by Shawn Inmon
The Vigilante Life of Scott McKenzie
By Shawn Inmon
Copyright 2018 © by Shawn Inmon
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
The Vigilante Life of Scott McKenzie
Chapter One | 1958
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two | Universal Life Center
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Postscript
Agents of Karma #1, available 2019.
The Reset Life of Cassandra Collins | Available December, 2018
Author’s Note
Other Books by Shawn Inmon
The Vigilante Life of Scott McKenzie
Chapter One
1958
Ten-year-old Scott McKenzie put his arm around his little sister Cheryl. They were hunkered down in the closet of Scott’s room in their home in Middle Falls, Oregon. Even hidden away, the sounds of the fight in the living room still echoed loudly in their ears. His closet had been their sanctuary for the endless series of fights his parents had.
This particular set-to had started like many before it. It had begun with their father coming home late and drunk. It escalated from accusations of infidelity to the sounds of slapping, punching, and furniture being knocked over.
Scott held Cheryl’s face in his hands, willing her to meet his eyes. “What do mares eat?”
“Oats,” the little girl said, a waver in her voice.
“And what about does?”
“Oats.”
“And how about little lambs?”
“Little lambs eat ivy.”
“A kid’ll eat ivy, too. Wouldn’t you?”
Scott had used this game to distract Cheryl from the terrible happenings in their home on dozens of occasions, but tonight, Mairzy Doats wasn’t doing the trick. She did her best to look at Scott, but her eyes continually darted to the slats in the closet door. He felt her tremble under his protective arm.
Things went deathly quiet in the living room. Scott hoped that meant that the fight was over and the cleanup was in progress. If it’s not that, then things are about to get a lot worse. I need to go and see if Mom needs help, but I don’t want to leave Cheryl all alone in here.
He held Cheryl tightly against him. This quiet in the eye of the storm unnerved both of them. He strained his ears, but couldn’t pick up any sound.
I need to go check. He might be killing Mom.
He whispered in Cheryl’s ear. “Come on. I think it’s over.” He acted as though he had a brand new idea. “Hey, it’s still warm outside.” It wasn’t, but the cold was an easier problem to deal with than whatever was happening in the house. “Maybe we can go for a walk around the neighborhood. We’ll be safe out there.” His mind’s eye went to the playground down the street, lit by the soft glow of a streetlight. “There won’t be anyone at the park. Would you like me to push you on the swings?”
Cheryl nodded, but the look in her eyes showed she was scared to the point of not thinking.
Scott pushed the closet door open. Slowly. It made the barest of creaks and he paused, waiting. There was still no sound from the other room.
Scott grabbed Cheryl’s small hand and led her out of the closet. They were both in stocking-feet. There was no time to think about tenny runners. Scott was focused on one thing.
Distance.
Distance from the fear, the fighting, the violence that hung over the house like a dark cloud.
They crept past Scott’s bed. Past the open Curious George book turned face down on the floor. Past the Howdy Doody marionette that laid crumpled beside the toy box.
The door to his room was closed. Scott laid his hand on the knob for two beats while he labored to hear anything that might indicate whether they were walking into either safety or danger. The house was still bathed in eerie quiet.
I should be able to hear them talking by now. What are they doing?
Scott and Cheryl walked on cat’s feet, down the hall. Past the bathroom, and their parents’ bedroom. The light from the living room cut like a knife’s blade across the deep shadows of the hall. Scott put his toes as close to the light as he could and slowly leaned forward to peek around the corner.
A gunshot filled the house and echoed down the hallway. It was made all the louder, all the more terrible, by the deafening silence that had preceded it.
Scott cried out and jumped instinctively back. His cry was lost in the echoing reverberation of the shot.
He turned and looked at Cheryl. Her eyes were thrown wide, her mouth a perfect circle of fear. He reached for her, but she had lost her small reserve of courage. She turned and skittered down the hall, not caring how much noise she made.
Scott nodded. Good. I don’t want her to see whatever I am about to see.
With the echoing explosion of the gun gone, deep silence returned to the house.
His heart beat a pounding rhythm in his throat, but he forced his leaden feet to take another step toward the living room. Maybe he shot the gun to scare her. To scare us. But why can’t I hear her?
He forced himself to look around the corner.
What he saw remained in his memory for many lives.
His mother was on one end of the sofa, his father on the other. Her head was thrown back and her right arm was laid across the back of the couch. She looked as though she had braced herself for a long laugh. The blood spatter on the wall behind her told a different story.
Scott stared at his mother while the realization of what he was seeing sank into his brain.
He finally tore his eyes away from her and slowly turned his head toward his father.
Mark McKenzie sa
t staring directly at his son. With his violence discharged, he was calm. Dead calm. His eyes never moved from Scott.
Scott looked at his father with wide eyes. A gun sat on the sofa cushion next to him.
Mark McKenzie picked the pistol up and looked at it as though seeing it for the first time. He pointed it directly at Scott, considering. There was no shake in his hand.
Scott wanted to turn and run like Cheryl had, but he stood rooted to the spot.
With exquisite slowness, Mark McKenzie moved the gun in an arc until it was pointing directly at his own face. He continued to stare directly at Scott. He let his jaw fall open, pushed the barrel of the gun against the top of his mouth. He blinked once.
Pulled the trigger.
Chapter Two
Twenty-year-old Scott McKenzie dried the last of the night’s dishes and put the casserole dish and plates away.
From the living room, his grandfather called, “Hurry along, Scotty, it’s almost time.”
It was December 1, 1969. Scott and Cheryl McKenzie had been living with their grandparents for ten and a half years—ever since the day their father had shot their mother and then himself. Earl and Cora—Gramps and Gram to Scott and Cheryl—had flown into Portland the next day. They drove to Middle Falls and brought the siblings home.
Scott was glad to have the opportunity to move to Indiana. In Evansville, he was only “the new guy.” Back in Middle Falls, he would have been “the kid whose dad shot his mom.”
His parents’ murder-suicide had changed his life in a thousand different ways. Where he finished school was only one. Certain images from that night would never leave his memory, no matter how much time passed, or how he tried to forget them. It was almost impossible for him to think of his mother without seeing the image of her stretched out on that sofa.
Cheryl still jumped and cried at sudden, loud noises. Scott’s nightmares eventually lessened, but still awakened him, sweating and shaking, from time to time.
Even the most horrific wounds eventually heal over and fade into scars. Their grandparents provided them with many things they had missed while their parents were alive—primary among them, safety and a sense of calm.
Scott finally felt like he had his life under control. In eight months, he would turn twenty-one, and could finally enroll in the academy for the Evansville, Indiana police force. He had graduated from high school two years earlier with grades that were good enough to get him into college, but Scott had never considered it—he was going to be a cop.
The night his parents had died, his first instinct was to run out the front door and never look back. He knew he could not leave his sister behind, though, and there was no way to get her out of the house without seeing the horror show their living room had become.
Instead, he had looked up the number, called the police and told them what had happened. The first responder on the scene had been a large man in full uniform. He had been an awe-inspiring sight to the frightened ten-year-old boy. He had brought such a sense of calm and order to the scene, that Scott knew that was the job for him.
The summer after his senior year, he had taken a job at the local Chevy dealer. He washed cars, ran errands, and worked as a general-purpose gofer at the dealership, working and saving until he was old enough to get into the academy.
While working at the dealership, he met Sherry Dickenson, a pretty brunette girl with a friendly smile who liked to wear miniskirts to her job as the front desk receptionist. It was hard to say which of those traits attracted Scott more. Before he knew it, he was in love.
At the tender age of twenty, then, he had his life planned out. Enroll in the academy, become a police officer, then ask Sherry to marry him and live happily ever after. As simple as one, two, three.
The only potential monkey wrench in his plan was the Selective Service Draft, which was going to be televised on CBS that very night in place of a new episode of Mayberry RFD.
The newspaper that morning had said that if your birthdate was drawn in the first third of the selection, you were almost certain to be drafted. In the last third, you were almost certain not to be. If you were in the middle, it could go either way. This was one lottery that no one wanted to win.
Scott dried his hands on a dishtowel and walked into the small living room. His grandparents were already in their favorite chairs. His grandfather had that day’s Evansville Courier & Press open on his lap. His grandmother was knitting an afghan she intended as a Christmas present for one of the ladies at church. Cheryl, who was in high school now, was in her room, ostensibly studying. In reality, she was laying on her bed, staring at a poster of Bobby Sherman and talking on the princess phone she had gotten for her birthday.
CBS correspondent Roger Mudd, reporting on the low-tech affair, sat in the front row, like a witness to an execution. He turned in his seat, looked directly into the camera and in hushed tones, explained that the United States hadn’t held a draft in twenty-seven years, since World War II.
Scott sat on the edge of the couch.
They’re not gonna show them draw all three hundred and sixty-six numbers, are they? That’ll take all night.
In a stroke of almost unbelievable anticlimax, Mudd intoned, “The famous first number drawn for this draft is September 14. That will be number zero-zero-one. If that’s your birthday, it’s time to start packing.”
His grandfather dropped his paper into his lap. “Shit.”
“Earl!” Cora said. “Language.” She cocked her head and looked at Scott. “Oh, Scotty, I’m so sorry. This is so awful.”
Scott leaned back into the couch, stunned. He had been anticipating this night for weeks, and before it even started, it was all over for him.
“The famous first number drawn for this draft is September 14.”
Of course. My birthday. Am I never going to catch a break?
Scott glanced at his grandfather, whose mouth was set in a thin line as he shook his head. “Damned war. There’s no way we’re going to win over there. Nixon keeps saying he’s going to end it, but instead, he’s throwing more and more of our young men into the fire.”
Scott tried to find a smile to flash at his grandparents, but he couldn’t manage it. Instead, he said, “I think I’m going to go for a little drive.”
“Oh, honey,” his grandmother said, soothingly. “Why don’t you stay here with us? We don’t need to watch this. I’m sure there’s a movie on one of the other channels. I can make some popcorn.”
“Thanks, Grandma. I just want to go for a little drive and clear my head. I’ll be all right. I’ve got to think things through.”
He kissed his grandmother on the cheek, grabbed his keys off the hall table and hurried outside. His old Chevy Apache pickup sat in the driveway, and he climbed in. Five minutes later, he was outside the city limits of Evansville and driving through the countryside.
Now what. Wait it out? I don’t think it will be much of a wait. How long until they send Draft Notices to those first few numbers?
He rolled the driver’s window down and a cold blast of air filled the cab.
Go to Canada? Can’t do it. I don’t have it in me, and I can’t leave everyone behind anyway. That doesn’t leave many options.
He shook his head at the unfairness of it all. He realized he was trapped.
Chapter Three
Scott asked for, and got, the next afternoon off from work at the dealership. He drove to the Army Recruiting office, which was in a small storefront in downtown Evansville. It was a modest affair—just two desks, a few chairs against the front wall, and an American flag in one corner of the room.
One desk was empty, but a barrel-chested man in a crisp U.S. Army uniform sat behind the other. When Scott walked in, the man jumped to his feet, his posture erect, a small smile on his face. For a moment, Scott thought he was going to salute him, but he extended his hand instead.
Scott shook it, firmly.
“Good handshake, son. That’s a good sign.” The man gestu
red to a chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, and we can talk. I’m Sgt. Berkman. What brings you into the office today? Looking for information?”
Soft sell. I’m sure they pick these recruiters based on their personalities.
“I guess so. My birthday is September 14.”
Sgt. Berkman didn’t wince, or commiserate. He didn’t need to look at a sheet of paper to see what that birthday signified. He nodded and said, “Oh-oh-one. So, I guess the die is cast for you, then, isn’t it?”
“Seems that way.”
“With that birthday, you’re going to be in the first group called. It might be better if you just signed up now.”
“When will the first group of draftees be called?”
“No way to know. I don’t expect it will be too long, though. Likely right after the first of the year. You’ll be better situated if you volunteer.”
Scott nodded glumly, but didn’t ask exactly how he would be better situated.
Sgt. Berkman nodded sympathetically. “Last night wasn’t good news for you, eh?”
“No, sir. I was planning on joining the police academy as soon as I turned twenty-one. Now, I won’t be able to do that.”
“Well, hold on, there. Don’t get too far ahead of yourself.” He paused, reached for a pen, and made a note on a pad of paper. “What’s your name, son?”
“Scott McKenzie.” Scott braced himself, ready in case the sergeant asked him about the song, San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair) by the “other” Scott McKenzie. It often came up when he told people his name. If Berkman had ever heard it, though, he made no comment.
Berkman made another note on his pad, nodded to himself. He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “I think I can help you out, here. You want to be a cop, right?”
Scott nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, you could maybe get into the academy next year, but if they have too many applicants, you’ll get pushed out a year, or even two. Often, if it comes down to the last three or four candidates, they’ll go with the older person, figuring they have more experience.” He said this as if he had a pipeline directly into the people who ran the academy. In sales, confidence is more than half the battle. “But, what if your application to the academy stated that you were a United States Army veteran, with a few years of being a Military Police officer already under your belt. Do you think they’d turn you away then?”