Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Dave wanted to shoot. He wanted to shoot immediately.

  "I didn't know!" blubbered Larry Smith.

  Dave wanted to kill him.

  The urge was overwhelming, all-consuming. Even distanced as he was, deadened and remote, Dave felt the need boiling up from his belly, burning in his heart.

  He wanted to kill.

  He wanted to kill Larry Smith. Now.

  Even though that wasn't Billy Bristol in the sand, even though that couldn't be Billy and he couldn't be dead and Larry couldn't possibly have killed him, Dave wanted to watch Larry's head blow apart in a fiery blossom.

  He wanted to make it happen. He wanted to make something happen.

  "Not you," sobbed Larry Smith. "You were...supposed to...live." His face was soaked from the continuous downpour; whatever tears flowed from his eyes, they were indistinguishable from the sheen of rainwater.

  "I'm counting to ten!" announced Dave. "If you're not away from him by the time I'm done, that's it! You're fuckin' dead!" As he declared the ultimatum, he didn't know why he'd given it, why he hadn't simply fired the gun at that instant. He didn't know why he'd delayed...but he didn't care, either; he knew without a doubt that he would fulfill the promise.

  "One!" he screamed.

  Larry ignored him, continued to shiver and weep and rock from the waist. "Oh, God," he groaned. "Oh, Billy, I'm sorry."

  Dave wanted to shoot, didn't want to wait. "Two!" he barked, gripping the gun steadily before him, not shaking a bit. As he gazed along the barrel, he knew that he couldn't miss when he finally fired; Larry wasn't even three feet away, and he didn't look as if he was in any condition to dodge a bullet.

  "Oh, Billy," Larry sobbed wretchedly, his hand still fluttering above the face in the sand. "This can't...be real. This can't be...real." Tossing his head, he released a high, trembling cry of absolute despair. His grief seemed enormous; the man who had slaughtered so many so brutally seemed utterly devastated by the latest death.

  "Three!" snapped Dave. Thunder boomed overhead, louder than ever; the storm's bursts were steadily intensifying, just as the urge to kill was magnifying within Dave.

  He wanted to make it happen; he wanted to make it happen now. He considered nullifying the countdown, discharging the weapon with no further postponement.

  Ever so slightly, his finger tightened against the trigger.

  "Not you," gurgled Larry. "Not you."

  "Four!" bellowed Dave.

  "Five!" he continued, accelerating the count, craving the finish.

  "I didn't...want this!" sobbed Larry Smith. "This shouldn't...have...happened. Not you. Oh God, not you!"

  Dave's eyes flicked downward, slipped to the still, silent thing which commanded Larry's attention.

  No; no, that wasn't Billy Bristol. That was definitely not Billy; it was much too bloody, much too lifeless. That looked nothing at all like Billy Bristol, nothing at all.

  No; not Billy. The thing was certainly not Billy. It wasn't.

  Dave wished that Billy really was there to help him out, give him a hand...but that thing down there wasn't Billy and it was just as well because wouldn't that be terrible?

  It would. It would be terrible.

  Suddenly, Dave realized that he'd let too much time elapse since the last number of the count. His eyes jumped back to the gunsight and the target, Larry Smith's skull.

  It would be terrible.

  "Six!" shouted Dave.

  "Seven!" followed closely, for he needed to make up for lost time.

  Larry continued to weep and fidget and ignore Dave's cries. His hand, which had fluttered for so long above his victim's head, finally began to slowly descend.

  "Not you," he whimpered weakly as his quaking fingers drifted downward. "This can't be right."

  "Don't touch him!" screamed Dave.

  The shivering tips of Larry's fingers brushed one bloody cheek.

  "Oh God," gasped Larry Smith.

  "Don't touch him!" Dave shrieked at the top of his lungs. "Don't touch him!"

  More than ever, Dave wanted to shoot, wanted to make it happen now.

  His finger twitched against the trigger of the .38; for a split-second, he wasn't sure of whether or not he'd fired the weapon...but there was no blast, no bloom of crimson from Larry's head.

  "This shouldn't...have happened," gurgled Larry, fingertips flickering over the cheek of his victim.

  "Eight!" screamed Dave, resuming the count.

  "I'm sorry," whimpered Larry. "I'm sorry!"

  "Nine!" bellowed Dave.

  There was an explosion of thunder, a volley of apocalyptic bursts.

  Then...

  Then, just as Dave's lips formed the final number of the count, Larry Smith looked up at him.

  Larry spoke; finally, he spoke to Dave instead of the dead husk in the sand.

  "I'm sorry," he groaned. "I'm so sorry."

  Dave wanted to shoot.

  "This isn't what I wanted," said Larry. "I just wanted to fix things."

  "Ten!" snapped Dave...but he didn't pull the trigger.

  "I came back...to fix things," whimpered Larry. "I wanted...I wanted to fix your life."

  Dave wanted to make it happen. He wanted to make something happen.

  "I wanted...to fix...our life!" sobbed Larry Smith.

  "I'm...you!" sobbed Larry Smith.

  "This...wasn't supposed to happen...like this!" sobbed Larry Smith.

  *****

  Chapter 72

  "It's true," croaked Larry, his face still twisted in an anguished grimace. "I swear...this wasn't...supposed to happen."

  For some reason, Dave didn't pull the trigger; for some reason, he listened to the overwrought psychopath.

  "He wasn't...supposed to die," said Larry, seemingly able to grind out each word only with great effort. "Just the others. Just the ones I needed...to change things.

  "I could never...kill him," eked Larry, and then he looked down at the body in the sand. He choked, broke into a wild round of sobbing; he jerked his trembling fingers away from his victim's cheek, wrenched his hand back as if the corpse had suddenly twitched and startled him.

  Distant and disoriented, vacant of all thought or feeling except an incredible bloodlust, Dave watched silently. He was unmoved by the killer's apparent agony; it meant nothing to him.

  He wanted to shoot. He just wanted to shoot.

  For a long moment, Larry wept with his face buried in his hands. The rain continued to soak him, trickling from his cracked, blackened elbows, his grotesquely withered arms.

  His head finally lifted and he peered at Dave through pinched, ravaged eyes. He sucked in a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself, but he couldn't speak until he'd choked off a fresh string of sobs.

  "It was...an accident," he whimpered at last. "A mistake. I didn't...even know...he was here!"

  From his faraway, insulated vantage point, Dave gazed at Larry's face; for the first time, he noticed that it was changed. The skin had darkened, shifted to a gray tint; the shade was that of slate or cement, and it was distinctly unnatural.

  Dave looked at Larry's face with mild interest. He wondered if the killer's condition was spreading, if the same affliction which had struck his arms and throat was moving upward.

  He hoped so. It didn't really matter, because Larry's skull would soon be blown apart...but any extra pain that the killer could suffer before the end would be a bonus.

  "I came back...to fix things," wailed Larry, tossing his head. "Not to do...this." His eyes flicked toward the corpse, then quickly snapped away.

  "My life...was a nightmare," winced Larry. "You'll never know...how bad things were. I hope to God...you'll never know."

  Dave listened. He wanted to shoot, but he listened.

  "Everything...was ruined," Larry moaned raggedly. "It all started...twenty years ago. It all started...this year. This was the year...when everything went wrong.

  "I broke up...with the girl I loved. I broke up...with Darlene
Rollins."

  Dave listened. Though there had been a time when Larry's words would have fascinated him, they didn't faze him now; they rippled past him like a breeze, as meaningless and unworthy of contemplation as the sighing wind.

  And yet...

  'I'm...you,' Larry Smith had said.

  Dave wanted to shoot. He just wanted to shoot.

  Larry was caught by a fit of sobs, then cut them off with a sharp, sudden breath. "I let her go," he mewled pitifully. "I didn't know...what I wanted to do...with my life. She wanted to get...married but...I was scared. I let her go."

  Larry shuddered fiercely. He seemed about to plunge into another spate of sobbing...but he somehow settled and spoke once more.

  "I met another girl...at one of Billy's parties. I was drunk out of my mind...and I screwed her. I didn't know. I didn't...think anything of it...at the time.

  "I finally...changed my mind about Darlene. I tried to go back with her...but she wouldn't have me. I was too late." Larry's voice rose slightly; there was anger as well as anguish in his frail whimper.

  "She was with...another guy. She wouldn't have anything to do with me...and he...he paid some guy to beat the shit out of me. He put me in the hospital.

  "In the hospital," hissed Larry, rage flashing across his ashen features. "The guy who took her didn't even have the balls to do it himself."

  Dave wanted to shoot.

  He didn't have to listen closely to know that Larry was lying again; obviously, the killer was trying to talk his way out of this scrape, boondoggle Dave with yet another outrageous tale. The tactic had been effective before; clearly, Larry was confident that it would work again, so confident that he wasn't even bothering to be original. So far, the latest story was virtually identical to the one that he'd told at Wolf's Rock, the one in which he'd claimed to be Billy Bristol.

  Another fairy tale; that was all that it was. Larry must have thought that another fairy tale would win him his freedom, allow him to lull and then surprise Dave and escape.

  It wouldn't work; Dave knew that it wouldn't work. In the end, the only surprise would come from Dave.

  There would be a big surprise when the first bullet entered Larry's skull.

  "I tried again...to get her back," continued Larry, the anger fading from his face and voice. "I tried so many times...but she was gone. She ended up marrying him.

  "Then, I found out that other girl...was pregnant. I'd gotten her pregnant." Pausing, Larry tipped his head back, let the rain run onto his gray face; closing his eyes, he drew a series of deep, shuddering breaths.

  Dave watched the killer's fully exposed throat. As Larry inhaled and exhaled, the clumps of blood-red boils on his throat pulsed, seemed to have a life of their own.

  Larry's head dropped forward and he opened his eyes. "I married her," he mumbled weakly. "What else could I do? She wouldn't have...an abortion...and I had too much of a conscience...to just walk away.

  "I married her. It was all downhill from there."

  "We hated each other. She hated me...for getting her pregnant...and I hated her for getting pregnant. It was terrible. All we did was fight.

  "We had to live...at my parents' house...and that made things worse. We fought with each other...we fought with my parents...we fought with Jeff. It tore the whole family apart.

  "My parents finally threw us out," groaned Larry, dragging a quivering hand across his face. "They just couldn't take it anymore. They tried...I know they tried...but they just couldn't take it.

  "My...my wife and I...didn't have any money. I couldn't find a decent job...and she wouldn't move out of town. I was still working at the steakhouse...but that was only part-time, and I made next to nothing.

  "We ended up taking Billy's trailer when he left town...to work for this big company in Virginia. The trailer was all we could afford.

  "God...it was awful," sobbed Larry. "Living there...with all the memories. All the old gang was gone. Billy went to Virginia...Ernie went to medical school...Boris had killed himself...and everyone else had gone one place or another. Everyone...was gone...and I was trapped there...and every time I looked around the trailer...I remembered the good times...but they were gone and my life was ruined.

  "I can't tell you...," wailed Larry, and then he broke down in another round of wild sobbing.

  Dave felt like laughing.

  There was Larry, pouring on the waterworks, spinning another ridiculous yarn...and Dave wasn't fooled for a minute. Larry's act was so overdramatic that it was comedic; Dave was onto him, well aware that every word was a lie, but Larry just kept blubbering and emoting as if he thought that Dave was going to succumb to the swindle.

  Dave wanted to laugh. He would have laughed if he hadn't been so completely focused on shooting the killer; he wanted to shoot much more than he wanted to laugh.

  "She...had the baby," gasped Larry as his latest sobbing fit subsided. "It...it wasn't normal.

  "It was...a girl...and she...was a dwarf. She had severe dwarfism." Pausing, Larry clenched his teeth and pinched his eyes shut; his tortured grimace abruptly constricted as if he'd just experienced a terrible bolt of physical pain.

  Dave wanted to laugh. He wanted to shoot.

  "The kid...was in bad shape," grated Larry. He opened his eyes, but he looked toward the lake, not at Dave.

  "Her legs...and her back...were all twisted up. She needed...all kinds of treatments. She was going to need treatments for the rest of her life.

  "They were so expensive," wailed Larry. "The treatments...would cost a fortune. We would have to take her...out of town to get them done...to Pittsburgh, Baltimore, New York.

  "I didn't have any money. I didn't have any insurance. My parents helped out some...but hers couldn't...and the government wouldn't cover everything. I didn't know...what I was going to do. I didn't know...how I could pay for all this.

  "I didn't know what to do," shouted Larry, and then he surrendered to another wave of violent sobbing.

  Dave wanted to laugh, at least giggle a little.

  His eyes dipped to the body in the sand, and he wanted to giggle even more. That wasn't Billy Bristol; it made Larry's performance even funnier, for the killer was pouring his heart out over a fraudulent corpse. It was as if he were delivering a heartfelt rendition of Hamlet's "Poor Yorick" soliloquy to the skull of a cow.

  It was ridiculous.

  Larry was lying and that wasn't Billy Bristol and the whole scene was absolutely ridiculous.

  'I'm...you,' Larry Smith had said.

  Ridiculous.

  Shuddering, sniffling, rocking, blinking, Larry finally managed to continue. As he spoke, he looked more desolate than ever, more crushed, more exhausted...though, perhaps, it was just his gray pallor which made him seem thus. His face had markedly darkened, gone beyond slate gray, approached the shade of wet pavement.

  "I couldn't take it," he whimpered, fitfully kneading his blackened hands. "I kept sinking...lower and lower every day...every year.

  "My...my wife...and I hated each other...and we fought all the time. My daughter was in and out of the hospital constantly...and it hurt me just to look at her.

  "I couldn't find a decent job. I never had enough money. The bills kept piling up...and I couldn't pay them. We had to go on Welfare. Me, with a college degree...and I was on Welfare.

  "I had nothing," wailed Larry, wincing haggardly at Dave. "I had no one, not even my family. Mom and Dad practically disowned me. Jeff didn't want anything to do with me.

  "All my friends were gone. Living in the trailer constantly reminded me...of what I used to be...everything I'd lost.

  "I'd lost everything," squeaked Larry. "Everything."

  Dave wanted to laugh; he wanted to laugh right in Larry's face.

  He wanted to laugh, and then he wanted to shoot.

  He wanted to do it immediately. Larry's sham of a confession had gone on too long; the killer's undeserved reprieve had already extended beyond all reasonable limits.

 
Dave didn't want to wait anymore. He wanted to shoot.

  Now. He wanted to shoot now.

  He wanted to shoot. He didn't want to listen.

  Larry was lying.

  That wasn't that wasn't Billy Bristol.

  Dave wanted to shoot.

  "I started drinking heavily," blubbered Larry, staring at the lake. "It was the only thing that helped. I drank all the time.

  "I drank on the sly at work. I drank when I was home. I spent a lot of time in bars. I just drank.

  "I wanted...to forget. I just wanted to forget everything...but I couldn't. I'd forget a little...but it would all come back to me...so I'd drink more and more. I'd drink and drink...but I could never forget."

  Thunder rolled and crashed overhead; Dave jumped at the burst, wasn't sure for an instant that it hadn't been the crack of the .38.

  He shifted the gun just a bit to keep Larry Smith's head fixed squarely beyond the sight. As he squinted at the killer, Dave noticed that Larry's face had darkened further; it was the shade of charcoal now, almost black.

  The darkening wasn't the only mutation. Small clumps of blisters had erupted on Larry's cheeks and along his jawline; the skin of his face appeared more wrinkled than before, seemed to have shriveled and tightened against the bones underneath.

  Apparently, Larry's affliction was indeed spreading. Apparently, he would continue to decay, would blacken and wither right before Dave's eyes.

  It was enough to make Dave want to laugh. It was almost enough to make him refrain from shooting, just so he could see how Larry would end up.

  "I really got bad," gurgled the killer. "I was drunk all the time.

  "Finally...it all caught up with me. I finally...I finally..."

  Larry's voice cracked; again, he broke down in a sobbing fit. Choking, heaving, shivering, he doubled over and plunged his face into his hands.

  Dave shivered, too...but not because he felt any kind of empathy with the killer. Dave shook because a frigid wind had sprung upon him; he was soaked, the rain was pouring harder than ever, and the icy wind seemed to rush right through him.

  As cold as it was, the wind was just a taste of the chill to come. Twilight was well underway; the sky, already darkened by clouds, was dimming further, and the temperature had dropped noticeably. Soon, the sky would be completely dark, lit not even by the cloud-shrouded moon and stars...and Cross Creek State Park would grow bitterly cold, downright polar.