Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Dave knew that it was time for him to go. He would review the events of that night the following day, after the exam.

  The exam.

  As he started the Torino and pulled onto the street, Dave tried not to think about the exam.

  *****

  Chapter 20

  To say the least, the exam didn't go well.

  When Dave entered the classroom, he felt half-asleep, lethargic and disoriented. He arrived fifteen minutes late because he'd overslept; by the time that he walked in, the exam had already been underway for a quarter of an hour.

  Wobbly and discouraged, Dave got his test papers from the disapproving professor, also received a rebuke for his tardiness. Though he'd arrived late, the professor told him, Dave would get no extra time to complete the exam. He'd lost fifteen minutes from his allotted exam period; he would have to hand in his work when everyone else did.

  Dave shuffled to an empty seat in the rear of the classroom, dropped lifelessly into it as if he'd been dumped from the ceiling. Awkwardly, he struggled out of his coat, slung it over the back of the chair...and then, he began to feel sick.

  His stomach knotted tightly and his whole body went cold. As he stared at the pages before him, he was overwhelmed with despair.

  The five-page battery of questions and problems was so far beyond his ken that it might as well have been printed in a foreign language. The few things that he'd studied or absorbed from class weren't nearly enough to get him through with a decent grade...perhaps not even a passing grade.

  Dispirited as he was, he still made an effort. He filled in the few answers that he knew, guessed at others; he bluffed his way through the essay questions, cobbling together long paragraphs of gobbledygook, stretching his scant knowledge through line after line of nonsense.

  By the time that the hands of the clock reached the deadline and the professor called for the test papers, Dave had accepted his defeat. He'd done what he could, which hadn't been much, and the exam had still beaten him. In days past, he'd chosen his obsession with Larry over his studies, hadn't trained for the important bout with the exam; as a result, he'd gone down in the first round, flopped to the canvas before he could even lift a glove.

  Shambling out of the classroom, he felt weary and defeated, laden with regret and foreboding. He knew that he'd probably flunked the exam; for the first time, he began to wonder if he might not pass all his classes, if he might not qualify for graduation the following month.

  For the first time, he began to realize that the cost of his obsession with Larry might be higher than he'd imagined. He didn't wish to delay graduation, and yet, if he'd flunked the exam, had flunked others as well--and that was certainly possible--that would be exactly what he would have to do. He might very well have to wait for his diploma, retake a class or maybe more than one class.

  On his way home, a new worry gripped him: he began to wonder if he'd wanted to fail all along. Since Larry had arrived in town, all of Dave's attentions had been focused on him, on the incredible notion that he might be psychic; schoolwork had been thrust into the background, had become little more than a nuisance. Dave had eagerly thrown himself into the investigation of Larry...but had he thrown himself into it too eagerly? He'd been dreading graduation for months, had been dreading his uncertain future; he'd been growing increasingly anxious about what would happen with Darlene, what kind of job he would look for, what alien shape his life would take. Though he hadn't consciously decided to pursue the case of Larry Smith as a way of avoiding impending trials, perhaps that very scheme had been lurking in the back of his mind. Perhaps he'd intentionally set himself up to fail in order to forestall whatever upheaval the future held.

  Dave was troubled by this line of thought. He didn't like the idea of being a failure; all his life, his grades had been consistently average, occasionally above average, and he'd never before flunked on such a grand scale as this. He found it hard to believe that he'd let his schoolwork slide so drastically; though he'd been lazy before, had sometimes neglected his studies, he'd never been so lax as to risk a failing grade.

  Since Larry had come, Dave had grown more derelict in his schoolwork, right at the time when he should have been more diligent. Not only had he slackened his efforts, but he'd hardly worried about the consequences; the severity of his school situation hadn't hit him until now. He'd taken other final exams and had known that he'd done quite poorly on them, but he'd been so wrapped up in his quest for Larry's secrets that he hadn't been fazed. Damage had been done, serious damage, but Dave had overlooked it, uncharacteristically ignored it...until his latest exam. That test had shocked him from his daze, opened his eyes to the full scope of his recent laxity; unfortunately, it was too late to rectify his errors. He had only one more final exam to take, and he would be done for the term.

  Dave felt as if he'd been asleep for a long time. Somehow, he'd shut down his common sense, switched off his guidance systems, allowed himself to drift...and now, returned to full awareness, he was surprised at where he'd ended up. He hated to think that he'd been so out-of-control, so unusually careless and erratic.

  He wondered how he'd gotten that way. Was it because he didn't want to finish school, didn't want to face the unknowns which loomed beyond graduation? Had he been so scared of leaving college that he'd intentionally scuttled his studies? His obsession with Larry-had it just been an excuse for failure?

  By the time that he got home, Dave felt sicker than he'd felt when he'd first seen the exam. His college career had taken a nosedive; he knew that he was to blame and there seemed to be no hope of getting back on course. He was loaded with doubt and guilt and was no longer sure if he'd been in his right mind over the past few weeks.

  He went to his room and threw himself face-down on his bed. Worn-out and unraveled, he wished only to lie there forever, eyes closed and nose pressed into the peaceful pillow.

  Within five minutes, he was asleep. It was one o'clock in the afternoon, and he had to be at work in two and a half hours; he knew that he shouldn't allow himself to drift off and risk oversleeping, but he wasn't able to help himself. The sleep took him easily, maybe because he was so exhausted, maybe because he was so dispirited.

  It was a deep and dreamless sleep, more like a coma than a nap.

  *****

  Still drowsy from sleeping, still reeling from the exam, Dave entered the Wild West Steakhouse. It was almost three-thirty; though he was weary and preoccupied, he had to force himself to hurry, for his shift was about to start.

  Without looking around or saying hello to anybody, he rushed past the dining room, the office, the line, hurtled straight back through the swinging door to the dishroom. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Larry Smith, working alone at the dishwashing machine, but he didn't have the time or the inclination to offer a greeting.

  After changing into his uniform in the locker room and punching his timecard at the clock, Dave hastened to the fry station and went about his business, preparing for the imminent supper rush. As he occupied himself with his work, he actually began to feel a bit better than he had all day; now that he had something to do besides moping and beating himself up, he didn't feel so enervated or upset.

  As business picked up, Dave became even more involved in his work. He baked rolls and potatoes, cooked fish and French fries, prepared meals, stocked his freezer and drawers. The number of customers in the steakhouse continued to grow, and Dave found that he had to hurry to keep up with the orders that he received.

  Around four-thirty, there was a lull, but Dave still found more than enough to keep himself busy. The activity soothed him, so he kept moving, actually did more work than he had to. He helped the assemblers put together the meals, assisted the waitresses in handling customers, even restocked the trays and cups and silverware along the line. For a while, he was a whirlwind, a tireless dervish who seemed to be everywhere at once.

  Then, Billy Bristol came over from the broiler.

  Billy loo
ked strangely grim, didn't move with his usual bounce. The metal tongs which he used to handle steaks hung limply at his side; normally, when he wasn't cooking, he was constantly spinning and flipping the tongs as if he were a gunslinger twirling a six-shooter.

  "So what's up?" Dave asked as Billy slouched toward him. "What's going on?"

  "It's really something, isn't it?" said Billy, slowly shaking his head. "I mean, I never had any idea what he was up to, did you?"

  "What're you talking about?" asked Dave. "Who was up to what?"

  "Martin," frowned Billy. "You know, Mr. Martin."

  "Well, what about him?" asked Dave, confused by the cryptic statements.

  Billy looked surprised. "Wait a minute," he said. "You mean to tell me you haven't heard yet?"

  "Heard what?" floundered Dave.

  "God," sighed Billy. "I can't believe nobody told you yet. It's all anybody's been talking about all day."

  "Well, I don't know," said Dave. "I haven't really talked to anyone. What exactly's going on here?"

  "Shit," muttered Billy, scratching the side of his nose. "Martin was ripping off the steakhouse. He was embezzling for years, and nobody knew about it." Restlessly, Billy shifted his feet, put his hands on his hips, then folded his arms over his chest. "He took this place for about fifteen grand all together, just a little bit at a time. Mr. Wyland and the company never caught on."

  Dave was stunned. "Are you serious?" he whispered.

  "Yeah," nodded Billy.

  "Hold on," said Dave. "If nobody ever caught on, then how did they finally find out about it?"

  Billy seemed hesitant to continue. Grimacing, he released a heavy sigh. "Well, they just found out today," he said, his voice strained. "I, uh...I would've told you earlier, but I thought you already knew, man."

  "Yeah, but who found out?" pressed Dave. "How did they find out?"

  "Martin gave it away himself," replied Billy. He sighed again, whacked his tongs against his thigh.

  "You mean he turned himself in?" asked Dave.

  "Uh, in a way," said Billy. "He let everyone know what he did."

  "So what happened? Did they arrest him or what?"

  "No no," said Billy. "It was all in the note he left."

  "He left a note?" frowned Dave, struggling to make sense of his friend's story. "You mean he skipped town?"

  "He didn't skip town," said Billy. "It was a suicide note."

  Dave froze.

  His heart began to hammer.

  "He, uh...he killed himself sometime last night," continued Billy. "His wife found him this morning. She was out of town for a couple days, visiting her mom, and she came back and...well, she found him...him and the note."

  Dave listened. Stock-still, stone-cold, he listened.

  "The note told everything about how he ripped off the steakhouse," said Billy. "It said he committed suicide because he couldn't live with himself anymore...you know, because of what he'd been doing here."

  Dave began to feel dizzy. His stomach knotted and he started to sweat.

  "He, uh...they said he cut his own throat."

  A sharp tremor rippled through Dave's body. He placed a hand against the counter, leaned all his weight on it.

  Billy shook his head. He raised his tongs, spun them once around his finger, six-shooter style...but he didn't seem to have the energy to continue, just let the tongs drop back to his side. "That's really something, isn't it?" he said awkwardly. "Just like that, Martin's gone."

  Dave nodded.

  "Y'know, I don't know why it should bother me," said Billy. "I mean, he was such a son-of-a-bitch. It's just...I don't know, man. It's like, I knew him, and now he's dead."

  "I know what you mean," said Dave. He had trouble speaking; his mouth felt as if it were packed with cotton.

  His mind had been emptied of all but two facts:

  1.) Martin was dead.

  2.) Larry Smith had been with Martin the night of his death.

  Larry. Larry had been there, had been at Martin's house. Dave had seen him arrive; Dave had seen him leave.

  And Martin was dead.

  "I don't know," said Billy. "Maybe I didn't hate the guy as much as I thought. I sure didn't hate him enough to want him dead, for God's sake."

  "Me neither," Dave intoned quietly.

  "Did you know people are already telling jokes about it?" said Billy. "I mean, he just died last night, and people are making jokes already. What the hell's the matter with people?"

  "I don't know," said Dave.

  "I didn't like him, either," said Billy, "but I don't think it's funny. It isn't funny at all."

  "No, it isn't," said Dave.

  "It's stupid, but it isn't funny," muttered Billy.

  Dave nodded.

  Billy Bristol sighed and looked down the line toward the broiler. "Aw, shit," he said listlessly. "Looks like I've got a huge stack of orders over there. I guess I better get back to work."

  "Yeah," said Dave. "Me, too."

  Billy took a step, then paused; looking downward, he slowly shook his head. "What is it with this place anymore?" he said sullenly. "First, Ernie's mom and dad die, and now this. I'm starting to think this place is jinxed or something, man." He hovered there for a moment, head bowed...and then he finally shrugged and returned to the broiler.

  Dave didn't feel ready to resume his own duties. His heart was still ricocheting spastically in his chest, and he felt incredibly weak. The thought of work, of keeping busy, no longer appealed to him; he'd been bombarded with ominous new input, news of such a staggering nature that he knew that he wouldn't be able to drown it out with simple activity.

  Martin was dead. Larry Smith had been with Martin the night of his death. Dave had seen him arrive; Dave had seen him leave.

  Larry had been with Tom Martin the night of the suicide. Dave thought back to that night, last night, the night and early morning before his exam; he remembered what he'd seen, and he wondered why Larry had been at Martin's house. He wondered if Larry had predicted the suicide and had come to try to prevent it; he wondered why, if Larry had tried to stop Martin from killing himself, he'd failed.

  He remembered the lights. The lights had gone out before Larry had left the house. Had the dousing of those lights been a final request of the suicidal Tom Martin? Had Larry tried and failed to talk the manager out of killing himself, then extinguished the lights on Martin's order?

  Dave wondered if Larry had allowed Martin to take his own life. Such behavior wasn't without precedent, for Larry had seemed to foresee the deaths of Ernie's parents but had apparently done nothing to try to save them. So soon after that tragedy, had Larry again let someone die when he could have effected a rescue?

  With a heavy sigh, Dave moved from the counter on which he'd been leaning. One of the girls along the line was calling for rolls, and Dave knew that it was time to get back to work.

  As he sluggishly tended to his job, he heard the door from the dishroom swoop open behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Larry hurrying out with a stack of clean trays.

  In that instant, he swore that he would get to the truth, that he would solve the mystery of Larry Smith once and for all.

  In that instant, he decided that he would confront Larry with what he knew and would hound and fight him until he finally broke down and confessed.

  He would fight him.

  He would do it tonight.

  *****

  Dave stood at the windowless metal door that led to the top floor of the run-down building in which Larry Smith lived. Nervously, he waited there for a moment, hands in the pockets of his coat; he took a deep breath and tried to steady himself, tried to work up the courage to take the next step.

  Sighing, he finally turned his attention to the buzzer for the upstairs rooms-a small, gray box with two black buttons on the front, mounted at eye-level on the wall beside the door. Beneath one of the buttons was a strip of masking tape with "Smith" scrawled across it in black ink; there was no label under th
e other button.

  Dave extended a finger toward the labeled button, then hesitated; an anxious shiver flickered through him and he took another deep breath. In pressing that button, he would be committing himself to what he knew would be a stressful confrontation with Larry. If the guy was home and came to answer the door, there would be no turning back, no retreat from the clash.

  Dave had looked forward to the meeting all evening, had thought of little else since hearing about Martin's suicide. At ten-thirty, when his shift at the steakhouse had ended, he'd rushed straight to Morton Borough and Larry's home. Still, he was apprehensive about the encounter, agitated and reluctant to proceed.

  Dropping his hand from the buzzer, he closed his eyes and marshaled his willpower; he remembered all that had happened, all that had brought him to that point, and he drew strength from the memories. In thinking of Boris, and Ernie's parents, and Mr. Martin, he was reminded of the importance of what he was about to do. He felt a resurgence of anger and the need to know, the craving for answers.

  He had to do it. As difficult as the confrontation would likely be, he would have to trigger it or resign himself to ignorance. All other avenues of his investigation had failed miserably; if he truly wanted to know, he had to do it.

  He had to do it.

  Dave opened his eyes and pressed the button.

  For a moment, he heard no sound beyond the door. When he reached to press the button again, he at last heard footsteps on the stairs inside.

  The footsteps drew near, each one causing Dave's heartbeat to quicken; finally, there was a rustle from the other side of the door, then the clacking sound of the lock disengaging. The doorknob turned slowly and Dave held his breath.

  The door glided open and Larry Smith appeared.

  Though he'd expected to see the guy there, Dave was momentarily startled by his first glimpse of him. Surprisingly, Larry was silhouetted in a brilliant light, a blinding swath emanating from the top of the stairs. The glare was in sharp contrast to the last time that Dave had visited the place; it had been dark as a cave then, without even a single bulb to illuminate the stairs and hallway.