Total Victim Theory (44 page)

Porter takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Look, I would guess most of the people you profile do what they do for particular reasons. Someone kills a girl that reminds him of his mom. Someone else develops the delusion that he's collecting souls for the afterlife. Someone else was in the army and he figured out that he pops a woody when he puts a slug in somebody's skull. You see how those things are arbitrary? If the person were just born in another place or time, the pattern wouldn’t have developed. Do you follow me?”

“I think so.”

“Well with Tad it wasn't arbitrary. He would have been what he is, no matter what. It's just a property of his soul.”

“So you're saying your brother was just a born sadist?”

“No—because it's not about hurting people. It's not about any of that shit. Any of the usual things you guys blame it on—lust, or violence, or insecurity, or revenge, or power.”

“Then what's it about?”

Porter put his head into his hands. He spoke without looking up, his voice a whisper. “It's about possession.”

The way he said these words gave Bloom a chill. “What do you mean?”

“There's no way I can explain it. It's just one of those things that's not reducible to words.” Luke raised his head. There was a new intensity in his eyes and his voice quavered with emotion. “When you kill someone, that person becomes part of you. Their death, the most intimate experience they can ever share with anyone, they share with you. Just you. Every detail becomes crucial. Something you want to hold onto. And the grounds where you kill them become sacred, and you will always be drawn back there. And they're gone, but they still exist, but only inside you. And as long as you remember, remember perfectly, then you contain them, you possess them, and you two are one forever. . . .” Porter trailed off. His hands were shaking. “Do you understand?”

Bloom stared at him, bewildered by the eerie monologue. A change had come over Porter while he spoke. Like he was channeling something, a ghost or some hidden part of himself.
“What you're describing—are you talking about Tad, or yourself, or just in general?”

“I told you I'm talking about him—about Tad.” Porter’s face flushed with anger. “Of course, I'm talking about Tad,” he repeated, his tone lower and more restrained.

Bloom studied Porter for a moment, and then returned to his questions, doing his best not to draw attention to the peculiar outburst. “So possession—that's the main thing motivating Tad's crimes?”

“The only thing. Everything he does, every detail of his crimes, is a manifestation of this. What he does to the victims when they're alive. What he does to them when he kills them, and what he does to them after.” Porter sounded calmer now.

“Can you give me an example?” asked Bloom

“Keeping his victims’ eyes,” Porter said.

“That’s something he’s always done?”

“Yeah.”

Bloom twirled his ballpoint pen in his hand. “I know we'd said this wouldn't focus on you.” He paused and tried to phrase his next statement in the most inoffensive way possible. “But do you see any similarities between what motivated your brother and your own crimes?”

“No,” came the curt response.

“My thought was that growing up in the same environment and being exposed to many of the same—”

“No. I don't see any similarities between our crimes. Maybe superficially, but not. . . .” He runs his fingers through his hair. “No, not at all. If anything, we're exact opposites.”

“Can you expand on that?”

“We were never alike. And even if we had been, we're not anymore. A person isn't always the same—no, never mind. We've agreed not to discuss me or my case. You need to honor that.” Red blotches have appeared on Luke's face and neck. A silence passes. A moment later, he’s regained his composure. “Now what other questions do you have?”

Bloom cleared his throat and referred to some notes on a legal pad in front of him. “You've talked about the ranch hands. That you and Tad were present when a number of them were killed. . . .” Bloom trailed off, trying to collect his thoughts.

“What's the question?”

“The question is,” said Bloom, “were there other victims besides the workers?”

“Meaning, did Tad kill anyone other than ranch hands?”

“Yes,” Bloom said.

Luke draws a deep breath. “Yes, he did.”

“Did you personally witness these events?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Could you describe one of them?”

“No,” he says.

“Why not?”

“I owe my brother that much loyalty. I'll leave those crimes for him to confess.”

“I don't understand. What do you mean you'll leave those—”

“I don't know. . . .” The emotion on Porter's face was half anger, half confusion. “Because I just don't want to talk about it. It's too close to home, too close to family . . . and because of the age. . . .” Porter trailed off.

“The age of the victims?” Bloom asked.

Porter’s face took on a haunted, almost fearful look. “Victim,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“You’re referring to one event in particular?”

“I'm done talking about this.”

“Was this a crime that you participated in?”

“I said I'm done talking about this.”

A few moments passed in silence. Then Bloom reached out and stopped the recorder.

55

Colorado

I just committed suicide for the third time in three nights.

This being night three of
Antony and Cleopatra
. I being Cleopatra.

I wonder if I will eventually develop an immunity to asp venom?

I wear a blue Egyptian gown and sandals. A yellow bracelet with hieroglyphs.

The performance just ended.

I’m backstage. Hand-in-hand with the rest of the cast, waiting for the curtain to rise.

Dark. Exhausted. Panting.

My first lead since the
Pajama Game
in high school.
A lead in a Shakespeare play.
This was always my dream.

Sometimes your dreams come true and you barely even notice. Things just fall in your lap and you don’t stop and say
holy shit, this is really happening
.

Well, it's happening.

It’s been such a crazy year.

I have to admit that before I got the role, I was only lukewarm about the play. I liked it, but was never head over heels.
Macbeth
and
Othello
always had my heart.

Now I am
in love
with Cleopatra.

She’s part of me. Like a Siamese twin that shares my brain, and I think her thoughts and she thinks mine. And if a surgeon tried to cut us apart, both of us would die. I spend so much time with Cleopatra inside me, I've become so familiar with her poetry, that
there are moments when she disappears completely, and it's just me thinking her thoughts. Or maybe it's me that disappears completely in her. But there is just one person, one Cleopatra, alone on stage.

It’s nice to have places like that to escape to.

And the reviews of my performances have been good. A few, even glowing. I worry that some of the praise is out of pity—a lot of people know what happened to me this year. But I think some of it may be genuine. I like to think that what happened deepened me the way a flood carves out a river bed, so that now I can lend that sorrow to the people I become onstage. I like to think the audience senses this.

Finally, the curtain rises and we walk out. Deafening applause. Blinding lights. Six hundred smiling faces.

We take a collective bow and the applause reaches a crescendo. The sound is so loud and uniform it has the monotony of silence.

I look out at the crowd.

My eye catches a smile, a pair of lips that remind me of
his
. About twenty rows back on the right side of the mezzanine. Just this tiny flash is enough to make my heart skip a beat.

Someone in the front row calls to me and I turn. When I turn back, the face is gone. I scan the section. But nothing.

And that’s all it takes. For my mind to be back in that place. Back in the thick of it.

I picture him standing before me. When he brought the knife down on my finger.

My body begins to shake.

Of course that wasn’t him in the crowd. This happens two or three times a week. He’s always lurking just beneath the surface. Waiting for any excuse, any flimsy association, to make an appearance in my thoughts.

He too is part of who I am, like Cleopatra. The seeds of that experience were scattered all through me. They grow like ivy on a tree, and he tangles and winds into everything that’s happened since. Fusing with everything that I become.

Yet, I would have sworn that smile was his. Or his twin’s—

Or his brother’s.

Now, there's a thought with a bit more purchase. Luke’s safely under lock and key, so being afraid of him is irrational. We can't
say the same for his brother, who's still on the loose. Bloom told me all about him—the whole twisted story. Of course, he said there was nothing to worry about. That he's never been anywhere near Colorado. As far as we know.

Tad. The Monster of Juárez. He's still out there, free to stalk the open night.

A chill runs down my spine.

This isn’t the first time the notion’s crossed my mind—that Tad might “take an interest in me.” It’s not so far-fetched, really. I sent his brother to jail. That could be a motive, if he were really looking for one.

We take a second bow and I again scan the crowd.

I wonder if
they
have the same smile.

*

I’m still jumpy in the dressing room. No one notices though. I’m good at keeping things like that under wraps. I run a sponge over my face, taking off the pink makeup that brightens my pale skin. I change out of my costume and into a blouse and blue jeans.

Already thinking about the walk to my car in the parking lot. Thinking about the vulnerability of those steps.

Tad, if he were inclined to do so, could find me. Could be waiting in the parking lot, or anywhere. And there’s nothing I or anyone could do to stop him. My safety rests on the hope that I never cross his mind.

Why is it always the spooky ones that get away? It's almost like they know they'll never catch him—at least that's the vibe I got when Bloom talked about him. Like it's just his nature to be at large—a bit of him sprinkled in every alleyway and beneath every parked car, and right over every shoulder. Like it was just his role to keep us scared shitless.

The fear is just something I need to learn to live with.

The cast is going to a bar on Pearl Street for a beer. I guess I should join them, but I’m not sure I’m up for the company.

Leaving the dressing room, I run into Greg—he plays Octavius in the play. I ask him if he’ll walk me to my car. I don’t offer him an explanation but the look of sympathy in his eyes says that he understands.

We walk out of Mackie Auditorium, down the main stairs and
out into the parking lot. There are overhead lights. Enough that you can see the shapes of people, but not their faces. It’s been thirty minutes since the play got out, and the parking lot is mostly empty. Maybe fifteen cars are left.

I feel stupid for asking Greg to do this. There’s obviously nothing dangerous here. Getting bent out of shape about a smile in a dark audience is delusional. That tiny glimpse gave rise to a whole rippling of unfounded fear. And now, instead of basking in my success, I’m worrying about someone stalking me.

Greg and I don’t say much as we walk to my car. When we get there, I stand, facing him.

“Thanks a lot,” I say.

“It looks like the coast is clear,” he says.

“I was being silly. Just a paranoid moment. But it's past.”

“No, it's smart. No one would say it's silly after . . . what's happened.” He glances at my hand. At the prosthetic thumb and the scar where my index finger was reattached.

I smile and fumble through my purse. Keys jingle.

I take the key fob into my hand and push the button. But something's not right. It doesn’t make the sound it should.

“So you're going to join us over at Catacombs?” Greg asks.

I’m not sure I heard the shifting of the car lock. The way I should when it goes from the locked to the unlocked position. I must look worried because Greg asks me if anything's wrong.

“No . . . nothing,” I say. “I just thought my car door was unlocked. It’s nothing.”

Greg peers into the car window, presumably to check that no one is hiding within.

Exhibit two of paranoia twisting things, turning a harmless detail into the plot of a horror movie. I say “twisting” but it's really “inventing.” How sure am I what sound that lock made? It’s somewhere in that gray zone between the two that you start officially losing your marbles.

“I’m being an idiot, Greg,” I say and give a sigh. “Yeah, I’ll see you guys over there—Catacombs, sure.”

“Okay, great,” he says. “Winding down with a beer will take the edge off.”

“For sure.”

He reaches down and gives me a hug. I pat him on the back
and he releases me, then turns and walks away.

I start my car and sit there for a moment. I'm really not feeling up to the Catacombs. Way too frazzled and jittery. It would be too much effort to pretend I was having fun. I turn my lights on and drive toward the gate at the edge of the parking lot.

Literally two seconds later, a car at the far side of the parking lot flips its lights on as well. I watch it in the rearview mirror. A maroon Audi with a black shape in the driver’s seat.

I didn’t see anybody come out and get in their car. So that means someone was waiting. Sitting there.

Shut up, Nicole. You have to stop yourself right when you feel this happening. You know when. Not every pair of headlights portends a mass murderer. Normal people sit in cars. I was just sitting in my car. Or the person could have walked up when I was talking to Greg.

That’s how you talk yourself down—and keep a lid on the crazies.

I drive up to the toll gate and stop. In my rearview mirror, I watch the car with the lights on. It doesn’t move. I scan my parking pass and the toll gate rises. I hit the gas and drive out, turning right onto Arapahoe. The car doesn’t follow me and vanishes from my sight as I round the corner.