"But if it doesn't, what can we do? We'll have to do something, that's for sure."
"Don't worry," curdled Dave. "It won't come to that."
"Well, you know it might," Billy said tentatively. "As much as you hope otherwise, we just might not be able to find him. If it turns out that way, seems to me like we'll have to bring the cops in on this."
Billy waited for an answer, but Dave said nothing, just longed for peace in which to concentrate on the name.
"Now, I'm going along like you wanted, okay?" proceeded Billy. "I mean, this is really against my better judgment, but I'm trying to help you out, man. I just want you to be prepared for what we might have to do if things don't turn out like you want. If we don't manage to track down Larry, we'll pretty much have to go to the cops. We'll have to do something to try to stop him...and, besides, we'll have to tell somebody about that kid he killed back there. We can't just leave him to rot, man."
"We won't," Dave huffed irritably, glaring at the berm.
"Well, all right," said Billy. "I just hope you'll be cool about, y'know...about getting the cops. It's like, if we don't figure out how to find this guy pretty soon, we'll have to get somebody after him who's got a shot at catching him."
Another car zipped past, and Dave sighed loudly. Billy was broadcasting too much interference; the babble was making it tough for Dave to concentrate on the mystifying name.
"It shouldn't be a problem for you, anyway," Billy said with certainty. "Going to the cops, that is. By the time we get around to it, Larry'll probably be so far away he won't be able to get your family."
Dave battled to block out his partner's voice, focus entirely on the name; he only partially succeeded, couldn't wholly banish the nagging chatter.
"I figure he'll hit the road sometime," theorized Billy. "I mean, I bet he's still in town right now, but he won't be able to stick around forever. Once he finishes what he wanted to do in town, he'll have to make tracks because he'll know you'll go to the cops sooner or later."
The name; Dave struggled to center himself on the name and nothing else. It filled his mind like a feverish prayer, like a blazing neon sign.
Frank Hoffman.
FRANK
HOFFMAN.
"Yeah," said Billy. "He'll make a run for it, all right. We might not be able to get to him, but hopefully the cops'll round him up."
FRANK HOFFMAN.
Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman.
"I'm sure he'll steal himself another car, of course," continued Billy. "At least we'll be able to give the cops a good description of him, though."
FRANK HOFFMAN. What was it about that name?
"I wonder what that son of a bitch'll be calling himself," said Billy. "He won't go by 'Larry Smith' anymore, I'm sure."
Frank Hoffman.
"He'll have to whip up another phony name when he goes on the run," mused Billy. "Shit, man. I bet he's got dozens of 'em. He must have a new batch of names for every town he comes to."
Dave wished that Billy would stop yapping; he believed that he could unscramble the clue if only his partner would cease his pointless gabbing.
"I wonder what his real name is, anyway," continued Billy. "It sure as shit isn't 'Smith,' man."
Frank Hoffman. What was it about...
Any minute now; any minute now, Dave would spin around and shout his partner into silence. The chattering was no longer bearable, had become an obstacle to all concentration.
Any minute now.
"Geez," snorted Billy. "He isn't too original, is he? I mean, 'Smith' is about as bad as 'Jones,' man. Didn't work too hard on that one, did he?"
Billy chuckled.
Dave bristled.
Any minute now.
"Let's see," chirped Billy. "What were the other two? I think they were a little better than 'Larry Smith.' "
Frank Hoffman. Frank...
Any minute now.
"'Frank,' right?" said Billy. "He was 'Frank' at the youth center."
Frank...
Any minute now, Dave would command his friend to shut up, just shut up.
"'Frank Moses,'" said Billy. "'Frank Moses.' Yeah, I guess that one's pretty good. The other one was 'Mike' something, wasn't it?"
Frank...
Any minute now.
Frank Moses?
"'Mike'...uh...damn. Mike Mike Mike." Billy clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then paused for a moment. A tractor trailer thundered past, barreled on down Route 26.
Any minute...
Frank?
Frank Moses?
"Shit, I can't think of it," Billy said disgustedly. "What was his other name, man? 'Mike' what?"
'Mike' what? What was the rest of it?
For an instant, Dave didn't remember, couldn't recall the rest of Larry's third alias. For just a beat, his mind remained in a hopeless tangle.
Then, abruptly, a switch flipped in Dave's head, and he knew. All at once, the lights came on and he knew.
Stopping as suddenly as if he'd just spotted a rattlesnake on the berm, Dave spun to face his partner.
"I've got it!" he shot excitedly, eyes wide and fiery with triumph.
"Got what?" asked Billy, looking bewildered.
Hearing the whir of an approaching car, Dave hastily hooked his thumb over the road; now that he knew, knew how to proceed, he wanted to get moving immediately. "Larry! I know how to find Larry!"
"You've lost me," frowned Billy. "What the hell're you talking about, man?"
"It's so easy!" Dave gushed breathlessly. "I can't believe how stupid I wasn't to've gotten it before!"
"I'm not following you," Billy stated crankily. "What're you getting at?"
"Hoffman!" cried Dave, waving his thumb at the oncoming car. "Larry's other name was Mike Hoffman!"
"Oh yeah," nodded Billy. "That's what it was. I don't know why I couldn't remember it." Pausing, Billy appeared to ponder the information; then, his confused frown deepened. "So how does that help us find Larry?"
"Mike Hoffman, right?" Dave said excitedly, still jubilant though the latest car had passed without slowing. "Mike Hoffman...Frank Hoffman! Same last name as that kid!"
Billy's eyes suddenly widened with recognition. "Well, I'll be damned," he said slowly, shaking his head.
"I knew it!" crowed Dave, pumping his thumb at another car which was cruising toward him. "I knew that name sounded familiar! I knew there was something important about it!"
"So what's the big deal, then?" wondered Billy, again looking bewildered. "You think 'Hoffman' is Larry's real last name, maybe, and the kid was related or something?"
"No no no," sputtered Dave, so thrilled with his deductions that he wanted to blurt them all out at once. "It has to be a phony name. Here's the thing, all right? Larry called himself 'Mike Hoffman' when he rented his room. He told the priest at the youth center that he was 'Frank Moses.' 'Mike Hoffman'...'Frank Moses.'"
"Uh-huh," nodded Billy, frowning intently.
"'Frank Moses'," beamed Dave. "'Mike Hoffman.' Put them together and you get..."
"'Frank Hoffman'!" burst Billy, eyes lighting up as he made the connection.
"Exactly!" pounced Dave, punching his thumb in the air though the latest car had already darted past. "'Frank Hoffman'! You take part of one of Larry's phony names and part of the other and you've got the name of the kid he killed!"
"Holy shit," muttered Billy, and then he chuckled. "'Frank Hoffman.' That slick son of a bitch."
"No way could that be a coincidence!" declared Dave. "It must be how he comes up with the phony names he uses! He mixes together the names of the people he's going to kill!"
"Sounds about right," agreed Billy. "Sounds like something a sick bastard like him would do."
"Now we know who he's gonna' kill next!" Dave hurled exuberantly. "We just put together what's left of the two names!"
"So we've got 'Mike'...," started Billy.
"...and 'Moses'!" finished Dave. "'Mike Moses'! That
's who Larry went after! That's the guy he said he'd kill next!"
"Well, maybe," Billy said hesitantly. "Or maybe it's somebody he's killed already."
"No. No, that isn't it," Dave foisted quickly, realizing, as he did so, that Billy might be right. Maybe, 'Mike Moses' was the name of a past victim; after all, Larry hadn't told Dave the names of everyone whom he'd murdered, and it was possible that there had been many more victims than Larry had revealed.
"How do you know?" Billy asked skeptically. "How do you know that's not some guy who's already dead?"
"I've just got a hunch," Dave replied firmly. He decided to stick to his theory about the names; even though it might be inaccurate, it was his only hope of finding Larry and executing the plan.
"Oh, brother," drawled Billy, rolling his eyes. "Not another hunch!"
"Hey, don't knock it," said Dave. "My last hunch was a pretty good one. I had a feeling there was something important about the kid's name."
"Must've been your woman's intuition," cracked Billy.
"Aw, screw you," Dave retorted as he flagged another approaching car. "Only thing that matters is that I was right...and I think I'm still right. Anyway, even if I'm wrong, what's the difference? We might as well follow up on this, y'know? We've got nothing else to try at this point."
"We could go straight to the cops," offered Billy.
"Like I said," shrugged Dave, "we've got nothing else to try. Might as well follow up on this angle."
"Follow up, follow up," Billy sighed grouchily. "How do you suppose we're gonna' follow up on this? All we've got's a name that might belong to someone who's already six feet under! Hell, for all we know, the name might not even belong to anyone. Maybe Larry took the 'Frank' and the 'Hoffman' parts from the kid's name and then just made up the 'Mike' and the 'Moses' parts."
"No way," Dave negated as the car dove past him. "After he went to the trouble of using the name of one victim, I'm sure he'd use the name of the next one instead of just pulling something out of thin air. As for following up on this...well, all we have to do is get a phone book and look up 'Moses.'"
"A local phone book?" asked Billy.
"Yeah," nodded Dave. "I agree with you that he's probably still in town somewhere."
"So, what if there's more than one 'Moses'?"
"We'll just have to check them all," said Dave as another car ignored his thumb and flashed past. "Hopefully, we'll find a listing for 'Mike' or 'M. Moses.'"
"What if there aren't any 'Moses's' listed?"
"I guess we'll be out of luck," shrugged Dave.
"Maybe the guy's number and address're unlisted."
"Like I said, we'll be out of luck."
"So we'll get the cops then?" Billy asked expectantly.
"Maybe," said Dave, "but I've got a feeling we won't need to. I've got a feeling we're on the right track."
"Well, nothing personal here," sighed Billy, "but I hope we're not."
"We'll see," said Dave. "We'll just see what happens."
*****
Chapter 35
The Miraclemaker sat rigidly at the kitchen table, hands folded neatly before him. His ears were alert for any sound; his face was tipped upward, eyes trained steadily on the wall-clock.
The round shell of the clock was of a garish orange plastic, the color of a hunter's blaze-orange cap. An electrical cord ran from the base of the shell and disappeared under the table.
The Miraclemaker hated the clock. He wasn't offended by its color or the loud, constant buzz which emanated from it; its design didn't bother him, either, not even the lemon-yellow cow face grinning incongruously at its center.
He hated the clock simply because it showed him the time. He hated the clock because it reminded him of his miscalculation.
The hands of the clock were shaped like milk bottles. The smaller bottle was pointing at the number four on the rim of the clock's face; the larger bottle was suspended midway between the numbers two and three.
It was almost a quarter past four o'clock.
The Miraclemaker had been waiting for nearly an hour.
Yet again, he cursed himself for his error; his teeth clenched and his folded hands clamped more tightly together. He had to forcibly restrain himself from lashing out, pounding the table or casting a glass across the room in a furious explosion.
It wasn't yet the time for violence, he told himself; he could release his rage later, put it to good use. Control was crucial, he told himself; he had to accept his mistake and adapt to its consequences, check his emotions and focus only forward like the perfect golden line.
Still...
He'd been waiting for almost an hour. He'd been so unbelievably careless.
There was no one in the house but him; his target wasn't home. After all his meticulous devotion to detail, the Miraclemaker had overlooked one critical point: he'd failed to verify whether or not his next target would actually be home at the appropriate time.
The Miraclemaker was in the right place. He was in the right frame of mind, fresh from his latest masterpiece, more than ready to dance once more. He was on the threshold of success, and all obstacles had been swept aside...but no one was home.
No one was home, and it was a quarter past four.
He hadn't anticipated such a setback. Several times over the past few weeks, he'd watched the house, observing the habits of its occupants; never had his target left the place in the morning or afternoon. That, combined with the very nature of the target, had seemed proof enough, and he'd concluded that the target would be in position when the time came for action. He hadn't seen the need for a last-minute check of the site, hadn't conceived alternate measures; he'd thought that he could simply stroll in when he was ready and perform his glorious work...and he'd been wrong.
Of all the times to be wrong! There he was, with only one step remaining, one final miracle to realize, and he was stymied. The end of his work was in sight, the culmination of his plan so near, and he could do nothing, nothing but wait. He'd labored so hard, suffered so much...and now, because he'd weakened, taken one factor for granted, his whole effort could come to naught.
Valiantly, the Miraclemaker strove to turn his thoughts elsewhere, away from his indiscretion; he failed miserably. All that he could do was flog himself for the mistake, worry about what it might cost him.
He watched the clock like a student awaiting the end of an interminable class: the big milk bottle had shifted to the second hash-mark past the three.
It was seventeen minutes after four o'clock.
How many more minutes would drop away before the target entered the Miraclemaker's ravenous, blessed grasp? Would the wait last another unendurable hour? Would it drag on-God forbid-for more than an hour, for several hours, maybe? Would the target even arrive that afternoon...that evening...that night? The Miraclemaker had no idea.
He couldn't guess when the recipient of his affections would come to him; he didn't know where the chosen one had gone, and so couldn't estimate the time of his reappearance. There were no clues to be found anywhere in the house, no indications of where or for how long the target had gone; the Miraclemaker had searched thoroughly for some sign, but had come up empty. For all that he knew, his prey could have gone to the moon.
The big milk bottle was on the fourth hash-mark past the three: nineteen minutes after four o'clock.
With great difficulty, the Miraclemaker finally managed to divert his thoughts, step away from his self-recrimination. He permitted himself an interlude of reminiscence, reviewed the triumphant campaign which he'd conducted so far.
Even now, his accomplishments warmed him, rekindled his flagging spirit; even now, they delighted him, surprised him. Strangely, he still found it hard to believe that he'd done any of it, that his wondrous feats had been anything more than the vivid dreams to which he'd clung for so long. The miracles truly seemed dreamlike to him now, distant and fantastic, impossibly perfect configurations of his heart's desire.
The memories o
f certain moments perforated the sense of illusion, though, reasserting the reality of his works: he could never dismiss as a dream his execution of Debby Miller, that pinwheeling thrill when he'd crushed her neck beneath his boot; likewise, he relished the image of Steve Kimmel's blazing corpse, the burning mansion, too-both beatific torches which he'd nurtured to brilliance; then, of course, there was Martin, the manager, and the wheezing, gurgling song that he'd sung as his throat opened like the bud of a flower.
Yes, there were plenty of moments to highlight his remembrances, contrast them from his earlier fantasies...and, he was sure, there would be at least a few more of those moments. There would be one more miracle to savor; it would certainly provide a splendid entertainment, a sumptuous abundance of emotion and sensation. The last course of this banquet would be the most delicious, not only because of its taste, but because it was the last course.
For a brief time, the Miraclemaker contented himself with imagining his next kill, visualizing every detail with loving attentiveness. He felt a growing excitement as he pictured each bloody defilement, each cut that he envisioned like the brush-stroke of a painter.
Then, his reverie ended. Abruptly, he remembered that he couldn't perform the miracle, couldn't yet make his vision a reality because his artist's medium, the prey's flesh, was elsewhere.
His eyes, which had drifted from the wall-clock, again leaped upward.
The big milk bottle was on the number five: it was twenty-five minutes after four o'clock, and the lemon-yellow cow face was still grinning.
A fresh surge of nervous energy billowed within the Miraclemaker, pressing like a tide against his ribs. His pulse quickened; he felt warmer, uncomfortably warm. All his muscles tightened, straining at the influx of power which demanded to be released.
He wanted to move. For too long, he'd been sitting at the kitchen table, allowing his anger and frustration to boil and build like the charge of a geyser. He felt as if he had to do something, anything, even if it served no purpose, even if he just got up and walked in circles. It was destructive, he knew, to remain glued to the chair, to watch each minute flick past and endlessly contemplate his mistake.
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