Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  The Miraclemaker decided to rise. He unfolded his hands, slid them to the edge of the table to propel himself back and up...and then, he froze.

  A sound; he'd heard the sound of a car door slamming.

  It had come from nearby, he was sure.

  His heart jumped; adrenaline wildfire raced through him. His head swung to the left, his ear cocked in the direction from which the sound had come.

  Another car door slammed.

  Eyes wide, jaws clenched, the Miraclemaker waited for what he hoped would come next-the sound of the front door opening, the voices and footsteps of his guests. Rushing with sweet relief and anticipation, he barely managed to hold himself back, keep from sprinting outside at that instant to fold the prey in his fatal embrace.

  A moment passed. His impatience quickly spinning out of control, the Miraclemaker continued to listen and wait, longing for his cue, his signal to act.

  The signal didn't come. Another moment fizzled away, and still no one opened the front door of the house, no one entered.

  Frowning, the Miraclemaker listened for one more moment, straining to catch even the faintest of sounds, the dimmest note of the preamble to his vicious score. Still, there was nothing.

  Pushing his chair back from the table, he rose and slipped cautiously from the kitchen to the adjacent living room. Stealthily, ears still primed to receive the slightest sound, he maneuvered to the wide front window; prepared to bolt back into the shadows at any second, he peeled aside one tattered drape and peeped into the sunlight.

  He saw an empty driveway; the driveway in front of the house was as vacant as it had been when he'd first arrived.

  His prey hadn't come home. The slamming car doors had been a false alarm.

  Casting his gaze beyond the driveway and across the street, he spotted the source of the sounds which had prematurely roused him: a bright green Volkswagen Beetle was parked in front of the house directly opposite that in which the Miraclemaker lurked. The Volkswagen hadn't been there earlier; someone must have just parked it and gone into the house.

  Cursing, the Miraclemaker chucked the drape back into place and swung away from the window. A great rage thrashed within him, kicking and bucking like an animal caged in his chest; his eyes switched from side to side, sweeping over the living room furnishings, seeking some object that he could smash to vent his explosive wrath.

  Sighting a lamp on one of the end tables, he took two steps forward...and then, he halted. Fists balled tightly at his sides, he ducked his head and snapped his eyes shut.

  Control; he had to regain control. He had to shed his anger at once, snuff his steaming frustration, replace all emotion with cold acceptance and patience. To lose himself in impulsive rages would be to weaken his single-minded resolve, deplete his vital energies; throwing tantrums would only thrust him further off center, push him from the stable core to which he needed to hold in order to work his next miracle. He had to keep his focus, allow no variance in his temperament, no room for additional mistakes; he had to remember that all wasn't yet lost, that his one miscalculation hadn't yet ruined him...but one more could.

  After a series of deep, shuddering breaths, the Miraclemaker opened his eyes and raised his head. He looked at the lamp but no longer felt the urge to smash it. For the moment, at least, he'd reasserted control over himself.

  Stiffly, he marched into the kitchen and returned to his seat. Expressionless, he settled onto the chair and resumed a rigid posture, folding his hands on the table before him.

  Inevitably, his eyes drifted back up to the clock.

  The big milk bottle was on the number seven: it was twenty-five minutes before five o'clock.

  The lemon-yellow cow was still grinning.

  *****

  Chapter 36

  The phone book; that was the only thing on Dave's mind as he popped out of the Mustang. He had to get to the phone book, had to find Mike Moses, Michael Moses, M. Moses, any Moses...had to find any Moses that he could and he'd to do it now because time was running out and it was all up to him.

  His feet hit the gravel driveway and he was off without a word or a backward glance; finally, finally he'd reached Billy's trailer, and he finally had a plan and there was a phone book inside. So intent was he on rushing ahead, Dave abandoned common courtesy, didn't linger at the Mustang to thank the driver, didn't even hurriedly shout his gratitude to the one who had delivered him from Route 26.

  Billy, at least, stayed behind to politely express his appreciation. The guy at the wheel was a teenager, a kid with long, black hair and a heavy-metal T-shirt; he'd blasted ear-splitting music from all speakers in the Mustang the whole way from 26 to Barton...but he'd certainly been friendly enough, had been kind enough to pick up the hitchhikers and drive out of his way to tote them to the trailer. He'd performed an invaluable service and deserved at least a gracious send-off.

  Uncharacteristically, Dave didn't even consider that he ought to thank the guy. Obsessed, possessed, he sprinted down the driveway, over the short walk, up the three cement-block steps to the front stoop. Flinging open the front door--which was unlocked, as always--he burst into the trailer and bolted to the right, to the kitchen.

  The top drawer under the counter between the sink and the stove: that was where Billy kept the phone book. Wild-eyed, Dave leaped directly to that drawer, wrenched it open so violently that its contents clattered to the front of it.

  The familiar yellow cover was right on top of the mess in the drawer, the jumble of cutlery, tools, odds and ends. Dave grabbed the beaten directory, clapped it onto the counter, began flipping through the white pages. Hastily, he peeled through the thin sheets, chucking aside the unimportant mass of the alphabet. His only interest was in the "M's," the "M's" as in "Moses," as in "Mike Moses," as in "Mike Hoffman + Frank Moses = Mike Moses" and that was whom Larry would kill next.

  "MAY"..."MEL"..."MIC"..."MIS"; pages poured away, index letters zipped past. At last, the directory yielded the special page, three columns of fine print with the heading "MOR - MOW." Heart slamming against his ribs, Dave quickly skimmed the tidy arrangement, slid his eyes over the inconsequential majority, and then...and then...

  And then, there they were: the Moses. There were several of them, several entries; Dave planted an index finger underneath the first one.

  Immediately, he felt a stab of disappointment; "Moses Beverly G." wasn't what he'd hoped to see.

  Shifting his fingertip down, Dave was again disappointed. The second name in the set was "Moses Herbert E."

  For a split-second, Dave hesitated, felt reluctant to proceed. His finger obscured the other entries; he feared that the one which he sought wasn't among them, that the directory was a dead-end and he would be stymied and he didn't know what he would do then.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he moved his finger, revealing the third entry: "Moses Linda T."

  Again, he hesitated. He'd reached "Linda," had come to the "L's," didn't have far to go before he would finally see or not see a "Mike" or "Michael." He felt an impulse to just slap the book shut and toss it aside, be done with suspense and tension for once and for all.

  As though it had a will of its own, his fingertip drifted.

  Dave gazed at the page.

  "Moses Michael B." The next entry read "Moses Michael B."

  Dave sighed. All wasn't lost; there was a Mike Moses.

  The entry read "Moses Michael B. 1050 Central Av."

  Central Avenue; that would be in Morton Borough, between the suburb of Highland and downtown Confluence. From Billy's trailer, from Barton Township, it would take about twenty minutes to get to Central Avenue.

  Dave grunted, wishing that the location were closer. Larry already had such a tremendous head start, every delay increased the chance that he would finish his work and escape before Dave could get to him. Of course, there was also a good chance that Dave was on the wrong track to begin with, that the "Mike Moses" theory wouldn't even lead to a place where Larry had been. In the end
, Dave could very well come up empty; still, he could think of nothing else to try, no better idea.

  Dave supposed that he should be grateful that Michael B. Moses wasn't further away. With a sigh, he lifted his finger from the directory page and plucked the book from the counter. His next step would be a preliminary call, a check over the phone to see if anyone was home at 1050 Central Avenue; such a call would prove useless if Larry was already at the site...but if someone did respond on the other end of the line, Dave might be able to better determine if his theory was correct, might even issue a warning to whomever he contacted.

  Turning from the counter, Dave started for the living room, the phone beside the sofa. He glanced down at the directory in his hands as an afterthought, as if to reassure himself that the crucial entry was indeed real.

  Then, he stopped. Frowning at the book, he lifted it higher and tipped his face closer to it.

  He'd missed something. In his first examination of the all-important page, he'd been so relieved and excited by his discovery of "Moses Michael B." that he'd ended his scan prematurely.

  There was another one, another candidate. Beneath the listing for "Moses Michael B.," there was an entry for "Moses Michael W."

  "Moses Michael W."; Dave now had a second "Mike Moses" to investigate. There were no more, just the two...but the two were enough, more than enough to lend hope to the hunt.

  According to the entry, "Moses Michael W." lived at 41 Park Road, Kline. Dave shook his head as he read the address; it would take a good deal longer to reach that location than to get to 1050 Central Avenue.

  Whereas Central Avenue was in a borough adjacent to Confluence, Kline was a small town some distance from the city. On the other side of a pass through the mountains, Kline was about twenty minutes to a half-hour from downtown Confluence; it was even further from Billy Bristol's home in Barton. Dave estimated that it would take about forty-five minutes to reach Kline, perhaps as much as an hour if the traffic was bad.

  Not only was there straight travel time to consider, but the time that it might take to find 41 Park Road, as well. Dave wasn't very familiar with the layout of Kline, certainly had no idea where 41 Park Road might be; he could waste an awful lot of time driving around in a search for the site.

  He hoped that he could quickly dismiss 41 Park Road; if it turned out to be the location to which Larry had most likely gone, Dave's chances of finding the killer--already next to nothing--would be further diminished. If Larry hadn't already vacated the area--and it seemed hard to believe that he hadn't, given that nearly two hours had passed since he'd left Wolf's Rock--then he would surely be gone by the time that Dave drove the forty-five minutes or an hour to Kline.

  Wagging his head, Dave entered the living room and dropped onto the sofa. Spreading the directory wide in his lap, he reached to his left and plucked Billy's phone from the end table.

  As he tugged the receiver from its cradle, Dave heard the Mustang roar outside, then crackle over the gravel drive away from the trailer. Starting at the noise, he swung his gaze up to the door and waited for Billy to enter.

  Billy didn't immediately appear; Dave felt a sudden twinge of fear, had a vision of his friend deserting him, driving off with the teenager to go to the cops. Dave wondered why it hadn't occurred to him to watch over his reluctant partner; it made sense that Billy might try to flee with the kid, might do just about anything to avoid Dave's dangerous plan and seek out the police.

  A long moment passed. Dave leaned forward, preparing to rise from the sofa and look outside.

  Then, he heard footsteps on the gravel, and he slumped back.

  "So," Billy said gruffly as he strolled into the trailer. "You find the son of a bitch yet?"

  Dave shook his head. "I'm just getting ready to make some calls," he said, pointing at the directory. "There're two 'Michael Moses' listed...'Michael B.' on Central Avenue and 'Michael W.' in Kline someplace."

  "Huh," grunted Billy. "So what good is calling 'em gonna' do? Why don't we just get on the road?"

  "Hopefully, I'll be able to narrow it down," explained Dave. "I mean, they're pretty far apart, so we'd be wasting a lot of time if we went to the wrong one first."

  "Well, how're you gonna' tell which one's the right one?" Billy asked cynically. "You think one of 'em's just going to say 'Yeah, the psycho killer's here, come on over'?"

  "I really don't know," admitted Dave. "Maybe calling won't do any good, but I figure I might as well give it a shot."

  "Well, more power to ya'," groused Billy, starting down the short hall toward his bedroom. "While you do that, I'll get my .38."

  Dave watched his friend disappear into the hall. Billy's attitude seemed to be steadily worsening, his mood growing nastier; Dave didn't find this to be a good omen. If Billy was already in such a crabby state, he could be hard to handle in later stages of the hunt for Larry.

  Quickly brushing aside his concerns about Billy, realizing that other business was more pressing at the moment, Dave returned his attention to the directory and again found the two listings for "Michael Moses." Concentrating on the first entry, the number for "Michael B.," he lifted the phone receiver to his ear; he heard a rapid pulse like a busy signal, had to depress and release the cut-off button on the base of the receiver to conjure a dial tone.

  Shifting his eyes between the listing in the book and the keypad on the receiver, Dave carefully punched in the sequence of numbers. Beeps of varying pitch emerged from the earpiece as each digit was entered; when the seventh and final button had been touched, there was a brief pause, then a click as the connection was completed.

  Pressing the receiver to his ear, Dave took a deep breath, listened to the electronic warble as the phone on the other end of the line rang for attention.

  No one picked up after the first ring. Tensely, Dave waited for a response, but there was none after the second or third rings, either.

  The phone warbled a fourth time, then a fifth; still, no one answered at 1050 Central Avenue. The sixth and seventh rings produced the same result.

  Deciding that there was nobody home, or nobody able to come to the phone, Dave lowered the receiver. His thumb moved to the cut-off button, his eyes dropped to the directory...and he heard a voice. Hastily, he snapped the receiver back up to his ear.

  "Hello?" said someone at the other end of the connection. "Hello?" It was a woman; Dave thought that it sounded like an elderly woman.

  "Uh, hello?" Dave said tentatively. "Is this the Moses residence?"

  "Well, yes," the woman replied slowly, her tone guarded. "Who is this?"

  "I was just wondering if Mike could come to the phone," said Dave.

  "No," said the woman. "He can't."

  "Could you tell me where I might be able to get hold of him?" asked Dave.

  "Excuse me," said the woman, a trace of annoyance in her voice. "Could you please tell me who this is?"

  "I really need to speak with Mike," pressed Dave.

  "That isn't possible," replied the woman, her tone growing harsher. "He isn't here."

  "Is he at work?" asked Dave. "Is there a number I could call where he works?"

  "No," said the woman. "He is not at work."

  "Look, I'm sorry for bothering you," said Dave, shifting to a more conciliatory mode. "It's just that I really need to talk to him."

  "You just can't," the woman retorted angrily. "My husband is dead."

  Surprised by the information, Dave fell silent.

  "He's been dead for the past three months," snapped the woman. "Now, I don't know who you are or what kind of con job you planned to put over on me, but I've got no time for you, mister!"

  Dave felt as if there was something that he should say, some sort of apology that he should make. He opened his mouth, tried to shape appropriate words...but all that emerged were a few stammered, incoherent syllables.

  Before the widow could chastise him further, Dave hung up on her. He cut her off in mid-sentence, broke the connection just as she se
emed ready to launch into a fiery tirade.

  When the dial tone replaced the angry voice, Dave expelled a great sigh of relief. He took a moment to restore his composure; his nerves were so frazzled from the day's traumatic events that the widow's reaction had upset him.

  When he'd calmed a bit, he looked to the directory spread in his lap. His eyes slid immediately to the left-hand page and the two listings which had most concerned him.

  The first listing was no longer of any consequence; only the second retained any possible significance.

  It was time to call "Moses Michael W."

  Hesitantly, Dave punched in the number. With each digit that he entered, he grew more agitated, more anxious; he was afraid that this second call would prove as fruitless as the first.

  When he'd finished tapping the correct sequence on the keypad, he raised the receiver to his ear. The phone rang three times...then three more.

  There were four more rings, followed by another four. Dave continued to wait; he wanted to be absolutely sure that no one was going to answer before he concluded his effort.

  Three more rings; three more after that. Dave's leg began to bob up and down, bounce from the ball of his foot in a nervous release.

  On the twenty-second ring, he finally decided to end the exercise; twenty-two rings were enough to make it clear that no one was home, or no one would pick up the phone.

  Dave pressed the cut-off button on the mouthpiece. With a sigh, he slipped the receiver back into its cradle on the end table.

  He closed the directory and placed it on the sofa beside him. Cupping his hands over his face, he paused to contemplate the results of his calls and assess their impact on his plan.

  On the one hand, he was no further along than before; he still didn't know Larry's location with any degree of certainty, couldn't even be sure that the madman was anywhere in the area. On the other hand, Dave believed that he now had a slim chance of tracking down the killer. Though "Michael B. Moses" would be no help, "Michael W." hadn't yet been disqualified; Larry might indeed have gone to Kline, to 41 Park Road.