Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  It would be like an act of God.

  Any minute now. They would come any minute now, and it would all be over in the wink of an eye. It would go so quickly, the victims would scarcely have time to realize what was happening.

  The Miraclemaker would strike swiftly and savagely, enforce his will with the brutal suddenness of a man crushing an insect underfoot. He would have to do the job quickly, because after all, he would be working in an open and vulnerable place. Though traffic was negligible, there was always a chance that a car might pass at exactly the wrong moment, that a witness might unluckily appear. The road was underused, and ran through a thinly populated rural region, but it was still impossible to predict when an interfering vehicle might approach.

  It would all be over quickly; he would make sure. It would all begin and end any minute now.

  Any minute now. They would come any minute now.

  Now.

  They were coming now.

  The brilliance of approaching headlights flared into the cab of the pickup. Whipping his head around, he caught the luminance full in his face, spotted the twin beams gliding rapidly toward him. It was impossible to tell what kind of vehicle projected those rays, and he squinted...and then the light surged upon him and dove away. Reflexively, he blinked at the spots in his eyes, then gaped after the target for a clear, identifying look.

  His heart pounded, blood bore through him, and then he realized: yes, it was them, it was their car, it was time to move.

  Turning the key, he started the pickup, let the engine roar and awaken. He jolted the gearshift and played the pedals and the dark chariot bolted from its niche, exploding onto the gleaming pavement like a pinball from its launcher. The backend of the pickup fishtailed, swung away on the icy road, then swept back and after the cab as the tire chains bit into the frozen layer.

  The pickup cut forward, and he wondered if they had noticed him yet. If the husband was alert, perhaps he'd already glimpsed the black shape in his rear-view mirror. Probably, he thought nothing of it; it was just another truck, and there were plenty of trucks on those rural byways, plenty of harmless pickups. If anything, perhaps he would sigh with annoyance because the vehicle's headlights weren't aglow; he might bristle at the careless lack of headlights in that darkness, the disregard which could lead to an accident.

  Then again, he might not have even caught sight of the pickup, in which case he would soon be in for a violent surprise.

  Iron eyes focused ahead, lips drawn in a tight, tense line, the Miraclemaker punched the pickup toward his prey, saw the red tail-lights press closer. Breathing fast, he nudged the clutch and wrenched the gearshift into another notch, urging the truck into second gear. There was a quick jolt at the shift and then he mashed the accelerator and the pickup leaped forward.

  Like lightning, he thought; he was like a lance of lightning, a furious gash splitting the night. Birthed in seething darkness, he'd been unleashed, loosed from the sky to bring flame to the Earth. Like lightning, like the golden line, he was inhuman and unstoppable, an irresistible weapon beyond mortal ken.

  For a split-second, he closed his eyes and conjured a vision of the holy line; divine and solid and severe, it lingered and inspired, pointed the way dead ahead. When his eyes switched open once more, he felt transfigured and empowered, strengthened and emboldened beyond all limits of strength and boldness.

  A great thing was about to happen.

  Carving the gearshift into another notch, he pushed the pickup into third. The tail-light bull's-eyes boiled toward him and his heart quickened.

  Surely, the driver now saw him, couldn't possibly miss the behemoth looming from behind. What did he think of it? Did he recognize the figure of his death, the sleek and unexpected face? Was he sweating, clutching the wheel, whispering to his wife that their time had come?

  No...no, of course not. For now, his only reaction was probably irritation at the lightless vehicle rushing his bumper. 'Another tailgater,' he might have been thinking crossly. 'What a pain in the ass. Maybe I'll just pull over and let him past.'

  Whatever the man's thoughts, they most certainly weren't of death. Unlike his pursuer, he wasn't a prophet or agent of fate, and so was blind.

  The pickup sailed to within a few feet of its quarry. Steeling himself for the work, the Miraclemaker checked the rear-view mirror, saw that the road was clear behind him; no untimely headlights winked back there, and none came toward him, so he was free to act.

  He tightened his grip on the wheel, gloved hands clamping clawlike, arms bent but stiff as struts. Head bowed, he stamped the accelerator.

  The pickup pulsed forward, then bucked to the left, swerving abruptly into the other lane. Charging alongside the car as if he meant to pass it, the Miraclemaker slung the truck ahead until it matched the other's speed, until the noses of the two vehicles were aligned.

  Allowing the synchronous pairing to continue for an instant, the Miraclemaker swung his face to the right and tried to peer down into the car. He wanted a last glimpse, a meeting of eyes, a parting exchange...but it was no good. The cab of the pickup was too high; all that he could see through the passenger-side window was the silver roof of the car, the blank lid sealed over his captives. Craning his neck, he strained to see more, but had no luck and had to return his eyes to the road.

  Hunching over the wheel, he braced himself. A turn of that wheel was all that would be needed; a simple turn would be the trigger. With a turn of the wheel, another step would be taken; the plan would ply onward, vaulting him still closer to his grand dream.

  Just a turn. Just a turn of the wheel, and two more would die.

  He turned the wheel.

  The nose of the pickup lashed to the right. A jolt ran through the truck at the impact, and then he swept the wheel back to the left. Through the side window, he glimpsed the car falling away, off the road, toward the trees.

  Teeth clenched, senses heightened, he saw the silver compact veer tree-ward, and then he lost sight of it. Gorged with momentum, the pickup continued to hurtle forward, robbing him of the view.

  As he pumped the clutch and chucked the gearshift, threw the truck into first, he heard it, though...he heard the crash. Even far ahead of the site, with the cab's windows shut tightly, he heard the sweet blast of the impact, the clash of projectile and barrier. Loud and sharp and sudden, the burst of sound cooked through him, shot its fine fortissimo chord around and into the pickup. It would resonate, he knew, would climb and spread across the distance; the song of destruction would broadcast through the land, announcing and sanctifying the miracle.

  The angelic transmission would also raise the alarm, so he would have to work fast. There was a final task to perform, and he had to disappear before the oglers and rescuers could assemble. They would come, of course, swarming quickly even there, filling the secluded lane like ants pouring surprisingly from the quiet earth...not knowing that all their rush and fever would be for nothing.

  Plunging the brake to the floor, he spun the wheel; the pickup whipped around, sliding in a circle over the icy pavement, and then he pasted the accelerator. For an instant, the tires whirred on the ice and the pickup kept slipping around...and then the chains caught purchase and the front end sprinted forward. Tail swaying on the slickness, the black vehicle shot toward the wreck.

  In seconds, the pickup retraced its path, and the Miraclemaker could see the car. Without reservation, he was pleased, for all had gone exactly as he'd intended. Batted aside by the truck, the silver two-door had swung from the road and rammed into a tree, a thick and unyielding column. If the driver had tried to work the brakes, it had done no good on the frozen road, and the car had dashed headlong against the waiting trunk. Like cardboard, like flimsy tin, the silver missile had crumpled against the solid wood; the nose of the car was mauled and folded around the bark, compressed to a third of its original length. Strikingly, the rear-end of the car looked undamaged, whole and unscarred from the rear window to the fender; it sat cockeyed
on the rippled ground, but was otherwise misleadingly correct, right down to the still-glowing red eyes of the tail-lights.

  Drawing alongside the wreckage, the Miraclemaker slowed the pickup, parked it on the berm. Quickly and calmly, he heaved open the door and hopped out on the gravel. As soon as his feet left the truck, he started toward the crushed car, glancing furtively to the right and left to make sure that the road was still clear. For the moment, no headlights shone from either direction, but he knew that the solitude was temporary.

  The pressure of dwindling time dominated his mind, forcing him forward at a jog. Crucial seconds sloughed away, but he still had to be careful; the ground was hard, so it was unlikely that his boots would leave prints, but he had to watch his step, avoid breaking up the brush in a perceptible path. He wished to leave no hint that he'd been there, that anyone had visited the site immediately following the carnage. No room could be left for anyone to suggest that this had been anything but an accident.

  Skirting the twisted shell of the car, he hurried to the passenger side. Leaning at the window, he finally got a look at the occupants, the dark-haired husband and wife whom he'd secretly watched in their own home several nights before. Both were still and silent, their bodies pitched in unnatural poses about the darkened compartment.

  Neither had been wearing a seatbelt; the impact had launched them both forward with considerable force. The woman had been shot from her seat and into the windshield, her skull smashing the glass like a cannonball. Even now, her head was lodged in the shattered pane; a burst of blood covered the fissured glass around her face. From that gruesome connection, her body hung limply, draped over the dash, suspended above her bucket seat.

  The husband hadn't been thrown as far forward; he'd been stopped by the steering wheel. His body was jammed between the seat and the wheel, which had been thrust backward in the crash. Propped against that wheel, he was arranged less dramatically than his wife; hunched over, arms dangling at his sides, he didn't look as mangled as she did. His head rested between the dash and the upper lip of the wheel, and his face was turned toward his wife. His eyes were closed and his knobby features were streaked with bloody tracings.

  Hurriedly, the Miraclemaker tugged the door open; it had already been opened halfway, jarred from the frame by the impact. Slipping the leather glove from his right hand, he reached for the woman, pressed his fingers against her throat. For a moment, he kept his hand upon her, sinking fingertips into the flesh, working them roughly around the place where her pulse should have been. He found nothing, not even the weakest, fading flutter.

  Satisfied with the woman's condition, the Miraclemaker withdrew his hand, elbowed the door back to its former position. Acutely aware that time was rushing away, he jogged around the rear of the car. He shot a glance up and down the road and saw that he was still secure, alone with the wreckage.

  Scrambling to the driver's side of the crumpled compact, he repeated the drill that he'd performed on the dead passenger. This time, however, the results were quite different: when he sank his fingers into the husband's throat, he encountered a definite beat, a surprisingly strong rhythm.

  The Miraclemaker sighed and frowned, knew what he'd to do next. The operation was incomplete, and it was up to him to finish it.

  For an instant, he hesitated. He knew that he had to go ahead, had to get it done fast, but he faltered. As driven and dispassionate as he'd become, a tiny part of him still balked at the task.

  The Miraclemaker heard the distant whimper of a conscience that he'd thought long gone. Fingers glued to the husband's pulse, he hovered on the brink, momentarily frozen with indecision.

  Then, he remembered the time; he remembered the line; he remembered the plan. As quickly as they had risen from his subconscious, all doubts were extinguished.

  Removing his hand from the pulse, he again donned his glove. Face cold and inexpressive, he reached back into the car and clutched a fistful of hair from the back of the man's head.

  He pulled the head up and away from the steering wheel. The man's eyes were still closed, but his mouth dropped open.

  Tightly gripping the dark hair, he plunged the husband's head back down. Three times, he bashed the skull against the hard rim of the wheel, each blow more forceful than the last.

  When next he checked for a pulse, the Miraclemaker found nothing.

  The job was finally done, and it was time for him to run.

  *****

  Chapter 18

  The mood in the Wild West steakhouse was oppressively gloomy.

  No one could manage a smile. The place was busy as it always was on Sunday afternoons, and everyone hurried about, but something had gone out of them. Their movements lacked vigor, the youthful swing and spring which was usually in evidence. Few words were exchanged among the members of the crew; no one seemed to feel like talking except when necessary in the pursuit of their duties. Everyone seemed spent and haggard, as gray and morose as if they were all suffering from potent hangovers or head colds.

  Once in a while, an unspoiled soul would bound through the door, eyes bright and arms swaying, ready to start a new shift. Exuding the familiar vitality of the merry gang, he or she would tumble in and chatter flippantly, expecting the usual spirited ruckus...and then someone would explain. Solemnly, the newcomer would be taken aside and hushed words would be exchanged, and all exuberance would bleed away. Like a contagion, the enervating palsy infected all who entered the place.

  Dave Heinrich wasn't spared the effects of this malady; in fact, he'd been one of the first to contract it. His heart had been heavy since the night before, when Billy Bristol had called with the news, the news about Ernie.

  Dave had been studying Saturday night, actually concentrating wholly on the preparations for his next round of final exams. His mind had been free of distractions for a change, not even slightly preoccupied with such garble as the mysteries of Larry Smith. Attention focused to a keen pinpoint, he'd combed volumes of classroom notes, soaking up rafts of facts; then, he'd heard the muffled ringing of the phone downstairs, and his mother had summoned him. In the short span of the conversation with Billy, all Dave's noble focus had dissolved.

  Instead of returning to his desk, he'd fallen onto his bed, consumed with dark new thoughts. Forgetting his studies, he'd languished in a despondent daze, considering the awful bulletin delivered by his friend. Through the night, he'd remained thus, getting very little sleep.

  The gloom had stayed with him into the morning, continued to enfold him throughout the day. At the steakhouse, he'd helped transmit the disheartened condition, repeating the sad facts for each of his comrades. Dutifully, he'd told the story over and over again, becoming more depressed with each repetition.

  He could hardly believe what had happened, for it had come so suddenly. In the course of one day, the life of his friend had been irrevocably shattered; with frightening swiftness, Ernie Dumbrowski had been plunged into a nightmare.

  Dave mourned for Ernie's loss, wished that there was something that he could do to diminish his pain...knew that there was nothing that he could do. All his steakhouse colleagues seemed to feel the same way, mortified and sensitized, painfully sympathetic. In their silence, in their grave and restrained demeanors, they betrayed a common sorrow, a shared burden of grief.

  It was true that no one at the steakhouse had known Ernie's parents well. At best, Mr. and Mrs. Dumbrowski had been peripheral figures, familiar faces at the outer rim of the gang's attention. Sometimes, Ernie's mother and father would come to eat at Wild West, and they would exchange casual words with their son's co-workers; otherwise, their course rarely intersected that of the crew. Most of the cronies only knew them to see them, and plenty of the newer employees hadn't even reached that point. Dave couldn't even claim to have known them well, though he'd been in their company more often than most of his associates. In all the times that he'd gone to Ernie's house, he'd never done more than make small talk with them, had never done more than po
litely chat for a moment on his way to meet Ernie.

  Still, the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Dumbrowski had inspired a general mournfulness at the steakhouse. Ernie was respected and well-loved by everyone, so his plight naturally drew an outpouring of compassion. In many ways, the Wild West crew was like a family, so closely-knit that any pain suffered by one of them was suffered by all of them.

  Perhaps, the atmosphere of grief had also been intensified by the nature of the deaths. Two parents had perished unexpectedly, in an automobile accident...an accident which could just as easily have taken the parents of anyone at the steakhouse. Death had leaped out at a friend, reminding everyone of their own vulnerability, the vulnerability of their own loved ones. Perhaps, it was this as much as anything, this vivid reminder of mortality, which had traumatized everyone.

  Ernie's parents were dead, killed in a wreck on an icy road not five miles from their home. Just like that, in a slide and a crash, they were gone, leaving two sons and two daughters behind.

  Just like that, they were gone. Just like that.

  It was so unfair, Dave thought, so utterly unfair that Ernie should have to go through such turmoil. To say that Ernie was a kind and decent guy would be a tremendous understatement; he was a bright and virtuous individual, devoted to his studies, always going out of his way to help his friends. Though his wish to become a doctor was partly grounded in an intense drive to succeed, he'd often made it clear that he truly wanted to heal, that he was choosing medicine because of strong altruistic urges. Ernie was a good person and a good friend, and Dave knew that he didn't deserve this punishment.

  Dave wondered how Ernie was taking it all, how he was holding up under the terrible strain. Billy hadn't said much about what kind of shape Ernie was in; when Billy had phoned Dave, all that he'd said on the matter was that Ernie sounded okay, tired and unhappy but coherent at least. Several times Saturday night and Sunday morning, Dave had considered finding out for himself, calling or driving out to Ernie's place; each time, though, he'd rejected the notion, deciding that it was best to wait. If he contacted Ernie so soon after the disaster, he might be intruding, barging in where he wasn't yet wanted. Ernie would need time to deal with the aftermath, help his brother and sisters, make difficult arrangements. Dave had realized that he would feel extremely awkward anyway, wouldn't know what to say. Probably, a visit so soon would prove to be uncomfortable and pointless, maybe detrimental, so Dave had made up his mind to wait another day or two.