Total Victim Theory (41 page)

He looked frantically about him—and, thankfully, there it was. On the ground just a few feet away. He picked it up and rushed over to the burning structure—getting as close as the wall of wafting heat would permit. The metal in the doorway glowed a molten red. He yelled to the workers to stay away from the door and he fired three shots at the lock.The first two bullets missed the mark, but the third struck dead on. The next instant the lock was gone, shattered into pieces. Instantly the door was thrown open and four workers rushed out. Their hair and clothes on fire, they threw themselves on the ground, shrieking and rolling around.

Next, two more stumbled forth, likewise, collapsing to the ground. That was six so far. There should be eight all together. Raul stepped closer and peered through the open doorway. On the floor, beneath the dense cloud of smoke, he discerned the outlines
of two bodies. Whether they were dead or just alive and unconscious, he couldn’t tell.

Raul pulled his shirt up over his face to provide at least some minimal defense against the flames and streaked through the open doorway. The heat of the air was unbelievable. And the flames instantly singed his hair and scorched his skin each time they touched his body.

He just pretended it wasn't real. That this was someone else's body going through this. That was the only way he could make himself go on. He grabbed hold of the closer of the two and, tugging with all his might, managed to drag the man across the threshold. He pulled so hard he thought the man’s arm might be yanked from the socket. But he kept going until they were a safe distance away. Then he rolled the man on the ground and put out his smoldering clothes with handfuls of dirt.

But then, seeing the man's face, he cringed in horror. His mouth and nose and every inch of flesh was burned to a charcoal black. The eyes were liquified into a yellow gook and the mouth gaped in an expression of perpetual agony.There was no doubt that the man was dead. Panting, Raul sprang to his feet. There was still one more person inside. The second man may have been dead too, but he couldn’t know for sure until he'd gotten him out. So once more, Raul rushed through the flaming doorway.

The last worker was farther back, face down on the floor. The flames were concentrated near the walls and roof, somewhat away from where he lay. So maybe this one had a chance. Raul did his best to stay low and not inhale the smoke as he moved toward him. The next moment he was there. Reaching out and touching him on the back. He felt the man move. Alive.

Loud pops and
whooshes
from above. Raul grabbed hold and began dragging the man out. Soon they were nearing the doorway. The man was conscious now and had drawn himself up into a crawling position. The man's face was badly burned, but Raul recognized him. It was Ramon. A friend of his father's. Raul yanked violently at his clothes, trying to drag him over the threshold. “Just a few more feet,” he yelled to the man.

A loud boom came from overhead. Like a part of the roof had given way. A dim awareness of something falling. And then a crunch that echoed through his skull. He collapsed forward
alongside the other man. They lay stretched out in the open doorway.

Raul felt the flames burning him. But he was losing consciousness. He couldn’t summon the strength to make his body budge. What a shame, he thought.

He’d come so close. He’d come so close.

51

El Paso

The sun is setting. Slanting shadows inch outward with predatory slowness. Like a panther creeping up on its bright prey. The dimmer the landscape grows, the more the past blazes within me—till memories of what was here before are as vivid as the toppled objects that surround me.

The decrepit Ferris wheel looms above me. The whole structure slouches slightly forward, covering the ground with a dark and intricate ellipse. The metalwork is rusty and several of the massive spokes that hold up the outer edge have collapsed. Twenty carriages dangle at varying heights, while two have fallen and lie smashed on the ground, shattered into pieces like a downed alien spacecraft.

This is right where it happened.

I can see the wooden cabin wreathed in fire. Above it, a black, tumor-like cloud fattened and grew tentacles. In the broken windows, melting faces. Mouths frozen in wide, contorted “O”s. I can almost hear the screams, the crackling wood.

My body reacts as if I were really witnessing these things. Nauseous and terrified—I've never had a panic attack, but this can't be too far removed from that experience.

I take a few deep breaths. Trying to calm myself down. Hoping these images will go away if I give them a moment.

Something catches my eye.

A metallic glint flashes in the final rays of sunset. Something lying on the ground, not more than fifteen feet away. Next to the railing where people once stood in line for the Ferris wheel. Right
about where—if these newly restored memories can be relied on—the door to the bunkhouse was.

I walk over to it. Halfway there, I realize it's a shovel. One with a silver head and a long wooden body. It looks new, except there's some dirt on the tip. It's a few feet over from the railing and parallel to it. But precisely parallel, like it's been positioned in just that way and not casually left behind. It's clearly out of place amid the trash and debris all around me.

I feel a shiver run up my spine.

So much for the notion that I lost him back in Midland. He’s obviously still a step ahead of me. How that’s possible, I don’t know. Is he just all-fucking-knowing or is there a transistor planted in my head?

I look around me.

He must be watching me right now.

The final rays of daylight are being extinguished on the orange horizon. Greedy shadows are gobbling up every last trace of light.

I reach into my shoulder holster and take out my gun.

Of course he's watching me.

Then again, didn't I half-expect this? Didn't I feel it in my bones that he or someone or something had been leading by a leash all along?

I guess it's a credit to his schemes that they begin to feel a lot like fate. Is that just the angle he's going for? You convince yourself he's always gonna stay a step ahead until you just stop trying. Or until you lose it and start firing your gun into a crowd of people, convinced he’s somewhere among them.

I scan the darkened grounds around me. Each toppled ride reduced to its silhouette. There must be a thousand crannies and metal underbellies where a pair of eyes could squirrel itself away.

If he's here, there's nothing much I can do about it. That's a consolation. And Ropes, to my knowledge, has never used a gun. He likes death to be up close and personal. So, I doubt I need to worry about him taking a shot at me. How’s that for staying positive?

Movement. A rustling.

I point my gun at it.

A cheeseburger wrapper scuttles by in the breeze.

Stay calm. Won't help a damn thing if you flip out.

Just now, I notice some markings on the ground. Just a few feet to the right of the shovel.

I take out my flashlight and shine it at the area.

The markings are actually a rectangle—maybe four feet long and two feet wide—of discolored dirt. Dirt that's darker than the dirt around it. As if the soil had been shifted or moved from somewhere else. Or like a hole that had just been filled in.

My first thought is that it looks like a little grave.

A sick feeling solidifies within me as I study the markings.

Has he led me here to show me another body?

It's too small to be a grave. At least the grave of an intact person. And besides, who's left to kill who'd deserve so much pomp and circumstance?

But then the thought crosses my mind—could something have happened to Ramon? But no. The logistics wouldn't make sense. Maybe it's technically possible, but the timing would have to be perfect to pull it off. It's only been a few hours since I left Ramon's house.

But I guess there's only one way to find out for sure.

I tuck my gun into my belt and set the flashlight on the ground so it illuminates the patch of earth. Then I take the shovel in my hands and start digging.

The dry dirt is loosely packed. I work steadily. The hole begins to grow. As afraid as I am to know what he's left, a burning curiosity spurs me on. Being that we’re at Glattmann Ranch, what’s happening has a note of ominous finality. There must be some last piece of the puzzle buried here, some ultimate link to tie it all together, past and present. I pick up the pace till I'm feverishly slinging dirt to either side and gasping for breath.

Before I know it, the hole's already a foot deep, a mound of discarded earth rising unevenly around the edges.

Then two feet deep.

My shirt drenched with sweat, I keep shoveling faster and faster. Accelerating.

Two-and-a-half feet deep.

The bottom is out of reach now from ground level and I have to step down into the hole to keep making progress.

A truck passes by on the road. Nice to hear some sound other than my own breathing.

The muscles in my hands and wrists are starting to cramp. I wipe the sweat off my brow and roll up my shirt sleeves.

Then I continue.

A half-foot farther down, the tip of the shovel meets something that isn’t dirt. Something soft that yields when I prod it.

I adjust the flashlight so it's directed at the spot.

The edge of something black, maybe it’s plastic, peeks above the level of the dirt.

I cautiously remove a few shallow shovelfuls, uncovering more of the buried object.

Lowering myself to my knees, I brush the rest of the dirt away with my hands.

Something plastic. A plastic bag. I recall with considerable trepidation that Ropes’ prior MO was to bury a victim’s belongings in a plastic bag, alongside the body.

I dust away the dirt until I can pull the bag out of the hole.

I'm holding it now. Out in front of me. Looks like a run-of-the-mill garbage bag. The top is fastened shut with a twist tie. But I guess the issue is what's inside. Whatever it is is pretty light. Not more than a few pounds. And that's a relief. We've ruled out both a body and a head.

I set the bag on the ground and holding the pin light in one hand, unfasten the twist tie with the other. I hold the bag open and shine the light inside. The beam hits a swath of something white. Cloth perhaps. At first blush, nothing sharp, or severed or dangerous that I can discern.

I hold it open as best I can and shine the light inside.

A swatch of something yellow and something blue. Is it cloth? Can't quite make it out.

I set the bag down and put on a pair of latex gloves and pick it up again. Then I stick my hand cautiously inside, and my fingers curl around something smooth and thin.

I pull it out and shine the light on it.

What I'm holding is a segment of yellow rope. About ten feet long, tied into a large noose-like knot at one end.

It's not tough to recognize. This is Cattleman rope tied into the three-point lasso. Ropes’ trademark, present at every one of his crime scenes, including the Neruda Dune.

Not sure why it's here though or what it adds at this stage. I
already knew it was Ropes who was behind this.

I peer out into the darkness. Wishing his eyes would glow in the dark and rat him out.

I set the rope down at the edge of the hole and pick the bag up. Whatever's left inside—the blue thing I glimpsed before—weighs next to nothing.

I reach in. It's soft and sleek. I pull it out and shine the beam on it.

It’s dark blue. A folded-up square of acrylic material, some frilly lace along one edge. My first thought is that it’s a tablecloth. The lace reminds me of a doily.

But that's not right. It's too shiny and not the right texture.

No. It's a piece of clothing.

I slowly unfold it, so I can get a better look.

For two or three seconds, what I feel and know is all undefined. Comprehension comes in a strange, cloud-like way. Not in a discrete burst of recognition, but in squirming fragments and slippery percentages.

When understanding does finally coalesce, like some hellish precipitant raining down from the sky, I hear myself whisper, “No. No way”, as if wishing I could rid myself of this new knowledge.

The object in my hand is the blue dress of a young girl.

A blue dress just like the one Danielle was wearing the last time I saw her, when she turned back, and forced herself to smile, and waved good-bye to me.

52

El Paso

Driving back into town. Foot pressed hard on the gas, blazing down the black two-lane.

All the while, I'm dialing Silva’s cell, but he doesn’t pick up.

The rope and the blue dress are on the seat beside me.

Silva talked to Danielle just today. Just this morning. She was safe and sound. It's physically impossible that anything could have happened. Plus if something had happened, I would have known about it the second it did. The cops would have known. Silva would have called.

If we know she's safe, then what's going on? What are the possibilities? I’m doing my best to sort it out, but my mind is going in a hundred directions at once. It's possible that the dress is fake. It's possible that it could have been stolen. Or I could have remembered wrong.

But stop bullshitting yourself. Those suggestions are all ridiculous. But Silva said she was safe. She is safe. So one of them or something else I haven’t considered must be true.

Okay, here's a scenario. The killer saw Danielle from afar wearing the dress. Then he bought a dress like that one to scare the shit out of me. Apparently, he was still shadowing me after Midland, so that’s how it could have happened.

Another possibility is that Silva tossed the dress out—perhaps as a security measure since the APBs might have described it. Then somehow Ropes got his hands on it.

Those are both plausible options. Completely plausible.

And if Danielle had been harmed, a lot more than just a dress
would have been buried there. The dress is proof really that everything's okay.