Total Victim Theory Read Online Free Page A

of life or limb—the ranch owner could have covertly reported all his workers to immigration authorities and had them deported—but, no, I was bent on more macabre divinations. A conviction which, I believe, the ledger's final pages lend credence to. But I'll let the facts speak forthemselves. In the year 1992, the ranch employed a third group of twelve workers. However, unlike the years 1990 and 1991, many of the name entries show neither the zero notation, nor
any
transaction date. In fact, only two names, Fernando and Esteban, bear the dour null symbol (and, in both cases, a transaction date of 10/2/92). The other ten names show only blanks in both the second and third columns.
    These gaps constitute the sole omissions of our otherwise assiduous bookkeeper. Indeed, price figures appear for other items up through the final page of entries. “Halloween costumes” -$117.38, “sprinkler heads” -$86.14, “foundational concrete, 10 200 lb bags” -141.87, “cleaning supplies” -32.16. Among such mundane notations, we have the final ten names:
Ramon, Gregorio, Carlos, Mateo, Juan, Miguel, Jorge, Marcos, Arturo,
and
Raul
. Each name preceding two vacant and grave rectangles.
    If I still haven't foreclosed the possibility of a happy ending, let me point to a last fact. On the final two pages of ledger entries, pages sixty-five and sixty-sixty, one can observe quite distinctly, indeed, one might feel put upon if asked to overlook them—six dark red droplets. These dollops are of varying sizes and shapes and are dispersed in a splattery paisley pattern. If you went to the trouble of forensically analyzing them, you would no doubt determine that they are human blood. The Type O blood of a Hispanic female.
    And that's it. That's the case in chief against this dubious bean counter and this unnamed and unnamable cattle ranch.
    But I've dwelled too long on this ledger business. It's no more than a pastime really, since despite my most diligent efforts, I've yet to link the volume to any real ranch past or present. Nor have I connected the records to any crimes or any missing persons from the years in question. The excised last names and the lack of other identifiable material has, so far, thwarted my investigative ingenuities. The matter is, therefore, not even an open case. It is too immaterial to even call it a matter. It is, merely, a conundrum.
    Whatever you call it, it's certainly burrowed its way into my head, as insidiously as any golf course gopher. It's hard not to think about this eerie, unknown cattle ranch or what unsavory fates may have cancelled those forty-three zeroed-out workers. Visions of these things bump and rattle endlessly about my brain like someklutzy, personal poltergeist. And then there's perhaps the most disquieting question: why was it left on my doorstep?
    Someday there will be answers, but not today.
    I lock the ledger in the oversized briefcase I bought especially to accommodate its ungainly proportions. With a click, it's out of sight and if I'm disciplined enough, will remain out of mind. At the moment there's a bigger fish nibbling at the line. A bigger, badder fish called
Ropes
, who we've got to catch before we can fry.

4
    Colorado
    My Aunt Pat hands me a toothbrush and a neatly folded towel and then hugs me. We're standing in the hall outside the spare bedroom. “Everything's going to be okay, Nicki,” she whispers, mid-embrace. “You know you're safe here.”
    “I know I am,” I say.
    The hug concludes and she gives my arm a squeeze. “If you need anything, just holler.” A brief hesitation. “Well, maybe don't holler,” she gestures toward the back door, where one of the officers is standing guard. “They might not like that. But if you need anything, I'm right upstairs.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Sleep tight, honey.”
    “You too,” I say.
    Inside the bedroom, I close the door, set the towel and toothbrush on the nightstand, and sit down on the bed. I take off my glasses and