The Vigilante Life of Scott Mckenzie: A Middle Falls Time Travel Story

by Shawn Inmon

  He didn’t even bother to look for a motel. He knew he wasn’t going to sleep that long. He laid the driver’s seat back as far as it would go—which wasn’t far—closed his eyes, and he was out.

  Sleeping essentially sitting up in a Plymouth Valiant guarantees one thing—that you won’t oversleep. Before the sun was up, Scott was awake, had splashed water on his face, and was once again tooling along Interstate 90.

  He didn’t break any more fan belts, and the little Valiant held together until he reached Washington State late that night. He spent one more night trying to sleep in a rest area, then crossed the Cascades at Snoqualmie pass and dropped down into western Washington midday on July 12th.

  He stopped at a gas station and bought a map of the state. He found Issaquah, which was just ahead on I-90, and saw that Lake Sammamish State Park was very near that.

  He pushed on to Issaquah, which still had a rural, small-town flavor in 1974. The biggest business in town seemed to be something called Skyport, where balloonists and parachutists launched themselves into the sky.

  Scott decided to drive out to Lake Sammamish and do a reconnaissance mission. As he drove, he twisted through the radio dial, finally settling on 950 AM KJR. The afternoon drive announcer was full of energy. “Get down on your knees and pray for the hits, this is the mighty 95, KJR!” After a jingle played—KJR, Seattle, Channel 95!—a Tommy James song came on, then the disc jockey read the weather report. “Nothing but blue skies and sunshine everywhere within the sound of my voice all weekend long. Highs in the nineties both days. Boys and girls, this is what we dream of during those long, cold, lonely nights. Get out and enjoy it!”

  That’s why it was so crowded at the lake the day Bundy hit twice, then. Seattleites know they’ve got to enjoy the sunshine while they can.

  The lake and park turned out to be smaller than he had seen it in his imagination. It was late Friday afternoon by the time he parked and walked out to the lake. It wasn’t packed yet, but there was a good smattering of people laying out, soaking up the late afternoon rays. Once people were free of the shackles of their jobs, it would fill up quickly.

  Scott scouted out the parking lot, the paths to the beach, and the way in and out of the park. He knew that Bundy had used some plaster he had taken from a medical supply house he had worked at and made himself a cast that day. All the better to appear vulnerable and less threatening to his victims. He had approached many women at the lake that day, asking them if they would help him get a small boat onto his car.

  Most had just said no, they wouldn’t. One woman said she would help, but fled when she saw the infamous Volkswagen Beetle with no boat on it. No one knew exactly how he managed to incapacitate the other two women and secret them out of the park unnoticed, but he had, one at a time. Bundy committed an amazing number of horrible crimes—and no one ever knew exactly how many he murdered— but this abduction of two healthy, strong women in broad daylight, surrounded by hundreds of other people, was his most famous.

  Just a few months after the dual abductions from Lake Sammamish, Bundy moved to Utah to attend college there. The killings in Washington stopped, those in Utah and Colorado began.

  Scott walked along the tree-lined parking lot, formulating a plan.

  If I don’t get him here, then what? Try and track him down somewhere? I know he lived somewhere in the University District, but I don’t have the address. I remember he used to hang out at a bar called Dante’s, but that would be hit or miss. This spot, two days from now, is the only time and place I know he will definitely be. This has got to be it.

  Scott suddenly felt like he was at loose ends. He had no reason to believe that Bundy would show up at the park any time before Sunday morning.

  He drove back to Issaquah, found an inexpensive place to stay on the edge of town and rested. He needed to recover from his mad dash across the United States.

  After getting his recon out of the way on Friday afternoon, Scott barely left his motel room on Saturday. There was a little drive-in within easy walking distance, and an International House of Pancakes. That was more than good enough to keep him in calories.

  He bought a copy of The Seattle Times and The Seattle Post-Intelligencer and combed through both of them, seeing if there was any news of the Jenkins murder in Waterville. The murder of a single man clear on the other side of the country wasn’t big enough to be newsworthy in Seattle, and there was no mention at all.

  If I settle down for a few months somewhere after this, I can subscribe to the local paper from Waterville, have them mail it to me, and see if they’ve got any information.

  Beyond those minimal activities, Scott rested on Saturday, and thought through how he would attempt to take out Ted Bundy.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Scott’s eyes flew open at 7:30 Sunday morning. When he peeked out the window, the sun was already blazing.

  Damnit! I never sleep this late. Today of all days...

  The sign at Lake Sammamish State Park had said that the gates opened at 8:00 a.m. during the summer months. Scott had planned to be there shortly after that. He had no way of knowing what time Bundy arrived at his hunting ground—just that one woman had been kidnapped in the morning and another in the afternoon.

  He had been sure he would wake up earlier and have time for a breakfast at IHOP, but he was still exhausted from the long drive, so he slept in and those pancakes would have to wait.

  If I hurry, I can still get there a few minutes after the park opens and park close to the gate so I can watch for Beetles coming in.

  He threw his few belongings into his pack, left the room key on the table and threw everything in the backseat of the Valiant.

  I can still make it there on time.

  He slipped behind the wheel, turned the key and heard nothing but the clicking of the solenoid.

  Holy shit! Not now!

  He twisted the key off, waited fifteen seconds, then pumped the gas once and turned the key again.

  Click, click, click. Nothing more.

  Scott slammed his fist into the steering wheel.

  What the hell do I do now?

  Scott was a decent mechanic, but not much more. He opened the hood and poked around under it.

  Could be a dead battery. Could be the starter just conveniently went out all at once.

  He glanced at his watch. 7:55.

  The problem is, it’s early on a Sunday morning. No one’s going to be around that can give me a jump, or help me fix it, if it’s something more than that. I have got to get a more reliable car, pronto.

  He felt his stomach tighten and gurgle, not with hunger, but with fear and anxiety.

  He pushed his way into the small office. A young girl, who couldn’t be more than sixteen, was behind the counter.

  “Hey, my car won’t start. Is there anyone here who can maybe give me a jump?”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “You know, jumper cables?”

  The steady stare, followed by a shrug.

  Scott blew out a breath of frustration, then asked, “Can you at least tell me where the closest pay phone is? I left my keys to the room on the table and locked my door already.”

  She could have given him another key to get back into his room to use the phone, but she also could have answered his question about a jump. Instead, she pointed to her left. “Gas station next door.”

  Scott considered a few zingers about customer service, but he felt the pressure of a running clock in his head.

  He hurried to the payphone and pulled the Eastside phone book up and spread it open. His first instinct was to call a garage, but common sense told him that no garage was open. Instead, he dialed a taxi and asked for a pickup at the motel.

  He hurried back to the Valiant. He slammed his hand on the trunk in frustration, but that did nothing but hurt himself. The car remained unmoved.

  He tried to start it again, but the result was the same.

  Scott dumped his clothes and bathroom
stuff out onto the seat, then placed the karambit and baton inside. He slung the pack over his arm, grabbed his jo and sat on the back bumper to wait.

  Forty-five minutes later, he was still waiting. He was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk in front of his room, then walking out to the street, looking for an approaching Yellow Cab.

  After an hour, he wished he had walked there.

  It’s only about five miles from here, right? I coulda almost been there by now.

  Finally, at 9:15, the cab pulled into the parking lot. The driver rolled his window down. “You call for a cab?”

  Scott didn’t answer, but jumped inside. “Lake Sammamish State Park, please, as fast as you can get me there.”

  The cabbie flipped his flag up, which put a .75 charge on the meter. “Sure, no problem. Don’t worry, the park, the sunshine, and the pretty girls in cutoffs will still be there when you get there.”

  Scott gave him an insincere smile and sat back, willing the driver to move faster. It’s a well-known universal law that the greater the hurry you are in, the more your chances of missing every red light increases. Scott was almost in a panic, in a true race against life and death. That meant that they did indeed miss every light possible as they drove through Issaquah.

  Finally, almost two hours after he had wanted to be there, the cab pulled up to the entrance to the park. The cabbie flipped the flag back down and said, “Five twenty-five.”

  Scott pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket, said, “Keep it.” He clambered out of the backseat with his pack slung over his shoulder and his jo in his right hand. He hurried through the park gate and cast his eye along the cars that were parked along the left side of the lot. Scott scanned where the cars butted right up against some trees and undergrowth.

  It was early, but it was a beautiful day, and the park was filling up quickly.

  Oh, shit. Unbelievable!

  Sitting a few parking spots from each other were two tan Volkswagen Beetles.

  I have no idea which one is his, but one of those has to be it. He’s here. He’s already here and hunting. Everything depended on catching him when he first got here and was getting out of the car.

  Leaning on his jo, Scott stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck. Wavy lines of heat were already shimmering off the parking lot, which was momentarily empty of other people. He saw a couple walking up the path toward him. The man was wearing a tennis outfit—white shorts and shirt. The woman was pushing a yellow ten-speed bike. Scott took a few steps toward them, then stopped cold.

  It was not just a couple. Walking toward him was a pretty young blonde woman and Theodore Robert Bundy.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Bundy had wavy dark hair that went over his ears and collar. His open, boyish face was split into a grin as he said something to the young woman beside him. A clean-looking cast and sling was on his left arm. He was pointing at the VW Beetle that was just ahead. The man who would come to be recognized as one of America’s great boogey men today looked like nothing less than an all-American man.

  Scott had an unexpected, visceral reaction at the sight of Bundy. His nostrils flared, his fingers curled and uncurled against his jo, and he unconsciously spread his feet, settling into a fighting stance.

  Bundy and the woman approached close and were about to walk right by Scott, when he stepped in front of the woman. The two of them stopped in surprise.

  “Listen,” Scott said, and he could hear the anger and breathiness in his voice. “You need to get out of here. You don’t know this man, but he is planning to rape and kill you today.”

  The woman’s eyes flew wide and she took a step back from both Bundy and Scott, dragging her bicycle with her.

  Bundy himself twisted his head to the side with a shocked, quizzical look.

  “I know he asked you to help him get his sailboat, but look at what he’s driving. It’s a Beetle, with no roof rack on it. Think. How is he going get a sailboat on there?”

  Bundy reached out a hand toward Scott. Anger flashed in his eyes and he raised his voice. “Wait a minute, what are you going on about?” Scott saw his cunning mind at work, already running scenarios.

  The woman looked at Scott, then back at Ted. Any trace of her smile long gone. “I don’t know if this is some kind of a joke you two cooked up, but it’s not funny.” She spit the words at them, then picked up her bike, turned it around and peddled back toward the lake.

  Bundy’s eyes narrowed as he tried to process this unusual set of circumstances. He was an intelligent man, but he had been convinced he was anonymous here.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am the last person on earth you wanted to meet today.”

  A car drove past them and parked further down toward the lake. Scott glanced at it.

  How the hell did he manage to get these girls out of here without being seen? There’s people everywhere.

  An idea flashed through Scott’s mind.

  “Screw you, Ted Bundy. I know exactly who you are and what you’ve been doing. I know about every girl you’ve already killed. I know your every damn move before you make it. That’s how I knew you were going to be here today. My next stop will be the cops. You may not know it, but you left a fingerprint on the bed of the girl you attacked in the U-District. Once I tip them off about you, they’ll put you away for life.”

  The color drained from Bundy’s face and he took one dangerous step toward Scott.

  Scott turned and strode quickly toward the Beetle that he had seen Ted point at. He raised his jo and slammed it down on the driver’s side mirror, snapping it off.

  Bundy ran toward him, arms out, flailing, murder in his eyes. Scott turned to face him, waited until he was nearly on top of him, then turned sideways with his left leg stuck out. Bundy stumbled over it and splayed onto the ground between the two cars. He cursed and got on all fours to stand, but was hindered by the sling on his left arm, which had wrapped around itself.

  Scott put his foot against the butt of Bundy’s white shorts and shoved as hard as he could. Bundy pitched forward, landing face first out of the parking lot and in the surrounding greenbelt. His face dug up a channel of dirt and pine needles.

  Immediately, Scott was on the attack. He continued to kick and jab at Bundy with his jo, forcing him deeper into the briars and brambles, herding him to where he wanted him. Finally, when they were far enough into the woods that he felt they had some privacy, he paused.

  For one of America’s greatest serial killers, Ted Bundy did not have a lot of fight in him. He was on his back, pushed up onto his elbows and held his right hand up as a shield. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Scott’s anger and adrenaline pulsed through him. He unleashed a short kick at Bundy’s head. Bundy attempted to ward it off, but only managed to deflect it as it connected with his nose, breaking it. Blood poured from his nostrils and ran down his face.

  Scott fell on him, jo held out in front of him. Bundy grabbed the stick, but again the cast got in the way and it slipped from his grasp. Scott pushed the jo against his windpipe and leaned all his weight on it.

  Bundy beat against Scott’s arms and shoulders. He kicked and bucked, trying to knock Scott off of him. Scott tightened the grip his legs had around Bundy’s midsection and continued to apply more and more pressure. He lifted his head and turned his face away from the increasingly feeble blows.

  The struggle went on for long minutes, but eventually Bundy’s face turned red, then became the color of old bricks, and finally took on a bluish tinge. The light of consciousness went out of his eyes and his arms flopped against the pine needle-covered ground.

  Scott did not let up, but instead straddled him higher up, putting his knees on either side of the jo and letting his full weight press down. He stayed in that position for a full five minutes, wanting to make sure the job was done.

  Finally, he rolled off and leaned against a tree.

  That all happened so fast. Did anyone see us fight by his car?
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  Scott steadied his breathing and listened to the quiet. He could hear car doors slamming, happy voices carrying, and a radio playing far away.

  He sat next to the corpse of Ted Bundy for quite some time.

  Eventually, his breath and heart rate returned to normal and he stood. He found that he had a little shimmy in his legs and his hands were shaking as he picked up his jo. He couldn’t tell if that was from fear, exhilaration, exhaustion, or a combination of the three.

  He walked out toward the car and saw his backpack sitting on the ground next to the broken mirror from the Beetle. Turning, Scott looked into the woods.

  We weren’t as far in as I thought. Someone might see him.

  Scott emerged from the cooler temperature of the woods into the glaring sunlight. He grabbed his backpack and kicked the broken mirror under the VW. He walked back into the woods, set his jo and pack down, and grabbed Bundy by the shoulders. He picked up the top half of his body and dragged it further into the cool darkness. After he had half-dragged, half-carried him another fifty feet, he dropped the corpse. He retraced his steps, kicking at the drag marks to erase them as best he could.

  I wonder if that woman that was with him will report what happened. Probably not. I’d guess she thinks it might have been a joke between two friends. She will never know how close she came to being murdered.

  Scott stood at the edge of the woods and watched the parking lot for a few minutes. All the normal activity of a summer day at the lake played out in front of him, but no one showed any sign of alarm.

  He saw a payphone at the edge of the parking lot.

  Don’t think it’s safe to hitchhike or call a cab here. That might leave more of a trail. Nothing for it, then, but to walk.

  He forced his tired, leaden legs to start moving, away from the lake, the parking lot, and the body of the man who had once been destined to be one of America’s most infamous killers.