On TV, the blonde and the senior citizen walked onto a different set, one with an apparatus identical to but larger than the first. The balls were already careening within the larger barrel as the blonde stepped up to open the first tube.
The first number of the Hot Four was an eight.
The second number was a five.
Soon, he would know.
He would know if the story had been true, if someone like him could ever change so completely as to become someone like Larry. He would know if it was possible, though every fiber of him cried out that it wasn't.
The third number of the Hot Four was selected.
The fourth number was picked, then the alternate.
The blonde and the senior citizen moved to yet another set, one with a ball-filled barrel even larger than the last. There were eight tubes atop this barrel; the Lucky Seven numbers would appear in those tubes.
Seven numbers and an alternate would shoot into those tubes, and Dave would know. He would compare the numbers on his ticket to the numbers that sprang from the barrel, and he would know.
He would know if his life was destined to follow a tragic course. He would know if his fate was cursed...or would have been cursed if not for Larry's intervention.
He would know if he'd made the right decision in saving the child. He would know if Larry had lied, and the child wasn't likely to become a threat...or if it was possible that Michael Moses could someday fulfill Larry's prediction and slay Dave's parents.
He would know...
He would know if his soul was in jeopardy. He would know if Larry had told the truth about coming from the future; if Larry hadn't lied about that, then perhaps he hadn't lied about selling his soul...and if Larry and Dave were the same person, perhaps they shared the same soul...and even if Dave never ended up doing what Larry had done, perhaps his soul would be forfeit, anyway.
He would know.
With much excitement in his basso voice, the announcer introduced the Lucky Seven drawing. Dramatically, he declared that the grand prize would be fifty-three million dollars; whoever held a ticket with seven of the eight numbers that were picked would win fifty-three million dollars.
This jackpot, the announcer proclaimed, was the largest in Pennsylvania State Lottery history.
Larry had been right; he'd accurately foretold that much, at least. In his note, which had been written over a month before the drawing, he'd foretold the dimensions of the jackpot.
Dave's hands shook as the blonde stepped up to the great drum.
In a moment, he would know.
He would know if he'd killed himself when he'd killed Larry Smith.
The blonde reached for the first tube, smoothly slid the cover from the slot. Instantly, a ball burst into the tube.
Deftly, she turned the ball so that its number was visible.
Dave held his breath.
Fourteen.
The first number was fourteen.
Heart pounding, eyes wide, Dave scanned his ticket.
There was no fourteen on the ticket.
Dave's eyes snapped back to the screen. He still had a chance to match the winning combination; counting the alternate, there were seven numbers yet to be drawn.
With the senior citizen at her side, the blonde moved to the second tube. She opened the slot and a ball launched from the drum.
Thirty-eight.
The second number was thirty-eight.
A chill raced up Dave's spine.
Thirty-eight was the first number in the sequence printed on the ticket; it had been the first number on the list in Larry's note.
The blonde opened the third tube. A ball appeared and she turned it for the camera.
Seventeen.
Dave shook more fiercely than ever. His stomach wrenched painfully.
Seventeen was the second number on the ticket. It had been the second number on Larry's list.
Gracefully, the blonde glided to the fourth tube, drew aside the cover.
Forty-nine.
The fourth number drawn was forty-nine.
The third number on the ticket was forty-nine.
Stunned and amazed, Dave slowly shook his head. Not only had Larry chosen three of the Lucky Seven numbers so far, but he'd chosen them in the exact order in which they were drawn.
There was little doubt in Dave's mind anymore, little doubt that Larry had told the truth. He must have come from the future, accessed the lottery results in the future, brought them back from the future.
Larry must have told the truth.
Finally, Dave had his revelation. Even as the blonde reached for the fifth tube, he reeled from the blow of sudden realization.
Everything that he'd feared was true. He was Larry; his future self had slaughtered many, had killed Billy Bristol; his future self had sold his soul, which was Dave's soul, too; Michael Moses might grow up to kill his parents.
Dave had indeed killed himself when he'd killed Larry Smith.
Wincing at the screen, he saw the fifth number between the blonde's steady fingertips.
Sixty-three.
The fifth number of the drawing was sixty-three.
He knew that it was on the ticket; it had to be there, of course. Larry had known all the numbers, had written them down, written them in order.
Dave glanced at the ticket, then flicked his gaze back to the screen. The young woman and the "witness" were moving on to the sixth tube; the drawing was almost done.
The blonde extended a hand toward the tube.
Dave frowned.
Sixty-three. The fifth number had been sixty-three.
Sixty-three.
He'd only glanced at the ticket, had been so sure that the number was there that he hadn't bothered to look closely, but...
He looked again. As the blonde opened the sixth tube, he stared at the ticket in his grip.
He could find no sixty-three.
There was no sixty-three on the lottery ticket. There had been no sixty-three on Larry Smith's list.
Larry had missed one.
Puzzled, Dave bobbed his eyes up from the ticket in time to see the sixth number displayed on the television.
Forty-one.
The sixth number was forty-one.
Again, he searched the ticket. He scanned it once, then checked it a second time.
He went over it a third time.
He could find no forty-one.
Larry had missed two.
When Dave again gaped at the screen, the seventh number was in view, the next-to-the-last number of the drawing.
One.
It was a one.
Larry had missed three.
The final ball shot from the drum, erupted to the top of the final tube. The blonde rolled the ball around so that Dave could see the last number.
Twenty.
The last number of the Lucky Seven drawing was twenty.
There was no twenty on the ticket.
There had been no twenty on the list.
Larry had missed four.
Larry had correctly picked three, three in a row, three numbers in order...but he'd missed the next four, hadn't even been close in the rest of his choices.
Larry had missed four.
So much for his "gift." So much for "the winning numbers."
For a moment, Dave just stared at the ticket in his hands. He frowned at the rows of numbers printed on the face of the card, the wrong and useless numbers which he'd bought for a dollar at a convenience store.
He knew...
He knew...
He knew nothing.
It occurred to him that he knew nothing. He'd expected to know everything after the drawing...but now that it was all over, he realized that he still knew nothing.
He knew no more than he'd known before the lottery drawing, not really. He knew no more about Larry than he'd known a month ago.
Before the drawing, Dave had considered the two possible outcomes, and he'd decided what they would mean: if Larry's nu
mbers turned out to be correct, then he'd told the truth about coming from the future-and, probably, everything else; if Larry was wrong about the numbers, then he'd lied. Dave had thought that it would be that simple, that conclusive.
He now realized that he'd been wrong. There were still no simple, conclusive answers.
Larry's numbers had been incorrect...but if Dave took that to mean that Larry had lied, then there would be no explanations for certain phenomena.
Larry had predicted the arrival of the cop at the party, had pinpointed the cop's reason for stopping at Billy's trailer. If Larry hadn't come from the future, then how had he managed such a feat?
Larry had foreseen Boris' suicide attempt, had foreseen every detail. If Larry hadn't been a time-traveler, then how had he accomplished this?
How had Larry known Dave's secrets? If Larry had lied about his identity, as the lottery results suggested, then how had he secured information which should never have come into his possession?
Dave didn't know. He still didn't know.
He couldn't think of any rational explanation for Larry's predictions and insights. The only theory which might account for the anomalies was that Larry had been psychic, as Dave had first suspected; however, Dave found that he could no longer believe that Larry had ever wielded any psychic powers. If Larry had been telepathic, he could have learned Dave's secrets by reading his mind...but if he could read Dave's mind, he also should have been able to manipulate and avoid him far more successfully. If Larry had been precognitive, he could have learned of the cop and the suicide attempt by peering into the future...but he also should have seen what would happen at Cross Creek, and he should have been able to avert it somehow.
Psychic powers weren't the answer; the psychic theory raised too many questions. What, then, was the answer? If the lottery outcome meant that Larry had lied about his origins, then how had he known what he'd known, done what he'd done?
Dave didn't know. He'd thought that he would know, but he didn't.
Perhaps, despite Larry's failure to leave behind the correct numbers, his story was still somehow true. Perhaps, he'd indeed learned of the numbers in the future, but he hadn't memorized them correctly, or his memory had been altered on the trip back through time, or he'd simply made a mistake when he'd jotted down the note for Dave. Perhaps, the numbers had been correct in the history that Larry had remembered...but when he came back and changed the past, history shifted and different numbers were drawn.
Perhaps, Larry had told the truth after all.
Dave didn't know.
Perhaps, Larry had lied; perhaps, he'd told the truth. Dave couldn't be sure of either alternative.
He wanted to believe that Larry had lied. He wanted to know that he hadn't glimpsed his own future; he wanted to know that he could never become like Larry.
He wanted to be free of doubt for his actions at Cross Creek. He wanted to be certain that he'd done the right thing in saving the child; he wanted to know that he hadn't killed himself when he'd killed Larry Smith.
He wanted to know that his soul wasn't in jeopardy.
He wanted to know.
He didn't know.
Disappointed, confused, depleted, he stuffed the ticket in his shirt-pocket and slumped into the sofa cushions.
He didn't know.
Darlene returned from upstairs then, carrying a tray. Before he heard her footsteps, Dave smelled the hot popcorn that she was delivering.
"I thought I'd make a little snack," she said pleasantly, slowly descending the stairs, taking care not to spill the bowl of popcorn or the glasses of iced tea on the tray. "I didn't know if you were hungry, but I'm kind of hungry myself."
"Thanks," said Dave, managing a smile for her. "Smells good."
"Oh, I know," she said, and then she closed her eyes for an instant and inhaled deeply. "I love the smell of hot buttered popcorn."
"Me, too," said Dave.
She brought the tray to him and he lifted the bowl of popcorn from it. He placed the bowl in his lap, then took a glass of iced tea in each hand.
Darlene leaned the empty tray against the side of the sofa, then sat next to him. She drew her legs up underneath her, snuggled against him; she accepted one of the glasses and sipped at the tea.
"Anything good on TV?" she asked, gazing at the flickering screen.
"Don't know," he shrugged.
He didn't know.
After all that had happened, all that he'd suffered, he still knew nothing. Larry was still as much of a mystery as he'd been when Dave had first met him.
It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.
Dave had hoped to learn Larry's secrets, uncover what was surely an amazing truth. He'd hoped to discover if the supernatural was real, if fantastic, magical forces actually existed outside the imagination.
He'd hoped...
Though he hadn't wanted to recognize it, he'd perhaps hoped most of all to learn of his own destiny, discover what the future held for him. Deep down, especially in the beginning, he'd perhaps hoped most fervently to divine what course he should follow.
He'd hoped to know what he should do.
In the end, he knew nothing.
He knew nothing.
He knew nothing except that he had another semester of college ahead, an extra semester to make up for the classes that he'd failed...
...and he would have to keep an eye on Michael Moses through the years, just in case Larry had told the truth about him...
...and he would have to try to forget, forget as much as he could...
...and one more thing.
He knew one more thing.
"I love you," he said to Darlene for the very first time, pulling her close.
"I love you," he finally told her, and he kissed her.
"I love you, too," she whispered.
*****
BACKTRACKER
Copyright © 2011 by Jason Koenig
Cover Art Copyright © 2011 by Ben Baldwin
Published in September 2011 by Pie Press by arrangement with the author. All rights reserved by the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Design by Pie Press
Johnstown, Pennsylvania
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