Shawn Inmon - The Vigilante Life of Scott McKenzie

No one ever knew what set Jenkins off, or why he did what he did, but he had killed his entire family. The medical examiner, upon examining the victims, had theorized that the deaths didn’t occur at the same time, but were spread out over a period of five or more hours.

When Scott thought of what each of the children or his wife had been thinking as they watched the rest of their family be murdered, it sickened him. In some ways, it was a carbon copy of what he had gone through when he was ten years old.

By the first week of May, 1974, he was packed and ready to hit the road. He had eight weeks to get from Indiana to Maine.

Scott knew that one of the keys to his long-term success would be the ability to travel anonymously. He decided that meant growing his hair out. That would help him fit in with the times.

One more long-haired guy wearing an old army jacket riding his thumb or the bus through an area wouldn’t be particularly interesting or memorable to most people.

Scott made his way on Interstate 69 north to Indianapolis. There, he turned east. He managed to pick up a ride with a sales rep at a truck stop outside of Indianapolis that took him across Ohio and into Pennsylvania.

His previous trip through Pennsylvania, he had barely nicked through the northwest corner of the state on the way to New York. This time, he caught a number of short rides that took him right through the heart of the state.

As he worked his way across Pennsylvania, he wondered how he had missed it while wandering in his previous lifetime. It was lovely—filled with small towns and a tremendous amount of history.

Scott knew he had plenty of time to arrive in Maine, so he allowed himself to take a few days off when he reached Gettysburg. He stayed in an inexpensive motel and took a guided tour of the battlefields.

While passing the time in Vermont, he had made a study of military history, reading as many books on strategy and wars as Greta had in stock at Twice Told Tales. Somehow, reading about many centuries of war helped him put his own brief battle experience into perspective.

His guided tour ended with a visit to the hill where Pickett had made his charge. As the sun set, Scott stood in the last rays of light, lost in contemplation, trying to picture the life and death struggle that had happened in that very place. Twelve thousand Confederate soldiers had run, crawled, and bled over three-quarters of a mile of empty field while the Union army rained hellfire down on them. The Confederacy breached the Union lines in a few places, but couldn’t hold their position. Eventually they were forced to retreat, with nearly fifty percent casualties. The Civil War continued to play out for several more years, but that marked the high-water mark for the South.

Years later, when a reporter asked General Pickett why his charge had failed, he answered, “I always thought the Yankees had something to do with it.”

Scott shielded his eyes against the dying rays.

There haven’t been many times in our history when we weren’t sending our young men off to fight in a battle somewhere or another. Almost eight thousand people killed right here. Forty thousand badly wounded, all in a single battle.

The next day, Scott caught a bus out of Gettysburg and rode it up through the verdant farmland of New York and across the border into Vermont. The closer he got to Waitsfield, the more he felt like he was coming home.

By the time he arrived there, it was the third week of May. Hitchhiking is the most economical form of travel, but it’s good to not be on a tight schedule. For the uninitiated, hitchers live by what is widely known as The Rules of Thumb. Those rules weren’t written down anywhere, but if you stepped outside of one of them, any experienced hitcher will let you know.

Rule number one was, if you arrive at a spot and there’s another hitcher already there, you sit and wait.

That means you don’t go back up the road half a mile and try to steal their ride before it gets to them. It means you don’t stand with them while they hitch. It means that you take a seat on the grass or dirt a sufficient distance away and read a book or soak up the sun until the person or persons ahead of you get their rides.

If there were two or three people all trying to catch a ride out of town at the same time, that meant Scott often sat under a shade tree reading for the better part of a day.

His ride from Montpelier dropped him off right in downtown Waitsfield. He didn’t want to spend too long there. He knew he had to get to Maine and still have time to scout out the area there. Still, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to visit what he had come to think of as his hometown.

His first stop was Twice Told Tales. Greta sat in her normal spot behind the counter, thumbing through a book about train travel through Europe.

Greta, you look a bit younger than that first day I met you. Still formidable, but younger.

“Hello,” Scott said.

“Hello, is there anything in particular you are looking for, or do you just want to look?”

“I think today is a just looking sort of day.”

“That’s what old used bookstores are good for. You never know what treasure might be lurking around the next stack. Feel free to look around. Fiction is mostly here on the main floor. Nonfiction and reference books are up in the little loft.”

It’s so strange to see you like this, Greta. I know you so well, but I am a complete stranger to you.

Scott browsed the true crime section out of old habit. Nothing there was new to him. He picked up a Sydney Sheldon paperback and a few True Detective magazines to read in case he got stranded on the roadside somewhere.

He paid for his books, said goodbye to Greta again and strolled outside. Vermont did have a hot season. The temps in July and August often reached above 80 degrees. But here, in late May, the afternoon temperature was only fifty-eight degrees. The clean air and towering trees of the forest beckoned him to go for a walk.

Without a conscious thought, he walked the road that he had traversed for decades in his last life. The sun filtered through the trees, the birds chattered and he felt both at home and at peace. Before he knew it, he saw his old cabin dead ahead. A white haired man sat in the rocking chair on the front porch, watching him come up the road.

Scott intended to pass by with a wave, but the old man said, “Just out for a walk?”

Greta’s brother, Kurt. Of course he would be here.

Scott stopped and said, “Out to see what I might see.”

The man waved his arm in an all-encompassing gesture and said, “What you’re seeing is about all you’re going to get down that road. It dead ends into the old quarry in another half mile or so. This old place of mine isn’t much, but it’s the last sign of civilization.”

“Good to know. Guess I’ll turn back toward town, then.”

I envy your place, Kurt. It was a simple life, but so good.

“Whatever you please. Just wanted to let you know.” Kurt Gnagy stood up with an ease that belied his advanced years, spit a long ribbon of saliva off the porch and went inside.

For a few long moments, Scott stood looking at what had been his hideaway home. With a sigh, he turned back toward town.

Enough of a trip down memory lane. Time to get to the task at hand.