He had left all but the Classified section of the paper at the diner. Now back in his room, he searched through the classified section of the paper for cars for sale. He had waited until he was in Maine to look for a car because he wanted whatever he drove to have Maine license plates and be less conspicuous.
He made a few phone calls from the old rotary dial phone that sat on the stand next to his full-size bed. A few of the vehicles were already sold and several other numbers didn’t answer, but he finally reached a man who had a 1964 Plymouth Valiant for sale. It met Scott’s criteria—cheap, and a little dinged up, but not remarkably so.
Scott arranged to meet the man the next morning at 10 a.m. The man’s home was more than five miles from his overnight accommodations, so he called a Yellow Cab to pick him up and deliver him to the address.
He tipped the cabbie a buck and let him go. He was either going to buy the Valiant or he would have a good long walk home. The car, looking a little sad and dilapidated, sat at the curb with a “For Sale” sign in the rear window.
Scott walked around it, taking in the faded paint, rust spots along the running boards, and the spring that stuck up through the back seat.
Perfect.
A man in a t-shirt and Bermuda shorts came out through the front door.
“She’s a beaut, eh?”
Scott looked at the man but managed not to laugh.
“Does she run?”
“Does she—don’t be crazy. Of course she runs!”
The For Sale sign said it had 169,000 miles on it and that he wanted $400.
“I’ll tell you what. If she starts on the first go, I’ll give you $350, cash. If not, but it starts eventually, I’ll give you $300. Deal?”
“Well, she’ll know it’s a stranger trying to fire her up.”
“Then you be the one to start her. Deal?”
The man squinted at Scott, but apparently gave a thought to how long he had been trying to get this car out of the front of his house. “Deal. Hang on.”
Bermuda shorts in Maine. Now I’ve seen everything. Maybe he’s going to take this money and run to Florida with it.
Two minutes later, the man reappeared holding two keys on a leather key ring.
He slid in behind the wheel, paused to say a little prayer, and turned the key.
The little Valiant lived up to its name and turned right over. It didn’t exactly purr, but it ran steadily enough.
The man gave Scott a triumphant smile and said, “Hah! Just like I said. Every time.”
Scott peeled three hundreds, two twenties and a ten off the roll in his pocket and gave it to the man. “Got the change of ownership paperwork with you?”
“Well, I wasn’t really expecting to sell the old girl today. I’ll make out a bill of sale for you and sign the title.”
“Good enough.” And all the better for me.
Ten minutes later, Scott had given the man a false name and accepted the bill of sale and title. He threw his backpack in the trunk, his jo stick across the backseat and headed out of town. His first stop was a gas station, because it’s a universal law that people selling used cars will sell it with the least amount of gas in the tank as possible.
Scott filled the tank for five bucks and headed north. Waterville was only a seventy-mile drive from Portland, so he arrived there in time for lunch. He ate at the same little café he had taken many meals at in his previous life and got a room in the same little motel he had stayed in as well. The whole thing was familiar to him, but he was unknown to everyone in the town.
He didn’t bother to look for a room to rent long term this trip. He knew he wasn’t going to be in town for very long.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The details of what had happened at the Jenkins’ house in his last life was still clear in his memory. He had witnessed with his own eyes how it had played out that day, so he knew he didn’t need to arrive early. He had a few preparations to make, but he had plenty of time.
He packed his bag and threw it in the trunk of the Valiant. He laid his jo stick, karambit, and baton across the passenger seat. In its sheath, even the karambit looked innocuous enough. The baton and jo looked absolutely ordinary. In all, his array of weapons was unlikely to attract unwanted attention.
He stopped at his favorite café in Waterville for what he hoped was the last time.
Either way, I swear this is my last time through this scenario. If I can’t get it right this time, I’m going to have to admit I can’t do this. Maybe I could get a job working as the world’s greatest detective helping police apprehend people after they’ve already killed. That’s fine for me, but not so hot for the victims.
It was just before noon when he sat down in the booth. He ordered a big breakfast—two eggs over easy, bacon, hash browns and a large OJ—because he wasn’t sure when he would have a chance to eat again.
He stopped at a Shell station and topped off the tank of the Valiant, which ran him less than a buck.
Finally, he drove to Greenbrier Road. When he passed the Jenkins house, he saw that the 4th of July play day was in full force. The two girls were kicking a ball back and forth and the baby sat on Sylvia’s lap.
Scott kept the needle pegged at an even 25 MPH and drove past without kicking up too much dust on the gravel road. He continued on past the house and woods. The last time around, when, he had to admit, he’d had no real, concrete plan, he hadn’t found out what was at the end of Greenbrier. Did it dead-end, or funnel off toward the highway?
Two miles down the road, it veered off to the right. Scott followed the road until it T-intersected with the highway.
Perfect.
He had noticed the mileage on his odometer when he passed the Jenkins house and saw that was exactly 2.3 miles back. He drove back in that direction until he could see the trees that bordered the Jenkins property. He slowed until he saw what he was looking for—a small stone building that looked like it had been abandoned decades earlier. There was the hint of an old driveway that had once run alongside it. Scott turned the Valiant down what was now no more than a path. He circled behind the building, turned the car so that it faced back toward the road and parked.
He slipped the sheathed knife onto his belt, pushed the baton into his back pocket, and, using the jo as a walking stick, walked the short distance through the field toward the woods. He turned and looked back at the stone building, then out toward the road. The long grass he had disturbed when he drove in was already springing back up.
Unless someone looks awfully damn close, they’re never gonna see the car back there.
He walked toward the Jenkins place at a comfortable pace, giving every indication he was just another traveler passing through. Before he even broke a sweat, he came to the stand of trees he had waited in during his last life.
Scott picked his way through the brambles until he was approximately across from the Jenkins house. He didn’t have to worry about his pack this time—it was safely hidden in the trunk. He glanced at his watch. 4:30. He still had some time to wait. He sat on the cool earth and leaned his back against a tree.
No need to keep watch this time. I have a pretty good idea when he’ll be here.
After a few minutes, he felt himself grow drowsy in the heat of the day, so he quickly stood back up.
No way. I am not living this whole damned life over again because I fell asleep on a hot summer day.