her hair.

I draw my rolly chair over a bit. Closer to the tub. The wheels squeak. I lean toward her.

“Here’s the thing, Courtney,” I say. The sound of my voice seems to startle her. Bringing her back to “real time.”

She struggles again. Flails like a caught fish in the bottom of a boat. Tugs at the ropes on her wrists. Her knees thump the tub. Red and green bottles topple over, some into the tub, some out. Matrix Essentials shampoo, Back to Basics colored conditioner, Mr. Bubble bubble bath. I gather them up and set them next to the toilet.

“You had bad luck today,” I say, sitting back down on the rolly
chair. “Epically bad luck.” I cross my legs. The bottom of my green Adidas shoe touches the side of the tub. “I’m the last guy you wanted to meet in a coffee shop.”

Opening remarks are always awkward. Like the disclosures in Viagra ads, where an old man smiles vacantly on a beach, while a voiceover talks about heart attacks and erections lasting more than four hours.

I go on. “Obviously you’ve got some idea what’s going on here.” I realize too late this sounds formal and patronizing. Something a principal would say to a smirking juvenile delinquent. “I’ll just shoot straight with you and tell you what’s what. The truth is that I’m a murderer.” Long sigh. “I kill people,” I add, redundantly.

If there is a smooth hip way to do this preamble thing, I haven’t figured it out yet. But you have to muddle through since it's essential to the process. They have to know what’s going to happen.

If they don’t know, then they can’t fear. Or fear to the full extent. If the threat is equivocal, the fear is not the same. If they hold out hope, even to the slightest degree, they will not face the coming end.

Fear, as I may have mentioned before, is important. Not just for them, but for me.

It’s the heart of the endlessly repeating cycle that's at the heart of me. It’s the spark that ignites and spreads to all the rest. All the aborted, stunted parts of me. I know by rote the route the spreading flames will take through my dark interior. Like a map of Pepto Bismol spreading pink relief to an upset stomach.

But it’s strange. Today, the fear is spreading faster than I'm accustomed to. I can feel the tightening in my stomach. The first symptom. And yet it’s a bit early for this.

“So here’s the deal,” I go on. “You and I are going to spend the night together. I’m not talking about sex. You don’t have to worry about rape or torture or anything like that. At the risk of sounding weird, all I want you to do is talk to me. I’ll ask you things. You just need to be open and honest. To tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I make a swearing in, courtroom gesture.

My heart is also beating faster than it normally does at this point. It’s not a big deal, but I’ll have to look into this later. Maybe ask a doctor.

“Now here’s the tough part. The sad part that you’re not going to like. Then sun is going to come up in about four-and-a-half hours. When it does, I’m going to stand up, walk over to you and fill the bathtub up with water. Yes, your clothes are going to get wet.” Girls have actually asked me about that. “When the tub's full, I’ll tell you good-bye, and I’ll push your head underwater and hold it there. Probably around the two-minute mark, you’ll take in a breath of water, and thirty seconds after that, everything will go black. By the end of minute three, you’ll be gone.” I drum my fingers on the tub. “Those are the cold, hard facts. Like I said, there’s no point in sugarcoating it.”

I take a sugar-free Red Bull out of my backpack and gulp down about half of it. I’ve read the aspartame isn’t good for you, but it's better than the hollow calories in the regular variety.

I turn back to Courtney. “Typically the first question people have is this: why would I stay up all night chatting with someone who just promised to kill me? That’s a fair question. But I’m prepared to offer you a deal that might make it worth your while, as crazy as that sounds. Most people take the offer. But that’s totally up to you. Here goes. If we chat all night and you’re candid and engaged, I’ll let you use the last hour before sunrise to write a letter to someone. One letter. To whomever you want. You’ll have a chance to say goodbye to whoever's most important to you. To thank them for everything they’ve done to make your own and only life all it was. I’ll even spring for the stamp and drop it in the mail.”

Tears well up in Courtney’s eyes and impale themselves on the lower line of lashes. They are already bent and waterlogged from three prior bouts of sobbing. The tears mix with eyeliner. Several dark snakes wind down her cheeks, leaving riverbeds of L’Oreal sediment in their wake.

I finish the Red Bull and put the can back in the backpack.

“That’s all I have to say, Courtney. I’m going to take the tape off your mouth in a few minutes. Oh, but first, one other thing. It probably goes without saying, but I’ll say it just in case. I’m going to keep this butcher knife right here next to my chair.” I pick it up and show it to her. I notice that the blade is shaking slightly in my hand. Odd. “If you scream or make any attempt to get away or draw attention to yourself, our deal is off. I’ll very calmly, very carefully,
pick up the knife and push the blade into the center of your throat. It will go through two very large arteries and you’ll be dead in about thirty seconds. Moreover, if any of your sorority sisters happen to hear you and come to your rescue, they will meet with a similar fate. I don’t want to belabor the point. Just speak in a quiet tone. I know this is a lot to think about all at once, so I’ll give you a few minutes to mull it over. Then I’ll take the tape off and we can go from there.”

Pausing for a few minutes at this point builds tension and lets everything sink in. It reduces the chance that Courtney will unleash a hysterical scream right off the bat, something which I think goes against both our interests. I glance at my watch. Its 3:22 a.m. Let’s give it till 3:27. Five minutes.

I’ll pass the time by peering into her eyes. Not in a domineering, psycho way, but in an unobtrusive, watchful way—like a closed-circuit camera in a gas station.

Her green eyes, as I may have mentioned, are quite alluring, even in this muddy, tear-bedraggled state. They project a goodness and an innocence. It’s curious how an organ can radiate abstract emotions or principles. Certainly a kidney or a tonsil would not be up to the challenge.

I suppose other men before me have been moved by these same eyes. Perhaps they’ve even fashioned similes comparing them to large verdurous objects (over-sized emeralds or a lily pad-coated lake). The comparisons may have been quite bad considering the youthfulness of Courtney’s likely suitors.

And yet, it's such a beautiful gesture.

It’s something I’ll never be able to do, except in palest imitation. This subtle fig of humanness will always linger just beyond my reach. Forever separated from me by the great veil.

Sigh.

How could one not have loved her great still eyes?

That’s a line from a poem.

Sometimes lines just pop into my head. I’ll have no idea why, but then later I’ll grasp the significance. The line comes from a poem that talks a lot about eyes. Maybe that’s why I thought of it.

But we were talking about Courtney’s eyes. Namely, the fact that they are beautiful and that I am staring into them.

I’m staring into her eyes, but in an unconventional way. Like
I’m staring at the eye itself. Like it’s an object, rather than an organ looking back at me.

I try to block out everything else. Like I’m meditating. Like I’m a poet
hidden in the light of thought
.

Courtney might be into meditating too because she has a glow-in-the-dark Buddha on the water tank of her toilet on top of a stack of
Glamour
magazines. It doesn’t really matter to me since I don’t meditate myself. It’s just that what I’m doing at the moment reminds me of what meditation might be like (note: this
notion
is derived mainly from senseis in martial arts movies and may be inaccurate).

On the other hand, I doubt there’s a wrong way to meditate. It's not like you can throw your back out like you could in a yoga class. Who knows? Maybe there’s even a beginner’s luck aspect to it.

Let’s give it a shot.

Besides, what else am I going to do for the next three-and-a-half minutes?

So here goes.
Luke’s first attempt at meditation.

Slow, deep breath, inhale.

I focus completely on Courtney’s green irises and try to make the rest of the world fade away.

Slow, deep breath, exhale.

We, of that time, are no longer the same.

That line just popped into my head, as I’ve explained lines are sometimes wont to do. Just go with it. Let it flow.

When you look deeply into Courtney’s eyes, the colors in those green rings get wavy and restless.
Quantumy
. Bits of brown, blue, yellow and red swirl and wriggle there.

Picture it as a green sea and just beneath the surface eels and other sea serpents maneuver languidly about, vivid and electric. Think
Rime of the Ancient Mariner
or the scene in
Star Wars
where the room turns out to be a huge trash compactor.

Blue stars shiver in the distance.

Yet again. Just going to ignore it. Keep going.

Courtney’s irises are filled with a wonderful lava lamp plasma. Halfway between liquid and gas.

I draw even closer. Focus even more intensely. This is fun and scary at the same time.

I picture myself floating above a stormy green planet. Everything is silent and Kubrick slow. It’s an envious Jupiter where violet lightning bolts thread rowdy, emerald clouds.

You could really lose yourself in these eyes.

To think I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.