Total Victim Theory (25 page)

When they were about halfway into the barn, they came across several segments of yellow rope strewn about on the ground. It was the type Gary and the other hands used when lassoing stray cows and dragging them back to the herd. There were four segments total, all within ten feet of one another. Two of the pieces had small lasso knots tied at one end. The other two pieces were frayed at both ends, as if they'd been cut from the coil with a dull knife.

The knots and the frayed ends made Raul think the rope had been used to tie someone up and then later cut away. A picture of the two men bound by the wrists and ankles flashed through his mind. He looked at the blood trails, trying to think what they had to do with it. But his brain refused to form a guess.

Following the trail of rope, his father veered over toward the barn's left hand wall. Raul wasn’t far behind him when he felt his foot collide with something in the dark. He heard something sliding and then a loud clank, as if a hefty metal object had toppled over. Frightened, Raul slunk back, while his father directed the flashlight at the commotion.

“Ah,
Papi
,” Raul gasped, seeing what it was.

“
Calma te, hijo
.”

On the ground lay a large wooden-handled ax. To the right was a circular support beam that ran all the way to the ceiling. The ax must have been leaning against the beam when Raul bumped it. His father leaned down, shining the light on the large blade. It was coated with something sticky like snot. But red and purple and black. For a long time, for too long, the beam lingered there. As if his father were stunned by what he saw.

Tears came to Raul's eyes as he thought about Fernando and Esteban. He tugged at his father's sleeve. “Can we go,
Papi
?”

At first his father seemed not to have heard him.

“I want to go,
Papi
,” Raul repeated.

“Si
,
en un momento, nos vamos
,” his father said. But he didn't turn to go. Instead he shone the beam even deeper into the barn. “But where are they?” he muttered to himself.

Raul's insides were thudding, as if his heart would explode. He couldn’t stop picturing what might have happened to the two men. He wanted to take off running and never look back. He was sure he and his father were about to find them, or whatever was left of them. Already his father was venturing farther in, toward the barn's far wall, an area still lost in darkness beyond the flashlight's reach. The older man stepped forward a few paces, as if straining to see something up ahead. “
Qué es esto
?” he murmured.

Raul could just make out the outline of a large but still indistinct object about twenty yards up ahead. He hustled over to his father's side, trying to make out what it was. His father kept advancing, keeping the beam on whatever it was. The shape, about as wide as a refrigerator, but only half as tall, wasn't just sitting there—it was inset directly into the cement floor. Then he saw that its sides were rounded and made of brick.

“What is it,
Papi
?” Raul asked.

“
No sé
,” his father said.

A few paces more put them within arms' length of it. It was open at the top, the curved sides forming a ring with an empty hole in the middle, like a donut. Raul touched the side with his fingertips. The bricks were different colors, and he could see the mortar holding them together. The cement floor came right up and touched the base. His father leaned over the edge and directed the beam into the strange circular structure. “It's a well,” his father
said, after peering down into it for a while.

Now Raul stepped forward and leaned over the edge. He was looking down into a very deep hole that went far below ground level. The flashlight wasn't strong enough to reach the bottom, and the beam dissipated into darkness. And yet still a few glimmers of reflected light found their way back to the young man's eyes. Tiny golden glints of ripples and of waves. The faintest suggestion of a turbulent surface, of water thirty or forty feet down.

As he listened, he realized he could hear it. Yes, he could just make out a slight, swishing sound. A splashing, as if something—a fish or an animal, or even several of them—were thrashing about far below.

31

Mustang

Before I get off the phone with Jaci, I have her give me the address of Danielle's adoptive parents, Lou and Martha Sherman. They live in Midland, Texas, probably about two hundred miles from here. After I hang up, I stand gazing out the window of my hotel room, watching cars pull in and out of the parking lot. In the background, traffic zips by on the interstate highway. My thoughts are a jumble, running in two directions at once—forward, thinking about the hard-to-fathom notion that I'm now a father, and backward, reflecting on all I've just learned of the last eleven years of Lisa's life.

My mind keeps circling back to something Jaci said. Her explanation for why she didn't take custody of Danielle when Lisa was in the mental institution. She said it was because Lisa's father had a criminal record. But I happen to know Jaci and Lisa's father, Mason, were divorced by then—so, the story doesn't hold water. And Jaci seemed so defensive about that topic.

Indulging my suspicions, I get on the NCIC database and pull up criminal histories on both Mason and Jaci Walters. Mason, indeed, has an extensive criminal record, including convictions for aggravated assault, domestic violence, and soliciting a prostitute. His most serious offense, however, occurred in November 1992. The original charge was sexual assault on a child, later pled down to felony child abuse. Jaci's record, on the other hand, is clean, except for a single item—a misdemeanor conviction for failure to report child abuse, also in November 1992.

I notice I'm scratching away at the scar on my hand. Thinking
very bleak things. Thinking about that phrase “sexual assault on a child”. That's one of my flaws. Being too eager to jump to conclusions—especially negative or horrific ones. As if my mind thinks the world predisposed to worst-case scenarios.

There's nothing to suggest who the child was that these charges refer to—Lisa had three other siblings and Mason may have had other children as well—so, it could have been any of them or even another unrelated child. But my mind wants to connect this crime with other things I witnessed long ago. Lisa's nightmares and her scars and what she told me about wanting to forget.

Lisa would have been just ten years old.

Is there any crime, any act at all, that's more despicable than doing
that
to a child? To a little ten-year-old girl.

The same age that Danielle is now.

My hands are shaking. It’s making me sick just thinking about it. Need to put these thoughts aside. Disentangle myself from all this personal stuff and pretend I'm still a detective.

As far as the case goes, the question's whether I should go to Midland. Whether there's a justification for doing so given all the pressing matters that may require attention back in Juárez. After all, Danielle doesn't seem to be linked in any substantial way to the killings—her only connection being that Lisa's murder occurred close in time to the planned Midland visit.

On the other hand, we know nothing about what's behind these crimes or about the motives of the perpetrator. What I do know is that I'm now personally tied to the Neruda Dune in three ways: through the names in the ledger, through the burns on the victims, and through Lisa. And if all this points to some special animus, some grudge against me, then the threat, like the sway of some diabolical shadow, must fall over everything that touches me.

And Danielle now touches me.

I picture someone watching her as she walks to school.

No, this isn't ludicrous or paranoid. The facts make these fears plausible. Maybe I can't spell out what's going on, but I can feel it. There's the outline of a pattern, and even though I can't see it all, I know damn well what direction it's pointing in.

I have to protect her. I have to go to her.

There's sweat on my fingertips as I hurriedly pack up my things and check out of the hotel. Within five minutes, I'm behind the wheel of the Accord, heading off to Midland, Texas.

*

After four hours on the road, I pull up in front of 301 Tracy Cove, the home of Lou and Martha Sherman. I keep telling myself nothing's happened to her yet. I say it over and over, as if repetition might increase the chances of its being true.

I park a block down from the house and around the corner—since it's just as well that no one gets a peek at what I'm driving. I've been trying to think, to plan out what I'll say and do once I knock on that door. I guess I'm basically following up on a lead, though a lead of a far more nebulous variety than most. Of course, the real purpose is making sure Danielle's safe and keeping her that way.

I glance at my face in the rearview mirror and the mug that confronts me isn’t a pretty sight. Two days of stubble. Bloodshot eyes. Crooked tie. I look more like a drifter who mugged an agent for his suit than an actual member of the Bureau. I straighten my tie and mash down a few tufts of unruly hair. Gun’s in the shoulder holster. Loaded, safety on. Because you never know.

Heart's beating hard and I remind myself to be calm. Remind myself that in a couple of minutes I'll be meeting my daughter. Mine and Lisa’s. Jesus. That one's still sinking in. I don't want to lose sight of it amid all the creepy shit that's going on. What's about to happen—seeing her for the first time—that will only happen once.

I get out of the car and round the corner onto Tracy Cove and approach the Sherman's front door. Today's Saturday and it's about . . . 2:15. Hopefully, I'll catch them at home. I ascend the two steps leading to the porch and after a moment's hesitation on the welcome mat, I ring the bell.

A dog barks and claws scurry on a wood floor.

Footsteps. Could it be Danielle? Probably not—unless her footsteps sound like a full grown man's.

A moment later a bald, middle-aged man appears in the vertical window alongside the door. He wears glasses and his cheeks are lined with the tiny purple marks of broken veins. This
looks like the man from the photo I took from Lisa's desk.

He cracks open the door.

“Lou Sherman?” I ask, while behind the man, a gray schnauzer scampers in ecstatic circles.

He looks me over with a pair of kind, if slightly beady eyes. “Let me guess—FBI?”

“Agent Kenneth Burton, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” I flash my badge—hopefully quick enough that he won't notice the names don't match. “What gave me away?”

“The suit and tie, though that stubble threw me for a loop.”

“We've just put in some long hours. I'm afraid I'm a bit worse for wear.” I smile at him.

He looks skeptical. “Have there been new developments since this morning?”

“I'm sorry?” I say, not following him.

“Well, you're the second agent that's stopped by today. I figure something important must be going on.”

I hesitate, unsure what he's talking about. No one at the Bureau knows about Lisa, so there shouldn't be other agents involved. Did he mistake a plainclothes detective for a Fed—maybe someone who’d come down from Mustang working the abduction case? “Yes,” I finally say. “There have been some . . . developments.”

“How can I help?” Sherman asks.

“May I come in?”

He blushes. “Of course. Sorry. Didn't mean to be rude. We've just all been a little jumpy since we got the news. It must be affecting my manners.” He gestures at the sitting room and tells me to have a seat.

After peeking around the first floor for a second or two, I sit down in a pink chair next to a coffee table. Sherman takes a seat on a sofa across from me.

“Who’s home?” I ask.

“Just me at the moment,” Sherman says.

“You also have a wife and a daughter—is that correct?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And where are they?”

“At the grocery store. They'll probably be back in fifteen or twenty minutes. Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Everything's fine,” I say.

“Did you need to speak with them?”

A hesitation. “Yeah, I’d like to ask them a few questions if it's not inconvenient.”

“Sure, but Danielle had only spoken with Lisa twice. So, I’m not sure if—”

"You can never be too thorough,” I say.

To my right there's a bookcase. A few of the shelves have photos on them. One shows a young girl, maybe six or seven, in a soccer uniform. It's Danielle a few years back. A little smile crosses my lips. My first taste of fatherly pride.

When I turn back to Sherman, he’s looking at me—probably wondering why I'm inspecting his family photos.

“A minute ago you said you felt jumpy about
what happened
,” I say. “What did you mean by that?”

Sherman purses his lips. “Under the circumstances . . . wouldn't anybody be?”

“The circumstances being Lisa Walter's disappearance?”

“Well, her disappearance and her murder.”

I balk for a moment, unsure how Sherman knows about Lisa's death. “Did Jaci Walters call and tell you about that today?”

“No. I haven't spoken to Jaci in a couple of days. The other agent told me.”

“I see.” Actually, this makes no sense. No local agent, if it was a local agent, could know about Lisa. So who the hell was this person? And where's Danielle for that matter? I wish she'd hurry up and get back.

“It's a terrible thing,” says Sherman. He's looking at me with his head tilted slightly to the side, like he's trying to read me.

“Yeah, really shocking.” I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead. “Apart from this matter with Lisa, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary or suspicious?”

“In what context?” asks Sherman.

“Just generally. Has anything happened around the house or even at work that's seemed strange or suspicious?”

Sherman scratches at some stubbly red hairs on his throat. “Not that I can think of . . . at least, not recently.”

“Was there something farther back?”

Sherman takes a deep breath. “Well, I'm not sure what the question is aiming at, but something did happen a few months
back—it had nothing to do with Lisa—but I guess you could say it was out of the ordinary.”