Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  "No thanks," Dave said politely. "My mom probably has something in the oven for me already. Anyway, I've got a lot to do yet."

  "Okay, then," shrugged Larry.

  "I'll see you tomorrow, I guess," said Dave.

  "All right," nodded Larry. "See you later."

  And that was the end of it. Dave left the room and closed the door behind him, then carefully picked his way through the darkness of the hall and stairs.

  As he headed home, he considered his visit to Larry's place, his failure to learn anything new. He felt frustrated about the whole thing, annoyed by Larry's stonewalling tactics and the blankness of his room. All day, he'd eagerly awaited this trip, hoping to pinch even the tiniest truth from Larry...and he'd come away with nothing.

  Of course, one good thing had come from the venture. Larry's evasions and lies had convinced Dave that he should continue to investigate; the guy was definitely hiding something...perhaps the psychic powers which Dave suspected that he possessed. Though Dave had no idea of how he should proceed, he knew that he had to proceed.

  Soon, he promised himself, Larry Smith would no longer be a mystery.

  *****

  Chapter 14

  "Hey, Billy," said Dave Heinrich, leaning his elbows on the table. "Did you notice anything weird about Larry the other night? At the party, I mean."

  "Welll," drawled Billy Bristol, chomping on a French fry, "he was talking to you, and I guess that's pretty weird."

  Dave shook his head and gave Billy a withering look. He was annoyed by Billy's teasing, because he needed to get some straight answers from the jokester. Just as he'd looked forward to checking out Larry's apartment the day before, so too had he eagerly anticipated a talk with Billy today.

  After his visit to Larry's place, Dave had done some thinking about what the next step in his investigation should be; he'd concluded that it would be a good idea to talk to some of the people who had been around Larry. Though Larry had been in town for only a short time, not long enough for anyone to know him well, Dave felt that it might be helpful to learn other people's impressions of the mystery man. Perhaps new details would emerge, telling samples of Larry's behavior which Dave hadn't personally witnessed, crucial clues in the accounts and gossip of his friends.

  Naturally, the first person to whom he'd gone was Billy Bristol. After the day's classes, Dave had hurried to the steakhouse, getting there a full twenty minutes before his shift was to start; he'd found Billy sitting alone in a corner booth, eating a burger and fries before his own shift, which would also begin at three-thirty.

  Dave was just now getting to the meat of his inquiry; he hoped that his friend would settle down and tell him something significant before their shift started and their duties demanded attention.

  "Seriously, Billy," Dave pressed urgently. "Did you think there was anything strange about him?"

  "Everybody was pretty strange Saturday night," chuckled Billy, reaching for another fry. "Then again, they always are at my parties."

  "Well, that's true," nodded Dave. "Did you notice anything stranger than usual, though? Particularly about Larry."

  "Hmmm," muttered Billy, crinkling his features into a thoughtful frown. "Not really," he shrugged at last. "Then again, I was mighty wasted."

  "Huh," grunted Dave. "What about the cop? Didn't you think there was something freaky about that whole thing with the cop?"

  "Well, yeah," grinned Billy. "Cops never come to my parties. I mean, the guy wasn't even invited."

  "Besides that," pressed Dave. "Besides the fact that he showed up, didn't you think there was anything weird about it?"

  "Definitely!" Billy piped glibly, plucking the half-eaten burger from his plate. "He didn't bust us!" Lunging forward, the wiry guy attacked his hamburger, ripping a great hunk from the sandwich.

  Sighing impatiently, Dave decided that it was time to be more direct in his questioning. He wanted to find out if Billy shared his suspicions or could reinforce them. "Do you remember when we were all sitting in the kitchen, and Jeff got there?" he asked.

  "Mm-hm," Billy nodded as he chewed enthusiastically.

  "Well, do you remember how Jeff was bitching about the parking? He was moaning because he couldn't get a spot close to the trailer, and then Larry asked if that was how we always parked. Remember?"

  "Uh, sort of," Billy said tentatively. "I remember Jeff bitching, but he's always bitching."

  "Aw, come on," persisted Dave. "Jeff was griping about the parking, and then Larry started talking about it, and he asked us if we ever had trouble from the cops over it. Remember? After you got done with the cop, you congratulated Larry for guessing what was gonna' happen."

  "Oh yeah!" perked Billy. "That's right! He was talking about the cops coming, and then they did!"

  Dave felt a flicker of triumph at finally spurring Billy's memory. "Well, don't you think that was all pretty weird? I mean, Larry predicted exactly what happened. He predicted that a cop would come by, and he predicted exactly why he'd be there."

  "No he didn't," disagreed Billy. "He just wondered if anything like that ever happened before. He didn't say it would happen."

  "Yeah, but he was right on the money," Dave said excitedly. "I mean, he talked about cops hassling us about parking on the road, and then bang! A cop hassles us about parking on the road! Let's face it, that was pretty amazing!"

  "Not really," said Billy. "It was just a coincidence."

  "I don't think so," Dave declared forcefully, shaking his head. "I think Larry knew what was going to happen."

  "Uh-oh," chirped Billy, grinning broadly. "You still think he's psychic, don't you? Like you said at the party, right?"

  "I don't know," shrugged Dave. "He's something, that's for sure."

  "Maybe he's got super E.S.P. powers!" Billy whispered loudly. "Maybe he can read minds, huh? Wow! I better make sure I never play poker with him."

  "Cut it out," frowned Dave. "I'm being serious here."

  "I wonder if he can move stuff around with his mind," gasped Billy. "Geez! He could bus the whole dining room without moving a muscle."

  "Listen," snapped Dave. "It's no joke, okay? I really think there's something...I don't know...weird about that guy."

  Billy retreated a bit, but Dave could tell from the twinkle in his eyes that he was still quite amused. "Look," he chuckled. "That psychic stuff only happens in movies and comic books, man. Real people can't do it."

  "How do you know people can't do that stuff?" argued Dave. "Just because you haven't met anyone who can, that doesn't prove there isn't anyone."

  "Nobody knows anyone who's really psychic," Billy said glibly. "There's lots of phonies, but if somebody was the real thing, he'd be famous! Everybody'd wanna' know about him!"

  "Not necessarily," said Dave. "Maybe, if somebody could see the future or read minds or that kind of thing, they'd keep it secret. Maybe they wouldn't want anyone else to know."

  "Yeah, but think of all the money they could make if they were famous," interjected Billy. "They could write books, be on TV, star in movies, and everybody in the world would pay to see them or read about them. It'd be a goldmine, y'know?"

  "Think how much money they could make if nobody knew, though," countered Dave. "They could make a fortune on Wall Street, because they'd know ahead of time which stocks were gonna' be good. They'd know exactly which real estate to buy, because they'd be able to tell which places would be worth the most in the future. Hell, they could even get rich on game shows, because they'd know what all the answers would be! If everybody else knew they could see the future, they wouldn't be able to get away with that stuff!"

  "Yeah, but you're talkin' about Larry, right? He sure isn't rich. If he was, he wouldn't be working here, man."

  "Maybe he has some other reason for covering up, then," suggested Dave. "Maybe he just wants his privacy. If he was psychic, and everybody knew about it, people would be bugging him twenty-four hours a day, trying to get him to tell them what the future's gonn
a' be."

  Billy started to say something, then stopped; he smirked at Dave and shook his head. "You're nuts, you know that?" he laughed. "You're really convinced Larry's got some kind of E.S.P. powers, aren't you?"

  "Maybe," Dave said casually. "I think anything's possible."

  "You shouldn't get all wired-up about this," Billy advised in a good-natured tone. "That was just a coincidence the other night. Don't let your imagination get carried away, man."

  "I'm not!" Dave insisted energetically. "That wasn't the only thing that made me wonder about Larry! I mean, if it was just that one time, I'd say 'Yeah, it's a coincidence,' but there've been other times, too!"

  "Like when?" Billy sighed skeptically.

  "Like when I got turned in for the chocolate milk. Remember how the night before it happened, Larry had us talking about that exact thing? We were talking specifically about getting busted for sneaking food at work, and Larry said we shouldn't trust the people here! He warned us about it, and then the very next day Peggy Kutz stabbed me in the back!"

  "Dave, Dave, Dave," clucked Billy. "That was just another coincidence, man. That kind'a thing happens all the time. You talk about something, and then it happens, and you think it's weird but it's just one of those things."

  "Yeah, but it happened twice," Dave charged emphatically. "Twice in a couple of days! And both times, Larry was right on the nose! He didn't just say something that was close to what happened...he had it pinned down exactly."

  Billy sighed and rolled his eyes. "Look," he said, leaning back in his seat. "I agree it'd be neat to know somebody who's psychic, but I don't think Larry's your man. Two coincidences don't make him psychic."

  Frustrated because Billy wasn't buying into his theory, Dave looked away from his friend. Though the main purpose of the conversation had been to get an objective opinion of Larry, Dave was miffed that Billy didn't agree with him. In reality, the gathering of fresh data and opinions had only been part of his purpose; all along, he'd hoped for Billy's support and assistance.

  Of course, there was one card left to play, and it was a big card, one that Billy wouldn't be able to lightly dismiss. In fact, Dave was sure that if he put that card on the table, Billy Bristol would instantly take him seriously, swing his vote without hesitation.

  If Dave told Billy about Boris Blovitz' suicide attempt, Billy would be won over. If Dave told his pal about how Larry had anticipated the suicide try, how he'd known exactly where to find Boris in the woods, Billy would certainly ignite with interest and belief. All would be settled, and Dave would have a staunch ally in his investigation.

  There was just one problem: Dave didn't feel that he should reveal that event just yet. He knew that he could trust Billy, but he'd promised Boris that he wouldn't tell anyone what had happened in the woods Saturday night. Dave took the promise quite seriously; he certainly wouldn't tell anyone who was likely to spread the word, but he also felt obliged to hide the truth from trustworthy brethren like Billy...at least for now. There might come a time, perhaps very soon, when Dave would need to tell the story in order to secure allies...but at the moment, the situation wasn't critical, and the facts could remain secret.

  Disappointed that he couldn't persuade Billy to go along with his theory, disgusted because he had the ammunition to convince him but felt restrained from using it, Dave resigned himself to the futility of the conversation.

  "Well, I don't know," he sighed, returning his gaze to Billy. "Maybe you're right, I don't know. It just all seems pretty weird, y'know?"

  "That's life," smirked Billy. "It get pretty weird sometimes."

  Dave shrugged. "So," he said after a brief pause. "I guess you haven't noticed anything unusual about him, then."

  "Uh-uh," replied Billy, shaking his head. "He seems cool to me. He's just like one of the gang." As he said that, Billy narrowed his eyes, thoughtfully cocked his head to one side. "Y'know, actually, I guess that's kind of unusual, now that I think about it."

  "What?" wondered Dave. "He doesn't act his age," said Billy. "He's like, what...in his forties or something?...but he sure doesn't act like it. I mean, he acts like he's our age, like he's one of us. How many forty-year-old guys do you know who act cool and go to parties with people half their age?"

  "That's true," nodded Dave.

  "He's got it together, too," continued Billy. "You know how it is when people that old try to be buddy-buddy with people our age. They usually end up lookin' pretty goofy...but Larry just seems normal. He doesn't come off like some bonehead trying to pretend he's young."

  Nodding, Dave considered what Billy had said. Though he had noticed Larry's youthful demeanor from the start, he'd accepted it without analysis; he'd recognized how well Larry fit in with the gang, but hadn't believed it to be anything but an adaptable sociability, a talent for getting along with different groups of people. Now that Billy had mentioned it, however, Dave began to wonder if there might be more to it, if the ease with which Larry had joined the Wild West gang might be in some way significant.

  "Y'know, I haven't thought about it much," Dave said slowly, "but you're right. That really is kind of unusual."

  "Well," grinned Billy. "I'm glad we could figure out something weird about the guy."

  "Yeah," nodded Dave, and then it was time to start work.

  *****

  The woods; the night.

  The Miraclemaker was in the woods in the night.

  He was watching the windows.

  There were four of them at the rear of the house, each lit with a golden glow from within. The view through each was perfect, free of blinds or drapes; as the house was backed only by acres of forest, the inhabitants had no need to shield themselves from the prying eyes of neighbors.

  The house was ranch-style, with only one level, and the windows were spaced across its length. From watching, the Miraclemaker knew exactly which room was behind each window; he knew the layout of the back half of the house.

  At the end of the house to his right, there was a square window, three feet on a side. Behind that one, the eldest son moved back and forth, pacing through his bedroom as he contemplated some kind of homework. Tall and dark-haired, he appeared in the square of light, head bowed; flicking a pencil against his chest, he passed first one way, then the other. Sometimes, he disappeared, probably dropping to a desk that was out of view...but he always reappeared, pacing thoughtfully, flicking the pencil.

  The next window was smaller, about two feet square, and it opened into a bathroom. Unlike the other windows, this one didn't emit a steady glow; its light flashed on and off at unpredictable intervals. When the light ignited, the Miraclemaker could see the heads of various family members: once, a middle-aged man, the father; next, the eldest son; then, a woman with dark, curly hair, the mother; and sometimes, he could just make out the low heads of children, barely visible over the sill.

  Past the bathroom, a larger window revealed the youngest son's habitat. Through the lit rectangle, the Miraclemaker could see colorful posters on the walls, airplane models dangling from the ceiling, an unkempt bed strewn with clothing and toys. The boy dashed in and out of the room frequently; sometimes, he stayed for a few minutes and played with his toys, but usually, he just darted in and grabbed something and left. He looked as if he were about eight years old, and he had dark hair like the rest of his family.

  The fourth and final window was the longest, six feet from end to end; through it, the Miraclemaker could see the kitchen, the brightest and busiest room at the back of the house. Each member of the family appeared there at one time or another: the father made many trips to the refrigerator, exhuming leftovers and cans of beer; the mother spent fifteen minutes washing dishes at the sink, which was right below the window; the eldest son stopped in to take some aspirins; the young boy and little girl skittered wildly through the place, crossing and recrossing it dozens of times; and the teenage daughter lingered for quite a while, talking on the telephone.

  Four windows. There were
four windows and six people, and the Miraclemaker watched them all. It was like a theater for him; like a playgoer, he sat in darkness, watching scenes unfold before him in the light of the stage, each window a stage. He came to know each character well, could predict what they would do without hearing a word of their dialogue. The people in that house were as transparent to him as the windows through which he observed them.

  There were six people in the family. Of the six, two would have to be killed.

  The father; the mother; the eldest son; the teenage daughter; the little boy; the little girl. Two of them would die at his hands. Four would remain alive, would have to remain alive for the plan to succeed.

  That was the challenge: taking two and leaving four. It was the reason why the Miraclemaker was only watching tonight, couldn't yet attack. It was the reason why he couldn't perform his miracles there, at the house in which the six were gathered.

  He wished that he could just march right in there and get it over with, expunge the two and move on to his next task...but he couldn't. In this miracle, he would have to exercise planning and care and patience, a more subtle approach.

  He would have to claim his victims elsewhere, away from the four who would have to survive. Though he was familiar with the layout of the house, he couldn't do the deed there; in the house, it would be impossible to execute the two without drawing the attention of the other four. Even if he could succeed in unobtrusively taking the two in their own home, he could think of no way to make the deaths appear accidental without harming the untargeted four...and the deaths had to appear accidental. When killing the first victims, Debby and Steve, the Miraclemaker hadn't been concerned about how the murders would be perceived; he hadn't cared whether the police deemed the deaths intentional or accidental, as long as he didn't leave any evidence of his identity for them to find. This time, however, he was determined to make the killings look like accidents, acts of God completely free of the taint of foul play. In extinguishing the next two victims, he would have to weave an illusion, make everyone think that the deaths were no more than unavoidable and tragic misfortunes. If he failed to sustain this illusion, the plan would be severely damaged, perhaps fatally disrupted; the deaths would do him no good if they were thought to be murders.