Backtracker (107 page)

*****

Epilogue

Tuesday, May 5

"
Are you okay
?
"
Darlene Rollins asked tenderly, gazing up at Dave with those wide brown eyes, those sweet, soft eyes.

Dave nodded. Meeting her gaze, he tried to reassure her, tried to project all possible serenity, all possible sincerity.

Frowning, she dropped her head back to his chest, again looked at the TV news. She snuggled against him on the sofa; one of her arms was wrapped around his stomach, the other between his back and the cushions, and her hands were clasped at his side.

Turning his head to the right, Dave looked across the basement. Except for the grainy beam of the television, the room was dark; still, he could see the glow of the digital clock, the red numbers which seemed to hover above the old end
-
table in the corner.

It was 6:45. In fifteen minutes, he would know.

"
Are you sure you
'
re okay
?
"
Darlene asked without looking up at him.

"
Uh
-
huh,
"
said Dave, returning his gaze to the television screen.

For a moment, the only voice in the room was that of the network news announcer. Dave
wasn
'
t
really listening to the broadcast;
he'd
watched a whole half
-
hour of local news and half the network news show without hearing a single word.

"
You
'
ve been pretty quiet tonight,
"
Darlene said softly.

"
I guess I
'
m kind of tired,
"
sighed Dave.

Darlene
'
s embrace tightened a little. Her slender arms flexed against his stomach and back; her small hands pressed at his side.

Tipping his head forward, Dave brushed his face through her hair, let the loose swirls tickle his nose. He inhaled deeply; as always, she smelled good, smelled like lilacs.

"
Really, I
'
m okay,
"
he whispered.
"
Don
'
t worry.
"

"
I can
'
t help it,
"
Darlene whispered in return.
"
I can
'
t help but worry.
"

"
Don
'
t worry,
"
said Dave, hugging her tightly.
"
I
'
m okay. I promise.
"

He'd
lied to her. Perhaps she knew it, for she shifted restlessly then. She said nothing further for the moment, but in her silence, there seemed to be a tension, an anxious vibration.

He'd
lied to her.

No, he
wasn
'
t
okay.

It had been a month, over a month since that terrible night at Cross Creek State Park. It had been over a month, and he was still not okay.

He felt as if he were in a perpetual daze, as if he could never quite pull all the pieces of himself together. He felt detached, isolated from the world and people around him. He did things and said things, but he never seemed to be fully aware of his words or actions. It was if
he'd
been dislodged from the rhythms of the world and himself, knocked a beat out of sync, just enough to suspend him from the flows of life which
he'd
once known.

The nightmares were awful; they were frequent and vivid,
weren
'
t
restricted to his sleep. Often, in the middle of the day, in the midst of some mundane activity like watching TV or eating dinner, he would experience a potent flashback, a burst of memory so clear and overwhelming that it seemed immediate and real. Over and over again, he watched Billy Bristol fall upon the knife; as if seeing it once
hadn
'
t
been horrible enough, he watched it again and again, watched his best friend die a hundred times.

Sometimes, in his dreams, he made things right, interceded to save Billy; sometimes, he rushed in and pulled his partner away, then ran with him, carried him laughing and whole from the storm into sunshine. More often than not, though, his visions were true to memory; more often than not, he dreamed of the rain and the blade and the blood, the still face of Billy Bristol and the dark visage of the monster. Many times,
he'd
awakened screaming in the night; once,
he'd
shot from a nightmare to see that his bedside table had been overturned, its contents strewn across the floor.

Despite the vivid dreams which tormented him, he often forgot that Billy was gone. Sometimes, he would pick up the phone to call him; sometimes, he would actually dial Billy
'
s number and wait through a few rings...and sometimes, he
wouldn
'
t
recall the reason for Billy
'
s failure to answer until long after
he'd
hung up.

Frequently, at the steakhouse, Dave would look for his friend, glance at the broiler and expect to see him. Dave would see someone in the restaurant, one of the other workers, and think for an instant that it was Billy; he would hear someone
'
s voice and think that it was Billy
'
s, hear someone
'
s footsteps and think that they were Billy
'
s.

Once, after drinking some beers, Dave had driven the whole way out to Billy
'
s trailer.
He'd
knocked on Billy
'
s door for a long time.

No, he
wasn
'
t
okay.

It never seemed to end; that tragic night seemed to just go on and on and on. Dave felt as if the whole past month had been a continuation of that same night.

The events which had occurred at Cross Creek continued to
reverberate through his life.
Not only was he haunted by the memories, but
he had
to confront an onslaught of repercussions, consequences of his actions and those of Larry Smith.

First,
he had
had to deal with the police. It
hadn
'
t
been easy;
he'd
been left with two corpses and a child, and
he'd
been the only witness to all that had taken place.

After the carnage, he
hadn
'
t
wanted to talk to the police,
hadn
'
t
wanted to call them, but
he'd
known that there
was nothing
else that he could do. Though
he'd
been in bad shape,
he'd
realized that
he had
to summon the authorities; someone had to handle the child, dispose of Larry Smith...take care of Billy.

Telling his story to the police had been tremendously difficult. Each detail that
he'd
given them had led to another painful revelation.
He'd
told the police most of what had happened at Cross Creek, how he and Billy had tried to save the child, how Billy had been killed and Larry had been shot. Then,
he'd
had to explain where Larry had gotten the child;
he'd
had to tell of the child
'
s murdered parents, how he and Billy had found them in the house on Park Road. In describing how he and Billy had tracked the killer,
he'd
had to recount the day
'
s events...and this had led him to divulge the murder of the kid at Wolf
'
s Rock.

Dave had ended up detailing what he knew of Larry
'
s bloody spree.
He'd
told the police about Tom Martin and Ernie
'
s parents;
he'd
told of Larry
'
s claims that
he'd
killed Steve Kimmel and Debby Miller.
He'd
told the police all that
he'd
felt that he could, had tried to give them a clear picture without revealing Larry
'
s stories about coming from the future.

There had been questions upon questions from the police, a relentless barrage. Why had Dave not contacted them sooner, when
he'd
first suspected that Larry was a killer? Why was Larry
'
s corpse so horrifically mutilated? Was Dave telling everything that he knew? Was Dave sure that
he
hadn
'
t
committed the murders that he seemed to know so much about?

The F.B.I. had gotten involved, had also grilled Dave...had also treated him like a suspect. F.B.I. agents had questioned everyone who knew Dave, everyone who had known Larry Smith; the agents had investigated every detail of Dave
'
s story, had made him retell that story dozens of times.

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.