Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  The media had entered the fray, too. The saga of "The Steakhouse Serial Killer" would have been big news anywhere, but it was especially big in a small town like Confluence. For weeks, the multiple murders had been featured as the top story in the local papers and the local news broadcasts; national news organizations had also picked up the story, had jumped at the mention of a new "Serial Killer."

  Somewhere along the way, someone had decided that Dave was innocent. Even now, he wasn't sure how it had happened; he didn't know which group of authorities had absolved him, what evidence had cleared him. One day, the papers had labeled him "the only witness to the massacre," and had said that he had "extensive knowledge of a host of killings." The next day, the papers had cited him as "the heroic survivor."

  He was "the heroic survivor." One day, it had seemed as if he would be held accountable for Larry's rampage; the next day, he'd gotten a slap on the wrist from the cops and F.B.I. for not calling them in sooner...and he'd been christened "the heroic survivor of The Steakhouse Serial Killer."

  He supposed that he'd been lucky.

  He was "the heroic survivor."

  Some consolation that title had been at Billy Bristol's funeral; what a comfort it had been as Dave had helped bear Billy's casket to the open grave. How soothing had the title been through the weeks of strange looks and stilted conversations; how strong it had made him feel as he explained the tragedy to one friend after another, as he recounted the events to Billy's family and even to strangers who stopped him in the mall or on the street.

  He was "the heroic survivor." He'd been lucky...lucky enough to see his mother break down in tears from the strain of it all...lucky enough to have his brother ask him confidentially if he was really telling the truth...lucky enough to face awkward silences when he approached whispering co-workers at the steakhouse...lucky enough to see the uncertainty in everyone's eyes, the questioning, the uneasiness.

  Lucky; he'd been lucky.

  "This'll all blow over," his father had told him. "This'll pass."

  Dave found it hard to believe that this would ever blow over. He didn't think that he would ever emerge from this one long night, this night which had lasted a month which had seemed like a year.

  Every time that he sensed a break in the darkness, every time that he relaxed even the tiniest bit, something shattered the respite. He would awaken one morning and feel a bit better, wouldn't be thinking of any of the madness...and then, he would go to the mailbox and find a letter from his lawyer, or he would receive a phone call from someone who had just heard about the calamity. He would be reading in his room one evening, would manage to lose himself in a novel...and then, a polite but inquisitive friend would drop by for a visit, or his mother or father would come to check on him, see if he'd yet buckled under the pressure of his travails. He would be tending to his duties at Wild West, would become absorbed in the mindless labor...and a customer would point at him, maybe stop him and ask if he was the guy from the news.

  Something always came up to remind him of his loss and anchor him in the darkness. He'd been trapped for a month, over a month; he was trapped tonight...especially tonight.

  Tonight, he was with his girlfriend, the one person who had supported him with no trace of doubt or weakness throughout his ordeal. He nestled with her in what had been one of their favorite hideaways, the basement family room of her parents' house. He was alone with her, far from his friends and parents, far from the press and police and people on the street.

  Tonight, he was alone with Darlene, blessed with the privacy and peace which should have allowed him to push aside some of the darkness...and yet, he was still trapped, still fixed in the One Long Night because of what was about to happen.

  He glanced at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock. It was now 6:53.

  In seven minutes, he would know.

  In seven minutes, he would know if Larry had told him the truth.

  The thought of it filled Dave with a tense anticipation. He was eager to finally find out; he was also afraid.

  The matter had plagued him since the bloodbath at Cross Creek State Park. Even after all that he'd been through, he hadn't gotten a definitive answer; even after he'd given up the life of his friend, he'd still failed to learn the truth about Larry Smith.

  Larry had claimed that he was a future version of Dave who had traveled back in time to change the past. In telling the story, Larry had seemed absolutely sincere; his words had seemed heartfelt, his distress genuine. Still, he'd offered no irrefutable proof that he was who he said he was.

  The story had been wildly implausible; it had resembled past lies too closely, had seemed like nothing more than a variation on Larry's other time-travel tale, the one in which he'd claimed to be Billy. Everything about the final story had seemed fraudulent; everything that Dave knew about Larry had supported the probability of falsehood.

  In addition, Dave didn't want to believe. He desperately wished to reject Larry's claims without giving them a second thought. If Larry had told the truth, the implications would be staggering; Dave didn't want to consider such possibilities for even an instant.

  Larry had lied. That was the only logical conclusion, the only sane conclusion.

  Dave wanted to believe that Larry had lied...and yet, he couldn't be absolutely sure, one-hundred-percent sure that the killer had told no truth. However outrageous the story had been, however unreliable Larry's word had been in the past, there was still a chance--not much of one, perhaps, but still a chance--that the killer's account hadn't been wholly fabricated.

  There were still things which couldn't be explained, things which prevented Dave from finally judging Larry to be a complete fraud. First, there was Larry's transformation at the end; Larry had rotted away right before Dave's eyes...would surely have died soon even if Dave hadn't shot him. The deterioration had been utterly unlike any affliction which Dave knew of; since the coroners who had examined Larry's body had made no statements to the press regarding the bizarre condition, Dave guessed that they had been just as baffled by it. If there was no rational explanation, perhaps the cause of Larry's decay could have been supernatural; perhaps, an unearthly force had been responsible...maybe even the particular force which Larry had cited. As unlikely as it seemed, Dave couldn't dismiss the possibility.

  In addition to Larry's grotesque transformation, other puzzles impeded Dave's efforts to brush aside the killer's story. For one thing, there were the strange incidents which had occurred since Larry's arrival; some of them couldn't be explained if Dave accepted that Larry had lied. If Larry had been nothing but a serial killer, then how had he predicted the arrival of the cop at Billy's party? How had Larry known the specific reason for the cop's visit before the cop had arrived? How had he predicted Boris' suicide attempt? How had he known every detail of that attempt before it had taken place?

  Also, how had Larry known some of Dave's most closely-guarded secrets? Dave still couldn't believe that Billy had revealed such confidential information to Larry...and Billy was the only person on earth who had had such detailed knowledge of the liaison with Stacy Evans and the whorehouse debacle. If Larry hadn't been a psychic or a time-traveler, then how had he come upon such privileged data?

  Dave didn't know what to think. He'd gone over it all hundreds of times, and he was still mystified.

  He wanted to believe that Larry had lied; however, he couldn't conclusively rule out the possibility that Larry had told the truth. There were still too many questions, too many unknowns for Dave to choose a verdict.

  He couldn't figure it out on his own. He needed more evidence in order to make a decision.

  In five minutes, he would receive that evidence.

  In five minutes, he would know. Thanks to the "surprise" that Larry had left him, he would know.

  "Uh, Darlene?" he said, shifting within her embrace. "Do you have any more iced tea upstairs?"

  Lifting her head from his chest, Darlene gazed up at him, her eyes wide an
d warm and responsive. "Sure," she said. "There's a whole pitcher. Would you like some?"

  "Yeah," nodded Dave. "I'm real thirsty all of a sudden."

  "Okay," she said, unclasping her hands from his side. "I'll be right back."

  "Thanks," said Dave, mustering a little smile. "I appreciate it."

  He leaned forward so that she could slip her arm from between his back and the sofa, and then she stood.

  "I'll just be a minute," she said as she started up the stairs.

  "Thanks," he called to her. A figurative minute was all that he would need; by the time that she returned to the room, his vital business would be concluded.

  He wanted to be alone when it happened, when he finally found out. As close as he and Darlene had become, as grateful as he was for her company this night, he felt that he had to face the coming revelation by himself.

  He looked to the right. The clock read 6:57.

  In three minutes, he would know.

  In three minutes, he would know if he and Larry Smith were one and the same person.

  As he stared at the clock, Dave remembered Larry's eyes, those gleaming eyes surrounded by darkness. Those eyes had been full of desperation and pain, regret and madness; Dave had seen nothing of himself in those eyes, nothing recognizable. If Larry had been who he claimed to be, should there not have been some glimmer, some trace of Dave? Even altered by age and cruel experience, should those eyes not have cast some dim reflection of the younger man?

  Dave had seen no reflection of himself in the killer's eyes. He'd felt no connection, not even the most tenuous link. Furthermore, he knew that he could never do the terrible things that Larry had done.

  He was sure of it. No matter what misfortunes befell him, he could never change so radically that he could do what Larry had done. He knew that there were parts of him which could change, and parts which couldn't...and the parts which would never allow him to become a monster like Larry were the parts which couldn't change.

  He was sure of it. He could never be like Larry. He could never kill like Larry had killed. He wasn't and would never be capable of Larry's brutality, his disregard for human life.

  True, Dave had taken a life. On the beach at Cross Creek, he'd killed Larry...but that had been a fluke, a special circumstance. Dave had only shot Larry to save the child.

  Dave had taken a life to save a life. There had been no malice involved. Shooting Larry had been a necessary act; it in no way suggested that Dave had the potential to do what Larry had done.

  Dave had only shot Larry to save the child. That was what he kept telling himself.

  He was sure of it. He could never be like Larry.

  He could never be like Larry.

  The clock read 6:59. In one minute, he would know.

  Nervously, he slid two fingers into the breast pocket of his shirt and withdrew a folded slip of paper. For an instant, he stared at the pale square, the all-important puzzle-piece; it shook between his trembling fingers, shivered as if animated by the power that it contained, the power to reshape his life.

  Drawing a deep breath, slowly releasing it, he unfolded the scrap. It was a page from a stenographer's pad, a lined, white sheet; it was topped with a tattered fringe, a strip of ripped loops where it had been torn from the wire spiral of the pad.

  A small, rectangular card had been folded into the page. As he opened the sheet wide, Dave separated the card from it; he held the page in one hand, the card in the other.

  There were several lines of handwriting on the page. It was Larry's handwriting.

  "There's a surprise for you under the sofa at home," Larry had said before Dave had killed him. "I left it when I stopped to see Mom and Dad.

  "Use it in good health," Larry had said, and he'd died a heartbeat later.

  Dave had found the note just where Larry had told him it would be. It had taken him a long time to finally look for it; after Cross Creek, he hadn't wanted to confront any relics of Larry for quite a while. Dave hadn't looked under the sofa for two weeks, hadn't even sat on the sofa for two weeks; even when he'd finally looked, he hadn't immediately reached for the paper, hadn't touched it for at least an hour. He'd looked, then walked away, then looked, then walked away again; he'd been afraid of what he might find in that final surprise.

  By the gray, diffuse light of the television, Dave again read the note.

  "This is my gift to you," it said. "I hope it will make up for some of what I put you through.

  "Play the following numbers in the state lottery on May 5. The Lucky Seven drawing will have the biggest jackpot in state history.

  "These are the winning numbers," the note read, and then there was a list of seven numbers in large, bold print.

  The note was signed "Love, L.S."

  "Love, L.S."

  When he'd first read it, Dave had wanted to rip the note to pieces.

  He'd wanted to tear the note to shreds, then burn the shreds, then flush the ashes down the toilet.

  He'd almost done it, had almost destroyed the note dozens of times. Twice, he'd actually thrown it in the garbage; the second time, he'd waited until the night before trash collection day to retrieve it from the can at the curb.

  He'd almost destroyed it. He'd wanted to destroy it. He'd wanted no further contact with Larry Smith's evil, whatever form it took...even if it might reveal the truth to him at last, even if he desperately needed to know that truth.

  He'd wanted to destroy it.

  In the end, he'd been unable to destroy it.

  He'd preserved the note, telling himself that he would only hold onto it in order to find out if Larry had lied. He'd resolved that he wouldn't obey the note's instructions; he would watch the lottery drawing, but he wouldn't participate. He would compare the numbers on the note to those on the television screen; whether the numbers matched or differed, he would know the truth about Larry, and that would be the end of it.

  That would be the end of it. He would accept no gift from Larry...if, indeed, the note's forecast was accurate and there would be a gift to receive. He wanted nothing from that monster but the truth.

  He'd resolved that he wouldn't follow Larry's instructions. He'd made a solemn vow.

  He'd almost lived up to that vow. He hadn't bought the lottery ticket until today, the day of the drawing.

  He'd bought it.

  He'd followed Larry's instructions, selected Larry's numbers. Once more, he'd allowed Larry to manipulate him.

  Even after death, Larry was still manipulating him.

  Dave looked at the clock. It was time; the glowing red digits read 7:00.

  Soon, he would know.

  As the lottery theme song piped from the TV, Dave refolded Larry's note. Slipping the bit of paper back into his shirt-pocket, he raised the small card before him, held the fateful ticket close to his face.

  He had to grip the ticket with both hands to keep it from shaking.

  On the TV screen, the state lottery logo slid away to reveal a brightly colored set, the site of the drawing. The set was dominated by a large apparatus, a barrel of clear glass or plastic; a series of tubes ran along the top of the contraption, and the barrel was filled with numbered white balls the size of ping-pong balls.

  An attractive young woman with short blonde hair stood to one side of the barrel; she would operate the device, draw the numbers from it. An elderly woman waited beside her, stooped and silver-haired; according to the announcer, this was the "senior citizen witness." There was always a "senior citizen witness"; as the announcer said, the lottery was "for the benefit of older Pennsylvanians"...and Dave had always supposed that the "witness" served no purpose but to call attention to that fact.

  The announcer explained that the first drawing would be for the Daily Win game. This wasn't the big one; Lucky Seven, the game with the huge jackpot, would come later. Dave knew the format well, had watched the drawings hundreds of times before...though never with such acute interest as tonight.

  The young woman pre
ssed a button on the side of the apparatus. The numbered balls began to leap within the barrel, dancing crazily on currents of air.

  Dave felt as if his stomach was loaded with those same spastic balls.

  Soon, he would know.

  He was simultaneously eager and terrified at the prospect. He wanted to know; he didn't want to know.

  He looked forward to finding out that Larry's last claims had been lies, groundless fabrications that had no bearing on reality.

  He was afraid of finding out that Larry had told the truth.

  He was terrified that Larry might have told the truth.

  On TV, the young woman slid a cover from a slot in the first tube. Immediately, one of the balls was sucked up from the barrel, straight up the tube.

  The ball jittered against the cap atop the tube, and the woman reached for it. She stilled the ball's hectic motion with well-manicured fingers, rolled the nervous spherelet around so that its number was visible to the camera.

  The announcer said that the first number of the Daily Win game was a three. The young blonde moved to the second tube to repeat the procedure; watching attentively, the "senior citizen witness" followed.

  Dave continued to grip his ticket with both hands. Soon, he would know.

  Soon, he would know if Larry had lied.

  The blonde drew a second ball from the barrel, then moved to the third tube. She drew another ball, completing the three-digit Daily Win number.

  The announcer said that it was now time for the Hot Four drawing.

  After the Hot Four, the Lucky Seven would be selected. Dave knew the sequence; they always saved the big game for last.

  Soon, he would know.

  Soon, he would know if Larry had come from the future, if his knowledge of future events like this lottery drawing was accurate enough to support his claims.

  Soon, Dave would know just how likely it was that Larry had been a time-traveler, had really come back to change the course of his own life.

  Dave would know how likely it was that he and Larry were the same person.