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.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Scott shifted the karambit in his hand, prepared to lunge.
Jenkins saw the shift in his balance.
He raised the pistol.
Pulled the trigger.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Universal Life Center
A young woman with long, dark hair and a confused expression sat at a desk in an impossibly long row of identical desks. They sat side by side, each with a space just wide enough to walk in between them.
In front of the woman was a milky cylinder called a pyxis. Inside the cylinder was an image of a young man, sleeping under a heavy quilt on a couch.