Then, just as the Miraclemaker completed his latest kick, she suddenly moved. After the impact of his boot against her spine, his foot relaxed for a split-second, paused before retracting for another strike; in that instant, the woman whipped around and latched onto the boot with both hands.
With an incoherent cry, she yanked the Miraclemaker's foot up and forward. Taken completely by surprise, he was wrenched off-balance; he toppled over backward, slamming into the table which he'd thrown earlier. Bouncing from the table to the floor, he crashed painfully into the pile of rubble there.
The next thing he knew, the woman was standing over him. She'd recovered her knife, and was holding it high overhead.
"Go to hell, you bastard," she hissed, and then she plunged the blade toward his chest.
*****
Chapter 44
After several minutes of winding through the gray woods of Cross Creek, Park Road finally led Dave and Billy to a more open realm, a region which wasn't wrapped in thick forest. Though there was no sign posted to indicate that the park had ended, the boundary was clear; suddenly, the trees gave way to space, an expanse of gently rolling hills.
Some distance away, to the right, a silver silo rose from amid a cluster of buildings. Excitedly, Dave pointed at the farm, prodded the windshield with his index finger.
"See? I told you!" he jabbered. "This road comes out in Kline!"
Behind the wheel, Billy looked especially morose. He was slumped down in his seat, and drove with one hand; his left arm was propped on the sill of the window, and his head rested against his fist.
"I knew we were going the right way!" whooped Dave.
"No shit," Billy muttered sullenly.
Choosing to ignore his partner's grousing, Dave watched as the silo loomed closer. "We oughtta' find the address pretty soon," he babbled hopefully. "We don't have too far to go till we'll start seeing houses and trailers and stuff."
"Right," grunted Billy, "but this still might not be the road we're looking for."
"Well, it's definitely Park Road," said Dave. "We saw three signs back there that said so. This is Park Road, and that's Kline up ahead, so I'd say this is the road we want."
"There might be another Park Road," Billy said glumly.
"This is it," insisted Dave. "Kline just isn't that big of a place. I doubt there are any two roads with the same name."
With a sigh, Billy opened his fist, rubbed his brow with his thumb and forefinger as if he had a headache. "We'll see," he mumbled. "Maybe it'll take us longer to find the place than you think."
"Don't worry. It won't," declared Dave, gazing attentively at the silo as it slipped past. "It's probably just a little further up the road."
"Whatever," sighed Billy.
The Camaro cruised up a slight rise, then down through a dip and around a loose serpentine. On either side of the road, the land was raw and dark, chewed into farmers' fields from which no shoots yet sprouted.
Everything looked dull and gray. The sun couldn't be seen; earlier in the day, it had been prominent, but now it was hidden beyond a ceiling of dense cloud.
A few droplets of rain pattered the windshield of the Camaro. Quickly, the trickle became a shower, then a downpour; Billy flicked on the wipers, and Dave rolled up the passenger's-side window.
For a while, no one said a word. Another farm flicked past; its ramshackle barn sat close to the road, surrounded by a sodden herd of black and white cows. A bit further along, a trio of rust-colored cows milled drowsily by the roadside, fenced in by barbed wire.
As the car glided around a bend, Dave spotted a trailer. The white box was set far back from the road, and a rutted dirt track led up to it; the only vehicle nearby was an ancient brown pickup mounted on cinder blocks. Though there was no mailbox along the road to give the trailer's address, and Dave couldn't glimpse any numbers on the front of the structure, he dismissed the place, decided that it was still too far from Kline proper to be the residence that he sought.
The Camaro continued to swoop onward, and Dave found himself slipping into a funk. His excitement over closing in on Larry faded quickly; the reality of the situation again began to sink in, and a claustrophobic dread folded around him like a heavy cape. He again began to worry about everything-what he would do if he didn't find Larry, what he would do if he did find Larry, how he could protect Billy Bristol. His stomach clenched as he pondered a confrontation with the killer; the image of the mauled kid in the trench resurfaced to sap his resolve.
Dave thought of his family, and he wondered if he would ever see them again. When he thought about Darlene Rollins, he ached; he yearned to be with her, to hold her in his arms. He regretted never having told her that he loved her, never having made the promises that she wanted to hear.
Rain battered the windshield, cascading from the dark, portentous sky. By the time that the first group of houses appeared, Dave's eagerness to find 41 Park Road had withered substantially.
The Camaro slowed as it neared the closest house, a brick rancher on the right. Both partners peered at the address, the bold, black numbers mounted beside the front door.
Though Dave had formerly been most vocal during the search, he now remained silent, engulfed in his vast apprehension. It was Billy who finally spoke.
"That was 60," he said as the car rolled toward another house. "There's 58."
Dave folded his arms tightly against his chest. He drew a deep breath and shivered.
*****
Chapter 45
The kitchen knife gleamed as it plunged downward.
For a fraction of a heartbeat, the Miraclemaker was transfixed by the blade, the object which was about to prematurely end his mission. He had a fleeting vision of his rotting arm; he recalled the awful image of his whole body gone rotten, the way that he thought it would be at the end...and he wondered if it might not be better to let the blade fall.
Then, the wailing of the child again came sharply into focus.
The weeping of the chosen one; it inspired him.
The miracle wasn't finished.
At the last possible instant, the Miraclemaker thrust himself from the weapon's path, rolled away from the woman. Jagged shards of glass and plastic bit into his shoulders...but the jabs were nothing compared to the fatal agony which he'd just narrowly avoided.
With a tock, like the sound of a dart striking a dartboard, the point of the knife stabbed the linoleum where the Miraclemaker had been. The woman released a guttural howl of rage and frustration.
In a single, smooth motion, the Miraclemaker came out of his roll and snapped to his feet. He didn't waste time casting about for a weapon; without hesitation, he charged at the woman.
She was moving almost as quickly as he was, jerking the knife from the floor and drawing herself up to resume combat. Her head swung up, her icy eyes flicked to target him...but she wasn't fast enough. Before she could dodge or shift the blade to a useful position, he leaped upon her, blasted her backward.
The Miraclemaker drove her against a counter; her skull bashed back against the metal door of a cupboard. Despite the fierce impact, she held onto the knife...but the Miraclemaker pounded her arm against the counter's edge until she finally let go.
Desperately, the woman lashed a hand toward his face; he hooked her wrist before her nails even got close to his eyes. She tried to pump a knee into his groin; he blocked the blow with his own knee, then crushed her leg back against the lower cupboards. When she lunged her head forward and tried to bite him, he bobbed back, then butted his own head into her face.
Wildly, she thrashed in his grip, writhing and straining against him. She struggled like a convict fighting to escape the electric chair, expending every ounce of strength in an animal frenzy.
The Miraclemaker held fast to her. In response to her squirming and flailing, he propelled her right arm against the lip of the counter, mashed it back with such force that the arm broke below the elbow. The resulting scream was intoxicating to the Miraclem
aker, a perfect note which soothed and spurred him.
Smirking cruelly, he heaved her back, made her skull again crash against the cupboard. When she dropped forward, he was pleased to note that her head had made a sizable dent in the cupboard's metal door.
The woman now had a glazed look in her eyes; as the Miraclemaker gazed at her, he knew that she was beaten. Her cold intensity had fallen away to reveal an unfocused agitation, a stupefied vulnerability; her cadaverous, thorny face was beginning to look more frail than dangerous.
Chuckling, the Miraclemaker poured a fist into her belly, then again boosted her against the cupboard. For the hell of it, he whipped her broken arm against the counter, cracking the bones in new places.
"I should've known," he whispered menacingly, sneering at his captive. "Should've known you'd be a pistol."
Blearily, the woman blinked at him. She squinted, seemed to be having difficulty making him out, even though his face was just inches from her own.
The Miraclemaker snorted and wagged his head. "You're a real handful, all right," he oozed venomously. "Guess it runs in the family, huh? Like son, like mother."
The woman looked confused. Her lips twitched, but she didn't speak.
"I don't know where your hubby fits in," he drawled sardonically. "What a runt! Only thing I can figure is that he isn't your kid's father."
For an instant, the woman's eyes seemed to clear and flicker with indignation; then, the muddled, drifting look returned.
"Yeah, that's it," snickered the Miraclemaker. "I always did think your kid was a bastard."
Again, an angry glint sparked in the woman's eyes, only to wink out more quickly than the last.
The Miraclemaker grinned; he was savoring every second of his victory speech. "Just for the record," he purred, "it's all your fault. If you weren't such a lousy mother, I wouldn't have to do this."
"What're you...talking about?" asked the woman, her weak, breathless mumble a pitiful contrast to her earlier bluster.
"Oh, I think you know," clucked the Miraclemaker. "You're a disgrace to motherhood. You should've taken up something you'd be better suited for...like prostitution." Abruptly, he bugged his eyes wide and gasped, then giggled as if he were embarrassed by a gaffe that he'd made. "Oops! I'm sorry! You are a whore! Let me rephrase that: you should've done something you'd be better at...like dealing drugs." Again, he gawked and tittered. "Oh no! I forgot! You are a drug dealer! Boy, I just can't get anything right today!"
"Donald," croaked the woman. "Is that...what this is about?"
"Who's Donald?" the Miraclemaker queried glibly.
"One more week," said the woman. "Just...one more week...please."
"Hmm," frowned the Miraclemaker. "Isn't it a little bit late to be begging for another week? I mean, I did just kill your husband."
"I don't care," snuffled the woman. "Just give me one more week."
Eyes twinkling with amusement, the Miraclemaker shook his head and chuckled. "Y'know, I understand now. I see where your son got his warm and caring personality."
"Come on," the woman sputtered pleadingly. "One more week."
"I almost feel sorry for the little nipper," the Miraclemaker said reflectively...and then he laughed. "Nah. Forget I said that."
"Please," groaned the woman, her voice cracking. "Give me a week!"
"No can do," sighed the Miraclemaker. "For one thing, I don't know who this 'Donald' is, and I have no idea what you're talking about. For another thing...well, let's just say I owe you one."
"Please!" sobbed the woman.
"Say 'pretty please'," the Miraclemaker suggested softly, grasping her face with both hands, gently drawing her head forward.
"Pretty...," was all that she got out.
The Miraclemaker pounded her skull against the cupboard fourteen times.
*****
Chapter 46
55 Park Road was a two-story box with pale blue siding.
53 Park Road was a low, white rancher built of cinder block.
51 Park Road was a shabby old farmhouse.
49 Park Road was a well-kept A-frame.
There was a lot of space between the homes along Park Road; in many cases, the gaps were so wide that new homes could have fit easily between those already in place. Despite all the room separating the houses, though, they still passed quickly; the Camaro was moving slowly, but it would still reach its destination too soon for Dave's liking.
As the countdown to 41 Park Road progressed, he grew increasingly agitated. His stomach knotted and his pulse raced, his thoughts steadily grew more erratic and he felt himself approaching a state of panic.
He knew that he had to go on, had to try to resolve the crisis. He had to stop Larry from killing again; he had to protect Billy. Perhaps more than anything, he needed answers, had to find out the truth about Larry Smith.
Everything that had happened over the past weeks had been building up to this time, this test...and he truly wanted to face it, truly craved a conclusion. Likewise, however, he was terrified, consumed by a crippling fear. He was terrified of the killer; he feared for his own life and that of Billy Bristol. When he remembered the faceless kid, he wanted to make Billy turn the car around and speed to safety.
47 Park Road was a nondescript prefab with white siding.
45 Park Road was the same as 47, but with pale yellow siding.
Dave shifted restlessly in his seat, wishing that he didn't have to go further. He wished that he'd never met Larry, that he'd never been caught up in the mystery and mayhem.
He wished that he'd never seen the faceless kid.
43 Park Road was a rundown Cape Cod with a yard full of lawn jockeys and elves.
Dave wanted to go home.
"There it is," said Billy. He sounded about as enthusiastic about their arrival as Dave felt. "There's the place, man."
Dave looked to the left.
41 Park Road was a split-level with white siding and a brick footer.
The house didn't look old, but it hadn't been maintained very well. The siding was dirty, almost gray; shingles were missing from spots on the roof, and the rain gutters sagged from the eaves. The front yard was a mess of mud and murky puddles; it was cluttered with haphazard piles of brick and wood and junk, as if construction on the place had never been quite finished and the building materials had never been moved. Two sections of unpainted fence bracketed the mouth of the gravel driveway-but the crossbars of one fence had been snapped in the middle, and one of the uprights of the other had been knocked to the ground.
There was one car in the driveway, a silver Cadillac which was at least ten years old. The car was filthy and in a state of disrepair equaling that of the house.
Dave glanced around, looking for Larry's car. He didn't see the gray Honda anywhere along the road or in any of the nearby driveways.
Immediately, he felt a wave of relief...followed by a wave of disappointment. Part of him was delighted that Larry might not be there; another part of him was disconsolate at the possible absence of the man with all the answers, the only man with the answers.
Billy let the Camaro glide slowly past the house. "We'll turn around up here and double back," he explained matter-of-factly.
"Okay," said Dave, still searching for the Honda. It occurred to him that Larry might have switched cars; it would have been smart to abandon the Honda, in case the partners had gone to the cops and given them a description of that vehicle.
A green Volkswagen Beetle was parked across the road from the house; Dave wondered if Larry had driven that car to the scene. There was a red pickup in the driveway of 40 Park Road, but Dave didn't think that Larry would have just pulled into a neighbor's driveway like that. He did think that it was possible that Larry had brought the silver Cadillac, though; perhaps, the victim's own car was in the garage connected to the house.
At 38 Park Road, Billy rolled the Camaro into a driveway, then backed the car out so that it pointed in the direction from which it had come.
He guided the vehicle toward the Moses house, pulled it off the road by a clump of unkempt hedges which seemed to divide the property from that next-door.
"This oughtta' be a good spot," he said flatly, switching off the ignition. "If he's in there, he shouldn't see the car right away, but we're close enough that we can get to it pretty quick."
Dave nodded.
With a sigh, Billy plucked his revolver from the floor; he snapped out the cylinder and turned it with his thumb to check the chambers. Every chamber held a cartridge.
"Well, I guess we might as well go," said Billy, flicking the cylinder back into place. "Gun's loaded, and I've got plenty of extra ammo." He patted one of the pockets of his jeans, and there was a muted clinking sound; apparently, the pocket was full of bullets.
"Let's see what that asshole's up to," said Billy, opening the door.
Dave nodded.
*****
Chapter 47
When the Miraclemaker had finished gouging the woman's corpse with the kitchen knife, joyfully mutilating her lifeless husk with her own weapon, he noticed that the rot had spread dramatically.
When last he'd examined himself, the deterioration had been confined to the underside of his right arm. Now, to his horror, he found that both arms were infested.
Puffing from the strenuous battle with the woman and the merry frenzy of her murder, he stared disbelievingly at the corrupted limbs. In all the excitement, he'd briefly forgotten about his condition; now, seeing how drastically it had worsened, he felt as shocked and sickened as when he'd first spotted the original decay.
The flesh of both arms had erupted, all the way around, all the way from his wrists to his sleeves. His skin was blackened and split, peeling away in places; masses of bloody boils pulsed amid glistening fissures and sores.
Backtracker Page 52