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    Backtracker
    Backtracker
    Backtracker
    Ebook797 pages12 hours

    Backtracker

    By Robert Jeschonek

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Meet the ultimate serial killer. The Miraclemaker comes and goes like a ghost in the night, taking lives by the score as if he were Death himself. The streets run red with the blood of his victims. Only one man knows he exists, one man who loses everyone he ever cared about, one by one, to the hands of the killer. This man, Dave Heinrich, sets out on a desperate hunt to stop the Miraclemaker at any cost. But does Dave stand a chance against a murderer who just might have a connection to terrifyingly dark and powerful supernatural forces? A murderer whose deepest secret could rock Dave's world to its very foundations? Bodies pile up...time runs out...and the mystery of the Backtracker is about to unleash the ultimate evil and bring about a blood-drenched hell on Earth. Don't miss this exciting tale by storyteller Jason Koenig, a master of unique and unexpected supernatural thrillers that really pack a punch.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRobert Jeschonek
    Release dateNov 20, 2018
    ISBN9781466144026
    Backtracker

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      Book preview

      Backtracker - Robert Jeschonek

      CHAPTER 1

      For a split-second, he tasted cool air and opened his eyes to look around. Then, he hit the water with a sudden, violent force, and could no longer breathe.

      As he sank, the water rushed into him, flooding his lungs, freezing him from the inside as well as the outside. Stunned and numb, he dropped further into the icy reaches, propelled by the momentum of his fall. Down, down he plunged, a senseless, dead weight, stars flashing behind the lids of his eyes, blooming and winking like holiday fireworks.

      Then, instinctively, desperately, he flung away the shock, heaved it off like a blanket, and he realized what was happening.

      He was drowning! For God's sake, he was drowning!

      With renewed awareness, he fought the water, flailed and kicked and twisted wildly. Still sinking, he writhed and pedaled, battered at the frigid envelope, struggling to end his descent. He couldn't let it stop him; there was so much to do.

      Though his limbs were numb and his lungs burned, and the fireworks on his eyelids blazed more brilliantly than ever, he surged with strength at the thought of his mission. Thrashing his legs against gravity, he felt himself slowing, felt the speed of his fall diminish. He continued to kick at the water, and finally felt himself stop, and then he opened his eyes and looked up.

      Above him, there wasn't anything but blackness.

      How far down was he? How many feet had he sunk?

      Closing his eyes then, he started for the surface, trying to think only of what he had to do, not how far he had to swim. He chopped his hands and feet through the water, pushed against it with all his might. Propelling himself upward, he focused on his dream, climbed toward the open air with all the force of will with which he'd pressed toward his dream's fruition.

      He had to survive, had to get there, had to do it. Everything depended on this moment.

      He wondered how far he was from the surface. He'd been swimming for so long, and he still wasn't there yet. How far...how far?

      A sharp tingling sparked over his body, and he felt himself weaken, begin to succumb. Squinting upward, he saw only more blackness, a mercilessly dark infinity.

      He was drowning! He was going to die.

      It wasn't fair. He'd come so far.

      He gave himself a final push, a last, angry jolt, and cursed the world for the millionth time. After all it had done to him, how dare it rob him of his last chance?

      And then, he couldn't kick any more.

      Full of rage, a hurricane rage, he stopped swimming.

      Miraculously, he felt himself breaking the surface.

      Shooting his head up and back, he choked, spat water from his lungs, gulped at the air. He slipped under again, but wouldn't let it grab him this time, instead kicked and swept his arms so that he could regain the surface. Bolting his head upward once more, he coughed up water, gagged and spat and actually took in some air.

      Snapping his eyes open, he gaped at what lay around him. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight to see the rippling surface of the lake, the tree-lined silhouette of the shore.

      The shore was a long way off.

      Still kicking and sweeping at the water, he managed to slowly turn around. Watching the shoreline, he saw it fold away in the distance, curl along the length of the lake. Turning, he followed the curve of the shore, watched it reach a final, far extension and roll back toward him. That tree-lined rim flexed away into a wide cove, then angled sharply inward, protruding into the lake before it swept off toward a distant dam. When he'd finished his rotation, he realized that the protrusion was the closest point to where he floated, and he started to swim toward it.

      Though it was the closest point, it was still far away, and would take him a long time to reach. He was bolstered, however, strengthened with fresh, flaming resolve; he'd blown himself back from the brink of death, and he had so much to do, and he couldn't give up.

      Freezing, aching, gagging, he dragged himself across the lake with long, painful strokes of his arms. As he crawled toward the shore, he felt jubilant, thrilled to have survived this latest misfortune.

      And he felt excited, full of anticipation for his coming venture.

      He reviewed his plans, all the places he had to visit...

      ...all the things he had to do...

      ...all the people he had to kill.

      CHAPTER 2

      Like Indians from an old Western movie, the lot of them swarmed toward Dave Heinrich, attacking him in a wild, flurrying pack. Stunned by the sudden attack, he hesitated in the doorway for a precious instant--and by the time he'd decided to turn around and flee, it was too late for an escape.

      Yaaaa! shouted the three ambushers in a mad chorus, pouncing like lions on their shell-shocked prey.

      Hey! wailed Dave as he struggled to fend off the lunatics. Let go!

      Forget it! hollered one of the hooligans, locking Dave's right arm in a tight grip. You're comin' with us, buddy-boy!

      Yeah! one of the others snickered gleefully. You're goin' for a little dip, buster!

      Gritting his teeth, Dave pivoted in their grip, wrenched and squirmed and tried to find a weak point in the holds of his kidnapers. Helplessly, he felt them bounce and jostle him through the basement, watched clusters of faces flash past as he traveled unwillingly onward.

      Don't do it! he yelped as they passed through a doorway and the cold night air licked at his face. Come on! Put me down!

      Hey guys! crowed one of the attackers. He wants us to put him down! Whatta' you say?

      If the man wants down, let's put 'im down! laughed another of the hooligans. We aims to please!

      The three captors stopped in their tracks then, and Dave was hoisted higher. Noooo! he screamed as they swung him back and forth, one guy holding his legs, one at each of his shoulders.

      One! they all hooted in unison, swooping him forward.

      Lemme' go! shrieked Dave, gaping down at the moonlit ripples which awaited him.

      Two! belted the trio of crazies, swinging him forward again, higher this time.

      Put him down! commanded an angry, familiar voice then, the voice of Dave's girlfriend, Darlene. This isn't funny!

      Threeee! barked the squad of nuts at last, swinging their prisoner higher than ever and finally releasing their hold on him.

      Unable to stop himself, Dave coasted through the air and came down with a great splash in the freezing water of the swimming pool. Though he was fully clothed and even wore a coat, he felt a sharp, terrible shock when he hit that water, a keen, blinding burn which pierced his body. All sound disappeared as he plunged downward, as he dropped for an instant into another world, a realm of cold and quiet and darkness.

      His feet touched the bottom of the pool. Immediately, he thrust himself upward.

      Erupting from the surface, he leaped toward the sky and howled.

      How's the water, Dave? said one of the ambushers.

      Geez! yelped the victim, moving as fast as he could through the chest-high ice-water, aiming for the ladder which hung from the lip of the pool. "Thanks a hell of a lot, you guys!"

      Any time, man! chattered wiry Billy Bristol, grinning crazily. We figured you'd like to go for a swim!

      I'll tell ya' what, cackled broad-shouldered Jack Bunsen. "When you show up at a party, you sure make a big splash, Dave!"

      Thanks, Dave said bitterly, grabbing the cold metal frame of the pool's ladder. Thanks for nothing. Tugging himself upward, he found the bottom rung with his sneaker and clambered out of the frigid water.

      Dave! piped Darlene, rushing up the wooden steps which ascended from the patio to the deck around the pool. Are you all right?

      Oh, just great, said Dave. As the water ran and dribbled from his soaked clothes, smacking and pattering onto the deck, he folded his arms and hunched forward, trying to warm himself.

      Her wide, dark eyes filled with concern, Darlene touched his elbow and gently guided him forward. Let's hurry and get you inside, she said, leading him down the deck stairs. I don't want you to catch pneumonia.

      Shivering as the March breeze fluttered over his face, Dave nodded. He felt a little better now that Darlene was taking care of him.

      Hey Dave! said Morris Blovitz, the third of the three guys who'd thrown him in the pool. Now you're a member of the Polar Bear Club! Better known by his nickname, Boris was overweight and jocular, an eccentric character who always triggered mayhem.

      Wonderful, said Dave. Just what I've always wanted.

      Led by Darlene, Dave shuffled past the others. Any other time, he would have joined right in with their joking; he and Billy and Jack and Boris were great friends. Since the dunking, though, Dave just wanted to get inside the house and dry off.

      Hey Dave. Billy hustled toward his sopping-wet victim. Wait up, man.

      Aw, buzz off, grumbled Dave, following Darlene to the basement door.

      Hold on a minute. Billy sprang forward to grab Dave's shoulder.

      Dave turned an irritated frown on him. What?

      You're not really mad, are you? Billy's bright blue eyes twinkled mischievously. I mean, it was just a joke, y'know? Expectantly, he watched for Dave's reaction, hopefully flashing his childlike smile.

      Yeah, yeah, said Dave.

      You gotta' admit, said Billy. "If that had been me getting tossed in the pool, you would've thought it was pretty damn funny."

      Dave thought it over, wiping the water from his nose with the back of one hand. Yeah, he said finally. I guess that would've been funny.

      Well, see then? Billy spread his arms wide. It was funny! You gave everybody a good laugh! You oughtta' be glad, not mad!

      You know what? said Dave. I think you're completely trashed right now.

      I am! I am! Billy laughed. We all are!

      Honest to God, said Darlene. You're just like a little kid, Billy. Come on, Dave.

      Hey, Dave, said Billy. Don't stay mad for too long, okay? It's not good for ya'.

      Yeah, said Dave. Sure.

      CHAPTER 3

      Cross Creek.

      So that was where the half-drowned man had arrived-Cross Creek State Park. It said so on the wide wooden sign atop the grassy slope which rose from the beach. He would have immediately recognized the place if it hadn't been nighttime, or if he hadn't been so busy trying to keep himself from drowning. Though he hadn't been there for ages, there had been a time in his life when he'd passed many hours on that very beach.

      Leaning back against the sign, he looked around, remembering long-ago summer afternoons. Those days had been full of beach towels and radios and sunshine, warm breezes and bitingly cold lake water that made you holler when you plunged yourself into it. Girls in bikinis would stroll around with cool sodas in their hands, their richly tanned bodies making the boys' hearts pump faster. There had been Frisbees and footballs in the air, and the happy shouts of children, and big white birds, and lazy mashed-potato clouds. Best of all, there had been no suffering in that place, no pain except for the sting of sunburned skin.

      Better days. He found it hard to believe now that there had ever been better days. It would be much easier for him to accept that they had only been dreams, that they had only come to pass in the murky shoals of his mind. It was all so distant now, so unreal; the good parts of his life seemed elusive and illusory, far less tangible than the many bad parts.

      The bad parts; he had no trouble believing that they had been real, that they had been much more than dreams or mirages. The bad parts were dominant, overshadowing the good parts like redwoods overshadowing blades of grass. The bad parts were the cause of his current condition, the fuel of his hatred, the propulsive force which had driven him to this place.

      Nothing but bad parts now; in reality, he was composed of nothing but bad parts. All the good parts had been contaminated, turned to cancers. Even good memories had gone bad, for they only spurred regret, violent regret which had become the most powerful force in his life.

      With a grunt, he pushed himself from the state park sign. As always, memories only served to remind him of catastrophe and sorrow, misfortune and mutilation and madness. Memories reminded him of why he'd come here, to this part of the world, this part of Pennsylvania.

      He thought again of how much he had to do, and he grew anxious to set his plans in motion. Burning with the full rush of the old fever, he hiked away from the beach area.

      Following a paved path, he passed between two squat brick buildings-the concession stand and the wash-house, both closed for the season, like the rest of the park. Beyond the buildings, the path led him down a gradual slope, upon which playground equipment was scattered. Finally, he reached an access road, an oblong loop which he knew would deposit him on the main park road.

      Turning left, he walked for what seemed like forever under a canopy of spindly, leafless trees. When he finally came to the main entrance of the park, he paused for a moment, staring at the dashed golden line before him, the line in the middle of the road.

      Glowing faintly in the moonlight on that dark pavement, the line was like a magical arrow in the night. All that he had to do was follow it, and it would take him right to where he wanted to go, to the people whom he needed to see.

      It was a line to destiny, a connection to divinity. If he turned left along that line, he could get to where he needed to go. If he turned right, he could get there more quickly.

      He turned right.

      He wasn't sure how long he'd been hiking along that road before he heard the distant whir of approaching tires. Turning, he spotted headlights flying toward him, swooping through the shadows like brilliant, unblinking eyes. Spinning to face the oncoming vehicle, he swung out his right arm and raised his thumb in the air.

      Walking backward on the gravelly berm, he waved his thumb and watched the headlights flow toward him. They swept closer, bathing him in brightness, picking him out like a singer in a spotlight.

      Then, they flashed past him. He felt a breeze in their wake, glimpsed the battered white station wagon on which they were mounted. A flare and a wind and a whisper, and then they were gone, leaving him cursing on the berm.

      Resigning himself to a very long walk, he continued up the road, following the golden line. He resolved that he would make the most of his time in transit, spend the hours reviewing his plans.

      After a few minutes, though, he again saw headlights. they raced at him from the direction in which he was headed...and then the same white station wagon barreled past on the other side of the road. Barely slowing, the car caromed off the pavement, rattled several yards over berm and bumpy earth, finally jerked hard to the left and shot across the road in a U-turn.

      The wagon jolted to a halt beside him, and the driver flung open the passenger-side door. Bowing to peer inside, the hitchhiker saw a stocky, grinning guy in a red flannel shirt and blue jeans.

      Hey, buddy! laughed the driver, poking the neck of a beer bottle at him. Betcha' thought you was out a ride, huh?

      Sure did, the hitchhiker said coolly, barely cracking a smile.

      "Gotcha'! hooted the driver, thumping the steering wheel with his fist. I sure as hell put one over on ya', didn't I?"

      That's right, nodded the hitchhiker, noting that the guy was spectacularly drunk.

      Well, hey! shouted the driver. "No hard feelin's, right? I came back for ya', didn't I?"

      No harm done, shrugged the hitchhiker.

      I do that all the damn time! the drunk crowed proudly, swigging from his bottle of beer. "Sometimes I come back, and other times I just keep goin'! People never know what the hell I'm gonna'' do!"

      Same here, smirked the hitchhiker.

      Laughing, the driver shook his head vigorously, like a dog shaking water from its fur. Well, jump on in, pal! he bubbled, scratching his scalp, mussing his greasy black hair. Room for one more!

      Where you headed? asked the hitchhiker.

      Where you wanna' go? grinned the driver.

      Confluence, the hitchhiker told him. I'm on my way to Confluence.

      CHAPTER 4

      Feeling better? said Darlene.

      Yeah, nodded Dave, returning her smile, again lifting the mug of hot coffee to his lips. Much better. Seated at the table in Ernie's kitchen, dressed in dry clothes which he'd borrowed from Ernie, he indeed felt better. Though the T-shirt was awfully baggy, and he had to cinch the wide-waisted blue jeans with a belt drawn as tight as it could go, Dave was happy to be wearing those clothes; his own clothes had been soaked in the pool and hastily deposited in Ernie's dryer.

      More coffee? offered Darlene, bobbing her head toward the full pot in the coffee maker.

      No thanks, Dave said appreciatively. I think this third cup about did the trick. If I drink any more, I'll be bouncing off the walls all night.

      You won't be the only one, Darlene said sardonically, glancing into the hallway which led to the basement door. It sounds like they're getting pretty wild down there.

      "They've been pretty wild," chuckled Dave, tuning in to the chaotic ruckus which rippled beneath them, the clamor of laughter and shouts and loud music which was barely diminished as it filtered through the floor.

      Boy, said Darlene, shaking her head. Billy and those guys were sure wound-up.

      They're always like that, grinned Dave.

      I still can't believe they just tossed you in the pool like that. I mean, a practical joke's one thing, but that was going a little too far.

      Well, sighed Dave, "I've got to admit, I wasn't crazy about it...but that's the way it goes. When you come to one of these guys' parties, you have to be ready for anything. Just be grateful they didn't throw you in, too."

      "I am," she said emphatically.

      "Y'know, you do look cute when you're wet, though," teased Dave.

      "Don't even think about it, she warned, her eyes widening. If you try to pitch me in that pool, I'll never speak to you again!"

      Aw, I wouldn't do that, he drawled. "You look even cuter when you're not wet."

      "Well, that's good. Darlene smiled coyly, meeting his gaze. You don't look so bad yourself."

      Thanks, grinned Dave, watching her for a moment. She really was cute, and he enjoyed just looking at her like that sometimes. She was petite, but not too thin, and stood about five feet tall; delicate and birdlike, she moved with the quick, alert flickers of a sparrow. Her black hair was cut short, brushed up on the back and sides and swirled loosely into a slight tuft on top like a feathery crest. Dave especially loved her eyes, those wide, brown eyes which he found to be her most arresting feature; lively and glittering, full of intelligence and emotion, they stood out brilliantly on her small, oval face.

      He'd been dating her for about three months now, and was more enamored with her than ever. She was funny and smart and thoughtful, concerned with his well-being, eager to spend time with him. Though she was a bit shy, and had taken a while to open up to him at first, she was now very close to him, and they shared an undeniably strong attraction. They both attended the same college, and liked to do the same things, and he'd found himself thinking of her more and more often as the weeks passed.

      He'd met her through a friend of hers whom Billy had dated for a brief time, and he was grateful that she'd crossed his path. Full of worry about school and the future, he was happy to have one stable, pleasant element amid the shifting puzzle pieces of his life. If not for her, he might have been totally consumed by his fretful tendencies, launched into a constant and feverish state of distress.

      Darlene was the right girl at the right time, and he thought that he might even be in love with her. He hadn't told her that yet, though he figured that she already knew.

      Reaching over, he took her hand and held it tightly, entwining his fingers with hers. She smiled and blushed, then placed her free hand atop the clasp.

      At that moment, Ernie entered the kitchen, breaking the electric, silent concert which had blossomed at the table. Hey, you kids, he said laughingly, a huge mug of beer in his paw. I can't leave you two alone for a minute, can I?

      Sure you can, said Dave. We won't mind.

      Uh-uh-uh, chided the tall, stocky guy, flicking one finger back and forth in the air. No can do, David. I'm the chaperone here, so I feel it's my duty to keep an eye out for monkey business.

      "You want monkey business, then you oughtta' go follow Billy around for a while. He's the one you should be watching, not me."

      Oh, I'm watching Billy, all right, Ernie said in his deep, breathy voice. "You're not as innocent as you make out to be, though."

      What? Dave said with mock surprise. Me? I'm pure as the new-driven snow, Ernie!

      "New-driven mud is more like it," chortled Ernie.

      Boy, said Dave, wagging his head, feigning despair. I'm really hurt that you think that of me, Ernie. I thought you were my friend.

      You did? laughed Ernie. "Well whatever gave you that idea?"

      Can you believe this guy? Dave asked Darlene, hitching a thumb at Ernie. All this time, I thought he liked me.

      "Well, I like you," she smiled, patting his hand.

      "I'm glad somebody appreciates me," grinned Dave.

      "She just doesn't know you like I do," quipped Ernie, adjusting his silver-framed glasses by shifting one lens with a thumb and index finger.

      Oh, I think I know him pretty well, Darlene said confidently.

      Wait till he gets a few beers in him, warned Ernie. He's like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Once he drinks the magic potion, he turns into a monster.

      I think you're confusing me with yourself, laughed Dave.

      Just watch this guy tonight, Darlene. Don't let him have more than one beer, okay? He can't hold his alcohol.

      I'm sure he'll be fine, smiled Darlene, squeezing Dave's hand. He can drink as much as he wants since he isn't doing any driving.

      So you're the chauffeur tonight, huh? Ernie said wryly. Well, be prepared: he's a lousy tipper.

      Hey, I'm a student! laughed Dave. "I don't have to tip! I'm always broke!"

      How did you get mixed up with this guy, Darlene? asked Ernie, grimacing with mock confusion. He's such a tightwad!

      Oh, I just found him wandering around, she said lightly. He was a stray, and he was just so cute that I had to pick him up.

      That's right, piped Dave. As long as she gives me a slipper and a bowl of dog chow every day, I'm happy.

      You better keep him on a short leash, kidded Ernie. And whatever you do, if he starts to lift his leg, get the heck out of the way!

      For a moment, they all laughed, adding their own voices to the cacophony coursing from the basement below. Ernie seemed particularly pleased, proud of the reaction which his joke had spurred. Typically a very serious and studious person, he loved to entertain at his parties, reveled in the role of host and comedian. At parties, Ernie Dumbrowski transformed, underwent a startling change, a genuine metamorphosis. Usually, he exhibited a commanding, grim demeanor, a no-nonsense attitude; he often seemed solemn and intense, even cold and uncommunicative. At parties, though, he lit up, grinning and goofing and raising hell with the gang, releasing all the pressure from within himself like steam from a whistle. His straight black hair, usually parted severely to one side, was allowed to drift askew, drop strands across his forehead, shoot cowlicks from the peak. He visibly slouched, let his thick frame relax from its standard, rigid posture. His voice boomed, leaped from its everyday hush to an outstanding, royal roar. At parties, Ernie became a fresh and vigorous presence, retaining his good nature and brilliance but discarding his tense restraint.

      Ernie and Billy Bristol were Dave's best friends, and had been for years. First coming together at the Wild West Steakhouse, they had formed a close-knit alliance, a magnetized trio. The only things that they really had in common were their jobs and school: they all worked at the steakhouse and attended Orchard College. Otherwise, they were all very different: Dave was the worrywart, paranoid and skittish and self-conscious; Ernie was the ambitious overachiever, dreaming of medical school; and Billy was the wild card, hyper and carefree, living for pleasure and mischief and spectacles. As individuals, they tended to indulge their separate natures to excess, to self-destructive levels; as a group, they balanced each other, kept each other from going too far. Billy helped Dave and Ernie to relax and have fun; Dave and Ernie kept Billy in check, prevented his wilder impulses from causing real damage. The three of them complemented and sustained each other, and they knew it, even if they never spoke of it.

      Of course, graduation was coming up, and what would happen after that was anybody's guess.

      Can I get you a drink, Darlene? Ernie asked courteously. I can fix you whatever you want-rum and coke, screwdrivers, seven and sevens, whatever.

      How about a rum and coke without the rum? she responded.

      Are you sure? wondered Ernie. I can fix you a weak rum and coke, if you want. One drink won't hurt you.

      I'd better not, thanks. Just a coke would be fine.

      All right, shrugged Ernie, opening the refrigerator. One soda, coming up. If you decide you want anything else, just help yourself.

      Thanks, I will, nodded Darlene, accepting a cold, red can from the host.

      Well, sighed Ernie as the refrigerator door fell shut. I'd better get downstairs and see what's going on. I don't like to leave Billy and those boneheads alone in my house for too long. They've probably demolished most of the basement by now.

      "I was wondering what those explosions were a couple minutes ago, smirked Dave. I thought I heard a jackhammer down there, too."

      I wouldn't be surprised, smiled Ernie, turning to head down the hall. So are you two going to join us, or are you going to sit in the kitchen all night?

      I don't know, said Dave, looking expectantly at Darlene. What do you want to do?

      What do you want to do? she replied.

      Whatever you want to do.

      Well, I want to do what you want to do, she smiled.

      "I want to do what you want to do," persisted Dave.

      "What do you want to do?" asked Darlene, looking as if she might burst into laughter at any moment.

      "Whatever you want to do! sputtered Dave. You want to go mingle, or you want to stay here in the kitchen all night?"

      It's up to you, she giggled, her pretty brown eyes sparkling with amusement.

      "I'll settle this! interrupted Ernie. You're both coming downstairs, and that's that!"

      Hey, Ernie, yapped Dave. What's the big idea? Can't you see we're trying to make up our minds here?

      That could take the rest of the decade! tossed the host. "Someone's got to make the decisions around here."

      Hey, Darlene, said Dave with a wink. You think we should listen to Ernie?

      "If you think we should," she chimed.

      "What do you think?"

      That's it! laughed Ernie, stomping out of the kitchen. I can't take any more of this!

      Wait! called Dave. We're just getting started!

      That's what I'm afraid of! Ernie answered from the hallway.

      Gee, shrugged Dave. "I wonder why he left?"

      "I don't know," laughed Darlene.

      Do you think it was something we said?

      Well, she said between giggles, "what do you think?"

      I think it's time for a beer, he said, rising from his chair, gently pulling Darlene along with him.

      Laughing, hand in hand, they followed Ernie down the hall, pausing once for a long, loving kiss in the shadows.

      CHAPTER 5

      The hitchhiker's trip to Confluence was a roller coaster ride. The drunk at the wheel drove like a maniac, whipping the station wagon from side to side, never staying in one lane for more than a few seconds.

      Despite the dangerous ride, the hitchhiker was never worried. Keeping his eyes on the golden line, he knew that he would make it to Confluence. He'd come so far, and endured so much, and he had a strong feeling that the worst was over.

      And sure enough, he reached Confluence in one piece.

      After escaping the drunk, the hitchhiker walked for a while through the darkened streets. The sight of familiar landmarks made him feel comfortable and confident, ready to handle anything because he was back in his hometown, his place of power. Most of all, he was excited by the knowledge that he was close, close to her, to the beginning of his mission.

      Before long, he reached his destination.

      Standing there on the sidewalk, beneath the entwined branches of two huge oak trees, he paused. The red brick house waited before him, a small, squat box with just a few feet of front yard separating it from the sidewalk.

      He drew a breath and nodded. This was the place, all right.

      In the front windows of the brick house, he could see the gray glow of a television. Someone was home. Someone was awake.

      It had to be her.

      There was only one car in the driveway, and it was her old, green Gremlin, the one with tacky bumper stickers all over the rear panels and chrome. There was no sign of her mother's car, and that was as it should be; her mother had always worked late, since she was a waitress at a downtown bar. Her father, of course, was dead, killed many years ago in a steel mill accident...or was it just a few years ago?

      For a moment, he stood on the sidewalk and smiled, eyes focused on the beautiful glow of the living room windows. It was overwhelming, after all that he'd been through, after all the agony and struggle, to be standing on the brink of fulfillment.

      After all the despair, a miracle was about to happen. He was the one who would make this great miracle come to pass.

      He was the Miraclemaker.

      Heart leaping in his chest, eyes gleaming, he started across the yard. He smoothed his hair and clothing, trying to make himself look more presentable.

      When he reached the front door, he knocked on the windowless panel, the final barrier between him and the start of his holy crusade. Taking a step back, he saw a shadowy form gliding behind the translucent curtains.

      He heard footsteps approaching from inside the house, then the first rattle of the doorknob. Mesmerized, he watched the door open inward, releasing a spray of light from the house.

      Then, he saw her.

      She peered out through the gap with a puzzled expression, and for a second, he was stupefied. She had long, amber hair, hazel eyes, a round face-the same features that he remembered, that he'd known for years. The wide mouth, the pale skin, the chubbiness were all the same...even the rumpled gray sweatshirt and sweatpants that she'd always favored...and yet, she looked so different. She seemed plainer, slacker, less defined, amorphous as dough before it is baked into a solid, distinct form. He'd expected this, naturally, given the circumstances of his last encounter with her, but it still surprised him. It was her...and yet, it wasn't her, not quite the same person.

      Hello? she said, frowning, holding the edge of the door loosely in her hands.

      Hi, said the Miraclemaker. I'm Gary Milton. My God...are you Debby?

      Yes, she said, staring at his face. Do I know you from somewhere?

      Sure you do, he grinned, feeling strangely startled because she didn't recognize him. Gary Milton, remember? I worked with your dad.

      For a moment, she frowned and tipped her head to one side, still searching his face. Wait a minute, she said at last, pointing a finger at him. Gary Milton. I remember my dad used to talk about you all the time.

      What did he say? said the Miraclemaker. I hope it was all good.

      Well, she said, the main thing I remember is him telling me how you two picked on some guy named Charley.

      Charley Grapowski! The Miraclemaker clapped his hands victoriously. That's right! Charley always came to work drunk, and we'd get him to do stupid things, and then he'd get in trouble! Boy, he was something else.

      My dad used to love telling me stories about you and Charley, she said.

      Yeah. The Miraclemaker nodded good-naturedly, shuffling his feet on the black rubber welcome mat. We sure got a kick out of ol' Charley.

      Dad always said watching Charley was more fun than watching TV. She laughed, opening the door further, leaning more fully over the threshold.

      Wow, said the Miraclemaker. "Just look at you. My God, you've changed. The last time I saw you was years ago."

      Really? I must've been pretty young, because I don't remember ever meeting you.

      "How old are you now? he said. Nineteen? Twenty?"

      Not quite. She giggled. I'm only seventeen.

      Seventeen. He shook his head. Wow. That's hard to believe.

      Time flies, I guess, she said, resting her shoulder against the frame of the door.

      Boy, does it ever, said the Miraclemaker. So, is your dad home? I thought I'd drop by and see him, since I'm in town for the first time in a while.

      Uh, my dad passed away, she said, her voice suddenly softer.

      What? he said, doing his best to sound stunned. No! Oh God, you can't be serious.

      It's true. She nodded. There was a big explosion down at the mill, and he was right in the middle of it.

      Oh my God, he gasped, eyes wide and jaw dropping with false shock. Not Jack! When did this happen?

      Three years ago, she said quietly, brushing a lock of amber hair behind one ear. Three years ago, almost to the day.

      Dear Lord, he whispered dramatically, grimacing as if he were in agony. "I didn't even hear about it. I've been in L.A. all this time, and I didn't even know."

      I'm sorry you didn't find out until now, she said sympathetically. I guess maybe my mom didn't know how to get ahold of you out in California.

      Slowly lifting his hands to his temples, he closed his eyes tightly and bowed his head. "If only I'd known. I...God, I wish I could've at least been at his funeral."

      Uh, look, she said, her voice filled with concern. Why don't you come in and have a cup of coffee or something?

      I'd better not, he sniffed, rubbing his eyes. I don't want to put you to any trouble.

      Oh, it wouldn't be any trouble, she insisted. You look like you need to sit down for a couple minutes.

      Maybe...maybe I'd better, the visitor groaned shakily, looking lost and distraught.

      Come on in, she invited, opening the door wide. I'll go put a pot of coffee on.

      Thank you, he mumbled brokenly. I just...I wish I'd seen him one more time before...before he died.

      So do I, she smiled tenderly, closing the door.

      And just like that, he was inside.

      No muss, no fuss; he was inside. The lies had worked, just as he'd known they would. He'd known that she worshipped the memory of her dead father, and that posing as a friend of his would gain him swift admission to the house. Using information that she herself had unwittingly given him, he'd won her confidence, made her trust him enough to bring him inside. She still hadn't guessed his real identity, and probably never would. Everything was now laid out before him in perfect order, like a marvelous buffet.

      All that he had to do was start eating.

      Do you take cream and sugar? she asked, turning her back to him, walking toward the kitchen.

      The visitor didn't reply.

      Instead, he pulled the latex gloves out of his back pocket and snapped them on one at a time.

      CHAPTER 6

      Sometimes, Dave Heinrich hated working at the Wild West Steakhouse.

      Usually, he didn't mind it much, especially if he was cooking. In cooking, at least, there was some skill required, and a degree of satisfaction; when Dave could juggle dozens of steaks on a flaming broiler, make sure that they were all done right, and get them to the customers on time, he felt as if he'd accomplished something at the end of a shift. Cooking was cleaner work than most jobs at the steakhouse, also less physically demanding. On the limited scale of prestige at the restaurant, cooks held a high position, second only to the managers. Best of all, cooks could sneak snacks easily and often, snatch a hunk of steak from the broiler when no one was looking.

      Usually, Dave worked as a cook, and he didn't mind it. Now and then, though, he got stuck in a shift as busboy or dishwasher, and that altered his outlook; when he was busing tables or laboring in the dishroom, Dave truly hated working at the Wild West Steakhouse.

      Today, he hated working at the Wild West Steakhouse. He'd strolled in at three o'clock in the afternoon, fresh from classes at Orchard College, ready for his scheduled shift at the broiler...and Mr. Martin, the manager on duty, had sent him back to the dishroom. Two people had called in sick, Mr. Martin had explained, and no one else could fill in, so Dave would have to wash dishes and Mr. Martin would cook. Naturally, Dave would have preferred if he had been allowed to cook and Mr. Martin would have gone to the dishroom...but Dave was outranked and didn't have any say in the matter.

      And so, cursing Mr. Martin and the absentees for ruining his day, Dave had shuffled grumpily back to the dishroom. Ducking into the tiny locker room, he'd slipped out of his sweatshirt and blue jeans and donned the Wild West uniform, a pair of chocolate-brown trousers and a button-down shirt with vertical stripes of chocolate-brown, orange, and white. Pitching his belongings into a locker, he'd then punched his timecard at the clock, committing himself to at least five-and-a-half hours of highly unpleasant activity.

      His shift in the dishroom turned out to be just as miserable as he'd expected. Standing at the metal counter at one end of the dishwashing machine, he received loaded bus pans as they were delivered from the dining room. Dropping the black plastic bus pans on the counter, he then had to sort through them, plunge his hands into the mounds of slop to fish out dishes. Though he'd done this for years, especially when he'd first started at the steakhouse, Dave still hated running his hands through bus pan slop; he'd learned to accept it as part of the job, but he'd never gotten used to it.

      Seeking platters and cups and silverware, Dave dug through heaps of half-chewed food, discarded bones, and dressing-drenched salad. He sifted through pudding and potato skins and cole slaw, filthy napkins and cigarette butts, wads of gristle and unidentifiable substances. He had to comb the slop thoroughly, as much as he disliked it; if he just cursorily checked it, he might miss a fork or spoon, and one of the managers might catch it during an impromptu garbage inspection.

      After pulling all the dishes and silverware from a bus pan, Dave dumped the remaining slop into the waist-high plastic trash barrel behind him. He sprayed out the bus pan with a wall-mounted metal hose, then dropped the clean tub on a shelf so the busboy could grab it when he delivered his next load. With that done, Dave arranged the dirty dishes on green plastic racks and shoved them into the dishwasher, a boxy contraption with sides of dented sheet metal. The machine pulled the racks through, scalding them with hot water, finally pushing them out onto a metal runway.

      Usually, a second person was posted in the dishroom, assigned to the end of the runway to deal with the clean dishes; since it was a Monday, however, and Mondays were typically slow, Dave was on his own this time. After shoving a few racks through the machine, he had to hustle to the other side of the apparatus and attack the steaming items, yanking everything from the racks and sorting it for delivery. Salad plates and bowls were stacked on a long cart, as were the brown plastic roll baskets; the rectangular, metal entree platters were loaded onto a smaller cart, dropped upside-down into deep channels on two sides of the cube-shaped vehicle. Coffee mugs were arranged on trays and the amber beverage cups were overturned and fit together into high columns. Silverware was a nuisance: it came through the machine jumbled on a flat rack, and the knives, forks, and spoons had to be sorted into white plastic receptacles. There were trays, too, laminated fiberboard trays which the customers used to carry cups and napkins and silverware to their tables; the trays were deposited in the dishroom in huge piles, and once they were cleaned, were restacked in identical, unwieldy mounds.

      When Dave had washed and sorted so many dishes that he didn't have room for more, or when he had time between bus pans, or when the cooks or managers told him that they were out of something, he distributed what he'd cleaned. Wheeling the carts from the dishroom through a swinging door, he worked his way along what was known as the line, the area where food was prepared and customers processed. On one side of the line were the broiler and oven and deep fryer, and the meal assembly stations; on the other side was a walkway through which customers passed with their trays, viewing the food preparation from behind a four-foot-high partition. At the start of the line, Dave muscled the heavy stacks of trays into troughs, then slipped the containers of silverware into a metal rack above the trays. Next he deposited the towers of cups by the soda machine, the coffee mugs by the coffee pot warmers. He left the cartload of entree platters at the broiler, then removed the empty cart. Roll baskets were given to the assemblers, the girls who tossed meat and potatoes and side orders together to form dinners. Finally, salad bowls and plates were stacked in a bin near the cash register, within easy reach of passing customers.

      When Dave finished the distribution process, he returned to the dishroom, where three or four slop-filled bus pans always awaited him. It was a frustrating cycle: wash dishes, distribute them, wash more, distribute them, wash more, etcetera. Dave could never get ahead, never feel any sense of completion, because the dirty dishes kept coming. As unpleasant as the work was, for the first hour-and-a-half of this day's shift, things went smoothly for Dave; he labored at a rapid, steady pace and never fell far behind in his bus pan-sorting, dishwashing, or deliveries. At four-thirty, though, the steakhouse went crazy. Unexpectedly, a huge swarm of customers overran the place, poured in all at once. It shouldn't have happened, because Mondays were never very hectic and there were no coupons in the newspaper that might have drawn such a throng; nevertheless, the rush struck suddenly, and Dave was soon working at a breakneck pace.

      Full bus pans surrounded him so quickly that they seemed to appear out of thin air; as soon as he finished unloading one pan, two more took its place. The assemblers and waitresses and manager kept darting into the dishroom, shouting for cups or silverware or platters. Dave moved as fast as he could, emptying bus pans and shoving racks of dishes through the machine, stacking and delivering items before they were even dry, and still it wasn't fast enough. He dashed from one end of the dishroom to the other, then ran out to the line and back, then did it all again, racing and flapping in a frenzied and fruitless overdrive. With each moment, he fell further and further behind, grew more harried and frantic.

      Then, all hell broke loose. A bus arrived.

      Sixty senior citizens descended on the Wild West Steakhouse like a silver-haired invasion force. They had come from Gorman, fifty miles away, to attend a Rosary Rally in Confluence; heading home after the Catholic event, they had decided to stop for dinner in suburban Highland, and of course they had selected this steakhouse for their meal. Wild West always drew a considerable number of senior citizens, mainly because of the restaurant's ten percent discount for anyone over the age of sixty-five.

      Like a flock of birds dropping onto a field, the busload of senior citizens engulfed the steakhouse. In a mere five minutes, Dave's situation went from maddeningly hectic to completely out of control. The busboy started hauling back two pans at a time, one load of muck and dishes stacked atop the other. Waitresses sprinted in to dump piles of plates and silverware on the counter, not even bothering to deliver the stuff in bus pans. There weren't enough cleared tables in the dining room, so Dave also had to run out with a bus pan and gather dishes.

      Fifteen minutes into the rush, just as Dave was about ready to quit his job, a door swung open, and Mr. Martin the manager blew into the dishroom. He was wide-eyed and sweating, his hair plastered to his skull, the armpits of his white shirt soaked and darkened.

      Hey Dave! he called, scuffing over the floor tiles, waving for someone to follow him. Good news! I brought you some help!

      Expecting to see one of his fellow employees stroll through the door, Dave was surprised to see a stranger enter the dishroom. The guy was about six feet tall, with light brown hair clipped in a crew-cut. He had a closely-trimmed mustache and goatee, and wore blue jeans and a black T-shirt with no sleeves. He looked as if he were in his mid-to-late 40's, and his build was average except for his arms, which were thickly muscled.

      This is Larry Smith, said Martin. He needs a job, and we need some help, so I hired him. Just tell him what he has to do, and get this place caught up.

      What? blurted Dave, gaping in disbelief.

      Just get caught up, ordered Martin. Larry worked in a restaurant before, so I'm sure he'll catch on quick.

      "I don't have time to train someone, protested Dave, spreading his arms wide. Just look at this place."

      Do it! barked the manager, jabbing a stubby index finger at Dave. "I'm not gonna' stand here and argue with you! Just do it!" Glaring, the boss leaned forcefully forward, his blue paisley tie swinging away from his prodigious belly.

      Realizing that there was no chance of reasoning with the tyrant, Dave shook his head with disgust. Without saying another word, he snatched a bus pan from the counter and started digging through slop once more.

      Come on, Larry, said Martin, his voice softening now that he'd exerted his authority. I'll get you a uniform out of the back, and you can change right here in the locker room. What size do you take?

      What sizes do you have? the new guy asked glibly, following the manager through a door into the stockroom.

      Medium and large, Dave heard Martin say before the stockroom door closed.

      Dave was furious. Cursing, he slammed plates onto a rack, then shoved it through the machine with such force that all the plates clattered forward. He wished he could shove Martin through the machine instead, let the scalding jets of water burn the creep's hide crimson.

      Before long, Martin and Larry emerged from the stockroom. Hurrying back out to the broiler, Martin wished the new employee luck, and Larry went into the locker room to don his uniform.

      Still seething, Dave grabbed an empty bus pan and stomped out to the dining room, as much to get away from his new problem as to clear tables for senior citizens. After a few minutes of racing around, sweeping refuse and dishes into the pan, he barreled back to his nook. Kicking open the swinging door, he let it crack gratifyingly against the wall, then smashed the bus pan down on a counter. Taking out his anger on the dishes, he hurled and slammed them, pitched them willy-nilly over the counter, flung slop everywhere.

      Filling one rack with platters and another with silverware, he drove them both into the machine, then slouched over to the runway on which they emerged. Cursing and grunting, he snatched the platters from the rack in great handfuls and turned to deposit them in the cubic cart.

      It was only then that he noticed that the cart was gone.

      The platter cart had vanished.

      Not only that, but the other cart was gone, too, the long cart.

      Surprised and confused, Dave glanced quickly around the dishroom but could see no sign of either cart. They had been right there by the runway when he'd gone to bus tables, and now they were nowhere to be found.

      Frowning with his hands full of platters, he suddenly realized that other things had changed, as well. He'd been so preoccupied when he'd returned to the dishroom that he hadn't noticed, but now he was struck by it all. When he'd stormed out, there had been at least three full racks of dishes on the runway, and now they were gone. There had been eight or nine loaded bus pans on the counter and shelves, and now there were only four. A huge pile of dirty plates and cups had been heaped in one of the basins, and the pile was now missing.

      Still holding the platters, Dave walked across the dishroom and peeked around a corner at the locker room door. It was wide open.

      Larry Smith wasn't in there.

      At that moment, the door to the line snapped open, and Dave whirled around. He saw the long cart emerge first, gleaming in the fluorescent dishroom light. The cart was empty.

      Larry Smith was pushing it.

      Hey, buddy! Larry called cheerfully. How's that dining room shaping up?

      Dave just stood there with his mouth hanging open.

      One hell of a rush, huh? smiled Larry, parking the cart in its proper spot. We really got swamped, didn't we?

      Gaping with astonishment at the empty cart, Dave spoke slowly. What did you do while I was gone? he asked.

      Well, Larry said matter-of-factly, I cleaned out a couple bus pans and sent some racks through the machine. There were racks of stuff that was already clean, so I unloaded all that and put it on the carts. Then, the carts were full, so I took them out front and got rid of everything.

      Geez, said Dave, shaking his head. "Are you trying to tell me that you did all that in the five minutes I was out in the dining room?"

      Uh-huh. Larry nodded pleasantly. Seeing as how we're so busy, I figured I'd better get right to work.

      "Where did you put everything?" wondered Dave, unable to believe the guy's accomplishment.

      Well, I put the salad bowls and plates in the bin by the register, recounted Larry. I gave the roll baskets to the assemblers, and those little bowls for the gravy and mushrooms. The cups and coffee mugs I stacked up by the drink station, and I put the silverware in that rack over the trays. I left the platter cart by the broiler, but I still have to bring back the empty one. Does that all sound about right?

      Oh, yeah, said Dave, still amazed. That's right, all right.

      Great, grinned Larry, scratching a spot in his crew-cut.

      I just don't understand how you knew, said Dave. I mean, it's just your first day. Mr. Martin told me you worked in a restaurant, but how could you know exactly where everything goes here?

      The place I worked at used to be a Wild West Steakhouse, explained Larry. It was down in Virginia. Company sold it a couple years ago, so it's not Wild West anymore, but it was laid out almost exactly like this place.

      Ohhhh, nodded Dave. "I see."

      That was one of the reasons why Tom Martin gave me this job so quick, 'cause I could just jump right in and start working. Plus, I'm a friend of Tom's. Known him for years, so I guess he was doing me a favor.

      Well, I've gotta' tell you, said Dave, I'm really impressed. I mean, thanks. Thanks for doing all that stuff.

      No sweat, grinned Larry, reaching out to give Dave a friendly swat on the shoulder. Just doing my job.

      I really thought I'd have to train you, smiled Dave, but hey, this is great. Maybe we can get this place caught up, after all.

      That's the plan, Stan, laughed Larry.

      At that moment, a door crashed open, and the busboy stumbled in with another overflowing load of dishes and slop. Dave's bout of surprise and gratitude abruptly ended, and he snapped back like a rubber band to the urgent reality of the rush.

      By six o'clock, the rush had mostly run its course. All the senior citizens had evacuated the steakhouse and wandered back to their bus. Business dropped off substantially, returning to the low, steady level which was more typical of a Monday evening. In the home stretch at last, Dave and Larry continued to slug away at the mess, clearing tables which they knew wouldn't fill up immediately, washing dishes which wouldn't boomerang back to the dishroom quite so quickly as before. By seven o'clock or so, they finally finished the post-rush cleanup, and everything settled down. The flood of bus pans slowed to a trickle, the counters and shelves were bare, and the two guys actually found time to take a breather.

      Leaning back against the counter, Dave wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. Man, he puffed tiredly, gazing around the dormant dishroom. What an evening, huh?

      Sure was, sighed Larry, sipping from an amber cup full of cola. That was one of the few benefits which came with working at the Wild West Steakhouse: soda was free for the taking.

      "I thought this was going to be an easy night, being Monday and all. If I'd known a bus was headed our way, I would've called off sick."

      Aw, it wasn't so bad, Larry said with a shrug. Nothing we couldn't handle.

      "Nothing we couldn't handle, Dave said wryly, but if it had just been me the whole time, forget it! Before you got here, I was about ready to throw in the towel!"

      Why didn't Tom call somebody in to give you a hand? Larry asked with a slight frown. "I'm sure he could've gotten someone to come in for a few hours."

      Well, said Dave, catching himself just as he was about to launch a verbal assault on Mr. Martin's character, remembering that Larry had said he was a friend of his. I really don't know. I guess maybe he figured the rush wouldn't last long, so we wouldn't need an extra person. Once that bus came, I guess he was probably too busy to make any phone calls.

      Or maybe he's just an asshole, huh? grinned Larry, slyly raising one eyebrow.

      Surprised, Dave bugged his eyes wide and laughed. "Well, that's possible, too," he agreed.

      Not just possible, declared Larry. It's probable.

      Well, that's true, grinned Dave. I didn't want to say it, with you being an old friend of his and all, but that's definitely true.

      Blowing out his breath, Larry rolled his eyes and dismissively waved a hand through the air. Aw, don't worry about that 'friend' business. I said I was an old friend of Tom's, not a good one.

      Dave really laughed at that remark, tossed his head back and hooted. With that one quip, Larry had removed the only obstacle which could have prevented Dave from liking him-the possibility that he enjoyed a close friendship with the imbecilic and iron-fisted Mr. Martin. If Larry had been a genuine pal of Tom Martin, Dave wouldn't have respected him and wouldn't have been able to work with him without worrying that he was Martin's spy.

      So, where did you meet Mr. Martin, anyway? Dave asked when his laughter had finally subsided.

      Ohio, replied Larry, shaking his cola so that the ice clicked against the plastic cup. We both worked in a Kentucky Fried Chicken in Dayton. Had to be at least ten years ago.

      Oh yeah? said Dave. So did you guys keep in touch since then? I mean, how did you know he was here?

      We didn't keep in touch at all, as a matter of fact, explained Larry, pausing for a sip of cola. To tell you the truth, till today, I hadn't seen him since I left Dayton. The whole thing was pretty lucky, really. It so happens I was walking around downtown thins morning, and I bumped into Tom's wife, who knew me from Dayton. She told me he was working here, and I needed a job, so I figured I'd just stop in and see if Tom could help me out.

      No kidding? said Dave. Boy, that's something else, you two ending up in the same place after all this time.

      Yeah, nodded Larry. It's a real coincidence, all right.

      "So why are you in Confluence? asked Dave. Where were you before this?"

      "All over the place, replied Larry, wagging his head. You name it, I was there. New York, D.C., Atlanta, Miami, Tucson, L.A., Denver, Little Rock, everywhere. Last place I stayed was Huntington, West Virginia. I was sort of working my way north, and I hit Confluence, and I just felt like stopping here for a while. It seemed like a nice town, and I was due for a rest, so I just said what the hell, why not stick around a little?"

      Seriously? piped Dave, truly fascinated now. You mean you just go from place to place like that?

      Uh-huh, said Larry. I can't handle just being stuck in one spot all the time, y'know?

      Wow, grinned Dave. How long do you usually stay?

      Just till I really get to like a place, said Larry. Soon as I start to like a place, I know it's time to move on.

      How come? wondered Dave. "If you like

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