Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  "Whoever it is," said Billy, shooting a glance over his shoulder at the broiler, "they sure screwed things up for everyone. Fred and Tom'll be watching the stock like hawks from now on."

  "A lot of people are gonna' be mad, all right," agreed Dave.

  "I'll find out who it was," Billy said assuringly, clapping Dave's shoulder.

  "You know what's funny?" said Dave. "Just last night, we were sitting around talking about how no one would ever turn anyone in. I mean, we were saying how it would never happen, and now it has."

  "We jinxed ourselves, I guess. We should've kept our mouths shut."

  "Larry said we should watch it," recounted Dave. "He was right, but I didn't listen."

  "I wonder if he knew," said Billy. "I wonder if he heard something, and was trying to clue us in."

  "Nah," negated Dave, frowning thoughtfully. "He would've just told us flat-out, wouldn't he?"

  "Who knows? Maybe he was even the one who told Fred."

  "I don't think so. If he wanted to bust us for Fred, he wouldn't have tried to warn us. Anyway, I don't think he's the kind of guy who'd do the managers' dirty work. I don't know exactly why, but I think we can trust him."

  "Yeah, you're probably right," Billy said pensively. "He seems like an okay guy." Pausing for a moment, Billy stared past Dave at the door of the office, then clicked his tongs loudly against his leg. "Well, I'm gonna' find out who the asshole is, anyway. I'm gonna' get his number, man."

  With that, he turned back to the broiler and resumed his cooking. As Dave slouched past on his way to the fry station, he noticed that several steaks on the broiler had burned black.

  *****

  It was mighty strange, but Steve Kimmel didn't feel like having sex. Oh, he could have had sex if he'd wanted...there was no doubt about that. All that he would have had to do would be to pick up the phone and punch seven digits on the keypad, Suzanne's number. At his slightest suggestion, she would have come running to his house, breathlessly flying through the night to please him. Any other night, when he didn't have a date with someone else, or maybe before another date, that was exactly what he would have done.

  Tonight, though, he just didn't feel horny; he wanted to be alone, not do much of anything. It was unusual, but Steve didn't want to be around anyone else, didn't want to screw or drink or joke, didn't even want to talk. All that he felt like doing was watching TV and vegetating on the couch.

  He'd picked a good night to feel like being by himself. The cavernous Kimmel house was vacant except for him, and no one would be dropping by anytime soon. Roger and Beatrice, his father and mother, had left that afternoon on a business trip to Louisville, Kentucky, and they wouldn't be home for three days. Steve's sister, Jeannie, had darted off to Atlantic City with her boyfriend-of-the-week and another couple.

  Thanks to the timely departures of his parents and sister, Steve was free to indulge his current mood. Instead of throwing a party or summoning a girlfriend-which he would normally do when he had the house to himself-he just lounged in the big TV room, sprawled on the sofa in front of the wide-screen television. He ate leftover chilled shrimp from a glass bowl, made ice cream sodas at the family's complete soda fountain. He watched movies from the extensive video library, brand--new films that weren't even available on sale yet. He wore sweatpants and a sweatshirt and let his blonde hair drift askew, didn't give a damn how he looked.

  As he lay on the large, luxurious sofa, Steve let his brain shift smoothly into neutral. With great ease, he allowed himself to slip into a simplified mental state; no thoughts scratched his mind, no stirrings beyond the basic urges of eating and finding comfortable positions on the sofa cushions. The movies trickled over him like a fine spring drizzle, leaving only vague impressions on his memory. Though he was awake, his mind was passive, his attention so meager and dispersed that he might as well have been asleep.

  He was so close to a sleeping state, in fact, that he actually began to feel drowsy after a while. At a quarter past eleven, in the middle of his third film of the night, he finally nodded off. Thoughtless, childlike, liquefied, he settled peacefully down toward the misty levels of dreamland; the chatter and music of the movie served as a sedative, a gentle soporific like a bedtime story read softly by a mother.

  Deeper and deeper he sank, floating and bobbing as if riding a parachute, his mind dropping slowly and spreading thin on easy breezes. Eventually, Steve sifted into the deepest levels of sleep, the true darkness, the void at the bottom of every sleeper's fall.

  After a timeless span, he rose upward again, spiraled lazily from the lower reaches like a child's lost balloon. Slowly, inexorably, he climbed toward consciousness again, toward reality.

  Finally, his eyes flickered open. For an instant, everything was blurry, a formless haze of light and color. He blinked a few times, and the room cleared, then clouded again, returning to moist incoherence. Yawning, Steve reached up to rub his eyes, work away the film that had gathered during his nap.

  That was when he discovered that he didn't have any hands.

  He tried to move his fingers, but there were no fingers to move.

  Instantly, he shot to full awareness, whipping away his drowsiness like a shower curtain. His vision suddenly cleared, and he could see everything in sharp, stark detail.

  He could see where his hands had been. He could see the ends of his arms, now wrapped in blood-soaked gauze.

  He could see that something terrible had happened while he'd been asleep.

  Screaming senselessly, gaping at the useless stumps, Steve tried to leap from his seat...but something stopped him, held him firmly at the waist. Flinging himself back, tossing his head crazily from side to side, he suddenly noticed that he wasn't on the sofa anymore. Not only that, but he wasn't even in the same room in which he'd fallen asleep.

  He wasn't in the TV room. Instead, he was upstairs, in the spacious living room. He was seated on his father's antique chair, the big oak chair which had come from France.

  In a panic, he looked down to see what was holding him in the chair. He saw a wide leather strap cinched around his waist, wrapped tightly under the armrests and around the back of the chair.

  A bolt of pain struck him, blazing up from his left arm, and Steve screamed. Pitching his skull back against the hard wood of the chair, jamming his eyes shut, he shrieked like a police siren, shrilly and constantly.

  Flapping his handless stumps in the air, Steve Kimmel screamed and screamed. Hysterically, he thrust and jolted against the restraining strap. He tried to kick, but his legs were held fast, also strapped to the chair. Lurching, bolting, shrieking, he spasmed like a madman, fighting to break free.

  Steve didn't stop screaming until something bashed against his skull, struck him with such force that it left him silent and reeling. A flash of blackness came over him and he felt a fresh blossom of pain burst above his ear.

  Fighting the pain and darkness, he shook his head furiously and screamed again. At that point, a pair of hands shot out from behind him and encircled his throat, choking off the cries.

  He struggled, but the hands clenched tighter about his neck, digging into his windpipe. Instinctively, he swung his arms up to try to wrench away the strangling grip...only to be reminded that he had no hands with which to wrench.

  Writhing and gagging, Steve battled for breath, but the fingers at his throat were drawn too tightly to admit any air. The hands continued to constrict, crushing Steve's windpipe like a garden hose; though he squirmed and thrashed his head, the viselike pressure wouldn't lessen a bit.

  Before long, Steve weakened. Strength depleted, lungs starving for oxygen, he finally subsided, stopped fighting. The hands screwed tighter and tighter, and his vision blurred. He sucked at the precious air that was all around him, the plentiful air that was denied him.

  A strange clarity came into his mind, and he realized that he was about to die.

  Then, the hands released him.

  Unexpectedly, the great pressure disa
ppeared, and Steve's windpipe opened like a flue. Pitching his head back, sweeping his mouth wide open, he greedily vacuumed air into his lungs, gulping it in with shivering ferocity.

  When he'd drawn enough breath to restore a small measure of awareness, he heard someone moving behind him. Weakly twisting his head to one side, he tried to see who was back there, but the chair blocked his view. Pinching his eyes shut, craning his terrified face toward the ceiling, he let out a beaten whimper.

  Then, at last, he heard the voice of his torturer.

  "How's it feel?" asked the voice, a man's voice, quiet and steady.

  "What?" croaked Steve, grinding the word from his ravaged throat.

  "Mercy," said the man. "A second chance. How's it feel?"

  "What do you want?" cried Steve, tears pouring from his eyes.

  The man chuckled, kicked the chair lightly. "What I want is what you took from me," he said.

  "What?" rasped Steve. "What did I take?"

  "My second chance," said the man. "You took away what I just gave to you-a second chance. Ironic, isn't it?"

  Overcome by searing surges of pain in his arms, Steve suddenly let loose an incredible scream. His bloody stumps quivered before him as he wailed to the heavens, pouring out a primitive song of agony.

  Just as the scream peaked, the man's hands again closed around Steve's throat, digging into his windpipe. The scream was quickly aborted, reduced to feeble gagging.

  "No more of that," the man stated coolly as Steve choked and wriggled. "It's not that I'm worried someone might hear you, because there's no one else on this whole damn mountain. It's just that I really don't appreciate interruptions when I'm trying to talk." Tightening his grip, he jerked Steve's head back, cracked it against the chair. "Do you understand? Shut up or I'll strangle you."

  The man again jolted Steve's skull against the back of the chair, then released his grip on Steve's throat. For a moment, the only sound was the victim's frantic gasping, his ragged, ravenous breathing.

  "There," said the man when Steve had begun to settle. "That's better. You're learning some manners."

  Panting, Steve bowed his head and stared down at his arms. Both were ablaze with excruciating pain, more pain than he'd ever felt in his life. The gauze in which the stumps were bound was growing a darker red, a deep copper; a sharp, sick chill rolled through him when he realized how much he was bleeding.

  Steve started to scream again, but caught the cry in his throat.

  "As you can see," the man said calmly, a lilt of amusement in his voice, "I made a few changes while you were snoozing. Improvements, I call them."

  "Please," sobbed Steve, snapping his eyes tightly shut. "Please, don't let me die. I'll give you...anything you want."

  The attacker sighed deeply. "I only wish you could," he said wistfully. "That would sure save us both a lot of trouble."

  "Money?" grated Steve. "You can...have it all. Thousands...upstairs...and my father will give you more."

  "Thanks anyway," said the man, "but that's not really what I had in mind."

  "What do you want?" moaned Steve.

  "Redemption," the man said softly. "Happiness. That second chance I was talking about. All the things you stole from me."

  "What did I steal?" whimpered Steve.

  "Everything," said the man. "You stole my life. You sneaked up on me and took everything away."

  "What do you...think I...took?" gnashed Steve.

  "I'm returning the favor," the man told him, his voice growing colder. "I'm taking everything from you." He paused for an instant, said nothing; when he spoke again, his voice was very close to Steve's right ear. "Your hands were just a downpayment," he cooed sadistically. "We're not even close to being even yet."

  Steve felt hot breath in his ear, snapped his head around to get a look at the attacker. By the time he did so, the man had retreated out of his range of sight. Steve let his head fall forward, and he wept.

  "What's the matter, boy?" the tormentor asked icily, roughly shaking the chair. "Don't you want to pay up?"

  "Please," wailed Steve. "Don't do this to me!"

  "Listen," clipped the man. "Why don't you just take this like a man? If you are a man, that is."

  Caught by a storm of pain, an amplified wave cresting up from his arms, Steve crushed his teeth together and held his breath. Involuntarily, he stiffened, pressing his body into the chair.

  "You aren't a man, are you?" the attacker asked tauntingly, and then he laughed.

  "I'm dying," rasped Steve. "I'm bleeding to death!"

  "Well, of course you are, silly," clucked the man. "Did you just now figure that out?" Laughing loudly, he swatted the top of Steve Kimmel's head. "Boy! I knew you were a little slow, but this is ridiculous!"

  Steve was beginning to feel cold, and he shivered. He wanted to scream again, but he knew that would only make things worse. With awful certainty, he realized that he was probably going to die soon.

  Despite the bleak outlook, Steve knew that he had to keep pleading with the mysterious attacker. Maybe, it still wasn't too late; maybe, if Steve said the right thing, he could convince the guy to spare his life...and if he could get an ambulance to the house quickly enough, he could still survive. Maybe they could even save his hands, pack them in ice and reattach them.

  Like a destitute man huddling over a lottery ticket, praying for an unlikely miracle, Steve gathered himself around his feeble hopes. Closing his eyes, he focused on the tiny seeds of possibility, tried to will them to grow.

  "Look," he gasped, speaking only with great effort. "Why don't you...tell me why you're doing this. I swear...I really don't know."

  "You want an explanation?" The stranger paused, and Steve could hear him shuffling behind the chair. "Too bad," he said finally. "You won't get one."

  "Why?" pressed Steve, shivering violently, feeling ever colder.

  "Because you didn't give me any explanations when you ruined me. Fair is fair, don't you think?"

  Gently, the stranger flicked a finger against the back of Steve's head. Expecting another beating, Steve lunged forward, flinching from the blow which never came.

  "You know," said the man, his tone low and bitter. "You're already ahead of the game. At least I'm giving you a warning that I'm going to kill you. You never gave me a warning."

  "Who are you?" grated Steve. "At least tell me who you are."

  The attacker chuckled menacingly, drummed his fingers on the back of the chair. "Santa Claus," he said. "I know you've been bad, so instead of giving you presents, I'm going to take things away."

  His meager hopes shrinking with each dark word from the stranger's mouth, Steve closed his eyes. "Please," he groaned. "I don't want to die. Whatever I did wrong...I can fix it. I can...help you...make up for it."

  "Hah!" barked the man, his voice suddenly erupting with anger. "You can't help me! You can't fix it! It's too late for that!" With an inarticulate cry of rage, he drove his fist like a hammer against the side of Steve's skull. "You missed your chance to help me!"

  "Please!" shrieked Steve Kimmel, tears rushing from his eyes, his face contorted with agony. "I'll do anything!"

  "The only thing you can do to help me," growled the man, "is die! It won't make up for what you did, but at least it'll give me a good laugh!"

  "No!" Steve wailed pathetically. "Don't let me die!"

  Breathing heavily, the attacker paused for an instant; when next he spoke, his voice was calmer, if no less malicious. "I'm stopping you, you miserable piece of shit. You got away with it once, but I won't let you do it again."

  "I don't know what you're talking about!" screamed Steve.

  "Your arms," said the stranger. "Do they hurt very much?"

  "Yes!" cried Steve.

  "Would you like your hands back?" asked the man.

  "Yes!" Steve howled brokenly, delirious with pain.

  "Here you go, then," said the tormentor.

  Lobbed from behind the chair, a bloody, severed hand landed in
Steve's lap. As he screamed and jolted in his bonds, another hand dropped, bounced from his knee to the hardwood floor.

  "There," snarled the man. "Don't say I never gave you anything."

  Steve screamed some more. Gaping at the hand in his lap, he wailed like a maniac, like a boy who has lost his mind. The stranger let him screech for several minutes before he grabbed Steve's throat and choked off the sound.

  When Steve had subsided, the man released him, gave him a parting swat on the scalp. "Okay," he said, moving behind the chair. "The party's over. I've had a hell of a good time...I mean, you can't imagine how much I've enjoyed this...but it really is getting late. Time flies, doesn't it?"

  "Please," moaned Steve, his head collapsed forward, chin dropped to his chest. "Call...an ambulance...please..."

  "Sorry, no ambulance," said the stranger, "but I've got the next best thing. It's a sure cure for the way you're feeling."

  Steve felt something bump the back of the chair, and he heard a hollow, metallic bong. He heard something being unscrewed, like the cap on a bottle of soda.

  "Here you go," said the man. "Just what the doctor ordered."

  With that, a cold, pungent liquid sloshed upon Steve, pouring freely from above. It gushed over him, soaking his hair and sweatsuit, falling from his head in a glittering stream. The smell of the stuff made him gag as his body was doused; immediately, he knew what it was.

  Gasoline.

  "This'll fix you right up," the stranger crowed cruelly. "A little of this, and all that pain'll be gone in a flash."

  As the liquid flowed over him, Steve wanted to scream, but he didn't have the strength. The shower fluxed and shifted, moving to inundate every bit of his body.

  "There," the man said finally, dumping a last trickle on his victim's head. "That should be just enough to do the trick."

  "Please," whispered Steve. "Please don't do this. Whatever you think I've done...I'm sorry."

  "Don't say you're sorry," the stranger said briskly. "Just say goodbye."

  Hunched miserably, gasoline dribbling from his nose, Steve listened as more liquid sloshed behind him, spattered on the floor. He heard the man shuffling away from him, retreating footsteps interspersed with spits and splashes.