by Shawn Inmon
Standing in the doorway, Scott could see almost all of it. One room constituted the kitchen, dining room, and living room. There was a small bedroom and bath off the back of the house. It sat in a small clearing ringed by trees. Beyond the sound of birds in the trees and a small brook that ran through the back of the property, it was completely quiet. For Scott, the best feature of the place was a covered front porch with a solid old rocking chair. He could envision many happy nights sitting there, reading and watching the world pass him by.
Chapter Fourteen
Scott cut and stacked enough firewood to get him through a long Vermont winter. He sharpened an old scythe he found in a back shed and cut back the encroaching vegetation. He reclaimed the area around the house as his own.
It’ll never get a spread in a magazine like House Beautiful, but I can’t imagine a more perfect place for me.
His new home was miles out of town, located off an old logging road, so he didn’t get a lot of drive by traffic. When someone did drive by, they were typically looking to get away from the world as well and left him alone. He couldn’t see much use in buying a vehicle, but he did buy a used bicycle at a yard sale. It was equipped with a basket big enough for a few groceries or a stack of books.
The rent that Greta charged him was so cheap that he didn’t need to work—his benefits gave him more than he needed for the simple life he led. He did take odd jobs around town from time to time, mostly to get himself out in polite company so he didn’t become a complete hermit.
When it became obvious to the denizens of Waitsfield that he wasn’t just passing through, he made a number of friends, including Louise, who ran the Waitsfield library. Like much of Waitsfield, the library was small, but it was a completely charming brick building with white columns in the front. He found out what day the out-of-town newspapers arrived and became familiar with the microfiche system. The small town library’s acquisition budget for non-local newspapers wasn’t large, but Scott subscribed to dozens and had them all sent to the library. Soon enough, their collection was the envy of all other library systems in Vermont.
Scott got in the habit of spending most of the day on Tuesdays and Fridays in the library. He designed a process where he scanned every out-of-town newspaper that came in for lurid stories of death and destruction. Each of those stories went into a notebook marked with the year. He knew he couldn’t stop all of them—there wasn’t much he could do about an airplane crash or a tornado touching down. He spent his evenings with a map of the United States, planning out where and how he could make a difference and how he could make it from one to another in time.
About a year after he started his research, Louise asked him, “What in the world are you doing, reading all those newspapers every week? Isn’t it the same news everywhere?”
He’d known that question was coming eventually and had an answer prepared.
“You’d be surprised how much difference there is. I’m thinking of writing a book about how different newspapers report the same story. That’s why I’m always sifting through the newspapers, looking for different angles.”
“Well, you’re certainly diligent about it. You’re my best customer!”
From experience, Scott knew that when he woke up again, he would only have whatever he’d had with him the day he had fallen asleep on his grandparents’ sofa.
That, and his memories.
He took a mail order course that taught him a number of tricks to improve his memory. The more he practiced, the better his memory got. After a few years, his memory become prodigious, and he filled it with a litany of dates, times, and names. A Hall of Fame for serial killers, rapists, murderers, and all-around awful people. He continually sorted and updated his list with the latest information that became available to him. It wasn’t unusual for a serial killer to emerge and Scott had to go back to a previous year’s notebook to make notes about where he had begun killing.
He found that true crime books, which were often deeply and impeccably researched, often provided the best insight into when and where would be the best place to stop a perpetrator. When Ann Rule began publishing her books in 1980, she became a go to source for him and he had a standing order with Greta for each new book.
Scott also knew that when he woke up, he would once again be in a weakened state, not yet recovered from his war wounds.
He wanted to have time to rest, rehabilitate and get strong, so he started researching events and bad happenings starting in the summer of 1974. That would give him time to get healthier, watch Cheryl and Mike get married—again—and get to wherever he needed to be to stop it.
He constantly battled with himself. One day he was anxious to get started on this new life, and the next he felt so happy with his quiet life in Vermont that he never wanted to leave it. He wanted to begin helping people and stop bad things from happening, but the longer he lived in this life, the more he would know.
Scott watched the seasons and years pass and he fell into a routine. He spent his two days each week in the Waitsfield library. He filled in for Greta at the used bookstore every fall so she could visit her children in Maine. There was something comforting about sitting among the dusty stacks, reading a new book and not knowing or caring if another customer would come in or not. Once each year, he made the trip back to Evansville to see Cheryl, Mark, and their brood of children, which had grown to include two new brothers for Andrea. They had named their oldest boy Scott.
Each time he visited, Cheryl and Mark both tried to convince him to move back to Evansville, but Scott never considered it. His home was in Vermont now.
In December, 1980, Scott was as shocked as the rest of the world to read about the murder of John Lennon. In picking out which cases he could do something about, Scott had typically tried to avoid high profile incidents. He didn’t want to become famous, or do anything that would put a crimp in his ability to move anonymously around the country. He knew he couldn’t let the murder of John Lennon pass unchanged, though.
Once he started making his list, the problem was in limiting it. He was initially shocked at how many bad things happened to good people. Over time, he realized that is the way of the world—part of the human condition.
His list grew. As the 1970s passed into the 1980s, serial killers became more prominent in the news. He followed their trails and researched their kills after they were captured to see if he could find an opportunity where he could have found and stopped them from killing early on. The more research he did, the more he wondered if he would actually be able to do what needed doing when the time came.
Can I really kill someone before they do something awful? But, what if I don’t? In a way, would that make me just as responsible?
It was a question he chased round and round in his brain as he drifted off to sleep each night.
The years passed quietly and easily for Scott. In the early spring of 2002, just a few months before his fifty-fourth birthday, he experienced a new pain. After all these years, he was used to pain flare-ups from his old war wounds, but this was something new. He did his best to put it out of his mind and concentrate on his work.
Soon after, he began to have a hard time urinating. He read up on home remedies and drank lots of cranberry juice. He found himself making more nighttime visits to the bathroom, which he explained away as his body getting older and from drinking all that cranberry juice.
As the months passed, the pain increased. Finally, when the worst of the snows had melted and he wasn’t so housebound, he made an appointment to visit Dr. Jasper. Jasper was the only doctor in town, and Scott knew him from seeing him in the bookstore.
Dr. Jasper gave him a full physical. A few days later, Scott returned to his office for the results. When he did, Jasper referred him to a specialist thirty miles northeast in Montpelier.
Scott planned to hitchhike the distance. He hadn’t owned a vehicle since he had moved to Vermont and he knew enough people in town that he was sure he wouldn’t be stranded
for long. Dr. Jasper tipped off Greta, who was now a robust eighty years old, about Scott’s appointment. She insisted on driving Scott to Montpelier.
As they rode, Scott watched the scenery roll by and reflected on what he was about to learn.
I suppose if I’d only had one life to live, this would be a frightening moment. Preparing to face the unknown. Heaven, hell, or the abyss of total oblivion. It’s not like that, though. Unless something has changed, I’ll wake up in Evansville in 1972 again. Cheryl will be cooking dinner and Gramps will flush the toilet and come walking down the hall. It’ll be good to see him again, when the time comes. It’s been too long.
Greta glanced across at Scott and saw the faraway look in his eyes. She reached a hand out and gently laid it on his for a moment, then put it back on the steering wheel. It was the only vaguely maternal gesture she had ever made to him.
“It’s going to be all right, Scott.”
“It’s always all right in the end. If it’s not all right, it’s not the end, right?”
“True words.”
Montpelier is the state capitol of Vermont, but it’s really just a small town with a big title. When Greta and Scott rolled into town, there were only 8,200 souls living there. Still, there were some great shops and restaurants there that Waitsfield didn’t have. Greta dropped Scott off at the entrance to the medical center and promised to be back in a few hours to pick him up.
The oncologist that Dr. Jasper had referred Scott to was Dr. Gardner. He gave Scott another thorough exam, drew blood, and spent quite some time sitting opposite him, reviewing Dr. Jasper’s reports.
“I see you were in the army. Vietnam?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gardner nodded. “I am going to refer you to a VA hospital. They’re going to want to take care of you.”
“I don’t understand. How could what I have now be related to something that happened almost thirty years ago?”
“Agent Orange. Virtually everyone who was in Vietnam was exposed to it. There are a number of diseases associated with that exposure, including Hodgkin’s disease, multiple myeloma, and various other cancers, including prostate cancer.”
“Is that what you’re saying I’ve got? Prostate cancer?”
That makes sense. Guess I shouldn’t have been so stubborn and gotten the tests earlier.
Dr. Gardner didn’t answer, but instead said, “On your reports, it says that you’ve been feeling certain levels of discomfort for some time. How long would you say?”
Scott squirmed. Sitting alone in his cabin, dealing with the pain himself had seemed like the right thing to do. Here, sitting in this doctor’s office, he felt more than a little foolish.
“Probably a year, now. Maybe a little longer.”
Gardner didn’t scold him. He didn’t need to. “Prostate cancer, when caught early, is highly treatable. If it’s allowed to grow unchecked for long, treatment becomes more difficult. As I say, though, I’m going to give you a recommendation to the VA hospital in New York. I think that’s our best option.
Scott nodded and shook Gardner’s hand. “Thank you, doctor.”
“My nurse will be in touch.”
Scott didn’t bother to tell him that he didn’t have a phone in his little cabin in the woods. He already knew what he needed to do.
Chapter Fifteen
On the ride back, Scott could tell that Greta was fighting within herself. Her normal reserve was trying to hold off her curiosity, but he could see she desperately wanted to ask what he had found out. Finally, Scott took pity on her.
“Nothing to worry about. It’s good news. Just need to get on some antibiotics for a few weeks and I’ll be right as rain.”
Greta glanced at him, trying to ascertain if he was being honest. After a few seconds, she said, “Oh, that’s lovely, Scott. I didn’t want to have to try to find someone else to rent out that old cabin.” She did her best but couldn’t hold back a mischievous smile.
“You’re all heart, Greta.”
Back in his cabin, Scott made his preparations. Over the years and decades, his research had filled enough notebooks that they took up an entire shelf in his living room. Some of it was organized, some was not. He’d always thought he had plenty of time.
I always thought I’d get organized when I got old. I never thought about what might happen if I didn’t get the chance to get old.
He opened a fresh notebook and began to jot down the key elements from each crime or incident that he would need. He organized them first by date, then location, then any details he would need.
When he was done, he had ten pages of notes written out.
That’s a whole helluva lot to remember. Not sure I can do it. Should I pare it down a bit?
He leafed through the notes, glancing at each notation.
Sure. Let’s pare it down. Who on this list doesn’t deserve to be rescued? The children Susan Smith drowned? Or how about Lawrence Singleton’s victims, or Westley Allen Dodd’s?
He continued flipping through his notes.
Nope. Gotta find a way to remember all this. I know I can do it.
Scott didn’t know if it was getting the diagnosis, or if his cancer took that moment to announce itself more forcefully, but he didn’t have another pain-free moment in that lifetime.
Instead of distracting him, the pain galvanized him. He knew whatever pain he might be feeling paled next to the people who he intended to rescue.
He stopped eating for the most part. The pain simply took his appetite away. Like his maternal grandfather, he had never been heavy, but now the pounds fell off him. He had to punch new holes in his belt and his cheeks rapidly became sunken. He knew he couldn’t go into town or people would know he was not long for this lifetime.
As he studied, a new thought came to haunt him.
I don’t know how all this works. What if the rules are different than I know? What if I die of natural causes? Do I go on to whatever is next, instead of starting over?
The thought stunned him for a moment and he sat back in his chair.
Have I been starting over because I’ve been essentially killing myself every damn life? If I live it through to the end, I might get an entirely different result.
With an effort, he stood and walked shakily to the front porch. He sat with a grunt in the rocker and looked out at the setting sun.
Would that be better? To finally live to the end of a life and get out of this infernal loop I’m in? No. That would mean this was a wasted life. I’m going to help these people. I shouldn’t take any chances, though. Better study fast.
Scott barely took time out to sleep the next three days. He hunched over his notes until his back ached and his mind felt like it would shut down. He used every memory trick he had. Formed associations with people and places. Created mnemonic devices. Created keywords for each crime. More than anything, he read and reread his final master list.
After those days of intense study, he had to admit that he couldn’t imagine forgetting any of what he had stuffed into his memory.
Like a man waking from a long nap, he looked around his cozy home.
I loved this place. I will miss it.
He grabbed the pistol from the drawer where he had kept it for the past ten years. He had only fired it once—the day he got it, to make sure it worked. At the time he bought it, he hadn’t been sure why he had. It made sense, living out in the middle of the woods.
Now. Where? Not in here. Don’t want to do that to Greta. If I had the strength, I’d dig my own grave and lay in it, so all they had to do was throw the dirt in on me. I don’t have that strength, though. I feel this cancer eating at me, spreading. Cancer lives by killing its host, which then kills it. Stupid cancer.
Scott walked out to the forest that ringed his house. There was a small seasonal stream twenty yards further on, but he was failing fast and couldn’t make it that far. He had expended the last of his strength.
Finding the old red maple tree that he had alw
ays loved, Scott half-sat, half-fell against its base. He dropped the pistol, but was able to retrieve it.
In an unconscious mimicry of his father, he opened his mouth and put the barrel against the roof of his mouth.
Pulled the trigger.
Chapter Sixteen
Scott McKenzie opened his eyes and sat bolt upright.
“Gah!”
A wordless exclamation that, loosely translated, means, “I never want to do that again.”
His hand reached up and patted the top of his head. Logic told him that his scalp was there, just where it should be, but he wanted to confirm that fact.
Okay. My head is all in one piece. And damn, every time I wake up back here, I forget how much it hurts to do anything.
Adrenaline coursed through him. He broke out in a sweat. His heart pounded as if he had run up three flights of stairs.
He took a deep, cleansing breath and threw back the comforter. Pain wracked his body, from his surgically repaired shoulder to the wound in his leg that would take several more years to fully heal.
I hope this will be the last time through this life. It’s going to take a little more getting used to this time—it’s been so long since I’ve been here. At least I never got addicted to having all the luxuries of what is now the future, so I won’t miss cell phones, GPS systems, and computers. I knew I was going to feel this crappy, but knowing it and actually feeling it are two different damn things.
He heard the toilet flush and his grandfather emerged from the bathroom.
Hello, Gramps. So good to see you.
Unexpectedly, he felt his throat tighten and tears spring to his eyes.
It’s been so long. I know you said you were ready to die, but I sure do miss you when you leave. Gotta remember that for you, Gram just died. You’re devastated, of course.
Scott gently swung his feet of the couch and sat up.
“Glad you got some sleep. I know you needed it,” Earl said as he eased into his chair. “Cheryl’s working on some dinner for us.”