Backtracker Page 4

  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 a place, why is it time to leave?"

  "Because it's better to leave when you still like a place than it is to leave when you're sick of it. That way, there's no hard feelings."

  "That makes sense," nodded Dave. "Don't you ever feel like staying in one place, though? Don't you ever get tired of traveling?"

  "Nope, " Larry said simply. "Never."

  "So where's the farthest you've ever been?"

  "Let's see," drawled Larry, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Buenos Aires, I guess."

  "Argentina?" sputtered Dave. "You were the whole way down there?"

  "Sure," Larry said matter-of-factly. "I've been the whole way up and down North and South America."

  "Geez," sighed Dave. "Where are you from originally?"

  "Turkey," said Larry. "My dad was stationed over there when he was in the service."

  "Man," said Dave. "You've been just about everywhere, huh?"

  "Not even close," chuckled Larry, "but I'm still pretty young, so maybe I'll get there."

  At that moment, the busboy kicked the door open and hoisted a tall stack of trays into the dishroom. Their conversation interrupted, Dave and Larry returned to work.

  By this time, Dave Heinrich was in awe of Larry Smith. Not only was Larry a hard worker and an okay guy, but he'd been around the world. He was a self-proclaimed drifter, a roustabout who had probably seen and done everything that there was to see and do. The thought of being a rover like that struck a resonant chord deep in Dave's tense and fretful soul.

  Dave worried too much about too many things. Secretly, he longed to liberate his spirit, cast off all the obligations and expectations which troubled him so much. Lately, especially, with graduation approaching, he'd been attracted to the idea of escape, of just getting out into the world and living without worrying about the future.

  Now, out of the blue, Larry Smith had appeared-a man who seemed to embody the concept of freedom.

  It was inevitable: Dave would have to learn all that he could about his new co-worker.

  *****

  Chapter 7

  Steve Kimmel had no idea that he was being watched. He was too preoccupied to look around the back yard, and even if he'd looked, it was so dark that he probably wouldn't have seen anyone out there.

  It was shortly after midnight, and Steve was on the back porch of his family's huge home. It really was a giant of a house, a monstrous, opulent place built with money from the Kimmel fortune. Thanks to the fortune, which had been won in the space of a mere two generations, Steve's family had been able to erect their mansion on a beautiful and secluded spot, atop a mountain in the countryside midway between Confluence and Gorman. The Kimmels, who were in the mall-developing business, owned most of the mountain upon which their palace perched.

  Steve was preoccupied because he was working on a girl. She was sixteen, only three years younger than he, and her name was Beth Ann Varner. Beth Ann was a knockout, a real looker, and Steve desperately wanted to screw her.

  He'd just screwed his steady girlfriend that afternoon, in the Jacuzzi upstairs, but that didn't matter. Steve was itching to do it again, to do it as many times as possible, to do it with as many different girls as he could.

  As far as he was concerned, Steve was in the catbird seat of life. His family was loaded, so he knew that he would never have to worry about money. His career was guaranteed; his father was grooming him for an upper-level management position at the Kimmel Corporation, a job into which he could slide as soon as he graduated from Penn State University in two years. His girlfriend, Suzanne, was putting out regularly, and he could get as much sex on the side as he could handle. He had no worries whatsoever.

  Rarely was Steve unhappy; never was he denied his heart's desires. He could do no wrong in his parents' eyes; he was handsome, intelligent, charming, athletic, and fun-loving.

  Though he would never admit it, Steve was also selfish, conceited, abusive, irresponsible, and manipulative. He didn't care about anyone or anything but himself, and he let his penis do most of his thinking for him. Instant gratification was the name of his game, and he played that game with consummate skill.

  As always, the game consumed all of his attention tonight. He was wholly focused on removing Beth Ann's slacks and then screwing her furiously.

  Maybe, if he'd known that he was being watched, Steve wouldn't have been so concerned about Beth Ann's slacks. Chances are, if he could have seen the man lurking in the tree line around the vast back yard, Steve would have been thinking about something other than screwing.

  If Steve could have read the man's mind, he would have completely forgotten about sex. He would have bolted from the long, cushioned lounge, run into the house, and locked every door. Most likely, he wouldn't even have bothered to make sure that Beth Ann was safely inside with him.

  If only he could have peeked at the man's thoughts, Steve would never again have set foot outside the house.

  As it was, though, he not only couldn't read the man's mind, he didn't even know he was there. Steve felt absolutely secure, completely unworried, and extremely horny.

  Already, he'd managed to open Beth Ann's blouse and unlatch the clasp at the front of her bra. As he went to work on her breasts, he knew that it wouldn't be long until he hit paydirt. Though some girls offered a token resistance, Beth Ann had been responding enthusiastically to his every advance. Unlike other girls, she'd been eager from the very beginning, brazenly petting him and even talking dirty to him. He could tell that she'd screwed before, and that he would have no trouble at all in getting her to do it again. She would be easy, as easy as pie.

  Other than the man hiding in the trees, no one was observ
ing Steve's hungry maneuvers. His sister, Jeannie, who was about the same age as Beth Ann, was out running around somewhere; his parents were asleep upstairs.

  If Steve's mom and dad had known about the man in the woods, they would have raced downstairs in their nightclothes and dragged their son indoors.

  The man in the woods watched as Steve got Beth Ann out of her slacks. He had a tough decision to make.

  He had to decide what would be the most satisfying method of killing Steve Kimmel.

  At the moment, strangulation was the front-runner, with stabbing a close second; shooting was out of the question, for bullets would be unjustly quick and merciful. Whenever the man finally got around to killing Steve, he wanted to do it slowly, to prolong the victim's agony. He wanted to do it in an intimate fashion, with his own two hands, in order to feel the gratifying suffering in all of its fullness. He wanted to experience the miracle of Steve's death, marvel at its beauty, revel in each nuance.

  He wanted Steve Kimmel to die horribly, because Steve had helped to ruin him. In a way, Steve would be responsible for his own death: he'd hastened the run of a tragic fate and now the final product of that fate would hasten his end.

  But not tonight. Tonight, the man in the woods was only observing, wetting his whistle for the main event. He was working up an appetite, stoking the flames of his already considerable hatred. He was reconnoitering, taking the measure of the Kimmel estate, memorizing details, preparing a plan of attack. When execution time arrived, he had to be ready, had to know the best way to reach his quarry and work his magic.

  Execution time would arrive very soon...not tonight, not soon enough, but very soon. The man in the woods wanted to do it immediately, of course, wanted to just rush over and wring Steve's neck like a sponge. He would like nothing better than to murder Kimmel now, but he had to hold back, forcibly restrain himself. The killing would have to take place when Steve's parents weren't home, when Steve was alone and defenseless. The deed couldn't be hurried; it had to be savored and performed with exquisite care. It was the chance of a lifetime, and he couldn't afford to botch it because of mistakes bred from haste.

  Though he yearned to do it tonight, he forced himself to wait. He contented himself with imagining the murder, and remembering the glory of the first killing. Debby Miller had died so beautifully, and the very thought of her death filled him with delight and reverence.

  The man watched as Steve mounted his latest conquest on the porch. He watched as the bodies flexed and jostled, but he took no voyeuristic pleasure from the sight. Hatred was the only emotion which rose in his mind, a hatred which intensified with every passing moment.

  By the time Steve stopped humping, the man was gone. Steve had never even known that he was there.

  *****

  Chapter 8

  Dave's father was asking The Question again.

  The Question took many forms, but what it boiled down to was this: What are you going to do with your life, son of mine?

  Dave heard The Question more and more often these days, and he was sick of it. With high school graduation now less than a month away, he certainly didn't need to be reminded about the important decisions he would soon have to make. The future and all its implications loomed large in his mind, frequently occupied his thoughts.

  Naturally, Dave's father and mother meant well when they asked him The Question. They were good parents, concerned with his welfare, and Dave knew that they didn't mean to nag. Like Dave, though, they were first-class worriers, and they were as anxious about his post-college plans as he was, if not more so.

  Whenever they asked The Question, Dave knew that their hearts were in the right place. He knew that they weren't trying to push him, that they didn't want to force him into making hasty decisions. He knew that they worried too much, and thus tended to ask The Question more often than they should have. Knowing all this, though, Dave still grew annoyed when they brought up the topic of What To Do Next.

  This time, The Question was introduced during supper. As usual, the family was sitting in the living room, eating while watching a sitcom rerun on television. The four of them occupied their usual posts: Dad was on the big recliner which was catty-corner from the TV; Mom sat on the easy chair beside the recliner; Dave stretched out on the sofa, along the wall between the easy chair and the TV; and Dave's younger brother, Jeff, sprawled on the loveseat along the wide front windows. The arrangement formed a rectangle with Dave and Jeff on two sides, Mom and Dad at one end, and the TV and fake fireplace at the other end. Though the family had never sat down and drawn up a seating chart, they always gravitated to this particular set-up at suppertime.

  When Dave had cleared about half the food from his plate, his father asked him The Question. Though it was disguised, arranged in a new configuration, it was still the same fundamental Question which Dave had heard time and time again.

  "So, Dave," Dad asked casually, his plate in his lap, a glass of milk in his hand. "Did you finish your résuméŽ yet?"

  Translation: What are you going to do with your life, son of mine?

  "Just about," lied Dave, clearing a thin bone from a white hunk of chicken. In reality, he hadn't even started a résumé, and he didn't know when he would get around to it. Though he didn't habitually lie to his folks, he fibbed now to allay their worries; they had been asking him about the résuméŽ almost every day for at least two months, and if they were to learn that he hadn't even started it, they would pester him even more.

  "Are those résumés of mine any help?" wondered Dad, drinking some milk.

  "Uh-huh," nodded Dave. "I liked the format you used on the one, so I'm using it for mine."

  "Good," said Dad, placing his glass on the end table beside the recliner. "I think I have about twenty different kinds there."

  Dave's mouth was full of chicken, so he just nodded in reply. His father had become quite an expert on résuméŽ writing since the big layoff five years ago. After fifteen years at the local steel plant, Bob Heinrich had been put on waivers, along with hundreds of other workers. At first, he'd thought that he might be called back, but the layoffs had continued, and the corporation had finally shut down the plant altogether. After a period of intense depression, Bob had gone on a job hunt, cranking out résumés and sending them all over the area. Unfortunately, thousands of other unemployed millworkers had been seeking jobs at the same time, and Bob had been unable to find work for many months. In the end, he'd gotten a custodial job at a Methodist church, and Dave's mother had taken a full-time secretarial job at a local bottling plant. The souvenirs of this crisis, hundreds of résumés and job applications, had been turned over to Dave, ostensibly to prepare him for his own upcoming job hunt.

  Dave believed that the résumés had been given to him for another reason, as well, that they were meant to remind him of what his father had gone through after the layoff, all the brick walls that he'd run into because he didn't have a college degree. 'Get your diploma!' cried the impotent résumés, the dozens of duds which had failed his father. 'Get a job in a high-paying and secure profession! Don't screw up like your dad did!'

  In truth, Dave didn't need to be reminded or warned. He was all too aware of his father's misfortune, and its uncanny similarity to his grandfather's fate.

  His grandfather had been a coal miner for most of his life; he'd made a respectable amount of money, and had built the house in which Dave's family now lived. When the mines closed, though, the only job that Dave's grandfather had been able to find had been in the same field in which Bob Heinrich now worked. He'd become a janitor.

  Two generations of janitors. It was no wonder that Bob and Ann Heinrich worried about their son; they didn't want him to be the third generation to end up mopping floors and cleaning toilets.

  Dave didn't think that his parents would ever stop worrying. He didn't think that they would stop asking The Question until he was finally a successful doctor or lawyer or stockbroker...or until he was dead.

  They certa
inly wouldn't stop tonight. Now that Dave's father had gotten the ball rolling with inquiries about the résuméŽ, Ann Heinrich entered the conversation.

  "Did you get any of those grad school catalogues yet?" she asked Dave.

  "Uh, not yet," replied Dave, his attention divided between his mother and the TV. "I haven't had time to go to the career center and get them."

  "Well, you better not wait too long," said Mom. "You probably have to apply soon if you still want to start in the fall."

  "I'll get over there tomorrow, if I can," Dave answered noncommittally. "I've just been too busy with all those tests and papers and stuff." In reality, though he'd been busy lately, Dave had delayed getting the graduate school catalogues for the same reason that he'd neglected to write a résumé: he couldn't decide what he wanted to do after graduation, so he wasn't preparing for any course of action. Though he was on the verge of completing his Business-Economics degree, he didn't know what he wanted to do with it; he couldn't decide if he should try to get a job right away, or if he should go on to grad school. For that matter, he wasn't even sure if he wanted to have anything more to do with Business-Economics, or if another field might better suit him. Initially, he'd pursued Business-Econ because he hadn't had any better ideas and he'd heard that a B-E degree would virtually guarantee that he would get a good job. Now, after four years of courses in accounting and finance, business law and management, he was losing interest in it all and having second thoughts about working in the field. He just didn't know what he wanted to do, and his indecision bothered him, and his parents were pressuring him...so he did next to nothing. He'd taken the standardized grad school entrance exam, and he was finishing the requirements for his degree, but other than that, he was stalled.

  "Make sure you get everything you can on financial aid," suggested Dad.