Backtracker (74 page)

The one visit to that cleft had been enough to stock his nightmares for a lifetime. Just the thought of what
he'd
seen made his stomach lurch, made his gorge jump like mercury in a thermometer tossed into boiling water.

He
couldn
'
t
go
back
there.

Feverishly, he tried to convince himself that he
didn
'
t
have to return to the grisly spectacle. He struggled to compose excuses which would allow him to abstain from further exposure to the horror.

He told himself that since
he'd
found no clues anywhere else, he would probably not find any with the faceless kid. He told himself that even if he did turn up a clue, even if it did point him toward Larry, he would probably be too late to catch up to and stop the killer. He told himself that he would be better off just going to the police, forgetting his crazy plan.

He told himself that he should believe Larry
'
s story, trust that Larry would only kill once more and that would save Billy
'
s future. He told himself that inaction
wouldn
'
t
be immoral, that he
wasn
'
t
to blame for Larry
'
s crimes.

He told himself that he deserved a rest, that
he'd
done all that he could, that there was no way to stop Larry so he should wisely withdraw from the game. He told himself that he could live with the knowledge that
he'd
let Larry escape, that he could forgive himself under the circumstances. He told himself that he could deal with any consequences which might arise, that he could accept future travails in exchange for avoiding this one.

He told himself that he would wash his hands of Larry from that moment on, that he
wouldn
'
t
care what happened as a result of his resignation.

He told himself that everything would be okay.

He told himself that he could give up, get on with his life, and everything would be okay.

Everything would be okay.

He was out of his league;
he'd
done all that he could. It was time to cut his losses, quit while he was ahead.

Red and white and red and red and glistening.

He told himself that everything would be okay.

Everything would be okay.

He told himself that everything would be okay.

Then, he took a step toward the faceless kid.

*****

Chapter 32

The name; it was a clue. There was something important about it.

Dave told himself to think about the name.

Think about the name.

He vomited again.

The name the name the
name
.
What
was
it about the
name
?

He
ha
d
to think about the name, not the...

His stomach bolted with another painful expulsion.

...not the blood and smell and mess, not the mess where the face had been.

He told himself to think about the name. He tried to force down the awful vision, but it kept surging up like the contents of his stomach.

It had been worse the second time.
He'd
thought that he could steel himself, shut out the horror, focus only on the minutiae of his search...but his second visit to the kid had been much worse than the first.
He'd
been unable to close himself off from the atrocity, control his attention, edit his observation;
he'd
been unable to numb himself, dull the impact, sustain equilibrium.

He'd
been determined not to look at it; his resolve had been short
-
lived. Over and over, his eyes had been drawn to it, deflected from it, drawn to it, attracted and repelled in an awful repetition over which
he'd
had little control.

He'd
tried to see only the dirt and stone, narrow his vision to each small spot and fragment that
he'd
inspected;
he'd
failed. The corpse had seemed to keep popping up, leaping directly into his line of sight, thrusting itself at him as if it had craved his notice.

As vivid as his memory of the first visit had been,
he'd
thought that he might be somewhat used to the scene, that he might not be as dramatically affected by a second encounter. Since he
wouldn
'
t
be completely surprised as
he'd
been the first time,
he'd
hoped that he would be better prepared, able to minimize his reaction.

He
hadn
'
t
been better prepared. Each glimpse had shocked and sickened him, blindsided him afresh. Being so close to the corpse, being right in the trench with it instead of gazing down from the rim, had amplified its influence; walking around the mauled body during the search, seeing the mutilation from all angles, Dave had been gouged far more deeply than
he'd
expected.

And then
he'd
...

Again, he vomited.

...and then,
he'd
touched
it.

He'd
known that
he'd
had no other choice.
He'd
found nothing in the rest of the trench, nothing but blood..
.
and bits of...

He'd
found nothing, and there had been but one place left to look.

He'd
touched it.

Grimacing, gritting his teeth,
he'd
fluttered quivering hands over the mangled legs, had nudged them to peer at the dirt underneath.
He'd
found nothing.

With a tremendous effort,
he'd
pressed himself to go further. Eyes down, firmly down,
he'd
gingerly fished around the waist, had grazed fingers between the kid
'
s back and the earth. Still,
he'd
found nothing.

He'd
raised his eyes with great care then, allowed them to slip over the abdomen. Ever conscious of the limit, of what would confront him if he looked too far,
he'd
gazed at the corpse
'
s clothing, the white T
-
shirt slathered red, the red sweatpants soaked crimson.

Then,
he'd
seen the name.

It had been printed in a thin, black line on the waist of the sweatpants; at first glance, Dave had thought nothing of it, had dismissed it as a stain of oil or grease.
He'd
looked past it without pausing.

His eyes had then quickly shifted back to it.

Curiosity overcoming his revulsion,
he'd
moved closer, bent and squinted at the tiny strip of print.
He'd
had to dip still closer before the line had fully resolved itself.

There had been two words, just two. A name.

It must have been the kid
'
s name. His mother must have put it on his sweatpants so that they
wouldn
'
t
get mixed up with someone else
'
s at the youth center. She
couldn
'
t
have known that it would also serve to tag him after his death.

The name. As soon as
he'd
read it, Dave had felt that there was something important about it; it had been significant, of course, because it had identified the kid...but Dave had felt that there was something else, something beyond that. As the two words had tumbled through his mind, they had aroused something distant, spurred a murmur which he could sense but not quite hear.

He'd
thought that it was the clue for which
he'd
been searching, though
he'd
been unable to say exactly why.

And then...

And then, his eyes had drifted too far, and
he'd
been too close, and
he'd
seen...

Think about the name.

...pink and...

Think about the name.

...glistening and...

Think
about the name.

There had been flies.

Again, he retched. It was a dry heave; there
was nothing
left in his stomach.

He felt as if there
was nothing
left inside him at all.

Flies.

Think about the name.

Frank Hoffman. That was the name. There was something important about it, something that he felt he should know.

Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman.

It had a strange resonance, an odd weight; it seemed familiar, or...something.

Frank Hoffman.

Dave hefted it, tested it, turned it over in his mind. Slumped and sickly, kneeling on the hard stone many yards from the awful cleft, he hardly looked capable of coherent thought...and yet, he was scrutinizing that name, analyzing it intently as a jeweler appraising a precious gem. His concentration was remarkably keen, considering what
he'd
been through mere moments ago, considering...

There had been flies.

What
was
it about the
name
?
Had he heard it somewhere before? Certainly,
he'd
never seen the kid before today...

The kid; the kid had no face.

...and he
hadn
'
t
known this particular Frank Hoffman. Had he known another Frank Hoffman, a different person with the same name? Had he heard of such a person? Was that the connection, the vital clue?

Maybe; he
didn
'
t
know,
couldn
'
t
pin it down. He ransacked his memory, threw open every door, drawer and box, gazed into every corner, sent scuds of dust flying from antiques long untouched...and still, he
couldn
'
t
put his hands on the thing which had caused the name to stir him.

Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman.

What
was
it about that...

And then, he thought that he almost had it. He could feel himself approaching it,
knew
that it was
it
,
what he
needed
,
the key.

Frank Hoffman Frank Hoffman.

It was so
close
and he
reached
for it and...

Frank Hoffman.

And...

And then, he heard Billy Bristol shouting and he jumped and it was gone.

"
Shit
!
"
hollered Billy, and Dave could hear him running though he
didn
'
t
turn to look.
"
Dave! Shit! Dave, are you okay?
"

At his friend
'
s call, Dave was pelted by a hailstorm of different reactions: he bolted with surprise, rushed with crackling adrenalin; he felt a gust of relief because Billy was fine and had finally awakened; he was angry because the secret of the name had been within reach and had darted away like a spooked trout; he was embarrassed because he
didn
'
t
want Billy to see him at that moment, shot to hell and hunched over his own vomit; he panicked, wondered what he could say, how he could explain his wretched state, how he could persuade Billy to adhere to the plan; he second
-
guessed every detail of the plan, questioned his sanity, flailed about for a new idea; and, at the same time, his resolve to protect Billy was reinforced, for Billy
'
s first words on emerging from the trench had been expressions of concern for his welfare.

"
Dave
?
"
yelled Billy, swiftly approaching, feet padding rapidly over the stone.
"
Hey! Are you all right, man?
"

Breathing heavily, Dave struggled to collect himself. He knew that
he'd
reached a crucial time, the
most
crucial, and
he ha
d
to sweep aside his doubts and...

There had been flies.

...
sickness
and weakness, purge his insecurities and execute delicate maneuvers on which lives depended. He
couldn
'
t
afford to appear delusional or indecisive; above all else,
he had
to present a solid, rational facade. If he wished to manipulate Billy, he would have to seem to be in complete control of his faculties, show no obvious instability which Billy would spot immediately as a red flag; even then, he would have his work cut out for him.

"
Dave
!
"
shouted Billy, coming right up behind him.
"
Geez! Are you
okay
,
man?
"

"
Uh
-
huh,
"
grunted Dave, wiping his mouth on his arm before turning to look up at his friend.
"
I
'
m fine,
"
he said, casually as he could.

"
You don
'
t
look
fine,
"
frowned Billy.
"
You look like
shit
.
What
'
d that son of a bitch
do
to you, man?
"

Dave hesitated. His first impulse was to tell the truth, that Larry
hadn
'
t
laid a hand on him...but he quickly realized that a lie might better serve him. If he said that Larry had given him something of a beating, he would supply an explanation for why he
hadn
'
t
awakened Billy,
hadn
'
t
aided him when he could have. Apparently, Billy thought that Dave looked as if Larry had done something to him, so the lie would be believable.

"
Aw, he just slapped me around a little,
"
Dave said finally, massaging his shoulder for effect.
"
I
'
m okay, though.
"

"
Man, we oughtta
'
get you to the emergency room,
"
Billy said worriedly.
"
He might
'
ve messed you up worse than you think.
"