The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver Episode Two (The Unusual Life Of Thomas Weaver Book 2)

by Shawn Inmon

  Billy glanced sideways at him. “Must have been a pretty hard hit.” He reached over two lockers and spun the dial. “7-40-22. Remember?”

  “Ha! Oh, yeah, of course. Good thing you knew it.”

  7, 40, 22. 7, 40, 22. 7, 40, 22. And I think part of that sounded like adult me. I'll have to watch that. Billy smelled bullshit.

  Billy shrugged, then returned to messing around inside his own locker.

  Thomas looked inside his own locker. The odor of sweaty gym clothes, forgotten brown bag lunches, and old textbooks wafted out. A picture of Bruce Jenner throwing the javelin adorned the door. On the top shelf were an old homework assignment and a blue Bic pen. He tore off a corner of the paper, wrote “7-40-22” and stuffed it in his front pocket.

  What’s the worst that can happen if I don’t pull this off? It’s not like I’m scamming anyone. They might put me in the nuthouse up in Portland, I guess. That probably wouldn’t be great.

  He pulled his copy of the history book out, grabbed his Pee-Chee and hung the pack up on the hook in his locker.

  “Ready?” Thomas said.

  “Ready.”

  “Lead on, Macduff.” Because I sure as hell can't.

  Thomas followed Billy through the teenage throng, recognizing no one outright. Some faces looked familiar, but he couldn't match names to most of them. With a small jolt of recognition, he saw Amanda Jarvis, dressed in a tight white top and denim miniskirt. He remembered her as a goddess-like figure, fixed forever in his mind due to the kegger. Now she just looked like a skinny kid, trying to act hotter and more important than she was.

  Down the hall, up a flight of stairs, then down another hall, Billy finally turned into a room marked 222. The room was already half full, and they slipped into two half-desks at the back of the room. Thomas inhaled the long-forgotten smells: pencil shavings, mimeographed papers, and teenage pheromones, all mixed together.

  These kids looked much more familiar. Names came into sharper focus, such as the girl with long red hair beside him. Alicia Holcroft. She got married a few years out of high school. Two kids. Opened her own bakery, Cravin’ Cupcakes. The boy in the corner, bent over a copy of Dune; Ben Jenkins. Went to U of O, then finished up at Stanford Law. He’s gay, but I didn’t know that until I caught up with him on FB. He told me then that he didn’t have a single comfortable day in high school.

  In the back row, with empty seats around her like a moat, Carrie Copeland. Cooty Carrie. When we wanted to insult each other, it was always with her. “Oh, yeah? Well, you’d screw Cooty Carrie.” She attempted suicide her senior year. Did it again, two years later, but got the job done that time. I wonder if she started over somewhere in time, like me, or did she make the cut and pass on to whatever’s next?

  I guess I can thank Facebook for how many of these people I recognize. All those Throwback Thursday pictures.

  Two seats to his left, one tall, thin, dapper boy stood out. He had short hair and wore what Thomas thought of as business casual: grey sport coat, blue button-up shirt, and khakis. The boy turned, looked at Tommy, and smiled. Tommy returned the smile, then felt his face freeze as he made the connection.

  Michael Hollister. Holy shit. Michael friggin’ Hollister.

  Michael Hollister was Middle Falls’ most famous graduate. He didn’t become a politician, or an athlete, and he didn’t invent Post-It notes. The world would come to know Michael as the West Coast Strangler. Between 1978 and 2002, he had murdered twenty-nine men and women up and down the I-5 corridor. His signature had been a red and gold tie, done in a perfect Windsor, around each victim’s neck. Until some ambitious new killer came along, Michael would hold the record as Oregon’s most prolific serial killer.

  That was all in the future. At that moment, Michael Hollister was a seventeen-year-old boy smiling at Tommy, whose blood ran cold as he remembered more of what he'd read at serialkillers.com.

  Michael had varied his abduction methods, locations, and victim profiles, confounding the police and FBI for many years. Travelers or state maintenance workers had found his earliest victims at rest areas along I-5, where Michael had seated them on a toilet, pulled their pants down, then arranged the necktie. In the early 1990s, Oregon had installed security cameras at all rest stops, forcing Michael to dump the bodies in rural areas.

  In 1983, Michael sent an anonymous letter to The Oregonian stating that he preferred to be known as “The Necktie Killer,” instead of “The West Coast Strangler.” It didn’t matter. The 'West Coast Strangler' handle stuck. In 2002, he achieved serial killer hall of fame status: Ann Rule wrote a book about him.

  If not for a couple of missteps, Michael might have gone on killing until he got too old to strangle people. In 1984, Detective Harold Carmichael of the Oregon State Police stored a scarf worn by Allison Anderson, the Strangler's sixth victim. He kept the scarf in evidence because it had a single smear of blood on it that appeared inconsistent with the more profound bloodstains. Upon testing, this blood was a different type than Alison's. Michael had scraped his arm while manhandling Allison's rather curvy form into position. He had left a bit of the blood on her scarf, where he mistook it for hers.

  Then, in 1995, Michael Hollister nearly killed a man in a fight that broke out in, of all places, a wine bar. As part of the booking procedure, the police had taken a DNA sample, which went into the state and national database. Michael hired the sort of attorney the Michael Hollisters of the world could afford, and the prosecutor dropped the assault charges. Even though he escaped consequences at the time, the arrest ended up costing him dearly.

  In early 2001, the state of Oregon received a federal grant that allowed them to DNA-test hundreds of pieces of cold case evidence. The stray bloodstain on Allison Anderson’s scarf matched all thirteen data points of the sample Michael Hollister had provided in 1993.

  Detective Carmichael, sixty-one years old and less than a year from retirement, was given the job of leading the dozen officers that were dispatched to arrest Michael at his well-appointed home in Springfield, Oregon. When Detective Carmichael rang his doorbell, Michael answered by saying, “Collecting for the Policemen’s Ball?” He did not resist arrest.

  On the ride to the station, Michael asked how they had caught him. When Carmichael told him about the scarf, Michael nodded. “I knew it. A little bit of blood. Should have just walked away from that idiot at the wine bar.”

  Thomas felt suddenly ill. Serialkillers.com had featured pictures of a number of Michael’s victims. Their faces swam through his memory.

  There are twenty-nine people, going about their lives at this very moment, whose destiny is to be killed by that scrawny little teenager.

  *

  Thomas somehow faked his way through the rest of the school day. Only two of his classes included Billy, but he managed to get to the rest of his schedule by asking questions of harried teachers, and on one occasion, the janitor. Sitting through each class was not quite the dull eternity he remembered; either my mind has matured, or more likely, I was too busy worrying about being called on. When school finally let out, Thomas ran into Billy at his locker. “See ya in the morning.”

  “Nah, I’ve got an appointment to get fitted for braces first thing.”

  “Hey, braces might suck right now, but eventually you’ll be glad you got them.”

  Billy had knelt to fish something from the bottom of his locker, and he gave Thomas a sidelong upward look. “Yeah, and I should get a job and start saving for my college education. What are you, Weaver, my dad?”

  Oops. My middle-aged man is showing. Come on, Weaver, you’re supposed to be a teenager. “Ah, just trying to make you feel better, brace face.”

  “With friends like you, not sure I need enemies."

  Thomas slapped Billy on the back, said, “Good luck, man,” gathered up his homework, and jogged to Zack’s Camaro for the ride home. Fifteen minutes later, the parking lot was mostly empty, but no Zack.

  Shit. Of course. Track practice. He has trac
k practice every damn day. I should have taken the bus home.

  He shouldered his backpack and ran to the loading area, but the buses were already gone. How long did his practices last? Hell if I remember. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and trudged back to the Camaro. To his relief, the passenger door wasn't locked.

  Of course it’s open. Who locked their doors in a school parking lot in 1976?

  Thomas settled into the bucket seat and dug a notebook out of his backpack. Mr. Burns had cut him a break, giving him an extra day to produce five hundred words “Analyzing the ways in which technology, government policy, and economic conditions changed American agriculture in the period 1865-1900.” My god. He couldn't have picked a more mind-numbing topic if he'd had Google to hunt up a list of them. Thomas thumbed through the history book until he found a chapter that looked relevant, then laid it open on the dashboard and began to write.

  First thing I’ve written in forty years. Well, other than my suicide note.

  An hour later, with his hand cramping up, he had one essay page finished with no sign of Zack. Thomas slid the notebook back in his pack and took out Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, his assignment for English. “Could be worse. Could be Shakespeare.”

  Midway through the first chapter, a bit of movement caught Thomas's eye. It was a lone male figure, perhaps a teacher, cutting across the parking lot toward the deep woods that framed the back of the school. Then Thomas recognized the herringbone sport coat and lean frame. Michael Hollister. He had—he has—an odd, herky-jerky way of walking, long strides without moving his upper body much. And why isn't he carrying any books, or a bag? He's got his hands in his pockets, walking like a man on a mission.

  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 in training into the deep, dark, scary 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 losers and potheads. 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 place by accident. 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, attached by a single hinge. 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 is 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 sound
ed 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 and 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 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 forward 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.