Backtracker (86 page)

Mouth lolling open, eyes pinched shut, Dave waited and hoped that he could do what had to be done.
He'd
gotten Billy out of the car; now,
he had
to keep him there.

"
Shit, man,
"
crabbed Billy, apparently more angry than concerned for his comrade.
"
What now?
"
His voice and footsteps approached quickly, drew close in a matter of seconds.

Dave
'
s heart beat faster; he could hear Billy stop right beside him, right above him.

"
Hey
!
"
clipped Billy.
"
You okay, man?
"

Dave
didn
'
t
respond. He remained perfectly still except for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

"
You okay, man
?
"
repeated Billy, his tone softening just a bit.

Again, Dave gave no answer.

"
Aw, shit,
"
said Billy.
"
Shit shit shit.
"

Heart dancing frantically, nerves buzzing like power lines, Dave heard Billy descend to crouch or kneel beside him. Billy
'
s hand gripped his shoulder, shook it gently.

"
Dave? Dave, can you hear me? Are you all right, man?
"
Billy
'
s voice was beginning to rise; finally, he was starting to sound flustered, worried about his friend
'
s condition...distracted, off
-
guard.

"
Hey Dave
!
"
Billy hailed more stridently, shaking the shoulder more forcefully.
"
Can you hear me at all? Can you talk to me, man?
"

Dave remained limp and silent. He waited to make his move...partly, because he wanted the timing to be right, but also because he was afraid to go through with it. He was worried about hurting Billy...and just as worried about failing in the gambit.

"
Aw, come on, Dave,
"
Billy said pleadingly.
"
Come on and answer me, man.
"

Dave continued to wait, all the while striving to reinforce his resolve.

"
Damnit,
"
said Billy, shaking Dave
'
s shoulder more insistently than ever.
"
That son of a bitch Larry must
'
ve messed you up worse than you thought.
"

Dave
didn
'
t
move.

"
Can you
hear
me
?
"
hollered Billy, and then he paused.
"
I better get you an ambulance,
"
he muttered tensely.
"
Don
'
t worry, man. I
'
ll flag somebody down to go call one, and I
'
ll be right back.
"

Billy
'
s hand left Dave
'
s shoulder.

Dave waited for just a heartbeat, knew that he could wait no more.

He made his move.

Snapping his eyes open, he saw that Billy was still on his knees but looking away.

Now or never, thought Dave.

Now or never,
he chanted to himself, and then he sprung at his friend.

*****

Chapter
3
9

When he first heard the car outside, the Miraclemaker paused for just a second, just a blink. Everything about him hung suspended as he hovered at the cusp, the long
-
awaited brink of his final and greatest performance.

His face was turned toward the front door, the portal through which his chosen prey would soon advance; the thin, glossy streaks of tears marked his cheeks, and his eyes were wide. He still slumped against the living room wall, boots planted amid fragments of glass in the green shag rug; his palms were flattened against the wallpaper, arms spread stiffly with undersides hidden, rot concealed.

Listening as tires ground over the driveway gravel, he felt strangely unmoved, not at all as
he'd
dreamed he would feel at the end of his crusade. Though
he'd
worried, just moments ago, that his prey
wouldn
'
t
come and the mission would fail, he
didn
'
t
now rejoice; no swell of delight or relief bloomed within him, no rapturous warmth coursed through him. Amazingly, he
wasn
'
t
excited,
didn
'
t
know the familiar thrill which had so energized him before other miracles. The savage, sacred flame in his heart
wasn
'
t
active; the blaze of rage and hatred which had driven him all along was at a low ebb, had dimmed instead of flaring.

It
wasn
'
t
right. He knew that he should be overjoyed, seething with fury and will, barely able to restrain himself from racing outside to expedite his vengeance. After his long wait, with success so close, he should be transfigured, ecstatic and invigorated...not dulled and hollow, enervated, numb. His mind should be swirling with circus
-
bright visions of the impending miracle...not visions of the rotting arm and the rot yet to come and the darkness which would surely soon engulf him.

It was a crime, a real crime to have reached the threshold only to become desensitized; it was a shame to lose heart when the prize of a lifetime was soon to be his. He felt that much at least, he felt cheated, unjustly robbed of emotion when he should have been reveling in it.

Outside, a car door slammed.

As uninspired as he was, the Miraclemaker stirred at the cue. He would do what
he'd
come to do, would work the last miracle; he might not rightfully relish it, but he
wouldn
'
t
walk away without finishing his work.

Pushing away from the wall, the Miraclemaker made a quick scan of his surroundings, a last check of the battleground
-
to
-
be. Abruptly, he realized that
he'd
made a mistake, a potentially disastrous one: during his tantrum, when
he'd
hurled a chair from the kitchen,
he'd
created a shoal of debris in the living room...a mess which could alert his guests to danger the instant that the door was opened. As soon as they looked in, they would see the smashed table, the scatter of glass, the misplaced and upside
-
down chair; the sign of intrusion and destruction might send them fleeing in a flash, bolting like rabbits before one foot had even been set in the house.

There was no time to clear away the rubble. The blunder
couldn
'
t
be reversed; the Miraclemaker would just have to accept it and hope for some luck. If his victims turned tail at the door, he would take a shot at running them down...or at least the one of them who counted. Though
he'd
planned to act without drawing the attention of witnesses, he was now beyond the point of caring if any neighbors or passers
-
by saw him; he
wouldn
'
t
live much longer anyway, so he truly
had nothing
to lose.

Another car door slammed.

Hastily, the Miraclemaker stepped through the field of debris, careful to avoid the larger spurs of broken glass. Crouching below the level of the two small windows set in the door, he glided into a corner beside the entrance. The door would open toward him, blocking him from view; once the door was closed, he would be in plain sight...but he
didn
'
t
intend to give his prey enough time to shut the thing and have a look around.

As he fit himself into the corner, he heard footsteps in the driveway, then on the sidewalk. He heard voices, too
-
those of the woman and the man, the husband and wife.
He'd
heard the voices before, during his many surveillances of the site; the woman
'
s voice boomed, was much deeper and louder than the man
'
s lazy, muffled drawl.

From his post, the Miraclemaker could hear the woman most clearly, even before she approached the door. She was arguing with her husband, berating him for something that
he'd
said to a friend of hers. Even when the husband was speaking from just the other side of the door, the Miraclemaker
couldn
'
t
pick out exactly what he was saying.

Keys jangled. The Miraclemaker heard what he thought was the rustle of packages, perhaps the crumple of brown paper grocery bags. The next sound was unmistakable: the scrape of a key sliding into the door
'
s lock.

Though he still felt no fire, the Miraclemaker tensed and primed himself for the ambush.

The key turned. With a clack, the lock bolt popped from its socket in the door frame.

As the doorknob turned, the woman said something about beer and cigarettes. She was upset that her husband
hadn
'
t
bought more; she declared that he would have to go back out for additional supplies later that evening.

The husband mumbled something indecipherable, and the door swung open.

For an instant, there was silence. Braced in his corner, the Miraclemaker listened and waited; he concentrated on his prey, tried to will them into entering the house instead of running from the premises.

"
Damn,
"
said the husband, his voice level, lacking any note of surprise.
"
Look at this, will ya
'
.
"

"
What the hell
?
"
blurted the woman.

"
Guess we got robbed,
"
the husband said listlessly.

Come in,
the Miraclemaker thought urgently.
Come on,
he pressed impatiently...and he finally felt a flicker of his old intensity.

"
What
dumb
son of a bitch would rob
us
?
"
the woman snorted sarcastically.

"
Maybe your brother stopped by,
"
retorted the husband.

"
Go to hell,
"
huffed the woman.
"
You
'
re more a worthless sack of shit than
he
is,
"
she charged snidely as she stormed through the doorway.

The Miraclemaker was pleased. Things would go his way, after all; his guests
weren
'
t
smart enough to retreat.

Paper crumpled as the husband shuffled into the room. On his way in, he bumped the door, pushing it further open; the Miraclemaker held his breath...but the door
didn
'
t
swing wide enough to reveal him.

"
Look
at this shit
!
"
barked the woman. She kicked at some of the debris, sending bits of the table clattering.
"
Damnit anyhow! There
'
s even
puke
!
They
puked
on my carpet!
"

"
Guess we pissed
'
em off,
"
sighed the husband.
"
They must
'
a been pissed
'
cause we didn
'
t have nothin
'
good for
'
em to rip off.
"

The wife cursed violently, then stopped for a beat.
"
Oh my God
!
"
she exploded.
"
The
kitchen
, too!
"
Spewing an even wilder stream of expletives, she stomped through the living room rubble, hastening toward the next scene of destruction.

"
Geez,
"
muttered the husband, remaining by the door.
"
Just what I needed.
"

"
Shit
!
"
roared the woman.
"
Son of a bitch!
"

The wife bellowed, the husband sighed and mumbled...and then, a third voice rose.

The Miraclemaker
'
s eyes widened at the sound. He felt the sting of fresh adrenaline; his heart began to gallop.

The third voice was like the hymn of an angel, signaling the start of the final miracle. To the Miraclemaker, it was as welcome and lovely as the pealing of church bells, the singing of choirs.

There; he heard it grow louder. He closed his eyes and let it rush into him. The woman was still shouting, the man was still mumbling, but the Miraclemaker shut them both out; the third voice alone sailed into him, soothingly filled him.

The spark of his dormant vigor began to grow bright. The vision of his rotting limb receded, and he knew that the old fervor would soon fully return.

He was ready; thanks to the third voice, he was ready to resume his holy work...and he would
savor
it.

The Miraclemaker clenched and unclenched his fists. He prepared to leap from his corner and work magic once more.

In the kitchen, the third voice, the voice of the chosen one, continued its song.

In the kitchen, the infant continued to wail.