The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver

by Shawn Inmon

  He lay like that through the album's A side, but could still hear Zack and Anne talking in the living room. He started the record again, concentrating on the music, trying to stay awake. Not until after the A side played through again did he hear Zack slip into the room and lay down with an exhausted groan. Just a few hours ago, Zack was setting records and everything was good. Things change so fast.

  After a few minutes of tossing and turning, soft snores came from the other side of the room. I could sneak out the window now, but I need to grab a few things before I go. C’mon, Mom, it’s getting late. Don’t you have to work tomorrow or something? Go to bed! Please don’t let tonight be one of the nights you stay up and watch Carson.

  The minutes dragged by. At last, the muffled TV sound stopped, then the hallway light clicked off. The door to Anne’s room clicked shut.

  Thomas glanced at the small windup alarm clock. The numbers glowed 10:30. I’ll give her half an hour to get to sleep, then I can take off. He sat up to fend off slumber, then leaned back against the wall.

  The only noises were an occasional car rolling down the street and the quiet ticking of the clock.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THOMAS’S EYES FLEW open with a start. He had a crick in his neck. He rubbed his blurry eyes, grabbed the little clock, and held it close.

  Ten minutes after midnight. Goddammit! How could I let myself fall asleep when that maniac has Amy?

  Thomas slid out of bed, retrieved his clothes, dressed, and padded to the kitchen. If there was a gun anywhere in the house, I would sure as hell take it, but… Thomas slid open the top drawer to the left of the sink, muttered a curse, closed it, then opened the one below. Inside was a jumble of knives: paring knives, bread knives, a cleaver, steak knives, and an Old Hickory butcher knife. Thomas reached out and touched the butcher knife's smooth wooden handle before pulling it out.

  A creak came from behind him. Thomas jumped and spun around, nearly dropping the butcher knife. No one was there.

  Deep breath, Thomas, deep breath. We haven’t even started yet.

  Thomas walked to a small cupboard in the dining room. The hinge squeaked, and he paused again to listen. Inside he saw the silver cylinder of a flashlight. He grabbed it, pointed it at the floor and pushed the switch forward. A white beam of light lit a few pieces of Cap'n Crunch he had dropped on the linoleum, another lifetime ago. Thank God. I have no idea where I’d find D batteries this time of night in 1976. I don’t think there’s a single 24-hour store in all of Middle Falls.

  He slipped to the hall closet and pulled on his Middle Falls High hoodie, dropped the flashlight into its pocket, then stared at the butcher knife. A hunting knife with a sheath would be better, but Dad took all those with him. Won't do to walk down the street with this in my hand. Thomas slipped it up his right sleeve. At the sliding glass door, he collected Amy’s little red leash and slipped it into the hoodie's other pocket.

  Flashlight, butcher knife, leash. Oh, yeah, I’m loaded for bear. Let’s get it over with. It would be a lot easier if I could just drive to the school, but if Mom gets up for some reason, looks out and sees her car missing, I'm in big trouble. Nope. Not worth the risk.

  He took a deep breath, then stepped out into the cold night air.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, keeping to alleys and side streets, Thomas neared the school parking lot. The moon was nearly full, so there had been no need for the flashlight. As he walked along the fringe of the parking lot, he spared a second of battery life to glance at his watch: 1:15 AM. This whole plan seemed a lot easier when I was lying in bed. Better get my ass in gear. Don’t want to have to explain to Mom why I’m not home when she wakes up for work.

  He averted his eyes from the high lights above the parking lot, letting his eyes adjust. The forest loomed directly ahead. Thomas paused to listen; all quiet. His breath puffed out in a small cloud.

  A few minutes later, he located the path he had followed a week earlier. Inside the forest, Thomas thought he could hear ominous sounds near the path, but when he stopped to listen, they were gone. It's as dark as the inside of a coal digger’s butt, as Dad used to say. He turned the flashlight on again, but there was no reassuring beam of light. His heart skipped a beat. In a panic, Thomas slapped the flashlight into his palm hard enough to bruise. The batteries shifted enough to produce a connection, and the beam reappeared. Thomas let out his breath in a rush, rubbed his hand on his jeans, and set off again.

  Last time I was here, the forest felt peaceful. Now I’d swear it’s closing in on all sides. He slid out the butcher knife and clamped it in his right hand. The trail narrowed, then ended.

  Shit. I didn’t think this through very well. Which way did I go after the trail ended? Last time, I heard the cat wailing and followed it to the cave. He stopped still, listening, but heard only the ambient night sounds of the forest.

  Okay. When I heard the cat wail, I had given up on the whole thing and was heading back towards school. Then I heard the cat from my right. So it must be this way, right?

  Thomas focused the flashlight ahead and began picking his way through the trees and underbrush. He found it an order of magnitude harder by flashlight. Every few steps he nearly tripped over a root, got slapped in the face by a low-hanging tree branch, or twisted his ankle on a buried rock. He worked up a sweat despite the cold.

  I can't shake the feeling that I'm going the wrong way. He stopped. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Have I gone too far? I must have gone off at the wrong angle and now I could be—

  Thomas’s mind went blank and his stomach dropped. His left foot landed on air. He tried to find his balance, lost the battle to inertia, and pitched forward. Without thinking, he threw the flashlight one direction and the knife the other. For a fleeting moment—too fast for a fully realized thought—Thomas believed he had walked off the cliff he had encountered on his previous visit, and prepared to feel broken bones. Before he could contemplate the full outcome of breaking his leg or spine this close to Michael Hollister's playground, he bounced a bit down a gully in the cliff side and rolled into a sapling.

  Everything he felt told of a bruise collection to come, especially on his forearms, and he'd banged his head on a rock. The impact had knocked the wind out of him. He laid there for several seconds, trying to get air back into his lungs.

  Christ. Smooth move, Weaver. He lifted his head, felt nauseous, and lay back down against the dirt and wet vegetation. Oh, boy. Haven’t felt this bad since 2016.

  Wait. Will feel. Whatever. Shit. I am never gonna get the hang of this time travel stuff.

  Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Laying here feeling sorry for myself isn’t going to save Amy.

  I was lucky. If I'd gone straight over one of the sheer spots, I might be dead now, or worse than dead—paralyzed, waiting to be found by the freak.

  He sat up, weaved a bit, directed a grateful look at the sapling. Thanks, little tree. You done good. He heaved himself up, stretching, testing bones and joints and tendons, expecting the lightning bolt of pain. None came. His ribs ached horribly, his face and arms had taken a beating, and he had a headache, but he could still walk.

  He looked around and saw the flashlight beam in the grass at the bottom of the cliff. As his eyes adjusted, Thomas saw his path downward. It would take some daring, but he could edge down the rest of the way. He slipped several times and even fell once more, but not as dramatically. When he reached level ground, he picked up the flashlight.

  It’s a friggin’ miracle it still works. He cast the flashlight’s beam around in concentric circles, looking for the glint of the knife blade. The light fell on tangles of small trees and underbrush. Never going to find it out here tonight. Guess I’ll get Mom a new knife set for Mother’s Day. He chuckled, bringing a fresh stab of pain to his ribs. Okay. Let’s take inventory. I am weaponless, unless the flashlight morphs into a lightsaber. I hurt myself so I can’t quite st
and up straight or take a deep breath, but… He fished into the pocket. I still have Amy’s leash, so I should be just fine.

  At least I’ve found the clearing with the freak’s Kill Cave. That'll be fun to find in the dark. He shook his head in disgust and limped across the clearing, leaving the flashlight on. When he got to the cliff on the other side, he started feeling his way along it to the left.

  About twenty feet later, his hands touched the ivy he remembered hanging down in front of the mouth of the cave. His stomach lurched a bit at the thought of what he might find inside. His throat tightened. He grabbed a handful of ivy, pulled it aside, tried to get it to stay, failed, wound it around some other ivy, and repeated for a minute or two. It hurt, but felt good to rip away the curtain of secrecy. When he had the entrance laid bare, it held only pitch darkness split by the flashlight's beam.

  He heard a rough scrabbling, then a muffled whine.

  “Amy! Amy girl, are you in there?” Goddamn this high-pitched teenage voice!

  Use your head, Weaver. What are the chances he’s in there right now, waiting? I have no idea, but I couldn’t have done a better job of letting him know I’m coming. Shit.

  Thomas turned sideways and squeezed into the short passage, shining the light ahead. He gathered his courage and ran the last two steps into the cave.

  It had been stripped nearly empty, cleaned like a hotel room after a weeklong stay. The beam revealed no threats. He heard the scrabbling sound again, and pointed the flashlight to the far corner on his right.

  The same green pet carrier from his cat discovery sat on the cave floor, turned to face the wall. The scrabbling sound came from it, and the carrier rocked from side to side a bit, but he couldn’t see what was inside.

  His hand crept up to his mouth, covering it. Oh, goddammit. If Amy is in there and okay, she would be barking her head off.

  Shit. Poor choice of words. Either way, I don’t want to see what’s in there. I just don’t want to know.

  Thomas took three hesitant steps forward and nudged the carrier. The scrabbling stopped, though not the whine.

  ”Amy?”

  Gathering himself, he reached for the handle and pulled the carrier toward him.

  It’s heavy. Something bigger than a cat is in there. He turned it the rest of the way, shining the flashlight directly inside, ready for the worst.

  Amy’s brown eyes stared back at him, full of life.

  ”Amy girl! You’re alive! Why didn’t you bark?”

  Amy gave another muffled whine. Thomas kneeled and shone the flashlight at an angle into the carrier. He fidgeted with the metal catch, but his hands were shaking. Finally, he remembered to pinch the latch and slide the mechanism. The door popped open. Twenty-five pounds of squirming, twisting, terrified dachshund pushed through and clambered up into Thomas’s lap.

  He turned the flashlight on Amy. A rubber band was wrapped around and around her snout, and brutally so. It had cut through the fur and skin, leaving hints of blood around the band. Thomas winced, reached out and touched it gently. Amy whined again, but didn’t pull away.

  “Oh, poor girl. Poor Amiable. I’m so sorry he did this to you.”

  This is going to take delicate care. Where the band is thickest, that's where a less tight spot will be.

  Thomas located a promising strand of the rubber band, stretched it only as far as he had to, and worked it over Amy's nose. The dog didn't flinch. Once he got the first loop off, the rest came away easily. When she was free of the sadistic muzzling, Amy opened her mouth wide, stuck her tongue out and barked. It wasn’t the small bark you might expect from a dog so low to the ground, but an oversized sound that started deep inside her chest and made deliverymen think a much bigger dog lived in the Weaver household. The sound echoed loudly inside the cave.

  Go ahead, girl. Bark away. You must’ve been holding it back for hours. Thomas hugged and petted Amy, who was still quivering. He looked for other wounds, but aside from the circular ooze of blood around her nose, she was unharmed. Relief gave way to a sudden burst of murderous rage.

  Michael Hollister, if you were here right this minute, you would not be the one to walk out of here alive.

  You freak. You goddamned freak. I can’t let you get away with this.

  Okay. First, I’ve got to get Amiable home, safe and sound, then I’ll deal with you, Hollister. Thomas retrieved the leash and clipped it on her little black collar.

  He scanned the cave with the flashlight. Most evidence of Michael's hobby was gone. The small, staked forest creature, the macabre line of skulls, the toolbox, were nowhere in sight. Finally, in one corner of the cave, Thomas spotted something.

  He took four steps forward with the light. The small piece of plywood rested against one wall. The glove Thomas had found in the tool box was nailed to the board, turned inside out. The beam picked out the bloodstain on the palm where the cat had bitten him.

  Three of the fingers and the thumb were nailed in the down position. The middle finger was nailed up.

  Chapter Eighteen

  WHEN THOMAS REACHED the mouth of the cave, the flashlight began to dim. He set Amy down, whereupon she hunkered and urinated for a very long time.

  ”You’re a good girl, Amiable. Even in there, you wouldn’t pee inside, would you?” He gave her ears a rub. “C’mon, girl, we’ve got a few miles to go before we sleep.”

  By the time he was at the edge of the clearing, the beam was too weak to matter. No big deal when I’m on a road, but kind of a problem walking through the forest, with trip hazards every few feet. Before the light faded completely, he shined it at his Timex. 3:45. Okay. I can either sit here for a few hours and wait for dawn, or I can just be a man and git ‘er done. Thomas almost laughed. Wonder where Larry the Cable Guy is in 1976?

  He's probably Larry the Ham Radio Teenage Nerd.

  He clicked the flashlight off and shoved it back into his pocket.

  The walk out of the forest should have been easier. At some point, the canyon would have to give way to civilization. It was slow going; his side hurt like hell, an ankle had begun to ache, it was hard to steer Amy so that the leash didn't get hung up all the time, and home and hearth seemed far distant. He stumbled over so many obstacles that he wondered if he had fallen into a Groundhog’s Day time loop, damned to spending the same awful fifteen minutes tripping over the same things.

  In time, a break in the trees allowed him to see the glow of the lights of town, so he knew which way to head. The trees and underbrush thinned out. He heard the sound of cars, then saw headlights.

  Holy shit, I am completely turned around. I came out on the highway. My internal compass is broken.

  Thomas took a moment to get his bearings, then set off down the road. The easy going came as such relief that the aches and pains didn't much bug him. Here, he had but to put one foot in front of the other. Amy walked on ahead, happily sniffing at every cigarette butt and french fry wrapper discarded on the shoulder. Just a midnight-stroll-after-being-captured-and-nearly-killed-by-your-friendly-neighborhood-psychopath, huh, Amy? Wish I bounced back as fast as you.

  But let’s take stock. A few weeks ago, I was a depressed fifty-four-year-old unemployed alcoholic, ending a miserable life. Now, I’m a teenager, living in 1976 and trying to stop a serial killer.

  God. I tried to kill myself and woke up inside a Dean Koontz novel.

  The Barnes Road cutoff was another two miles ahead. Thomas could get off the highway there, leaving only another mile or so on the side streets to get home. Still might make it home before Mom gets up for work.

  A car traveling his direction slowed as it approached Thomas and pulled onto the shoulder. It paced him for a few yards, but Thomas was too lost in his thoughts and pain to notice it. Finally, the car pulled back onto the road and alongside him. The passenger window rolled down. The driver wore the navy blue of the Middle Falls Police. “Evening,” he said, as if nothing were unusual about a boy walking his dachshund on the highway at that ho
ur.

  Thomas jumped. Oh my freaking God. Is everyone a ninja, or am I just oblivious? “Evening, officer.” The police prowler rolled gently to a stop. Thomas bent at the waist and peered inside.

  The officer leaned across the passenger seat. Big guy, thought Thomas. About my age. The age I really am, just not the age I look. Looks like he used to be an athlete, but too many shifts behind the wheel of his patrol car instead of walking a beat has taken care of that. Good face, though.

  “Son, you look like you’ve been shot at and missed, then shit at and hit. Do you know what time it is?”

  “Umm, no sir, I can’t say I do.” Thomas lifted his left wrist to show his watch. “It’s too dark to see my watch.”

  The cop stared for a long moment at Thomas, then at the leash. “Well, it's 4:45 a.m., and from the looks of you, I don’t think you’re up early to report for your job at the mill.”

  Thomas nodded. “Right.”

  “I’m sure it’s a fascinating story as to why you are limping down the highway, walking your weenie dog in the dead of night.” Thomas opened his mouth to tell that story, but the cop held up a large hand. “However, my shift ends in another two hours, and I have a feeling I would still be sitting here listening. So let’s start with this: do you live here in town?”

  “Yessir. I go to Middle Falls High. I live on Periwinkle Lane.”

  “Periwinkle, huh? Do you know old Mrs. Arkofski?”

  Without thinking, Thomas made a face of distaste. “Say no more,” the cop chuckled. “If you’re smart enough to be afraid of that lady, you’re okay with me. Listen, son, you are out five hours past curfew. I can’t just let you wander the streets at this time of night.” He reached down to his left and pushed a button. The back door lock popped up. “You and your weenie dog…what’s her name?”