The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver

by Shawn Inmon

  He’s looking for Mom or Dad.

  Thomas half stood and waved to catch Zack’s eye. Zack nodded, scanned the immediate area, then refocused on his stretches. I know who he was looking for. My teenage brain wouldn't have taken it in, but somewhere in Zack's heart, it kills him that Dad isn't here. He shook his head. Their dad hadn’t been back to the house to visit them for five years, since moving out in the middle of the night, but he had twice been spotted at the edge of the crowd as Zack ran. Today, though, that ghost of family past was not present, and Anne had been unable to get out of her scheduled shift at the hospital. Not that Zack was short on people to root for him. It seemed like every eye in the sparse crowd was on him.

  Zack dropped down into his starting stance, fingertips on the ground, head up, eyes forward. The starter’s gun rang out and all eight runners leaped forward. By the first turn, it was obvious the only race was for second place. Zack was already six strides ahead, gliding comfortably, focused only on his own form, his breathing, and his internal clock. Coach Manfred stood at a spot on the other side of the track from the starting line, stopwatch extended. When Zack went by, he checked the time, scribbled on a small chalkboard, and hustled back across the track. As Zack loped by at the end of the first lap, the coach held the chalkboard up for him to see. Zack flashed the smallest of grins and seemed to pick up his pace.

  He’s going to do it. I don’t remember him having the best time in the state his senior year, but unless his shoelaces come untied, he’s going to do it.

  Thomas jumped to his feet, cupping his hands around his mouth, shouting “Go, Zack! Go!” before sitting back down.

  How is it possible that he’s outrunning everybody when it doesn’t even look like he’s trying?

  By the time he hit the final turn, Zack finally started to flag. His perfect form picked up a slight jerkiness. Most in the crowd didn't notice or interpret the change, but his teammates did. They ran along the inside of the track, shouting encouragement.

  Turning his head from side to side, face flushed, Zack opened up his stride to gobble up the distance. He broke the tape at the finish line, stumbled, and would have fallen onto the cinder track if Coach Manfred hadn’t been there to catch him. He hugged Zack, pounded him on the back, and yelled something in his ear.

  Zack looked up at Tommy from beneath his shock of hair and gave a quick nod of his head. Thomas jumped to his feet again, screaming, “That’s my brother! Yessss!”

  The track announcer, carrying an oversized microphone and trailing a long black cord, conferred briefly with the official timer, then clicked on the mic and intoned: “Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention, please.” He paused. “It will be some time before the results of the Boys 880 Yard race are official, but if the preliminary results hold, Zack Weaver’s time of 1:51.2 is the fastest 880 time in the state this year.”

  Thomas sat down on the bench, exhilarated.

  “Hello, Tommy.”

  The unfamiliar voice came from behind him. He half-turned to see who it was.

  Michael Hollister.

  Thomas froze. His heart raced.

  Shit! “Umm…hey?”

  “I know you probably don’t know me. I’m Michael Hollister. I’m a senior, like your brother.”

  “Oh, um, hey.” Shit, shit, shit.

  “I went for a walk in the woods behind the school the other day after school and I saw you come out just a few minutes behind me. You don’t look like the pothead type.” Michael paused and looked at Thomas, who shook his head, agreeing that he didn’t look like the pot head type. “But those are the only people I ever see out there.”

  “Oh.” Thomas chuckled. Lame. Come on, Weaver, get it together. “I missed the bus home on Monday and had to wait for Zack to get done with track practice. I…just went for a walk in the woods, something to do.” Lame, lame, lame.

  Michael's eyes said: I hear you, but I do not believe you for one damned minute. He squinted into the setting sun, looking over Thomas’s shoulder. “Yeah, no big deal. I just never see anyone out there, other than the stoners. So, big race for your brother, huh?”

  “Yeah. I think so.” What the hell do you want?

  “Best in the state this year, maybe?”

  Thomas just nodded. And you care...why, exactly? Where the hell is this going, you animal torturer and future serial killer?

  “Not going to be valedictorian in our class, but not too far off, either, right?” Michael shaded his eyes with his right hand, stared at Zack. His eyes met Thomas’s for a brief moment, took his measure, then flitted away. “Must be tough, having a brother that’s so damn good at everything.”

  “Lucky for me, he’s cool about it.”

  The single nod again. “Even worse.” Michael said, smiling and tapping a two finger salute against his forehead as he stood up and walked down the bleacher aisle. Thomas watched his retreating back, his characteristic walk. When Michael got to the parking lot, he scissored his long, lean frame into a deep blue sports car that Thomas recognized as a Karmann Ghia. Of course. What kind of a teenager drives a Karmann Ghia?

  An asshole teenager with a rich mommy and daddy, that’s who. As Michael drove off, Thomas let out a long, shuddering breath and sank back down against the bench. That can’t be good. I never talked to him the first time around. I must be changing things.

  Of course I am. How could I not? And now, I’ve drawn the attention of a serial killer and I’m in his sights. Awesome.

  Thomas walked back to the Camaro to wait for Zack. That's right. I am changing things no matter what I do. The longer I go, the less I'll be able to predict. In my first life, I never had any interaction with Seth. Carrie's world is already a little different. It's like a map with a lot of detail near the You Are Here, then less and less, until it's just blurred colors and traces of lines near the edge.

  There is no guidebook for this. They don't even give you a brochure.

  Half an hour later, Zack appeared from the direction of the track. His Adidas hung over his shoulder, tied together at the laces. His hair was messy and still sweaty. He opened the driver’s door and immediately filled the car with teenage boy funk: the combination of body odor, sweaty clothes, and a splash of the Brut cologne that he always kept in his track bag.

  Thomas said nothing. Zack pulled the 8-Track out of the player and switched the AM radio on instead. Barry Manilow’s melodious lyrics explained, in so many words, that Barry wrote lyrics. Zack shook his head, punched a button, and The Eagles’ Take It to the Limit came on. Zack sang along under his breath, tapping time on the steering wheel.

  I can't get over how it feels to see him alive, setting records, just not being gone. I wish I could tell him everything. He had my back in the lunchroom. Why does he still seem like my older brother, when he’s eighteen and I’m in my fifties? It would be nice to be able to tell him the truth.

  I can see it now. "Zack, I gotta tell you something. I’ve already lived through this once, and in a few months, I might kill you in a car wreck. I’m going to try and change that, but I don’t know if it can be changed. I’m really sorry I killed you." And what’s the end game of that conversation? A long, worried talk with Mom, a consultation with some doc up in Portland, and a long stay in a nice, padded room?

  Nope. I’m on my own.

  Zack drove slowly through their neighborhood, his need for speed quenched for the moment by his own legs. “Thanks for coming, Squirt. It was cool that you were there. Now you can tell Mom all about it.”

  “I’m glad I got to see it. You were awesome. It looked like you were ready to pass out when you crossed the finish line.”

  Zach chuckled a little. “Just a little showboating for the crowd. I was fine.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not really, dipshit! That was all I had. I thought I was gonna puke.”

  “Glad to know you’re human.”

  “Was that Michael Hollister talking to you in the stands? What the hell was that about?�
�

  Thomas shrugged. “I really don’t know. He was asking me why I was out walking in the woods the other day.”

  “Good question. Why were you out in the woods the other day?” Zack took his eyes off the road for a moment, glanced at Tommy.

  “I know this will sound weird, but I saw Michael go out in the woods and I got a weird idea that he was up to something, so I followed him.”

  ”And?”

  “And, nothing,” Thomas lied. “I never even saw him, so I turned around and walked back out. No big deal.”

  Zack frowned as he pulled into their driveway. “Look, you’re a big kid. You can make your own decisions about things.” He turned off the Camaro’s engine, but made no move to open the door. “But Michael’s a weirdo. I’ve always thought he was a harmless weirdo, but still…”

  Concern for me. That's something I have so missed, so long. Thomas turned to face Zack. “No worries, big brother. No more walks in the woods for me.”

  Thomas and Zack got out of the car and pushed open the gate to their front yard. Thomas let Zack go in the house first, the conquering hero. Anne was still wearing her nurse’s scrubs. She jumped up, opened her arms wide to Zack, and said, “Well?”

  Zack smiled, nodded, and let her envelope him in a hug that ended with her holding him out at arm’s length and saying, “Okay, mister. Straight to the shower with you.” She turned to Thomas. “Tommy, honey, bring Amy inside.”

  Thomas stuck his head out the front door. “Amy! Amiable! Come here girl! Amy!"

  No dog.

  "Amy?” He peered around their front yard—fenced and none too big—but she was nowhere in sight.

  Down the block, Thomas heard an engine start. A deep blue Karmann Ghia pulled away from the curb and moved slowly down the street, trailing a cloud of smoke.

  “Amy?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Temporal Relocation Assignment Department, Earth Division.

  EMILLION BLEW A gust of air up at her bangs, pushing them out of her eyes for the moment. She leaned forward, spun her column of 180º, then feathered it to a stop. She rested her chin in her palm and studied.

  “Everything copacetic?” Veruna, the worker across the aisle. She and Emillion held the same rank and duties, but similarities ended there. Veruna was taller, well put together, and an efficient worker and observer. When Margenta, who had been the TRADED supervisor for the last three cycles, moved on to her next assignment, Veruna would fill her sandals. Emillion was a little less of all those things, but no less dedicated. Different as they were, she and Emillion had been friends for millennia. Veruna met Emillion's worried expression with a smile. “It will be all right, and you know it. It’s always all right in the end. If it’s not all right…”

  “…it’s not the end,” Emillion finished. She tapped her left hand twice against her heart chakra. Those had been the first words in the training manual her first day on the job. “I know that’s true, but I worry about them anyway. I can’t help it.”

  “You don’t want to help it, or you would.” Veruna turned her attention back to her work. Her fingers flitted in and out of the images in front of her, an artisan at work.

  Emillion frowned and focused on the swirl of images. You have a point, Veruna, though you did not make the one you intended. “Nothing ventured,” she whispered to herself. She pinched an image—a car containing a teenage boy and a small dog—and pulled it toward her until it snapped loose with an almost inaudible thwick. Without moving her eyes, she manipulated it, tore a piece off, and dropped it into the small waste hole at her feet. She replaced the rest of the image into the swirl in front of her. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see Margenta's glaring eyes, but her supervisor was not there.

  Emillion smiled.

  Chapter Fifteen

  MICHAEL HOLLISTER PEERED in his rearview mirror, idling the engine, hoping Thomas would come outside. He leaned over to roll the passenger window down just enough for the dachshund to hear Thomas. When the dog barked, Thomas would realize what lay in store for the family pet, and it would be delicious to see.

  “Amy-girl, come here, girl!”

  Amy looked up at Michael with an unconcerned doggy smile. Michael reached down and wrapped long, slender fingers around her neck. Since human fingers had never harmed her, and he didn't squeeze, she did not resist. “Guess I don’t need to worry about you jumping out the window, do I? You’re not built for jumping, are you? Now shut up.” Then he flicked her nose, hard and fast. Amy gave a quick yelp of pain and surprise. No one had ever hit her, not even with a newspaper as a piddling puppy. Michael held his finger an inch from Amy’s nose, ready to flick her again. Amy tried to shrink away, but he tightened his grip as he strained to hear Tommy.

  “Amy?”

  The dachshund whined at the faraway voice, one she associated with love rather than rough mistreatment. She struggled as if she could reach that voice, but Michael tightened his grip.

  The dog whining increased in volume. Switching hands, Michael reached behind the passenger seat and pulled out the small pet carrier he always carried. It paid to be prepared for opportunities. He sprang the door of the cage open with his left hand, keeping hold of Amy with his right. “This is most definitely not your lucky day, dog.” Alone in the car, Michael heard the voice that spoke to him so often; not his conscience, but an alternate part of him that had separated long ago. Come on, Michael. This is not some woodland creature you caught in a trap, or a stray feral cat. This is a pet. She will be missed. Her owner knows where our playground is. If you kill her, you will be caught, and you will miss out on so many other delights. Patience.

  Michael nodded and lifted Amy by the neck, then shoved her into the cage. He slammed the door closed and dropped the carrier on the passenger seat floor. She yelped in shock and sudden terror at the alien treatment, then resumed the whine of protest. He jerked his head hard left then right, eliciting a sharp crack, then shifted the Karmann Ghia into first and eased into the street while keeping an eye on Thomas in his rear view mirror.

  As Thomas ran toward him, calling Amy, Michael felt a deep satisfaction.

  He let Thomas get within about a car length, then gave the Karmann Ghia the gas.

  Chapter Sixteen

  RED-FACED AND gasping, hands on knees, Thomas stared at the pavement for several seconds. When he looked up, the Karmann Ghia was gone. Not even Zack could catch a car. He stood, then spun around in frustration, running both hands through his shaggy hair. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit, SHIT!”

  His run had ended in futility on the sidewalk in front of the Arkofski house. Mrs. Arkofski appeared at her screen door, long white apron over her gingham dress, glaring disapproval. Thomas gave her an ineffective wave, dismissing her, but Mrs. Arkofski stood her ground, eyes promising future unpleasantness. It was the look that had sent her husband to an early, merciful grave.

  I ought to flip her off.

  No. If I do that, it will make things worse. He turned away and trudged toward the house.

  Now what? Michael’s got Amy. Unwanted images flashed into his mind’s eye. The small, flayed creature attached to the plywood on the floor of the cave. The skulls, picked clean. The enraged cat in the pet carrier.

  Son of a bitch. Of course. His killing place. That’s where he’ll take her.

  No! I won’t let that happen to Amy.

  Unless it’s already happening right now.

  Another image filled his mind; Amy as a wiggly, wide-eyed puppy, tongue lolling, loving and trusting every human she had ever known. He swiped tears from his eyes. Get a grip. It won’t help anything if Mom sees I’m freaking out.

  Drawing a deep breath, Thomas went back into the house.

  “Where’s Amy? Didn’t you bring her in?”

  Make up a lie, and make it up quick. “There’s a little hole in the fence that she could wriggle through. She’s not in heat, is she?”

  Anne's expression reminded him of later days, when he would say s
omething that proved he was drunk again. “You know she’s fixed, honey. You went to the vet’s office with me. Are you okay?” She stepped forward, laid a hand against his cheek, then his forehead. “Oh, you’re clammy! Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine, Mom. I was just running around the neighborhood looking for Amy. I’m sure she’ll be back in the morning, don’t you think?”

  Anne parted the heavy drapes, peered out into the darkness. “I hate to think of her being out this late.” She tapped her fingers lightly against the glass, lost in thought for a moment. “Come on, let’s drive around the neighborhood. I’m sure she’ll hear our voices and come running.”

  If only. Thomas tried to picture where Amy might be at that moment, and he didn’t like anything that came to mind. Great. A fool’s errand I can't decline. “Sure, Mom.”

  Anne grabbed her keys and they went back out into the deepening evening gloom. Despite the cold, they drove around the neighborhood with the windows down. Their cries of “Amy! Amiable!” echoed through the neighborhood, but of course, they spotted no Amy. After half an hour, Anne finally admitted defeat. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. Come on, let’s head for home. She’ll probably be curled up on the front porch when we wake up, begging for breakfast.”

  She won't be, of course. But I know what I have to do.

  When they were back inside the house, Thomas pecked Anne on the cheek. “I know it’s a little early, but I don’t feel so good. I’m gonna go to bed.”

  “Good idea. ‘Night.”

  Thomas tried the bathroom door, found it unlocked, and went in. Zack was still in the shower, turning the small bathroom into a sauna. Thomas relieved himself, then flushed the toilet without thinking.

  "Yeeeoooww! Damnit, Tommy, you retard! I’m gonna kill you!”

  “Sorry, Zack.” Thomas retreated to their room and got undressed, laying his clothes across the end of his bed. It was dark out, just a little after nine, but too early to put his plan into action. He pulled the Mingus record off the turntable, sleeved it, then flipped through the half dozen albums on the floor. He found Zack’s copy of The Beach Boys’ Endless Summer. Sometimes you just need a little sunshine piped into your ears, right? Thomas started the album spinning, dropped the needle. He clicked the light off and laid back against his pillow in the darkness, feigning sleep.