Total Victim Theory (33 page)

Bradley wrinkled his brow. “That's the way the law works. And, frankly, they weren't supposed to be here in the first place.”

“I hear you, officer. The law's job isn't to make exceptions. But here's the thing . . . you see this guy's wife's real sick. Leukemia.” Gary leaned in close to the cop and put his hand on the other man's shoulder. “Now Arturo and his boy came out here to earn some cash so she can have an operation. She may be a goner either way, but with the money from this job, she'll at least have a fighting chance.”

Bradley looked down at his feet. “I always try not to make personal exceptions,” he said and then trailed off. “But how much longer would they be here?”

“Only about six weeks longer.”

“That's a fairly short timeframe, I suppose.”

“That's what I was thinking. Either way, they're back in Mexico in the short term,” Gary said. “But if we could think of any alternative to booking him that might help with his situation. . . .”

Bradley shifted about uncomfortably. “I mean legally, the next step is to book the guy. That's pretty cut-and-dried.” He swallowed. “What did you have in mind?”

“What if we just talk to him? What if instead of blowing his one chance, we have a come-to-Jesus meeting with him? Let him know that if he so much as jaywalks from here on out, it's game over.” Gary squeezed the cop's shoulder. “Look, I know it’s not your job to hand out get-out-of-jail-free cards, so if you need to stick to your guns, I’m one hundred percent behind you.”

The cop rubbed his hand over his face and thought it over. Then he put on a grave expression. “Well, we do try to, you know, enforce things equally, but I’d be lying if I told you that officers don’t take personal circumstances into account. . . .”

Gary knew right then he had it in the bag. He let the cop go on with his justifications, largely tuning them out, while nodding gravely and thinking about what he'd say to the Mexican to keep him from screaming his head off.

Bradley seemed to be concluding his remarks. “So, if you're convinced a warning will get the message across, I'm willing to go
that route. But I want us to let him know in no uncertain terms—and I mean right now—that if he doesn't clean up his act, next time we'll throw the book at him, regardless of his family situation.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Gary.

“How's your Spanish? Can you communicate with him?”

“I think I can get the point across.”

“Mine's nonexistent, so I'll leave the translation to you,” Bradley said. “And I know you're his friend, but don't sugarcoat it. Let him know it's serious.”

“Watch his face. See if you think we put the fear of God in him.”

The two men walked around to the far side of the police car, where Bradley opened the back door and gestured for Gary to get in. Gary took a seat beside the Mexican, who looked like he was about to shit himself, if he hadn't already. That look was priceless. He had no fucking clue what was going on. He was literally speechless. Gary directed an icy stare his way. To his surprise, the Mexican met his gaze, a terrified but defiant look flashing in his eyes.

The cop went back around to the driver's side and got in.

Gary spoke in Spanish. “So you thought you'd run off and squawk to the police, you son of a bitch. Well, guess what?” He leaned in so close he could smell the spic’s bad breath. “That's not the way it works on this particular cattle ranch.”

41

Mexico

After leaving the ranch house, I return to the Ambassador Hotel. I turn in for the night, but sleep is an impossibility. Hour after hour I lay there in the dark and watch the neon green numbers on the alarm clock blink by. All the while I’m thinking about those six faces in the bathtub. I knew them once. Long ago, back when they had bodies and I was someone else.

Recognition is nudging everything.

Wake up, wake up.

And things are stirring. Deep beneath the surface. Memories digging themselves out. Scraggly survivors trying to free themselves from the clutches of a mass grave. A terrible pressure along the borders of my mind. Phantoms yearning to appear and half-appearing, like disfigured shapes lurking about behind stained-glass windows. And these ghosts are each moment getting clearer, rendering themselves more distinct.

I keep seeing a red barn.

And a cabin in flames.

I want to push these specters down. Shovel on more dirt. But something tells me it's too late for that.

There's a big picture whose outline I'm just beginning to see.

In Mustang and Midland I convinced myself that I slipped through the killer's fingers because I was quick or because I outwitted him or because I was just lucky. But I’m no longer sure such hopeful explanations can hold water. He must have been practically in the same room with me a time or two. The truth is that he could have ended me, ended us, no questions asked.

So what do we have to thank for his inscrutable mercy?

I'll take a stab at an answer—

I'm alive because he wants me to remember. Needs me, for his own muddled and opaque purposes, to see how it's all connected.

And the crime at the dune and all the details surrounding it are there to prompt and summon what's locked away inside me. The ledger, and the dune, and the heads. He's using them like spells to awaken the dead. He needs me to know something. Some lost and obliterated truth.

And all these rumblings and tremors in my mind make me think he's close to getting what he wants.

*

At 7 a.m. Silva calls me. Says he needs to come by.

We meet for breakfast at the restaurant in the hotel. I ask him about Danielle, and he says he just spoke with the officers at the safe house. It was a quiet night, and everyone’s still sound asleep. I heave a needless sigh—for I knew well they were safe. But even if I were updated every minute, I'd be fretting at the thirty-second mark.

After we order, Silva takes the Ropes file out of his briefcase and passes it across the table to me. “There's one other lead, but I didn't get a chance to follow up on it, with all that was going on yesterday.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Do you remember your hunch about the six other names—the ones in the ledger that didn't match up with any of the victims?”

“Of course,” I say. The hunch being that these six individuals—identified in the ledger only as Raul, Arturo, Ramon, Jorge, Fernando, and Esteban, if alive, might know something vital to the case. Either about the identity of the killer or about the nefarious cattle ranch the ledger seems to pertain to.

Silva wipes his mouth with a napkin. “While you were out of town, I did some follow-up on that. Talked to friends and relatives of the victims, trying to identify mutual acquaintances of the dead men who happened to have one of those six first names.”

“And what did you come up with?” I anxiously ask.

“Take a look at the page of notes paper clipped to the back cover.”

I flip open the folder and find the page he's referring to. Perusing his notes, I see that toward the bottom he's circled a first and last name along with an address. “Ramon Cernuda,” I say. “You think he's one of the six that's unaccounted for?”

“His first name matches up, and he knew four of the victims.”

I lean forward in my chair. “Do we know anything about him?”

“Not much. He's fifty-five years old. An artist of some sort. No criminal history.”

“How did he know the others?”

“He met all four of them in Texas. They got to be friends when they worked together and stayed in touch ever since.”

“Where did they work?” I ask.

“That's the really interesting part.” Silva smiles. “They all worked together on a cattle ranch.”

“Holy shit,” I say. “We're getting right down to it now. Did you find out anything about the ranch?”

“No one knew exactly, but the location most frequently mentioned was—get this—” Silva looks me in the eyes. “El Paso.”

“Fuck me,” I say in disbelief. “I guess the wheel has come full circle.”

“No one knew the name of the ranch, but—”

“Hopefully Ramon will be able to help us out with that one,” I say, signaling to the waitress for the check. “We have the address. Should we swing by and see what Mr. Cernuda can tell us?”

“Therein lies the problem,” Silva says with a shrug. “Luna and I are in charge of the stakeout at the hacienda. Ochoa thinks Ropes might still be using the place and could show up anytime. I'm due over there in half an hour and have to stay put till this evening.”

“Well, that's a smart move,” I say. “The house is probably our best bet at the moment.” I drum my fingers on the table. “So, sounds like I'm on my own with Ramon Cernuda.”

Silva looks at me apologetically. “Unless you want to wait till I get off—”

“No chance,” I say. “We can't sit on something this promising for a whole day.”

“Want me to send a couple of officers out there with you?”

“We don't have any reason to think Cernuda is Ropes, do we?”

“No, Cernuda doesn't fit the build by a long shot. He's about twenty years too old for one thing. Plus, he'd been lifelong friends
with those men.”

“Then I would say no backup is necessary.”

“On the other hand, knowing the victims could put him next in line to be a victim himself,” Silva points out. “Might not be the safest situation to walk into.”

“Sounds like a long shot,” I say. “But better safe than sorry.”

Silva arranges for me to meet up with a couple of his guys near District C in an hour, so they can accompany me to Cernuda's residence.

*

After Silva leaves, I go back up to my room and log onto NCIC with my laptop. I've gotten in the habit of checking whether any warrants have been issued against me at every opportunity. Within thirty seconds, I'm apprised of the bad news. This morning at 8:12, a warrant for my arrest was issued in Lancaster County—where Midland is located—on charges of kidnapping and aggravated assault.

Shit.

Though this wasn't unexpected, it's still a significant complication. We're a long way from Midland, which may buy me some time. If there’s any heat on me, hopefully Silva will catch wind of it first and be able to tip me off. Still, I'll need to keep a much lower profile from now on. I'll have to stay clear of public venues and avoid running into anyone from the local PD. With this in mind, I ring Silva and tell him to nix my security escort. This morning, I'll be going it alone.

*

Ramon Cernuda lives at 1030 Calle de Las Arañas, Lot 254. It's a trailer park in Distrito Las Ramblas. Silva says it should take me no more than half an hour to get there from the Ambassador. However, with a few strategic wrong turns, I easily double that estimate.

Around 10 a.m., I pass a rusty iron gate that marks the boundary of a trailer park. Not long after, I locate Lot 254 and pull up to the curb a half-block up the street.

Through the rearview mirror, I study the property.

The lot contains a brown double-wide trailer and a small yard
surrounded by a two-foot tall picket fence. From here, it looks like the entire yard from the fence to the front door is filled with junk. It's hard to tell what all the clutter is, but it gives the impression of a garage sale gone drastically awry.

I study the windows and the area around the mobile home. The only motion comes from a red-and-blue pinwheel attached to the top of the mailbox that's turning in a light breeze. Other than the clutter, nothing strikes me as out of the ordinary. Certainly nothing suggests Señor Cernuda has met with any unsavory end. On the other hand, there's nothing to suggest he hasn't.

With a pang of trepidation, I draw my gun and step out of the car. Barrel pointed at the ground, I tiptoe along the sidewalk till I reach the edge of the lot. There I pause, listening. The only sound is the soft clanging of a wind chime that dangles near the trailer's entrance. If there's a footpath, it's completely lost beneath this layer of junk that covers almost every square inch of the yard.

I step over the picket fence and wade my way toward the front door. From the ground, dozens of dolls and action figures peer up at me. There are also model cars and miniature dwellings made of Legos and Lincoln Logs. My first thought is that these are the abandoned toys of neighborhood children. But then I realize these items haven't just been haphazardly left behind. On the contrary, everything seems arranged, each object carefully positioned in relation to the others. Then I notice that the dolls and miniature houses have tiny hand-made adornments: hats, gun belts, chimneys, bunk beds, welcome mats.

The complex arrangements remind me of the nativity scenes people display at Christmas or the elaborate buildings and figures set up around model trains. Then I remember that Silva said Cernuda is some type of artist. Are these tiny depictions a part of his work?

One section in particular catches my eye and I stop to get a better look. It's a cabin made of Lincoln Logs. Parts of the logs have been cut away in two places to make windows. Meanwhile, the entire back wall of the structure has been removed, apparently to permit a view of the tiny dwelling's ornately decorated interior. Six pairs of bunk beds—complete with cotton ball pillows—have been fashioned out of popsicle sticks. Eight of the beds are filled with GI Joe action figures, snugly sleeping beneath tiny sheets. The
four remaining beds are empty. Two are neatly made up, and two have their sheets pulled back and wrinkled, as if someone's sleep had been interrupted. There's something ominous about the setup that I can’t quite put my finger on.

I stare transfixed and feel goosebumps cropping up on my arms. And it doesn’t escape my attention that the picture that appeared in my mind before was also a cabin.

Suddenly, that image returns, along with the red barn. I can see it more clearly now. And there are people, too. A tall man, a teenager, and a younger boy. Their faces are still blurry, but they're becoming each moment more distinct, materializing like Star Trek crew members who’ve been beamed back aboard the ship.

I turn away from the little cabin. Give my head a shake to ward off the troubling montage it seems to be provoking. I keep making my way toward the door. But my mind's agitated now, puzzling away at what I've just seen, and puzzled by how it's affecting me. A moment later, I come to steps that rise to the front door. After a second’s hesitation, I march up and rap my knuckles firmly on the Plexiglas storm door.