Total Victim Theory (40 page)

As I canvass the landscape, several spots provoke an itching in my brain. Old pictures sketch themselves right before my eyes. A few hundred yards up a road to the right, there was a big red-brick house. That's where the family lived. In front of the house, there was a shed and a red water pump, and behind it, a kennel crammed with barking dogs. I can see it all in the clearing mist of
my mind's eye. Up ahead and over the first hill was a wooden cabin. It must be the one Ramon described. The one I keep picturing in flames. And then in the back left corner of the lot—that's where the red barn stood. My mind harbors ghastly associations with both those spots, as my trembling hands attest.

There's a part of me that wants to turn tail and run. Hop in the Malibu and drive away and never look back. But another part of me, a more insistent part, wants to know all there is to know. So I screw my courage to the sticking place and cajole my reluctant feet to shuffle on.

As I walk, the ground around me is littered with gravel and trash. There are plastic vodka bottles and green shards of broken glass. Red striped popcorn containers with smiling clowns, a grimy condom, popsicle sticks. Venturing deeper into the abandoned park, the swinging boat ride appears on my right. The “Sea Dragon” says a sign hanging overhead.

Before long I'm standing in the spot where the main house once was. A wave of sorrow and a flurry of bloody pictures. A few unconsented-to teardrops form in my eyes. The lost parts of me are mourning this man I never knew. For this is the spot where Gary took my father's life. And this is the spot where I returned the favor.

Every minute I'm seeing more, and yet still the faces do their best to withhold themselves from me. Faces my brain, with all its heart had sought to erase forever. But nothing is ever truly erased is it? Memory has a buoyancy and wants, always, in the marrow of its being, to resurface.

Time passes without me knowing it. I'm thinking about my father. It's like I'm losing him at the moment we're becoming acquainted. When I look up again, the sun has gone from gold to orange and sits half-sunk on the horizon.

I continue on past the Sea Dragon, heading deeper into the property. My path veers instinctively to where the bunkhouse was. Up ahead, a few hundred yards farther on, a tall, defunct Ferris wheel now stands, as if in eerie commemoration of the spot. A broader type of dread, beyond all the ranch's other offerings, clings to that locale, darkening the air like a swarm of distant insects. Ramon described what happened there, but I would have known without a word of hint. The sensations that seize me and creep
across my skin tell the story in the supple language of terror and misgivings. I suppose this is the feeling of one's own death remembered. Because beneath that Ferris wheel was where Raul Moreno's short life ended.

50

El Paso, 1992

Raul nudged Gary with his shoe, to assure himself he was really dead. The head tilted a bit to one side and the eyes rolled up in the sockets, blank and white as hard-boiled eggs. As he was dying, he'd drawn in his arms and legs and he seemed much smaller now. The way smushed spiders always did.

His father's body lay just a few feet from the man who murdered him. Raul went over and kneeled down next to it. He kept his eyes on the ground, unable to look at what had been done to him. A shudder ran through him and he let anguish fill him up and overrun his eyes.

But then he stopped himself.

There would be a whole lifetime to mourn his death. But now he had to think of the other workers. They were still in danger—he recalled how earlier he'd seen Tad and Luke slink by heading toward the bunkhouse. They'd been lugging something. Canisters. He was afraid to think what it meant. And even more afraid to think that it might already be too late. He had to hurry and he had to go now.

“I'm sorry,
Papi
,” he said. “I'm sorry I let you down.” He touched his father's hand. It was still warm. “
Te amo
,” he said, wiping away his tears and rising to his feet.

Raul then returned to Gary's body and extracted the revolver from his grip. It lay in a pool of blood and he felt sticky wetness as he grasped the handle. The gun had a thin black cylinder attached to the barrel. A silencer, Raul realized, remembering that he hadn't heard a shot when his father was killed.

He then grabbed the ax by the handle, pulled it out of Gary's throat, and balanced it on his shoulder like a lumberjack. Then with a final glance at his father’s body, he turned and headed toward the bunkhouse.

*

Raul walked along the fence line, rather than the dirt road, so that he could approach the cabin from behind—and, hopefully, without being observed.

Soon, he reached the top of the hill overlooking the small dwelling. He hunkered down almost to his belly and peered over. Below and to the left he discerned the outline of the darkened cabin. All was still. The only sound was the chirping of nighttime insects in the distance. But then he detected movement. Just in front of the cabin. A figure. Sitting on the ring of stones that encircled the campfire—the same spot where he and his father had sat earlier that evening. It seemed several lifetimes had passed since then.

Raul concluded from the shape’s slight stature, that this was Gary’s younger son, Luke. But what was he doing down there? The way he was sitting made Raul think he was keeping watch. But why? To make sure the others didn't get away? That was a good sign, he supposed. If Luke was watching them, it meant at least some of the men were okay. Or at least alive. And as long as some were alive, his help hadn't arrived too late.

Watching the boy sit there, it crossed Raul's mind how tragic the situation was. That a kid younger than himself was being forced to participate in crimes most adults would shudder to think about. And as much as he hated Gary, the emotion didn't carry over to the sons. Whatever they might have done, there'd been no choice. What would Gary have done had they refused? Whatever was about to happen, Raul hoped it could happen without the two boys getting hurt. Enough people had been hurt for one night.

But where was Luke's older brother—by far the more dangerous of the two? Raul scanned the area but saw no sign of him.

Just then, a shadowy figure hidden before by the bunkhouse came into view. The lanky dimensions told that it was Tad. The figure approached Luke and leaned in close, as if whispering
something. There was an object in the older boy's hand. Raul couldn't make it out, but the way Tad gripped and held it by his side suggested it was a gun.

Raul felt his pulse race as he saw it. That was something he hadn't considered. The advantage he thought he had over them with Gary's gun was nonexistent. He imagined Tad shooting the others. If he threw open the door and started firing, they could all be dead within a few seconds.

Who was Raul kidding? He didn't even know how to fire the damn thing. He certainly couldn't count on winning a gun fight with Tad. Instead, everything would depend on his silence. On whether he could sneak up on them, without so much as the snapping of a twig. And he wasn't going to let his fear get the better of him. He swore to himself that he wouldn't let anyone else down tonight. Drawing a deep breath, he raised himself up and began to creep step-by-step down the hill toward the rear of the cabin.

*

The three or four minutes it took Raul to reach the back of the bunkhouse felt like an eternity. He was convinced the soft crunch of every footfall might give him away and bring a sudden and tragic end to the whole business. But his approach must have been just stealthy enough to go unnoticed, and soon he stood pressed to the shelter's back wall.

Struggling to catch his breath, he became aware of an odor in the air around him. Fumes so strong they made his eyes water.

Gasoline.

The smell came from all around. Thick and dizzying. Raul glanced down and in the moonlight made out an oily residue where gas had been splashed on the sides of the dwelling.

Is that why they were keeping watch? Were they going to burn the bunkhouse down with the workers still inside?

Panicked feelings renewed themselves. A new set of pictures in his head. People, his friends, burning to death. Just stay calm, he kept telling himself, as he silently slunk along the right side. A dozen soundless steps, and he was at the cabin's front corner. Just twenty or thirty feet from Luke and Tad.

Poking his head around the corner, Raul was barely able to
stifle a gasp. Standing barely five or six feet from him was Tad—fortunately, facing the opposite direction. Luke still sat on the ring of stones, head resting on a folded arm as if drifting off to sleep. Had the younger boy been more attentive, he might have spotted Raul standing there. But his half-closed eyes took no note of him. Tad was within striking distance. A blow to the back of the head with the blunt end of the ax would put him out of commission without killing him. After that, Raul could make quick work of the smaller and apparently unarmed Luke. Raul gently set Gary’s gun on the ground so he could grip the ax with both hands. He held it out in front of him, blunt end down, preparing to pounce.

Suddenly Luke, tipped off by something—a rustle of clothing, or the gleam of the ax—began to to shriek, “Tad, behind you!” as he thrust a finger in Raul’s direction.

Needing no better cue, Raul sprang at Tad, ax raised.

Before Tad had time to turn, the heavy butt of the ax landed hard on the roof of his skull. There was a sound somewhere between a crunch and a thwack, and Tad dropped to the ground, as suddenly as a marionette with its strings cut. He landed face down, one arm outstretched above his head, with the gun resting on the ground beside him.

Luke was screaming hysterically. Meanwhile, Raul leaned over and dealt Tad a second blow to the head with the butt of the ax. Then a third, to ensure he'd do no further harm to the others. He then bent down and picked up the gun, slipping it beneath his belt for safekeeping.

The commotion had awakened the workers. There was a murmur of alarmed voices. Someone rattled at the door, trying to get out. Glancing over, Raul saw that a padlock had been placed on the latch of the cabin door, locking the eight workers inside. Luke was frozen in place, as if unsure whether to flee or try to help his brother. Raul, not knowing what trouble the younger boy might cause if left alone, decided not to risk it. Sprinting over, he soon overtook Luke and meted out an incisive, if somewhat softer, blow than those Tad received. Standing over the boy, Raul felt a twinge of remorse and decided against a second swing. He then doubled back and was relieved to see Tad still lying unconscious on the ground. The light in the bunkhouse was on and several of the workers' faces were crammed into the two slender windows.
They'd smelled the gas and were at a near-panic now, demanding to be let out.

Raul implored the others to stay calm—telling they’d be freed as soon as he could figure out a way to remove the lock. When they demanded to know what was going on, he told them something very bad had happened on the ranch that night, but that the danger had passed. They peppered him with questions, and the more he told them, the more incensed they became. Someone was ramming himself against the inside of the door—though it was made of sturdy metal and barely seemed to budge. Someone else busted out the window on the left side and a hardbound Bible tumbled to the ground. The windows, however, were far too narrow for anyone to pass through.

Raul drew near the door and inspected the padlock used to imprison them. It was very thick and required a combination rather than a key to open. Since the only two people who'd be likely to know the combo were out cold, the best options were to either bust the lock or break down the door. Raising the ax, he took a swing at the lock. Though the blade fell right on target, the lock remained intact. He tried several more times, without success. The door mount was also made of solid metal and seemed similarly unmoved by his efforts. After a dozen swings, Raul stood winded, considering what else to try.

The voices of the workers had changed. Suddenly, all he heard was a frantic, incomprehensible jumble. Then he caught a few snatches. They were warnings. “
Cuidate!
," “
Mire, mire!
” “
Detras de ti!
”

Before he could heed the cries, he heard something else. Close by and barely audible amid the din of voices, it was the sound of a match being struck. Being dragged across the phosphorescent strip. Once, twice, and then the third time, he heard it ignite. Turning, he saw that Tad had gotten to his feet. He wasn't far away and was holding the lit match in his hand. The light framed his face and illuminated a sinister grin.

“No!” Raul shouted, moving toward him. But it was happening too fast.The match was already somersaulting through the air. He saw it hit the ground less than a foot from the cabin. The next instant the night exploded into a wall of orange light, and pressure, and sound.

*

Raul came to. Lying on his back.

Raising his head, he saw the bunkhouse engulfed in flames. It was as if an orange flower had closed up around it. Above, a billowing cloud was blotting out the stars. The air was filled with popping and crackling, and heat wafted off the blazing structure like a hot wind. The blast had thrown him back about twenty feet. A searing pain sang out from several spots on his body—from his neck and ear and hands. A crowd of agonized faces crammed into the windows of the bunkhouse. Flames lapped up around them. The sound of the inferno all but drowned out their screams.

He scrambled to his feet so he could help them.

But where was Tad?

Raul looked around but didn't see him. Then, when he turned back toward the main house, he saw the older boy’s willowy silhouette in the moonlight. He was fleeing. Already far away. Halfway back to the main house.

But now the workers in the bunkhouse were the main concern. They were dying and Raul had to get them out. Had to somehow bust the lock.

Then he remembered the .38 he'd taken from Tad and tucked into his pants. Maybe he could use it to blast the lock off. But where had the gun gone?