Shawn Inmon - The Vigilante Life of Scott McKenzie

He cracked the book open and realized it was the first thing he had read since he had graduated from high school years earlier. The next time he looked up, two hours had passed. The story of the destruction of the Clutter family resonated with him—the randomness, the loss of an entire family, all done for almost no reason at all.

When Scott glanced at the clock again, he saw it was after midnight. He hadn’t even bothered to make up his bed yet. Stretching out on the ugly green couch he had just bought, he slept.

When he woke up, Scott realized how unequipped he was. He may have had a frying pan, but he didn’t have eggs. He had a battered old coffee pot, but no coffee.

Better go to the store first thing.

Then, his mind drifted to where he had left off in the book the night before. When he had stopped reading, the two killers had just been apprehended and brought back to Kansas to stand trial.

If only the Clutters had known it was coming, or if someone had been there to protect them, none of it would have happened.

A sudden thought hit Scott, and it stopped him dead in his tracks.

Someone who knew what was coming. Maybe someone like me.

The idea hit him so strongly, he had to sit down.

Nothing I can do for the Clutters, of course. They’ve been dead since I was a little kid. But what if someone that kept starting their life over and over again knew when something was going to happen? I could stop those bad things before they happened.

As Scott wheeled a cart down the aisle of the grocery store, he turned things over in his mind.

Not too much I can do in this life. I never managed to live past 1975, and I wasn’t paying attention to what happened in the world. Hell, I wasn’t paying attention to anything except where my next fix was coming from. But, what if I did pay attention this lifetime? Took notes. Did research. Taught myself to remember things. Then, when I started over again, I could be ready.

Scott didn’t watch where he was going and his cart clipped the edge of a toilet paper display, sending it tumbling to the ground. Embarrassed, he began restocking them haphazardly back on the shelf.

He didn’t want any other mishaps while he was on this trip so he focused on his grocery shopping, then his driving. But as soon as he got home and got the shopping put away, he focused on the idea once more.

I could live a normal life, but keep tabs on bad things that happen. I could read more books, magazines and newspapers. I could put together a list of horrible things that happen over the next several decades. Maybe I can change them. If someone had done that for us, maybe Mom would still be alive.

For the first time since he had been wounded, Scott felt excitement, anticipation—a purpose.

It’s just a question of where I want to spend this life. Here? It would be nice to be close to Cheryl. Maybe be here when she has kids and be Uncle Scott to them.

He tried to picture that, but failed.

Of course, I could always come back for visits. That’s probably better. Cheryl’s got Mike and her own life now. It would be good to get out and see the country a little, without trying to kill myself.

As soon as the six-month lease on his apartment was up, Scott donated all the furniture he had bought back to the same thrift store.

He stored a few belongings in Earl’s old workshop and once again limited himself to what he could carry in his backpack.

Hitting the road this time was different from the twenty or so times he had done it before. Then, he was trying to lose himself. Now, he was looking for a home. He rode his thumb south, but soon found that the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida were too humid for his tastes. Still, he didn’t give up easily and made it as far south as he could. He caught a ride in Miami that took him across the Florida Keys all the way to Key West, home to Hemingway and the occasional tropical storm. He loved the sunsets, being on the water, and the laid back attitude everyone had. But in the end, he had to admit he wasn’t cut out for waking up to temperatures pushing ninety every day.

Hitchhiking north again, Scott caught a ride on an empty freight car heading west. He hopped off in Texas and spent a few months wandering around cowboy country.

He was in no hurry and was happy watching the calendar pages flip as he explored the country.

Texas was a big state with friendly people. Eventually, he realized he wasn’t going to find a place in Texas that felt like home and he moved on again.

Southern California had perfect weather, but he didn’t recognize the people there as his own tribe. After a year of doing oil changes and minor tune ups for a small garage, the steady drumbeat of cloudless, warm weather wore on him. He discovered he liked a little variety to his seasons.

He trekked north and wandered the Pacific Northwest. He chose to bypass Middle Falls—which wasn’t hard to do—because he wasn’t ready to face the accompanying memories. Eventually, he crossed into Washington State and settled for a season in a nice town on a plateau that called itself The Gateway to Mt. Rainier . That season turned out to be the rainy one, which the locals joked started in early September and ended in late August. Those few days in between were glorious, but they weren’t enough for Scott. He moved on again.

Eastern Washington was as desolate as the western side of the state was green. Living among rolling, endlessly brown hills held no appeal.

He set his sights on the Dakotas. North Dakota, in particular, is a state that is easy to miss. It’s not an easy state to pass through on your way to somewhere else, unless you’re heading for the Canadian border. Aside from that, you’ve got to plan to go there. There were things he loved about North Dakota. It was an easy state to get lost in. Again, the people were wonderful and everyone respected your privacy. One of the books he had read from Earl’s stash told the story of the Norwegian settlers who had homesteaded the area. Having seen the area first hand, he developed a new respect for anyone who could scratch a living from that inhospitable land without modern equipment.

He kept moving.

Scott arrived in the upper peninsula of Michigan during the bicentennial celebration of 1976. He thought he might have found his place to settle down. It had the green beauty he had seen in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho, but didn’t rain nearly as much.

The Upper Peninsula took up almost a third of the land area of Michigan, but had only three percent of the population. That suited Scott fine. The Great Lakes were a bonus. There was never a shortage of things to do—hunting, fishing, hiking, and snowmobiling. He loved his time there in August, September, and October.

One long winter’s stay in the hamlet of Iron River convinced him it was not where he wanted to put down roots. Three hundred inches of snowfall that year encouraged him to move on again.

At that point, he had been on the road for three years, so he took a side trip back to Evansville. Where Scott’s roots were shallow, Cheryl was putting her own roots deep in Indiana soil. She was pregnant with her first baby.

Scott spent the summer in Evansville. He worked on projects in Earl’s basement woodshop. He was able to be at the hospital when Cheryl and Mike welcomed Andrea Nicole into the world. By fall, he had grown antsy again.