Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  "How do you know?" Boris cast spitefully. "Did you circulate a questionnaire? I wanna' hear the source of your information."

  Rolling his eyes skyward, Dave released an exasperated sigh. The argument with Boris was really wearing him down, and he didn't seem to be accomplishing a thing. He was starting to think that he'd only delayed the inevitable, temporarily diverted Boris from his predestined death scene.

  "Tell me which girls don't feel sick when they look at me," snapped Boris. "I wanna' hear some names, since you think you know so much."

  "Jane and Becky," offered Dave. "You don't make them sick."

  "Yes I do," nodded Boris, tapping his belly with the barrel of the gun. "I can see it in their eyes. They act nice to me, but the whole time they're thinking to themselves 'Who would wanna' touch him?'"

  "You're imagining things, Boris," said Dave. "You think every girl hates you, so you get completely paranoid. Didn't it ever occur to you that you're not giving them enough of a chance?"

  "They don't wanna' touch me!" shouted Boris. "I'm not imagining it! I must've asked out hundreds through the years, and they've all told me that in one way or another!" Angrily, he thrust a foot against the hard ground, sending a spray of dirt fanning from the toe of his sneaker. "Some of them have been polite about it, some of them have laughed in my face, but they've all told me the same thing!"

  "I'm telling you, you're not giving them a chance," insisted Dave. "I mean, just because some of them laughed at you or told you off doesn't mean they all think that way."

  "If you were a girl, would you wanna' be seen with me?" asked Boris.

  "I have absolutely no idea," sighed Dave. "I can't tell you one way or the other, Boris."

  "Well, I can!" pounced Boris. "You wouldn't! Look at me!" Spreading his arms, he looked down at his prodigious belly. "Two-hundred-and-seventy-five pounds, all of it flab! No girl in her right mind would wanna' come near me unless she looked like this, too! I'm only good enough for fat girls, and I don't want a fat girl!"

  "So lose some weight!" said Dave. "Go on a diet and work out like crazy, and maybe you'll take off some pounds!"

  "I've tried!" Though his voice was raised to a booming volume, it possessed a pleading quality, more desperation than rage. "I've starved myself! I've exercised! I've pushed myself till every muscle in my body hurt! I've tried everything, and none of it does any good! I'm stuck like this, Dave!"

  "You've gotta' keep trying!" rallied Dave. "You can't just give up on everything...especially not like that." Pointing at the gun, he scowled and shook his head. "As bad as life gets, it's still a hell of a lot better than being dead!"

  "How do you know?" fired Boris. "Were you ever dead? Maybe it's a lot better than being alive! Maybe you do become one with the universe."

  "Yeah," tossed Dave, "and maybe you just wink out. Maybe there isn't anything else after death."

  "So what? Either way, I win! Nothing is better than the shit I'm living through now!" With that, Boris spun on his heels and stomped away, heading for the path at the rim of the clearing.

  "Where are you going?" hollered Dave.

  "To find some peace and quiet!" Boris shouted angrily. "I've got work to do!"

  Determined not to let Boris out of his sight, Dave followed the guy. "Get back here!" he ordered. "Boris, get back here!"

  "Blow it out your ass!" bellowed Boris, the gun swinging at his side.

  "Stop!" stormed Dave, temper seething, patience dissolving.

  "Go to hell!" blew Boris.

  That did the trick; that was enough to tear down every last vestige of restraint within Dave Heinrich. Ever since he'd entered the clearing, Dave had been stonewalled by Boris, rebuffed in his every attempt to offer solace. Boris had badgered and bullied him, snapped at him, mocked him, refuted every word that he'd said...and Dave had weathered it, borne the onslaught without truly losing his temper. Because his friend was in a fatal state of mind, Dave had held back, checked the impulse to erupt with real fury.

  As Boris stubbornly marched away from him, though, Dave finally uncorked his rage. He'd had enough of the fruitless game with Boris; there wasn't anything left to lose.

  "I said stop!" he screamed, his furious cry exploding into the night. "Stop, you dumb bastard!" he shrieked, his voice launching to a mad pitch unmatched until that instant. "Stop or I swear to God I'll kill you myself!"

  Boris stopped. His toes were on the threshold of the path, but he moved no further.

  Dave careened across the clearing and was beside him in a second. "That's it!" he hurled savagely, glaring at Boris. "I am sick of your shit, Boris!"

  Boris opened his mouth to say something, but Dave cut him off.

  "You're acting like an asshole!" blazed Dave. "You know how stupid you sound? You're tellin' me you're going to kill yourself because you can't get laid! Does that make even the slightest bit of sense?"

  Boris glowered in the moonlight, flicked the pistol against his thigh.

  "Damnit!" shot Dave. "So what if you can't get laid? So what? If all the guys who couldn't get laid went and killed themselves, you sure as hell wouldn't be the only one dead!"

  Shoulders pumping with rapid breath, Boris glared but said nothing.

  "I'd have to kill myself, too!" continued Dave. "I've never gotten laid either! But you know what? I would never kill myself over sex, no matter how hard-up I got! Even if I thought I'd never have sex for the rest of my life, I wouldn't blow myself away! Sex just isn't the only thing to live for...I don't care who you are!"

  Boris' face burned with anger; there didn't seem to be the faintest flicker of interest in his eyes.

  "Now you can't tell me there aren't things you like to do! Playing your guitar, writing poems, riding your cycle, coming to parties...I know you love that stuff! Well, that's what you live for! Those are the things you enjoy, and they don't have anything to do with sex!"

  Boris stared darkly at Dave but didn't try to interrupt his speech.

  "You know what's really important?" raved Dave, plowing recklessly onward. "Your friends, asshole! You keep making it sound like you don't have any, but you know you do! You've got tons of them, Boris--me, Billy, Ernie, Jack, Tom, Carl...I could go on and on! That's what it's all about, man! That's something to live for! People who don't give a damn what you look like! People who're gonna' stick by you no matter what!"

  Sighing, Boris looked away from Dave, cast his angry, impudent gaze into the shadowy woods.

  "So what if you don't have a girlfriend! So what if some of them laugh at you! If a girl can't see you for what you really are, then she's worthless anyway!" Dave swept a hand out and latched onto Boris' shoulder, gave it a rough shake. "Man, you've got to quit taking this so seriously! I don't know if you're ever gonna' get a girlfriend, but you've gotta' quit worrying about it! Things are tough all over, Boris! I've got my problems, you've got yours, but none of them are worth killing yourself over!"

  Boris remained silent. It was impossible to tell if anything that Dave had said had gotten through to him.

  "No more bullshit, Boris," continued Dave. "Cut out this suicide shit, and don't even think about it again, 'cause you're too good of a friend and I don't wanna' lose you! None of us do!"

  With that, the tirade ended; Dave had nothing left to say. Yanking his hand from Boris' shoulder, he glowered at the guy, searching his face for some kind of reaction.

  For a long moment, Boris just stood there, scowling at Dave. The gun dangled at his side, awaiting a decision.

  Then, at last, Boris spoke.

  "Screw you," he snarled indignantly.

  Exhausted from the battle of wills, Dave said nothing. He felt utterly drained and dull, unable to summon the strength for another charge at his friend's defenses.

  With a final, wrathful glare, Boris turned away and lumbered down the path. Hunched and haggard, Dave watched him go, dejectedly realizing what his next course of action had to be.

  He would have to go after the gun. As futile and da
ngerous as it might be, he would have to make the attempt; there was no other way to save Boris' life.

  As Boris marched purposefully down the trail, Dave took a second to collect himself, gird himself for the assault. He tried to decide which angle of attack would be best, which approach would be most likely to free the weapon from Boris' hand. Surely, Boris would be expecting such a play, so Dave would have to move quickly and precisely, perhaps strike him down first with a surprising, all-out tackle.

  Taking a deep breath, Dave resigned himself to combat and prepared to move. He could delay no longer.

  And then...

  And then, a miracle happened.

  Boris dropped the gun.

  He never stopped walking, and he didn't slow down, but he dropped the gun. Without a word, without a flourish, he let the thing slip from his fingers.

  Dave couldn't believe what had happened. He gawked at his friend, then down at the path, at the dark object which had been discarded there.

  Boris had dropped the gun.

  It all seemed anticlimactic. After all the fuss, the intense and impassioned struggle, the crisis had ended in a single, small gesture. Dave had been ready for a spasm of violence, a wild finale, but he didn't even have to lift a finger.

  A burst of relief swelled within him like a great round of applause. His body, which had been tensed for an attack, slowly relaxed.

  The danger had passed. Dave wasn't sure which words had done the trick, or if indeed anything that he'd said had made any difference, but he didn't care; he didn't know if Boris' change of heart would last, and he didn't care about that, either. All that mattered was that his friend would live another night.

  As Boris receded into the woods, heading toward the trailer, Dave walked to the spot where the gun had dropped. Carefully, he lifted the weapon and examined it; the metal was still faintly warm in places, resonating with the heat of Boris' touch.

  The hammer of the revolver wasn't cocked. With his thumb, Dave slowly turned the cylinder, peering into the chambers as they rotated.

  Every chamber held a bullet.

  He was startled by a shout then, and looked up. Boris had disappeared around a twist in the path, but his voice carried back clearly through the trees.

  "Don't tell anyone!" he called, and that was it. Those were his final words on the subject.

  "I won't!" hollered Dave, glad to make such a promise, just grateful that his friend still lived. Clutching the gun, he let his eyes fall shut and thanked God for his victory.

  After a moment, he heard footsteps crackling through the nearby brush, and he opened his eyes. Looking to the left, he saw Larry Smith approach through the woods along the path.

  "Nice work," smiled Larry. "Good job," he said calmly, stepping over a tangle of upthrust roots.

  Dave was momentarily surprised by the guy's reemergence; in all the flame and confusion of his battle with Boris, he'd completely forgotten who had dragged him out there in the first place.

  "You talked him out of it," nodded Larry, setting foot on the path. "You saved his life, Dave."

  Dumbstruck, Dave just stared at the guy for a moment. As the first flush of his triumph faded, the implications of Larry's presence began to coalesce in his mind. "You were there all along," he said slowly.

  "Yes, I was," smiled Larry Smith. "I saw it all. You handled it well."

  "Why didn't you help me?" asked Dave, his voice low and troubled.

  "Because I didn't need to," replied Larry. "You had it all under control."

  "No, I didn't," said Dave. "My God, he could've shot himself right there in front of me."

  "I could tell he wasn't going to do that," said Larry.

  "You could've helped me," said Dave.

  "You were doing fine on your own," shrugged Larry. "I would've probably done more harm than good. You're one of his best friends, but he hardly knows me."

  "I needed help," insisted Dave. "If he would've killed himself, it would've been my fault."

  "But he didn't, did he?" smiled Larry.

  "He almost did!" flashed Dave, upset and bewildered, staring at the weapon in his hands. He turned the gun over, watching as streaks of moonlight slid over its smooth surface...and then, something else occurred to him, and he swung his head up to stare at Larry. "You knew, didn't you?"

  "What?" asked the guy. "What did I know?"

  "You knew he was going to kill himself, didn't you?"

  "No," said Larry. "All I knew was that he looked depressed tonight."

  "Bullshit!" surged Dave. "You knew all along! That's why you told me to watch him before! That's why you dragged me out here in such a hurry! I couldn't figure it out, but you knew!"

  "Sorry to disappoint you," shrugged Larry, "but I had no idea."

  "You knew!" insisted Dave, searching Larry's maddeningly innocent face for a trace of revelation. "Why didn't you tell me before? I would've watched him like a hawk if I'd've known he was going to kill himself!"

  "Look," sighed Larry. "I hardly know the guy, okay? There was no way I could've known he was going to try to commit suicide. I just had a feeling that he was down in the dumps."

  "You're lying," seethed Dave. "You had to know. Just like you knew about the cop coming tonight, and why he showed up."

  "Wow," chuckled Larry. "You've sure got an active imagination, buddy."

  "Imagination my ass," growled Dave. "You knew. I don't know how, but you knew."

  Still grinning, Larry planted his hands on his hips. "I'm not psychic, Dave," he said good-naturedly. "That's the honest-to-God truth. There's absolutely nothing special about me."

  "Yes there is," said Dave, eyes narrowed as he surveyed the guy's nonchalant expression.

  Larry laughed and wagged his head. "Come on," he said chummily, giving Dave's arm a playful swat. "Let's get back to the party. We've got to find out if there's any beer left."

  "How did you know?" asked Dave, remaining firmly in place as Larry started down the trail. "How the hell did you know?"

  Larry didn't answer. He just kept walking, whistling a jaunty tune.

  *****

  Part Two: Show And Tell

  Chapter 13

  Dave's day had been extremely busy, and he had a busy night ahead, but he was still determined to give Larry Smith a ride home.

  He'd thought of little else since waking that morning; he'd been unable to concentrate on the crucial end-of-term lectures of his professors, or the dense research books in the library, or his fry-cook duties at Wild West, because he'd been preoccupied with ferrying Larry that evening. It was his number-one priority, his Monday obsession, his all-consuming mission.

  He wanted information. He was ablaze with curiosity, and he hoped to satisfy it by driving Larry home. By talking to the guy alone, away from work and parties, Dave hoped to unearth at least some of Larry's secrets. If Larry continued to stonewall him, perhaps Dave could wheedle his way into the enigma's apartment and take a look around, see something which would provide a clue to the truth.

  Boy, did he want to know the truth. He wanted to know how Larry had been so accurate so often with his predictions; he felt sure that there was no coincidence or common intuitiveness involved, no mere luck.

  Larry was psychic. Dave believed that that was the only possible answer, though Larry had laughingly denied it that night in the woods behind Billy's trailer. Without a doubt, Larry had known before the fact that Boris would try to kill himself. Why else would he have been so insistent in telling Dave to watch Boris that night? Why else would he have dragged him through the woods at the exact moment when Boris was preparing for suicide? How else could Larry have known Boris' exact location, though he'd never before been through those woods? Larry must have known all along, must have known every detail, must have seen it all coming through some sort of second sight. As fantastic as it seemed, that was the only explanation which Dave could embrace.

  Certainly, this wasn't the time for Dave to expend his energies on such an unbelievable idea. H
is schoolwork was mounting and he had to redouble his efforts in order to get decent final grades in his classes. He should have been worrying only about his exams and papers and projects, not the far-fetched theory that Larry might have supernatural powers. Still, he couldn't help himself; school was quickly taking a back seat to the mysterious Larry Smith.

  And so, after his shift ended at the Wild West Steakhouse that Monday, he offered to give Larry a ride home. It was seven-thirty in the evening, and Dave should have run straight to his studies, but he ran to Larry instead.

  At first, the guy tried to turn down the offer by claiming that Billy Bristol had already promised to give him a lift. Dave was persistent, though; he pointed out that Billy lived a lot farther from Larry than he did, and anyway, Billy still had another hour of work before he could leave. Fibbing a little, Dave said that he had to drive past Larry's part of town to pick something up at his grandmother's house, so it only made sense that he drop Larry off on the way.

  Dave's perseverance paid off. With a sigh and a shrug, Larry finally gave in; after telling Billy of his change of plans, he joined Dave in the brown Ford Torino.

  As he drove away from the steakhouse, Dave made small talk with Larry. As casual as the conversation seemed, Dave was carefully guiding it and analyzing every nuance, searching for even the most veiled clue to Larry's secrets.

  He didn't have much luck. Larry was frustratingly evasive, as elusive as a fox slipping through the forest.

  For example: while crossing Highland Township, Dave mentioned Boris, hoping to get a new reaction on a subject which Larry had previously dismissed.

  "Well, Boris was in this afternoon," Dave said nonchalantly. "He worked noon to four."

  "Right," said Larry, his voice free of any revelatory shadings. "I saw him on his way out."

  "He seemed to be doing okay," continued Dave. "I mean, he acted like he was fine. It was like nothing happened the other night."

  "What're you talking about?" Larry asked evenly. "What about the other night?"