Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

"Shit," muttered Larry. "I'm really sick of this. I'm tired of this lousy game.

  "I save one person, and the next four die. I change the future once, and I don't do it again for a year.

  "I've heard people say they wish they could see the future. They seem to think it'd be great.

  "I think I'd give anything if I couldn't do it," said Larry Smith. "I'd give anything."

  *****

  Frozen in place, unable for the moment to think of anything to say, Dave Heinrich stared at the man on the cot. Apparently, Larry was done with his amazing, tragic tale; he was hunched silently on the mattress, eyes closed tightly, fingers rubbing his temples. Though he hadn't stated that his story was over, there was an air of finality about him, a sense of completion and exhaustion.

  As he stared at the man, Dave felt dazed. Surprisingly, he wasn't overjoyed or relieved now that he'd won, now that he'd finally forced the truth from Larry. There was no swell of satisfaction or self-congratulation, no rush of pleasure in his success.

  Instead of euphoria, Dave was enveloped in sadness, a sympathetic sorrow for Larry Smith. He was no longer angry with the man; having heard Larry's tragic story, Dave could find no rage within himself, only heavy-hearted pity.

  Now that he knew what Larry had been through, what suffering his power had brought upon him, Dave felt sorry for him. Before listening to the story, Dave had blamed him for allowing Ernie's parents and Tom Martin to die; now, he understood that Larry had been unable to prevent the deaths, that he'd tried and failed, that he was blameless. If anything, Larry was a victim, a victim of fate; he'd been gifted with unique abilities, only to be severely restricted in using them.

  Even as he pitied Larry, Dave felt a new respect for the man. Larry seemed stronger, more noble than Dave had ever imagined him to be; though he'd suffered greatly through the years because of his special ability, Larry still wanted to use that ability to save other people. He still strove to rescue his fellow man from the predestined disasters which he glimpsed in his visions; he was still deeply affected every time that he failed to save someone, though he'd failed so often in the past. Faced with nigh-insurmountable odds, weighed down by the arbitrary restrictions which fate had clamped upon him, he struggled onward, battling to avert catastrophes.

  Dave admired Larry's courage and inner strength; he was also ashamed for ever having despised Larry, for having blamed him for not saving the Dumbrowskis and Mr. Martin. Dave felt sick when he thought of the way that he'd badgered and threatened Larry; he'd seen how difficult the confession had been, how painful it had been for Larry to tell his story, and he hated himself for putting the guy through it.

  Dave was further ashamed at the way that he'd failed Larry and blocked his vital work. Though Larry had planned to use him to save several lives, Dave had only assisted in rescuing Boris Blovitz; because of his intense curiosity, the way that he'd pried and guessed at Larry's secrets, Dave had inadvertently rendered himself useless in changing the future. There was no way that he could have known, of course, but he still blamed himself for not having been able to help. Larry had counted on him, expected him to accomplish important things...and Dave had let him down.

  All in all, Dave felt very small; in the presence of such a brave and noble man, such a tragic yet stoic figure as Larry Smith, he felt as if he were nothing, an absolute zero. As he stared at the man, he was filled with sadness and self-reproach, with admiration which bordered on awe...with a sense that Larry was as far beyond him as the most distant of stars.

  The reactions which Dave experienced weren't those which he'd expected that night. He'd anticipated only rage, hadn't imagined that Larry would have any acceptable excuse for not saving Ernie's parents and Tom Martin. Instead of anger, he'd found sympathy and respect for Larry, shame and inadequacy for himself.

  Leave it to Larry to surprise him yet again.

  As the silence in the room continued, Dave finally decided that it was time for him to leave...past time, probably. He'd intruded enough; he was ashamed at having caused Larry so much grief, and he didn't wish to bother him any longer.

  "Well," Dave said quietly. "I guess I'd better be going."

  With a deep sigh, Larry opened his eyes and looked up. "Okay," he said simply, his voice low and weak.

  At the weary, beaten look in Larry's eyes, Dave felt a surge of guilt; he started to speak, then hesitated, had to take a deep breath and steady himself.

  "I, uh, I'm sorry," he said at last. "I'm sorry for pestering you."

  Larry Smith coughed softly.

  "I didn't know," continued Dave. "I really didn't know what it was all about." Pausing, he nervously scuffed his shoe on the floor; he felt childish, like a little boy stammering his repentance to a parent. "I...I'm sorry I wasn't more help to you."

  "Don't worry about it," Larry said dully.

  "I...wish I could've helped more," fumbled Dave. "Maybe...if I hadn't been so hell-bent on finding you out...some people wouldn't've died."

  "Wasn't your fault," said Larry. "Don't worry about it."

  Dave knew that he would worry about it, that he was at fault...but he could see no purpose in arguing the point. For a moment, he was silent; he felt as if there was something else that he should say...something conclusory, something apologetic...but he couldn't find the right words. Agitated, he shifted his feet, glanced around the room; he half-hoped that Larry would break the silence, provide some kind of comfort or the chastising that he felt that he deserved...but Larry didn't speak.

  "Well, I'd better be going," Dave muttered at last, and he shuffled to the door.

  Larry said nothing.

  Dave reached for the doorknob. "Uh...thanks for talking to me," he said sullenly.

  "Right," said Larry Smith. "Hope I answered all your questions."

  Larry's tone was so disconsolate, Dave couldn't help but feel more ashamed. Nodding once, he tugged the door open.

  Then, he hesitated. Abruptly, he realized that all his questions hadn't been answered; there was still one thing that he didn't know, that he hadn't asked about, that Larry hadn't explained.

  With the open doorway gaping before him, Dave wondered if he should ask the last question or just leave well enough alone. He was extremely reluctant to delay his departure; he felt badly for having pushed Larry into such a woeful state, and he didn't wish to cause him any additional unhappiness. At the same time, though, he wanted to unearth the last answer, fill in the final gap in his understanding of recent events.

  For a long moment, Dave debated whether he should inquire or simply exit. He knew that he'd overstayed his welcome, depleted any good will or patience which Larry had reserved for him; on the other hand, he didn't know if he would ever have the opportunity to ask again. If he left without posing the final question, Larry might never open up to him again, and a part of the mystery might go forever unsolved.

  Ultimately, despite the shame and awkwardness that he felt, Dave decided to press for the one piece that he needed to complete the puzzle. Hand on the doorknob, he turned to face the hunched figure on the cot.

  "Uh, Larry?" he said tentatively, timidly.

  Larry looked at him, but his eyes seemed glazed and unfocused, inattentive.

  "I really hate to bug you any more...but there's just one other thing that I wanted to ask you."

  Larry just sniffed.

  "It's about...your file at work," continued Dave, feeling more uncomfortable and self-conscious with every word that he spoke. "I had a look at it, y'see. I mean, I guess I had no business checking up on you like that...but I was really...I wanted to know more about you."

  Silently, Larry listened from the cot, displayed no reaction.

  Dave cleared his throat. "Anyway, there was hardly anything in it. Like, usually, there're lots of forms and stuff...but all there was in your file was one note."

  Still, Larry said nothing. Though his eyes were aimed in Dave's direction, it was unclear if Larry was actually looking at his guest.

  "See,
there was just this note," said Dave. "All it had on it was your name and a phone number...and the word 'special.' All the other files have a bunch of paperwork in them...but yours just had this note that said 'special.'" Nervously, Dave paused, waiting for some kind of response from Larry...but there was none.

  Gripping the doorknob a little too tightly, Dave swallowed hard and proceeded. "It looked like...Mr. Martin's handwriting...on the note, that is. I was just wondering...I mean, I really hate to bug you like this...but I was wondering what that note was all about."

  For a moment, Larry remained still and unreadable, his worn and weary face cocked inexpressively at his interrogator. Then, at last, he shifted on the cot.

  "Tom did me a favor," he said, his voice low and inflectionless. "He didn't officially hire me. I never filled out an application, and he never sent papers to the company or the government."

  "How come?" asked Dave.

  "I needed the money," Larry said in his monotone. "This way, I got paid under the table, and I wouldn't have to pay taxes. That's what the 'special' meant, I guess. I was 'special' since I was working, but I wasn't on the payroll." Listlessly, Larry pointed a finger at the floor. "The phone number was for the bar downstairs, in case Tom needed to get hold of me."

  "What about Fred?" asked Dave. "Did Mr. Wyland know about this?"

  "No," replied Larry. "We didn't tell him, because we knew he'd never go along with it. He's too by-the-book."

  "What if he sees your file?" asked Dave. "Won't he figure it out then?"

  "Tom told me that Fred doesn't usually handle the files," droned Larry. "We figured if Fred ever did get into mine, and started asking questions, we'd just make up some kind of story to tell him. Anyway, I never planned to be around very long, so it probably wouldn't be a problem."

  "I see," nodded Dave, and that was it; he had his last answer. The final cipher had been unraveled, and the explanation made sense. It was the first time that he'd heard of such a thing happening at the steakhouse, but it was certainly possible, even logical the way that Larry had described it.

  Dave felt satisfied, finally ready to leave the room; he wanted to go home and sort through what he'd learned, begin the process of getting on with his life. "Well," he said. "Thanks again for...y'know, talking to me like this. I really am sorry for bothering you."

  "Whatever," Larry said ambivalently.

  "I think I...understand better now," added Dave. "I feel pretty stupid for the things I thought about you before. I just didn't know."

  In response, Larry just shrugged. His eyes still seemed unfocused, bereft of interest.

  "I, uh...I swear I won't tell anybody what you told me," Dave continued awkwardly. "And...don't worry about the video, either," he added. "I promise I won't show it to anyone." Dave wasn't sure why he was prolonging the myth of the incriminating video; perhaps, it was because he felt so ashamed already, and revealing the lie that he'd propagated would only make him feel worse.

  Dave's vows didn't seem to have much impact on Larry. He just nodded weakly and stared at the floor.

  "Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow at work," said Dave. He took a step forward, started to pull the door shut behind him...then paused. As unresponsive as Larry was, there was still one more thing that Dave felt he should say to him.

  "Uh...I know I'm not much use to you now," he said, "but if there's ever...any way I can help...please let me know."

  Gazing mutely at the bare boards of the floor, Larry nodded.

  With that, Dave left the room and closed the door.

  *****

  Chapter 21

  Dave was having a pretty good day.

  He was surprised and gratified by how well things were going, how well he felt. Since waking up that morning--and waking early--he'd been in high spirits; he'd felt refreshed and energetic, buoyant and capable, more vigorous than he'd been in weeks...and the feeling had lingered.

  He had had work to do, and he'd gotten to it without delay or complaint. After showering, he'd immediately hurried to his desk to study for the final exam which he had to take later that morning. Though he'd hardly prepared for the exam in past days, and he'd known it was probably too late for new efforts to do much good, he'd dived into his notebooks with startling determination.

  After several hours of intense study, Dave had driven to campus for the exam, the final test of the term; he'd actually entered the classroom early, twenty minutes before the test was set to begin.

  Much to his surprise and delight, he'd found the exam to be far less difficult than he'd expected. A fair number of the questions had been related to the material which he'd gone over that morning; there had been plenty of questions for which he could provide only incomplete answers, or no answers at all...but he'd been able to respond correctly often enough to ensure at least a passing grade.

  When he'd done what he could, Dave had left the classroom with a sense of victory in his heart. Though he'd known that his grade on the test wouldn't be stellar, he'd also felt sure that it would be higher than an 'F'. Though he hadn't excelled, he'd done better than he would have believed the day before; he might still have to retake some courses, extend his college career, but at least he hadn't gone down without a fight.

  After the test, he'd met Darlene for lunch, and that had gone well, too. Initially, she'd been somewhat downcast, but she'd quickly perked up, perhaps inspired by his fine mood. After lunch, they had gone for a long walk around campus, hand in hand; there had been absolutely no sign of the tension which sometimes darkened their time together.

  Following the interlude with Darlene, Dave had gone to the mall and treated himself to a new shirt and a CD by his favorite band. He'd felt like splurging a little, buying some new things; it had been a long time since he'd bought new music or clothes, and he'd been in the mood for a change of pace.

  Even when he got to the Wild West Steakhouse for his three-thirty shift, Dave didn't experience any drop in his spirits. He didn't often anticipate an evening's work, with all its sweat and hassles, with any degree of eagerness; this time, however, he was actually looking forward to his shift, to seeing his friends and getting back into the familiar rhythms of the place.

  Dave strolled jauntily through the door, gave a bright greeting to each co-worker whom he passed. All smiles, he stopped at the broiler to exchange wisecracks with Billy Bristol, then retreated to the locker room to change his clothes.

  As he abandoned his sweatshirt and bluejeans and slipped into his steakhouse uniform, Dave thought about how well his day was going; he smiled as he remembered the exam, and lunch with Darlene, the remarkable improvement over his misfortunes of just a day ago.

  Pondering his newfound enthusiasm, he decided that it must be due to the events of the previous night, the dramatic conclusion of his obsessive investigation. The mystery had been solved; at long last, he had all the answers which he'd sought so doggedly, which had been frustratingly out of reach for what had seemed like forever.

  Though he'd been deeply disturbed and ashamed the night before, Dave now felt better than he had in ages. The shame had disappeared with a night's sleep, leaving in its wake an invigorated, liberated feeling; it was as if he'd been wedged in a terrible traffic jam for hours on end, and he was finally clear of it, shooting down a sunny highway with not another car in sight. He felt calm, perfectly at ease, ready for anything...even hopeful.

  Yes, he decided, it was all because the mystery of Larry Smith had been resolved. Finally, he could put his obsession behind him; he felt as though he could now accept the deaths of Ernie's parents, accept all that had happened recently, move ahead instead of running in place.

  When he'd finished changing from his street clothes into the uniform, Dave stowed his belongings in a locker and left the tiny room. Pulling his timecard from the index on the wall, he punched the card in the clock at exactly three-thirty. Checking the schedule beside the clock, he saw that he was set to work as fry cook...yet another stroke of luck, since it was a job which he
preferred.

  Whistling cheerfully, Dave strolled out to the meal prep line and began attending to his duties at the fry cook station.

  Glancing over the shoulder-high partition which separated the cooking and prep area from the customer chute, he noticed that only a few people were waiting in line; it was too early to tell if he was in for a hectic night, but he was in such a good mood that he didn't think that he would care how busy it got.

  For a while, things went smoothly. Whistling, kidding with Billy Bristol, Dave did his job gracefully and efficiently, actually managed to stay a step ahead of the rest of the crew. Not for an instant did his spirits sag, his brightness dim.

  Then, after a half-hour or so, as he was tugging a tray of rolls from the oven, Dave saw Mr. Wyland marching toward him. The manager-the only manager, until a replacement could be found for Tom Martin-had a peevish expression on his face. He was hunched forward, moving briskly, fists clenched and swinging at his sides; just from looking at him, Dave could tell that he wasn't a happy man.

  Briefly, Dave wondered if trouble was approaching. He quickly decided that it wasn't worth worrying about; his day was going so well that he believed that luck was on his side.

  "Um, Dave?" began the manager, halting his approach at the bubbling fryer.

  "Yes?" Dave replied pleasantly.

  "I, um, need you to do something for me," said Mr. Wyland, his voice tight with anger. "I need you to help out."

  "Help out with what?" asked Dave.

  "Would you mind working in the dishroom tonight? We're, um, a little short-handed here." The boss released a puff of disgust and gruffly shook his head.

  Dave shrugged. "Well, I guess I don't mind. Why're we short-handed, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "Someone didn't show up for his shift," grunted the manager. "He, um, didn't even bother to call and tell me he wouldn't be in." Brusquely, Mr. Wyland jerked up a hand, swept a strand of his prematurely silver hair from his forehead. "Um, I waited a half-hour to see if he'd get here, but I can't wait any more. I need somebody in the dishroom right now. I can spare you out here, but the dishroom's a mess, and all I have is one busboy."