Backtracker

Chapter 10-3

Fifteen minutes after Steve was killed, the stranger left the big house. Humming a jaunty tune, he blithely strolled out through the wide double doors at the front of the place, then turned and swung the doors shut.

Pausing on the doorstep, he stretched his arms overhead and released a long, hearty yawn. Rocking on the balls of his feet, lingering unhurriedly, he looked as if he were just another visitor leaving the Kimmel household, making his happy exit after a fine dinner party and snifters of brandy by the fireplace.

Stooping, he scooped up the red gasoline can that he'd brought outside earlier, after he'd finished dousing Steve and spraying much of the downstairs. He was already carrying a brown paper grocery bag which held his tools: a half-empty bottle of ether, the stuff that he'd used to keep Steve from awakening during surgery; a pair of wire clippers which had deactivated the house's burglar and fire alarms; and a hacksaw, the instrument which had amputated Steve Kimmel's hands.

Still humming, the man crossed the front stoop, ambled down the steps and onto the walk. He hiked cheerfully onward, in no particular hurry, the gas can and shopping bag swaying easily at his sides. Taking a deep breath, letting it rush from his mouth with a satisfied sigh, he looked up at the starry sky.

His heart was light, his spirits high. He felt perfectly brilliant and buoyant, excited and gleeful, as giddy and proud as a little leaguer who has just hit his first home run. For the moment, the awful sorrow and rage which usually darkened him were in abeyance, pushed aside by a hot-air balloon of multi-colored joy, a rainbow circus tent rising within him.

He was the Miraclemaker, and he'd just performed his second miracle, and it had been even better than the first. Oh, the first had been wonderful, absolutely exhilarating, and would always be special because it was the first, but the second...the second was spectacular. While working his first miracle, he'd been uncertain, worried that some divine power might intervene and strike him down; by the time he'd embarked on his second, however, he was free of all doubt, confident of his abilities, able to more fully savor every instant of the experience. During the first miracle, his delight had come chiefly after the climax, when Debby Miller was dead and he realized that he could get away with murder; in the second miracle, though, he'd been thrilled from start to finish, from the severing of Steve Kimmel's hands to the last scream from his blackened lips.

To the Miraclemaker, Steve's murder had been fun, a rollicking good time. In the same way that someone else might enjoy a party or a picnic, the Miraclemaker had enjoyed torturing his victim and setting him afire. It had also been therapeutic, because it had made him forget some of the pain in his heart; a bit of the dark burden that he bore had been removed...only a tiny bit, to be sure, but it was a relief nonetheless.

Of course, he was also happy because his plan was proceeding without any trouble. Steve's death had brought him another step closer to the completion of his task, the attainment of his ultimate goal. Instead of wallowing in shadowy inertia, festering in grief and bitterness as he had for so long, he was moving audaciously forward and his purpose was clear. He was a man with a mission.

At the end of the front walk, the Miraclemaker sauntered onto the driveway, the paved loop that connected to the Kimmels' private road. After following the curve of the drive for a few yards, he then ambled onto the lawn, heard the frozen turf crunch beneath his boots. Whistling a snappy tune, briskly swinging his bag and gas can, he headed for the dense woods that surrounded the house. Since he couldn't just stroll down the road, in plain sight of the fire engines which would surely arrive soon, he would have to travel through the woods to get back down the mountain. That was okay with him, because he'd hiked up through the woods in the first place, beating a path which he could easily retrace. He felt like taking a hike anyway, and the moon was high and bright enough to light his way, and it wouldn't be a difficult trip at all. It would give him time to relive the night's triumphs, run them through his mind, caress and admire them and treasure every detail.

Beaming contentedly, heart stuffed with happiness, the Miraclemaker reached the edge of the woods, then stopped and turned. Bending down, he placed the bag and gas can on the ground, then removed the latex gloves that he'd been wearing throughout the night. Stuffing the gloves in a pocket of his jacket, he looked toward the house.

The place was really starting to burn. From every window, a pulsing red light could be seen, the glow of flames dancing and swirling with festive excitement. From the back of the mansion, a plume of smoke climbed upward, curling eagerly toward the stars. Soon, very soon, the fire would run wild, blowing out all the windows, belching great billows of black from every opening. The honeycombed interior of the house would blaze and collapse, all the floors and walls crumbling, falling out of the way of the tempest. The Kimmel palace would become one huge torch, a mountaintop beacon which would be seen for miles around.

Hands on his hips, the Miraclemaker sighed and nodded his head. He'd done a good thing, and he was pleased; for once, he felt happy to be alive.