Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Steve knew what was going to happen next.

  "Well," the man said cheerfully, clapping his hands. "You're all set, kiddo."

  All strength gone, all hopes depleted, Steve Kimmel said nothing. His mind was clouding with a dense haze, and he felt sluggish and very cold. Slumped forward in the chair, he stared at his arms, watched the bloody wads of gauze through half-lidded eyes.

  "Y'know," said the stranger, "you've been a good sport, Stevie. I want to thank you for making this such a pleasant evening."

  Head sagging dumbly, gasoline dripping from his sodden hair, Steve stared at his stumps and waited.

  "You want me to get you anything before I go?" asked the stranger.

  Steve heard the man walk back from the chair, and he knew what was coming.

  "I know!" the stranger chirped glibly, snapping his fingers. "How about a nice cigarette? Boy, that would really hit the spot right now, wouldn't it?"

  Steve knew.

  "Yeah, a good smoke's what you need," said the man. "Hey! It just so happens I've got a pack of cigarettes with me! How about that!"

  Steve knew what was coming.

  "Hot damn!" chuckled the attacker. "I've got a pack of matches here, too. Isn't that lucky?"

  Steve stared at his stumps.

  He heard a match being struck.

  "Just let me light this sucker up for you," the man said distractedly. "I'll get you your smoke in just a sec', champ."

  There wasn't anything more that Steve could do, nothing but wait. Even if there had been an avenue of escape, he would have been too weak to exploit it.

  "Okay, I've got it lit," announced the stranger. "Now what do I do with this match? I don't see any ashtrays in here, do you?"

  Steve closed his eyes.

  "Oh well," the man said nonchalantly. "I guess I'll just drop it on the floor. You don't mind, do you? I mean, it's just one little match. What harm can it do?"

  Steve heard a hissing sound behind him, and he tensed. He thought of Suzanne, his girlfriend, and he wished that he could have made love to her one last time.

  Then, the hissing raced up to him, and he felt his body burst into flame.

  As beaten as he was, Steve still found the strength to summon fresh screams.

  "See?" shouted the stranger, a laugh in his voice. "No harm done!"

  As everything was burned away by an unbearable onslaught of pain, Steve shrieked again and again. His agonized screams charged the living room, mingling with the crackle and roar of the leaping flames.

  "Hey, Steve!" hollered the man. "Sorry about that cigarette! They say smoking's bad for your health anyway!"

  Steve Kimmel screamed a final time, and then he fell silent. The flames continued to dance over his charred, collapsing form, eagerly feasting on his remains.

  "Damn!" laughed the stranger, stomping his foot merrily on the floor. "Now you're a real flaming asshole, Steve!"

  The blazing husk which had once been Steve Kimmel didn't respond.

  *****

  Fifteen minutes after Steve was killed, the stranger left the big house. Humming a jaunty tune, he blithely strolled out through the wide double doors at the front of the place, then turned and swung the doors shut.

  Pausing on the doorstep, he stretched his arms overhead and released a long, hearty yawn. Rocking on the balls of his feet, lingering unhurriedly, he looked as if he were just another visitor leaving the Kimmel household, making his happy exit after a fine dinner party and snifters of brandy by the fireplace.

  Stooping, he scooped up the red gasoline can that he'd brought outside earlier, after he'd finished dousing Steve and spraying much of the downstairs. He was already carrying a brown paper grocery bag which held his tools: a half-empty bottle of ether, the stuff that he'd used to keep Steve from awakening during surgery; a pair of wire clippers which had deactivated the house's burglar and fire alarms; and a hacksaw, the instrument which had amputated Steve Kimmel's hands.

  Still humming, the man crossed the front stoop, ambled down the steps and onto the walk. He hiked cheerfully onward, in no particular hurry, the gas can and shopping bag swaying easily at his sides. Taking a deep breath, letting it rush from his mouth with a satisfied sigh, he looked up at the starry sky.

  His heart was light, his spirits high. He felt perfectly brilliant and buoyant, excited and gleeful, as giddy and proud as a little leaguer who has just hit his first home run. For the moment, the awful sorrow and rage which usually darkened him were in abeyance, pushed aside by a hot-air balloon of multi-colored joy, a rainbow circus tent rising within him.

  He was the Miraclemaker, and he'd just performed his second miracle, and it had been even better than the first. Oh, the first had been wonderful, absolutely exhilarating, and would always be special because it was the first, but the second...the second was spectacular. While working his first miracle, he'd been uncertain, worried that some divine power might intervene and strike him down; by the time he'd embarked on his second, however, he was free of all doubt, confident of his abilities, able to more fully savor every instant of the experience. During the first miracle, his delight had come chiefly after the climax, when Debby Miller was dead and he realized that he could get away with murder; in the second miracle, though, he'd been thrilled from start to finish, from the severing of Steve Kimmel's hands to the last scream from his blackened lips.

  To the Miraclemaker, Steve's murder had been fun, a rollicking good time. In the same way that someone else might enjoy a party or a picnic, the Miraclemaker had enjoyed torturing his victim and setting him afire. It had also been therapeutic, because it had made him forget some of the pain in his heart; a bit of the dark burden that he bore had been removed...only a tiny bit, to be sure, but it was a relief nonetheless.

  Of course, he was also happy because his plan was proceeding without any trouble. Steve's death had brought him another step closer to the completion of his task, the attainment of his ultimate goal. Instead of wallowing in shadowy inertia, festering in grief and bitterness as he had for so long, he was moving audaciously forward and his purpose was clear. He was a man with a mission.

  At the end of the front walk, the Miraclemaker sauntered onto the driveway, the paved loop that connected to the Kimmels' private road. After following the curve of the drive for a few yards, he then ambled onto the lawn, heard the frozen turf crunch beneath his boots. Whistling a snappy tune, briskly swinging his bag and gas can, he headed for the dense woods that surrounded the house. Since he couldn't just stroll down the road, in plain sight of the fire engines which would surely arrive soon, he would have to travel through the woods to get back down the mountain. That was okay with him, because he'd hiked up through the woods in the first place, beating a path which he could easily retrace. He felt like taking a hike anyway, and the moon was high and bright enough to light his way, and it wouldn't be a difficult trip at all. It would give him time to relive the night's triumphs, run them through his mind, caress and admire them and treasure every detail.

  Beaming contentedly, heart stuffed with happiness, the Miraclemaker reached the edge of the woods, then stopped and turned. Bending down, he placed the bag and gas can on the ground, then removed the latex gloves that he'd been wearing throughout the night. Stuffing the gloves in a pocket of his jacket, he looked toward the house.

  The place was really starting to burn. From every window, a pulsing red light could be seen, the glow of flames dancing and swirling with festive excitement. From the back of the mansion, a plume of smoke climbed upward, curling eagerly toward the stars. Soon, very soon, the fire would run wild, blowing out all the windows, belching great billows of black from every opening. The honeycombed interior of the house would blaze and collapse, all the floors and walls crumbling, falling out of the way of the tempest. The Kimmel palace would become one huge torch, a mountaintop beacon which would be seen for miles around.

  Hands on his hips, the Miraclemaker sighed and nodded his head. He'd done a good thing, and he was plea
sed; for once, he felt happy to be alive.

  *****

  Chapter 11

  It was payday at the Wild West Steakhouse.

  Fresh from classes at Orchard College, Dave Heinrich pulled into the restaurant's lot and parked his car near the side door. As he got out of the brown Torino, his heart was flipping crazily in his chest, his palms were sweaty, his breathing rapid and erratic. Hesitating beside the car for a moment, he stared at the steakhouse door, considered hopping back behind the steering wheel and racing away from the place.

  These were unusual reactions for him to have on a payday at the Double-Doubleyoo. Usually, Dave was happy on these biweekly occasions, pleased at the prospect of enjoying the fruits of his labors. Normally, he would bound into the restaurant with a grin, hurry to the office and snatch his small but vital paycheck from the fingers of a manager.

  Today, though, he was anxious and jittery, pale and distracted. Getting his paycheck wasn't his only reason for going to the steakhouse; he also had to confront someone, a co-worker who had stabbed him in the back. He'd thought that the person was his friend, but she'd betrayed him, and now he had to give her a piece of his mind. Such confrontations always agitated him, because he had such a nervous, self-conscious disposition. He hated unpleasant scenes when strong emotions came into play; he was always afraid that his nervousness would show, that he would appear weak and silly, that he would say the wrong thing.

  The phone call from Billy Bristol had come at around eleven o'clock that morning, when Dave was getting ready for school. His hand had tightly clenched the phone as Billy gave him the name, his voice dripping with acid contempt for the person whom he identified. When he heard the name, Dave had been stunned, shocked into a momentary silence; he hadn't been able to believe it, hadn't even considered the person a suspect. Doubting the veracity of Billy's information, he'd questioned his pal several times, only to end up convinced that Billy had indeed discovered the truth.

  Ever since the call, Dave had been preoccupied with thoughts of the traitor. Alternately, rage and disbelief had stormed through his mind, making it impossible for him to concentrate on his classes. Over and over, he'd mentally bludgeoned himself for ever trusting the turncoat, for opening himself up to her backstabbing.

  Dave had also remembered Larry's warnings, the prophetic advice that he'd dispensed at Billy's trailer. If only he'd taken Larry's words to heart, Dave would never have been subjected to Mr. Wyland's interrogation, wouldn't have been suspected of being a chocolate milk thief.

  The more that he thought about Larry Smith's uncanny intuition, the more that Dave was impressed with the guy. In a remarkably short time, Larry had correctly assessed the character of the Wild West crew, seen duplicity lurking in quarters from which Dave would never have expected it to come. Dave cursed himself for shrugging off the guy's warnings and swore that he would listen more closely to what Larry told him in the future.

  For now, though, there was nothing left to do but confront the double-agent. After lingering by the Torino for another moment, Dave pulled himself together and headed for his bout with the traitor. Taking deep breaths, fighting to calm his spastic nerves, he opened the side door of the restaurant, stepped through the vestibule and inner door which led into the dining room.

  The place wasn't very crowded when he entered; about a third of the tables were occupied, and the rest were cleared of dishes. Looking around, Dave saw the afternoon busboy dusting ornaments on the far wall, the stirrups and wagon wheels which were supposed to give the steakhouse a Western atmosphere. In the middle of the dining room, a waitress sat at a table, transferring packets of sugar and sugar substitute from a cardboard box into wire condiment holders.

  When Dave turned his gaze to the salad bar, he spotted his target. Standing in the walkway between the salad bar and the windows, she was hard at work and didn't notice him. She was tall and chunky, with an ample bust and large buttocks; she had short, coal-black hair, and wore glasses with thick, brown frames. Her name was Peggy Kutz.

  She was the same Peggy Kutz whose trustworthiness Dave had defended two nights before in Billy's trailer.

  Jumpy and flustered, Dave approached the traitor. Instead of entering the walkway behind the salad bar, he stayed in front of the thing, keeping a barrier of sorts between him and Peggy.

  The girl was arranging crocks of salad items on a cart. Even when Dave came to a stop right across the bar from her, she didn't look up, didn't sense that he was watching her.

  "Excuse me," said Dave, knocking on the metal frame that held the salad crocks. "Excuse me."

  Peggy's face swung toward him, her expression unguarded and inquisitive; clearly, she thought that the interruption had come from a customer, and she wondered what assistance the person would ask of her.

  As soon as she recognized Dave, her expression changed. Her eyes widened, her lips tightened, and she froze; she suddenly looked startled and tense, expectant and defensive.

  In that instant, Dave knew that Billy had been right about Peggy.

  There was a brief pause before either of them spoke. Taking a deep breath, Dave donned a dark frown, did his best to look menacing instead of nervous. He felt cold, knew that he was probably pale, but it couldn't be helped.

  Clearing his throat, he leaned forward and glared through the Plexiglas sneeze guard over the salad bar. "Well, Peggy," he said tightly. "You'll never guess what happened to me the other day."

  Crouched and wary, Peggy kept her mouth shut.

  "Fred called me into his office," continued Dave. "He said somebody told him I was ripping off chocolate milks." As he spoke, Dave started to feel less nervous; anger was taking hold of him, gradually superseding his anxiety.

  "Now who would've told Fred I took some milks?" asked Dave. "Who could've done such a shitty thing? You have any ideas?"

  Dave paused for a beat, waiting for Peggy to say something, but she remained silent. Like a mannequin, she stayed frozen behind the salad bar, gaping over the crocks of croutons and dressing.

  "Y'know, I wonder," said Dave, shifting his gaze away from Peggy. "Who could hate me enough to tell the managers something like that? I mean, I could've gotten fired over that."

  Dave glanced back at the girl, and she flicked her eyes downward.

  "Then again, maybe it was someone who was just trying to kiss up to Mr. Wyland. Maybe they're up for that new Shift Supervisor job, so they just wanted to score some points. You know anybody who's up for Shift Supervisor?" Surprisingly calm after the terrible case of nerves that he'd suffered earlier, Dave crossed his arms and glared. His heart was pounding, but he was no longer short of breath.

  "Hey, wait a minute," he piped then, snapping his fingers. "You're up for the job, aren't you? Then again, I know you'd never do something as low as turning in one of your friends, right?"

  "Listen," Peggy said at last, wincing apologetically. "I couldn't just lie to them. They asked me if I knew who was doing it, and I couldn't lie."

  "So it was you," Dave snorted disgustedly.

  "When I told them I knew who it was, they asked me who, and I had to tell them! I told them there were other people, though! You were the only one I knew for sure, but I didn't make it sound like you were the only one." Peggy sounded genuinely sorry and upset, as if the situation was as troubling for her as it was for Dave.

  "Gee, thanks," clipped Dave, rolling his eyes sarcastically. "Thanks a lot, Peggy. At least you didn't tell them I was the only one."

  "I didn't know who else was doing it," she winced. "I couldn't lie, and you were the only one I knew!"

  "Too bad, huh?" snapped Dave. "If you'd known some of the others, you could've busted them, too. You could've taken down half the steakhouse, huh? Then you'd've really gotten a lock on that Shift Supervisor job."

  "That's not why I did it," she insisted, shaking her head. "I just couldn't lie! I'm not a liar!"

  "Maybe not, but you're a damn good actress," Dave swung angrily. "All these years, you acted like
you were my friend, but you were really just waiting to stab me in the back."

  "That's not how it was!" she winced. "I didn't want to get you in trouble!"

  "Well, geez," scowled Dave. "That makes me feel a lot better."

  "If they hadn't asked me, I wouldn't have told them," said Peggy, a note of desperation in her voice. "I didn't go in there on my own and say 'Hey, I know who's been taking chocolate milks!' I didn't want to tell them!"

  "I don't care," Dave said grimly. "All I know is that you told Fred something that could've gotten me fired. Friends don't do that to each other. If you were the one who'd done something, and they called me into the office and asked me to nail you, I wouldn't've said a damn word."

  "Well I'm sorry!" sputtered Peggy. "Fred didn't do anything to you, did he?"

  "No," growled Dave, "but he could have. He could've canned me right there."

  "But he didn't!" said Peggy. "When I talked to him, I told him what a hard worker you are, and how you're always helping me! I begged him not to fire you or anything, because you do so much and you don't deserve to lose your job over a few chocolate milks!"

  "Wow," sneered Dave. "Thanks for putting in a good word for me, Peggy. I guess I'm supposed to thank you for saving my job now, huh?"

  "No!" shot Peggy, grimacing with frustration. "I didn't mean...I just...I'm sorry. I'm really sorry about this, Dave! I want you to understand that I didn't mean for you to get in trouble!"

  "Yeah, right," curdled Dave. "Well, I want you to understand that I think you're a bitch, and you better stay the hell out of my way from now on!"

  "Look, I'm sorry!" she said pleadingly.

  "By the way," said Dave, his voice coarse with contempt. "Congratulations on your big 'promotion.' "