The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver

by Shawn Inmon

  A few minutes later, he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling and wondering whether it had asbestos in it, when Zack padded into the room, undressed, and crawled into his bed.

  Zack. He’s going to die in less than four months, and I’m going to be the one to kill him. Or am I? Now that I’m here again, can I change things? If I do, will it change everything going forward? How could it not? What will happen if I just don’t go to that kegger with him?

  Zack said, “Hey, Squirt?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Aren’t you going to play one of your awful records?”

  “You don’t care?”

  “Nah. I’ve kinda gotten used to them. Don’t know if I can go to sleep without it.”

  “Okay.”

  Thomas rolled over, pushed the lever on the stereo, and heard the same Mingus song that had played during his nervous breakdown that morning. He turned the volume knob until the music was barely audible.

  “That okay?”

  “Turn it up a little, like it usually is.”

  Like it usually is.

  For Zack, for this Zack, there had been a Tommy in this same bed the night before, listening to the same Mingus record. In relative terms, that was about when Thomas had taken enough sleeping pills to kill himself three times over.

  So where did that Tommy go? Is he still here? Am I him? Shit. I am never gonna figure this out. Maybe I’ll check some Isaac Asimov or Ray Bradbury out of the library, since I can’t just Google 'theories of time travel' any more. In fact, unless I wake up somewhere else, I guess I won’t be Googling anything for twenty-five years or so. No more PCs, smart phones, search engines or social media. But you can still smoke almost wherever you want, you don’t have to take your shoes off to get on a plane and gas is cheap. The whole world feels slower.

  Then it slipped out. “That’s a pretty good tradeoff for not being able to Google something.”

  “What? What did you say? Goo-what? What the hell is that?”

  “Sorry. Think I was already asleep and dreaming about something.”

  A few moments passed in silence.

  “Zack?”

  “Yeah?”

  “’Night. See you in the morning.”

  “’Night, Squirt.”

  Chapter Eight

  THOMAS SWAM THROUGH layers of consciousness, sorting out a swirl of dreams from reality. He opened one eye. Red, white, and blue walls.

  Yes! Still here!

  He put his feet on the threadbare carpet and looked at the clock. 6:45. Zack’s bed was empty, sheets and blankets thrown back in a careless heap. Thomas made a quick pit stop in the bathroom, then wandered out to the kitchen.

  Mom’s Chrysler is gone. Must be at work already.

  Thomas laid his hand against the coffee pot. Still warm. He poured himself a cup and took a sip.

  The caffeinated bitterness made him wince. Whoa! That’ll put hair on my chest. Does everything taste stronger in the seventies, or are my taste buds just young again?

  “Since when do you drink coffee?”

  Thomas jumped. “Damn, Zack! Are you part cat? You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, when did you start to drink coffee?”

  Almost forty years ago, but that's not a good answer. “I dunno. It just smelled good, so I thought I would try it. Tastes pretty awful.”

  “Yeah, and it’ll stunt your growth.” Zack bent at the waist so his eyes and Thomas’s were at the same level. “You can’t afford any more stunting.”

  “Smartass.”

  “Get moving, I’m leaving in fifteen.”

  “Leaving?”

  “You know, school? It's a place where they teach things. Didn't school even teach you what school does?”

  School?

  Oh, shit, School! His stomach dropped. I don't like this at all. A large building crawling with hormonal teenagers, with bodies like adults but brains like kids, doesn't sound fun. “Um, I don’t know if I’m going to school today.”

  “Hell you aren't. You know Mom’s rule: if you aren’t in the hospital or the morgue, you go to school. Get your ass in gear. I don’t want to be late. Your backpack’s by the door. Hope you got your homework done.”

  That would depend on how diligent Tommy was before I arrived on the scene, which I have no idea. Thomas scarfed a bowl of Cap’n Crunch, slammed another cup of coffee, and was in the Camaro fifteen minutes later. It was a warm spring morning, and Zack rolled down his window, put on his sunglasses, leaned back, and started blasting his new Led Zeppelin 8-track from the speakers. Mercifully, it was Kashmir playing, not Trampled Underfoot.

  The drive to Middle Falls High was short. Zack pulled the Camaro into a spot at the far end of the parking lot behind the main building, then was up and out of the car without a backward glance. Tommy got out and looked in the old Ford pickup parked next to them. It had a gun rack and rifle across the back window.

  “It’s okay to bring guns to school? Holy crap.”

  Thomas realized he was talking to Zack’s retreating back, too far away to hear. “All righty then. See ya. Good talk.” Thomas shouldered his orange and brown Oregon State backpack and walked slowly toward the high school, wondering where he was supposed to go. Second semester, sophomore year. What the hell classes did I have? Who were my teachers that year? Who is the President, anyway? Jimmy Carter, or is it still Gerald Ford? Maybe there’s a schedule in the backpack.

  He unslung the pack and riffled through it as he walked. Biology textbook, American History, Algebra II. Oh, crap. I don’t remember Algebra I. How am I going to fake my way through Algebra II? At the back of the pack, he found a tatty Pee-Chee folder, soft with wear, covered in doodles that were no doubt his. Inside was page after page of graded homework, but no schedule.

  Well, duh. I wouldn't have written it down, any more than I'd write down our phone number and address. Maybe I can go into the office and make some kind of excuse and they’ll tell me where I need to go.

  A sharp whistle broke through his fog. “Weaver! Wait up!”

  Thomas turned and saw a lanky teenager running toward him. Oh my God. That's Billy Steadman.

  Billy had been Tommy’s best friend from seventh grade until the summer after their sophomore year, when his parents had moved to Maine. They hadn't stayed in touch. Kids didn’t make long distance calls in the seventies; long distance was expensive, even if you waited until evening rates kicked in. Only girls wrote letters to their friends. I remember trying to hunt him up on Facebook, but never had any luck.

  Thomas started to reach out for a big bro hug, then caught himself. How do I act? Shit. I don’t remember how I talked, or how I did anything when I was a kid. “Billy! Man, you look great!”

  How dumb was that? I'd have said that in 2016. I sound like a middle aged man. He’ll think I’m a weirdo.

  Billy looked like every other teenager streaming into the school—jeans, a sweatshirt and Chuck Taylors. He was a few inches taller than Tommy, with straight dark hair that hung down in his eyes and a complexion overrun with acne.

  Billy squinted. “Oh…kay. Whatever. Did you get the essay done for Burns?”

  Burns. Burns. Mr. Burns. History. Almost forgot about him. But then, he’s kind of forgettable. "Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, me too. I got something down on paper, but I don’t know if it’s what I need or not.”

  I wish I knew that much. "I don't know if I even wrote anything" would sound nuts.

  Thomas and Billy walked into the school and merged into the flow of teenagers. There were so many. Middle Falls only had an official population of 45,126, but the school district drew from smaller surrounding communities, so there were more than a thousand kids enrolled.

  Halfway down the hall, Thomas realized he had lost Billy. He looked over his shoulder. Billy had veered off and was bent over, spinning the combination lock on a locker.

  Christ! M
y locker combination. No idea what that is. There are so damn many things I don’t know. How in the hell am I going to pull this off?

  Billy opened his locker and threw his backpack inside. He retrieved his American History textbook and a blue three-ring notebook. Thomas stood, uncertain where his locker was. Think fast. Teen vocabulary. “Man, the weirdest thing happened this weekend. I was wrestling around with Zack and I hit my head pretty hard. The doc said I’ve got a concussion or somethin’. I’m having a hard time focusing and remembering anything today. I know it sounds weird, but I am drawing a complete blank about which locker is mine, or what my combination is.”

  Billy glanced sideways at him. “Must have been a pretty hard hit.” He reached over two lockers and spun the dial. “7-40-22. Remember?”

  “Ha! Oh, yeah, of course. Good thing you knew it.”

  7, 40, 22. 7, 40, 22. 7, 40, 22. And I think part of that sounded like adult me. I'll have to watch that. Billy smelled bullshit.

  Billy shrugged, then returned to messing around inside his own locker.

  Thomas looked inside his own locker. The odor of sweaty gym clothes, forgotten brown bag lunches, and old textbooks wafted out. A picture of Bruce Jenner throwing the javelin adorned the door. On the top shelf were an old homework assignment and a blue Bic pen. He tore off a corner of the paper, wrote “7-40-22” and stuffed it in his front pocket.

  What’s the worst that can happen if I don’t pull this off? It’s not like I’m scamming anyone. They might put me in the nuthouse up in Portland, I guess. That probably wouldn’t be great.

  He pulled his copy of the history book out, grabbed his Pee-Chee and hung the pack up on the hook in his locker.

  “Ready?” Thomas said.

  “Ready.”

  “Lead on, Macduff.” Because I sure as hell can't.

  Thomas followed Billy through the teenage throng, recognizing no one outright. Some faces looked familiar, but he couldn't match names to most of them. With a small jolt of recognition, he saw Amanda Jarvis, dressed in a tight white top and denim miniskirt. He remembered her as a goddess-like figure, fixed forever in his mind due to the kegger. Now she just looked like a skinny kid, trying to act more important than she was.

  Down the hall, up a flight of stairs, then down another hall, Billy finally turned into a room marked 222. The room was already half full, and they slipped into two half-desks at the back of the room. Thomas inhaled the long-forgotten smells: pencil shavings, mimeographed papers, and teenage pheromones, all mixed together.

  These kids looked much more familiar. Names came into sharper focus, such as the girl with long red hair beside him. Alicia Holcroft. She got married a few years out of high school. Two kids. Opened her own bakery, Cravin’ Cupcakes. The boy in the corner, bent over a copy of Dune; Ben Jenkins. Went to U of O, then finished up at Stanford Law. He’s gay, but I didn’t know that until I caught up with him on FB. He told me then that he didn’t have a single comfortable day in high school.

  In the back row, with empty seats around her like a moat, Carrie Copeland. Cooty Carrie. When we wanted to insult each other, it was always with her. “Oh, yeah? Well, you’d screw Cooty Carrie.” She attempted suicide her senior year. Did it again, two years later, but got the job done that time. I wonder if she started over somewhere in time, like me, or did she make the cut and pass on to whatever’s next?

  I guess I can thank Facebook for how many of these people I recognize. All those Throwback Thursday pictures.

  Two seats to his left, one tall, thin, dapper boy stood out. He had short hair and wore what Thomas thought of as business casual: grey sport coat, blue button-up shirt, and khakis. The boy turned, looked at Tommy, and smiled. Tommy returned the smile, then felt his face freeze as he made the connection.

  Michael Hollister. Holy shit. Michael friggin’ Hollister. Middle Falls’ most famous graduate. He didn’t become a politician, or an athlete, and he didn’t invent Post-It notes. The world would come to know Michael as the West Coast Strangler. Between 1978 and 2002, he had murdered twenty-nine men and women up and down the I-5 corridor. His signature had been a red and gold tie, done in a perfect Windsor, around each victim’s neck. Until some ambitious new killer came along, Michael would hold the record as Oregon’s most prolific serial killer.

  That was all in the future. At that moment, Michael Hollister was a seventeen-year-old boy smiling at Tommy, whose blood ran cold as he remembered more of what he'd read at serialkillers.com.

  Michael had varied his abduction methods, locations, and victim profiles, confounding the police and FBI for many years. Travelers or state maintenance workers had found his earliest victims at rest areas along I-5, where Michael had seated them on a toilet, pulled their pants down, then arranged the necktie. In the early 1990s, Oregon had installed security cameras at all rest stops, forcing Michael to dump the bodies in rural areas.

  In 1983, Michael sent an anonymous letter to The Oregonian stating that he preferred to be known as “The Necktie Killer,” instead of “The West Coast Strangler.” It didn’t matter. The 'West Coast Strangler' handle stuck. In 2002, he achieved serial killer hall of fame status: Ann Rule wrote a book about him.

  If not for a couple of missteps, Michael might have gone on killing until he got too old to strangle people. In 1984, Detective Harold Carmichael of the Oregon State Police stored a scarf worn by Allison Anderson, the Strangler's sixth victim. He kept the scarf in evidence because it had a single smear of blood on it that appeared inconsistent with the more profound bloodstains. Upon testing, this blood was a different type than Alison's. Michael had scraped his arm while manhandling Allison's rather curvy form into position. He had left a bit of the blood on her scarf, where he mistook it for hers.

  Then, in 1995, Michael Hollister nearly killed a man in a fight that broke out in, of all places, a wine bar. As part of the booking procedure, the police had taken a DNA sample, which went into the state and national database. Michael hired the sort of attorney the Michael Hollisters of the world could afford, and the prosecutor dropped the assault charges. Even though he escaped consequences at the time, the arrest ended up costing him dearly.

  In early 2001, the state of Oregon received a federal grant that allowed them to DNA-test hundreds of pieces of cold case evidence. The stray bloodstain on Allison Anderson’s scarf matched all thirteen data points of the sample Michael Hollister had provided in 1993.

  Detective Carmichael, sixty-one years old and less than a year from retirement, was given the job of leading the dozen officers that were dispatched to arrest Michael at his well-appointed home. When Detective Carmichael rang his doorbell, Michael answered by saying, “Collecting for the Policemen’s Ball?” He did not resist arrest.

  On the ride to the station, Michael asked how they had caught him. When Carmichael told him about the scarf, Michael nodded. “I knew it. A little bit of blood. Should have just walked away from that idiot at the wine bar.”

  Thomas felt suddenly ill. Serialkillers.com had featured pictures of a number of Michael’s victims. Their faces swam through his memory.

  There are twenty-nine people, going about their lives at this very moment, whose destiny is to be killed by that scrawny little teenager.

  Chapter Nine

  THOMAS SOMEHOW FAKED his way through the rest of the school day. Only two of his classes included Billy, but he managed to get to the rest of his schedule by asking questions of harried teachers, and on one occasion, the janitor. Sitting through each class was not quite the dull eternity he remembered; either my mind has matured, or more likely, I was too busy worrying about being called on. When school finally let out, Thomas ran into Billy at his locker. “See ya in the morning.”

  “Nah, I’ve got an appointment to get fitted for braces first thing.”

  “Hey, braces might suck right now, but eventually you’ll be glad you got them.”

  Billy had knelt to fish something from the bottom of his locker, and he gave Thomas a sidelong upward
look. “Yeah, and I should get a job and start saving for my college education. What are you, Weaver, my dad?”

  Oops. My middle-aged man is showing. Come on, Weaver, you’re supposed to be a teenager. “Ah, just trying to make you feel better, brace face.”

  “With friends like you, not sure I need enemies."

  Thomas slapped Billy on the back, said, “Good luck, man,” gathered up his homework, and jogged to Zack’s Camaro for the ride home. Fifteen minutes later, the parking lot was mostly empty, but no Zack.

  Shit. Of course. Track practice. He has track practice every damn day. I should have taken the bus home.

  He shouldered his backpack and ran to the loading area, but the buses were already gone. How long did his practices last? Hell if I remember. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and trudged back to the Camaro. To his relief, the passenger door wasn't locked.

  Of course it’s open. Who locked their doors in a school parking lot in 1976?

  Thomas settled into the bucket seat and dug a notebook out of his backpack. Mr. Burns had cut him a break, giving him an extra day to produce five hundred words “Analyzing the ways in which technology, government policy, and economic conditions changed American agriculture in the period 1865-1900.” My god. He couldn't have picked a more mind-numbing topic if he'd had Google to hunt up a list of them. Thomas thumbed through the history book until he found a chapter that looked relevant, then laid it open on the dashboard and began to write.

  First thing I’ve written in forty years. Well, other than my suicide note.

  An hour later, with his hand cramping up, he had one essay page finished with no sign of Zack. Thomas slid the notebook back in his pack and took out Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, his assignment for English. “Could be worse. Could be Shakespeare.”

  Midway through the first chapter, a bit of movement caught Thomas's eye. It was a lone male figure, perhaps a teacher, cutting across the parking lot toward the deep woods that framed the back of the school. Then Thomas recognized the herringbone sport coat and lean frame. Michael Hollister. He had—he has—an odd, herky-jerky way of walking, long strides without moving his upper body much. And why isn't he carrying any books, or a bag? He's got his hands in his pockets, walking like a man on a mission.