Total Victim Theory (34 page)

Silence.

When thirty seconds go by with no response, I knock again. Harder this time.

Nothing but more silence.

Just as I'm about to knock a third time, I detect a rustling from inside.

Then, locks being unfastened.

I'm feeling quite unnerved. Partly from what happened last night. Partly from what I just saw in the yard. The .45 is trembling in my hand. I slip it behind my back.

The doorknob turns, and soon a figure appears before me in the doorway. I say figure because beyond that I'm not sure I could say what it is I'm looking at. A pulse of fear. I take a half-step back. My foot stumbles on the upper step and I grab the handrail to steady myself.

The man before me is so deformed that it takes a moment to even register that he’s a man. On his entire head and face there's not a single hair. Every inch of his skin is scarred. Knotted and gnarled like an old tree trunk. His nose is as flat as the slit on a ski mask and his ears are simply gone—a little pinhole on either side
his head being the sole reminder they were once there. For the first half-second, I take what I'm seeing for some new outrage of the killer. This must be the victim of some appalling new torture Ropes has devised. But then I realize these are burns. Like my own and those of the others at the dune. But much, much worse.

“Ramon Cernuda?” I ask, peering past the man into the trailer, trying to see if anything's amiss.

But everything looks okay. And the man's demeanor, to the extent it can convey such things, doesn't suggest anything's wrong. The man’s staring at me. His eyes peering out from behind this mask of scars. There's a keen intelligence and energy within them that seems out of place in his obliterated exterior.

He's silent for a long time. I see something else now in his eyes. Is it confusion? Or is the confusion my own?

The man's eyes widen and his thin mouth opens into a black gap. But he says nothing. I’m not sure if he can even speak.

“Are you Ramon Cernuda?” I ask in a near whisper, as if I’m afraid the sound of my voice might shatter him.

An acute emotion overtakes his face. Fear, surprise, recognition. Not even sure I could even name it. And all the while he never takes his eyes off me. Then there’s a fluttering of eyelids, and a single plump tear forms and winds a path down his mutilated cheek. His lips move again. Not sure if he's gasping for breath or trying to say something.

“Señor, are you okay?” I ask.

Then finally I hear the first syllables. A choked and raspy utterance that’s completely unintelligible. “I'm sorry I don't . . . I don't understand.”

I lean in closer and he speaks again.

“Raul,” he says. “Raul . . . is it really you?”

I start to say I'm not Raul, but stop myself. The truth is that I don't know the answer to his question. I don’t know who I am.

“Raul . . . you’ve found me after all this time.”

When he says my name this second time—there's something. Something that resonates. That unleashes more of the tremors inside me. Cascades and crescendos of fractured memory. “Why do you call me that?” I ask.

He looks confused. “Aren't you Raul Moreno?”

Again, the name reverberates through me, as if my brain were a
tapped tuning fork. “How do you know me?” I ask.

He stares at me. “But you must remember. How else would you have found your way to my door?”

I'm mute for several moments, struggling for what to say. “There are things . . . pieces of my life . . . that were lost.”

His head cocks to the side, as if he's trying to grasp the meaning of what I've said. Then he leans in very slowly toward me. He raises up his arm. He’s reaching out to touch me. Then I realize he's reaching for the scar. The one on the back of my head. He pulls my head down a bit and touches it.

Now he smiles and the confusion from before goes away. “I was there the day that happened. . . .”

I look into his eyes. “The day what happened?”

“I guess it's no surprise you can't remember,” he says. “But no one's ever told you?”

“No.”

“We were all working on the ranch that summer. In El Paso.”

As I listen to him, I say the name again to myself.

Raul Moreno
.

A flurry of pictures. Hectic flashes of a former life. When I repeat the name a second time, the sound finds its way to something deep inside me and clamps on to it like a pair of powerful jaws. I know, right then, the name once belonged to me.

“The day that it happened. . . .” Ramon continues. “You saved my life that day.”

“Where? Where was the place that it happened?”

“Glattmann Ranch,” he says.

The words seem to hang in the air, like the smoke after a gunshot.

“Glattmann Ranch,” I whisper. Not repeating, but remembering.

42

Colorado

“Well, what do you guys think?” I ask.

Ronette clears her throat. “When you're undercover, you generally want to do everything you'd normally do. So if participating in the block party is what you'd normally do—what people would expect you to do—then I'd recommend it.”

Bryce smiles. “Ronette is all about unflinching realism.”

“Details like this are important,” Ronette says. “You'd be surprised how even small changes in behavior can make people think something's fishy.”

“And as soon as that happens,” Bryce says, “the cover's blown and all this hard work is for nothing.”

“You really think not going to a party would be enough to blow our cover?” I ask, with a hint of irony.

“It's possible,” Bryce says, “or they might just think we're nerds—which would be worse.”

“We've discussed it,” Ronette explains. “Bryce and I are of the opinion that security concerns are minimal. The logistics of a party might sound daunting, but it's really very straight-forward. So, whatever you decide, we're going to keep you one hundred percent safe.”

“The only point Ronette and I differ on is the odds of this guy showing up. We haven't heard from him in a month, which to me suggests you're off his radar. Besides that, there was a murder recently in Austin, Texas that might be linked to him. If so, he's long gone and unlikely to come back.”

“And that's where we disagree,” says Ronette. “This guy
typically waits about a month between killings, so the fact that we haven't heard from him might not mean much. He could still be in the area laying low. Even if he's not, there's no reason he couldn't hop on the next bus or plane back into town.”

“All that's just FYI, Nicole,” Bryce says. “As far as your protection goes, we're going to behave as if he's right next door.”

“So what do you think—yea or nay?” asks Ronette.

“I trust you guys. That's not an issue.” I pause, thinking it over. “My social life has been pretty nonexistent since rehearsals started . . . so a party might be a nice distraction.”

“So you're in?” asks Bryce.

“I'm in. When is it, anyway?”

“Friday, February 14th,” says Ronette. “In two weeks.”

“Valentine's Day, huh?” I say. “Now I'm getting suspicious. Is this just a big set-up for you to ask me on a date, Bryce?” I grin at him.

“Yeah. I'm kind of impressed with myself for thinking of it,” Bryce says.

For the past week or so, we've been doing this mock flirting thing. I guess the joke is a natural consequence of the roles we're in, where anything social is off-limits. At first I was worried it would make Ronette uncomfortable, but she seems to enjoy playing along and poking fun at Bryce. Being together every moment for the last month has definitely led to some bonding. I used to think Bryce was such a D-bag, but now I can't imagine eating my corn flakes without him beside me at the breakfast table. Ronette, I liked from day one. She's a class act and she's a bit stricter, so she keeps Bryce in line.

“It's a costume party, too,” Bryce adds.

I push my glasses back on my nose. “What's the theme?”

“
Bad Romance
,” he says.

“What does that entail?” I ask.

“You know—couples go as famous ill-fated pairs. Bonnie and Clyde, Sid and Nancy. That sort of thing,” Ronette explains.

“Sounds fun,” I admit.

“Decide what you want to be, and the FBI will spring for your costume.”

“I guess I'll have to scrounge up a date as well,” I say.

Ronette smiles. “The FBI might be able to help you with that
too.”

This is obviously Bryce's cue. Ronette and I look over at him expectantly.

Bryce sighs and feigns sheepishness. “I know I'm probably not up to your standards, Nicole,” he says, “but in the interests of criminal justice. . . .”

“Okay,” I say. “You can be my date. All I ask is that you wear a mask.”

*

Before I know it, two weeks have passed and it's the night of the party. At first I was a bit more nervous than I let on to Bryce and Ronette, but they ran through all the details and it seems like they've got the bases covered. I'm actually pretty excited about the whole deal. I'm going as Princess Leia with my date Chewbacca, a.k.a. Bryce. We think the bestiality angle fits well with the
Bad Romance
theme. Though I warn Bryce he better keep his paws off of me. As for Ronette, she'll be attending with one of the agents who does surveillance work in the van. They're going as Mickey and Mallory Knox, from
Natural Born Killers
—which my mom never let me see growing up.

We're all decked out by 7:30 and Ronette's helping me put my hair up in giant buns, as the Leia look requires. Bryce's Wookie costume is awesome and he's been wearing it around the apartment for at least two hours, practicing Wookie noises. The final task is to make a liquor run, since each participating apartment is supposed to supply a drink for fifty people. Thus ludicrously arrayed, we pile in my Accord and head to Liquor Mart.

“Are you guys actually going to drink?” I ask on the ride over.

“More or less,” Ronette says.

“More or less?” I ask.

She grins. “We're going to be drinking Jungle Juice—”

“Just the nonalcoholic version,” adds Bryce.

“I found a recipe that's supposed to taste like it has liquor in it.”

“How appropriate,” I say. “Undercover agents drinking undercover drinks.”

“What about you?” Bryce asks. “Are you gonna pound a few?”

“Can I?”

“Of course you can,” Ronette says. “We're on the clock. You're
not.”

We buy the necessary ingredients and head back to the apartment. I go to my room and finish putting on my makeup—white mascara and a lot of black eyeliner—and I have to admit it looks pretty good. You can already hear the thump of bass from rooms around us and the jubilant chatter of voices outside and in the halls.

Okay . . . just need my glasses and I'll be all set. This is exactly the kind of vulnerable social scenario where my eyewear’s protective powers most come in handy. But where did I put them? Did I ever mention that I'm not the most organized person in the world?

I look in the drawer underneath my makeup mirror—no dice. Then I check my purse—also no—then my desk, but still no sign of them.

Shoot—I must have left them in my car.

Don't particularly feel like running all the way out to the parking lot to get them . . . which brings up an interesting point—I've never needed the glasses onstage. The anxiety goes away when I'm acting. Maybe a costume works the same way. Plus, Leia will be more authentic without them. Thus, life presents another opportunity to expand my comfort zone.

As I’m fretting in front of the mirror, Bryce appears in the doorway and makes a Wookie call. “Are you ready?” he asks. “I think people are starting to serve.”

“Yep,” I say. “Let's do it.”

*

So here's how the party works. Everything is organized by floor, with each floor serving drinks to the other two floors according to some sort of schedule. Floor Number One serves first, commencing with a whistle blow. Mobs of people run around quaffing whatever’s offered in participating apartment doorways—trying to get as smashed as possible before a second whistle blow signals everyone to stop and move on to Floor Number Two.

There's probably ten or twelve drinks on each floor. So, by drinking every drink on every floor, you could be fairly assured of having your night end in the hospital getting your stomach pumped, if that’s your goal.

It's presently 10:40 and the mob just overtook the second floor—which has the distinction of being my level of residence. Me, Bryce, Ronette, and Bruce—Ronette's taciturn and Nordic-looking date—are all crowded in the doorway of our apartment, dutifully dispensing Jungle Juice from a green trash can.

The Jungle Juice is basically just a giant vat of Kool-Aid. But Ronette has dressed it up a bit, adding dry ice and some sour liqueur, and calling it “Love Potion.” With all the bubbling and fizzing, no one seems to suspect the drink's shameful nonalcoholic character, a secret I'm sworn to protect. Nor—based on the slurring and stumbling—has anyone been swindled of the perilous blood alcohol levels that are the birthright of every college student on Saturday nights. The three agents make a joke of chugging exorbitant quantities of the harmless beverage to hoots of approval from the mob. Already feeling a bit inebriated myself from my four drinks on Floor One, I too, switch over to Love Potion.

At any given moment, a crowd of ten or fifteen partygoers loiters in the doorway, their voices producing a wall of garbled and exuberant hubbub. My focus pinballs over the colorful throng, sometimes grasping whole costumes—Edward and Bella from
Twilight
, Ike and Tina Turner. Other times, catching just snatches—a blue spandex thigh, a cape, a leather glove with razor blades.

“Dang, girl, you're getting down with Chewbacca?” someone asks, as I ladle out a drink.

“Don't knock it till you've tried it,” I say, stroking Bryce on the back of his furry neck.

“Love Potion?” a guy says. “Is there, like, Viagra in this stuff?”

“Why? Do you need it?” his date inquires.

In the hall, a crash. Someone on a unicycle has just fallen over. Why he's on a unicycle I have no idea. A girl runs by with her hand gripping her mouth, either seconds from, or in the process of, puking all over herself. Clearly the festivities are in full swing.