Total Victim Theory Read online

  “Sounds kind of nerdy. I guess it suits you.” That was payback for his comment that she’d never read ten books. “It’s German, right?”

  “Viking,” he said.

  Courtney studied him to see if he was joking. His poker face was pretty good. His regular face wasn’t bad either. “That’s supposed to be funny, I take it? There’s no such thing as a Viking name, is there?”

  “I mean, it’s . . . um . . . Trojan.” He held the straight face for a two-second count, then grinned.

  Courtney chortled. She liked the way he said things that were deliberately confusing. Somewhere between serious and joking. You couldn’t tell and you got jammed. Like when a computer freezes.

  “I’ve got to run meet a friend soon,” Jeff said, “but do you mind if I join you for a minute?”

  “Um. . . .” Wow, that was a bit direct. Then again, confidence was a good thing. Plus, they had mutual friends, so it wasn’t like this was a total random scamming on her. “Sure, have a seat.” She put her bookmark in and closed the book.

  Within fifteen minutes of Jeff sitting down, Courtney had the impression she’d known him a long time. Like in a past life or something. They’d already discussed everything from philosophy to jam bands to beer pong. Courtney felt so comfortable with him, she even brought up the subject of exes.

  “So, have you ever, like, really been into someone?” Courtney asked, peering into his eyes. She was probing to see if there were other love interests in the picture. It was smart to look a couple of moves ahead and scope out the competition. Just in case she steered things in that direction down the road.

  “You mean like really really?” he said.

  He was mocking her with the really, really. She rolled her eyes. “I mean, have you ever had strong feelings for someone?”

  He looked pensive, almost melancholy. “There was one girl, once.”

  “Yeah?” She leaned in closer.

  Jeff looked her over. “Yeah. You remind me a bit of her,” he said. “Same hair.” He picked up the copy of The Master and Margarita and carefully covered up the lower half of Courtney’s face. “Same eyes too.” He put the book down and stared at her for a minute. “You guys are dead ringers, actually.”

  “Well, what happened to her?”

  “Sometimes things just don’t work out. People are in different places.”

  “More detail please.”

  Jeff pursed his lips and balked. “I had a thing with her roommate. Before I met her. That ended badly. And it probably soured her on the possibility of anything serious with me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, though she was, in fact, relieved to hear that.

  “Water under the bridge,” he said, wistfully. “But speaking of Margaritas,” he pointed at her book, “want to come with me to Chuy’s to partake of a couple of the frozen variety?”

  She looked at her watch. “That’s tempting, but I’ve got this dumb tin-foil-and-bubble-wrap party I’ve got to start getting ready for.”

  “I’ve got to meet my friend in less than an hour, so it would be quick.”

  She really wanted to see how far she could go with this conversation. He was totally starting to open up. It took months for some guys to get to that point. “Okay, why not?”

  Two hours and two margaritas later, Courtney was coming to terms with the fact that she probably wouldn't make it to the Kappa Alpha bubble wrap party. Some of her sorority sisters would have their panties in a bunch, but they would just have to deal.

  She texted her friend. Have to flake on tonight. Bigger fish to fry.

  When she started margarita numero tres, she’d already penciled Jeff in on the shortlist of PLTs. Potential Long Terms.

  Jeff must have ditched out on meeting his friend as well, because it never came up again.

  Things were going well, but there was one small concern. Despite the intense connection that seemed to be developing, Jeff didn't send many signals of what he thought of her. Way different than the typical frat guy, who stared nonstop at her boobs and told her how beautiful she was every other sentence.

  Jeff’s reticence in this regard was a bit annoying, actually. She wasn’t sure if it was out of shyness, or cautiousness, or genuine disinterest that he gave her no hint of his affections. It was her role, after all, to keep him guessing, not the other way around.

  Of course, he had to be interested. Why else would he be spending all this time with her?

  Except, that wasn’t necessarily true. He could have just felt lonely or bored and wanted the company, or he could have just wanted to bone her and then peace out. Heck, he could have been gay for all she knew.

  At about 1:00 a.m., a local band started playing a set of oldies. Courtney asked Jeff to dance and during “Oh Donna” they danced slow and close. She pressed as near to him as decorum would allow, letting him feel the length of her body. She rested her head on his shoulder, as if smitten the way girls used to get in old movies like Back to the Future.

  It would have been an opportune moment for him to finagle a gentle peck. And a first kiss, if and when it came, would do much to clarify his interest in her. To end this cloak-and-dagger of the heart.

  But he remained the gentleman. Too much so, in her opinion. How could she entice him with her false modesty if he made no untoward advances?

  But as the song was ending, Jeff’s anatomy tilted his hand and afforded a glimpse of the truth that lay behind his mask. From just below his belt line, Courtney felt a slight, but noticeable nudge—like she’d brushed up against a sleeping snake in the dark and wakened it. At least she could cross his being gay off the list.

  Just before last call, Jeff said he was a bit tired and asked if they could call it a night. Courtney’s heart sank. But then he asked if he might walk her home. Trying to suppress a smile, she reluctantly agreed.

  Stumbling forth from Chuy’s, they walked up Dean Keaton and over to Speedway Boulevard. From there they decided to cut through campus. Right in front of Saner Field, a thunder clap rang out and seconds later it began to rain. Then it rained harder. Jeff took Courtney by the hand and they made a dash toward the Student Union, the main lobby of which was open all night. They stepped into the entranceway, wet and panting.

  There was an awkward silence. Courtney loved awkward, because awkward implied intense feeling. In its soaked, glistening splendor, this was perfect. A fairytale moment. If their drunken dalliance bloomed into the real thing—romance, enduring affection, multiple hookups—they would look back on this moment with nostalgia. An iconic setting for a first kiss.

  And indeed Jeff seemed to linger near her for a moment. Closer than he needed to be. Deeply invading her comfort zone. Saying nothing. Just hovering and looking into her eyes for a wonderful, excruciating eternity.

  But then he drew back.

  She was hugely disappointed but tried not to let the emotion find its way into a frown. Keep the game face on. There would be other opportunities.

  “Hey, that kind of looks like you!” Courtney laughed and pointed to an FBI wanted poster tacked up against the wall above bins of The Onion and Westword magazines. The poster was one of several depicting the faces of fugitives and missing persons.

  The sketch really did look like him.

  Jeff positioned his smiling mug next to the image. “Maybe it's my long-lost brother.”

  “Or your evil twin.” Courtney drew closer and read the caption. “Wanted for the murder of nine women in California, Oregon, and Colorado. Called the Handyman killer by the press—oh, I’ve heard about this guy on the news. Super creepy.” She took a Westword and covered up the lower part of Jeff’s face to compare his eyes with the eyes on the sketch. “Same eyes.” She withdrew the magazine. “Same mouth, same nose . . . and you’re both lady killers . . . but no, sorry, you’re too good-looking to be him.”

  Jeff remained next to the poster. “Maybe I could play him in the movie version?”

  “Yeah,” Courtney said. She looked at
the portrait again. “But what I’m wondering is . . . if he kills all these girls, how do they know what he looks like?”

  “I guess one of them must have lived to tell.”

  “Probably the cutest one.” Courtney looked at her reflection in the glass door and brushed back her wet hair. “I bet he’d let me live. What do you think, Jeff?” She turned, expecting to encounter Jeff’s eyes, but he was hunched over the poster reading some fine print at the bottom. He didn’t seem to hear her.

  “Jeff?” she repeated.

  He looked up. “Yeah?”

  “I was asking if you thought the killer would let me live?”

  Jeff turned and drew close to her. He made a show of closely looking her over. He looked so cute with his soaked clothes and hair. Even his eyebrows were wet. “I can't speak for him, but I doubt I could bring myself to do it,” he said.

  Courtney leaned forward. But again. No kiss.

  The rain eventually stopped. They left the Student Union and crossed through the rest of campus back to Guadalupe. Everything was cold and glistening. They walked slowly. She wanted to savor his company.

  “This is my place.” Courtney gestured toward the huge white Chi Omega mansion just ahead on their left. It was already after 2:00 a.m., but dozens of the house’s windows still blazed with light. Many of the girls had probably just returned from the bubble wrap party. This was the critical parting moment. Jeff hadn’t kissed her or even asked for her number yet. If he walked away now, she might never see him again.

  She needed to jumpstart the situation a bit. Inject it with some sexual tension, so he’d make a move. Then she could politely turn him down, get his number, and he’d call her in two or three days.

  But he wasn’t even looking at her. He was ogling the Chi Omega house as if he wanted to scarf it down in a single bite.

  “So, is that a . . . um . . . sorority house?” Jeff asked. He made his eyes exaggeratedly wide, like a kid in a candy store.

  “Easy there, Ted Bundy. Don’t get too excited.” She gave his shirt a little tug and batted her eyes at him. Now she had his full attention again.

  “How could you tell I was excited?” A mischievous smirk crept onto his lips.

  “Well, more so . . . earlier. When we were dancing, you know, close at Chuy's.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Something either piqued your interest or else you had a roll of quarters stashed in your pocket.” Well, there is was. A Hail Mary pass with five seconds left in the ball game.

  He leaned in close. Intense eye contact. “I was planning to do laundry later.”

  She made a forlorn sigh. “That's so disappointing.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I took you for the caliber of guy who owns his own washer-dryer.”

  He maneuvered his mouth to within inches of hers. His lips hovered there like a snake poised to strike. So close they were almost, but not quite, touching.

  Was he just intentionally tormenting her?

  She couldn’t take the tension. She edged forward onto her tiptoes and bridged the gap between their lips.

  He pressed his mouth firmly against hers. She closed her eyes and brought her arms tightly around him. She liked the way he smelled—Bulgari Aqua maybe—and how his lean body felt touching hers.

  They made out for what must have been five minutes. Drunken people stumbled by and snickered. Then, somewhat to Courtney's surprise, Jeff pulled back and placed his hands on her shoulders. She opened her eyes, wondering how smeared her lipstick looked.

  “I’d love to stay, but I didn’t bring any pj's,” Jeff said.

  She considered the notion of letting him stay. She wanted him—probably. But not yet. Definitely not tonight. Still she wanted to push things just a bit farther. To leave him wanting her. “I could lend you a pair,” she said.

  Jeff batted his eyelashes. “But then you'd just think I was trying to get into your pants.”

  She laughed. “Actually, it's against the rules for boys to spend the night. So don’t get any ideas in your head, mister.”

  He drew his mouth up to her ear. “So, sneak me in,” he whispered.

  Courtney pursed her lips. “That would be kind of romantic.” She was a master at giving mixed signals. The green stop sign, as she called it. “But no, I could never do that. It's way too risky.”

  They kissed again.

  She felt his hands slip beneath her sweater. He was touching her stomach and edging upwards. Waves of heat coursed through her body. She wedged her fingers into the furrow of his lower back and pulled him into her. Things escalated, as hands did what hands will do.

  This time, it was she who pulled away. And this was as good a time as any to put on the brakes. Before things got too out of hand. “I think we should call it a night, Jeff.”

  He stared at her. For just a second, there was something distant in his eyes. Almost calculating. But then it was gone before she was even sure she'd seen it. Like an image flashing subliminally on a TV commercial.

  Finally, he smiled. “So let me walk you up to your door and kiss you goodnight.”

  Jeff took her hand and they strolled up the long, winding sidewalk that led to the front door of Chi Omega. They stopped and their lips picked up where they’d left off.

  The resumed make-out session went on longer than Courtney had planned and soon was getting hot and heavy, which she also hadn’t planned.

  Her heart was beating hard. She liked the way his lips felt. And the way he was touching her. His hands were clouding her judgment.

  Soon, she found herself wanting him for real.

  Not on a second or third date.

  Tonight.

  Rules have exceptions. And this guy was exceptional. If he was the real deal, he wouldn’t hold it against her if she invited him in.

  She pulled back for a moment and searched his eyes for some hint of a false heart—that this was a game to him. She found nothing there but true-blue sincerity. “I guess I could sneak you in for a quick tour. Pajamas not included, got it?”

  “I can live with that,” he said.

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’ll go in the front door and make sure the coast is clear. You go around back. There’s a door that goes to the basement. Meet me there in three minutes.”

  Jeff gave a nod.

  16

  El Paso, 1989

  Rose entered the laundry room two or three minutes before the load was dry. She heard the familiar sound of clothes tumbling about. However, a second later, her ear tuned in to a slight irregularity. Behind the smooth tumbling, there was a thumping sound, clear and distinct. A sound which meant something had gotten mixed in with the clothes, probably a stowaway from an unemptied pocket. Years of housework had given Rose a certain expertise at guessing what random objects would turn up based on the noise they made. Coins were the easiest to divine, but she could also readily diagnose combs, key rings, action figures, and a host of other tag-along items.

  Waiting for the buzzer, Rose pondered the possibilities, but could not put her finger on what it might be. Whatever it was, was small, but not tiny, probably roundish and soft, or at least not metallic. What was odd is that the thump came in two distinct varieties, one that was light and soft, and a second, much like the first, but accompanied by a scratch, as if the object had a sliver of plastic on just one side.

  The buzzer finally went off, and Rose flung open the dryer door to a rush of heat. Inside was everything that had been tossed in the hamper in the last two days. Mostly clothing belonging to the household’s four male residents—her husband Gary and the three boys: Garrett, Tad, and Luke, ages twelve, ten, and seven. Curiosity mounting, Rose wrestled the clothes into the hamper and peered into the dryer’s dim interior to uncover the culprit of the odd thump. Seeing nothing, she reached her arm in probing around on the concave floor. After a moment, she felt something and gave a slight jerk as the sensation registered.

  Whatever it was felt . . . well . . . furry.
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  She pulled it out. At first glance, it looked like a rabbit’s foot. However, the next instant, she saw that wasn't it at all.

  What she held in her hand was a dog's paw.

  She stared blankly at it and ran her fingers across the black pad. Then she turned it over and examined the short gray fur on the top and the black nails. She felt the fragile bones of what was the left front paw of a small dog.

  A paw she could not help but recognize.

  She tilted it forward and saw that the back end was encrusted with blood. A rough edge marked where it had been cut from the animal’s leg. Her hands were shaking—either with horror or rage, she couldn't have said which—and her eyes darted about in intense reflection. Thinking more evidence of the deed might turn up, she picked up the bin of clean laundry and began going through the pockets.

  In the pocket of the blue jeans of her eldest son, she found a small silver key. At first, she couldn't think what it might go to, but by the end of the second minute, she knew the answer to the riddle.

  *

  “Are all three of the boys still at school?” Rose asked Margarita, the ranch’s sole female worker.

  Margarita was an illegal smuggled across from Juárez like the rest of the workers. She’d been with them a couple of months now. While she usually helped out with housework, at the moment she was digging up weeds in the flowerbed next to the front door.

  “Yes, ma'am,” Margarita said, looking up at Rose from beneath the brim of a straw hat. “They should be back in an hour. Everything's okay?”

  “Is Gary still out on the ranch with the other workers?” Rose asked, ignoring the question.

  Realizing she still held the paw in her hand, Rose quickly slipped it into her front pocket before Margarita had caught sight of it.

  “Yes ma'am. He and all twelve of the hands are out. They were breaking the two new colts and then moving a few dozen head into the barn. There’s a pickup tomorrow. They probably won’t be back for an hour or two. Is something wrong, Miss Rose?”

  She must have been doing a poor job of concealing her anger. “It’s nothing,” she muttered. “Did they take any of the dogs with them, did you notice?”