Total Victim Theory (35 page)

I smile as I look around me. It's both ridiculous and kind of epic at the same time—especially with the agents here.

I lean over and whisper to Ronette, “So, you still think this was a good idea?”

She smiles. “I'm starting to have second thoughts.”

“And there's still an entire floor left to go,” I say.

“And don't forget the dance afterward in the rec room,” she adds.

Suddenly, Bryce's arm is tapping me on the shoulder. “Hey, look who's here.”

“What?” I say, turning.

I recoil a half-step, taking in the imposing figure before me.

Whoever it is—presumably some Star Wars geek—is decked out in Darth Vader garb, head to toe. And it looks like he's stepped straight off a movie set. It puts my and Chewie’s costumes to shame.

Someone hums the Vader theme as a black-gloved hand proffers a cup with the UT Longhorn emblem on it. Bryce fills him up while emitting a bereaved Wookie coo.

“Chewie says we're not joining the Dark Side,” I warn.

The masked figure stares at me for a moment, then leans in close. “In due time, Princess. In due time.” The costume even has a mechanical filter that deepens the voice into a James-Earl-Jones-esque pitch. With those ominous words hanging over our heads, Darth turns and departs.

“Darth, Chewie, and Leia—that would be a pretty wicked three-way,” says a man dressed like Michael Jackson.

*

By the time the mayhem wraps up on the third floor, the party has taken on the appearance of a zombie apocalypse. The throng stumbles through the littered hallway and down the stairs, gradually reconvening in our community center. There the basketball half-court has been transformed into a makeshift ballroom with lots of streamers and pink décor. On the back wall there's a giant heart with cracks through it, above which are the words
Bad Romance
. A giant disco ball hangs from the ceiling, hurling kaleidoscopic light on the glimmering partygoers.

There must be at least two hundred people here.

The perimeter of the room is lined with plastic chairs and I've taken a seat between Bryce and Ronette in the back corner.

“I'm not feeling super-great,” Bryce says. He's removed his Chewbacca mask, which sits beside him like the aftermath of a light saber decapitation.

“What is it?” I ask.

“My head.”

“What did you drink?” asks Ronette.

“Just the Jungle Juice,” he says. “And half of a drink on the third floor—not enough that I should be feeling anything.”

“Now that you mention it,” says Ronette. “My stomach feels funny, and I haven’t had a sip of real booze.”

“What was that liqueur you put in the Love Potion? Maybe it wasn't intended to be consumed in such mass quantities.”

“The bitters?” Ronette says. “It's possible, I guess.”

“Or maybe somebody spiked your punch,” I jokingly suggest.

Bryce winces. “I guess that would be our karma for serving everyone nonalcoholic Kool-Aid.”

Ronette gets to her feet, rubbing a hand over her abdomen. “Nicole, if you'll excuse me. I need a drink of water.”

She walks off toward the drinking fountain.

“I hope you two are okay,” I say to Bryce, whose only response is a sickly stare.

The dance floor is crowded with people brandishing beer bottles and leftover cocktails in plastic cups. The DJ is playing songs randomly from all musical eras. A-ha and Vanilla Ice and MGMT in no particular order. There's even a sprinkling of slow dances. It reminds me of a less-wholesome version of the prom scene in
Napoleon Dynamite
.

Bryce is leaning back in his chair with his head on his shoulder, as if he could fall asleep at any moment. I tap him on the shoulder. “Hey, are you still with us?”

“In body,” he says. “In spirit, I'm fading fast."

“If you need some water—” I start to say, but a voice interrupts me.

“Do you care to dance, Princess?” asks a preternaturally deep voice in front of me.

I look up to find Darth Vader leering down at me. You can hear his breath coming in and out of his respirator thing. I'm sure it's designed to be scary, but it sounds like he has asthma to me. Now where did he come from all of a sudden? Didn't see him out there before.

“What?” I say—not quite hearing him over the sound of the music.

“Did you . . . maybe want to dance?” he repeats. The slight
hesitation sounds comical in the baritone pitch. I picture some gawky, zit-faced kid underneath the costume. Who else would wear something like that? There's some Dead Milkmen song playing that seems kind of good, and I'm tempted to accept. I don't think I've set foot on a dance floor since . . . in a long time anyway.

I glance at Bryce, curious if he's going to encourage or discourage my dancing with the Dark Overlord, but he's staring up at the costume with a half-transfixed, half-comatose gaze.

“I'm sorry,” I tell Vader, after a second's hesitation. “I can't right now. My friends aren't feeling well. I should probably look after them.” I look over just in time to see Ronette disappear into the women's restroom.

“Are you sure? I mean, you're Leia, I'm Vader. It was kind of meant to be.”

“If it was meant to be, you'd be Han Solo.”

An awkward silence.

“But if I were Han Solo, it wouldn't be a Bad Romance,” he says. “It would just be the regular kind.”

The comment strikes me as nerdily endearing and I laugh. But I think it comes off like I'm mocking him, which I didn't want to do.

“Maybe some other time, then,” he says and starts to turn away.

“No, wait, Vader.” I give a sigh, suddenly feeling sorry for him. I mean, the guy apparently came by himself and probably spent his life savings on that suit. “Sure, why not? One dance would be great.”

I tell Bryce I'll be right back, and he nods and Vader leads me out onto the dance floor.

“Isn't it hot and sweaty wearing that suit?” I ask, looking up at him.

He laughs. “Yeah, a little. I think I'd choose a different costume if I had it to do over again.”

I glance over and see Ronette stumbling back to her seat. She looks around worriedly for me and I give her a little wave.

“So, do you live in the complex?” I ask.

“No, I—” Vader begins.

“Oh my gosh . . . my friends are so drunk.”

Ronette is now prodding Bryce—who's slumped forward in his chair—as she apparently tries to wake him up. I should really be
videotaping this.

“It happens,” Vader consoles.

“It's weird because they didn't drink much. . . .”

“Maybe somebody slipped something in their drinks.”

“Yeah, that's a scary thought.”

“My ex-girlfriend had that happen once.”

“Hopefully, they'll snap out of it soon,” I say. “Sorry, I think I interrupted you before. Where did you say you were from?”

“Texas, originally.”

“Really? Me too,” I say. “What year are you in school?”

“I'm a grad student.”

That's a bit of a shock. I kept picturing him as an oversized freshman or sophomore. That certainly makes him more interesting. “What do you study?” I ask.

“Psychology . . . clinical.”

“Really? Me too.” I don't know why it's so hard for me to be honest about my major. Am I ashamed of it or something?

“That's surprising,” he says. “I would have said theater.”

I look at him for a moment, unsure where the remark came from. Something about his demeanor seems different now. Like he's more poised and confident than I originally thought. “So, do you know people here?”

“In Boulder?”

“At the party.”

“I just know you,” he says.

“You mean from just now?”

“No, we've met before.”

My heart skips a beat. “What?” I say. “Are you joking around?”

“No, not at all. I'm surprised you don't remember.”

I smile. “Well, take off your mask and let me see.”

“Nope—you have to figure it out.”

“You mean like we're playing twenty questions?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, how do I know you?”

“Through a mutual acquaintance.”

“Who?”

“Your old roommate.”

A chill runs up my spine as I look up at him. “Which roommate?”

“A blonde girl. She used to work at a bar called the Iguana. I think her name was. . . . Now what was her name?”

“Jessica,” I mutter, my whole body trembling. “Look, I gotta go.” I step away from him and turn.

“Hey,” he calls after me. “Hey, Nicole.”

I turn back, saying nothing.

“That's your name isn't it?” he says.

I just stare at him, while continuing to stagger backwards.

He takes a step towards me. “I just wanted to tell you you look nice without your glasses.”

Oh my God—no. Panicking now. I run off the dance floor back over to Ronette and Bryce. Feels like I'm having a heart attack. I hear my voice exclaiming “It's him, it's him,” over and over.

“What do you mean?” asks Bryce, rubbing his eyes.

“Who did you see?” asks Ronette.

I turn and look around me. Scan the room for the tall dark figure that was in the middle of the dance floor just moments ago. Eyes darting everywhere.

“Who was it?” Ronette repeats.

“Chris,” I mutter.

But Chris is nowhere to be found.

43

Colorado

For nearly half an hour, Bryce and Ronette search the area looking for Darth Vader, but to no avail. I'm still breathless. Feeling certain he's going to appear again at any moment. I hear them radio in my suspicion to the Bureau office and the Boulder PD, but I feel like they should be doing more.

While the party goes on without us, we step outside and confer confidentially by a small playground.

“Can't you put out an APB or do a dragnet or something?” I ask.

“I don't think we can say for sure it was him, Nicole.” Ronette looks disconcerted, though I'm unsure whether it's my clamoring about Chris or her stomach ailment that's to blame. “I mean, the guy was wearing a costume and his voice was disguised.”

“All he said was that he'd met you before and he knew your roommate.” Bryce still looks like he's barely awake. “Aren't there dozens and dozens of people in the city that know the two of you?”

“I don't know,” I say. “There are a few . . . but he knew her name.”

“I thought you said before that you told him her name,” Ronette points out. “And he just mentioned where she worked.”

“Maybe, yeah,” I say. “But he knew my name.”

“Are you sure?” Bryce says. “I thought before you said you introduced yourself to him.”

“No, I don't think I said that.” Feels like I’m being cross-examined now.

Don't know if it's just suggestibility, but I could swear I'm feeling a touch of something in my stomach now—which I guess
makes sense, since I had a couple of glasses of Love Potion as well.

“Yeah, your account doesn’t give us much to go on,” says Ronette.

Bryce frowns. “It’s tenuous at best.”

This is frustrating—it almost seems like Chris played some Jedi mind trick on them. “But the incriminating thing was that he said I looked nice without my glasses on.”

“But other than tonight, you almost always wear your glasses, right?” Bryce asks.

“Sure—but I just misplaced my glasses tonight,” I say. “Don't you guys see a connection there?”

Bryce is turning green before my eyes. There’s a tortured look on his face as he speaks. “My suggestion is that we check the house and your car tomorrow for the glasses. I mean, a pair of prescription glasses is not something a thief generally goes out of his way for.”

I haven't told the FBI or anyone my own glasses are fake. So yeah, I guess my glasses being stolen would seem strange without that context. I think about spilling the beans, but decide the explanation would only make my position sound all the more psychotic. “Yeah, I guess maybe you're right.”

“Nicole, it's normal for someone in a situation like yours to be hyper-vigilant.” Ronette pauses. “Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“I think so.”

“Sometimes there are false alarms,” Bryce agrees. “It's the nature of the beast to. . . .” He trails off.

“What is it?” Ronette asks.

“My stomach—it's getting worse.”

Ronette nods. “I think there really was something in that punch. Why don't we just head back to the apartment? Let's drink some water and try to sleep it off.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Bryce says. “Sorry, Nicole . . . what I was saying is that—” Bryce suddenly sways and supports himself on the railing of the merry-go-round. He then doubles over and vomits on its red metal surface.

*

Back at the apartment, Bryce immediately passes out. Even
before we can get him to drink some water.

“Do you think we should call a doctor or something?” I suggest.

“Not yet,” Ronette says. “I'll check on him during the night and make sure he's doing okay. If he keeps vomiting or it gets worse—we'll take him in to the emergency room. And maybe they give a two-for-one discount,” she adds, making a “yours truly” thumb gesture.

“Might have to even make it three-for-one,” I say.

“Oh, no. You too?” she asks.

I nod.

“Let's try to rest and see where we're at in a couple of hours.”

“Sounds good.”

Before we turn in, I make Ronette inspect the apartment for signs of a break-in. She reluctantly complies and of course, finds nothing. Although, in her condition, I question the quality of the examination. We each drink two full glasses of water and eat a couple of strawberry Pop Tarts.

“There's one good thing that came of this,” I say.

“What's that?”

“Our cover ought to be pretty solid after tonight,” I say. “At least with anyone who saw Bryce throw up on that merry-go-round.”

Ronette gives me a half-hearted courtesy laugh and walks me to my room. Moments later I’m turning out the lights and getting into bed. The room's spinning hard as I close my eyes. Sleep overtakes me like a ghastly black wave.

*

My eyes are open.

Total darkness.

For a moment I'm confused. Panicking. Convinced there's someone standing at the foot of my bed. Watching me sleep.

I thrash about, as if to get away. The comforter rustles.