Total Victim Theory (26 page)

“And what was that?”

“It's probably not worth mentioning, but about four or five months ago, Danielle claimed she woke up in the middle of the night and saw someone in her room.”

The hairs on the nape of my neck prickle up. “Who did she see?”

“A man. She said he was just standing at the foot of her bed. Watching her. And smoking a cigarette.”

“What happened?” I say.

“She didn’t scream or anything. I guess she was too scared. She closed her eyes and pretended she was asleep. When she looked up a few minutes later, he was gone. She ran to our bedroom and woke up me and my wife. She was terrified. I never saw Danielle shake like that. She even, well, she even wet her pants.”

“Did you report it to the police?”

“Of course. Right then. They came out and did a search, but didn’t find anything.”

“No sign of forced entry?”

“No.”

“No cigarette ashes in your daughter’s room or footprints outside?”

“No, nothing. No direct evidence of an intruder at all. The cops thought she just had a nightmare. I'm tempted to agree with them now, but it was pretty convincing at the time.”

“You said there was no
direct evidence
. Was there something else to suggest there was an intruder?”

Deep furrows appear in Sherman's brow. “Well, no. I mean, kind of. Our dog Baxter ran away the same day Danielle saw the man in her room. Anyway, Baxter never came back. Though I guess that's more of a coincidence than proof of an intruder. This little guy is Baxter’s replacement.” Sherman pats the schnauzer on the head.

I glance at my watch. “Weren’t you expecting your wife and daughter to be back by now?”

“They should be back any minute.”

I look out the window, hoping to see a car pulling in the drive—but no such luck. I rap my fingers on the coffee table. “The
other agent that visited you this morning . . . what was his name?”

“You mean you didn't know he was coming?” Sherman asks.

“There's quite a few of us working on this one. Sounds like we may have gotten our wires crossed.”

“I see,” Sherman says, but his expression looks doubtful. “If memory serves, he said his name was Agent Allen.”

“Agent Allen,” I repeat. The name doesn't ring any bells, though I hardly expected it would. “And when did he come by?”

“Around eleven this morning.”

“You're sure he said he was with the FBI and not some other organization?”

“Yeah, I'm sure he said FBI.”

“Did he show you his ID and his badge?”

“I don’t remember. . . . Just his badge I think.” He pauses. “Should he have shown me both? Is that a policy?”

“There's not a strict policy,” I say. “I was just curious.”

Sherman's hand is slightly trembling.

“And what did this man look like?” I ask.

“Tall, dark hair, maybe late thirties—

“Who was at home at that time?”

“Just me.”

“Where were your wife and daughter?”

“At Danielle's swim meet. They were there until one or so.” He gives a long sigh. “I wish I understood why you're asking all these questions. Was Agent Allen not who he said he was?”

“I don’t . . .” I hesitate. “I don’t have any convincing reason for thinking Agent Allen wasn’t who he said he was.”

Sherman looks agitated. Like he can't make up his mind about something. “You asked me before if there was anything out of the ordinary. There was one other odd thing in regards to Agent Allen’s visit.”

“And what was that?” I ask.

“Maybe I should just show you. Could you wait here for a second?”

I give a nod. Sherman stands and disappears up the stairs.

I’m feeling pretty antsy about who this Agent Allen was. And about how suspicious Sherman's acting—and I wish Danielle would hurry up and get home already. The schnauzer sits there staring at me. It has big eyebrows. I reach out and pat its head.

Just now, a car, a Subaru Outback, pulls up in the drive. It's got to be them, thank God, though the windows are tinted and I can't make out who's inside. I hear the garage door open and the car disappears inside. The schnauzer barks and leaves the room, presumably to greet its owners as they come in the house.

I see Sherman's lower half coming down the stairs. He's carrying a dark brown something at his side. I squint trying to make out what it is.

“I didn't know what to make of this,” Sherman says, approaching me.

“Where did you get that?” I say, as the blood drains out of my face.

“Agent Allen handed it to me when he came in. He said he found it sitting on the front porch. And, well, you said you were interested in anything out of the ordinary.”

What Sherman's holding in his hand is the same raggedy and eyeless Teddy bear I saw last night in Lisa's apartment.

32

El Paso, 1992

Emilia closed the study door so carefully it produced only the faintest of creaks. So far, so good, she thought. Glancing out the window on the other side of the room, she could see the blue-hued landscape with its rolling hills stretching all the way to the lights of El Paso. The bunkhouse was just over the first hill, she reminded herself. Not more than a quarter mile away. If and when she needed it, she could find help within a few minutes.

Emilia turned on the flashlight, exposing a circle of gray carpet in front of her. The light formed concentric rings in different shades of yellow. With a few silent steps, she crossed the room and kneeled down by the desk next to the bottom drawer. The only drawer that locked, it was the most probable hiding place for the two letters that had so raised her suspicions. She opened her hand, revealing the silver shimmer of Gary's keys. From among six or seven taller colleagues, she located the small desk key.

Just then, the heater clicked off. The noise startled her and she gave a little gasp. The house was silent now, as if every wall and rafter were holding its breath. The only sounds were her own. Her breathing. The rustling of her nightgown. The sound of her swallowing. She tried to line up the key with the keyhole, but tremors in her hands botched the attempt, as the key's tip made a metal tap a millimeter off target. On the second try, she felt it find the groove and slide in. Holding her breath, she gave it a turn. The lock made a sharp, crisp clink. Louder than she'd expected, the sound resounded like a gunshot through the quiet room. She froze, wondering if it was loud enough to have awakened anyone.

No, surely not. And the ensuing silence seemed to support this.

She just wanted to hurry up and get out of there. The beam of the flashlight shook in her hand. Whatever the answer was, she'd decided she couldn't stay there anymore. Even if nothing had happened, look at her. She was terrified beyond belief. What she wouldn't have given to be back safe in Juárez right at this moment.

Following a moment’s hesitation, she pulled the bottom drawer open and shone the beam inside. The light revealed several items, the largest of which was a wide leather notebook or album of some sort that lay at the bottom of the drawer. On top of it were two wallets, two gold rings, and a pair of envelopes just like the two Gary had in his hands earlier that night.

Emilia looked at the wallets and saw that they belonged to Fernando and Esteban. Then she picked up the topmost envelope. It was unsealed and contained only a single sheet of paper folded into three segments. Unfolding it, she saw it was a short handwritten letter. She scanned it, but was confused by what she read. The letter was signed “Fernando Lucero,” one of the men Gary had loaded into the Ford's hidden compartment earlier that evening. Taking up the second envelope, she found it contained a letter almost identical in its language to the first, though this one was signed “Esteban Duarte.”

The letters were addressed to the men’s families in Mexico. The pair, the letters claimed, had decided to leave El Paso for a job opportunity on a citrus farm in California. They would be moving there soon and would write again once they were resettled. Only when she looked at the wallets and saw that they also belonged to the two men did Emilia begin to understand. Her stomach turned, as the horrible conclusion took root in her mind. Gary had forced them to write the letters—before he did whatever he did to them—so their families, if they ever came looking, wouldn’t come looking in El Paso.

She had to get out of there and alert the others. What she'd seen might not prove anything, but it was all the proof she needed. She'd take the letters and the wallets with her as evidence and make a break for the guest house. There were ten men there, so there would at least be safety in numbers while they figured out what to do.

Taking a last look inside the drawer, the large notebook again
caught her attention. Gary must have a good reason for keeping it here. There must be other secrets she'd yet to uncover. She pulled it out and placed it on the floor in front of her. Its spine gave a pop, as she opened it up to a page in the middle. It was crammed with records, dates, and money entries. She couldn’t read English, but as she thumbed through the pages, she saw several Mexican first and last names scattered among the entries.

Flipping to the last two last pages of entries, Emilia found what she already half-expected she might—the first and last names of the last twelve men to work at the ranch. All the names had blanks after them. All, that is, except two—the names Fernando Lucero and Esteban Duarte were followed by zeros and today’s date. October 31, 1992.

Suddenly, the door to the study was thrown open, and the light switched on. Gary stood in the doorway with a look of woeful disappointment on his face. Gary, who was wearing a green apron and oven mitts, and at whose side hung a butcher knife.

*

Arturo and Raul left the barn and hurried back along the gravel road they'd come in on. Lacking any better means of defending themselves, they took the ax with them, still damp with what Arturo assumed was the blood of the two missing workers.

Their plan was to go out the main gate—the only way off the property—then walk up the road to the closest gas station and call the police. The way Arturo figured it, Gary wouldn't be up before dawn and so couldn't discover the break-in at the barn till sometime after that. As long as the police got there within the next few hours, the eight workers in the bunkhouse wouldn't be in any danger. There was a gas station less than two miles away, so time was on their side.

As they approached the main gate, Gary's house came into view not more than a hundred yards up ahead. The lights were out and nothing moved. Still, Arturo was anxious to get past this final stretch, where a chance peek out the window by any sleepless soul could alert the head of the household to their presence. And only bad things could come of that.

“From now on, not a word,” Arturo whispered in his son’s ear.

Raul gave a nod and the pair quickened their pace.

Then—with the exit no more than a hundred yards off—a window on the left side of the house lit up.

Arturo froze in place, unsure what to do. How was this possible? Had someone been standing watch for them?

Seeing that a small shed lay to the left of the path, Arturo grabbed his son's arm and pulled him toward it. It would at least provide cover if someone decided to aim a gun at them. A second later, they stood with their backs pressed to the shed's far side, both breathing hard.

“They saw us,
Papi
?” Raul asked.

“They must have.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Just stay still and be quiet,” Arturo said, peeking his head around the corner. The light in the house was still on, but there was no one standing in the window, nor were there any signs of movement. Could it have just been a coincidence? Just someone getting up to get a drink or go to the bathroom? And if someone had spotted them, why would that person turn the light on and draw attention to himself?

Just then a silhouette appeared in the lighted window, only to vanish from sight a second later. Whoever it was didn't seem to be peering out, but just passing by. And the figure was tall, surely that of a grown man—which would have to make it Gary. But what was he up to at this hour if he hadn't, in fact, spotted them?

But then Arturo's thoughts were interrupted as a scream shattered the night's silence. A woman's scream—coming from the house.

It had to be Emilia. She was the only woman there.

Jesus, what were they doing to her?

A second scream rang out. It was agonizing to listen to. Not the sound of fear, but the sound of someone dying. Of someone whose body was enduring unspeakable agonies.

Arturo's heart beat wildly. He had to help her—if she could still be helped.

He turned and grabbed the handle of the shed door and found it unlocked. “Go inside and wait for me here,” he said to his son.

“
Papi
, I'll go with you—” Raul pleaded.

There was no time to argue.

Arturo placed his hand on his son's shoulders, spun him
around, and ushered him firmly through the shed's open doorway.

“Raul,
escucha bien
. No matter what happens, you stay put.” Arturo hated to leave him, but there was no other way. What he was about to do was far too dangerous. He wouldn't expose his son to that risk.

“I want to go with you,
Papi
,” Raul said. “Please.”

“You can't go. I need you to promise me you'll stay.” Arturo's voice was forceful and grave.

“But it's not safe for you—”

“Promise me.”

His son was crying and he looked down. “I promise,” he said.

“It's going to be okay,” Arturo said.

“I hope so,
Papi
,” Raul whispered.

“
Te amo, mi hijo
.”

“
Te amo, tambien
.”

With his son inside, Arturo closed the door to the shed. Then, gripping the ax in both hands, he sprung out onto the gravel road and dashed toward the house.

33

Midland

Sherman sets the Teddy bear down on the coffee table in front of me. My breaths come quick and shallow. Throat feels constricted. I give a tug at my tie to loosen the knot.