Backtracker (84 page)

"
I really don
'
t know,
"
admitted Dave.
"
Maybe calling won
'
t do any good, but I figure I might as well give it a shot.
"

"
Well, more power to ya
'
,
"
groused Billy, starting down the short hall toward his bedroom.
"
While you do that, I
'
ll get my .38.
"

Dave watched his friend disappear into the hall. Billy
'
s attitude seemed to be steadily worsening, his mood growing nastier; Dave
didn
'
t
find this to be a good omen. If Billy was already in such a crabby state, he could be hard to handle in later stages of the hunt for Larry.

Quickly brushing aside his concerns about Billy, realizing that other business was more pressing at the moment, Dave returned his attention to the directory and again found the two listings for
"
Michael Moses.
"
Concentrating on the first entry, the number for
"
Michael B.,
"
he lifted the phone receiver to his ear; he heard a rapid pulse like a busy signal, had to depress and release the cut
-
off button on the base of the receiver to conjure a dial tone.

Shifting his eyes between the listing in the book and the keypad on the receiver, Dave carefully punched in the sequence of numbers. Beeps of varying pitch emerged from the earpiece as each digit was entered; when the seventh and final button had been touched, there was a brief pause, then a click as the connection was completed.

Pressing the receiver to his ear, Dave took a deep breath, listened to the electronic warble as the phone on the other end of the line rang for attention.

No one picked up after the first ring. Tensely, Dave waited for a response, but there was none after the second or third rings, either.

The phone warbled a fourth time, then a fifth; still, no one answered at 1050 Central Avenue. The sixth and seventh rings produced the same result.

Deciding that there was nobody home, or nobody able to come to the phone, Dave lowered the receiver. His thumb moved to the cut
-
off button, his eyes dropped to the directory...and he heard a voice. Hastily, he snapped the receiver back up to his ear.

"
Hello
?
"
said someone at the other end of the connection.
"
Hello?
"
It was a woman; Dave thought that it sounded like an elderly woman.

"
Uh, hello
?
"
Dave said tentatively.
"
Is this the Moses residence?
"

"
Well, yes,
"
the woman replied slowly, her tone guarded.
"
Who is this?
"

"
I was just wondering if Mike could come to the phone,
"
said Dave.

"
No,
"
said the woman.
"
He can
'
t.
"

"
Could you tell me where I might be able to get hold of him
?
"
asked Dave.

"
Excuse me,
"
said the woman, a trace of annoyance in her voice.
"
Could you please tell me who this is?
"

"
I really need to speak with Mike,
"
pressed Dave.

"
That isn
'
t possible,
"
replied the woman, her tone growing harsher.
"
He isn
'
t here.
"

"
Is he at work
?
"
asked Dave.
"
Is there a number I could call where he works?
"

"
No,
"
said the woman.
"
He is
not
at work.
"

"
Look, I
'
m sorry for bothering you,
"
said Dave, shifting to a more conciliatory mode.
"
It
'
s just that I
really
need to talk to him.
"

"
You just
can
'
t
,
"
the woman retorted angrily.
"
My husband is dead.
"

Surprised by the information, Dave fell silent.

"
He
'
s been dead for the past
three months
,
"
snapped the woman.
"
Now, I don
'
t know who you
are
or what kind of
con job
you planned to put over on me, but I
'
ve got no
time
for you, mister!
"

Dave felt as if there was something that he should say, some sort of apology that he should make. He opened his mouth, tried to shape appropriate words...but all that emerged were a few stammered, incoherent syllables.

Before the widow could chastise him further, Dave hung up
on her. He cut her off in
mid
-
sentence, broke the connection just as she seemed ready to launch into a fiery tirade.

When the dial tone replaced the angry voice, Dave expelled a great sigh of relief. He took a moment to restore his composure; his nerves were so frazzled from the day
'
s traumatic events that the widow
'
s reaction had upset him.

When
he'd
calmed a bit, he looked to the directory spread in his lap. His eyes slid immediately to the left
-
hand page and the two listings which had most concerned him.

The first listing was no longer of any consequence; only the second retained any possible significance.

It was time to call
"
Moses Michael W.
"

Hesitantly, Dave punched in the number. With each digit that he entered, he grew more agitated, more anxious; he was afraid that this second call would prove as fruitless as the first.

When
he'd
finished tapping the correct sequence on the keypad, he raised the receiver to his ear. The phone rang three times...then three more.

There were four more rings, followed by another four. Dave continued to wait; he wanted to be absolutely sure that no one was going to answer before he concluded his effort.

Three more rings; three more after that. Dave
'
s leg began to bob up and down, bounce from the ball of his foot in a nervous release.

On the twenty
-
second ring, he finally decided to end the exercise; twenty
-
two rings were enough to make it clear that no one was home, or no one would pick up the phone.

Dave pressed the cut
-
off button on the mouthpiece. With a sigh, he slipped the receiver back into its cradle on the end table.

He closed the directory and placed it on the sofa beside him. Cupping his hands over his face, he paused to contemplate the results of his calls and assess their impact on his plan.

On the one hand, he was no further along than before; he still
didn
'
t
know Larry
'
s location with any degree of certainty,
couldn
'
t
even be sure that the madman was anywhere in the area. On the other hand, Dave believed that he now had a slim chance of tracking down the killer. Though
"
Michael B. Moses
"
would be no help,
"
Michael W.
"
hadn
'
t
yet been disqualified; Larry might indeed have gone to Kline, to 41 Park Road.

No one had answered the phone at 41 Park Road; this could have meant any number of things
-
that no one was home, or no one wanted to answer the phone, or no one
could
answer the phone. Dave knew that there was only one way to find out what was going on at the residence, one way to find out if Larry Smith was there or had been there.

One way; there was only one way to get to the bottom of the mess...or find, once and for all, that the mystery of Larry would never be solved.

"
Well, I
'
m ready,
"
muttered Billy Bristol, slouching back into the living room.
"
What
'
s next
?
"
he asked unenthusiastically, waving his .38 revolver before him.

"
We go for a drive,
"
Dave said coolly.
"
We go to Kline.
"

"
Huh,
"
grunted Billy.
"
Whereabouts in Kline?
"

"
41 Park Road, wherever that is.
"
Rising from the sofa, Dave stretched his arms wide and let loose a yawn. He felt a wave of great weariness roll through him...but he knew that he
couldn
'
t
rest, might not get the chance for many more hours.

"
Park Road, huh
?
"
said Billy.
"
So, what? Is our boy gonna
'
meet us there?
"

"
Beats the hell outta
'
me,
"
shrugged Dave.
"
Maybe.
"

"
So what do we do if he
'
s there
?
"
asked Billy.

"
I
'
m not sure,
"
said Dave, stepping toward the front door.
"
I guess we
'
ll just make it up as we go along.
"

"
Gee, great plan,
"
grumbled Billy.

"
Well, that
'
s the way it is,
"
Dave said firmly.
"
We won
'
t know what we might have to deal with till we get there.
"

"
Know what my plan is
?
"
asked Billy.
"
Know how I
'
m gonna
'
handle that S.O.B
.?
"

Pausing at the door, Dave looked to his partner. Nodding, Billy raised the gun, hefted it in his grip.

"
Right here,
"
said Billy Bristol.
"
This is my plan.
"

*****

Chapter 3
7

Ready to run, ready to explode, ready to sm
ash something, anything,
now
,
the Miraclemaker paced back and forth in the kitchen, flicking across the small space in quick bursts, three steps from one side to the other and then back and then
again
and then
back
and then again.

Hunched, glaring, clenched, he barreled between appliances, hurtling full
-
tilt toward the stove and then the refrigerator, bounding on a collision course but turning at the last possible instant and missing each by a hair
'
s breadth. His hands were socked deep in the pockets of his bluejeans, planted where they could do the least harm, yet they flexed and strained at the denim, fighting for release whenever something breakable came into view.

He was still alone.

He was still
alone
and his plan was
stalled
and he could wait no longer and where the hell
were
they?

Where were they?

He looked up and the cow was still there, the damn
cow
was there anyway and the big milk bottle was on the last hash mark before the
twelve
and the smaller bottle was on the
five
and he wanted to
scream
.

"
One minute till five
!
"
the yellow cow seemed to giggle down at him, all teeth and nostrils and bulging cartoon eyes.
"
One minute till fi
-
ive
!
"
it seemed to sing merrily, knowingly, mockingly.

One minute till five and where were they?

They
had
to show up
soon
,
thought the Miraclemaker. For over an hour and a half,
he'd
been waiting to manifest the final miracle, over an hour and a
half
and
surely
the chosen one would return at any minute. It was simply not
possible
that the delay would extend, that the last blessed subject would escape his destiny for more than an eye
-
blink, a finger
-
snap, a breath.

It
wasn
'
t
possible...

Not possible unless the chosen one had gone elsewhere for the evening or the weekend, had left town to visit relatives or friends, had gone on a trip from which he might not return for days and days and
then
oh
God
oh
then
all would
truly
be lost.

The Miraclemaker
didn
'
t
know what he would do if the chosen one
didn
'
t
arrive soon. His patience was exhausted; he was already crazed, out of his mind with worry, fit to burst from the pressure of needs unfulfilled. More importantly, he
couldn
'
t
linger in that house indefinitely,
couldn
'
t
just wait there for days; there were other homes nearby and he might attract the attention of neighbors, maybe even the local cops. He
couldn
'
t
go elsewhere, either; now that his crimes had been revealed, he
couldn
'
t
travel freely,
couldn
'
t
risk capture.

So
close
!
He was so
close
to success, glorious completion, his promised reward...and yet, he was blocked from victory, denied his final joy,
detained
when he should have been
accelerated
.
After coming so
far
, performing the
impossible
,
h
e was crippled, he was absolutely
paralyzed
and perhaps consigned to failure.

Desperately, he struggled to subdue his frustration, force his mind to the cool clarity of the golden line. He
couldn
'
t
do it; self
-
control eluded him as deftly as the chosen one. His head was full of roar and wrack and foam, ablaze and bolting.

Before he could stop himself, he looked to the clock, flung up his face to meet what he knew would but feed his affliction.

The cow was still grinning.

The Miraclemaker stopped pacing, just froze in the middle of the kitchen.

The smaller milk bottle pointed to the five.

Where were they?

The big milk bottle pointed to the two.

Where...were...they?

It was ten minutes after five o
'
clock.
He'd
been waiting...

He'd
been waiting for almost two hours and he was still...

WHERE?

...and he was still alone.

His upper lip curled in a snarl. As he glared at the clock, he felt something pop in his head.

With a guttural growl, he plunged suddenly across the room, sprung like a flung blade from the track that
he'd
paced for a seeming eternity. Wrenching his hands from his pockets, he leaped for the kitchen table.

With a savage kick, he sent one of the chairs airborne, launched it in an arc through the doorway into the living room. The projectile came down on a small table, descended with the satisfying smash of a shattering glass lamp.

Shimmering lamp
-
shards blew out and the table collapsed, broke apart under the chair. Before the debris had settled, the Miraclemaker had dived into another assault.

Eyes wide, he thrust his hands to either side of the kitchen table and jerked it from the floor. The remaining two chairs bucked away as he swung around with the table and hurled it across the room.

Propelled by the Miraclemaker
'
s fury, the table rammed the counter by the sink. The leading two legs of the table snapped off on impact, lashed back from the
Formica
overhang; the tabletop itself kept going, punched over the counter to crush a coffee maker and a heap of dishes against the wall.

With all obstacles finally out of his way, the Miraclemaker spun to face his true target. Marching to the wall which the table and chairs had blocked, he shot his hands up and latched onto the ridiculous clock. Hissing curses, he tore the taunting thing from the nail on which it had hung.

Rushing with fire, he swept the clock down and drove it around so that its black electrical cord jolted free of the wall socket. In a final surge, he heaved the dead thing across the kitchen, fired it with fastball speed against a metal cupboard.

There was a loud crack as the clock dashed upon the metal, erupting in jagged fragments of plastic.

For a moment then, the Miraclemaker
did nothing
, was content to stand and survey the damage that
he'd
done. Though he realized that he probably should have abstained from the mayhem, he felt infinitely better than
he had
before the clock
'
s obliteration. It had been worth the risk of alerting neighbors or passers
-
by to his presence, more than worth it to kill the cow which had grinned like cruel fate at his misfortune.

Breaking into a pleased smirk, the Miraclemaker took a step forward, kicked at the orange bits of clock scattered over the floor. His mouth spread into a full grin when he spotted a chunk of the cow; the ludicrous bovine face had been almost perfectly halved, split right down the middle.

Stooping, the Miraclemaker lifted the half of the cow
'
s face which lay at his feet. As if gloating over the bones of an enemy, he briefly contemplated the plastic chip, nodding with satisfaction as he turned it over in his grip. With a chuckle, he finally flicked the chip from his thumb into the sink.

Laughing as the lemon
-
yellow shard clattered into the porcelain basin, the Miraclemaker turned from his handiwork and started for the living room. He planned to stretch out on the couch for a spell, try to relax; now that
he'd
released some of his rage, he thought that he might be able to calm down and regain his equilibrium.

Striding over the threshold from the kitchen, he absentmindedly reached up to scratch his scalp. It was then that he happened to glance at his forearm.

He came to an abrupt halt.

A stunned grimace dropped over his face like a theater curtain dropping over a stage. He lowered his arm...and recoiled from the sight.

Sucking in his breath, he snapped his eyes shut. A chill shot through him.

No, he
couldn
'
t
look again. There was no need;
he'd
imagined it.

No.

Wincing, he opened his eyes.

He realized that he
hadn
'
t
imagined it.

Suddenly, the Miraclemaker felt nauseous. He felt bile bloom in his throat, had the urge to vomit immediately.

Gasping, gagging, he thrust his arm as far from him as he could. He wanted to expel it from his body altogether, cast it away, never set eyes on it again.

His
arm
.
Oh
God
, his
arm
!

Eyes glazed with revulsion and disbelief, he looked away from it, then back. Again, he averted his eyes
,
and again they were drawn back.

His arm...

His arm looked horrible. His right arm had changed...was changing before his eyes.

The underside of his arm was no longer smooth and pale. From the wrist to the elbow, the flesh had gone dark...but not dark like a bruise. The flesh had gone black, dead black, black as the rind of a burnt roast.

The rim of the black strip was cracked and furrowed. In some places, ragged fissures had opened up, revealing glistening black meat beneath the surface; in other spots, flakes of desiccated skin were peeling, curling up like fronds of charred paper.

The heart of the blackened patch was the worst. Blood
-
red blisters had erupted, bubbled up in a great, tight cluster. Some of the blisters were as big as his thumbnail; others were as small as the head of a tack. He could see that some had broken, leaving gaping sores, craters gleaming with a soup of blood and puss.

As he watched, the clot of boils pulsed visibly. One of them gently burst, disgorging a bloody ooze.

He could also see the black area expanding, slowly moving out from the fringes. Like a dye, the dark crept outward all around; pink flesh mottled and shifted to purple, then black.

His arm. It was
his
arm.

It was him.

He was rotting.

Another boil broke.
Shuddering, the Miraclemaker jammed his eyes shut, but it was too late; his gorge rose and he
couldn
'
t
stop himself from vomiting. Bending, keeping the corrupted arm stretched straight behind him, out of sight, he emptied his stomach onto the rug.

His arm; it was all that he could see, even with his eyes clamped tight. The vision lingered behind his lids, crystal
-
clear amid winking blue fireworks.

His arm.

Doubled over, the Miraclemaker retched violently, continued to heave even when there
was nothing
left to eject. Clutching his gut with his left hand, he convulsed again and again, caught by one quickfire spasm after another. His whole body shook and pumped furiously, every cell dedicated to the act as if it could somehow purge the infestation.

His arm. His arm.

Sputtering and hacking, the Miraclemaker lost himself for a time, receded before the waves of shock and sickness. When at last the spasms diminished and he again began to think coherently, he
wasn
'
t
grateful; he would have preferred thoughtless oblivion to the madness of reality.

Eyes still sealed, the Miraclemaker retched once more, then stopped convulsing. Gasping, he raised his left hand, drew the back of it across his chin and lower lip.

Suddenly, his eyes shot open. Heart hammering, he jerked the hand away from his face, pitched his head to one side in terrified anticipation.

Trembling, he peeked at his left arm from the corner of his eye. He felt nauseous all over again at the thought of what he might see, how close it had been to his mouth.

The Miraclemaker
'
s fear
didn
'
t
abate when he saw that the top of his arm appeared to be clear. He hesitated before looking further, dreading what he might find on the rest of his limb.