Backtracker (108 page)

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 and 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.