Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  He saw more white. Through the gaping hole in Larry's cheek, he saw the white of teeth, rows of teeth unveiled from the side of the face.

  "No!" screamed Larry. "God, no!"

  Dave listened and watched. He watched Larry's teeth move as the killer howled.

  "I'm not ready!" wailed Larry.

  Through the side of Larry's face, Dave could see Larry's blackened tongue slide and flicker, shift and jump.

  Emitting a long and incoherent cry, Larry flung aside the two pieces of himself, tossed them away into the sand. Clenching his fists, he dropped his head and plunged into a fierce fit of sobbing.

  Dave watched and listened, didn't think. He stared at Larry's exposed chin and teeth, and he didn't think.

  "Oh God," blubbered Larry. "I'm not ready. I don't want to go yet."

  Thunder crashed explosively, but Dave didn't flinch. He was mesmerized by the motion of the killer's tongue and teeth, the strange cutaway view of the mouth.

  "I'm not...ready," whimpered Larry.

  Dave watched and listened. He was unmoved by the killer's distraught presentation; he felt neither revulsion nor pity.

  Dave felt nothing, nothing at all.

  He felt nothing, and that wasn't Billy Bristol and Larry hadn't killed him and none of this was real and he felt nothing.

  "Not...yet," sobbed Larry, whipping his head from side to side. "It can't...be over...yet."

  As Larry wept and shook, Dave's gaze drifted to the body in the sand. The corpse's face was unfamiliar, the face of a stranger; it was certainly not the face of Dave's best friend.

  Dave felt nothing. When he looked at the corpse, he felt nothing.

  "I need...more time," mewled Larry. "I want...to stay." Three bursts of thunder echoed over the beach area of Cross Creek State Park. The infant's shrieking rose to shrill new heights.

  "I don't...want to go," gurgled Larry.

  Dave watched and listened.

  He didn't think.

  He felt nothing.

  That wasn't Billy Bristol.

  He felt nothing.

  He felt nothing.

  *****

  Chapter 76

  For a long time, no one spoke on the beach. Larry sobbed; Dave watched and listened.

  Eventually, Dave lowered the gun to rest his aching arms. Though he still gripped the weapon with both hands, he let it fall from its position of readiness; the revolver slipped down to his abdomen, barrel pointing at the sand instead of at Larry's skull.

  Just as the gun dropped, Larry stopped crying. He sucked in a great breath and held it for a moment.

  When he released the breath, his head swung up and his eyes snapped open.

  "Okay," he said, his voice steady, amazingly steady in the wake of his torrential weeping.

  "Okay," he repeated, and his eyes seemed to clear, fixing upon Dave with a focus which seemed newly calm and direct.

  "If I gotta' go, I gotta' go," said Larry. "No use crying over sold souls."

  Dave's arm tensed; the gun twitched against his abdomen.

  "With any luck," Larry said steadily, "my loophole will work.

  "Hopefully, now that I've changed your future, my past will never be. Since you'll live a better life than I did, you won't become me. You won't have any reason to try to go back in time and change things...so you won't sell your soul.

  "So far as I know," said Larry, "when it comes to souls, there's only one per customer. Since you're me, if you don't sell yours, maybe I don't sell mine.

  "I'll just cease to exist or something. That's what I'm hoping for. Time will just wipe me out like a mistake.

  "If not," shrugged Larry, "then c'est la vie. Too late to turn back now, eh?

  "I'll just have to acquire a taste for brimstone," said Larry. The tiniest smirk curled onto his face, then quickly disappeared.

  Dave's stomach twisted. The killer's changed disposition made him nervous.

  "Okay then," nodded Larry. "This is goodbye. The party's over."

  Ever so slightly, Dave moved the gun away from his abdomen.

  "There's just one thing I want you to do for me," said Larry. "I want you to marry Darlene.

  "Doesn't have to be right away...but don't let her go. Whatever you do, don't let her go.

  "She's the one, and I think you know it," said Larry. "Don't let her go."

  Again, Dave shifted the gun slightly.

  "Oh, and one more thing," said Larry. "There's a surprise for you under the sofa at home. I left it when I stopped to see Mom and Dad.

  "Use it in good health," said Larry.

  For a moment then, he was silent. He gazed at Dave with calm, bright eyes, didn't say a word.

  The rain continued to pour; the child continued to howl.

  Dave's heart hammered.

  "It's been fun," Larry said at last, and he smiled.

  Larry smiled, and then he spun around.

  *****

  Chapter 77

  Dave knew. Even in his dazed condition, he knew.

  He didn't have to be a mind-reader, didn't even have to be in his right mind to know what Larry meant to do.

  Larry was whipping around, sweeping one fist high. That fist would make a fine bludgeon when it plunged down to its mark.

  Dave knew. He wasn't in his right mind, but he knew.

  As Larry spun, Dave snapped the gun up in front of him.

  He knew. He knew exactly what Larry meant to do.

  With steady hands, Dave flicked the muzzle toward the killer; with steady eyes, he drew a bead on Larry's head.

  Larry's back was turned to the gun. His blackened fist began its descent.

  Dave's finger hugged the trigger.

  He knew.

  He knew what would happen if he didn't shoot.

  He knew what was back there; he could hear it.

  He knew that the child was back there.

  *****

  Chapter 78

  Larry's fist dropped.

  The child. The child was back there; it was still shrieking.

  Dave's finger hugged the trigger.

  The child.

  'If he grows up, he'll kill your parents,' Larry had said.

  Dave remembered; he remembered what Larry had said.

  'He'll break into your house and shoot them both.'

  Dave remembered.

  'They were asleep...they didn't even know he was there...and he killed them anyway!'

  Larry's fist was dropping.

  Dave knew what would happen if he didn't shoot.

  'I'm...you,' Larry had said.

  Dave knew.

  The child was back there.

  'If he grows up, he'll kill your parents.'

  It was a baby. It was only a baby.

  'He'll break into your house and shoot them both.'

  Only a baby.

  'I'm...you.'

  Red and red and red.

  Dave remembered red and red and red.

  'I'm...you.'

  Most of the face was gone.

  'I'm...you.'

  Dave had seen it.

  That wasn't and could never ever be never ever never Billy.

  Dave had seen it all.

  'I came back...to fix things.'

  Dave knew.

  That wasn't Billy Bristol.

  Dave knew. He'd seen.

  Larry's fist was dropping.

  'I'm...you.'

  Dave knew.

  'He'll kill your parents.'

  Dave knew.

  'I'm...you.'

  Only a baby. It was only a baby.

  Dave pulled the trigger.

  *****

  Chapter 79

  Larry's fist never finished its descent.

  'Just pretend you're shooting milk jugs out in my back yard,' Billy Bristol had said.

  The shot was true. There was a burst of red from Larry's head.

  'Remember, it'll be just like target practice,' Billy Bristol had said.

  Just like target practic
e.

  Dave mashed the hammer back and pulled the trigger again.

  'I know you can do it,' Billy Bristol had said.

  The second shot struck Larry between his shoulders.

  'I'm...you,' Larry had said.

  Again, Dave jammed back the hammer and pulled the trigger.

  The third shot blew into the middle of Larry's back.

  'Good luck,' Billy Bristol had said. 'This one's for the Double-Doubleyoo, man.'

  Larry pitched into the sand.

  Again, Dave mashed the hammer back.

  Just like target practice.

  'If he grows up, he'll kill your parents.'

  Again, Dave pulled the trigger.

  Red and red and red.

  'This one's for the Double-Doubleyoo,' Billy Bristol had said.

  Again, Dave thumbed back the hammer and pulled the trigger.

  He did it again after that.

  He tried it again, but the gun was empty.

  By then, Larry Smith was still in the sand.

  'I'm...you,' Larry had said.

  'I'm...you.'

  *****

  Chapter 80

  The child was screeching. As the last echo of the last gunshot faded over the lake, the infant's wails continued to surge; the cries were all that was left, the only remnants of the cacophony of a moment ago.

  Peering through the darkness, Dave could see the tiny, pale body thrashing in the sand, a vivid counterpoint to the dark form crumpled beside it.

  So the child was safe. Larry Smith hadn't beaten the life from it and his falling corpse hadn't crushed it.

  So the child was safe.

  Dave let his arms drop. He let the gun slip from his grip.

  For a moment, he stood and stared at the three figures before him. Uncomprehendingly, he gazed at the tumble of bodies, two of them silent and motionless; he saw the child, then the young man, then something else, something dark and disfigured...something reminiscent.

  It was familiar; it stirred a memory.

  Most of its face was gone.

  Dave felt dizzy, and he turned away. Sluggishly, he staggered away from the wreckage.

  'I'm...you,' Larry Smith had said.

  With halting steps, Dave stumbled through the sand. Aimlessly, he weaved along the strip of beach, unintentionally drifting toward the water's edge.

  'I'm...you,' Larry Smith had said.

  Dave's feet sloshed through the fringe of the lake. His shoes were already soaked through, had been soaked for a long time.

  He stopped. Slowly, he turned around, gazed again upon the product of that day, of the past weeks.

  He knew. From where he stood, he couldn't distinguish all details, could see little more than huddled shapes in the darkness...but he knew.

  He knew.

  That was Billy. That was Billy Bristol in the sand.

  He knew.

  That was Billy Bristol.

  That was Billy.

  That was Billy.

  Dave moaned softly and fell to his knees.

  That was Billy.

  *****

  Epilogue

  Tuesday, May 5

  "Are you okay?" Darlene Rollins asked tenderly, gazing up at Dave with those wide brown eyes, those sweet, soft eyes.

  Dave nodded. Meeting her gaze, he tried to reassure her, tried to project all possible serenity, all possible sincerity.

  Frowning, she dropped her head back to his chest, again looked at the TV news. She snuggled against him on the sofa; one of her arms was wrapped around his stomach, the other between his back and the cushions, and her hands were clasped at his side.

  Turning his head to the right, Dave looked across the basement. Except for the grainy beam of the television, the room was dark; still, he could see the glow of the digital clock, the red numbers which seemed to hover above the old end-table in the corner.

  It was 6:45. In fifteen minutes, he would know.

  "Are you sure you're okay?" Darlene asked without looking up at him.

  "Uh-huh," said Dave, returning his gaze to the television screen.

  For a moment, the only voice in the room was that of the network news announcer. Dave wasn't really listening to the broadcast; he'd watched a whole half-hour of local news and half the network news show without hearing a single word.

  "You've been pretty quiet tonight," Darlene said softly.

  "I guess I'm kind of tired," sighed Dave.

  Darlene's embrace tightened a little. Her slender arms flexed against his stomach and back; her small hands pressed at his side.

  Tipping his head forward, Dave brushed his face through her hair, let the loose swirls tickle his nose. He inhaled deeply; as always, she smelled good, smelled like lilacs.

  "Really, I'm okay," he whispered. "Don't worry."

  "I can't help it," Darlene whispered in return. "I can't help but worry."

  "Don't worry," said Dave, hugging her tightly. "I'm okay. I promise."

  He'd lied to her. Perhaps she knew it, for she shifted restlessly then. She said nothing further for the moment, but in her silence, there seemed to be a tension, an anxious vibration.

  He'd lied to her.

  No, he wasn't okay.

  It had been a month, over a month since that terrible night at Cross Creek State Park. It had been over a month, and he was still not okay.

  He felt as if he were in a perpetual daze, as if he could never quite pull all the pieces of himself together. He felt detached, isolated from the world and people around him. He did things and said things, but he never seemed to be fully aware of his words or actions. It was if he'd been dislodged from the rhythms of the world and himself, knocked a beat out of sync, just enough to suspend him from the flows of life which he'd once known.

  The nightmares were awful; they were frequent and vivid, weren't restricted to his sleep. Often, in the middle of the day, in the midst of some mundane activity like watching TV or eating dinner, he would experience a potent flashback, a burst of memory so clear and overwhelming that it seemed immediate and real. Over and over again, he watched Billy Bristol fall upon the knife; as if seeing it once hadn't been horrible enough, he watched it again and again, watched his best friend die a hundred times.

  Sometimes, in his dreams, he made things right, interceded to save Billy; sometimes, he rushed in and pulled his partner away, then ran with him, carried him laughing and whole from the storm into sunshine. More often than not, though, his visions were true to memory; more often than not, he dreamed of the rain and the blade and the blood, the still face of Billy Bristol and the dark visage of the monster. Many times, he'd awakened screaming in the night; once, he'd shot from a nightmare to see that his bedside table had been overturned, its contents strewn across the floor.

  Despite the vivid dreams which tormented him, he often forgot that Billy was gone. Sometimes, he would pick up the phone to call him; sometimes, he would actually dial Billy's number and wait through a few rings...and sometimes, he wouldn't recall the reason for Billy's failure to answer until long after he'd hung up.

  Frequently, at the steakhouse, Dave would look for his friend, glance at the broiler and expect to see him. Dave would see someone in the restaurant, one of the other workers, and think for an instant that it was Billy; he would hear someone's voice and think that it was Billy's, hear someone's footsteps and think that they were Billy's.

  Once, after drinking some beers, Dave had driven the whole way out to Billy's trailer. He'd knocked on Billy's door for a long time.

  No, he wasn't okay.

  It never seemed to end; that tragic night seemed to just go on and on and on. Dave felt as if the whole past month had been a continuation of that same night.

  The events which had occurred at Cross Creek continued to reverberate through his life. Not only was he haunted by the memories, but he had to confront an onslaught of repercussions, consequences of his actions and those of Larry Smith.

  First, he had had to deal with the police. It
hadn't been easy; he'd been left with two corpses and a child, and he'd been the only witness to all that had taken place.

  After the carnage, he hadn't wanted to talk to the police, hadn't wanted to call them, but he'd known that there was nothing else that he could do. Though he'd been in bad shape, he'd realized that he had to summon the authorities; someone had to handle the child, dispose of Larry Smith...take care of Billy.

  Telling his story to the police had been tremendously difficult. Each detail that he'd given them had led to another painful revelation. He'd told the police most of what had happened at Cross Creek, how he and Billy had tried to save the child, how Billy had been killed and Larry had been shot. Then, he'd had to explain where Larry had gotten the child; he'd had to tell of the child's murdered parents, how he and Billy had found them in the house on Park Road. In describing how he and Billy had tracked the killer, he'd had to recount the day's events...and this had led him to divulge the murder of the kid at Wolf's Rock.

  Dave had ended up detailing what he knew of Larry's bloody spree. He'd told the police about Tom Martin and Ernie's parents; he'd told of Larry's claims that he'd killed Steve Kimmel and Debby Miller. He'd told the police all that he'd felt that he could, had tried to give them a clear picture without revealing Larry's stories about coming from the future.

  There had been questions upon questions from the police, a relentless barrage. Why had Dave not contacted them sooner, when he'd first suspected that Larry was a killer? Why was Larry's corpse so horrifically mutilated? Was Dave telling everything that he knew? Was Dave sure that he hadn't committed the murders that he seemed to know so much about?

  The F.B.I. had gotten involved, had also grilled Dave...had also treated him like a suspect. F.B.I. agents had questioned everyone who knew Dave, everyone who had known Larry Smith; the agents had investigated every detail of Dave's story, had made him retell that story dozens of times.