Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  No one had answered the phone at 41 Park Road; this could have meant any number of things-that no one was home, or no one wanted to answer the phone, or no one could answer the phone. Dave knew that there was only one way to find out what was going on at the residence, one way to find out if Larry Smith was there or had been there.

  One way; there was only one way to get to the bottom of the mess...or find, once and for all, that the mystery of Larry would never be solved.

  "Well, I'm ready," muttered Billy Bristol, slouching back into the living room. "What's next?" he asked unenthusiastically, waving his .38 revolver before him.

  "We go for a drive," Dave said coolly. "We go to Kline."

  "Huh," grunted Billy. "Whereabouts in Kline?"

  "41 Park Road, wherever that is." Rising from the sofa, Dave stretched his arms wide and let loose a yawn. He felt a wave of great weariness roll through him...but he knew that he couldn't rest, might not get the chance for many more hours.

  "Park Road, huh?" said Billy. "So, what? Is our boy gonna' meet us there?"

  "Beats the hell outta' me," shrugged Dave. "Maybe."

  "So what do we do if he's there?" asked Billy.

  "I'm not sure," said Dave, stepping toward the front door. "I guess we'll just make it up as we go along."

  "Gee, great plan," grumbled Billy.

  "Well, that's the way it is," Dave said firmly. "We won't know what we might have to deal with till we get there."

  "Know what my plan is?" asked Billy. "Know how I'm gonna' handle that S.O.B.?"

  Pausing at the door, Dave looked to his partner. Nodding, Billy raised the gun, hefted it in his grip.

  "Right here," said Billy Bristol. "This is my plan."

  *****

  Chapter 37

  Ready to run, ready to explode, ready to smash something, anything, now, the Miraclemaker paced back and forth in the kitchen, flicking across the small space in quick bursts, three steps from one side to the other and then back and then again and then back and then again.

  Hunched, glaring, clenched, he barreled between appliances, hurtling full-tilt toward the stove and then the refrigerator, bounding on a collision course but turning at the last possible instant and missing each by a hair's breadth. His hands were socked deep in the pockets of his bluejeans, planted where they could do the least harm, yet they flexed and strained at the denim, fighting for release whenever something breakable came into view.

  He was still alone.

  He was still alone and his plan was stalled and he could wait no longer and where the hell were they?

  Where were they?

  He looked up and the cow was still there, the damn cow was there anyway and the big milk bottle was on the last hash mark before the twelve and the smaller bottle was on the five and he wanted to scream.

  "One minute till five!" the yellow cow seemed to giggle down at him, all teeth and nostrils and bulging cartoon eyes. "One minute till fi-ive!" it seemed to sing merrily, knowingly, mockingly.

  One minute till five and where were they?

  They had to show up soon, thought the Miraclemaker. For over an hour and a half, he'd been waiting to manifest the final miracle, over an hour and a half and surely the chosen one would return at any minute. It was simply not possible that the delay would extend, that the last blessed subject would escape his destiny for more than an eye-blink, a finger-snap, a breath.

  It wasn't possible...

  Not possible unless the chosen one had gone elsewhere for the evening or the weekend, had left town to visit relatives or friends, had gone on a trip from which he might not return for days and days and then oh God oh then all would truly be lost.

  The Miraclemaker didn't know what he would do if the chosen one didn't arrive soon. His patience was exhausted; he was already crazed, out of his mind with worry, fit to burst from the pressure of needs unfulfilled. More importantly, he couldn't linger in that house indefinitely, couldn't just wait there for days; there were other homes nearby and he might attract the attention of neighbors, maybe even the local cops. He couldn't go elsewhere, either; now that his crimes had been revealed, he couldn't travel freely, couldn't risk capture.

  So close! He was so close to success, glorious completion, his promised reward...and yet, he was blocked from victory, denied his final joy, detained when he should have been accelerated. After coming so far, performing the impossible, he was crippled, he was absolutely paralyzed and perhaps consigned to failure.

  Desperately, he struggled to subdue his frustration, force his mind to the cool clarity of the golden line. He couldn't do it; self-control eluded him as deftly as the chosen one. His head was full of roar and wrack and foam, ablaze and bolting.

  Before he could stop himself, he looked to the clock, flung up his face to meet what he knew would but feed his affliction.

  The cow was still grinning.

  The Miraclemaker stopped pacing, just froze in the middle of the kitchen.

  The smaller milk bottle pointed to the five.

  Where were they?

  The big milk bottle pointed to the two.

  Where...were...they?

  It was ten minutes after five o'clock. He'd been waiting...

  He'd been waiting for almost two hours and he was still...

  WHERE?

  ...and he was still alone.

  His upper lip curled in a snarl. As he glared at the clock, he felt something pop in his head.

  With a guttural growl, he plunged suddenly across the room, sprung like a flung blade from the track that he'd paced for a seeming eternity. Wrenching his hands from his pockets, he leaped for the kitchen table.

  With a savage kick, he sent one of the chairs airborne, launched it in an arc through the doorway into the living room. The projectile came down on a small table, descended with the satisfying smash of a shattering glass lamp.

  Shimmering lamp-shards blew out and the table collapsed, broke apart under the chair. Before the debris had settled, the Miraclemaker had dived into another assault.

  Eyes wide, he thrust his hands to either side of the kitchen table and jerked it from the floor. The remaining two chairs bucked away as he swung around with the table and hurled it across the room.

  Propelled by the Miraclemaker's fury, the table rammed the counter by the sink. The leading two legs of the table snapped off on impact, lashed back from the Formica overhang; the tabletop itself kept going, punched over the counter to crush a coffee maker and a heap of dishes against the wall.

  With all obstacles finally out of his way, the Miraclemaker spun to face his true target. Marching to the wall which the table and chairs had blocked, he shot his hands up and latched onto the ridiculous clock. Hissing curses, he tore the taunting thing from the nail on which it had hung.

  Rushing with fire, he swept the clock down and drove it around so that its black electrical cord jolted free of the wall socket. In a final surge, he heaved the dead thing across the kitchen, fired it with fastball speed against a metal cupboard.

  There was a loud crack as the clock dashed upon the metal, erupting in jagged fragments of plastic.

  For a moment then, the Miraclemaker did nothing, was content to stand and survey the damage that he'd done. Though he realized that he probably should have abstained from the mayhem, he felt infinitely better than he had before the clock's obliteration. It had been worth the risk of alerting neighbors or passers-by to his presence, more than worth it to kill the cow which had grinned like cruel fate at his misfortune.

  Breaking into a pleased smirk, the Miraclemaker took a step forward, kicked at the orange bits of clock scattered over the floor. His mouth spread into a full grin when he spotted a chunk of the cow; the ludicrous bovine face had been almost perfectly halved, split right down the middle.

  Stooping, the Miraclemaker lifted the half of the cow's face which lay at his feet. As if gloating over the bones of an enemy, he briefly contemplated the plastic chip, nodding with satisfaction as he turned it over in
his grip. With a chuckle, he finally flicked the chip from his thumb into the sink.

  Laughing as the lemon-yellow shard clattered into the porcelain basin, the Miraclemaker turned from his handiwork and started for the living room. He planned to stretch out on the couch for a spell, try to relax; now that he'd released some of his rage, he thought that he might be able to calm down and regain his equilibrium.

  Striding over the threshold from the kitchen, he absentmindedly reached up to scratch his scalp. It was then that he happened to glance at his forearm.

  He came to an abrupt halt.

  A stunned grimace dropped over his face like a theater curtain dropping over a stage. He lowered his arm...and recoiled from the sight.

  Sucking in his breath, he snapped his eyes shut. A chill shot through him.

  No, he couldn't look again. There was no need; he'd imagined it.

  No.

  Wincing, he opened his eyes.

  He realized that he hadn't imagined it.

  Suddenly, the Miraclemaker felt nauseous. He felt bile bloom in his throat, had the urge to vomit immediately.

  Gasping, gagging, he thrust his arm as far from him as he could. He wanted to expel it from his body altogether, cast it away, never set eyes on it again.

  His arm. Oh God, his arm!

  Eyes glazed with revulsion and disbelief, he looked away from it, then back. Again, he averted his eyes, and again they were drawn back.

  His arm...

  His arm looked horrible. His right arm had changed...was changing before his eyes.

  The underside of his arm was no longer smooth and pale. From the wrist to the elbow, the flesh had gone dark...but not dark like a bruise. The flesh had gone black, dead black, black as the rind of a burnt roast.

  The rim of the black strip was cracked and furrowed. In some places, ragged fissures had opened up, revealing glistening black meat beneath the surface; in other spots, flakes of desiccated skin were peeling, curling up like fronds of charred paper.

  The heart of the blackened patch was the worst. Blood-red blisters had erupted, bubbled up in a great, tight cluster. Some of the blisters were as big as his thumbnail; others were as small as the head of a tack. He could see that some had broken, leaving gaping sores, craters gleaming with a soup of blood and puss.

  As he watched, the clot of boils pulsed visibly. One of them gently burst, disgorging a bloody ooze.

  He could also see the black area expanding, slowly moving out from the fringes. Like a dye, the dark crept outward all around; pink flesh mottled and shifted to purple, then black.

  His arm. It was his arm.

  It was him.

  He was rotting.

  Another boil broke. Shuddering, the Miraclemaker jammed his eyes shut, but it was too late; his gorge rose and he couldn't stop himself from vomiting. Bending, keeping the corrupted arm stretched straight behind him, out of sight, he emptied his stomach onto the rug.

  His arm; it was all that he could see, even with his eyes clamped tight. The vision lingered behind his lids, crystal-clear amid winking blue fireworks.

  His arm.

  Doubled over, the Miraclemaker retched violently, continued to heave even when there was nothing left to eject. Clutching his gut with his left hand, he convulsed again and again, caught by one quickfire spasm after another. His whole body shook and pumped furiously, every cell dedicated to the act as if it could somehow purge the infestation.

  His arm. His arm.

  Sputtering and hacking, the Miraclemaker lost himself for a time, receded before the waves of shock and sickness. When at last the spasms diminished and he again began to think coherently, he wasn't grateful; he would have preferred thoughtless oblivion to the madness of reality.

  Eyes still sealed, the Miraclemaker retched once more, then stopped convulsing. Gasping, he raised his left hand, drew the back of it across his chin and lower lip.

  Suddenly, his eyes shot open. Heart hammering, he jerked the hand away from his face, pitched his head to one side in terrified anticipation.

  Trembling, he peeked at his left arm from the corner of his eye. He felt nauseous all over again at the thought of what he might see, how close it had been to his mouth.

  The Miraclemaker's fear didn't abate when he saw that the top of his arm appeared to be clear. He hesitated before looking further, dreading what he might find on the rest of his limb.

  Gingerly, he finally rotated the arm, turned it with painstaking slowness. He tried to steel himself, prepare for more horrors; bile burned his throat and he knew that he would never be prepared.

  He continued to turn the arm. Swallowing hard, he shut his eyes, knowing as he did so that he couldn't avoid the inevitable.

  Reluctantly, he opened one eye.

  His held breath rushed out all at once.

  The underside of the arm was unmarked.

  Straightening, still keeping the right arm from view, the Miraclemaker took a step back, away from his mess. With a low, spent moan, he retreated farther, stumbling over a piece of the table that he'd smashed earlier. Sweating, puffing, reeling, he slumped heavily against a wall.

  He didn't feel a thing.

  The realization struck him suddenly: he didn't feel a thing from his right arm. As ravaged and gruesome as it looked, it caused him no pain. Blackened and blistered and seeping, the arm felt just as it always had, miraculously normal.

  Miraculously.

  A second realization spun up from the riot in his mind, hit him like a brick between the eyes: he was running out of time.

  It was agonizingly obvious; it was the only explanation; he couldn't deflect or dilute it.

  He was running out of time.

  The spreading rot...it had to be a signal. It had to mark the beginning of the end for him, the start of his finish.

  The miraculous nature of his condition was the tip-off. The extremity, the sudden manifestation, the disfigurement without pain; they all pointed to one agent, one possible cause. The source of his newfound misery and the source of his divinity could only be one and the same.

  He was near the end of his mission, almost done with his work. He'd been promised enough time to complete it, and nothing more. When arranging his foray, he hadn't thought to ask for anything more, had been too overjoyed with what had already been pledged him; apparently, his benefactor planned to hold him to that, would strictly enforce the agreed-upon terms.

  Apparently, the Miraclemaker would have just enough time and not a minute more. Already, he appeared to be on the way out; his arm, no doubt, was just the beginning, the shape of things to come. The deterioration was clearly expanding, would surely continue through the rest of him.

  It seemed that he'd become a human fuse, a walking countdown.

  The Miraclemaker cursed himself for his shortsightedness, his poor negotiation at the start of the affair. He'd been too excited and eager to get on with his campaign, hadn't thought to secure a guarantee that he would remain physically intact until the very end of the endeavor. Naturally, his benefactor hadn't volunteered such a guarantee; this had left a loophole in the agreement, a very large loophole which it now seemed the benefactor would ruthlessly exploit.

  So this was how it would end. From time to time, since the start of his adventure, he'd wondered what would happen to him at its finish. He'd known only one detail of his fate-that a steep payment would be demanded of him, a payment which he thought he might be able to withhold; otherwise, his personal destiny had been unknown. No stipulations had been entered into the contract, no clauses which specifically addressed his status after the completion of his mission.

  The Miraclemaker now had a pretty good idea of what awaited him.

  He would rot. He might do so without physical pain, but the mental anguish would be considerable.

  He would rot. He would have to watch himself rot.

  An awful picture coalesced in his mind, an image of himself in the advanced stages of deterioration. He saw his entire body decomposing,
mutating beyond recognition; every inch of his skin was blackened and pulsing with boils, bursting pustules, running sores.

  Just like his arm; the rest of him would be just like his arm, maybe worse...probably worse. He wondered just how bad it would get before he expired; at the same time, he didn't think that he really wanted to know.

  Choking, grinding his teeth, the Miraclemaker forced back the urge to vomit. A bead of sweat slid down his nose and off the tip; though he felt cold, chilled to the bone, he was soaked with perspiration, a tangible sheen of panic.

  He was running out of time. The thought of his fading life filled him with fear and sorrow, monumental regret; though there had been a time, long ago, when he'd longed for death, he now hated to see it come, didn't want to see his glorious age of miracles draw to a close. In so many ways, the past weeks had been the best of his life.

  Of all his emotions, all his reactions to impending extinction, the strongest by far was worry. He worried that he wouldn't be able to complete his work, wouldn't manage to eliminate the final victim and assure overall success.

  Though he'd been promised enough time to carry out his whole plan, he now wondered if he would indeed be given that time. If his benefactor was malicious enough to rot him alive, perhaps he would choose greater treachery as well, go back on his word. Maybe, there would be enough time, but the Miraclemaker would be in such bad shape that he would be physically unable to clinch his victory.

  If he couldn't triumph in the end, all that he'd done would have been for nothing. His whole life would have been for nothing.

  Twin clear droplets rolled from the Miraclemaker's eyes, drifted down his cheeks. He tipped his head back, stared at the ceiling with a look of absolute despair.

  A choked gurgle emerged from his throat. It was much like a sob.

  It was followed by the crackle of tires on gravel, the sound of a car rolling into the driveway in front of the house.

  *****