As he limped into the café, he realized how handy his little jo was.
Great for hiking, even better in a fight, and it doubles as a cane, too. They oughta do late night commercials about these.
He took the notebook he had written all his memorized crimes into the café with him. He ordered a double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake, then opened it to the second page. In block letters across the top, he had written: Ted Bundy, Lake Sammamish, July 14, 1974. The rest of the page was filled with bits and pieces of things he remembered about one of the world’s most notorious serial killers.
Suddenly, his eyes slammed back onto that date.
July 14. July 14? Goddamn it! That’s clear on the other side of the country, and he’s going to abduct and kill two girls in nine days. Why didn’t I ever make the connection between one killing in Maine and another in Washington State being so close together on the calendar? Stupid.
Any thoughts of a relaxing few days, sitting around eating fast food and watching television fled from his mind. He could picture the faces of the two women Ted Bundy abducted and killed on that day. Scott remembered Bundy’s confession when he was captured in Florida, saying he had taken them to the same place and made one watch while he killed the other.
No way I can let that happen.
He bolted his food, slurped his shake, and left three dollars on the table to handle the meal and the tip. He hurried back to the motel, threw his pack in the trunk and stopped at the front desk to tell them he was checking out after all.
He pulled his old, folded-up atlas from his pack and opened it to the two-page map of America. He looked at where he was, then looked at where Lake Sammamish was, just outside of Seattle. They couldn’t have been much farther apart and still been in the continental United States.
Using his finger as a ruler, he estimated that it was close to a 3,000-mile drive.
I figure I’ll need at least a couple of days to find things and get situated. So, that gives me seven days to drive three thousand miles. I can do that easily. Five hundred miles per day gets me there an extra day early.
He stopped at a gas station and filled up again, then headed west.
That day—starting late, a little beat up, and exhausted—Scott didn’t make his five hundred miles. He took Highway 2 west, then caught I-91 south, until he hit I-90 at Springfield, Massachusetts. From there, he knew he was going to be on that coast-to-coast freeway all the way to Washington State. It would be a long, straight drive for the most part, and that suited him fine. The less thinking he had to do, the happier he was.
By the time he got to Springfield, Scott’s ankle hurt him so much that he pulled off at a drug store along the interstate. He bought an Ace bandage and a new supply of aspirin. As swollen as it was, he knew that what he needed was some ice and to get it elevated.
He drove a few miles west, found a Motel 6, and pulled off the freeway. Motel 6s were originally called that because the rooms were actually six dollars per night. By the mid-seventies, the rates had gone up, but not all that much. He found a clean, comfortable room for twelve bucks that night.
Scott checked in, grabbed his dinner out of the snack machine in the lobby, got some ice, and hobbled to his room.
He had fallen asleep the night before in the same clothes he had worn since he had changed after the fight with Brock Jenkins, so he stripped those off and climbed onto the bed. He took the plastic bag out of the ice bucket and filled it with ice. He elevated his leg onto a couple of pillows, placed the jury-rigged ice bag on his ankle and lay down.
He awoke in the middle of the night to find that the plastic bag had leaked, but he was too tired to care. He rolled over and slept until morning.
SCOTT SPENT THE NEXT three days driving across the northern part of the United States on Interstate 90. That route took him through the northern part of Indiana, but he was on a tight schedule and didn’t have time to swing by Evansville to see Cheryl. He pushed on.
On the fourth day, he hit the badlands of South Dakota. The small towns that dotted the route of I-90 soon became a blur. When he was a few miles away from Murdo, he noticed that his temperature gauge was climbing.
Steam escaped from under his hood and he pulled over immediately. When he lifted his hood, more steam boiled out. He opened the trunk and retrieved the bloody t-shirt he had balled up and used it to open the radiator. More steam, but not a lot of water left.
He grabbed the jug of water he had begun carrying with him and poured it into the radiator. When he looked inside, he still couldn’t see the water level. He sat on the side of the road for fifteen minutes, watching cars and semis whiz by him at eighty miles per hour or more, rocking the little Valiant to and fro. When he turned the ignition, he saw that the temperature had dropped into the normal range.
Two miles down the road, though, the whole scenario played out again—rising temperature gauge, more steam. He didn’t stop, but pushed on to the Murdo exit, hoping against hope he could make it there.
Immediately off the Murdo exit he saw a small motel, a car museum, a café, and a garage. Scott turned into the garage with a prayer of thanks, killed the engine, and coasted to a stop in front of one of the bays.
A mechanic dressed in blue overalls looked up from the Mustang he was working on and saw the steam. He nodded an acknowledgement at Scott.
“Sorry to block your bay door, I didn’t want to run it any longer than I had to.”
“No big deal,” the mechanic said. “Leave the keys in it and go grab a bite in the café. I’ll take a look and tell you how bad the damage is.”
Scott’s stomach tightened.
I’m already pushing my luck here, I know. Please don’t let this be a total loss. The only time I know for sure where and when Bundy is going to be is at Lake Sammamish on the 14th. After that, I’ll have to hunt him down, and there will be two dead women.
Scott reached into the car for his jo to use as a walking stick. His ankle was healing, but it was still swollen. He had finally managed to get his boot on, though. As he grabbed his jo, he saw the now damp, bloody t-shirt crumpled on the front seat. He grabbed it and stuffed it under the seat.
Let’s face it. I am a terrible criminal. Sherlock Holmes would have me locked up before the end of the first chapter.
Scott limped over to the little café and ate lunch, although he spent most of his time worrying about his transportation situation.
I guess I’ve got enough with me to buy another old car, but I’ll go broke pretty fast if I have to do that. If I can make it out to Seattle in time to catch up with Bundy, I’ll have a break after that. Maybe I can get a job somewhere for a few months. That’ll give me enough money to maybe buy a more reliable car.
He paid for his lunch and made his way back to the garage.
The mechanic saw him coming. “As these things go, it could be worse. You broke a belt, overheated, but it’s not too bad. Your radiator’s shot, but I can probably find one in the junkyard to replace it. I can do that and put a new belt on for around a hundred bucks.”
Relief flooded through Scott. “Damn, that’s good. I don’t have much more than that to my name.”
That wasn’t true, but Scott didn’t like everyone knowing he was carrying a few thousand dollars with him.
“Bad news is, I won’t be able to get to it until the morning. I’m backed up this afternoon.”
Scott did some time and distance calculations in his head.