Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  "Maybe," said Dave. "Maybe not."

  "Hey, listen!" hollered Billy, slowing his approach from a run to a walk. "We both know you're no fighter!"

  "Right," Dave nodded as he neared the edge of the rock formation. "I'm not a fighter."

  "So how do you think you're gonna' stop that maniac from killing you?"

  "Beats me," Dave said simply, and then he was at the edge of the mound, the corner which he and Billy had originally ascended. For a moment, he paused there; he again reconsidered his strategy, wondered if he ought to proceed or recant his stated course. Then, he heard Billy approaching from behind and he moved ahead, started down the slight incline which led from the rim.

  "Hey, Dave," said Billy, his voice changing, becoming more conciliatory than confrontational. "Listen a sec, huh?"

  Dave gave no acknowledgement. Crouching, he moved slowly down the short slope.

  "I know how you feel right now," continued Billy, standing at the top of the incline. "I guess I might want to do the same thing you're talking about if I was in your shoes. I guess I'd probably be a little crazy, too."

  Finishing the slope, Dave stepped onto the ledge at its base. From there, he extended a foot down to the flat block which was next in the climb.

  "I know where you're coming from, okay?" said Billy. "I just want you to think this through, though. I mean, you can't just go charging after that guy."

  Unwilling to show even a flicker of interest in what his partner was saying, Dave proceeded downward. He hopped from the stone block to the next step, the fat boulder which was also the last step.

  "He's a killer, Dave," said Billy. "I don't want to see him do to you what he did to that kid, y'know?"

  Dave bent his knees slightly, then jumped from the boulder; he felt a mild impact when his feet came down on the soft dirt.

  "I'm just worried about you," offered Billy, his voice tempered with concern. "I don't want you to get hurt, all right?"

  Dave gazed at the clearing ahead of him; finally off the tragic rock, the site of so much mayhem and madness, he felt a swell of relief.

  Taking a deep breath, he started across the clearing toward the woods.

  "I don't want you to get killed," hollered Billy. "Let's just go get the cops, okay?"

  Dave kept walking.

  "He isn't gonna' get your family," shouted Billy. "He'll probably get you if you find him, though!"

  Dave kept walking. Eyes roving the tree line, he spotted the gap from which he and Billy had first emerged, the mouth of the trail which would lead him through the woods and back to the Torino.

  "Come on, Dave!" Billy called from atop Wolf's Rock. "Shit!" he barked, and then he fell silent.

  Dave kept walking. At the cessation of his comrade's cajoling, he immediately started to worry, fret that the all-or-nothing tactic would fail to induce Billy to join him.

  As he neared the mouth of the trail, he listened carefully for any sound from behind him, any sound of success. He heard nothing but the puff of his own footsteps in the grass; there was no rustle of Billy descending the formation, no patter of Billy running up to meet him.

  When he got to the gap in the tree line, Dave hesitated, wondered if he ought to end the charade and abandon his foolhardy plan. If he left Billy alone, and Billy contacted the police, the plan would be kaput, anyway.

  The trail beckoned. Gazing into the woods, Dave questioned what he was setting out to do, wondered if there was still a chance that Billy would come after him. Yet again, he wondered if Larry had told the truth at all, if he was indeed Billy Bristol or just a good liar.

  Dave listened for any sound of his approaching friend. He heard nothing.

  With a sigh, he stepped onto the path.

  *****

  Chapter 34

  "We need a gun," Billy Bristol said for what seemed like the hundredth time. "First thing we do, we gotta' get my .38."

  Nodding, Dave continued to walk along the gravel berm of Route 26. The whir of tires reached his ears, the sound of a car approaching from behind; he rotated and extended his thumb, stuck it prominently over the road.

  "We definitely need a gun," said Billy, duplicating Dave's movement, shucking his thumb in the air and turning to watch the latest traffic. "We oughtta' have a couple."

  Dave didn't reply. He'd already discussed the subject with Billy, had already agreed that they should carry a weapon; there was nothing more to say on the matter, though Billy kept returning to it obsessively.

  Clearly, Billy was worried about the danger ahead, the peril to which he'd finally, reluctantly committed himself. Dave was worried, too, but had other concerns to occupy his thoughts.

  For one thing, he was wondering how he could ever get to Larry in time to try to stop the next killing. In addition to his original head start, Larry had engineered an even greater lead by disabling Dave's car; upon emerging from the woods, Dave and Billy had found the Torino incapacitated, paralyzed by four slashed tires. To say that the partners had been delayed would be a tremendous understatement; without the Torino, they now had to hitchhike the whole way from Horton State Park to Barton...and if they weren't lucky enough to get a ride, they would have to walk for about an hour and a half. Reaching Barton, and Billy's car, would only be half the battle; once they secured transportation, they would have to get to Larry Smith, a task which they still had no idea how to accomplish. By the time that they got to where Larry had gone--if they ever got there--the killer might have already finished his work and evaporated, flown forever from their grasp.

  As if his worries about reaching Larry in time weren't enough, Dave was also concerned about Billy, how to handle him now that the situation had changed so drastically. Initially, Dave had planned to take Billy along for just the first phase of the pursuit, then ditch him somewhere so that he would be safe from any conflict with Larry. Now that the Torino was immobilized, however, the partners would have to use Billy's car to seek out the killer...which meant that Billy would be driving and Dave would have more difficulty getting rid of him. Not only that, but with Billy at the wheel, Dave would have little control over the proceedings; once they got rolling, Billy could very well ignore Dave's direction, race to the police instead of going after Larry Smith.

  Of course, Dave didn't know what he would do if he did shake Billy and get to Larry. That troubled him more than anything. He was terrified of Larry, mortified by the prospect of again encountering the killer; his fear was so great that he worried that he wouldn't have the presence of mind to negotiate properly, that he wouldn't even be able to force out a single word. He might get lucky and soon get a ride to Barton...he might ingeniously figure out how to find Larry...he might get Billy safely out of the way without any fuss...and yet, after all that, he might end up being too tongue-tied to do any good.

  Dave didn't want to think about what might happen if he fumbled the final confrontation. He tried instead to focus his attention on more immediate concerns, like hitchhiking and the name of the faceless kid.

  "Aw, c'mon, man," muttered Billy, walking backward on the berm, wagging his thumb at the latest car to approach them. "Pick us up, huh?" he said irritably, as if the driver of the car could hear him. "I swear, we aren't a couple of mad killers, man. We just need a ride." The car, like the parade of vehicles before it, refused to oblige; it swept up and past the hitchhikers without slowing.

  "Damnit anyway," mumbled Billy, shaking his head. "What's the matter with people these days?"

  "Guess everybody's scared," replied Dave, facing forward since no other cars were in sight. "You just never know what somebody might try once they get in your car."

  "Yeah, that's true," sighed Billy. "I guess you never know when you might pick up a Larry Smith, man."

  "Seriously," nodded Dave. "I just hope we get a ride soon. At the rate we're going, we might never catch up with Larry."

  "Right," Billy said unenthusiastically. "That'd be a real tragedy."

  Dave chose to ignore the latest wisecr
ack, let it pass. Billy had been baiting him since they had left the woods, and no doubt would continue to do so; responding to his jibes would serve no useful purpose.

  Instead of biting back, Dave decided to turn the conversation onto a more constructive course. The significance of the name still eluded him; perhaps, Billy could help him decode the cipher.

  At the hum of approaching tires, Dave turned around and raised his thumb. "Here comes another one," he said, walking backward, watching as a distant pick-up drew closer.

  "Yeah, yeah," grumbled Billy, halfheartedly toting his own thumb just a little ways from his side. He continued to walk forward, didn't even peek over his shoulder this time.

  The pick-up shuttled rapidly toward the hikers, and Dave pumped his thumb vigorously in the air. His energetic signal went unheeded; the pick-up shot past and kept going.

  "Figures," groused Billy, kicking a chunk of gravel onto the pavement. "We might as well hang it up, man."

  "We'll get a ride eventually," Dave said confidently, turning to face forward. "Anyway, we can use the time to figure out that clue I told you about."

  "So what is this fantastic clue?" Billy asked snidely.

  "The kid's name," answered Dave. "I found it on his sweats."

  "Wait a minute," said Billy. "You found it on his sweats?"

  "Uh, yeah," replied Dave, momentarily caught off-guard. He'd forgotten that he hadn't yet told Billy of his visit with the corpse; he hadn't realized that mentioning the incident would surprise his partner.

  "Shit!" exclaimed Billy. "You mean you actually went down there and got close enough to read what was on his sweats?"

  "Well, yeah, I was down there," fumbled Dave. "I wanted to see if Larry had left anything behind, y'know? Like a clue."

  Billy emitted a long, incredulous whistle. "Holy shit," he said disbelievingly. "You really are a few bricks short of a load, aren't ya'?"

  "Larry didn't leave anything anywhere else," Dave explained with a shrug. "That was the only place left to look."

  "Boy," drawled Billy. "That was a real mess down there."

  "It wasn't much fun," said Dave. "Anyway, like I said, there was a name on the kid's sweats. It must be his name."

  "So what was it, then?"

  "Frank," said Dave, turning and ejecting his thumb when he heard the far-off whisk of tires. "Frank Hoffman."

  "Huh," grunted Billy, refraining from raising his own thumb. "Frank Hoffman," he said, carefully pronouncing the words.

  "Yeah," nodded Dave. "It really sounds familiar to me, but I just can't place it."

  "Frank Hoffman," repeated Billy, frowning thoughtfully. "Doesn't ring any bells."

  "There's something about it, though," insisted Dave. "I feel like there's something I should know about it."

  "I don't know any Frank Hoffmans," declared Billy. "None I can think of, anyway. I'm sure I didn't know that kid."

  Enthusiastically, Dave flagged the approaching car; it darted up and past, leaving only a breeze in its wake. "Maybe it's like Steve Kimmel. Maybe his dad's some big shot we've heard of."

  "Hoffman. Frank Hoffman," mulled Billy, staring at the berm. "Man, I don't know. I don't think there are any bigwigs named Hoffman in town."

  "Doesn't have to be in town, though," qualified Dave, waving his thumb at another approaching car. "Larry told me his next victim lives somewhere out of town."

  "Which isn't necessarily true, of course," Billy said wryly. "Seems to me like he'd just naturally lie about that, y'know?"

  "You might be right," frowned Dave. "I wondered about that myself. I mean, it does make sense that he'd try to send me off in the wrong direction. He's certainly lied to me before."

  Billy nodded emphatically. "Yeah, really. If he was Pinocchio, his freakin' nose'd stretch clear from here to Pittsburgh."

  "I thought that might be a possibility, too," said Dave, futilely thumbing at the speeding car as it blew past.

  "What?" snorted Billy. "That he's Pinocchio?"

  "That he might've gone to Pittsburgh," corrected Dave. "It's about the closest real city, right? 'Out of town' sort of sounds like Larry was headed for another city, doesn't it?"

  Billy shook his head. "Nah. He could've meant just about anywhere...but I'd bet my balls that son of a bitch never meant to leave Confluence. Why else would he've been so wired about you going to the cops? Because he wasn't finished with whatever he wanted to do around here, and he needed some more time. He knew you'd go to the cops sooner or later. I mean, he must've known you couldn't just leave that kid's body laying in Wolf's Rock forever."

  "That's true," admitted Dave as two more cars swept past.

  "He couldn't keep you from ever going to the cops," continued Billy, "so why would he care if you got the police as soon as you could? If he was really going out of town, he'd have plenty of time to make a run for it. He left you and me all the way out at Wolf's Rock and made sure we couldn't use the Torino, so he'd be able to get a long ways from Confluence before we'd even have a chance to call the cops. Not only that, but the cops'd take a while to get their shit together and decide to hunt the bastard down. He'd be pretty safe if he was going out of town, and he wouldn't've needed to threaten to kill your family."

  Thumb raised for an oncoming pickup, Dave nodded. Billy's reasoning seemed sound; Dave was quickly becoming convinced that his partner's conclusions were right on the money, that Larry Smith's final victim was indeed a local target. Though Larry's threats were fictional, he'd certainly been adamant about Dave avoiding the cops; he'd begged Dave to keep himself and Billy from going to the police for at least a day. Why would Larry need so much more time if he already had a substantial head start, enough to escape Confluence long before the cops could initiate pursuit?

  "Okay," said Dave. "So maybe Larry never wanted to leave town in the first place. What about that name, though? Where does it fit in?"

  "Maybe it doesn't," said Billy.

  "I think it does, though," said Dave. "I have this hunch, y'know? Like a really strong gut feeling. It seems like the kid's name is really important somehow."

  Billy released a long, belabored sigh. "Well, I'll be damned if I can tell you why it'd be important."

  Dave winced and gritted his teeth, tried to wring an answer from his uncooperative brain. "There's gotta' be a reason why it gets me like that," he ground through clenched jaws. "It's like I've heard that name before and I know it has something to do with all this, but I just can't quite nail it."

  "Maybe it's just wishful thinking," suggested Billy.

  "No," Dave snapped forcefully. "I'm sure there's something important about it."

  "Well, let's see," said Billy. "Hoffman, huh? Frank Hoffman." With that, Billy stopped talking; his brow furrowed thoughtfully and his eyes dipped to stare at the gravel berm.

  "Hoffman," Dave said to himself, squinting with intense concentration. He was so engrossed in dissecting the name that he didn't even notice two cars cutting past; though he watched them glide on toward McConleyville, he didn't even realize that they had been potential rides, that he should have heard them coming and raised his thumb.

  Frank Hoffman. Hoffman, Frank.

  Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman.

  Nothing; Dave truly applied himself, attacked the name with fresh fervor, but it yielded nothing.

  Frank Hoffman. What was it about that name? There was something, and Dave sensed it, but couldn't quite grasp it; it was as if he were in a lightless room, and he could feel the presence of someone else in the room with him, but the other person constantly remained beyond his reach.

  Three more cars buzzed by in a tight formation, and the partners again neglected to extend their thumbs or even look to the road. For the moment, thoughts of fast travel were secondary; the name had eclipsed hitchhiking as a first-priority concern.

  Finally, Billy shook his head. "Shit, man," he said glumly. "It still isn't ringing any bells."

  "Doesn't it seem kind of familiar to you, though?" pr
essed Dave. "I mean, doesn't it give you the feeling there's something about it you oughtta' know?"

  "Nope," shrugged Billy. "I'm not getting any kind of vibes off it. The only Hoffman I can think of is poor Frank Hoffman back in Wolf's Rock."

  "But there's something else!" Dave insisted.

  "Damned if I know what it is," sighed Billy.

  Dave grimaced with frustration. "It's like...I know I've heard that name before! I know it means something! I just...can't...quite...get it!"

  "You sure you're not thinking of Dustin Hoffman?" smirked Billy.

  "Yes, I'm sure!" lanced Dave. "It's somebody else. It's...aw, shit!" Caught by a sudden riptide of anger, Dave whacked his hands against his thighs. "I don't know!" he snapped bitterly as another car plunged past.

  For a moment, neither partner spoke. Fuming, Dave stomped blindly ahead; Billy followed with an easy, quiet shuffle. More cars passed, more potential rides, but the duo ignored them.

  "Well," said Billy at last. "Maybe we won't need that gun after all."

  Dave didn't respond; he was so busy thrashing his brain, struggling to make sense of the clue, that Billy's remark barely registered.

  "Won't need a gun if we can't find Larry," offered Billy.

  "We'll find him," Dave growled automatically, defying the pessimism though he was paying very little attention to it.

  "Okey-doke. Whatever you say, man," piped Billy, and then he paused briefly. "Hey," he started in again. "If we can't find him...I mean, if it turns out that we really can't figure out where he is...don't you think we can go to the cops then?"

  "Don't worry," rumbled Dave. "We'll figure it out."

  There was an instant of silence before Billy continued. "Well, you've got to admit, there's a chance we won't," he said matter-of-factly. "I mean, we just don't have anything to go on."

  "The kid's name," muttered Dave. "We've got that."

  "I know," sighed Billy, "but it doesn't seem like it's panning out."

  "It will," Dave said sourly.