Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Chapter 38

  As the Camaro charged up the highway, Dave began to realize just how hard it would be to ditch Billy Bristol.

  Billy was at the wheel, in control of the vehicle; the gun was on the floor, between his feet. He was going along with Dave's plan-albeit reluctantly-but he truly held all the cards, all the power.

  Dave wondered how in the world he could cut his partner out of the action. It had to be done; one way or another, Billy had to be removed from any danger.

  If Larry Smith indeed waited in Kline, the visit there would be exceedingly hazardous. If Larry was nothing but a psychotic killer, a confrontation with him could be fatal to Dave or Billy or both of them. If there was any truth to the fantastic time-travel story that he'd told, there could still be great peril; in his zeal to neutralize interference, Larry might fight the partners, might accidentally do serious damage to either or both of them.

  There were other considerations, too. Dave wanted to handle any encounter with Larry in a certain way: he wanted to try to find out the truth about Larry, disprove or verify the guy's claims; if he became convinced that Larry's story was factual, he wanted to talk him out of the final murder, persuade him to change the future without spilling more blood; if Larry's tale was debunked, or if he refused to cancel the killing, Dave planned to escape and call in the authorities.

  Billy's presence could severely disrupt Dave's scheme...could even bring about a tragic outcome. For one thing, Larry might not speak freely with Billy listening; Dave might also feel constrained, might not want to ask vital questions because there was a chance that Larry and Billy were the same person. With Billy along, Dave might not be able to reason with the killer, talk him out of further violence; Larry might be too agitated to negotiate rationally, and Billy might make matters worse by threatening him with the gun. It was even possible that Billy might do something rash, might use the weapon if there was a struggle or the hint of aggression from Larry; if Larry was gunned down, and had been telling the truth, Billy's future might adhere to a doomed course...and if Larry had been lying all along, Billy might suffer serious consequences, anyway, might have to answer for the shooting.

  There was no way around it: Billy had to go. Somehow, Dave had to leave him by the roadside, take the gun and Camaro and enter the deadly match alone.

  It was all up to him. He had to do it alone.

  Gray pavement hurtled up and disappeared beneath the nose of the car. Watching through the windshield, Dave realized that the halfway point was approaching, the junction of Routes 79 and 316. At the junction, Billy would hang a left, slip from the four lanes of 79 to the two lanes of 316; he would probably lose some time on 316, for that road had few passing zones and was known for heavy truck traffic. Whatever delays the partners experienced, however, they would still reach Kline in about twenty minutes; the whole trip would only have taken about a half-hour...fifteen minutes less than the most optimistic estimate that Dave had made at the start. Thanks to Billy's wild driving, the Camaro had covered most of the first leg in under ten minutes, half the time that it usually took Dave to travel the same course.

  Twenty minutes. Dave had less than twenty minutes to concoct and implement a plan to get his friend out of the way.

  As calmly and analytically as he could, Dave examined the dilemma, went over the current situation and how he wanted to change it. Ditching Billy; that was his goal. In order to achieve that goal, he would have to complete a series of steps: first, he would have to get Billy to stop the car; next, he would have to get Billy out of the car; then, he would have to keep Billy from getting back into the car.

  First things first: Dave had to think of a way to make his friend pull over. Ideally, he wanted to get the Camaro off the road at a secluded spot, at least a place where there were no homes or buildings nearby; such a spot wouldn't be hard to find, for Route 316 spanned long stretches of woodland. Hidden from passing traffic by trees, he could act without being easily seen by motorists, could whack Billy over the head if that was what it would take to get him to stay.

  Finding a good place to stop wouldn't be a problem; making Billy pull over was another matter, especially if Dave wanted him to pull over in the middle of the woods. If Dave asked Billy to stop at a gas station or a convenience store, on the pretense of making another phone call to 41 Park Road, Billy might cooperate; he would need a damn good reason to stop in the woods, though.

  As Billy guided the Camaro to the junction and made the turn onto 316, Dave struggled to come up with a way to make Billy stop. Briefly, he thought about dropping something out the window, something important, maybe his keys or wallet; if he could make it look like an accident and put up enough of a fuss, perhaps he could get Billy to stop and help him search for the item. He quickly dismissed the idea; he wasn't sure that Billy would pull over, or that he would get out and help in the search if he did pull off the road.

  Dave considered just acting crazy, suddenly going wild, pretending that the pressure had shot him into a nervous breakdown. If he shrieked and kicked enough, perhaps he could inspire Billy to pull over and try to calm him down; Dave could then leap from the car and sprint into the woods, drawing Billy after him. Of course, in the event of an hysterical fit, Billy might just chuck a fist across Dave's jaw or into his gut to shut him up. Though Billy wasn't typically a violent person, he didn't seem to be in the mood to put up with any kind of craziness.

  Dave thought about trying a direct approach, just grabbing the wheel and jerking the car from the road as Billy scrambled and braked in surprise. He dumped the notion in a flash; given the high speed at which the Camaro was flying, a sudden twist of the wheel could lead to disaster.

  Frowning, Dave drummed his fingers on the armrest, then clamped his hand around it so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He was getting nowhere, no closer to shedding his partner...and the Camaro was still rocketing toward Kline.

  Realizing that he had to make a move soon, Dave wrung his brain for an answer, desperately tried to squeeze another idea from it. He might as well have tried squeezing water from a brick.

  The Camaro accelerated, darting around a truck, then passing two cars. Dave guessed that it would only take about ten more minutes to reach Kline.

  He glanced over at his companion. Billy sat stiffly behind the wheel, eyes trained dead-ahead; he hadn't said a word since leaving the trailer. Dave thought that his face looked pale; perhaps, Billy was just as sick with worry as his partner, was just as scared though he concealed his fear.

  Suddenly, Dave had an idea.

  It seemed like a good idea; he thought that it might actually work. He put it to use right away, as there was no time to waste.

  Grimacing, he detached his hand from the armrest, gripped his stomach instead. Leaning forward, he took hold of the dash with his other hand; he lowered his head and released a soft moan.

  For a moment, Billy didn't react. Dave moaned again, louder this time; closing his eyes, he emitted a strained grunt.

  "What's the matter?" Billy asked finally, his voice flat, lacking any immediate concern.

  Dave started to speak, then interrupted with another grunt. "I feel...sick," he answered at last, forcing the words through clenched teeth. "I think...I'm gonna'...throw up."

  "Shit," muttered Billy. "What the hell could you be sick from?"

  "Don't know," gasped Dave. Groaning, he abruptly ducked forward, as if he were about to vomit on the spot.

  "Son of a bitch," grumbled Billy. "Is it really that bad, man?"

  "I'm gonna' lose it right here," sputtered Dave.

  "Not in the car, for cryin' out loud!" snapped Billy.

  Yanking his hand from his gut, Dave latched onto the window crank and spun it hurriedly. Before the side window had dropped the whole way down, he was shoving his face through the gap.

  "No!" barked Billy. "It'll blow down the whole side of the car! Shit!"

  Dave let loose a terrible moan. He remained in place, head cocked into the chill, s
wift wind.

  Without a word, Billy stomped on the brake and lurched the Camaro off the road. The car jolted to a halt on the berm; something clattered in the trunk, flung forward by the sudden stop.

  "Go!" shouted Billy, thumping Dave's back, practically pushing him out of the vehicle. "Do it in the woods instead of all over my upholstery!"

  Gagging for effect, Dave fumbled with the door, then heaved it open and burst from his seat. Hunched over, clutching his stomach with both hands, he stumbled across the berm and into the tree line.

  Dramatically weaving from side to side, Dave staggered through crackling brush, careened to a stop by the thick trunk of an oak. For an instant, he teetered in place, feigning dizziness; then, he fell against the oak, wrapping his arms around it as if it were the only thing which could support him.

  Inwardly, he cheered, felt a hot rush of triumph blasting through his nervousness. He'd accomplished the first step; the car had been stopped. The mock illness had done the trick; naturally, Billy wouldn't allow his prized Camaro to be marred.

  Next would come the real trick, the second step. The first bit of acting had been comparatively simple; now, Dave had to get Billy to exit the car.

  Groaning loudly, Dave uncurled one arm from the tree. Still hugging the trunk with his other arm, he bent over and turned his face to the ground as if preparing to retch.

  For several moments, he held the pose, staring at the sticks and dark earth at his feet. He bobbed his head, released a few miserable moans, some agonized grunts; he thought that the performance would seem more authentic if he clearly established just how stricken he was.

  Leaning further, he staged a convulsion, pumped his shoulders and head forward. He did it again, more emphatically, making a noise between a cough and a choke.

  Then, he let go of the tree and dropped. He allowed his whole body to go slack, tried to make the fall look realistic; he went down on his back in the dirt, took the slight impact on his buttocks and shoulders.

  A twig prodded him in the small of his back, and he shifted to dislodge it. Then, he lay still; eyes closed, he waited and listened, tried to muster his resources for the next step.

  Several minutes passed before Dave heard anything except the hiss of tires on the road. He guessed that Billy hadn't been paying much attention to the routine; though he figured that Billy would notice him soon enough, he still found it hard not to open his eyes and check on his partner's progress.

  At last, a car door slammed. Dave heard footsteps on the gravel berm.

  "Dave?" called Billy Bristol, sounding irritated. "Aw, what the hell?" he snapped, his steps accelerating, hitting the ground harder.

  Mouth lolling open, eyes pinched shut, Dave waited and hoped that he could do what had to be done. He'd gotten Billy out of the car; now, he had to keep him there.

  "Shit, man," crabbed Billy, apparently more angry than concerned for his comrade. "What now?" His voice and footsteps approached quickly, drew close in a matter of seconds.

  Dave's heart beat faster; he could hear Billy stop right beside him, right above him.

  "Hey!" clipped Billy. "You okay, man?"

  Dave didn't respond. He remained perfectly still except for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

  "You okay, man?" repeated Billy, his tone softening just a bit.

  Again, Dave gave no answer.

  "Aw, shit," said Billy. "Shit shit shit."

  Heart dancing frantically, nerves buzzing like power lines, Dave heard Billy descend to crouch or kneel beside him. Billy's hand gripped his shoulder, shook it gently.

  "Dave? Dave, can you hear me? Are you all right, man?" Billy's voice was beginning to rise; finally, he was starting to sound flustered, worried about his friend's condition...distracted, off-guard.

  "Hey Dave!" Billy hailed more stridently, shaking the shoulder more forcefully. "Can you hear me at all? Can you talk to me, man?"

  Dave remained limp and silent. He waited to make his move...partly, because he wanted the timing to be right, but also because he was afraid to go through with it. He was worried about hurting Billy...and just as worried about failing in the gambit.

  "Aw, come on, Dave," Billy said pleadingly. "Come on and answer me, man."

  Dave continued to wait, all the while striving to reinforce his resolve.

  "Damnit," said Billy, shaking Dave's shoulder more insistently than ever. "That son of a bitch Larry must've messed you up worse than you thought."

  Dave didn't move.

  "Can you hear me?" hollered Billy, and then he paused. "I better get you an ambulance," he muttered tensely. "Don't worry, man. I'll flag somebody down to go call one, and I'll be right back."

  Billy's hand left Dave's shoulder.

  Dave waited for just a heartbeat, knew that he could wait no more.

  He made his move.

  Snapping his eyes open, he saw that Billy was still on his knees but looking away.

  Now or never, thought Dave.

  Now or never, he chanted to himself, and then he sprung at his friend.

  *****

  Chapter 39

  When he first heard the car outside, the Miraclemaker paused for just a second, just a blink. Everything about him hung suspended as he hovered at the cusp, the long-awaited brink of his final and greatest performance.

  His face was turned toward the front door, the portal through which his chosen prey would soon advance; the thin, glossy streaks of tears marked his cheeks, and his eyes were wide. He still slumped against the living room wall, boots planted amid fragments of glass in the green shag rug; his palms were flattened against the wallpaper, arms spread stiffly with undersides hidden, rot concealed.

  Listening as tires ground over the driveway gravel, he felt strangely unmoved, not at all as he'd dreamed he would feel at the end of his crusade. Though he'd worried, just moments ago, that his prey wouldn't come and the mission would fail, he didn't now rejoice; no swell of delight or relief bloomed within him, no rapturous warmth coursed through him. Amazingly, he wasn't excited, didn't know the familiar thrill which had so energized him before other miracles. The savage, sacred flame in his heart wasn't active; the blaze of rage and hatred which had driven him all along was at a low ebb, had dimmed instead of flaring.

  It wasn't right. He knew that he should be overjoyed, seething with fury and will, barely able to restrain himself from racing outside to expedite his vengeance. After his long wait, with success so close, he should be transfigured, ecstatic and invigorated...not dulled and hollow, enervated, numb. His mind should be swirling with circus-bright visions of the impending miracle...not visions of the rotting arm and the rot yet to come and the darkness which would surely soon engulf him.

  It was a crime, a real crime to have reached the threshold only to become desensitized; it was a shame to lose heart when the prize of a lifetime was soon to be his. He felt that much at least, he felt cheated, unjustly robbed of emotion when he should have been reveling in it.

  Outside, a car door slammed.

  As uninspired as he was, the Miraclemaker stirred at the cue. He would do what he'd come to do, would work the last miracle; he might not rightfully relish it, but he wouldn't walk away without finishing his work.

  Pushing away from the wall, the Miraclemaker made a quick scan of his surroundings, a last check of the battleground-to-be. Abruptly, he realized that he'd made a mistake, a potentially disastrous one: during his tantrum, when he'd hurled a chair from the kitchen, he'd created a shoal of debris in the living room...a mess which could alert his guests to danger the instant that the door was opened. As soon as they looked in, they would see the smashed table, the scatter of glass, the misplaced and upside-down chair; the sign of intrusion and destruction might send them fleeing in a flash, bolting like rabbits before one foot had even been set in the house.

  There was no time to clear away the rubble. The blunder couldn't be reversed; the Miraclemaker would just have to accept it and hope for some luck. If his victims tur
ned tail at the door, he would take a shot at running them down...or at least the one of them who counted. Though he'd planned to act without drawing the attention of witnesses, he was now beyond the point of caring if any neighbors or passers-by saw him; he wouldn't live much longer anyway, so he truly had nothing to lose.

  Another car door slammed.

  Hastily, the Miraclemaker stepped through the field of debris, careful to avoid the larger spurs of broken glass. Crouching below the level of the two small windows set in the door, he glided into a corner beside the entrance. The door would open toward him, blocking him from view; once the door was closed, he would be in plain sight...but he didn't intend to give his prey enough time to shut the thing and have a look around.

  As he fit himself into the corner, he heard footsteps in the driveway, then on the sidewalk. He heard voices, too-those of the woman and the man, the husband and wife. He'd heard the voices before, during his many surveillances of the site; the woman's voice boomed, was much deeper and louder than the man's lazy, muffled drawl.

  From his post, the Miraclemaker could hear the woman most clearly, even before she approached the door. She was arguing with her husband, berating him for something that he'd said to a friend of hers. Even when the husband was speaking from just the other side of the door, the Miraclemaker couldn't pick out exactly what he was saying.

  Keys jangled. The Miraclemaker heard what he thought was the rustle of packages, perhaps the crumple of brown paper grocery bags. The next sound was unmistakable: the scrape of a key sliding into the door's lock.

  Though he still felt no fire, the Miraclemaker tensed and primed himself for the ambush.

  The key turned. With a clack, the lock bolt popped from its socket in the door frame.

  As the doorknob turned, the woman said something about beer and cigarettes. She was upset that her husband hadn't bought more; she declared that he would have to go back out for additional supplies later that evening.