Backtracker (82 page)

"
So what
'
s the big deal, then
?
"
wondered Bil
ly, again looking bewildered.
"
You think
'
Hoffman
'
is Larry
'
s real last name, maybe, and the kid was related or something?
"

"
No no no,
"
sputtered Dave, so thrilled with his deductions that he wanted to blurt them all out at once.
"
It
has
to be a phony name. Here
'
s the thing, all right? Larry called himself
'
Mike Hoffman
'
when he rented his room. He told the priest at the youth center that he was
'
Frank Moses.
'
'
Mike Hoffman
'
...
'
Frank Moses.
'"

"
Uh
-
huh,
"
nodded Billy, frowning intently.

"'
Frank
Moses
'
,
"
beamed Dave.
"'
Mike
Hoffman
.
'
Put them together and you get...
"

"'
Frank Hoffman
'
!
"
burst Billy, eyes lighting up as he made the connection.

"
Exactly
!
"
pounced Dave, punching his thumb in the air though the latest car had already darted past.
"'
Frank Hoffman
'
!
You take part of
one
of Larry
'
s phony names and part of the
other
and you
'
ve got the name of the
kid
he killed!
"

"
Holy shit,
"
muttered Billy, and then he chuckled.
"'
Frank Hoffman.
'
That slick son of a bitch.
"

"
No
way
could that be a
coincidence
!
"
declared Dave.
"
It must be how he comes up with the phony names he uses! He mixes together the names of the people he
'
s going to kill!
"

"
Sounds about right,
"
agreed Billy.
"
Sounds like something a sick bastard like him would do.
"

"
Now we know who he
'
s gonna
'
kill next
!
"
Dave hurled exuberantly.
"
We just put together what
'
s left of the two names!
"

"
So we
'
ve got
'
Mike
'
...,
"
started Billy.

"
...and
'
Moses
'
!
"
finished Dave.
"'
Mike Moses
'
!
That
'
s
who Larry
went after!
That
'
s
the guy he said he
'
d kill
next
!
"

"
Well, maybe,
"
Billy said hesitantly.
"
Or maybe it
'
s somebody he
'
s killed
already
.
"

"
No. No, that isn
'
t it,
"
Dave foisted
quickly,
realizing, as he did so, that Billy might be right. Maybe,
'
Mike Moses
'
was
the name of a past victim; after all, Larry
hadn
'
t
told Dave the names of everyone whom
he'd
murdered, and it was possible that there had been many more victims than Larry had revealed.

"
How do you know
?
"
Billy asked skeptically.
"
How do you know that
'
s not some guy who
'
s already dead?
"

"
I
'
ve just got a hunch,
"
Dave replied firmly. He decided to stick to his theory about the names; even though it might be inaccurate, it was his only hope of finding Larry and executing the plan.

"
Oh, brother,
"
drawled Billy, rolling his eyes.
"
Not another hunch!
"

"
Hey, don
'
t knock it,
"
said Dave.
"
My
last
hunch was a pretty good one. I had a
feeling
there was something important about the kid
'
s name.
"

"
Must
'
ve been your woman
'
s intuition,
"
cracked Billy.

"
Aw, screw you,
"
Dave retorted as he flagged another approaching car.
"
Only thing that matters is that I was right...and I think I
'
m
still
right. Anyway, even if I
'
m
wrong
, what
'
s the difference? We might as well follow up on this, y
'
know? We
'
ve got nothing
else
to try at this point.
"

"
We
could
go straight to the
cops
,
"
offered Billy.

"
Like I said,
"
shrugged Dave,
"
we
'
ve got nothing
else
to try. Might as well follow up on this angle.
"

"
Follow up, follow up,
"
Billy sighed grouchily.
"
How do you suppose we
'
re gonna
'
follow up
on this? All we
'
ve got
'
s a
name
that might belong to someone who
'
s already six feet under! Hell, for all we know, the name might not even belong to
anyone
.
Maybe Larry took the
'
Frank
'
and the
'
Hoffman
'
parts from the kid
'
s name and then just
made up
the
'
Mike
'
and the
'
Moses
'
parts.
"

"
No way,
"
Dave negated as the car dove past him.
"
After he went to the trouble of using the name of one victim, I
'
m sure he
'
d use the name of the next one instead of just pulling something out of thin air. As for following up on this...well, all we have to do is get a phone book and look up
'
Moses.
'"

"
A local phone book
?
"
asked Billy.

"
Yeah,
"
nodded Dave.
"
I agree with you that he
'
s probably still in town somewhere.
"

"
So, what if there
'
s more than one
'
Moses
'
?
"

"
We
'
ll just have to check them all,
"
said Dave as another car ignored his thumb and flashed past.
"
Hopefully, we
'
ll find a listing for
'
Mike
'
or
'
M. Moses.
'"

"
What if there aren
'
t
any
'
Moses
'
s
'
listed?
"

"
I guess we
'
ll be out of luck,
"
shrugged Dave.

"
Maybe the guy
'
s number and address
'
re unlisted.
"

"
Like I said, we
'
ll be out of luck.
"

"
So we
'
ll get the cops then
?
"
Billy asked expectantly.

"
Maybe,
"
said Dave,
"
but I
'
ve got a feeling we won
'
t need to. I
'
ve got a feeling we
'
re on the right track.
"

"
Well, nothing personal here,
"
sighed Billy,
"
but I hope we
'
re not.
"

"
We
'
ll see,
"
said Dave.
"
We
'
ll just see what happens.
"

*****

Chapter
35

The Miraclemaker sat rigidly at the kitchen table, hands folded neatly before him. His ears were alert for any sound; his face was tipped upward, eyes trained steadily on the wall
-
clock.

The round shell of the clock was of a garish orange plastic, the col
or of a hunter
'
s
blaze
-
orange cap. An electrical cord ran from the base of the shell and disappeared under the table.

The Miraclemaker hated the clock. He
wasn
'
t
offended by its color or the loud, constant buzz which emanated from it; its design
didn
'
t
bother him, either, not even the lemon
-
yellow cow face grinning incongruously at its center.

He hated the clock simply because it showed him the time. He hated the clock because it reminded him of his miscalculation.

The hands of the clock were shaped like milk bottles. The smaller bottle was pointing at the number four on the rim of the clock
'
s face; the larger bottle was suspended midway between the numbers two and three.

It was almost a quarter past four o
'
clock.

The Miraclemaker had been waiting for nearly an hour.

Yet again, he cursed himself for his error; his teeth clenched and his folded hands clamped more tightly together.
He had
to forcibly restrain himself from lashing out, pounding the table or casting a glass across the room in a furious explosion.

It
wasn
'
t
yet the time for violence, he told himself; he could release his rage later, put it to good use. Control was crucial, he told himself;
he had
to accept his mistake and adapt to its consequences, check his emotions and focus only forward like the perfect golden line.

Still...

He'd
bee
n waiting for almost an hour.
He'd
been so unbelievably
careless
.

There was no one in the house but him; his target
wasn
'
t
home. After all his meticulous devotion to detail, the Miraclemaker had overlooked one critical point:
he'd
failed to verify whether or not his next target would actually be
home
at the appropriate time.

The Miraclemaker was in the right place. He was in the right frame of mind, fresh from his latest masterpiece, more than ready to dance once more. He was on the threshold of success, and all obstacles had been swept aside...but no one was home.

No one was home, and it was a quarter past four.

He
hadn
'
t
anticipated such a setback. Several times over the past few weeks,
he'd
watched the house, observing the habits of its occupants; never had his target left the place in the morning or afternoon. That, combined with the very nature of the target, had seemed proof enough, and
he'd
concluded that the target would be in position when the time came for action. He
hadn
'
t
seen the need for a last
-
minute check of the site,
hadn
'
t
conceived alternate measures;
he'd
thought that he could simply stroll in when he was ready and perform his glorious work...and
he'd
been wrong.

Of all the
times
to be
wrong
!
There he was, with only one step remaining, one final miracle to realize, and he was
stymied
.
The end of his work was in sight, the culmination of his plan so
near
, and he could do nothing, nothing but
wait
.
He'd
labored so
hard
, suffered so much...and now, because
he'd
weakened, taken one factor for granted, his whole effort could come to naught.

Valiantly, the Miraclemaker strove to turn his thoughts elsewhere, away from his indiscretion; he failed miserably. All that he could do was flog himself for the mistake, worry about what it might cost him.

He watched the clock like a student awaiting the end of an interminable class: the big milk bottle had shifted to the second hash
-
mark past the three.

It was seventeen minutes after four o
'
clock.

How many more minutes would drop away before the target entered the Miraclemaker
'
s ravenous, blessed grasp? Would the wait last another unendurable hour? Would it drag on
-
God forbid
-
for
more
than an hour, for
several
hours, maybe? Would the target even arrive that afternoon...that evening...that
night
?
The Miraclemaker had no idea.

He
couldn
'
t
guess when the recipient of his affections would come to him; he
didn
'
t
know where the chosen one had gone, and so
couldn
'
t
estimate the time of his reappearance. There were no clues to be found anywhere in the house, no indications of where or for how long the target had gone; the Miraclemaker had searched
thoroughly
for some sign, but had come up empty. For all that he knew, his pre
y could have gone to the moon.

The big milk bottle was on the fourth hash
-
mark past the three: nineteen minutes after four o
'
clock.

With great difficulty, the Miraclemaker finally managed to divert his thoughts, step away from his self
-
recrimination. He permitted himself an interlude of reminiscence, reviewed the triumphant campaign which
he'd
conducted so far.

Even now, his accomplishments warmed him, rekindled his flagging spirit; even now, they delighted him, surprised him. Strangely, he still found it hard to believe that
he'd
done any of it, that his wondrous feats had been anything more than the vivid dreams to which
he'd
clung for so long. The miracles truly seemed dreamlike to him now, distant and fantastic, impossibly perfect configurations of his heart
'
s desire.

The memories of certain moments perforated the sense of illusion, though, reasserting the reality of his works: he could never dismiss as a dream his execution of Debby Miller, that pinwheeling thrill when
he'd
crushed her neck beneath his boot; likewise, he relished the image of Steve Kimmel
'
s blazing corpse, the burning mansion, too
-
both beatific torches which
he'd
nurtured to brilliance; then, of course, there was Martin, the manager, and the wheezing, gurgling song that
he'd
sung as his throat opened like the bud of a flower.

Yes, there were plenty of moments to highlight his remembrances, contrast them from his earlier fantasies...and, he was sure, there would be at least a few more of those moments. There would be one more miracle to savor; it would certainly provide a splendid entertainment, a sumptuous abundance of emotion and sensation. The last course of this banquet would be the most delicious, not only because of its taste, but because it
was
the last course.

For a brief time, the Miraclemaker contented himself with imagining his next kill, visualizing every detail with loving attentiveness. He felt a growing excitement as he pictured each bloody defilement, each cut that he envisioned like the brush
-
stroke of a painter.

Then, his reverie ended. Abruptly, he remembered that he
couldn
'
t
perform the miracle,
couldn
'
t
yet make his vision a reality because his artist
'
s medium, the prey
'
s flesh, was elsewhere.

His eyes, which had drifted from the wall
-
clock, again leaped upward.

The big milk bottle was on the number five: it was twenty
-
five minutes after four o
'
clock, and the lemon
-
yellow cow face was still grinning.

A fresh surge of nervous energy billowed within the Miraclemaker, pressing like a tide against his ribs. His pulse quickened; he felt warmer, uncomfortably warm. All his muscles tightened, straining at the influx of power which demanded to be released.

He wanted to move. For too long,
he'd
been sitting at the kitchen table, allowing his anger and frustration to boil and build like the charge of a geyser. He felt as if
he had
to do something, anything, even if it served no purpose, even if he just got up and walked in circles. It was destructive, he knew, to remain glued to the chair, to watch each minute flick past and endlessly contemplate his mistake.

The Miraclemaker decided to rise. He unfolded his hands, slid them to the edge of the table to propel himself back and up...and then, he froze.

A sound;
he'd
heard the sound of a car door slamming.

It had come from nearby, he was sure.

His heart jumped; adrenaline wildfire raced through him. His head swung to the left, his ear cocked in the direction from which the sound had come.

Another car door slammed.

Eyes wide, jaws clenched, the Miraclemaker waited for what he hoped would come next
-
the sound of the front door opening, the voices and footsteps of his guests. Rushing with sweet relief and anticipation, he barely managed to hold himself back, keep from sprinting outside at that instant to fold the prey in his fatal embrace.

A moment passed. His impatience quickly spinning out of control, the Miraclemaker continued to listen and wait, longing for his cue, his signal to act.

The signal
didn
'
t
come. Another moment fizzled away, and still no one opened the front door of the house, no one entered.

Frowning, the Miraclemaker listened for one more moment, straining to catch even the faintest of sounds, the dimmest note of the preamble to his vicious score. Still, there
was nothing
.

Pushing his chair back from the table, he rose and slipped cautiously from the kitchen to the adjacent living room. Stealthily, ears still primed to receive the slightest sound, he maneuvered to the wide front window; prepared to bolt back into the shadows at any second, he peeled aside one tattered drape and peeped into the sunlight.

He saw an empty driveway; the driveway in front of the house was as vacant as it had been when
he'd
first arrived.

His prey
hadn
'
t
come home. The slamming car doors had been a false alarm.

Casting his gaze beyond the driveway and across the street, he spotted the source of the sounds which had prematurely roused him: a bright green Volkswagen Beetle was parked in front of the house directly opposite that in which the Miraclemaker lurked. The Volkswagen
hadn
'
t
been there earlier; someone must have just parked it and gone into the house.

Cursing, the Miraclemaker chucked the drape back into place and swung away from the window. A great rage thrashed within him, kicking and bucking like an animal caged in his chest; his eyes switched from side to side, sweeping over the living room furnishings, seeking some object that he could smash to vent his explosive wrath.

Sighting a lamp on one of the end tables, he took two steps forward...and then, he halted. Fists balled tightly at his sides, he ducked his head and snapped his eyes shut.

Control;
he had
to regain control.
He
had
to shed his anger at once, snuff his steaming frustration, replace all emotion with cold acceptance and patience. To lose himself in impulsive rages would be to weaken his single
-
minded resolve, deplete his vital energies; throwing tantrums would only thrust him further off center, push him from the stable core to which he needed to hold in order to work his next miracle.
He ha
d
to keep his
focus
, allow no variance in his temperament, no room for additional mistakes;
he
ha
d
to remember that all
wasn
'
t
yet lost, that his one miscalculation
hadn
'
t
yet ruined him...but one more could.