Total Victim Theory (31 page)

And if one of them knew, he had to assume they all did.

The bottom line was that the jig was up.

Gary had always known these wetbacks would get him into trouble one day. They could fuck up a rock fight, as his mom used to say. He wanted to mull over the options, but there weren't many to mull. The cops were coming—he'd give them fifteen minutes tops—and he needed to get the fuck out of Dodge. No two ways about it. The Jeep in the garage was a little bunged up, but it would make a serviceable getaway car.

That being said, he wasn’t going anywhere until he had the cash and the loot from the safe. He'd be damned if anyone was gonna take that away from him without a fight. As for the rest of the spics—if there were even any left that hadn’t fled the property—teaching them a hard lesson would have to be worked into the departure plan. You couldn’t let a bunch of wetbacks drive you out of town without doing something about it. The Bible had its moments, but he'd never been a turn-the-other-cheek kind of guy.

Then there was the issue of the boys . . .

He gave the thick scruff on his neck a scratch.

They'd have to be left behind, he supposed. Kids weren't much use on the lam and they were old enough to fend for themselves. He'd send them off to deal with the Mexicans while he packed up and moseyed on out of there. By noon tomorrow, he’d be sitting pretty on a beach in Mexico, Corona in hand—thinking about whatever people think about when they've got nothing on their mind. Yeah, he liked the sound of that. But he needed to get it in gear.

He went back in the house and called Luke and Tad out of their rooms. Both boys appeared in the hall, and he told them what had just happened.

“Which one of the Mexicans was it?” Tad asked.

“Don't know. Don't care,” said Gary.

Luke looked worried. “What are we going to do, Dad?”

“We're all going to fry, that's what,” Tad said with a smile.

“No, we're not,” said Gary. “First of all, they're not going to catch us. And second of all, Texas doesn't have the electric chair anymore.”

“I was speaking metaphorically, Pops,” Tad said. “I know we'd die by lethal injection.”

“We'll try to avoid that, if at all possible,” Gary said. “Now here's the plan and this is important, so listen up. You two are gonna work as a team and help me take care of any of those sonsofbitches that are left in the bunkhouse. Are you guys willing to help me out with that?”

“Of course,” Luke said.

“Tad?”

Tad smirked. “Yeah, no problem.”

“Good. Now Luke, I’m gonna need you to go into the kitchen. In the drawer next to the fridge there’s a big padlock with the key in it. Take it and grab one of my Bic lighters, and then wait for Tad by the front door. Comprendo?”

Luke nodded. “What are we gonna do to them?”

“We're gonna burn these fuckers up,” said Gary. “Now get a move on—we only have a couple of minutes.”

Luke scrambled off toward the kitchen.

“Okay, Tad,” Gary continued. “You’re gonna take a couple of gas canisters from the garage. Make sure they're full. Then, get your brother and hustle over to the bunkhouse. Be real quiet though—'cause hopefully they're still asleep. Put the padlock through the outer latch and lock 'em in. Then pour the gas—”

“I get it. It’s not rocket science.”

“Listen—pour the gas but don’t light it yet. I don’t want it going up till we’re ready to get out of here. When you hear me honk, torch it. I’ll pick you guys up on your way back. In the meantime, just stand guard and wait. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Tad. “But where are we going?”

“California,” Gary said. “I’ve got a couple of distant cousins there.”

He held his son's eyes. There was something strange in the way Tad looked at him. Was it sadness? An inkling of betrayal? He wasn't sure if his son suspected something or if it was just his imagination.

Gary grabbed his son by the shoulder as he turned to go. “And
go get that .357 out of my nightstand. You might need it.”

Tad turned and disappeared into Gary's bedroom.

“Nothing to it, but to do it,” Gary said to himself as he crossed the hall and went into the study.

The room was still drenched in red. Who would have guessed little Emilia had so much blood in her? He put the ledger back into the bottom drawer, then pulled the entire drawer out and free of its hinges. There was enough incriminating shit in there that it'd be worth his while to take it with him. Better to be suspected of a couple of murders than thirty-five.

Gary opened the garage door and set the desk drawer on the floorboard of the Jeep. He stepped out of the garage and scanned the horizon for any sign of police. Nothing. To his right he saw the dim outlines of Tad and Luke slinking off toward the bunkhouse, each awkwardly lugging a canister of gas.

This was probably the last he'd see of them.

Gary had never had much problem with Luke, so there was some regret about leaving him behind. Tad, however, was a different story. He was a bad seed, from day one. His mind was fucked up, broken in a way Gary would never understand. If you killed a few workers here and there to help your bottom line, that was business. But killing people to see them suffer, that was sick.

He was partially to blame, he supposed. Giving them too much freedom and too little guidance in the years since Garrett and Rose did each other in and converted this into a single-parent household. But the even bigger mistake was taking Tad into his confidence in regards to the “family business.” If someone didn’t think a kid's influence could be that pernicious, they didn’t know this kid. Over a three-year span, the ranch had gone from an occasional killing under very select circumstances, to what was basically a death camp on a budget.

Even the alligators were the kid's idea. Tad had thought of it after he shoved a drunk into Lagartos Fountain late one night when they were down in Juárez recruiting ranch hands. Tad had watched the dying man with utter absorption. The kid’s eyes had twinkled, like a normal child's on Christmas morning. Later Tad had said, “If we had a couple of those, you'd never have to dig another grave.” A few bribes to city officials and a custom-made carrying case, and the rest was history.

At that moment, Tad and Luke disappeared over the first hill. So long, Buckaroos. Good or bad, they were still his children.

Aware that time was of the essence now, Gary hustled back in the house and opened up the large safe inset in the floor beneath his nightstand. Inside were watches, wads of cash fastened with rubber bands, jewelry, and the IDs of “terminated” workers. Gary loaded everything into a black trash bag and dropped it all off in the Jeep. He was just about to drive off when he saw bad news pulling into the drive. A pair of headlights near the main gate. The blue-and-whites on top were switched off, but with the way it was creeping along, Gary instantly knew it was a patrol car.

He thought about just hopping in the Jeep and blazing out of there, but, then again, high-speed chases almost never ended well.

“Can I ever get a fucking break?” he muttered. Then with a reluctant sigh, Gary flipped off the garage light and strode back into the house to grab his rifle.

39

Mexico

After I part ways with Danielle and Silva, I drive across town and check into the Ambassador Hotel. Silva made me the reservation. He said it's where diplomats and heads of state stay when they're really keen on not getting killed during their visits. The massive white wall and gun turrets seem to lend credence to the proposition that security here is pretty tight.

I do my best not to fret about Danielle or second-guess my decision. Everything points to this being the safest option. And yet, every few minutes a jolt of panic will shoot through me, some morbid notion that I've made a terrible mistake and that I may never see her again. Yet, it’s my own demise that's far more likely to prevent our reunion than hers. At least there's consolation there. But there I go again with my glass-half-empty worldview. Wish I could cheer up and recognize that the forecast is a hell of a lot sunnier now than it was a day ago.

In my room I log onto the NCIC Criminal History database and learn that the Shermans filed a report of kidnapping on January 19th, the day of the abduction. Good. At least that means they made it to the station. It had crossed my mind that they might not get that far, given Ropes’ proximity and all the attention he was paying to their home. Hopefully, they also heeded my advice on staying clear of the whole area.

A further relief comes when I see that no warrants have been issued in my name in any US county. Perhaps it's too early to say, but this may mean that investigators failed to link me to the physical description provided by the Shermans. Let's hope that my
luck holds out. Ropes is an earnest enough pursuer without adding the Bureau into the mix.

I drop my immediate supervisor a line over e-mail, stating that I've returned to El Paso, where I'm suffering from a stomach bug so debilitating it's kept me from even writing till now. Perhaps this is a bit far-fetched, but it will at least prevent the Bureau from regarding me as a missing person.

A little after 5 p.m., Silva calls. His wife and our girls have been successfully sequestered away in what he attests is a very secure and comfortable hideaway. He says he'll be at the hotel in fifteen minutes so we can go check out the latest development—what he’s calling the “secondary crime scene.”

*

Silva picks me up in the Land Cruiser and we drive through town. I considered declining the invite, in view of my dubious legal status, but reconsidered. Until a warrant's issued, I've decided, I'm just going to go about my business. There's no point hiding from a threat that doesn't yet exist. Besides, if I want to help solve this thing, avoiding the rest of the force is hardly the way to do it.

Our destination is just outside the city. There's a lot of traffic because it's close to rush hour and the going is slow.

“What is this place exactly?” I ask.

“It's a hacienda just outside of town. Looks like Ropes may have been using it as a crash pad, before and after the murders. I don't know all the details yet, but Montalvo—who’s there with Luna now—said it looks really promising.”

“How did they come across it? What was the lead?”

“That's the interesting part. Montalvo and Luna were assigned to follow up on Adrian Caiman, one of the three
possibles
from our first suspect roster.”

“The only one who wasn't eliminated,” I point out.

“Exactly,” says Silva. “You'll recall Caiman dropped out of sight after his conviction was tossed out.”

“Yeah, but I thought the trail was pretty dead on him?”

“It was, until Montalvo went back and took a close look at the records. During his trial for the six murders, Caiman's lawyer called five character witnesses. Montalvo and Luna spent the last
few days trying to track them down—”

“In case he'd contacted them after his release?” I ask.

“Right,” said Silva. “Three of the five said they hadn't heard a word from him. The last two—a couple, last name Esposito—no one could get a hold of. However, they own a home here in Juárez, so Montalvo and Luna paid a visit. No one answered the door, but there were signs of forced entry in a basement window. When our boys barged in, they found themselves in the middle of the crime scene.”

“How did the Espositos know Caiman?”

“They worked with him at the traveling circus back when the murders took place. They were part owners and managers of the business, and it was the woman, Andrea, who hired Caiman in the first place. She maintained his innocence at the trial and actually suggested that another worker was responsible for the crimes. On cross, the prosecutor tried to impugn her testimony by suggesting she and Caiman were romantically involved—something she repeatedly denied.”

“And where are the Espositos now?”

“We don't know. They have a second home on the beach near Puerto Vallarta, but so far, no one's been able to locate them.”

Before long, Silva and I are somewhere in the outskirts of Juárez. There are a lot of large hacienda-style dwellings that are spaced fairly far apart. Silva eventually turns into a long dirt driveway leading to a sprawling brown stucco structure. Up ahead I see the familiar yellow crime scene tape and the convoy of police vehicles. Silva parks and we walk up toward the front door, which stands open. Lights are on inside and the place is crawling with police and detectives. No sooner have we set foot inside than we're greeted by Montalvo and Luna.

“Haven't seen you in a while, Radley,” says Luna. “Thought maybe you got spooked and took off.”

I smile. “Just had to swing by my place in El Paso.”

“Visit the wife and kids?” asks Luna.

“Not married,” I say. “Just something pressing on another case.”

“So we're just four merry bachelors,” says Luna, gesturing at Montalvo, Silva, and myself—though apparently forgetting that Silva is happily married. I guess I'd just assumed the three detectives were close personal friends, but maybe that's not the
case. Silva, who's scrutinizing a bloody smudge on the wall next to us, doesn't appear to have heard the remark.

“Did you guys already see this?” Silva asks.

Montalvo frowns. “Yeah. It's a print, but it's too smeared to pull comparison points.”

“But don't you worry,” says Luna. “We're not short on evidence.”

“What do we have linking this place to Ropes?” I ask.

“We'll give you a tour,” Luna says grimly. “It's more fun to show than tell.”

“Do we know how long he was using the place?” Silva asks.

“About two or two-and-a-half weeks,” says Luna. “We pulled the water meter, and there's been usage from about twenty-four days ago, continuing till two days after the killings. The Espositos were away that whole time, so we figure that was probably all from him.”

“Do you think he's cleared out for good?” I ask. “Or is there a chance he might drop by?”

“Not really sure.” Montalvo shrugs. “I'd say fifty-fifty.”

“We're setting up a checkpoint perimeter around the place,” says Luna. “Going to stop anyone who looks like he’s headed this way.”