Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Backtracker

  by Jason Koenig

  Part One: A Friend In Deed

  Chapter 1

  For a split-second, he tasted cool air and opened his eyes to look around. Then, he hit the water with a sudden, violent force, and could no longer breathe.

  As he sank, the water rushed into him, flooding his lungs, freezing him from the inside as well as the outside. Stunned and numb, he dropped further into the icy reaches, propelled by the momentum of his fall. Down, down he plunged, a senseless, dead weight, stars flashing behind the lids of his eyes, blooming and winking like holiday fireworks.

  Then, instinctively, desperately, he flung away the shock, heaved it off like a blanket, and he realized what was happening.

  He was drowning! For God's sake, he was drowning!

  With renewed awareness, he fought the water, flailed and kicked and twisted wildly. Still sinking, he writhed and pedaled, battered at the frigid envelope, struggling to end his descent. He couldn't let it stop him; there was so much to do.

  Though his limbs were numb and his lungs burned, and the fireworks on his eyelids blazed more brilliantly than ever, he surged with strength at the thought of his mission. Thrashing his legs against gravity, he felt himself slowing, felt the speed of his fall diminish. He continued to kick at the water, and finally felt himself stop, and then he opened his eyes and looked up.

  Above him, there wasn't anything but blackness.

  How far down was he? How many feet had he sunk?

  Closing his eyes then, he started for the surface, trying to think only of what he had to do, not how far he had to swim. He chopped his hands and feet through the water, pushed against it with all his might. Propelling himself upward, he focused on his dream, climbed toward the open air with all the force of will with which he'd pressed toward his dream's fruition.

  He had to survive, had to get there, had to do it. Everything depended on this moment.

  He wondered how far he was from the surface. He'd been swimming for so long, and he still wasn't there yet. How far...how far?

  A sharp tingling sparked over his body, and he felt himself weaken, begin to succumb. Squinting upward, he saw only more blackness, a mercilessly dark infinity.

  He was drowning! He was going to die.

  It wasn't fair. He'd come so far.

  He gave himself a final push, a last, angry jolt, and cursed the world for the millionth time. After all it had done to him, how dare it rob him of his last chance?

  And then, he couldn't kick any more.

  Full of rage, a hurricane rage, he stopped swimming.

  Miraculously, he felt himself breaking the surface.

  Shooting his head up and back, he choked, spat water from his lungs, gulped at the air. He slipped under again, but wouldn't let it grab him this time, instead kicked and swept his arms so that he could regain the surface. Bolting his head upward once more, he coughed up water, gagged and spat and actually took in some air.

  Snapping his eyes open, he gaped at what lay around him. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight to see the rippling surface of the lake, the tree-lined silhouette of the shore.

  The shore was a long way off.

  Still kicking and sweeping at the water, he managed to slowly turn around. Watching the shoreline, he saw it fold away in the distance, curl along the length of the lake. Turning, he followed the curve of the shore, watched it reach a final, far extension and roll back toward him. That tree-lined rim flexed away into a wide cove, then angled sharply inward, protruding into the lake before it swept off toward a distant dam. When he'd finished his rotation, he realized that the protrusion was the closest point to where he floated, and he started to swim toward it.

  Though it was the closest point, it was still far away, and would take him a long time to reach. He was bolstered, however, strengthened with fresh, flaming resolve; he'd blown himself back from the brink of death, and he had so much to do, and he couldn't give up.

  Freezing, aching, gagging, he dragged himself across the lake with long, painful strokes of his arms. As he crawled toward the shore, he felt jubilant, thrilled to have survived this latest misfortune.

  And he felt excited, full of anticipation for his coming venture.

  He reviewed his plans, all the places he had to visit...

  ...all the things he had to do...

  ...all the people he had to kill.

  *****

  Chapter 2

  Like Indians from an old Western movie, the lot of them swarmed toward Dave Heinrich, attacking him in a wild, flurrying pack. Stunned by the sudden attack, he hesitated in the doorway for a precious instant--and by the time he'd decided to turn around and flee, it was too late for an escape.

  "Yaaaa!" shouted the three ambushers in a mad chorus, pouncing like lions on their shell-shocked prey.

  "Hey!" wailed Dave as he struggled to fend off the lunatics. "Let go!"

  "Forget it!" hollered one of the hooligans, locking Dave's right arm in a tight grip. "You're comin' with us, buddy-boy!"

  "Yeah!" one of the others snickered gleefully. "You're goin' for a little dip, buster!"

  Gritting his teeth, Dave pivoted in their grip, wrenched and squirmed and tried to find a weak point in the holds of his kidnapers. Helplessly, he felt them bounce and jostle him through the basement, watched clusters of faces flash past as he traveled unwillingly onward.

  "Don't do it!" he yelped as they passed through a doorway and the cold night air licked at his face. "Come on! Put me down!"

  "Hey guys!" crowed one of the attackers. "He wants us to put him down! Whatta' you say?"

  "If the man wants down, let's put 'im down!" laughed another of the hooligans. "We aims to please!"

  The three captors stopped in their tracks then, and Dave was hoisted higher. "Noooo!" he screamed as they swung him back and forth, one guy holding his legs, one at each of his shoulders.

  "One!" they all hooted in unison, swooping him forward.

  "Lemme' go!" shrieked Dave, gaping down at the moonlit ripples which awaited him.

  "Two!" belted the trio of crazies, swinging him forward again, higher this time.

  "Put him down!" commanded an angry, familiar voice then, the voice of Dave's girlfriend, Darlene. "This isn't funny!"

  "Threeee!" barked the squad of nuts at last, swinging their prisoner higher than ever and finally releasing their hold on him.

  Unable to stop himself, Dave coasted through the air and came down with a great splash in the freezing water of the swimming pool. Though he was fully clothed and even wore a coat, he felt a sharp, terrible shock when he hit that water, a keen, blinding burn which pierced his body. All sound disappeared as he plunged downward, as he dropped for an instant into another world, a realm of cold and quiet and darkness.

  His feet touched the bottom of the pool. Immediately, he thrust himself upward.

  Erupting from the surface, he leaped toward the sky and howled.

  "How's the water, Dave?" said one of the ambushers.

  "Geez!" yelped the victim, moving as fast as he could through the chest-high ice-water, aiming for the ladder which hung from the lip of the pool. "Thanks a hell of a lot, you guys!"

  "Any time, man!" chattered wiry Billy Bristol, grinning crazily. "We figured you'd like to go for a swim!"

  "I'll tell ya' what," cackled broad-shouldered Jack Bunsen. "When you show up at a party, you sure make a big splash, Dave!"

  "Thanks," Dave said bitterly, grabbing the cold metal frame of the pool's ladder. "Thanks for nothing." Tugging himself upward, he found the bottom rung with his sneaker and clambered out of the frigid water.

  "Dave!" piped Darlene, rushing up the wooden steps which ascended from the patio to the deck around the pool. "Are you
all right?"

  "Oh, just great," said Dave. As the water ran and dribbled from his soaked clothes, smacking and pattering onto the deck, he folded his arms and hunched forward, trying to warm himself.

  Her wide, dark eyes filled with concern, Darlene touched his elbow and gently guided him forward. "Let's hurry and get you inside," she said, leading him down the deck stairs. "I don't want you to catch pneumonia."

  Shivering as the March breeze fluttered over his face, Dave nodded. He felt a little better now that Darlene was taking care of him.

  "Hey Dave!" said Morris Blovitz, the third of the three guys who'd thrown him in the pool. "Now you're a member of the Polar Bear Club!" Better known by his nickname, "Boris" was overweight and jocular, an eccentric character who always triggered mayhem.

  "Wonderful," said Dave. "Just what I've always wanted."

  Led by Darlene, Dave shuffled past the others. Any other time, he would have joined right in with their joking; he and Billy and Jack and Boris were great friends. Since the dunking, though, Dave just wanted to get inside the house and dry off.

  "Hey Dave." Billy hustled toward his sopping-wet victim. "Wait up, man."

  "Aw, buzz off," grumbled Dave, following Darlene to the basement door.

  "Hold on a minute." Billy sprang forward to grab Dave's shoulder.

  Dave turned an irritated frown on him. "What?"

  "You're not really mad, are you?" Billy's bright blue eyes twinkled mischievously. "I mean, it was just a joke, y'know?" Expectantly, he watched for Dave's reaction, hopefully flashing his childlike smile.

  "Yeah, yeah," said Dave.

  "You gotta' admit," said Billy. "If that had been me getting tossed in the pool, you would've thought it was pretty damn funny."

  Dave thought it over, wiping the water from his nose with the back of one hand. "Yeah," he said finally. "I guess that would've been funny."

  "Well, see then?" Billy spread his arms wide. "It was funny! You gave everybody a good laugh! You oughtta' be glad, not mad!"

  "You know what?" said Dave. "I think you're completely trashed right now."

  "I am! I am!" Billy laughed. "We all are!"

  "Honest to God," said Darlene. "You're just like a little kid, Billy. Come on, Dave."

  "Hey, Dave," said Billy. "Don't stay mad for too long, okay? It's not good for ya'."

  "Yeah," said Dave. "Sure."

  *****

  Chapter 3

  Cross Creek.

  So that was where the half-drowned man had arrived-Cross Creek State Park. It said so on the wide wooden sign atop the grassy slope which rose from the beach. He would have immediately recognized the place if it hadn't been nighttime, or if he hadn't been so busy trying to keep himself from drowning. Though he hadn't been there for ages, there had been a time in his life when he'd passed many hours on that very beach.

  Leaning back against the sign, he looked around, remembering long-ago summer afternoons. Those days had been full of beach towels and radios and sunshine, warm breezes and bitingly cold lake water that made you holler when you plunged yourself into it. Girls in bikinis would stroll around with cool sodas in their hands, their richly tanned bodies making the boys' hearts pump faster. There had been Frisbees and footballs in the air, and the happy shouts of children, and big white birds, and lazy mashed-potato clouds. Best of all, there had been no suffering in that place, no pain except for the sting of sunburned skin.

  Better days. He found it hard to believe now that there had ever been better days. It would be much easier for him to accept that they had only been dreams, that they had only come to pass in the murky shoals of his mind. It was all so distant now, so unreal; the good parts of his life seemed elusive and illusory, far less tangible than the many bad parts.

  The bad parts; he had no trouble believing that they had been real, that they had been much more than dreams or mirages. The bad parts were dominant, overshadowing the good parts like redwoods overshadowing blades of grass. The bad parts were the cause of his current condition, the fuel of his hatred, the propulsive force which had driven him to this place.

  Nothing but bad parts now; in reality, he was composed of nothing but bad parts. All the good parts had been contaminated, turned to cancers. Even good memories had gone bad, for they only spurred regret, violent regret which had become the most powerful force in his life.

  With a grunt, he pushed himself from the state park sign. As always, memories only served to remind him of catastrophe and sorrow, misfortune and mutilation and madness. Memories reminded him of why he'd come here, to this part of the world, this part of Pennsylvania.

  He thought again of how much he had to do, and he grew anxious to set his plans in motion. Burning with the full rush of the old fever, he hiked away from the beach area.

  Following a paved path, he passed between two squat brick buildings-the concession stand and the wash-house, both closed for the season, like the rest of the park. Beyond the buildings, the path led him down a gradual slope, upon which playground equipment was scattered. Finally, he reached an access road, an oblong loop which he knew would deposit him on the main park road.

  Turning left, he walked for what seemed like forever under a canopy of spindly, leafless trees. When he finally came to the main entrance of the park, he paused for a moment, staring at the dashed golden line before him, the line in the middle of the road.

  Glowing faintly in the moonlight on that dark pavement, the line was like a magical arrow in the night. All that he had to do was follow it, and it would take him right to where he wanted to go, to the people whom he needed to see.

  It was a line to destiny, a connection to divinity. If he turned left along that line, he could get to where he needed to go. If he turned right, he could get there more quickly.

  He turned right.

  He wasn't sure how long he'd been hiking along that road before he heard the distant whir of approaching tires. Turning, he spotted headlights flying toward him, swooping through the shadows like brilliant, unblinking eyes. Spinning to face the oncoming vehicle, he swung out his right arm and raised his thumb in the air.

  Walking backward on the gravelly berm, he waved his thumb and watched the headlights flow toward him. They swept closer, bathing him in brightness, picking him out like a singer in a spotlight.

  Then, they flashed past him. He felt a breeze in their wake, glimpsed the battered white station wagon on which they were mounted. A flare and a wind and a whisper, and then they were gone, leaving him cursing on the berm.

  Resigning himself to a very long walk, he continued up the road, following the golden line. He resolved that he would make the most of his time in transit, spend the hours reviewing his plans.

  After a few minutes, though, he again saw headlights. they raced at him from the direction in which he was headed...and then the same white station wagon barreled past on the other side of the road. Barely slowing, the car caromed off the pavement, rattled several yards over berm and bumpy earth, finally jerked hard to the left and shot across the road in a U-turn.

  The wagon jolted to a halt beside him, and the driver flung open the passenger-side door. Bowing to peer inside, the hitchhiker saw a stocky, grinning guy in a red flannel shirt and blue jeans.

  "Hey, buddy!" laughed the driver, poking the neck of a beer bottle at him. "Betcha' thought you was out a ride, huh?"

  "Sure did," the hitchhiker said coolly, barely cracking a smile.

  "Gotcha'!" hooted the driver, thumping the steering wheel with his fist. "I sure as hell put one over on ya', didn't I?"

  "That's right," nodded the hitchhiker, noting that the guy was spectacularly drunk.

  "Well, hey!" shouted the driver. "No hard feelin's, right? I came back for ya', didn't I?"

  "No harm done," shrugged the hitchhiker.

  "I do that all the damn time!" the drunk crowed proudly, swigging from his bottle of beer. "Sometimes I come back, and other times I just keep goin'! People never know what the hell I'm gonna'' do!
"

  "Same here," smirked the hitchhiker.

  Laughing, the driver shook his head vigorously, like a dog shaking water from its fur. "Well, jump on in, pal!" he bubbled, scratching his scalp, mussing his greasy black hair. "Room for one more!"

  "Where you headed?" asked the hitchhiker.

  "Where you wanna' go?" grinned the driver.

  "Confluence," the hitchhiker told him. "I'm on my way to Confluence."

  *****

  Chapter 4

  "Feeling better?" said Darlene.

  "Yeah," nodded Dave, returning her smile, again lifting the mug of hot coffee to his lips. "Much better." Seated at the table in Ernie's kitchen, dressed in dry clothes which he'd borrowed from Ernie, he indeed felt better. Though the T-shirt was awfully baggy, and he had to cinch the wide-waisted blue jeans with a belt drawn as tight as it could go, Dave was happy to be wearing those clothes; his own clothes had been soaked in the pool and hastily deposited in Ernie's dryer.

  "More coffee?" offered Darlene, bobbing her head toward the full pot in the coffee maker.

  "No thanks," Dave said appreciatively. "I think this third cup about did the trick. If I drink any more, I'll be bouncing off the walls all night."

  "You won't be the only one," Darlene said sardonically, glancing into the hallway which led to the basement door. "It sounds like they're getting pretty wild down there."

  "They've been pretty wild," chuckled Dave, tuning in to the chaotic ruckus which rippled beneath them, the clamor of laughter and shouts and loud music which was barely diminished as it filtered through the floor.

  "Boy," said Darlene, shaking her head. "Billy and those guys were sure wound-up."

  "They're always like that," grinned Dave.

  "I still can't believe they just tossed you in the pool like that. I mean, a practical joke's one thing, but that was going a little too far."