Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Grimacing, gritting his teeth, he'd fluttered quivering hands over the mangled legs, had nudged them to peer at the dirt underneath. He'd found nothing.

  With a tremendous effort, he'd pressed himself to go further. Eyes down, firmly down, he'd gingerly fished around the waist, had grazed fingers between the kid's back and the earth. Still, he'd found nothing.

  He'd raised his eyes with great care then, allowed them to slip over the abdomen. Ever conscious of the limit, of what would confront him if he looked too far, he'd gazed at the corpse's clothing, the white T-shirt slathered red, the red sweatpants soaked crimson.

  Then, he'd seen the name.

  It had been printed in a thin, black line on the waist of the sweatpants; at first glance, Dave had thought nothing of it, had dismissed it as a stain of oil or grease. He'd looked past it without pausing.

  His eyes had then quickly shifted back to it.

  Curiosity overcoming his revulsion, he'd moved closer, bent and squinted at the tiny strip of print. He'd had to dip still closer before the line had fully resolved itself.

  There had been two words, just two. A name.

  It must have been the kid's name. His mother must have put it on his sweatpants so that they wouldn't get mixed up with someone else's at the youth center. She couldn't have known that it would also serve to tag him after his death.

  The name. As soon as he'd read it, Dave had felt that there was something important about it; it had been significant, of course, because it had identified the kid...but Dave had felt that there was something else, something beyond that. As the two words had tumbled through his mind, they had aroused something distant, spurred a murmur which he could sense but not quite hear.

  He'd thought that it was the clue for which he'd been searching, though he'd been unable to say exactly why.

  And then...

  And then, his eyes had drifted too far, and he'd been too close, and he'd seen...

  Think about the name.

  ...pink and...

  Think about the name.

  ...glistening and...

  Think about the name.

  There had been flies.

  Again, he retched. It was a dry heave; there was nothing left in his stomach.

  He felt as if there was nothing left inside him at all.

  Flies.

  Think about the name.

  Frank Hoffman. That was the name. There was something important about it, something that he felt he should know.

  Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman.

  It had a strange resonance, an odd weight; it seemed familiar, or...something.

  Frank Hoffman.

  Dave hefted it, tested it, turned it over in his mind. Slumped and sickly, kneeling on the hard stone many yards from the awful cleft, he hardly looked capable of coherent thought...and yet, he was scrutinizing that name, analyzing it intently as a jeweler appraising a precious gem. His concentration was remarkably keen, considering what he'd been through mere moments ago, considering...

  There had been flies.

  What was it about the name? Had he heard it somewhere before? Certainly, he'd never seen the kid before today...

  The kid; the kid had no face.

  ...and he hadn't known this particular Frank Hoffman. Had he known another Frank Hoffman, a different person with the same name? Had he heard of such a person? Was that the connection, the vital clue?

  Maybe; he didn't know, couldn't pin it down. He ransacked his memory, threw open every door, drawer and box, gazed into every corner, sent scuds of dust flying from antiques long untouched...and still, he couldn't put his hands on the thing which had caused the name to stir him.

  Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman.

  What was it about that...

  And then, he thought that he almost had it. He could feel himself approaching it, knew that it was it, what he needed, the key.

  Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman.

  It was so close and he reached for it and...

  Frank Hoffman.

  And...

  And then, he heard Billy Bristol shouting and he jumped and it was gone.

  "Shit!" hollered Billy, and Dave could hear him running though he didn't turn to look. "Dave! Shit! Dave, are you okay?"

  At his friend's call, Dave was pelted by a hailstorm of different reactions: he bolted with surprise, rushed with crackling adrenalin; he felt a gust of relief because Billy was fine and had finally awakened; he was angry because the secret of the name had been within reach and had darted away like a spooked trout; he was embarrassed because he didn't want Billy to see him at that moment, shot to hell and hunched over his own vomit; he panicked, wondered what he could say, how he could explain his wretched state, how he could persuade Billy to adhere to the plan; he second-guessed every detail of the plan, questioned his sanity, flailed about for a new idea; and, at the same time, his resolve to protect Billy was reinforced, for Billy's first words on emerging from the trench had been expressions of concern for his welfare.

  "Dave?" yelled Billy, swiftly approaching, feet padding rapidly over the stone. "Hey! Are you all right, man?"

  Breathing heavily, Dave struggled to collect himself. He knew that he'd reached a crucial time, the most crucial, and he had to sweep aside his doubts and...

  There had been flies.

  ...sickness and weakness, purge his insecurities and execute delicate maneuvers on which lives depended. He couldn't afford to appear delusional or indecisive; above all else, he had to present a solid, rational facade. If he wished to manipulate Billy, he would have to seem to be in complete control of his faculties, show no obvious instability which Billy would spot immediately as a red flag; even then, he would have his work cut out for him.

  "Dave!" shouted Billy, coming right up behind him. "Geez! Are you okay, man?"

  "Uh-huh," grunted Dave, wiping his mouth on his arm before turning to look up at his friend. "I'm fine," he said, casually as he could.

  "You don't look fine," frowned Billy. "You look like shit. What'd that son of a bitch do to you, man?"

  Dave hesitated. His first impulse was to tell the truth, that Larry hadn't laid a hand on him...but he quickly realized that a lie might better serve him. If he said that Larry had given him something of a beating, he would supply an explanation for why he hadn't awakened Billy, hadn't aided him when he could have. Apparently, Billy thought that Dave looked as if Larry had done something to him, so the lie would be believable.

  "Aw, he just slapped me around a little," Dave said finally, massaging his shoulder for effect. "I'm okay, though."

  "Man, we oughtta' get you to the emergency room," Billy said worriedly. "He might've messed you up worse than you think."

  "No no," interjected Dave, hastily getting to his feet. "Really, I'm okay. He nailed me pretty good in the stomach, but that was about the worst of it." A hard blow to the gut; Dave figured that would explain the vomiting. Though he didn't think that it was necessary to cover up his visit to the...

  Red and white and...

  There had been flies.

  ...to the kid, he was embarrassed by his nausea and faintheartedness and didn't want Billy to know how extreme his reaction had been.

  "Are you sure?" grimaced Billy. "You're white as a ghost, man."

  "I'm sure," Dave replied firmly. He couldn't help but note the irony of the scene: Billy looked fine, though he was the one who had been beaten, while Dave apparently looked awful, though he hadn't been touched.

  "Are you okay?" Dave asked then, trying to turn the conversation away from his own condition. "He really got you."

  "Yeah, I'm okay," Billy drawled disgustedly, rubbing the back of his head. "Got a sore jaw and a killer headache, but I'll live. How long was I out, anyway?"

  "I don't know," shrugged Dave. "Half-hour, forty-five minutes, I guess. I wasn't really watching the time, y'know?"

  "That son of a bitch," hissed Billy, scowling angrily. "I didn't even see him waiting for me. Just r
eached right up outta' that crack and snagged me like he was pickin' an apple off a tree. Shit."

  "It looked like you fell pretty hard," said Dave. "Are you sure you're okay?"

  "Yeah yeah," snorted Billy. "I just wish I would've put up more of a fight. That bastard put me away before I knew what hit me. I didn't even clip him once."

  "There was nothing you could do," offered Dave. "Larry's seriously dangerous. I guess we're lucky he didn't kill us."

  "Shit, you can say that again," nodded Billy, and then he paused, frowning thoughtfully.

  "Why the hell didn't he kill us, though? For God's sake, we saw what he did to that kid. Why didn't he kill us to shut us up?

  "Beats me," lied Dave.

  "He must've known we'd get the cops after him," mulled Billy, cocking his head to one side. "It doesn't make sense, man. Are you sure he didn't say anything about that?"

  "I'm sure," confirmed Dave, regretting that he'd brought up the subject of Larry's decision to spare them. He admonished himself for being so careless, leading to a question for which he hadn't cooked up a good answer; he wanted to kick himself, but all that he could do was hope that Billy would accept his plea of ignorance. "I don't know why he let us live," he added, "but I'm not complaining."

  Billy nodded but didn't look satisfied. Head still cocked, he stared contemplatively down at the stone; his mouth opened slightly, and for a moment, he seemed to be about to say something.

  Tensing, Dave tried to prepare for the questions which might come next; frantically, he tried to cobble together explanations in case Billy wouldn't let go of the matter. He couldn't come up with anything which he thought would serve the purpose, and he started to panic...but then, Billy Bristol shrugged and sighed.

  "Oh well," said Billy. "The guy's a psycho. I guess he doesn't have to make sense."

  A great plume of relief spread through Dave. He promised himself that he would be more careful from then on, wouldn't allow offhanded remarks to spoil his critical assignment.

  "Hey!" snapped Billy then, raising his voice in surprising hostility. "By the way, what the hell are you still doing here, man? Why didn't you do what I told you?"

  "What? Like what?" fumbled Dave, taken aback.

  "I told you to run for it," clipped Billy. "When that bastard was reeling me in, I told you to get the hell outta' here, remember? Why in God's name did you stick around?"

  "Well, uh..." Dave hesitated, wondered if he ought to lie about what had kept him there, if he ought to avoid mentioning Larry's threats to kill Billy. By omitting them, Dave thought that he could diminish the likelihood that Billy would reject the plan; probably, if Billy knew that the killer had threatened to murder him, Dave would have absolutely no chance of restraining him from racing to the cops.

  "Well, I couldn't just leave you here," Dave said finally. "I mean, I didn't know what he might do to you." There; that much was true, at least. That was why he'd stayed, because he hadn't known what Larry would do.

  "Shit, Dave!" slung Billy. "I told you to go! You could've had the cops here by now! Maybe they'd've caught that bastard already!"

  "Right," said Dave. "And maybe you'd be dead by now, too."

  "You're lucky you're not dead, man! For cryin' out loud, how'd you think you were gonna' help me? You think you were gonna' take him on?"

  "I didn't know what I was gonna' do," shrugged Dave. "I just knew I couldn't run off and leave you here to die."

  "You should've gone," pressed Billy.

  "Yeah?" growled Dave. "And what would you have done? Left me here to be killed by that maniac?"

  Billy's mouth popped open and he seemed ready to let fly a retort; he said nothing, though, just hung there for a moment. He glowered at Dave, then darted his eyes away...and then, with an exasperated sigh, he shook his head.

  "Of course not," he mumbled irritably. There was a long pause as he stood there, head bowed, shoulders pumping. Dave guessed that he was feeling the effects of the day's incredible stress, that that was what had made him fly off the handle, erupt so uncharacteristically over a deed already done.

  "All right," said Billy at last, his voice returning to a civil pitch. "We'd better get moving. We can't waste any more time. The cops're gonna' have it tough as it is, what with the head start Larry's got."

  Dave tensed; his pulse and breathing quickened. His stomach twisted painfully and a sharp shudder coursed through his body.

  The hardest part; he'd reached the hardest part of his plan so far. He'd dreaded it, had hoped to forestall it, but it had come up quickly.

  There was no way around it, now. He had to pull Billy into the crusade.

  He wasn't ready. He didn't even know how to begin. He didn't want to begin.

  Yet again, he questioned what he'd decided to do. He tried to convince himself to sidestep the unpleasant duty, abandon the plan, save himself the trouble. He strove to declare, for once and for all, that he didn't care what Larry did next.

  He didn't care, didn't care, didn't give a damn.

  He did. He did give a damn.

  He had to stop Larry; he had to protect Billy.

  It was all up to him.

  "No," he said quietly, and then he cleared his throat. "No cops," he said, and that was enough; he'd committed himself.

  "Huh?" Billy said querulously. "What did you say?"

  "No cops," repeated Dave. "I said we have to keep the police out of this."

  Billy frowned. "You're kidding, right?" he snorted, nodding as if to enforce his supposition.

  "No," Dave said steadily. "I'm not kidding. We can't go to the police."

  "Whoa," said Billy, pushing both hands before him, palms out. "You can't be serious, man. We have to get the police."

  "No, we don't," said Dave. "Matter of fact, we can't." 'Can't'; that was the only way to put it. He could leave no room for negotiation; he had to make it clear that there was only one choice.

  Now, if he could just come up with a reason why there was only one choice.

  "Whatta' you mean, we can't?" Billy asked sharply. "Why can't we?"

  Dave hesitated, shifted his eyes down. "We just can't," he said, deliberately delaying, combing his mind for the answer to Billy's all-important question.

  "Why?" persisted Billy.

  Why? Why, why indeed? Why could they not seek the cops? Larry was a killer; the corpse of one of his victims lay in a trench just yards away. The logical course was to go to the cops, send them after the psychopath...so what could keep Billy from doing just that? What could make him exchange a sane response for one that was patently insane?

  Why shouldn't they send the cops to catch Larry? He was a killer, would probably kill again; he was dangerous, a real threat.

  A threat. That was it.

  There had to be a threat.

  Dave had already lied about a threat, Larry's threat to kill Billy, because he'd known that it would probably set Billy off, send him flying to the cops...but perhaps a different threat could have a different effect.

  Even as the idea dawned on him, Dave knew that it was right; he knew that there had to be a threat. There had to be a possibility of disaster, one which could be realized if the cops were summoned...and which could be nullified if the cops were kept out of it.

  There had to be a greater threat than that of Larry killing strangers. It had to be personal, immediate, unignorable, powerful enough to motivate Billy.

  Personal; powerful; a threat.

  He had it.

  The answer left his lips just as it formed in his mind. When he spoke, he was practically thinking out loud.

  "We can't go to the cops," he said gravely, sweeping his eyes up to meet Billy's, "because Larry said he'll kill my family if we do."

  For a long moment, neither partner said a word. The lie hung between them like a curtain, a gauzy sheet through which they stared at one another, seeing only silhouettes.

  Billy looked stunned. A baffled frown was frozen on his face; his mouth was open just wide enough
to betray his surprise.

  Dave stood stock-still, holding his breath, eyes glued to his friend. He felt relieved now that he'd produced an answer to Billy's question, a good reason for avoiding the police; at the same time, he was worried that he wouldn't be able to support the lie, build it up enough so that Billy wouldn't only believe it, but would shape his actions according to it.

  It didn't seem that there was much chance of success; still, the first step had been taken, and retreat was impossible. Dave had no choice but to improvise and hope for some luck.

  It was Billy who finally broke the silence. "He told you he'll kill your family?" he said slowly, as if uncertain that he'd heard correctly.

  "Uh-huh," nodded Dave, keeping his expression grim, his voice low and even. "He said he'd get them if I went to the police."

  Grimacing unbelievingly, Billy shook his head. "Well, that's crazy," he said. "How the hell's he gonna' do anything to your family if the cops haul him in?"

  "What if they don't haul him in?" Dave replied meaningfully.

  "I wouldn't worry," shrugged Billy. "If he gets away from them somehow, he'll be too busy running to bother with your family. He'll just want to get as far away from Confluence as he can, as fast as he can."

  "You sure about that?" asked Dave. "I know I'm not."

  "He just said that to scare you," asserted Billy. "I don't know why he didn't just kill us, but since we're still alive, he wants to stop us from going to the cops. He was just trying to intimidate you."

  "Well, it's working," Dave said darkly, doing his best to act as if the threat to his family were authentic. The performance wasn't difficult; while Larry remained on the loose, he indeed represented a threat to everyone close to Dave. "I am intimidated. He was dead serious when he told me, Billy. He said if I wouldn't promise not to go to the police, he'd go right to my family and kill them before I could even get off this rock."

  "I'm telling you, it's just scare tactics," insisted Billy. "He's got more important things to worry about than pissing around Confluence, waiting to get caught. That's exactly why he told you that stuff--'cause he doesn't wanna' get caught. If he stays around town, he probably will get caught, so you think he'll wanna' take the chance just to get back at you?"