Backtracker (29 page)

"
Maybe,
"
Dave said casually.
"
I think anything
'
s possible.
"

"
You shouldn
'
t get all wired
-
up about this,
"
Billy advised in a good
-
natured tone.
"
That was just a coincidence the other night. Don
'
t let your imagination get carried away, man.
"

"
I
'
m not
!
"
Dave insisted energetically.
"
That wasn
'
t the only thing that made me wonder about Larry! I mean, if it was just that one time, I
'
d say
'
Yeah, it
'
s a coincidence,
'
but there
'
ve been other times, too!
"

"
Like when
?
"
Billy sighed skeptically.

"
Like when I got turned in for the chocolate milk. Remember how the night before it happened, Larry had us talking about that exact thing? We were talking specifically about getting busted for sneaking food at work, and Larry said we shouldn
'
t trust the people here! He
warned
us about it, and then the very next
day
Peggy Kutz stabbed me in the back!
"

"
Dave, Dave, Dave,
"
clucked Billy.
"
That was just another coincidence, man. That kind
'
a thing happens all the time.
You talk about something, and then it happens, and you think it
'
s weird but it
'
s just one of those things.
"

"
Yeah, but it happened
twice
,
"
Dave charged emphatically.
"
Twice in a couple of days! And both times, Larry was right on the
nose
!
He didn
'
t just say something that was
close
to what happened...
he had
it pinned down exactly.
"

Billy sighed and rolled his eyes.
"
Look,
"
he said, leaning back in his seat.
"
I agree it
'
d be neat to know somebody who
'
s psychic, but I don
'
t think Larry
'
s your man. Two coincidences don
'
t make him psychic.
"

Frustrated because Billy
wasn
'
t
buying into his theory, Dave looked away from his friend. Though the main purpose of the conversation had been to get an objective opinion of Larry, Dave was miffed that Billy
didn
'
t
agree with him. In reality, the gathering of fresh data and opinions had only been part of his purpose; all along,
he'd
hoped for Billy
'
s support and assistance.

Of course, there was one card left to play, and it was a
big
card, one that Billy
wouldn
'
t
be able to lightly dismiss. In fact, Dave was sure that if he put
that
card on the table, Billy Bristol would instantly take him seriously, swing his vote without hesitation.

If Dave told Billy about Boris Blovitz
'
suicide attempt, Billy would be won over. If Dave told his pal about how Larry had anticipated the suicide try, how
he'd
known exactly where to find Boris in the woods, Billy would certainly ignite with interest and belief. All would be settled, and Dave would have a staunch ally in his investigation.

There was just one problem: Dave
didn
'
t
feel that he should reveal that event just yet. He knew that he could trust Billy, but
he'd
promised Boris that he
wouldn
'
t
tell anyone what had happened in the woods Saturday night. Dave took the promise quite seriously; he certainly
wouldn
'
t
tell anyone who was likely to spread the word, but he also felt obliged to hide the truth from trustworthy brethren like Billy...at least for now. There might come a time, perhaps very soon, when Dave would need to tell the story in order to secure allies...but at the moment, the situation
wasn
'
t
critical, and the facts could remain secret.

Disappointed that he
couldn
'
t
persuade Billy to go along with his theory, disgusted because
he had
the ammunition to convince him but felt restrained from using it, Dave resigned himself to the futility of the conversation.

"
Well, I don
'
t know,
"
he sighed, returning his gaze to Billy.
"
Maybe you
'
re right, I don
'
t know. It just all seems pretty weird, y
'
know?
"

"
That
'
s life,
"
smirked Billy.
"
It get pretty weird sometimes.
"

Dave shrugged.
"
So,
"
he said after a brief pause.
"
I guess you haven
'
t noticed anything unusual about him, then.
"

"
Uh
-
uh,
"
replied Billy, shaking his head.
"
He seems cool to me. He
'
s just like one of the gang.
"
As he said that, Billy narrowed his eyes, thoughtfully cocked his head to one side.
"
Y
'
know, actually, I guess that
'
s kind of unusual, now that I think about it.
"

"
What
?
"
wondered Dave.
"
He doesn
'
t act his age,
"
said Billy.
"
He
'
s like, what...in his forties or something?...but he sure doesn
'
t act like it. I mean, he acts like he
'
s our age, like he
'
s one of us. How
many
forty
-
year
-
old guys do you know who act cool and go to parties with people half their age?
"

"
That
'
s true,
"
nodded Dave.

"
He
'
s got it together, too,
"
continued Billy.
"
You
know how it is when people that old try to be buddy
-
buddy with people our age. They usually end up lookin
'
pretty goofy...but Larry just seems normal. He doesn
'
t come off like some bonehead trying to pretend he
'
s young.
"

Nodding, Dave considered what Billy had said. Though he
had
n
o
t
iced Larry
'
s youthful demeanor from the start,
he'd
accepted it without analysis;
he'd
recognized how well Larry fit in with the gang, but
hadn
'
t
believed it to be anything but an adaptable sociability, a talent for getting along with different groups of people. Now that Billy had mentioned it, however, Dave began to wonder if there might be more to it, if the ease with which Larry had joined the Wild West gang might be in some way significant.

"
Y
'
know, I haven
'
t thought about it much,
"
Dave said slowly,
"
but you
'
re right. That really is kind of unusual.
"

"
Well,
"
grinned Billy.
"
I
'
m glad we could figure out
something
weird about the guy.
"

"
Yeah,
"
nodded Dave, and then it was time to start work.

*****

The woods; the night.

The Miraclemaker was in the woods in the night.

He was watching the windows.

There were four of them at the rear of the house, each lit with a golden glow from within. The view through each was perfect, free of blinds or drapes; as the house was backed only by acres of forest, the inhabitants had no need to shield themselves from the prying eyes of neighbors.

The house was ranch
-
style, with only one level, and the windows were spaced across its length. From watching, the Miraclemaker knew exactly which room was behind each window; he knew the layout of the back half of the house.

At the end of the house to his right, there was a square window, three feet on a side. Behind that one, the eldest son moved back and forth, pacing through his bedroom as he contemplated some kind of homework. Tall and dark
-
haired, he appeared in the square of light, head bowed; flicking a pencil against his chest, he passed first one way, then the other. Sometimes, he disappeared, probably dropping to a desk that was out of view...but he always reappeared, pacing thoughtfully, flicking the pencil.

The next window was smaller, about two feet square, and it opened into a bathroom. Unlike the other windows, this one
didn
'
t
emit a steady glow; its light flashed on and off at unpredictable intervals. When the light ignited, the Miraclemaker could see the heads of various family members: once, a middle
-
aged man, the father; next, the eldest son; then, a woman with dark, curly hair, the mother; and sometimes, he could just make out the low heads of children, barely visible over the sill.

Past the bathroom, a larger window revealed the youngest son
'
s habitat. Through the lit rectangle, the Miraclemaker could see colorful posters on the walls, airplane models dangling from the ceiling, an unkempt bed strewn with clothing and toys. The boy dashed in and out of the room frequently; sometimes, he stayed for a few minutes and played with his toys, but usually, he just darted in and grabbed something and left. He looked as if he were about eight years old, and
he had
dark hair like the rest of his family.

The fourth and final window was the longest, six feet from end to end; through it, the Miraclemaker could see the kitchen, the brightest and busiest room at the back of the house. Each member of the family appeared there at one time or another: the father made many trips to the refrigerator, exhuming leftovers and cans of beer; the mother spent fifteen minutes washing dishes at the sink, which was right below the window; the eldest son stopped in to take some aspirins; the young boy and little girl skittered wildly through the place, crossing and recrossing it dozens of times; and the teenage daughter lingered for quite a while, talking on the telephone.

Four windows. There were four windows and six people, and the Miraclemaker watched them all. It was like a theater for him; like a playgoer, he sat in darkness, watching scenes unfold before him in the light of the stage, each window a stage. He came to know each character well, could predict what they would do without hearing a word of their dialogue. The people in that house were as transparent to him as the windows through which he observed them.

There were six people in the family. Of the six, two would have to be killed.

The father; the mother; the eldest son; the teenage daughter; the little boy; the little girl. Two of them would die at his hands. Four would remain alive, would
have
to remain alive for the plan to succeed.

That was the challenge: taking two and leaving four. It was the reason why the Miraclemaker was only watching tonight,
couldn
'
t
yet attack. It was the reason why he
couldn
'
t
perform his miracles there, at the house in which the six were gathered.

He wished that he could just march right in there and get it over with, expunge the two and move on to his next task...but he
couldn
'
t
. In this miracle, he would have to exercise planning and care and patience, a more subtle approach.

He would have to claim his victims elsewhere, away from the four who would have to survive. Though he was familiar with the layout of the house, he
couldn
'
t
do the deed there; in the house, it would be impossible to execute the two without drawing the attention of the other four. Even if he could succeed in unobtrusively taking the two in their own home, he could think of no way to make the deaths appear accidental without harming the untargeted four...and the deaths
had
to appear accidental. When killing the first victims, Debby and Steve, the Miraclemaker
hadn
'
t
been concerned about how the murders would be perceived; he
hadn
'
t
cared whether the police deemed the deaths intentional or accidental, as long as he
didn
'
t
leave any evidence of his identity for them to find. This time, however, he was determined to make the killings look like accidents, acts of God completely free of the taint of foul play. In extinguishing the next two victims, he would have to weave an illusion, make everyone think that the deaths were no more than unavoidable and tragic misfortunes. If he failed to sustain this illusion, the plan would be severely damaged, perhaps fatally disrupted; the deaths would do him no good if they were thought to be murders.