Total Victim Theory (14 page)

Rose set off for the shed on foot. She thought she might run into Gary and the laborers along the way, but there was no sign of them. The day was hot and the sky was blue and cloudless. In the distance she could see El Paso, about twenty miles to the west, and beyond it, on the other side of the Rio Grande, the polluted air hovering above Ciudad Juárez.

Beyond a tall barbed wire fence on the neighboring property to the west, a vast herd of Black Bell grazed the prickly landscape. The ranch belonged to the Buchholzes, a family with whom the Glattmanns had been on close terms for many years. Rose's heart went out to them, remembering the tragedy that had befallen the family just over a year ago.

Last August, Ann Marie, the Buchholzes’ youngest daughter, had gone missing. The eight-year-old had simply vanished one night from her second-story bedroom. Without warning, without signs of a struggle or a break-in, and without making a peep. The police spent months searching for her, but nothing ever turned up. The only clue they ever found was a partial shoe print in the dust of her windowsill.

The blonde girl had been so pretty. That had to be one of the worst experiences any parent could ever endure. Without closure, the horror would never end.

But today, Rose had her own family horrors to deal with.

Before long, the narrow gravel trail she followed came to a small steep hill. Reaching the summit, she saw the old shed below,
two hundred yards ahead. The square gray structure looked like a child’s cartoon rendering of a house. It was essentially a fifteen-by-fifteen cube with a sloping tar roof and a five-foot-tall door with a small window on either side.

As she neared to within fifty feet of it, she heard something.

She stopped dead in her tracks and cocked her head. At first, all she could discern was that the sound was high pitched. However, a few steps closer and she recognized it as a whimper. It rose and fell as if led by labored breathing.

He was alive.

“Roscoe?” she whispered.

An uneasy joy flooded over her as she rushed across the remaining distance.

She turned the knob, but the door was locked. Taking out the silver key, she inserted it in the lock, but found she was unable to turn it. After several minutes trying to cajole the key to work, she concluded it didn't go to the lock at all. That surprised her. In her mind, she'd felt certain of the fact. She jiggled and tugged at the handle. The door rattled on its flimsy hinges, but wouldn't give. She rammed her shoulder hard against it, also without effect.

The tempo of the whimpering had quickened, as if the creature knew someone was there to help it. The sound was no longer just an expression of pain, but a communication.

“Roscoe,” she said again. This time calling out to him.

The dog, hearing its name, uttered three crisp yelps. Tears came to Rose's eyes. There was so much life and hope in that pathetic and boisterous little bark.

She was smiling. She'd arrived in time. Whatever had happened, that bark conveyed that it was not too late.

But then she thought about the paw. She thought about Garrett doing whatever he'd done and her whole being bloomed with rage. Her hand balled into a fist and her teeth clenched tight. Stepping to the left, she tried to peer in the window but found it was covered on the inside with black construction paper. The same for the right-hand window as well. She rapped her hand against the glass to judge its thickness. The pane was thin and brittle. She needed a rock. Finding one on the ground, she smashed in the window with a decisive thrust. She took care that the rock didn't enter the shed on the follow through—thinking it might hit Roscoe, if he were
waiting there.

Rose removed the torn construction paper and carefully broke off the pieces of glass jutting out around the edges. She peered in, but didn't see Roscoe and could make out few details of the dim interior. The whimpering seemed more eager and hopeful with each passing second.

“It's gonna be okay, baby,” Rose said into the darkness. “Momma's gonna take you home and make you better.”

Although there was a risk of cutting herself on the glass, Rose estimated she could pass through the window by hoisting herself up on her hands and going in headfirst. The sounds seemed to be coming from the back left of the shed's interior. She could probably tumble in without any danger of landing on Roscoe.

Rose took off her flannel shirt and spread it across the jagged lower edge of the window. She then planted her hands on the windowsill and launched herself headlong through the opening. The lunge thrust her center of gravity past the threshold, and she commenced the three-foot free fall from sill to ground. She landed with a thud on the shed's cement floor, pleased to find that she had not been seriously cut in the process. She rose to her feet, frantically scanning the room for the injured creature. Her eyes were still adjusting to the dim interior and her heart beat hard.

To her left, on the floor, was a small aquarium, maybe two feet long and a foot tall. Staring out at her through the glass were three slimy green reptiles. Iguanas or baby alligators—she wasn’t sure. They were pressed up against the glass and for an instant she locked eyes with their six vertical pupils.

She gave a sneer of disgust.

Continuing to look around, she saw that several small saws, a hammer, and a pair of scissors were scattered about on the floor. On a wooden shelf, not far from the lizards, was a plastic jar full of crickets that were jumping spastically about. Next to this was a slightly larger jar that contained two large black spiders.

But still she saw no sign of Roscoe. He must have been tied up in the back corner. A moment later, her eyes honed in on a wooden desk in the back left corner, which she now realized was the source of the current crescendo of yelps. She stepped over to it. There was just one object on the desk, a white cardboard box—maybe three feet long, a foot wide, and a foot tall. The words
Fresh Produce
were written on the sides and the box's rectangular top was secured shut with two squares of silver electrical tape. A series of puncture marks ran across its surface.
Air holes
. From within, she could hear Roscoe rustling about, making terrible, ecstatic yelps.

Rose carefully lifted up the box, feeling the weight of the animal inside. She then turned and rushed out the door, as if being within the shed's bleak interior had become unbearable to her. Right out front, Rose kneeled down and set the box on the ground before her. She fiddled with the electrical tape so the top could be removed and set it aside, bracing herself for the sight of the maimed animal.

“Roscoe?” she said. She reached in to scoop him up then abruptly drew back, let out a gasp, and brought her hand up to her mouth. His cries had stopped. Everything was silent except for his labored breathing.

He turned his face toward her and when she saw him, two plump tears coursed down her cheeks. “Roscoe?” she whispered.

The animal’s eyes were gone and all four of his paws had been removed. Rose heard the scrape of cardboard as the dog drug its body a few inches, as if to be near her. She touched his face and muzzle, the only parts of him that remained familiar to her. He sniffed at her and licked her hand.

The dog produced a weak muffled bark, a hoarse expression that contained so much awareness—seemed to somehow seek from his master an explanation for what had been done. He wanted to comprehend his strange fate. All this was there in that tiny bark. But she also saw that even in this state, he was comforted that she was there, that she had come for him and found him in these last moments.

She grasped that it was enough for him to die with her. Somehow the bond between them overcame—somehow overcame—even this.

In the only action she could conceive to comfort him, she reached down and picked him up out of the dark muck surrounding him and pressed him close to her.

17

Austin

I’m standing in the open doorway of the Chi Omega sorority house. This is the back door that Courtney just unlocked from inside. So I could come in. She peers up at me from two steps down on the stairwell. The stairwell that leads to the basement.

The lights in the basement are off, but there’s just enough lamplight from the yard to fill in the pertinent details of Courtney’s face. (She’s quite attractive in any lighting.)

I guess I look pretty menacing standing over her like this—which explains in part the traces of hesitation on her face. The rest is accounted for by the three or four unsupervised minutes Courtney spent inside the house following the adjournment of our make-out session on the front porch.

“Is everything all right?” I ask.

She sighs. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

It’s always a mistake to let them out of your sight.

Persuading
a girl to do anything is like herding cats. And I do not offer this as a mere idle comparison.

What makes herding cats difficult (this is conjecture—I’ve never actually done it) is that each cat insists on doing its own thing. Chasing string, wanting milk, scratching a post, etc. To coax the entire herd toward a preset destination, you need to tailor your enticements to the whims and preferences of each individual feline. A tedious and time-consuming business.

The female mind is likewise composed of many diverse and unaligned impulses. In place of capricious kitties, substitute: motives, desires, rationales. Examples: the wish to be in a stable
relationship, the need to feel safe and protected, the aversion to having friends label you as
promiscuous
.

The “cat herder” must fashion a dozen species of specious logic to satisfy the many facets of the feminine mystique. Only then would the conglomerate press forward en masse. Only then could a woman be
convinced
to do something, whether this be agreeing to go on a date, consenting to sex, or getting into an unfamiliar vehicle.

Courtney’s hesitation indicates she has qualms about what she’s doing. That is to say, her kitties are not aligned.

It’s nothing to get irritated about. The concerns just have to be addressed.

“Hey, we don’t have to do this tonight. You know that, right?” I say.

“I don’t mean to be hot and cold but—”

I step down toward her, interrupting her explanation with a hard kiss on the mouth. She resists at first but soon relents. I run my hands down the length of her body and pull her toward me, gently but unambiguously.

A moment later, I feel her push back, her fickle ardor rekindled. Note how her eyes are closed. This is good. As is the low moan she emits in response to what my hands are doing.

Lust is the universal catnip. The sole elixir capable of winning the allegiance of the full female tribe. Unfortunately its influence is fleeting, often lasting only a minute or two without further follow-up.

When I see Courtney is really into it, I disentangle our tongues and draw back from her. “I don’t want to rush anything, Courtney. I want you to be comfortable and if this sneaking around isn’t conducive to—”

“Let’s go inside,” she says.

I nod. Hopefully, there will be no further last-minute resistance.

“Did anyone see you?” Courtney whispers.

“When I came through the yard? I don’t think so,” I say.

“Come on, but be absolutely silent.”

She pulls me farther inside and squeezes by me. Closes the door and locks it. Then she squeezes by again and descends the stairs.

Courtney is a sweet girl. She has a good heart. Even if she’s playing “trap the guy,” she’s doing it in good faith. If I were who I seem to be, she and I might have ended up happily married.

It’s weird to think about. Maybe even a bit sad.

“Be careful,” Courtney cautions. “If you fall and break your neck, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Here, I have a flashlight.” I take off my backpack and fumble to unzip the main compartment. I take out my heavy, police-issue Maglite.

Of course I know Courtney will probably find the fact that I have a flashlight puzzling. She may be subtly—or not so subtly—disconcerted. This is the point. I create the suggestion of menace and then explain it away. Throw her rational mind a bone, but let the disquiet linger on a deeper level.

“Why do you have a flashlight?” she asks.

“I was a Boy Scout,” I whisper. “Always prepared.” I make quotation marks in the air around these last two words. But Courtney cannot see them in the dark.

The essence of fear is slow growth. Like the stock market.

And fear is important. It’s what pierces the veil between your world and my own.

Notice how my voice has changed. The tone lower, darker.

I’m speaking more seriously now.

A lot of people can’t tell when I’m joking. Can’t discern when a comment contains a hint of irony or when I’m assuming some voice not quite my own. (Courtney is quite attuned to this, actually. She’s really a bright girl.)

As a rule of thumb, assume I’m being ironic.

But not now—at the moment I’m speaking with the utmost sincerity. Though, to be fair, I often make this claim, even in moments when I’m shamelessly lying to someone’s face.

Nonetheless, all concerns about my veracity can, for the moment, be set aside since these are my thoughts, forming inside my own head, not some manipulated version intended for an audience.

Lies, you see, are for others only.

After all, if you lie to yourself, the whole notion of truth gets drawn into question. Doesn’t it?

And truth, I think we can all agree, is important. Without it,
the mind is but an endless cycle of desire and gratification, unanchored to any fixed point or sacred object.

To avoid such a deplorable state of affairs, it’s necessary for each of us to cultivate a
true self
—an inner voice that speaks with accuracy and authority at all times.

I call mine “Frank”.

Since Frank is a complete and authentic expression of me, indivisible from me, it stands to reason that he’s also incapable of deceiving me. Unless, of course, he is himself a liar, forever duping me about my motives, the nature of reality, etc. In that case, I guess I would be shit out of luck.