Backtracker

Chapter 3

Chapter 3Cross 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."