The Tracker

by John Hunt

  Taylor exhaled into his chest. A slow drawn out sound in the quiet room. He raised his eyes to Owen and said, “Advil. Sure. Two of them please.”

  “Food?”

  “Maybe later. I’m not hungry right now. Funny right? The fat guy not hungry?”

  The door opened and another man in walked in with a bottle of water and two Advil. He gave a wide-eyed nod to Taylor and left the bottle and the pills on the shiny steel table. He turned and left the room without a word.

  Taylor said, “Everyone’s afraid of me.”

  Owen nodded, “Can you get those in your mouth? And the water?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Taylor pinched the pills with his fingers and leaned down to slurp them in his mouth. Owen twisted off the lid on the water bottle and handed it to Taylor. It was clear the water wouldn’t be so easy. Trying to drink while leaning forward and tilting the bottle back didn’t work well. A good portion of the water spilled on the steel table.

  Owen said, “Here. Let me get that for you. Sit up straight.”

  Taylor sat straight and Owen stood while picking up the bottle. Owen moved closer to Taylor and did his best to appear unconcerned. Those cuffs on Taylor’s wrist looked pretty insubstantial, like he could pull his hands free with a quick jerk. What if he did that while Owen leaned over him tilting a water bottle to his mouth? He had seen the aftermath of what those hands could do. He forced a smile he hoped was natural and poured the water into Taylor’s mouth. Taylor drank, nodded and said, “Thanks.”

  Owen sat. He said, “Do you need a washroom break or anything?”

  “No. This will help.”

  “Let me know if you do.”

  Taylor smiled. The first one he offered in this room and Owen was startled by how young he looked. Taylor wasn’t long out of college and in that moment he looked it. Owen thought this mass murderer wasn’t much more than a kid.

  Taylor said, “You’re good at this.”

  “At what?”

  “Getting people to talk. Getting them to want to talk. You have a relaxing type of aura.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “I’m sure you have.” Taylor inhaled a big breath and let it out. He trembled while he did it. “After mom was gone I had trouble sleeping. I kept hearing and seeing things. Impossible things…”

  -5-

  Addicts die alone…

  The funeral for his mother was a sad, lonely affair incongruously in a beautiful location. Older trees interspersed between grave markers and splashes of sunlight littering the ground in ethereal gold, it was a pastoral setting any painter would be proud to capture on canvass. The only people in attendance were Taylor, the funeral director and a parson? A priest? Taylor had no idea. They weren’t a religious family and the funeral director suggested someone should speak at the funeral and suggested Mr. Hughes. Taylor knew the man had said what religion he was affiliated with, but either he wasn’t listening or didn’t care because standing above her casket in the grave Taylor couldn’t remember what religion the man belonged to and couldn’t summon the energy to ask. He frowned. Was it important? Taylor didn’t know and wouldn’t find out until he died and went on to nothingness or the big party all religious people insisted was their right to attend because they had faith. Another party he wouldn’t be invited to because he didn’t believe in whatever God was running the show up there. It didn’t matter, it wouldn’t be the first party he hadn’t been invited to. Taylor didn’t consider himself to be an atheist. Maybe an agnostic? What was the saying about agnostics? They lacked the conviction to take a stance? Still, the guy gave a good funeral though. Even if Taylor was the only one who had shown up. Mr. Hughes had soft grey hair, like cotton and a mellifluous voice that lent his words a genuine quality, like he knew and cared about his mother. Was that something they taught at God School? How to address a funeral? A crowd would have appreciated him. After his mom died, Taylor didn’t have anyone to call to invite. It had been only them for so long.

  He did have an aunt, a skinny little thing who couldn’t hide her disgust with his mom. She wore a sneer whenever she stepped a high-heeled foot in the house and offered countless hints on healthy eating and the benefits of exercise. Taylor’s mom put up with it. She smiled and nodded although anyone with eyes could see the words hurt her and after his aunt left, his mom would cry in front of the TV while spooning ice cream from an open carton into her mouth. Then the visits grew less. Twice a year became once a year and then phone calls and then silence. Did his aunt even know her sister was dead? Would she even care?

  And the friends his mom did have back when she was mobile and working had faded into the background a long time ago. They didn’t call and his mom didn’t call them either. Taylor thought he understood the reasons. His mom was embarrassed and so were her friends. They were embarrassed for her which can be so much worse. It was a first cousin to pity. And what would they do? His mother couldn’t move from her bed. Would her friends come over for coffee and tea and sit around her, the immobile lump in a bed in the garage and discuss what? The PTA? World events?

  The hard truth was addicts had no friends. His mother wasn’t just greedy or a glutton. She ate to fill something inside her that nothing else could just like with drug addicts or alcoholics. Taylor had learned from her and became an apt pupil. Food became his drug, his alcohol, his addiction. And like his mom, he had no friends. At least his mother had him to go to her funeral. Who would he have?

  Mr. Hughes’ voice died off. A cool breeze stirred Taylor’s hair. He smiled and nodded to Mr. Hughes, hoping he hadn’t asked Taylor a question or something. He was looking at him with some expectation and Taylor was afraid he was supposed to do something and he wasn’t doing it and he would look like a fool but then Mr. Hughes smiled back, stepped around the over-large casket in the over-large hole and patted Taylor on the back. A genuine touch of kindness and Taylor felt tears burning in his eyes and muttered his thanks. Mr. Hughes left him alone at the grave side. The casket was so damned big. Did they call this particular model a double-wide? This would be him one day only the casket would be even bigger. Damn. He missed her so much.

  Taylor said, “I love you, Mom,” and walked away to catch the bus home. He glanced back over his shoulder at her grave, wondering when the dirt would be shovelled into the hole and a nice piece of sod put on top so it looked as generic and unimportant as all the other graves. His eyes were drawn to a silhouette in the trees. A shadow, dark and out of focus, but definitely a person. Taylor remember reading once about how the shape of a person is so readily recognized by the subconscious because for thousands of years, man’s worst enemy had been himself. Seeing the shape, Taylor thought how true that was. The shape stood out, like a black marker outline on a pencil sketch. Taylor wondered how long he had been there. Couldn’t have been long or he would have seen him earlier. Although there were no details seen at this distance, the person was definitely masculine. It was possible the person could be a large woman, only that felt wrong. The shadow emanated a distinct masculinity. Taylor had the impression the man was looking at him, staring at him really, as though there was nothing more interesting in this cemetery or even all the world than Taylor. An involuntary shudder ran through Taylor.

  He hurried to the bus stop telling himself the reason he was walking so fast was so he wouldn’t miss the bus. It wasn’t because of the man in the trees, watching him. That would be stupid. Just a person, maybe visiting a loved one. Taylor made it to the entrance of the cemetery described by two concrete pillars with a wrought iron gate that closed on rusty, squealing hinges at night. He stood under the bus stop sign, feeling eyes on him, that atavistic tingle trailing down his spine. Standing with his chin on his chest, he wanted to disappear into his own coat, pull it over himself
and disappear. He wouldn’t glance behind him because he was afraid of what he might see and to see it would make it real. The bus stopped in front of him and the doors hissed open. The driver, tattoos a dark sleeve on his right arm, raised an eyebrow at Taylor, waiting for him to board. Taylor climbed on the bus, showed his pass to the driver and sat by a window. He studied the road ahead as the doors closed, refusing to glance towards the cemetery. As the bus pulled away, out of the corner of his eye the dark man stood at the entrance leaning against one of the concrete pillars, the physical representation of nonchalance. Taylor spun his head for a closer look, his heart a racing muscle. The man’s chin dipped his head down so only a dark fedora showed on the crown of his head. Taylor couldn’t see his face but for some reason he knew the man’s eyes were on him. The shadowed man might even have been standing an arm’s length behind him the entire time he waited at the stop.

  -6-

  Night games…

  When Taylor got home from the funeral he put on track pants and an Old Navy sweatshirt and prepared dinner. He only had to cook for himself now and he had to adjust the proportions to reflect that. It took about half the time it used to which made sense considering one half of the family had died. He sniffled at the thought, his nasal passage burning the way it would before a big cry. He inhaled, pushed the sadness down and ate in front of the TV until his stomach told him he had enough. He crammed in a little more because chocolate pudding didn’t take up much room, right? He could squeeze more in there.

  The empty calories sat in his stomach and all the blood rushed there to digest it. It made him sleepy and he nodded off every now and again until night took over the sky. He had another day off before he would have to return to work and he planned on staying up late reading a book with the TV on to provide background noise. His mother’s death had drained him. His eyes burned and his body urged him to get some sleep. He went into his bedroom and dropped onto the bed. The frame protested the sudden weight with a crack. Taylor frowned but then the bed didn’t drop to the floor so he figured he would be ok. He let his eyes close and he went under immediately.

  Taylor woke to a nagging in his subconscious demanding he pay attention. It startled him out of sleep. His body fat trembled with the jerk to consciousness. Sweat beaded his brow. He stared at the dark ceiling listening. Then he heard it. Footsteps on the basement stairs.

  Taylor lived in a bungalow. It had a main floor and a basement. The main floor had two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen and the garage. The basement was an unfinished depression of cold concrete flooring and walls. It had been used for storage for years. Everything his mother hadn’t wanted and didn’t want to throw away ended up in the basement. Teetering stacks of cardboard boxes, neglected furniture, school work and textbooks crowded the small space. Nothing more could be crammed into it, especially not a person. Besides, the only way into the basement was through the main floor of the house. And he had locked the doors. He always did. No door from outside lead directly to the basement because it was underground, as basements tended to be. It wasn’t possible for anyone to be down there. The small basement window placed in the far wall wouldn’t allow a child in let alone an adult. It must have been the house settling. A weak explanation but to believe the alternative would be nuts. What? A person somehow got into his basement without going through the house? A basement that could be featured on a HOARDER’S episode? Better to ignore the niggling in the brain than to give it credence.

  He exhaled and shimmied his head deeper into his pillow determined to go back to sleep. Before Taylor could return to slumber, he thought of the shadowed man at the cemetery. His mouth dried and his pulse danced a jig in his neck. Could it be the man followed him home and somehow got into the basement and was now coming for him, up the creaking stairs, in the dead of night? A crazy thought, insane really, that found a spot in his mind and dug in. In the dark, in the middle of the night, impossible thoughts became possibilities.

  Taylor shook his head and dismissed the sounds as the house settling and wiped the sudden sweat on his brow. No one could be in the basement. There was no access to it. But there was that small window at the back of the house. Could a man get in there? No. It couldn’t be more than two feet wide by one foot high. Besides, all the stuff in the basement blocked the window. A person would knock over a ton of crap and make a huge racket even if they could fit their frame into the window. Was that what had awoken him? Stuff being knocked over?

  Fuck this. Taylor wouldn’t be getting to sleep anytime soon unless he checked on the damn basement. He knew it and resigned himself to it. He rolled his eyes and heaved himself up with a groan. He turned on the side table lamp and rubbed at his eyes. He stood, annoyed to be out of breath from standing. He really should do something about his weight. He knew what to do but hadn’t committed himself to the self-torture yet because the potential gains didn’t outweigh the effort he would have to expend. He ambled down the hall turning on lights as he went. With the lights on he felt silly. The receding darkness pulled his fear along with it. He had heard something in the night. Big deal. It would be nothing because it’d be impossible for it to be anything else. This wasn’t a horror movie where the curious person going to find out what made the strange noise in the dark was eaten, killed or would show up later in the film as a dead-body-popping-out-of-the-closet scare. In real life there were no monsters. People were more likely to be killed by their spouse than a mask-wearing-babysitter-hunting maniac. And now here he was in the middle of the night staring at his basement door because he thought he heard footsteps. Lame. He reached for the door knob and it turned under his hand. The door creaked open a crack. Taylor’s mouth hung open, gaping like the opening of an abandoned well.

  The bottom of the door hitting his big toe brought him out of his stunned disbelief. Taylor slammed his body against the door and it moved back but not enough to latch. What the hell? He easily topped three hundred pounds. Why wouldn’t the door close? A yelp escaped him as the door opened further towards him. Taylor spun, dropped his butt to the ground and pressed his back against the door. He pushed his feet against the floor, teeth gritted, veins like cords in his neck, thinking Close, you stupid door! and the door clicked shut and the pressure behind it disappeared. Taylor exhaled into the silence. His heart thumped painfully in his chest. What the fuck? What in the holy hell? Not realizing he had been holding his breath, he gulped down air, eyes protuberant and rolling in their sockets.

  Pounding shook the frame and Taylor screamed. The knob twisted and rattled by his ear and he could feel the hits on the door in his back. Bam! Bam! Bam! No one should be able to push open a door with him sitting in front of it! No one! Taylor terrified, wondering if a knife would slam through the door and into his back. The person couldn’t open the door to get to him so maybe they would get him another way. Maybe an axe.

  He felt his butt sliding on the floor, because, impossibly, the door inched open. He turned his head, amazed, thinking it can’t be happening, the door can’t actually be opening and saw two long-fingered dark hands appear. One above the door knob and one hand below it. The door continued to widen. Taylor whimpered, “No, no, no, stop, just stop, please stop.”

  With all of his strength and weight, Taylor pushed against the door, his heels sliding on the floor. He ground his teeth and groaned. The effort jellied his legs and still he pushed, pressing his palms to the ground and groaning with effort. The hands disappeared and the door slammed shut. Taylor knocked his head on the door and bit into the side of his tongue. Blood, salty and warm, flooded his mouth. From behind the door, Taylor heard a chuckle. It sounded like crunching gravel. A drop of urine escaped him and he pulled the rest back, knowing he’d pee his pants if he didn’t. The hair on his head pulled at his scalp. Goosebumps as big as an eraser on the end of a pencil rippled up his arms. Help, he needed help.

  The cordless phone sat
a few short feet away from him on the table beside his favourite eating chair. A reclining Lazy-Boy with his body shape imprinted on it. He could reach it but he would have to leave the door. His legs, back and arms burned from the effort of keeping the door closed and he knew his weakened muscles would slow him down if he tried to snatch the phone. He wanted to grab it quickly and sit back in front of the door and call the police. A snatch and dial. Maybe three feet away except Taylor thought it might as well be on the far side of the world. Once again he gazed at his stomach rolls in disgust. He could do it, if he wasn’t so fat and out of shape. Then he thought, if I hadn’t been so big could I have kept the door shut? Didn’t matter, did it? Not in the end. He wasn’t leaving this door. Not anytime soon.

  ***

  Daylight filtered in the front window in the gap between two dusty old curtains. A beam of light caught Taylor full on the face and he squinted against it. When had he fallen asleep? His eyes popped wide remembering the struggle and the chuckle behind the door. His butt was numb and his body felt bruised all over. He would have to move. He couldn’t stay here on the floor forever. He stretched his legs and jiggled them. The pain of blood flowing into his limbs made him hiss. He rolled his head on his shoulders and winced when his neck cracked. He did a quick breath in-breath out, like he had seen athletes do at the Olympics before running or diving into a pool. He needed that phone. He stared at the phone willing it to move towards him. It didn’t move and he sighed. This wasn’t the first time he wished he was a Jedi. Keeping his back to the door he shuffled until he got a knee under him. Under his breath he said, “You can do this. Just a quick grab and you’re back at the door. You got this, Taylor.”

  He pushed off with his knee and reached for the phone. His knee slipped under him and off-balance, his teeth clacked together as his hand slapped the table. The phone jumped out of the cradle and moved closer to him almost as if he meant to do it and Taylor nabbed it from the air and jumped back to the door, out of breath and sweating. His triumphant smile trembled his lips. Mission accomplished. He had the phone and hadn’t needed any Jedi mind tricks.