Backtracker (34 page)

The husband
hadn
'
t
been thrown as far forward;
he'd
been stopped by the steering wheel. His body was jammed between the seat and the wheel, which had been thrust backward in the crash. Propped against that wheel, he was arranged less dramatically than his wife; hunched over, arms dangling at his sides, he
didn
'
t
look as mangled as she did. His head rested between the dash and the upper lip of the wheel, and his face was turned toward his wife. His eyes were closed and his knobby features were streaked with bloody tracings.

Hurriedly, the Miraclemaker tugged the door open; it had already been opened halfway, jarred from the frame by the impact. Slipping the leather glove from his right hand, he reached for the woman, pressed his fingers against her throat. For a moment, he kept his hand upon her, sinking fingertips into the flesh, working them roughly around the place where her pulse should have been. He found nothing, not even the weakest, fading flutter.

Satisfied with the woman
'
s condition, the Miraclemaker withdrew his hand, elbowed the door back to its former position. Acutely aware that time was rushing away, he jogged around the rear of the car. He shot a glance up and down the road and saw that he was still secure, alone with the wreckage.

Scrambling to the driver
'
s side of the crumpled compact, he repeated the drill that
he'd
performed on the dead passenger. This time, however, the results were quite different: when he sank his fingers into the husband
'
s throat, he encountered a definite beat, a surprisingly strong rhythm.

The Miraclemaker sighed and frowned, knew what
he'd
to do next. The operation was incomplete, and it was up to him to finish it.

For an instant, he hesitated. He knew that
he had
to go ahead, had to get it done fast, but he faltered. As driven and dispassionate as
he'd
become, a tiny part of him still balked at the task.

The Miraclemaker heard the distant whimper of a conscience that
he'd
thought long gone. Fingers glued to the husband
'
s pulse, he hovered on the brink, momentarily frozen with indecision.

Then, he remembered the time; he remembered the line; he remembered the plan. As quickly as they had risen from his subconscious, all doubts were extinguished.

Removing his hand from the pulse, he again donned his glove. Face cold and inexpressive, he reached back into the car and clutched a fistful of hair from the back of the man
'
s head.

He pulled the head up and away from the steering wheel. The man
'
s eyes were still closed, but his mouth dropped open.

Tightly gripping the dark hair, he plunged the husband
'
s head back down. Three times, he bashed the skull against the hard rim of the wheel, each blow more forceful than the last.

When next he checked for a pulse, the Miraclemaker found nothing.

The job was finally done, and it was time for him to run.

*****

Chapter
18

The mood in the Wild West steakhouse was oppressively gloomy.

No one could manage a smile. The place was busy as it always was on Sunday afternoons, and everyone hurried about, but something had gone out of them. Their movements lacked vigor, the youthful swing and spring which was usually in evidence. Few words were exchanged among the members of the crew; no one seemed to feel like talking except when necessary in the pursuit of their duties. Everyone seemed spent and haggard, as gray and morose as if they were all suffering from potent hangovers or head colds.

Once in a while, an unspoiled soul would bound through the door, eyes bright and arms swaying, ready to start a new shift. Exuding the familiar vitality of the merry gang, he or she would tumble in and chatter flippantly, expecting the usual spirited ruckus...and then someone would explain. Solemnly, the newcomer would be taken aside and hushed words would be exchanged, and all exuberance would bleed away. Like a contagion, the enervating palsy infected all who entered the place.

Dave Heinrich
wasn
'
t
spared the effects of this malady; in fact,
he'd
been one of the first to contract it. His heart had been heavy since the night before, when Billy Bristol had called with the news, the news about Ernie.

Dave had been studying Saturday night, actually concentrating wholly on the preparations for his next round of final exams. His mind had been free of distractions for a change, not even slightly preoccupied with such garble as the mysteries of Larry Smith. Attention focused to a keen pinpoint,
he'd
combed volumes of classroom notes, soaking up rafts of facts; then,
he'd
heard the muffled ringing of the phone downstairs, and his mother had summoned him. In the short span of the conversation with Billy, all Dave
'
s noble focus had dissolved.

Instead of returning to his desk,
he'd
fallen onto his bed, consumed with dark new thoughts. Forgetting his studies,
he'd
languished in a despondent daze, considering the awful bulletin delivered by his friend. Through the night,
he'd
remained thus, getting very little sleep.

The gloom had stayed with him into the morning, continued to enfold him throughout the day. At the steakhouse,
he'd
helped transmit the disheartened condition, repeating the sad facts for each of his comrades. Dutifully,
he'd
told the story over and over again, becoming more depressed with each repetition.

He could hardly believe what had happened, for it had come so suddenly. In the course of one day, the life of his friend had been irrevocably shattered; with frightening swiftness, Ernie Dumbrowski had been plunged into a nightmare.

Dave mourned for Ernie
'
s loss, wished that there was something that he could do to diminish his pain...knew that there
was
n
o
t
hing that he could do. All his steakhouse colleagues seemed to feel the same way, mortified and sensitized, painfully sympathetic. In their silence, in their grave and restrained demeanors, they betrayed a common sorrow, a shared burden of grief.

It was true that no one at the steakhouse had known Ernie
'
s parents well. At best, Mr. and Mrs. Dumbrowski had been peripheral figures, familiar faces at the outer rim of the gang
'
s attention. Sometimes, Ernie
'
s mother and father would come to eat at Wild West, and they would exchange casual words with their son
'
s co
-
workers; otherwise, their course rarely intersected that of the crew. Most of the cronies only knew them to see them, and plenty of the newer employees
hadn
'
t
even reached that point. Dave
couldn
'
t
even claim to have known them well, though
he'd
been in their company more often than most of his associates. In all the times that
he'd
gone to Ernie
'
s house,
he'd
never done more than make small talk with them, had never done more than politely chat for a moment on his way to meet Ernie.

Still, the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Dumbrowski had inspired a general mournfulness at the steakhouse. Ernie was respected and well
-
loved by everyone, so his plight naturally drew an outpouring of compassion. In many ways, the Wild West crew was like a family, so closely
-
knit that any pain suffered by one of them was suffered by all of them.

Perhaps, the atmosphere of grief had also been intensified by the nature of the deaths. Two parents had perished unexpectedly, in an automobile accident...an accident which could just as easily have taken the parents of anyone at the steakhouse. Death had leaped out at a friend, reminding everyone of their own vulnerability, the vulnerability of their own loved ones. Perhaps, it was this as much as anything, this vivid reminder of mortality, which had traumatized everyone.

Ernie
'
s parents were dead, killed in a wreck on an icy road not five miles from their home. Just like that, in a slide and a crash, they were gone, leaving two sons and two daughters behind.

Just like that, they were gone. Just like that.

It was so unfair, Dave thought, so utterly unfair that Ernie should have to go through such turmoil. To say that Ernie was a kind and decent guy would be a tremendous understatement; he was a bright and virtuous individual, devoted to his studies, always going out of his way to help his friends. Though his wish to become a doctor was partly grounded in an intense drive to succeed,
he'd
often made it clear that he truly wanted to heal, that he was choosing medicine because of strong altruistic urges. Ernie was a good person and a good friend, and Dave knew that he
didn
'
t
deserve this punishment.

Dave wondered how Ernie was taking it all, how he was holding up under the terrible strain. Billy
hadn
'
t
said much about what kind of shape Ernie was in; when Billy had phoned Dave, all that
he'd
said on the matter was that Ernie sounded okay, tired and unhappy but coherent at least. Several times Saturday night and Sunday morning, Dave had considered finding out for himself, calling or driving out to Ernie
'
s place; each time, though,
he'd
rejected the notion, deciding that it was best to wait. If he contacted Ernie so soon after the disaster, he might be intruding, barging in where he
wasn
'
t
yet wanted. Ernie would need time to deal with the aftermath, help his brother and sisters, make difficult arrangements. Dave had realized that he would feel extremely awkward anyway,
wouldn
'
t
know what to say. Probably, a visit so soon would prove to be uncomfortable and pointless, maybe detrimental, so Dave had made up his mind to wait another day or two.

For now, there
was nothing
to do but wait and work. Downcast and distracted, Dave did his job, passing the hours over the flames of the broiler.

A fine sweat drawn from his brow by the heat of the broiler, he cooked for the customers, and as he cooked, he thought about Ernie and death and injustice. He thought about what had happened to Ernie
'
s parents, and he wished that it had never come to pass. He worried about his friend and he hoped that Ernie would be all right.

As afternoon blurred into evening, Dave also began to think of Darlene. He realized that he needed to see her that night, that he needed to be close to her.

He needed to be close to someone.

*****

"
Poor Ernie,
"
Darlene said softly, her head resting on Dave
'
s shoulder.
"
What a thing to happen.
"

"
I know,
"
sighed Dave.
"
He must be going through Hell right now.
"
Pensively, he stared at the TV,
didn
'
t
notice what was on the screen.

Though he was still despondent, he did feel a bit better now that he was with Darlene. His spirits were still low, his thoughts were still focused on Ernie
'
s tragedy, but he was comforted by Darlene
'
s concern and affection.

After his shift at the steakhouse,
he'd
hurried immediately to her home. Though her parents were at a movie and the house was empty, Dave and Darlene had retreated to their favorite hiding place, the basement family room. They had been there for a while now, curled together on the old sofa, the TV flickering but unwatched in the darkness.

"
Are you going to see him tomorrow
?
"
she asked.

"
I don
'
t know,
"
he said, shifting the arm that
he'd
entwined about her shoulders.
"
I really haven
'
t made up my mind yet.
"

"
It might be good for you to see him,
"
suggested Darlene.
"
It might be good for him to know how much his friends still care about him.
"

"
Maybe,
"
sighed Dave.
"
Then again, maybe it
'
d be better to give him some time to sort it all out. I mean, if it was me in that situation, I don
'
t know if I
'
d want to see anyone for a while.
"

"
I don
'
t think you should wait too long,
"
she said, rubbing his chest.
"
I think he needs his friends right now, to help him get through this.
"

"
I guess so,
"
he said tentatively.

There was a pause then, a silence broken only by the murmur of the television. One hand stroking Darlene
'
s shoulder, Dave raised the other to massage his left temple; wincing, he wished that the vicious headache that
he'd
had all evening would let up.
He'd
already eaten six aspirin in the last three hours, and the headache was as formidable as ever.

"
Do you want me to go with you when you see him
?
"
Darlene asked finally.

"
I don
'
t know,
"
he said noncommittally.
"
I guess it
'
ll depend on what kind of shape he
'
s in.
"

"
Well, you just let me know,
"
she told him.
"
I want to help if I can.
"

"
Okay,
"
he said warmly, touched by the concern in her voice.
"
Thanks. Seriously, Darlene...thanks.
"

"
Any time,
"
she said, and then she moved to lightly kiss his shoulder.
"
Anything I can do, you let me know.
"

"
You
'
re already doing plenty,
"
said Dave.
"
I would
'
ve really been miserable tonight if I hadn
'
t been able to see you.
"

"
Me, too,
"
she replied softly.
"
I
'
m sorry you feel so bad, but I have to admit I
'
m happy you
'
re here. I missed you today and yesterday.
"

"
I missed you, too, but I was just so busy,
"
he said apologetically.
"
Work, studying for finals...and then I got the news about Ernie
'
s folks last night.
"

"
I understand,
"
said Darlene.
"
I just missed you.
"

Dave squeezed her shoulder, bowed his head toward hers.
"
I felt the same way,
"
he whispered.
"
I thought about you a lot,
"
he lied. While it was true that he cared deeply for her, it was inaccurate to say that s
he'd
been on his mind much recently; Larry Smith had truly dominated his thoughts of late, and Ernie
'
s tragedy was now the center of his interest. Still, after all of Darlene
'
s soothing ministrations that evening, Dave felt obliged to provide her with some comfort in return.

Nuzzling against his shoulder, Darlene reached up to caress his neck.
"
That
'
s how it is for me, too,
"
she told him.
"
I want to see you as much as I can. I mean, I don
'
t know what
'
s going to happen, and I...I just want to see you now.
"
With that, her voice dropped away and she grew still against him.

Dave frowned. He felt a tension rise between him and Darlene, a subtle stress. Though s
he'd
stopped short of declaring outright what the source of the tension was, he thought that he knew from her words and the change in her tone: he guessed that she was worried about losing him.

Soon, he would graduate from college, and he
didn
'
t
know what he would be doing after that. He
didn
'
t
know if he would be staying in town or leaving, if his relationship with her would thrive or fizzle. When she said things like
"
I don
'
t know what
'
s going to happen,
"
Dave sensed that she feared that he would leave her; he sensed that she was troubled, and he wanted to comfort her...but he
couldn
'
t
, because he
didn
'
t
know what the future held. Though he enjoyed the time that he spent with her, he
wasn
'
t
even sure if he really loved her, if he loved her enough to want to extend their alliance.

As always, he decided not to explore the issue. He chose to let the awkward interlude pass without comment; there were other, more pressing concerns on his mind, and he believed that any talk of the future would be pointless. If he
couldn
'
t
give her any answers, there would be no use in listening to her questions.

Anyway, it bothered him to think or talk about the future. The future was foreboding, demanding, unknown; whenever possible, he preferred to ignore it.

"
How
'
re your finals going
?
"
he asked her, hoping to redirect the conversation.
"
You doing all right?
"

"
I hope so,
"
said Darlene, her voice quiet and distant.

Dave nodded, realizing that the tension was still in force. Though she was still twined about him, she was motionless, no longer moving her hands in gentle rhythms upon his neck and chest.

"
Do you have much studying to do for tomorrow
?
"
he pressed.

"
Some,
"
she said simply.

Dave paused, not sure how he could dispel her lingering melancholy. Usually, when she was in a funk like that, he could quickly bring her around, but this time, he was having no success.

"
Uh, when
'
s your last final
?
"
he asked.

"
Wednesday,
"
Darlene replied glumly.

"
I
'
ll be done by then, too. Would you like to get together Wednesday night? You know, to celebrate.
"

"
Sure,
"
Darlene said without enthusiasm.

"
Good,
"
said Dave.
"
Let
'
s plan on going out Wednesday night.
"

"
Okay,
"
said Darlene.

"
Okay,
"
said Dave, and with that, he ran into a dead end. Her one
-
word answers had stymied him; he could think of nothing else to say to draw her out. Sighing, he surrendered for the moment, let his head fall back on the sofa.

As he sat there, his unfocused eyes aimed at the ceiling, he began to worry. Her unresponsiveness was lasting too long, far past the point when it usually receded. Dave wondered if it was a danger signal, if it meant that she was finally going to put him on the spot and grill him about their future. Maybe, she was gathering the courage to interrogate him, demand to know his intentions.

Just as he started to grow nervous, the silence was broken. He caught his breath when she lifted her head from his shoulder and spoke.

"
Dave
?
"
she said softly, apprehensively.

"
Yeah?
"
Preparing for a difficult exchange, he tensed.

"
There
'
s something I want to talk to you about,
"
she continued.
"
I know this might not be a good time, but I think it
'
s important.
"

Dave
'
s spirits plunged. Apparently, unfortunately, his prediction had hit the mark.
"
Well, go ahead,
"
he told her, suddenly feeling stifled and cornered, barricaded by the arms which until then had felt so comfortable around him.

Darlene cleared her throat.
"
Like I said, this might be a bad time, but I think you might want to hear this.
"

"
Uh
-
huh,
"
said Dave.

Darlene sighed and shifted against him.
"
It
'
s...well, it
'
s about Larry.
"

Surprised, not sure that
he'd
heard correctly, Dave jerked his head from the back of the sofa.
"
Larry
?
"
he said quizzically, gaping at her.
"
What about Larry?
"

"
Something he said,
"
Darlene stated slowly.
"
You told me to tell you if I noticed anything weird going on with him, remember?
"

"
Yeah.
"
He nodded briskly, relieved but bewildered.
"
Did you notice something?
"

"
I think so,
"
she said tentatively, brows knitted in a cautious frown.
"
It happened Friday night. It was something he said.
"

"
What did he say
?
"
asked Dave.

"
It didn
'
t seem weird at the time, you know,
"
said Darlene.
"
It just hit me today, when I started thinking about it.
"
For an instant, she looked away from Dave, then returned her gaze to his.
"
Now, you were there when he said it, but I don
'
t think you were paying attention. I mean, you were pretty drunk by then.
"