by Shawn Inmon
“Did you make this?”
“Yes, I carved it for you. I make all my own weapons. I find it is better to be armed and not need a weapon, than to need a weapon and not have one.”
“Can I buy this from you?”
“No.”
Scott nodded and did his best to hide his disappointment. “It fits my hand so well. Can you tell me where I can buy one like this?”
“No, of course not. It’s a gift. At first, I thought a bo might be right for you, but the more I thought about where you are in your training, the more I thought that might be too long and awkward for you. You can use this jo when you go on your walkabout.”
Scott looked at Jerry. “Have I told you that I am going on a walkabout?”
Jerry shrugged. “Are you?”
“Yes, I am, and soon.”
“There you are, then.” He smiled and said, “Come on, let me show you a jo kata. It will take some practice.”
It did take practice. Nothing about it felt natural at first, but the more Scott worked with it over the next six months, the more it became like a part of him.
The YMCA was three miles from the house he and Cheryl were once again sharing as she prepared to marry Mike for the two-dozenth time, from Scott’s perspective. After he received the jo, he started walking to the “Y” and home each day and grew stronger and stronger.
Between the six miles of walking, the fifty laps in the pool, and three workouts each week overseen by sensei Werbeloff, Scott had worked his way back to some semblance of the condition he had been in before he was wounded.
In all the previous repetitions of this section of his life, Scott had kept to himself. Even when he spent huge amounts of time in the Rusty Bucket, he was something of a loner. In this life, he found himself more and more drawn to Jerry Werbeloff. Scott was a few years older than his young sensei, but that didn’t matter. They were on the same wavelength.
Jerry was a newlywed, much to the disappointment of the many young women who flocked to the YMCA to take lessons from him. Over time, Jerry and his beautiful wife, Lynn, fell into the habit of having Scott over for dinner on Fridays.
They lived in a small apartment in a busy part of Evansville, not far outside of downtown. They shared food and laughs, and the three of them grew close.
Over a plate of hummus and chips one night, Scott posed a question.
“Let me give you a hypothetical scenario. You teach over and over that everything we are learning is for self-defense.”
“Correct. I won’t teach someone who just wants to make themself a tough guy to go out and pick a fight. That is against the way of the warrior.”
Scott nodded. “Good enough. But, what if a situation arose where you knew with absolute certainty that a person was going to harm someone else, but they weren’t threatening you directly?”
“That is an easy question. My code says that I must protect the innocent and those who are unable to defend themselves. If I know someone is going to harm someone else, it is incumbent on me to stop them.”
Jerry stood up and wandered into a bookshelf in the living room. He flipped through the books stuffed into it, selected a volume, and brought it back to the table.
“Here. A gift for you. I can get another.”
Scott turned the book over and read the title. Hagakure: The Secret Wisdom of the Samurai.
“That should answer your question and any others similar to it.”
Scott nodded. “Thank you. It means a lot to have it from you.” He hung his head for a moment. “I am leaving next week. I’ll sure miss the two of you and our classes. When I get back to town, I’ll come find you first thing.”
“Why do I think that your hypothetical question and the fact that you are leaving have something to do with each other?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Scott did his best to switch things up so that his entire life didn’t feel like a rerun. To that end, instead of hitchhiking or riding a bus to Maine this time, he started his journey on a train. Aside from hitching a hobo’s ride, he had never been on a train before. He soon found he loved the experience.
The rocking, swaying motion as the train rumbled down the tracks soothed him to sleep at night and he spent his waking hours reading or staring out the windows at the passing rivers, lakes, and mountains.
He caught a train to Chicago where he ended up spending a few hours before he boarded another train to Philadelphia. From there, he changed trains again and rode to Portland, Maine.
This time, he knew exactly where the Jenkins lived, and he had a plan. He didn’t need to get there a month early to scope out Waterville. So, he had waited and hadn’t left Evansville until June 30th.He arrived in Portland late on July 2nd. Train travel was soothing, but it wasn’t fast.
That put him on a much tighter schedule, which was just what he wanted. He had found out last life what happened when he gave himself too much time to think. One of his grandfather’s aphorisms came to mind: those who think long, often think wrong.
In Portland, he found an inexpensive motel within walking distance of the train station. After several days cooped up onboard the train, it felt good to stretch out his legs. He was once again traveling light—still just his single backpack, with his karambit and baton tucked safely into a zippered pocket. His only new addition to his travel kit was his jo stick, which was disguised as a walking stick.
He found a newspaper box outside his motel, put a dime into it, and fished out a copy of The Portland Press Herald. After grabbing a quick bite at the diner across the street, Scott shut himself in his room for the evening.
He had left all but the Classified section of the paper at the diner. Now back in his room, he searched through the classified section of the paper for cars for sale. He had waited until he was in Maine to look for a car because he wanted whatever he drove to have Maine license plates and be less conspicuous.
He made a few phone calls from the old rotary dial phone that sat on the stand next to his full-size bed. A few of the vehicles were already sold and several other numbers didn’t answer, but he finally reached a man who had a 1964 Plymouth Valiant for sale. It met Scott’s criteria—cheap, and a little dinged up, but not remarkably so.
Scott arranged to meet the man the next morning at 10 a.m. The man’s home was more than five miles from his overnight accommodations, so he called a Yellow Cab to pick him up and deliver him to the address.
He tipped the cabbie a buck and let him go. He was either going to buy the Valiant or he would have a good long walk home. The car, looking a little sad and dilapidated, sat at the curb with a “For Sale” sign in the rear window.
Scott walked around it, taking in the faded paint, rust spots along the running boards, and the spring that stuck up through the back seat.
Perfect.
A man in a t-shirt and Bermuda shorts came out through the front door.
“She’s a beaut, eh?”
Scott looked at the man but managed not to laugh.
“Does she run?”
“Does she—don’t be crazy. Of course she runs!”
The For Sale sign said it had 169,000 miles on it and that he wanted $400.
“I’ll tell you what. If she starts on the first go, I’ll give you $350, cash. If not, but it starts eventually, I’ll give you $300. Deal?”
“Well, she’ll know it’s a stranger trying to fire her up.”
“Then you be the one to start her. Deal?”
The man squinted at Scott, but apparently gave a thought to how long he had been trying to get this car out of the front of his house. “Deal. Hang on.”
Bermuda shorts in Maine. Now I’ve seen everything. Maybe he’s going to take this money and run to Florida with it.
Two minutes later, the man reappeared holding two keys on a leather key ring.
He slid in behind the wheel, paused to say a little prayer, and turned the key.
The little Valiant lived up to its name and turned right over. It didn’t exactly purr, b
ut it ran steadily enough.
The man gave Scott a triumphant smile and said, “Hah! Just like I said. Every time.”
Scott peeled three hundreds, two twenties and a ten off the roll in his pocket and gave it to the man. “Got the change of ownership paperwork with you?”
“Well, I wasn’t really expecting to sell the old girl today. I’ll make out a bill of sale for you and sign the title.”
“Good enough.” And all the better for me.
Ten minutes later, Scott had given the man a false name and accepted the bill of sale and title. He threw his backpack in the trunk, his jo stick across the backseat and headed out of town. His first stop was a gas station, because it’s a universal law that people selling used cars will sell it with the least amount of gas in the tank as possible.
Scott filled the tank for five bucks and headed north. Waterville was only a seventy-mile drive from Portland, so he arrived there in time for lunch. He ate at the same little café he had taken many meals at in his previous life and got a room in the same little motel he had stayed in as well. The whole thing was familiar to him, but he was unknown to everyone in the town.
He didn’t bother to look for a room to rent long term this trip. He knew he wasn’t going to be in town for very long.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The details of what had happened at the Jenkins’ house in his last life was still clear in his memory. He had witnessed with his own eyes how it had played out that day, so he knew he didn’t need to arrive early. He had a few preparations to make, but he had plenty of time.
He packed his bag and threw it in the trunk of the Valiant. He laid his jo stick, karambit, and baton across the passenger seat. In its sheath, even the karambit looked innocuous enough. The baton and jo looked absolutely ordinary. In all, his array of weapons was unlikely to attract unwanted attention.
He stopped at his favorite café in Waterville for what he hoped was the last time.
Either way, I swear this is my last time through this scenario. If I can’t get it right this time, I’m going to have to admit I can’t do this. Maybe I could get a job working as the world’s greatest detective helping police apprehend people after they’ve already killed. That’s fine for me, but not so hot for the victims.
It was just before noon when he sat down in the booth. He ordered a big breakfast—two eggs over easy, bacon, hash browns and a large OJ—because he wasn’t sure when he would have a chance to eat again.
He stopped at a Shell station and topped off the tank of the Valiant, which ran him less than a buck.
Finally, he drove to Greenbrier Road. When he passed the Jenkins house, he saw that the 4th of July play day was in full force. The two girls were kicking a ball back and forth and the baby sat on Sylvia’s lap.
Scott kept the needle pegged at an even 25 MPH and drove past without kicking up too much dust on the gravel road. He continued on past the house and woods. The last time around, when, he had to admit, he’d had no real, concrete plan, he hadn’t found out what was at the end of Greenbrier. Did it dead-end, or funnel off toward the highway?
Two miles down the road, it veered off to the right. Scott followed the road until it T-intersected with the highway.
Perfect.
He had noticed the mileage on his odometer when he passed the Jenkins house and saw that was exactly 2.3 miles back. He drove back in that direction until he could see the trees that bordered the Jenkins property. He slowed until he saw what he was looking for—a small stone building that looked like it had been abandoned decades earlier. There was the hint of an old driveway that had once run alongside it. Scott turned the Valiant down what was now no more than a path. He circled behind the building, turned the car so that it faced back toward the road and parked.
He slipped the sheathed knife onto his belt, pushed the baton into his back pocket, and, using the jo as a walking stick, walked the short distance through the field toward the woods. He turned and looked back at the stone building, then out toward the road. The long grass he had disturbed when he drove in was already springing back up.
Unless someone looks awfully damn close, they’re never gonna see the car back there.
He walked toward the Jenkins place at a comfortable pace, giving every indication he was just another traveler passing through. Before he even broke a sweat, he came to the stand of trees he had waited in during his last life.
Scott picked his way through the brambles until he was approximately across from the Jenkins house. He didn’t have to worry about his pack this time—it was safely hidden in the trunk. He glanced at his watch. 4:30. He still had some time to wait. He sat on the cool earth and leaned his back against a tree.
No need to keep watch this time. I have a pretty good idea when he’ll be here.
After a few minutes, he felt himself grow drowsy in the heat of the day, so he quickly stood back up.
No way. I am not living this whole damned life over again because I fell asleep on a hot summer day.
Moments later, Brock Jenkins’ green Dodge pickup turned into the driveway.
Scott stretched out, touched his toes, and jogged a little in place.
Sylvia Jenkins walked around the yard scooping up toys and shoes, then ushered the kids inside.
There’s my cue.
Scott walked out of the forest, making no attempt at being quiet.
Immediately, Brock Jenkins heard him approach and turned toward him with his head cocked at an angle.
“Can I help you?”
Scott shook his head and pointed to his left ear as if he couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Louder, Brock Jenkins said, “Can I help you?”
Scott nodded, as if he finally understood what was being said. He did not answer though.
Brock Jenkins held his ground, but shifted so his weight was evenly distributed.
Not expecting it, but ready for a fight, just like last time.
Scott kept his pace steady and stopped a few feet away.
Brock Jenkins looked puzzled, as though Scott might be simple-minded and lost.
Scott didn’t hesitate. He pulled his jo stick up into both hands and in one long-practiced, fluid motion, swung it in an arc that connected with Jenkins’ head beside his left eye.
Jenkins crumbled to the ground, but reacted fast. He rolled away from Scott and sprang back to his feet.
Scott closed on him, still holding the jo in both hands and thrust it at Jenkins’ throat. The other man was quick and tried to both turn away and grab the jo with both hands. Scott was expecting exactly that and twisted the stick as he thrusted. It scraped the right side of Jenkins throat, but didn’t do serious damage.
The left side of Jenkins’ face had been split open by the initial blow and blood flowed into his eye.
A shrill, ear-piercing scream tore through the air. Sylvia Jenkins stood on the front porch, her mouth open and ready to scream again. She dropped the beer bottle she had been carrying. It didn’t shatter, but a geyser of beer shot up.
Scott had turned his head to see.
Jenkins hadn’t. He bull-rushed Scott and hit him in the solar-plexus with his right shoulder. They both went to the ground, but Scott was on the bottom and all the air rushed out of his lungs with a loud “Ooof!”
Jenkins tried to wrap him up in a wrestler’s hold, but Scott rolled away.
“Go call the police, and get the rifle!” Jenkins shouted at his wife.
Sylvia Jenkins fled inside, slamming the door behind her.
Brock Jenkins scrambled to his feet, quick as lightning.
The baton, still collapsed, had fallen out of Scott’s pocket. He grabbed it off the ground in his left hand, opened it to its full length with a downward flick, and dropped into a fighting stance.
Jenkins wasn’t interested in a fight, though. He had turned and run toward his pickup truck.
Scott was not fast, but he moved as quickly as he could and when Jenkins had to stop to open the door, Sco
tt caught him.
He didn’t hesitate. He raised the baton as he ran and whipped it down on Jenkins right arm as it opened the door.
Scott heard the bones break in Jenkins forearm. It was Jenkins turn to scream.
Gotta do this fast. Don’t know how long it will take the cops to get here, but probably not too long.
While Brock Jenkins cradled his broken arm and cried out, Scott pulled the karambit out of its sheath with his right hand and slashed upward into the other man’s exposed chest. The knife was so sharp, its curved edge went in almost without friction. Scott twisted it as he pulled it out and blood spurted onto his hand, his arm, his clothes, everywhere.
Brock Jenkins fell to his knees, but before he collapsed completely, Scott reversed his attack and slid the blade across his throat.
Jenkins’ eyes glazed over and Scott let him fall.
Adrenaline rushed through Scott, but he knew he needed to focus.
Gotta get the hell out of here, right damn now.
He strode over to where his jo lay abandoned in the grass, grabbed it and turned for the road. He was almost there when the front door opened and Sylvia Jenkins pushed through. She held a rifle in both hands.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sylvia Jenkins wasn’t screaming any more. She looked calm as she raised the rifle to her shoulder and sighted down the barrel at Scott.
Scott looked left and right. Cover was thin, but there were a few maple trees at the front of the Jenkins yard. He sprinted for one.
As he slid behind it, a shot rang out and the bark beside his head was vaporized.
If I stay right here, she can pin me down until the police arrive.
He ran for the next tree, then another and another.
Mrs. Jenkins’ aim was fair, but she didn’t seem to be familiar with the mechanism of the gun, as the shots did not come quickly. She took two more shots that were near misses, but then Scott disappeared behind the cedar fence that delineated the two property lines.
Far away, Scott heard the tinny wail of a police siren.