Tight, but I can still make it. Just have to drive a little further every day.
Scott checked into the motel that was within walking distance, got out his atlas and planned the rest of his trip.
Chapter Thirty
The mechanic was as good as his word. He started work on the Valiant first thing in the morning and the total bill was a bit under a hundred dollars. By the time he finished and Scott turned back onto Interstate 90, it was early afternoon.
He focused on nothing but putting miles under his wheels. He made it through the rest of South Dakota, across the northeast corner of Wyoming and into Montana before he ran out of steam. He pulled off at a rest area a few miles past the site where the Battle of the Little Big Horn had been fought.
He didn’t even bother to look for a motel. He knew he wasn’t going to sleep that long. He laid the driver’s seat back as far as it would go—which wasn’t far—closed his eyes, and he was out.
Sleeping essentially sitting up in a Plymouth Valiant guarantees one thing—that you won’t oversleep. Before the sun was up, Scott was awake, had splashed water on his face, and was once again tooling along Interstate 90.
He didn’t break any more fan belts, and the little Valiant held together until he reached Washington State late that night. He spent one more night trying to sleep in a rest area, then crossed the Cascades at Snoqualmie pass and dropped down into western Washington midday on July 12th.
He stopped at a gas station and bought a map of the state. He found Issaquah, which was just ahead on I-90, and saw that Lake Sammamish State Park was very near that.
He pushed on to Issaquah, which still had a rural, small-town flavor in 1974. The biggest business in town seemed to be something called Skyport, where balloonists and parachutists launched themselves into the sky.
Scott decided to drive out to Lake Sammamish and do a reconnaissance mission. As he drove, he twisted through the radio dial, finally settling on 950 AM KJR. The afternoon drive announcer was full of energy. “Get down on your knees and pray for the hits, this is the mighty 95, KJR!” After a jingle played—KJR, Seattle, Channel 95!—a Tommy James song came on, then the disc jockey read the weather report. “Nothing but blue skies and sunshine everywhere within the sound of my voice all weekend long. Highs in the nineties both days. Boys and girls, this is what we dream of during those long, cold, lonely nights. Get out and enjoy it!”
That’s why it was so crowded at the lake the day Bundy hit twice, then. Seattleites know they’ve got to enjoy the sunshine while they can.
The lake and park turned out to be smaller than he had seen it in his imagination. It was late Friday afternoon by the time he parked and walked out to the lake. It wasn’t packed yet, but there was a good smattering of people laying out, soaking up the late afternoon rays. Once people were free of the shackles of their jobs, it would fill up quickly.
Scott scouted out the parking lot, the paths to the beach, and the way in and out of the park. He knew that Bundy had used some plaster he had taken from a medical supply house he had worked at and made himself a cast that day. All the better to appear vulnerable and less threatening to his victims. He had approached many women at the lake that day, asking them if they would help him get a small boat onto his car.
Most had just said no, they wouldn’t. One woman said she would help, but fled when she saw the infamous Volkswagen Beetle with no boat on it. No one knew exactly how he managed to incapacitate the other two women and secret them out of the park unnoticed, but he had, one at a time. Bundy committed an amazing number of horrible crimes—and no one ever knew exactly how many he murdered— but this abduction of two healthy, strong women in broad daylight, surrounded by hundreds of other people, was his most famous.
Just a few months after the dual abductions from Lake Sammamish, Bundy moved to Utah to attend college there. The killings in Washington stopped, those in Utah and Colorado began.
Scott walked along the tree-lined parking lot, formulating a plan.
If I don’t get him here, then what? Try and track him down somewhere? I know he lived somewhere in the University District, but I don’t have the address. I remember he used to hang out at a bar called Dante’s, but that would be hit or miss. This spot, two days from now, is the only time and place I know he will definitely be. This has got to be it.
Scott suddenly felt like he was at loose ends. He had no reason to believe that Bundy would show up at the park any time before Sunday morning.
He drove back to Issaquah, found an inexpensive place to stay on the edge of town and rested. He needed to recover from his mad dash across the United States.
After getting his recon out of the way on Friday afternoon, Scott barely left his motel room on Saturday. There was a little drive-in within easy walking distance, and an International House of Pancakes. That was more than good enough to keep him in calories.
He bought a copy of The Seattle Times and The Seattle Post-Intelligencer and combed through both of them, seeing if there was any news of the Jenkins murder in Waterville. The murder of a single man clear on the other side of the country wasn’t big enough to be newsworthy in Seattle, and there was no mention at all.
If I settle down for a few months somewhere after this, I can subscribe to the local paper from Waterville, have them mail it to me, and see if they’ve got any information.
Beyond those minimal activities, Scott rested on Saturday, and thought through how he would attempt to take out Ted Bundy.
Chapter Thirty-One
Scott’s eyes flew open at 7:30 Sunday morning. When he peeked out the window, the sun was already blazing.
Damnit! I never sleep this late. Today of all days…
The sign at Lake Sammamish State Park had said that the gates opened at 8:00 a.m. during the summer months. Scott had planned to be there shortly after that. He had no way of knowing what time Bundy arrived at his hunting ground—just that one woman had been kidnapped in the morning and another in the afternoon.
He had been sure he would wake up earlier and have time for a breakfast at IHOP, but he was still exhausted from the long drive, so he slept in and those pancakes would have to wait.
If I hurry, I can still get there a few minutes after the park opens and park close to the gate so I can watch for Beetles coming in.
He threw his few belongings into his pack, left the room key on the table and threw everything in the backseat of the Valiant.
I can still make it there on time.
He slipped behind the wheel, turned the key and heard nothing but the clicking of the solenoid.
Holy shit! Not now!
He twisted the key off, waited fifteen seconds, then pumped the gas once and turned the key again.
Click, click, click. Nothing more.
Scott slammed his fist into the steering wheel.
What the hell do I do now?
Scott was a decent mechanic, but not much more. He opened the hood and poked around under it.
Could be a dead battery. Could be the starter just conveniently went out all at once.
He glanced at his watch. 7:55.
The problem is, it’s early on a Sunday morning. No one’s going to be around that can give me a jump, or help me fix it, if it’s something more than that. I have got to get a more reliable car, pronto.