by Shawn Inmon
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning, Scott woke up, grabbed a coffee and donut from the bakery downtown, and set off to walk to Greenbrier Lane. It was a perfect summer day in Maine, with a few wispy clouds and temperatures heading for a high near eighty.
Scott had a tough time deciding what to take with him on his exploratory jaunt to the Jenkins place. He would have been more comfortable with his collapsible baton and karambit with him. At the same time, he knew that walking through strange neighborhoods with weapons was not a great idea. Sometimes local cops like to have conversations with guys they see walking through a residential area they have no business being in. In the end, he left his backpack and jacket in his motel room and set out wearing nothing but his Levi’s, walking boots, and a light shirt.
He tucked his hands into his pockets and whistled as tunelessly as his Gramps ever had as he walked through one comfortable neighborhood after another. As he got further away from the downtown area, the houses were more spread out and tended to sit on larger lots.
By the time Scott finally found Greenbrier, the sun was high in the sky and he had beads of sweat on his forehead. It was the most rural area he had walked through yet. All the houses sat on acre-plus lots, and most of them had long driveways with the house well back from the road. His only chance to figure out the address of the house was by checking the numbers on the mailbox.
He walked along the opposite side of the road he knew the Jenkins house would be on, doing his best to look like just another guy out for a stroll on a sunny day. After walking half a mile along Greenbrier, he saw the house he had been looking for. It turned out he didn’t need the address after all.
He had read about the Jenkins murders in a book that featured shorter compilations of famous crimes. Stuck in the middle of the book were a few pages of black and white photos. The Jenkins family murders were famous enough to have warranted a book of their own, but the lack of drama in the capture of Brock Jenkins and the overwhelming lack of motive, relegated it to a smaller story.
One of the pictures in that book, which Scott had dissected like it was the Zapruder film, was a medium-distance shot of the house that was now in front of him in living color.
That photo had shown a conventional two story home with a series of objects neatly lined up in the front yard. Those objects were four tarps covering Sylvia Jenkins and her children. The oldest two children were girls—Annie and Alicia. The youngest was a boy, Danny. The kids had ranged in age from eleven to only two years old.
It’s generally established that when family members kill someone close to them, they often arrange or cover them in a lifelike pose, hoping to minimize the damage they’ve done. Not Brock Jenkins. After taking hours to kill his whole family, he had stacked them like cordwood in his front yard.
After he committed the murder, he had run. Because he had left his family’s bodies out in the open, it wasn’t long before a horrified neighbor saw them and reported it to the Waterville Police. An all-points bulletin was put out for Brock Jenkins and his green 1970 Dodge pickup.
He was taken into custody at a rest area fifteen miles short of the state line by an alert Vermont State Policeman, trolling license plates for numbers he recognized. He was literally arrested with his pants around his ankles in the bathroom.
Vermont had eliminated the death penalty in 1972, so Jenkins had been sentenced to life in prison. He had originally been sent to Windsor Prison, the oldest prison in Vermont. That old pile of rocks was closed two years later, but he was transferred a few miles away to the new Windsor prison. He had still been there the last time Scott had checked on him in his previous life.
He never accepted visitors, and never gave a reason for why madness overtook him and he killed his entire family. By all reports he was a model prisoner.
And now, that same house was in front of Scott. He walked past it, trying not to be too obvious about paying attention to it. There was a neighbor on one side, an open field behind the house, and a stand of trees that ringed the property on the other.
Fifty yards past the house, Scott sat and rested his back against a telephone pole. The Jenkins house was quiet and dark. There were no vehicles in the driveway. There was no sign of kids at the house at all—no blow up pool to wade in, no swing set, no bikes leaned against the garage or tricycles left in the middle of the sidewalk. If he had just glanced at the house, he might have guessed a childless couple lived there.
There were no survivors that day, and no one saw him do it, so I don’t know for sure what time it happened. The question is, can I afford to wait until that day and stake this place out? I’m sure I can find a stealthy place in those trees. I could hide there and wait for him to come home. Or, I could try and find a time when he’s home alone and do it then. If I have the guts to do it that way. The problem is, things don’t always happen the same way. Do I have a right to kill him before he’s done anything?
Just then, a light green Dodge pickup rolled up the road and turned into the driveway. The driver’s head turned toward Scott.
I know it’s probably not possible, but it feels like he’s watching me, all the way up the road and into his driveway. I’m probably just freaking myself out.
The pickup sat quietly for a few long moments with the engine turned off. Finally, the driver’s door opened and Brock Jenkins stepped out. He wore blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a trucker’s hat. He carried a black lunch box in his right hand. He walked slowly to the bed of the truck and leaned against it. He didn’t seem perturbed, but he stared steadily in Scott’s direction.
It made Scott’s skin crawl. He had to fight the urge to stand up and walk away.
Jenkins finally turned away and went inside.
This is probably my shot. Looks like no one else is home. And I don’t have my baton or knife. Even if I wanted to, could I get into hand to hand combat with him and subdue him? Likely not. And, if I did, how would I handle it from there? I’ve got to get a better plan put together.
Scott stood up, brushed the dirt off his jeans and walked back up the road the way he had come. He passed the Jenkins house on his right. He forced himself to keep his eyes straight ahead and to keep his pace casual. He even attempted a soft whistle, but his mouth was too dry to pull it off.
If he had looked, he wouldn’t have seen anything inside the house. It was still dark behind the sunlit glare of the window and the curtains were pulled. Standing behind those curtains, holding them a few inches to the side, Brock Jenkins watched Scott until he was out of sight.
Chapter Twenty
The month of June dragged a bit for Scott. He made a mental note that for most events, he wouldn’t need so much lead time to do his research and get set up. He realized he had been a little overly cautious on this first time.
He still went by the library most mornings, but he mostly gave up on reading the local paper, looking for mentions of the Jenkins family. He drifted into the books section and got lost there instead.
He chose not to go back to Greenbrier Lane again. There was no sense in tempting fate, and his silent run-in with Brock Jenkins had unnerved Scott a bit.
I don’t want to give him credit for some kind of supernatural powers, but it almost felt like he knew who I was and why I was there. That’s ridiculous, of course. How could he?
Brock Jenkins worked as a mailman and Scott considered tailing him on his route. Again, he chose to keep his distance. He didn’t want to raise his suspicions.
On the 4th of July, Scott woke up with a nervous stomach. He sat on his bed in his small rented room, going over his notes again and again.
I’ve been pointing to this day for so long, it seemed like it would never arrive. Now it’s here and I feel so uncertain about what I’m doing.
The week before, Scott had decided he wouldn’t be able to kill someone before they had shown they were still going to carry through with their crime. His plan, then, was to leave his room in the boarding house with no intention of ever r
eturning. He would throw everything he owned into his pack and retrace his steps out to the Jenkins house, save the family, then hit the road.
He remembered that Brock Jenkins had gone to a barbecue at a friend’s house before returning home. To Scott’s mind, that meant that the attack must have happened sometime in the afternoon or later. His plan was to walk past the house and get far enough away that he wouldn’t be seen by anyone inside. Then, as casually as possible, he intended to slink off into the woods and work his way back to a point where he could scout the Jenkins house unobserved.
If I stay alert, I’ll be close enough to stop anything from happening. First sign of trouble, I jump out and put him down however I can. Hopefully, I can slip away before the police are called. If not, I’ll just be a passing stranger who saw trouble breaking out and came to the aid of a woman and her children. It might be a little tougher to explain why I was armed with a baton and knife, but hey, it’s a tough world out there, right, officer?
Scott stopped at the grocery store and bought some Gatorade and beef jerky to get him through the long hot day. He tucked it into the top of his pack and began the walk toward Greenbrier Lane. As he walked through the downtown area, he saw flyers stapled to telephone poles advertising the 4th of July Extravaganza. A community picnic was scheduled to start at 6:00, and fireworks were set to go off a little after 10:00.
With any luck, I’ll have this behind me and I’ll be well out of town by the time the first boom happens. I just want to get off the beaten path somewhere. I can lie up in some farmer’s field for the night and put some real miles under my boots tomorrow.
Scott walked by the Jenkins house a few minutes before noon. On this day, there was plenty of activity. A pretty young woman sat on the front steps with a chubby baby boy on her lap. The older girls were spread out in the yard around her. The woman caught Scott’s eye as he walked by. She smiled and raised a casual hand in greeting.
Scott gave a small wave back, but didn’t slow his pace.
Looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
Scott’s heart beat a little faster.
He walked on past the house a full quarter mile, then turned and walked slowly back. His head swiveled left and right, doing his best to see if anyone was watching him. He didn’t see anyone anywhere, so when he approached the tree line that ran alongside the Jenkins house, he dropped into the ditch. He eased his way into the trees, which were sparse near the road, but thickened the farther in he walked.
There was no trail through the woods, so Scott picked his way slowly.
Don’t need to sound like there’s a moose loose in here. There was no pickup truck at the house, so he’s off to the barbecue. Feels like things are lining up exactly the same way they did last life.
Scott hiked through the trees until he estimated he was approximately as far back as the Jenkins house. As quietly as possible, he moved toward their yard. As the greenery started to thin out, he was able to push a small sapling aside and saw that he had overshot the house by a few yards.
Good enough. From here, I can see them, but I don’t think there’s any way they can see me.
He glanced around, hoping for a friendly stump he could sit on to pass the time. No such luck.
He maneuvered himself around a bit and found a spot in the shade where he was perfectly hidden, but had a small opening he could look through to see where the kids were playing. He shucked off his pack and set it softly on the ground. He unzipped the top of the pack and removed his Gatorade, jerky, and his two weapons. The karambit was in a sheath that he hooked through his belt. He left the steel baton shut and slipped it into his back pocket.
He drew a deep breath.
Ready.
Scott may have been ready, but any drama that was going to unfold in front of him was not. He stood still for the better part of an hour, waiting, waiting. The only part of the scene that changed in front of him was what game the kids were playing. Sylvia Jenkins went in and out of the house several times but was never gone for long.
Eventually, she carried a rolled up Slip ‘n Slide out from the house and laid it out in the yard. She unrolled the hose and connected it. By the time she had turned the water on, the kids were jumping up and down, ready to slide.
Scott had lived a long time without television, internet, or any distraction other than a book, so he was used to patiently watching and thinking. He did that for the next few hours while the Jenkins kids slipped and slid, jumped and laughed. Sylvia Jenkins even rolled her pants legs up and scooted the toddler along for a turn or two.
Scott shifted in place, stretched his back, touched his toes, and did everything he could to stay limber. He had made tremendous progress since being wounded, but he still stiffened up easier than he would have liked.
Finally, a little after five, the green Dodge pickup that Scott had been waiting all day for rolled down the road and turned into the driveway.
Sylvia Jenkins hustled around the yard, picking up a stray tennis shoe, a thrown ball, a dropped dolly. She smiled at her husband, but even from a distance, Scott thought there was strain behind it.
Scott focused in on Brock Jenkins.
Is he steady on his feet? The theory was that he had been drinking heavily at the barbecue.
If he was drunk, he showed no sign of it. He was dressed much as he had been the last time Scott had seen him. His trucker’s hat was pulled low over his mirrored sunglasses. At one point, he turned and stared directly in the direction Scott was standing.
There is absolutely no way he can see me. Right?
Brock Jenkins took three deliberate steps toward Scott.
Chapter Twenty-One
Scott stopped breathing. He had to will himself not to twitch nervously.
Brock Jenkins stopped, but continued to look directly into the woods. Slowly, he rolled his shoulders, as if releasing tension. After a few more long, breathless moments, he turned back toward the front of the house.
Sylvia Jenkins opened the garage door and set two webbed lawn chairs out. While Brock sat in one, she went in the house. She was back moments later with a beer for him. She sat in the chair next to him.
The four children, who had been so childishly playful all day, settled down. The two older girls sat off to the side holding onto a dolly each and talking between themselves. The toddler moved a Tonka truck back and forth.
Brock Jenkins stood and went to his pickup. He reached inside and pulled out a package of sparklers. He sat back and pulled a lighter from his pocket.
Brock flicked three sparklers out of the box, held them together and lit them with his lighter. The girls stood around with their hands at their sides. He handed each of them a sparkler, then gave the last one to Sylvia, who slowly waved it in front of her, entrancing the toddler on her lap.
Scott’s stomach lurched.
Glad I haven’t eaten much today. Not sure if I could hold it down. Why does this feel like it has the weight of inevitability behind it? Nothing here is inevitable. I can change anything.
When the sparklers were almost burned down, Brock waved the kids back over. He shook out three more and lit them off the dying embers of the ones in their hands.
Scott took half a step forward without realizing it. He focused his entire being on the tableau before him.
Is this it? Is it time? I can’t go charging out into this happy little domestic scene, swinging a metal baton and wielding a knife, can I? I feel like I am staring into the abyss, and the abyss is staring back.
Sylvia Jenkins stood and watched the girls run around the yard, using their sparklers to paint designs in the air. She walked into the house but returned a minute later with a glass filled with ice cubes and liquid.
Brock Jenkins stood up and for the first time Scott saw how he towered over his wife. He was more than a head taller.
The two of them put their heads together in a whispered conversation that Scott couldn’t begin to hear or imagine.
Brock took one
step backward and with a sudden explosion of coiled violence, he balled up his right hand and swung a roundhouse. Sylvia never had a chance to react or move. The fist connected above her left eye and she crumpled in a heap.
Things evolved quickly.
Sylvia Jenkins crumpled to the ground.
The girls, caught off guard, continued playing in the yard for the moment. The boy immediately began to cry. Brock grabbed the back of the boy’s t-shirt, lifted him in the air, and threw him across the yard.
Scott McKenzie jolted into action. He surged forward as fast as he could. He took two steps then stumbled and nearly fell. His legs were wooden, having nearly fallen asleep after hours of standing unmoving. He regained his balance, but his next few steps resembled a marionette with a drunken puppet master.
His stumble caused the baton in his back pocket to jar loose and fall to the ground.
He closed the distance. His legs were pistoning, finally acting more like legs instead of logs. As he ran he pulled the karambit from its sheath.
Behind Brock Jenkins, the girls had realized what was going on. They had dropped their sparklers and were rushing to their mother. The young boy lay unmoving on the lawn.
Scott had no plan. He only had momentum.
When he reached Brock Jenkins, he slashed out with the knife, aiming at his midsection.
Jenkins turned sideways, took a half step to his left and easily avoided the thrust. As Scott’s momentum carried him by, Jenkins unleashed a vicious kick at Scott’s legs. Scott fell, but did his best to roll with the momentum, focusing on not dropping the knife.
Scott scrambled to his feet and turned back toward Jenkins. The other man was moving fast, going away, retreating. Scott pushed up onto one knee, then got on his feet. By then, Jenkins had reached his pickup truck and opened the door. He reached inside and when he turned around, he held a pistol in his hand.
He strode toward Scott and slowed only when there was only a few feet separating them. Scott’s chest was heaving, his face flush. Jenkins seemed to possess an otherworldly calm.
