Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Somehow, the car clung to the wet pavement, didn't hydroplane and spin off the road into a tree. The partners plunged deeper into the park, peering around each new turn for a glimpse of Larry...seeing nothing but more trees and dead brush.

  Billy told Dave to watch the woods and side roads in case Larry had pulled off somewhere, tucked the Cadillac into a cove or trailhead or even one of the fire roads which were usually blocked to traffic. Though he pretended to comply, Dave paid little attention to any of the nooks or diverging routes; he was content to stare blankly at the beads and streams of rain as they wriggled on the side window.

  Before long, the Camaro had crossed most of the park. The trees began to thin out, and the road was interrupted by two short bridges straddling creeks. Dave remembered that the bridges weren't far from the end of the park; the creeks fed into the lake, and the lake sat only a mile or two back from the park's main entrance.

  On the left side of the road, the woods opened up, and the amber fringes of the lake were visible. After a few more curves, the road drew near the water's edge, ran along the crest of a bank which sloped down to the shore. Rusted trash barrels and gray picnic tables squatted in the mud at the base of the bank.

  "Shit," huffed Billy. "We're almost out, aren't we?"

  "Yeah," said Dave, gazing at the water. "Just a little further now."

  "Damnit," hissed Billy, whacking the wheel with the palm of his hand. "He's gone, man. That son of a bitch is gone."

  Dave nodded. He wasn't thinking of Larry; the proximity of the familiar lake had momentarily distracted him. He was struck by how strange the place looked, how different it seemed from the way that he remembered it. He'd never seen it at this time of year, before the summer season; dark and vacant and shrouded with rain and mist, it looked desolate and unearthly, like a frigid, lifeless pool in some gray netherworld.

  "Y'know, we should've caught up with him," grumbled Billy. "I'll be damned if I know how he could've lost us in that old Caddy."

  "I don't know, either," sighed Dave. He continued to watch the water; it faded from view as the trees along the bank thickened and the road veered from the shore.

  "He must've given us the slip somehow," Billy muttered bitterly. "He must've doubled back."

  "Maybe," said Dave.

  Though Billy had practically conceded defeat, admitted that Larry had outfoxed him and escaped, he continued to press the Camaro at top speed. He drove as wildly as ever, as if to expend his frustration.

  Grateful that the day would conclude without the tragedy which he'd feared, Dave settled back as best he could without releasing his grip on the dash. He watched the trees swoop past and he tried not to think about all that had transpired that chaotic afternoon; with some effort, he managed to dull his visions of the corpses, weaken them just a little.

  The Camaro raced past the turn-off for the lake's marina, then barreled around a sharp curve. A maintenance shed flicked by, then the low log building which served as a ranger's station. There were no vehicles around the station; Dave idly wondered if the facility was manned during the off-season, if the rangers had gone home for the day or hadn't been there that day at all.

  When the Camaro flew by the parking lot for the beach area, Dave knew that the frantic ride was almost at an end. In a mile or so, Park Road would terminate; Dave didn't think that Billy would continue the fruitless run at that point.

  Over; it was almost over. With a sigh, Dave pulled his hand from the dash, allowed genuine relief to swirl through him.

  Then, Billy mashed the brake to the floor.

  Wheels locking, the car suddenly jolted. Dave was thrown forward, tossed to the floor; his shoulder struck the dash on which he'd been bracing himself until a mere moment ago.

  The Camaro slid and shimmied, coasted a long way on the wet road before it finally swung to a stop. Without saying a word, Billy spun the steering wheel and stamped the accelerator.

  As Dave pitched against the door, the car slung around in a U-turn and charged back up Park Road.

  "What the hell?" howled Dave, wincing and gripping his shoulder.

  Billy didn't answer. He was bent over the wheel, glaring ahead.

  "What the hell're you doing?" screamed Dave.

  "I found him," growled Billy.

  "What?" wailed Dave.

  "I found him," said Billy. He spun the wheel and the Camaro bolted in a sharp right turn.

  *****

  Chapter 57

  Awkwardly scrambling back into his seat, Dave gaped through the windshield. Immediately, he recognized the place through which the Camaro was now racing.

  Billy had taken the turn-off for the beach, flung the car into the parking lot there. The partners were hurtling over the paved flat toward the beach area, speeding between rows of slanted yellow stripes demarcating parking spaces.

  For an instant, Dave couldn't understand why Billy had made the turn, what had inspired him to go back to the lot. Then, suddenly, all was clear; Dave's darting eyes fixed on the thing which had drawn Billy's attention.

  The parking lot ran up to a muddy hill; there were three small buildings atop the hill, and beyond those, Dave knew, lay the beach. At the base of the hill, at the rim of the parking lot, a vehicle rested, the only car in the whole lot except for the Camaro.

  It was the silver Cadillac.

  Dave felt a fresh hysteria surge into him. The fragile calm which he'd so recently constructed abruptly collapsed, fell apart like a toothpick tower in a gust of wind.

  It wasn't over. Just moments ago, Dave had foolishly believed that the storm had passed, that Larry was long gone and the madness had burned itself out...but now he realized that it wasn't over.

  It wasn't over.

  Larry had surprised him again.

  Anxiously, Dave leaned forward and looked around for the killer himself. As the Camaro shot ahead, Dave could see that no one was seated in the Cadillac; there was no one near the car, either, no one in the lot or on the muddy slop beyond it. If Larry was near the buildings on the crest of the hill, he was hidden from view.

  The fact that he couldn't see Larry worried Dave all the more. Without a doubt, the monster was in the vicinity; knowing that he was there but not being able to see him escalated Dave's terror.

  "We almost missed the son of a bitch," Billy muttered tightly. "I just spotted that Caddy out of the corner of my eye. We almost missed it."

  Feverish, horrified, trembling, Dave fervently wished that they had missed the Cadillac. They had been close, so close to freedom...and now, they were plunging back into danger and darkness. They had been hooked like fish and drawn back to the killer, reeled in by fate.

  Recklessly, Billy punched the Camaro toward Larry Smith's car. He played the wheel and slammed on the brakes; the Camaro slid to a stop at the lot's edge, its body perpendicular to the nose of the Cadillac.

  Billy switched off the engine, then scooped his revolver from the floor. "Okay," he said tersely. "I've got no idea why Larry stopped here, but he's gotta' be somewhere close by. I'm sure I don't have to tell you we've gotta' be careful."

  Staring at the gun, Dave knew what was coming next: Billy planned to leave the car and hunt the killer on foot.

  Dave didn't want to leave the car, didn't want Billy to abandon the sanctuary, either. He considered again trying to knock his partner unconscious; if not for the gun, the chance that a scuffle could lead to an accidental shooting, Dave wouldn't have hesitated to lunge at his friend at that very instant.

  "He might be trying to trap us," said Billy, looking through the windshield at the slope which rose in front of the Camaro. "Maybe he wants to lure us in so he can get rid of us."

  "Maybe we oughtta' just get out of here," stammered Dave.

  "Can't," said Billy, opening the door and swinging a foot out onto the pavement. "We're the only ones who can stop this guy. It's too late to turn around now, man."

  Dave tensed. For a heartbeat, he was ready to attack his friend, forget about
the gun and just go berserk. He thought that he would do anything to prevent Billy from leaving the car...to prevent himself from getting out, too.

  For a split-second, Billy's back was turned. Realizing that it was his last opportunity to pull Billy and himself out of jeopardy, Dave prepared to strike.

  Shifting in his seat, he unclasped his hands.

  He thought that he would do it, truly thought that he would do it. He leaned toward his friend.

  Then, he lost his nerve, and the decisive moment passed.

  Billy got out of the car. "Let's go," he said, and then he shut the door.

  Dave slumped back in his seat. For a moment, he considered staying behind, letting his partner face Larry alone.

  As soon as the idea occurred to him, he knew that he couldn't go through with it. He was terrified, but he had to go with Billy. He'd gotten Billy into this; he would be responsible if Billy was killed.

  Nerves jangling, stomach spasming, Dave opened the door and boosted himself out of the Camaro, back into the cold rain. Billy was already proceeding up the slope; Dave had to jog a few yards through the mud to catch up with him.

  Slowly, the partners ascended the hill, slogging through the slop toward the crest. Two paved walkways ran up the hill, one on either side of the cluster of buildings, but Billy didn't change course to utilize them; he climbed in a straight line from the cars, up the middle of the slope.

  Dave stayed close to his partner. Anxiously, he glanced in every direction, looking for Larry; though he didn't see him anywhere on the hill, he continued to scan every sliver of the perimeter, half expecting the psychopath to burst from the earth or impossibly pop out of nowhere.

  Crouching slightly, toting the gun at his midriff, Billy silently led the way toward the middle building atop the rise. His head turned slowly as he watched the hill's summit; his gaze didn't flit nervously about like Dave's. He seemed remarkably calm though he was searching for a man who was responsible for three grisly murders in a single day.

  As the partners neared the crest, Dave's terror ballooned, exceeded its already considerable proportions. Among the three buildings on top of the hill, there were too many places in which Larry could be hiding; Dave could easily foresee the killer leaping out from around a corner, or out of a doorway, savagely dispatching the partners before they could realize what was happening.

  Cautiously, Billy moved to the rear of the middle building, the concession stand. As Dave drew up behind him, he leaned around the corner, surveyed the area for a moment; finally, he stepped away from the wall, walked out into the open space between the concession stand and the men's wash-house.

  Dave was reluctant to follow. The paved space between the buildings was about twenty feet wide, and Billy was moving right down the middle of it. It didn't look like a safe route; if Larry sprang from around the far corners of either of the buildings, he could be upon the partners in the blink of an eye.

  Deciding that it would be safer to stick to the wall of the concession stand, Dave didn't join his partner. Timorously, he edged along the wall, keeping his back to the dark, rough siding.

  Billy stopped a few feet back from the mouth of the gap, the corners of the two buildings. He hovered there, his head cocked to one side, as if he'd heard something.

  Still edging along the wall, Dave listened intently, tried to pick up whatever had gotten Billy's attention. At first, he heard nothing but the rush of the rain, the drumming of droplets on the roof of the concession stand; then, like a radio station tuning in, a new sound resolved itself, came into focus.

  It was some kind of wailing or keening, faint but shrill. Intermittently, the high-pitched cry would break, but only for a fraction of a second before rising again.

  Dave wasn't sure what could be producing the sound. He guessed that it could have been coming from an animal, maybe a bird...or it could have been coming from a person...maybe, a person in a great deal of pain.

  Mesmerized by the eerie screeching, Dave flattened himself against the wall. He didn't want to move from the spot; when Billy again started creeping ahead, Dave remained fixed in place.

  Stealthily, Billy slipped to the edge of the gap between the buildings. He paused for an instant on the brink, the threshold of the open space beyond; then, he tipped his head forward, stole a quick look around the corners of both the concession stand and the wash-house.

  Dave held his breath, expecting Larry to attack his friend at that instant...but there was no ambush. Billy stepped out of the gap, away from the buildings.

  Billy only took three more steps before he stopped. For a long moment, he didn't move; his head was turned to the right, and he seemed to be looking at something.

  When at last he turned and waved for Dave to join him, his eyes were wide as baseballs.

  *****

  Chapter 58

  Dave didn't want to take another step, didn't want to see whatever had left Billy looking so stunned. At that moment, Dave's strongest urge was to flee, run back to the Camaro and race off, with or without his comrade.

  Still, when Billy waved a second time, Dave found himself moving forward, inching along the wall though he'd made no conscious decision to do so. As if his body was moving independent of his mind's control, he slowly shifted toward Billy.

  When Billy waved again, more emphatically, Dave drew his back from the wall and quickened his pace a bit. Too shaken and overtaxed to exert his own will, he submitted to his friend's prompting; though he craved escape, Dave couldn't summon the strength to attain it, could only follow Billy like a frightened but powerless child.

  At the corner of the concession stand, Dave hesitated, reluctant to abandon his concealment. He lingered at the corner, shivering in the rain...but then, Billy waved to him again, and he gave up his refuge. Crouching low, his gaze darting in all directions, he stepped away from the corner, drifted into the unprotected area beyond the buildings.

  His next steps were quicker; terrified of the exposure, he hurried to the side of his ally. Breathlessly, he slung himself close to Billy, unconsciously grabbed his shoulder.

  Billy raised his right hand, gestured with the barrel of the gun. Gazing in the direction in which the .38 was pointing, Dave spotted what had made Billy stop.

  The partners stood atop a long bank which sloped down from the three buildings to the lake. In summer, the bank was covered with a neat lawn upon which sunbathers spread their blankets; now, the bank was matted with dead brown turf and mud. Skirting the water's edge, there was a dark, lumpy strip about six feet wide, a band of sand which was studded with lifeguard chairs during the swimming season. The band along the shore was now vacant except for a single figure.

  Larry Smith stood on the shore.

  As Dave had feared, the killer was indeed close. Though he stood about fifty yards away, he was still close, far too close.

  Larry Smith was on the beach. His arms were upraised, extended straight in the air.

  He was holding something. He was holding something in each hand.

  Suddenly, Dave understood the cries that he'd heard. They weren't coming from an animal.

  In his left hand, high above his head, Larry was holding a baby. His hand encircled its back, gripped it under its tiny arms; its legs kicked spasmodically and its head jerked as it continued to shriek.

  In his right hand, Larry held a long blade, its tip thrust toward the sky.

  Too much.

  It was just too much.

  Yet again, Dave felt a powerful urge to run. His mind whirled; his heart pounded and his stomach twisted painfully. He held his breath, as if he feared that Larry would hear the faintest intake of air. His wide, bloodshot eyes remained fixed on the killer, and his hand tightened on Billy Bristol's shoulder.

  Larry Smith was on the beach.

  He was holding a baby.

  He was holding a knife.

  It was just too much.

  "He must've taken it from the house," whispered Billy. "I saw baby food on the floor, b
ut I didn't think much of it."

  Mesmerized, shell-shocked, broken, Dave stared silently at the figure on the shore, listened more to the child's wailing than Billy's words.

  "I think I get it now," whispered Billy. "He's into devil worship or something. He's gonna' sacrifice the kid."

  Dave wanted to run. His terror surged like floodwaters swelling against a barricade, and he thought that he might finally be ready to assert himself, take control of his actions and escape.

  "We've gotta' stop him," whispered Billy.

  Dave was ready to run.

  "We're the only ones who can stop him," said Billy.

  Dave wanted to run.

  "We can't let him kill that kid," whispered Billy.

  Dave removed his hand from Billy's shoulder and turned back toward the buildings. He was going to run.

  Before he could take a single step, Billy grabbed his arm.

  "Here," said Billy, and he pressed the gun into Dave's hand. "You take this. You face him down."

  Surprised that Billy was giving him the weapon, Dave let his fingers close around the cold metal of the grip.

  "Distract him," instructed Billy, his voice hushed and hurried. "Keep him talking. Keep him from killing the kid. Tell him you'll blow him away if he tries anything."

  Dave was struck speechless. All that he could do was shake his head and gape at his partner.

  "You'll have more luck keeping him occupied," said Billy. "You know more about this whole mess, all the shit he's done. You've got a better shot at distracting him than I do, and I've got a better shot at getting that kid away from him. No offense, but I'm better with the physical stuff."

  Grimacing, Dave slowly shook his head.