Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Limp and lifeless, the husband dropped to the green shag carpet. His eyes were stuck wide open with the surprise of the moment of his death; dark blood blotted his long, blonde hair, oozed down his gaunt face and into his pale beard. One of his scrawny arms was buried beneath him, while the other lay flaccid across his insubstantial chest.

  The woman was still hollering in the kitchen. She hadn't heard the disturbance in the living room over her own tirade and the infant's shrieking.

  The Miraclemaker was on a roll; one of the parents was dead, and the other wasn't aware of his presence. He couldn't possibly have gotten off to a better start...and, best of all, his spirits were high, his old excitement restored. As he crept around the husband's corpse and moved toward the kitchen doorway, he felt bold and empowered, magnificently sensitized and activated; his heart was pounding and his mind was perfectly clear, cold and focused like a thin beam of light, like the constant golden line.

  "Hey, Mike!" yowled the woman in the kitchen. "Come in here! Just look at this mess!"

  The Miraclemaker continued to creep forward, taking care to avoid the debris on the living room floor. With the husband dead and the woman trapped, he didn't really need to employ such stealth; he could have just charged right in, making all the noise in the world...but he loved the hunt, relished the anticipation of the miracle. As he secretly stalked the victims, he felt primitive and predatory, transcendent and electrified, sparking with power and purpose denied to mere mortals.

  The woman was still yelling. "Mike!" she bellowed authoritatively. "I said get in here!"

  Sneering, the Miraclemaker took another step toward the doorway. Though the woman wasn't the chosen one, though she hadn't been a direct instrument of his downfall, the Miraclemaker realized that he would take great pleasure in extinguishing her megaphonic roar.

  "Hey, Mike!" thundered the woman. "Mike!" Her voice reached its loudest level yet, as did the baby's crying.

  Tensing for the imminent attack, the Miraclemaker slipped to one side of the doorway. He leaned against the wall there, just out of what would be the woman's line of sight when she finally peered out of the kitchen.

  "Damnit, Mike!" she blasted angrily. "What the hell're you doing, you dumb son of a bitch?"

  The Miraclemaker heard her feet smacking the linoleum in quick succession, getting closer. She must have kicked at some of the rubble, for there was the sound of plastic or glass skittering over the floor.

  When next she hollered, her voice came from just beyond the doorway; so did the infant's shrill cries. "Hey, dipshit!" gusted the woman, as angry as ever...and then she paused. "Mike?" she called, her voice still full of exasperation.

  Blood rushing, eyes twinkling, mind focused, the Miraclemaker waited. He found it difficult to hold himself back, but he waited for just the right moment.

  "Mike?" called the woman, and she sighed disgustedly. "So help me, if you went to Jack's and left me with this shit to clean up on my own...I'll rip your balls off!"

  The Miraclemaker wanted to laugh. The woman still had no idea of what had happened, or what was about to happen; her death waited just a few feet away, the corpse of her husband lay a few yards away...but she couldn't see either of them. Ignorant of the noose which was tightening around her, she went on blustering and nagging, threatening the husband who was now more dead than deadbeat.

  "God!" blew the woman. "You're such an asshole, Mike!" With that, she took a step forward, then another.

  The Miraclemaker prepared to lunge; the flame in his heart surged, leaped spectacularly as a gusher of oil set ablaze.

  "Hey, asshole!" shouted the woman as she marched over the threshold and into the living room.

  The Miraclemaker drew a breath.

  The woman's head whipped around, and she saw him.

  Half-sneering, half-snarling, he moved.

  *****

  Chapter 42

  When Dave suddenly shouted, he caught Billy Bristol by surprise, made him jump and slam on the brakes.

  "Shit!" burst Billy as the Camaro bucked and slid, tires squealing on the pavement. "What the hell?"

  "Stop!" repeated Dave, gaping over his shoulder, bracing himself by gripping the dash. "That's it!"

  The Camaro continued to slide, quickly shedding its momentum. "What's 'it'?" Billy yelled angrily.

  "Park Road!" crowed Dave. He was beaming with excitement, flushed with triumph; he'd been worried that he wouldn't find the address from the phone book, that he would squander precious time searching...but his worries had turned out to be for nothing.

  "Where?" shot Billy. "Back there?"

  "Yes!" Dave sang jubilantly, jabbing his thumb in the direction from which they had come. "We just passed it! I don't know why I didn't think of it before!"

  "Think of what?" snapped Billy as he rolled the Camaro off the road.

  Wide-eyed and grinning, Dave kept jabbing his thumb between the seats. "Park Road! It's in the park! It's in the park, for Pete's sake!"

  Billy craned his head out the side window and looked back. "You see a sign back there?" he asked.

  "No, but I'm sure it's right! There's a sign further in! I remember from when I used to come out here as a kid!"

  Breathlessly, Dave turned full around in his seat and gazed at the state park's entrance; it was about fifty feet behind the Camaro, on the other side of the road, marked by a stone block bearing an identifying plaque.

  "I used to ride my bike all through here!" proclaimed Dave. "That's Park Road!"

  "Yeah, but is it the right Park Road?" asked Billy. "Is it the one we're looking for? The address is for Kline, right?"

  "This is practically Kline! Kline's right next to the park!"

  "The park isn't in Kline, though, is it?"

  "Park Road comes out in Kline!" explained Dave. "Once you get toward the other end of that road, there're houses and farms! This is it!"

  Billy pulled his head back into the car and shrugged. "Well, okay, man. If you say so. I guess we might as well check it out."

  "This is it!" said Dave, still facing backward as Billy guided the Camaro in a U-turn. "This is definitely it! I've got a feeling!"

  "Good for you," Billy muttered snidely.

  The car revolved to the other side of the road. Dave twisted back around to again face forward, face the Camaro's new destination.

  "41 Park Road," he said. "That's what we're looking for."

  "I remember the damn address," curdled Billy.

  Dave watched excitedly as the park entrance drew near. He really did have a strong feeling that he was on the right track, finally close to the end of the trail. For the moment, he wasn't concerned about getting Billy out of the way, or how to deal with Larry; he simply exulted in the small victory of finding Park Road, discovering that it was familiar territory.

  The Camaro swept up to the big marker block by the mouth of Park Road. On the plaque which was mounted on the block's face, raised cast-iron letters spelled the park's name in two neat, black rows.

  Dave nodded as he passed the plaque. Old memories bobbed up in his mind, good memories; he'd spent many a summer afternoon in that park. Briefly, he wondered why he hadn't been there for so long, why it had taken the hunt for a killer to make him return to a place that he'd loved.

  Then, the Camaro hurtled off into Cross Creek State Park, and Dave snapped back to thoughts of danger and death.

  *****

  Chapter 43

  The woman didn't scream. When she saw the Miraclemaker, her eyes snapped wide, but she didn't scream. Instead, she did something which her attacker didn't expect: she evaded his grasp.

  Anticipating an easy kill, the Miraclemaker stepped toward her and reached...but she eluded him, ducked down and darted away with rabbit swiftness. Her reflex was extraordinary; she'd been standing mere inches away, right between his outstretched arms, and she'd still managed to slip from his clutches.

  With the squalling infant tucked like a football in the crook of her arm, she sprin
ted for the front door, which still stood wide open. Nimbly, she dodged the debris of the smashed table and lamp; she flew right past her dead husband, didn't even look at him, kept her eyes trained straight ahead.

  She almost made it outside. One of her feet actually crossed the threshold and touched the front stoop; then, the Miraclemaker caught her around the waist and wrenched her back inside.

  Angry with himself for almost letting her get away, the Miraclemaker spun her around and heaved her into the living room. He grabbed the door and hurled it shut; the dead husband's elbow was in the way, but the door swung around with such force that it simply pitched aside the limp thing.

  Whirling, the Miraclemaker expected to see the woman at his mercy, cowering on the floor. He'd thrown her hard enough to send her to the rug; though he'd turned away for an instant to shut the door, he'd assumed that she'd gone down and was helplessly awaiting his ministrations.

  He'd been wrong. The woman was gone; somehow, she'd managed to stay on her feet and dash out of the living room.

  Amazed and infuriated, the Miraclemaker stormed toward the kitchen, following the sound of the child's ceaseless shrieking. He resolved to give the woman no more leeway; he'd underestimated her agility, but he wouldn't allow her to surprise him again.

  She surprised him again. Just as he marched through the kitchen doorway, she came barreling toward him. Her features were twisted in a feral snarl; her left arm was raised high, and there was a long, bright blade in her hand.

  The woman charged forward and plunged the blade at her attacker. If she'd borne the knife in her right hand, perhaps she would have driven the point deep into the Miraclemaker's flesh; there was no room to her right for him to sidestep. As it was, the Miraclemaker was able to dodge the descending weapon, bolt out of its path. Though he ended up slamming into the side of the refrigerator, he completely avoided the blade, wasn't even scratched.

  The woman had been running, building momentum for her knife-thrust; when the Miraclemaker dove out of her way, she kept going, hurtled through the doorway and into the living room. As she shot out of the kitchen, the Miraclemaker pushed himself from the refrigerator and hastily glanced around.

  He couldn't see the infant; he could hear its screaming, but he didn't see it anywhere. For an instant, he was baffled...and then he pinpointed the source of the wailing, realized where the child was hidden.

  It was in a cupboard. The mother had stuffed the child in a cupboard over the counter on the far side of the kitchen. She'd moved her son out of immediate danger, shielded him so that she would be free to fight for his life.

  For the first time, the Miraclemaker thought that he might have a real battle on his hands. Clearly, the woman was a scrapper, and she wasn't stupid.

  She was coming back; he could hear her feet padding quickly on the living room rug. Deciding that he needed a weapon to counteract the knife, the Miraclemaker leaped to the rubble from his earlier tantrum, snatched up one of the legs which had broken off the kitchen table.

  Holding the blade at her waist, the woman sprinted through the doorway. When she spotted the Miraclemaker, wielding his new club like a baseball bat, she sprang to a stop.

  Crouching, brandishing the kitchen knife, the woman held her position for a moment. Physically, she didn't appear to be a match for the Miraclemaker; she was incredibly thin, so skeletal that she didn't look as if she possessed any muscle. There was something about her, though...something in her stance, in the way that she gripped the blade, the way that she silently appraised her opponent. Her eyes were cold, didn't seem to hold any fear; her black, greasy hair framed an inscrutable face, all bone and seams and hollows and no twitch of weakness. She looked as if she'd fought before, for serious stakes; she looked experienced.

  Locking eyes with the Miraclemaker, she took a step to her left, smoothly switched the knife to her right hand. She took another step to her left, still crouching; she kept her left hand open and well away from her side, slowly waved the blade back and forth with her right.

  With the table leg poised on his shoulder, the Miraclemaker took a step forward. His heart was hammering, and he felt magnificent; now that he'd recovered from his initial surprise, he was thrilled at the woman's challenge, her unexpected resistance. If she put up a good fight, all the better; a little sport would make the final miracle all the sweeter.

  The Miraclemaker again stepped forward, then moved to the right, toward the cupboard in which the baby shrieked spastically. The child was the key; the Miraclemaker thought that if he got close enough to the infant's hiding place, the mother would act rashly, do something sloppy and make herself vulnerable. What else could she do if he went for the child? She would have to throw herself into an all-out assault, allow her hand to be forced.

  Coolly formulating his strategy, the Miraclemaker smirked at the woman. Her gaze remained locked with his, but her sallow face revealed no reaction to his goading smirk; if she felt any fear at that moment, if she felt anything at all, her features gave no hint of it.

  The Miraclemaker took another step to the right; the woman moved in the same direction, toward the child. When the Miraclemaker continued, however, she didn't follow; while he took the next step, and the next, she held her ground, crouching with feet spread apart and the gleaming blade waving in her right hand.

  Calmly, the Miraclemaker took another step toward the child, the chosen one. The woman remained fixed in place.

  The Miraclemaker took two more steps, brought himself to within three feet of the cupboard. He thought that he knew what would happen next.

  He was right.

  Just as he got within reach of the cupboard door, the woman flashed toward him. She kept her head low, swept the blade out and back; she flung her free arm above and ahead of her, ready to block a blow from the table leg. Since the Miraclemaker was toting the club over his right shoulder, the woman must have supposed that he would swing it from that side...in which case, her upraised arm would take the brunt of the strike.

  As the woman charged, the Miraclemaker quickly compensated, slipped the table leg over his head to his left shoulder. The woman shot toward him, sweeping the kitchen knife around for a forward thrust...and the Miraclemaker swung, slashed his club down at her matchstick wrist. The powerful impact deflected her arm and broke her grip on the blade, sending her weapon clattering to the floor.

  When the blow made contact, the woman stumbled to her left, careened against the counter and cupboards. Seeing his chance to disable her, the Miraclemaker wrenched his club back for another swing...but the woman managed to twist away from the blow, amazingly dodged it.

  The table leg crashed down on the counter. Before the Miraclemaker could draw his bludgeon back for another try, the woman again surprised him; like a hummingbird, she effortlessly flicked around him, then drove her foot into his groin.

  His genitals exploded with pain; he couldn't help but double over and release the club, clutch with both hands at the ravaged zone.

  For a fraction of a second, his guard was down; it was enough time for the woman to deliver another kick. Flitting back to her left, she fired one sneakered foot high and clipped his chin with her toe.

  The Miraclemaker's head snapped back, and he gasped. He was stunned by the fresh blaze of pain in his jaw; wincing, he staggered back a step, reaching for the counter to steady himself...and he almost fell. Tripping over some of the debris behind him, he flailed and fumbled, barely managed to stay on his feet.

  The near-tumble proved to be fortunate. When the Miraclemaker tripped, the woman was launching another kick at his head; her foot was sailing toward his face when he unintentionally bucked out of the way, accidentally sparing himself another harsh blow.

  After missing her target, the woman flipped backward, destabilized by her unsuccessful kick. With a slight cry, she hit the floor...but she used the fall to her advantage, snatched up the blade which had been blown from her hand. In the space of a heartbeat, she bounced back up from the linoleu
m and renewed her attack, surging forth with the knife fixed ahead of her.

  Without thinking, the Miraclemaker swatted the blade aside with his right arm; though he deflected the knife and again shunted it from the woman's hand, the edge of the weapon cut him, skimmed through the flesh midway between his wrist and elbow.

  Furious because she'd injured him, he plowed a fist directly into her onrushing face. She received the full force of the blow, wasn't able to duck this time; she was flung back, again swooped to the floor.

  The Miraclemaker decided that he'd had enough of the combat; for a time, it had been exhilarating, had enlivened the proceedings...but now, the fight was becoming tiresome, taxing, even painful. The woman was too dangerous to spar with; he wasn't too proud or deluded to admit that she could conceivably get the better of him. She had to be crushed immediately, eliminated before some mishap threw the contest in her favor.

  She squirmed on the linoleum before him; the punch had apparently rattled her, for she seemed to be taking longer to rebound than she had the last time she'd gone down. Glaring, the Miraclemaker stormed around her and plunged his boot into her side; he kicked her again, hard enough to crack a rib and jolt her whole body.

  As if it could sense what was happening to its mother, the hidden child wailed more loudly than ever; the woman, however, didn't make a sound, didn't even suck in her breath to brace herself against the pain.

  The Miraclemaker kicked her again; he was rewarded with the cracking of more bone, another violent lurch of her body.

  Raising his boot over her abdomen, he sneered...then drove the heel into her gut. Her body spasmed, and he did it again.

  Eyes pinched shut, the woman drew up her legs and rolled over, turning her back to him. He took advantage of her change in position by gouging the toe of his boot into her spine.

  For a moment, the woman seemed beaten. She lay there, curled on the floor, accepting each savage blow without even a feeble twitch of resistance.