by Shawn Inmon
Was Michael Hollister a closet stoner back in the day? If so, maybe he should have stuck with the weed. Never heard of a stoner half killing someone in a wine bar fight.
Thomas tracked Michael's progress without moving, hoping to remain unnoticed. It seemed to be working, even as Michael passed within about thirty yards of the Camaro. As quietly as he could, Thomas let In Cold Blood slip to the floor of the car.
When Michael was a football-field-length away, near the edge of the woods, Thomas opened the car door and stepped out.
What the hell am I doing? Following the serial killer into the deep, dark woods? Come on, Weaver. You’ve seen this movie before, and it ends up with you being skewered to a tree by a sharp metal object.
Even with that thought echoing in his mind, Thomas walked toward the woods.
Michael Hollister’s first reported kill wasn’t until 1978. Of course, if I followed him into the woods and he killed me, I wouldn’t have been around to read about him on serialkillers.com. So, does that mean I’m safe? Or what? I’m never gonna figure this stuff out.
What I know for sure is, I’m here. Everything else is guesswork. The stoners went to the woods to get high during lunch. Maybe that’s what he’s doing, going out to the woods to smoke a doobie with some friends.
Yeah, sure, a guy who dresses like a Young Republican is going out to light up with the stoners. I'm thinking not. And friends? Never seemed to have or want any.
Once Michael disappeared into the foliage, Thomas set out to follow him at a safe-seeming distance.
This is stupid, this is stupid, this is stupid. Is that the final thought that went through the empty heads of all those dead teenagers in slasher movies?
When he was twenty yards away from where the path cut into the deeper woods, Thomas dropped to one knee and pretended to tie his shoe while looking around, then proceeded as quietly as he could manage. The woods filtered out much of the sunlight. A few yards past the entrance was a small clearing cluttered with pop cans, hundreds of cigarette butts, roaches, and Cheetos bags. There was even an old bench, listing but still upright. Ah. Home of the stoners. It's a wonder they haven’t set fire to the whole forest. Thomas slowed his pace even more, especially when he came to a bend in the path, lest he stumble upon Michael in full stride.
After ten minutes of steady walking, Thomas realized the brush and trees dampened any sound. Deep in the woods, it was quiet as a cathedral on a Tuesday afternoon. The path, wide and worn at the entrance, had shrunk to a small footpath.
Very peaceful, if I wasn’t on the path of a serial killer in his natural habitat.
After another couple of hundred yards, Thomas paused, listened. A few birds flitting through the branches. A frog croaking somewhere in the distance. My footsteps have to be echoing through the whole forest, no matter how quiet I try to be. What am I doing? I need to get the hell out of here, get back to the car.
Thomas turned on his heel and walked back toward the school. When he had taken three steps, a distant, echoing caterwaul sounded. He froze in mid-step.
The wail continued. It started low, then climbed: a sound of anger, frustration, pain. The odd echoing quality made it sound even creepier, not-quite-of-this-world. As quickly as it started, it quit, choked off in an instant. Off to my right. Can't tell how far.
Thomas held his breath, his pulse loud in his ears. Every instinct told him to run back down the path until he reached open daylight. He turned his head, listening and watching. The cry came again. Definitely to his right.
Shit. If you hear a scary cry in the woods, do you do the right thing and see if you can help, or do the smart thing and run like hell? Thomas sighed, cursed inwardly, then left the path to his right. I can't walk quietly though this, damn it, he thought, feeling a blackberry vine drag across the cuff of his jeans. He pushed on.
After he had gone far enough to feel lost, he heard the cry a third time. Closer. Much closer. Thomas slowed his pace, which was a good thing, because he stumbled upon the edge of a moss-covered cliff that dropped down to a small clearing. On the opposite side of the clearing was another mossy cliff that rose, then plateaued, creating a small valley. In the middle of the open space was an old, rusted-out flatbed truck that looked like it might be abandoned from a decades-old logging operation. One door hung open. There was no sign of whatever was making that unnerving sound, much less of Michael.
Thomas saw a movement against the far cliff wall. He cocked his head and squinted. What the hell? Michael’s emerging out of solid rock. What kind of witchcraft bullshit is this?
Michael took two steps out into the clearing, reached up, put his jaw in his left hand, wrapped his right around the back of his head and gave a sudden tug. The violence in the action gave Thomas a shudder. He took two slow steps back away from the cliff’s edge and blended behind a tree. Michael swung his arms around his head in a weird callisthenic, ran his fingers through his hair, turned, and walked down the canyon bed, toward what Thomas thought was the school.
He was whistling the theme from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.
When Michael was well out of sight, Thomas remained still for several minutes, letting his heartbeat return to normal. He picked his way along the edge of the drop-off until he found a spot where the cliff gentled to more of a rocky bluff, with the neglected remnants of a trail leading downward. At the bottom, he crossed to the spot where it had looked like Michael had emerged from the cliff wall. A trick of light and shadow made it look like there was nothing behind the ivy and whatever else that hung down. He pushed the foliage aside to reveal a small opening in the cliff.
Oh, that’s just great. A freaking scary-ass cave where the serial killer likes to hang out after school. He glanced at his watch, realized he'd been away from the Camaro for almost half an hour. I need to get back. Zack’s gonna be done with practice soon. If he leaves for home, I’ll have to walk, Mom will be worried, and life will suck. How the hell did we survive the seventies without cell phones?
Discretion is the better part of valor, right? I can always come check this place out some other time, right? Bring torches and villagers to investigate, right?
Sure. What other justifications can I come up with?
The wail sounded again, but this time it wasn’t far away, and the reason for the echo was clear.
Something is trapped in there.
Thomas took a deep breath and stepped into the opening. The thick, green tendrils fell in place behind him, shutting out the exterior light. He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the near-darkness. He reached his hands out and felt cold, damp walls on all sides. The only sound was the buzz of a few flies.
Shit. I knew giving up smoking was a bad idea. I don’t even have a lighter on me. And something stinks in here. With my luck, I'll step right into it.
The opening narrowed, slowing Thomas's progress as he tried to feel for both sides and possible low ceiling obstacles. His toe kicked something small, sending whatever it was clattering ahead of him. He dropped to a knee and groped ahead, hoping not to grab something gross or dangerous. Instead, his fingers touched what felt like a flashlight. He felt for the switch on the side. When he pushed it up, a beam of light pierced the darkness, pointed directly at a ceiling only a few feet above his head. He saw a narrow opening ahead, turned sideways, sucked in his non-existent gut and squeezed through. Thomas leveled the beam and saw a small, tight, corridor run a few feet ahead, then bend out of sight. He stepped ahead, went around the corner and gasped.
The light revealed a small animal staked spread-eagle to a square of plywood on the cave floor. There was no way to tell what the unfortunate creature was, or what it had once been. Small finishing nails secured each foot to the plywood. Whatever it was, it was split down the middle and laid open. Pink flesh and loops of intestines showed bright color in the flashlight beam. Drops of blood dotted its fur and pooled beneath it, with flies already gathering.
Shit.
Thomas took a step forwa
rd for a closer look. The little creature's head was missing. He scanned the cave with the light, locating a small natural shelf. On it rested a macabre array of skulls, mostly picked clean of any identifying flesh. Thomas’s lips pulled back in a grimace of disgust.
It’s the laboratory of the damned in here. But how did he get the skulls so clean? Is he boiling the flesh off, then bringing them back here?
Talk about questions I didn't wake up today expecting to ask myself.
A skittering movement near one of the heads answered his question. Thomas leaned forward and focused the light without getting any closer.
Beetles. Flesh-eating beetles, eating whatever's left. I think I'm about to puke. Thomas clamped a hand across his mouth and looked away. His first instinct was to turn and run for something resembling normal civilization. After the urge faded, he flashed the light around the cave some more. Then, at last, he saw what had made the sound that had brought him there.
A pet carrier and a small tool box sat in a corner. Inside the cage was a cat, snarling a low, threatening growl at Thomas. He took two steps toward the cage, mumbling softly, “It’s okay, it’s okay, everything is all right.” The cat wasn't buying it. It made itself small against the back of the cage, growling louder.
“Poor thing. It’s okay. It’s all right. I’m going to get you out of there.” Thomas paused. Am I going to get that cat out of there? Is that smart? When Michael comes back, he’ll know someone’s been here.
Screw it. I am not leaving this cat to suffer the same fate as…as that. He didn't take another look at the small, disemboweled body on the plywood.
Thomas approached the cage and noticed a small mound of dry cat food in the front of the cage.
He came to feed it. He'd only do that if he was thinking long term.
Serial killers don’t just wake up one morning and say, “I think I’ll kill someone today.” This is his training ground. Worse, his playground.
He looked closer at the tool box. Most of the original red was faded and rusty. The words “Property of Ed Gein” were scratched across the top. The madman who inspired Norman Bates and Leatherface. Great. A serial killer with a sense of humor.
I hate to think what's inside, but I have to look.
To his immense relief, the box contained no tiny bodies or bones. He found an old pair of leather gloves, a pair of pliers, a small hacksaw, and a box cutter. Only the box cutter looked newish. The other tools looked like something picked up off a junk heap.
Okay. Let’s get you out of there, Morris.
Thomas reached out and fidgeted with the cage door mechanism. The cat leaped forward and slashed at his hand, catching his middle finger.
“Son of a bitch!” Thomas pulled his hand back. He put the finger in his mouth and sucked, tasting his own blood. The cat retreated to the back of the cage, eyes flashing.
“I guess I can’t blame you. Not gonna give you the chance to do that again, though.” Thomas thought of the gloves inside the toolbox. The idea of putting them on—sharing a second skin with Michael Hollister—revolted him. The thought of getting his fingers ripped up was worse, but worst of all would be to leave the cat to death by torture. Grimacing, Thomas slipped the gloves on.
As he squeezed and twisted the lock mechanism, the cat slashed at the gloves. This time, no damage. Finally, Thomas pinched, then turned the metal the right way. The door sprung open, but the cat didn’t move.
“I don’t blame you for being freaked out, but let’s get you out of there.”
The cat flattened itself against the bottom of the cage, eyes locked on him. Thomas reached in, intending to pluck it out and free it. Instead, it sprang forward and bit through the thin leather glove and into the meat of Thomas’s palm.
“Goddamn it!” Thomas roared. He yanked his hand out and peeled off the glove, shining the light to inspect the damage. The cat sprang forward in a grey blur and vanished toward the mouth of the cave.
Thomas took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Two small puncture wounds were seeping blood. He cursed again under his breath. No good deed goes unpunished. Now what? Now, what the hell do I do?
The cage sat empty on the ground. Thomas nudged it onto its side with his toe, hoping that Michael would think a predator—a coyote, maybe—had come and eaten the cat. He laid the gloves carefully inside the tool box, then returned it to what he hoped was its original position. As for you, little fella, he thought, looking down at the mutilated animal on the plywood, there's nothing I can do for you. Wish there was.
He turned away from the death cave and used the flashlight to pick his way back to the entrance. Now that his eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness, the entrance was easy to see. He set the flashlight down near where he'd first kicked it, or so he hoped, and emerged, blinking, into the fading light of day. Holy shit. It’s getting dark. Zack’s going to leave without me, for sure. Thomas set off at a steady jog in what he hoped was the right direction.
It feels good to be able to run and not be out of breath after two steps. If I ever pick up another cigarette, I hope God strikes me dead. Unless I’m already dead, and this is one big existential mind game. In which case, carry on, God, carry on.
I should have left the flashlight on. Crap. That would use up the batteries, and next time he comes back to play sicko, he wouldn't be able to see until he brought some more.
A five-minute run carried Thomas to the nearly-empty parking lot, breathing hard, where Zack was pacing beside the Camaro.
“What the hell are you doing, twerp? What were you doing out in the woods? Are you out there getting stoned?”
“No, no, no." Huff, puff. "I missed the bus, so I decided to go for a walk, then lost track of the time. Sorry I made you wait.”
Zack gave his brother a doubting look. “Sure you did. Okay, you don’t want to tell me what you and your little friends are doing out in the woods, fine. You’re lucky I saw your homework on the seat, or I would have left without you. I almost did anyway.”
“Thanks for waiting for me, Zack. It’s been a bad day. Walking all the way home wouldn’t have made it any better.”
“Just get in. We’re going to be late for dinner.”
Chapter Ten
I KNOW I'M glad to be here when I'm even happy to sit down to tuna noodle casserole with my brother and my mom, thought Thomas. After Zack's death, Anne had quit cooking regularly, and sit-down dinners had become things of the distant past.
“So…why were you boys late?” Anne said, scooping tuna and noodles onto a plate and passing it to Thomas.
Zack and Thomas exchanged a quick glance. Zack: “Oh, coach kept us after practice for a few minutes to go over assignments for the meet this Friday. Can you make it?”
“Friday afternoon? Probably not. I’m on the schedule then. If someone can switch with me, I’ll be there. Is it a big meet?”
“Nah, not really. Just a couple left before Districts, though. I’m going to push myself in the 880. I think I can get the best time in the state this year. That guy from Pendleton is two tenths of a second ahead of me, and he’s already committed to going to Oregon. Can’t let a friggin’ Duck have the best time, can I?”
“Oh, no, that would be disastrous.” She couldn’t quite keep a straight face. “And don’t say ‘frigging’, especially at the dinner table.”
Zack rolled his eyes, but said, “Yes, Mom. I’ll remember not to say, ‘friggin’.’’ He looked at his plate and whispered to himself, “At least, not when Mom’s around”.
“That’s right. At least not when Mom’s around.”
“Nothin’ wrong with your hearing, is there, Mom?”
“And don’t you forget it,” Anne said, but with a smile.
Thirty minutes later, dinner was done, the dishes were done, and Thomas lay across his bed trying to finish his American History essay. This is killing me. What in God’s name do they think I’m going to learn from an assignment like this? How to be a corporate drone that completes the most bo
ring assignments without a complaint? Probably. I’m already seeing how much of what they’re pitching me in school is propaganda.
No amount of brain-numbing reading, though, could cleanse the cave's images from his mind. If he’s already torturing and killing animals, can people be far behind? Maybe he didn’t become the West Coast Strangler until 1978, but what if he made a few practice runs first? Most every town has unsolved murders. Any of them could be Michael Hollister’s.
He slammed his history book shut and chewed on the end of his Bic.
This is beyond my problem-solving abilities. What can I do?
If I were Bruce Willis or Arnold Schwarzenegger, I'd just blurt out a little quip, then blow the future serial killer away, saving the world the bother. But I'm not, and I don’t have it in me to kill someone, even if they need killing. There isn’t anyone I can talk to about this. I can see it now: “Hey, Billy? I’m really from the future, and that weirdo Michael Hollister is going to grow up to be a mass killer. Wanna help me take him out?”
For the first time since waking up to find himself in 1976, Thomas thought it might be nice to have a drink. Just one, to soothe his nerves.
Mom’s gotta have a bottle somewhere. What would one drink hurt?
He rubbed his hand across his mouth, an old gesture from his previous life. He shook his head.
Nope. Been down that path. That will soothe me all right. Soothe me back into oblivion.
Thomas rolled off his bed and meandered out into the kitchen. Maybe a Coke. Not a rum and Coke. Just a Coke. He opened the refrigerator and poked around inside. There was no Coke, just his mom’s Tab. Gotta be better than nothing, right?
He popped the can open and took a long drink. The hideous chemical taste of saccharin awoke from wherever his mind had buried it. Oh, God. I was wrong. That is definitely worse than nothing. How does she drink that shit?