“Yes, my name is Caleb Sawyer. Does your paper publish birth announcements?”
“Yes we do. At the beginning of each month. But only for babies born in Hickory County. They’re twenty-five dollars each and are limited to forty words or less. Would you like me to take your information over the phone?”
“Oh, um . . . I don’t need to place an announcement. I’m just searching for one that would have been in your paper twenty-two years ago. Do you keep digital archives of old editions?”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have digital archives here. Our circulation is too small for that.” Caleb’s heart sank. “But we do keep actual hard copies of old newspapers in the basement. Do you have a specific date in mind?”
“Yes. The actual birth date was December nineteen, nineteen ninety-five. The mother was Katherine Thompson, and the baby’s name was Elinor. I need the name of the father.”
The woman wrote down the information. “Well, I can try to locate that announcement for you, but you need to be aware that we may not have that particular edition anymore. We lost a number of them a few years back due to a leaky water pipe, so I can’t guarantee that the edition in question survived the mishap.”
Caleb was undaunted. “I understand. But I’d appreciate anything you can do. It’s very important that I find the information.”
“I’ll do what I can, but it may take a while. Can I call you back?”
He gave the woman his number. Another agonizing delay. Another anxious wait.
The afternoon seemed to drag by. As four o’clock came and went, Caleb began to fear that the newspaper office would close for the weekend and he’d have to wait until Monday to hear back from the woman. He resisted the urge to call her.
Finally, around a quarter to five, she returned his call.
“I’m sorry for the delay, Mr. Sawyer. I’ve had an unusually busy afternoon for a Friday. But you’ll be pleased to know that I was able to locate the edition with the birth announcement in it. You’re very lucky, though. It was in the area that was destroyed by the water leak, but we were able to save it. There are some minor water stains, but everything’s still legible.”
“Can you read it to me, please?” Caleb asked, hoping the impatience in his voice didn’t come across as irritation.
“Here it is. Born December nineteenth, a baby girl, Elinor A. Thompson, to Katherine A. Thompson and John C. Smith.”
“Is that all? Are there any other details?”
“No, that’s it. Just your basic birth announcement. That’s all we typically publish.”
Caleb thanked her for retrieving the information and ended the call. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the name on the pad of paper in front of him.
“John C. Smith,” he read out loud.
It was a common name. A very common name.
He groaned inwardly. Finding the right John C. Smith might turn out to be harder than finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. But at least it was a step in the right direction.
The search for Ellie was beginning to feel like a long, drawn out game of Clue.
One clue led to another clue which led to another which led to yet another. How many more clues were there between him and Ellie, anyway? But no matter how long it took, he was bound and determined to find her.
He’d promised early in their relationship to always be there for her. And he aimed to keep that promise.
Caleb entered the name John C. Smith and Virginia into the search parameters of one of the people finder websites. Fifty-eight names popped up. But none were listed as currently or previously living in Hickory.
Figuring it was unlikely that a person would remain in such a small, unincorporated town for twenty years, he methodically checked out all fifty-eight names. Eight were in their forties. One even had a relative named Catherine, with a “C,” but her age was listed as sixty-seven.
Ellie had told him she didn’t think her mom had ever married her father. If that were true, then the names Katherine Thompson or Elinor Thompson would not likely be associated with John C. Smith at all.
Fighting the temptation to get discouraged, Caleb pushed on. Armed with the knowledge that Katherine Thompson was eighteen when Ellie was born, and that she had met John Smith while in high school, he concluded that Ellie’s father must now be between thirty-nine and forty-two. He narrowed his search to men in that age range. Then, since he was not sure that her father had been born in Hickory, or even Virginia for that matter, he began searching other states.
But there were thousands of John Smiths, and hundreds of John C. Smiths in each state. This was going to take a while.
There was a knock on the door. The cheerful face of his best friend peered into the room.
“Hey there, Hop-a-long. Thought I’d stop by on my way home and see how you were doing.”
“Well don’t just stand there, Jughead. Come on in and pull up a chair.”
B.J. stepped into the room. He was carrying a box of Krispy Kremes in one hand. “Thought you might like something to help celebrate your parole tomorrow morning.” He plopped the box of donuts on the table and sat facing Caleb. Then he opened the lid, and ate the first one himself.
Caleb gave him a disapproving look. “Thanks a lot, pal.”
“What?” B.J. feigned innocence. “I’m just helping you get the party started.”
Caleb grabbed a donut for himself. “Well, how’s this for a party favor? I just found out the name of Ellie’s father.”
“No way!” B.J. exclaimed, his mouth full of pastry. “What is it?”
“John C. Smith.”
“John C. Smith. Seriously? John Smith? There must be a million John Smiths in the world.”
“Thousands, at least. It’s going to take a lot of time and effort to find the right one.”
B.J. grimaced. “Now why couldn’t his name be more uncommon? Like . . . Arthur Flatbush? Or Victor Finnigan? Or . . . or Aloysius X. Mergatroid? Something like that,” he bemoaned.
“Aloysius X. Mergatroid?” Caleb laughed out loud.
“Well that would be a lot easier to track down than John C. Smith. I wonder if he goes by J.C.?” he mused. Shaking his head, he reached for another donut. “Anyway, how’d you find his name?” Caleb recounted his phone conversation and his internet search.
B.J. agreed with his decision. “That sounds about right. Narrowing down the ages should help a lot. Trouble is, we don’t know where he lives now. Shoot, we don’t even know what state he lives in. Does this mean we’re going to have to look at every John C. Smith in every state to see if there’s a Hickory, Virginia, in his past?”
Caleb nodded. “‘Fraid so. I don’t see any way around it.”
“But that could take weeks. Months, maybe.”
“Yeah,” Caleb sighed.
B.J.’s face lit up. “But . . . ” He set his donut on the table, licked his sticky index finger, and waved it in the air. “But, if we could get a lot of people to help us search, finding the right John Smith might take only a week. Or a few days. Or even a few hours,” he added with enthusiasm.
“Not a bad idea.” Caleb grinned. “I knew there was a reason why I kept you as a friend all these years.” He mulled over the suggestion. “We could assign three or four states to each person. Then we’d have the whole country covered.”
“Yeah,” B.J. agreed. “Let’s divide up the states, beginning with those closest to Virginia. Chances are, if this guy has moved, it’s not all the way to Oregon or Alaska, or Hawaii. As soon as I leave here, I’m going to contact our friends and give each of them a couple of states. Caleb, if this John C. Smith isn’t from Timbuktu or somewhere like that, we’ll find him.”
Saturday morning, Caleb was discharged from the rehab center. Using a pair of crutches, he hobbled to his parents’ waiting car for the short ride home. Although it would be a few weeks before he could try walking without them, he nevertheless relished the freedom of being in his own house again.
As soon as
he was settled in, his search for John Smith resumed. He was dog tired, but felt driven to keep going. He just couldn’t stop. It wasn’t long before he developed a splitting headache and had to suspend his online activities. His parents urged him to take a break from the internet and rest throughout the weekend.
He reluctantly agreed, after estimating that he’d spent over sixty hours that week on the internet or making phone calls.
Sunday morning, Caleb went to church with his family. His mother thought he should stay home and rest, but when he promised to stay in bed for the rest of the day, minus the computer, she finally relented. He’d missed his caring Christian family, and Pastor Murphy’s preaching.
As he hobbled his way into the building, he was warmly greeted. People he didn’t even know all that well said they’d been praying for him and Ellie. He was amazed at the outpouring of love and support.
But for some reason, church today wasn’t the same as it had been before. Perhaps it was because Ellie wasn’t sitting in the pew next to him, sharing a hymn book or a Bible. As the service progressed, he felt her absence more and more, until it became so acutely painful that he wished he’d listened to his mother and stayed home.
Caleb spent the rest of the day in bed, too exhausted physically and emotionally to stay awake. He slept like the dead until ten the next morning.
When he finally awoke on Monday, he showered and ate a very late breakfast. He was sitting in the living room, reading his Bible when B.J. called with an update.
“Caleb, you won’t believe the response I got from everybody. A lot of them said they’d recruit their friends, too. Everybody wants to help. There must be at least two or three people searching every state. Dude, we’ve got this thing covered from coast to coast.”
“That’s awesome, B.J. Thanks for doing this.”
“No problem. I even made a contest out of it. The person who finds the right John C. Smith gets a month’s supply of donuts.”
Caleb couldn’t help laughing. “For you that’s about a semi load, isn’t it? Some sacrifice you’re making there, bro.”
“Hey, whatever it takes, right? Didn’t we say back in the fourth grade that we had each other’s back?”
“Yeah,” Caleb fired back, “but I didn’t know that included donuts.”
Wednesday night as he was preparing for bed, Caleb received a one word text from B.J.
All it said was “JACKPOT.” Caleb couldn’t hit the call back button fast enough.
“Jackpot!” B.J. shouted, as soon as the two friends were connected.
“You found him?” Caleb asked eagerly.
“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean, not me. It was Krystal. She’s the one who found him.”
“Where does he live?” Caleb scrambled for a pen and paper.
“You’re not going to believe this. He lives in Atlanta. He’s right here, Caleb. In Georgia.”
“What’s his address?” Caleb wrote it down and repeated it back to his friend. “Is there a phone number?”
“Yeah.” B.J. read him the number slowly.
“Great. That’s perfect. What else did she find out?”
“His profile shows previous addresses in Pascagoula, Mississippi, Hickory and Roanoke, Virginia, and three others in Atlanta. He’s the only one so far with a Hickory in his past. It’s got to be him, Caleb. How many John C. Smiths do you suppose lived in Hickory?”
“How old is he?”
“Forty-one. You were right on the money, dude. He must have been a year ahead of Ellie’s mother in high school.”
“What about relatives? Are there any listed?”
“Only three. A Thomas Smith, age seventy-six, and a Margaret Smith, age seventy-four. Must be his parents. And a Janet Robinson, age forty-nine. An older sister, maybe? Robinson might be her married name.”
“Got it.” Caleb had been writing furiously to keep up with his excited friend. “Thanks, B.J. This is an answer to prayer. You won’t believe this, but just yesterday I felt God was telling me to get out of His way and let Him do His thing. So I do, and look what happens.”
“Yeah. I wonder how many times I’ve gotten in the way, too. So, what are you going to do now? Give this guy a call? Track him down and pay him a little visit?”
“Uh . . . I think I’d better talk to my dad about it, first. I don’t want to do anything that might jeopardize the situation.”
“But aren’t you dying to call him and find out where he took Ellie?”
“Of course I’m dying to find out. I’d drive up there in a heartbeat if I thought I’d find her. But remember, B.J., for whatever reason, this guy doesn’t want us to know where she is. I think my dad will know the best approach to take.”
“Well, let me know when you find out something, okay? I’m more than willing to drive you up there. Any time, day or night. All you gotta do is ask.”
“Thanks. I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
“I guess I should call off the hounds, huh? No need for everyone to keep looking now that he’s been located.”
“I agree. Hey, please thank everyone for me, will you? I’ll thank them myself as soon as I can.”
“Consider it done.”
Caleb was silent for a moment. “You know, B.J., it’s a good thing that Krystal was the one who found him. You really lucked out on this one, pal.”
“What are you talking about? Why Krystal? And how did I luck out?”
Caleb burst into laughter. “Don’t you remember, you chucklehead? Krystal doesn’t even like donuts.”
Sleep made every effort to keep its distance from Caleb that night.
As he lay in bed, eyes wide open and staring into the darkness, his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. What should he say to Mr. Smith? Would Ellie’s father answer, or would he be forced to leave a message?
Would his calls even be returned? If not, should he drive up to Atlanta and go to the man’s last known address? How would John Smith react if Caleb suddenly showed up on his doorstep?
How would he get the man to tell him where Ellie was or how she was doing?
And how was Ellie doing? All he knew was that she was in serious but stable condition when she disappeared from the hospital in Columbus nearly six weeks ago. Six weeks. Had she really been gone only six weeks?
It seemed like a lifetime ago that she was laughing and joking, her beautiful auburn hair bouncing as she walked hand-in-hand with him, her eyes sparkling as brightly as the princess cut diamond engagement ring on her finger.
Caleb let out a long sigh. “Wait for the lawyer’s advice,” his father had instructed him. Just another clue to follow.
Another piece to the puzzle.
Another delay to endure when he could be doing something. Another—he stopped mid-thought.
Another opportunity to practice waiting on the Lord.
He prayed for patience, and that the lawyer would know what to do. Sooner rather than later, if possible. Then, although he’d done it numerous times already that day, Caleb prayed for Ellie. And that’s when sleep finally caught up to him.
Caleb spent Thursday morning calling and texting his friends who had participated in the online blitz. He thanked them for their help in locating Ellie’s father. Around five-thirty, his father came home from work with an update from the lawyer.
“Caleb, Mr. Thornberg called me at the office just before I left. He confirmed that John Smith is indeed Ellie’s biological father. And because of her condition, he’s within his legal rights as her next of kin to act as her proxy.”
“I get that part, Dad. But what about denying us access to her information? What he’s doing is wrong.”
“Morally, perhaps. Or ethically. But so far there’s no evidence that he’s broken any laws. And because we’re not related to Ellie, we can’t force him to communicate with us if he chooses not to.”
Caleb’s heart sank. “Then where does that leave us?
“Well, I could have the lawyer pursue other legal options to get the inf
ormation. But that might take time. Or . . . ” His father hesitated. “Or we could try calling him ourselves.”
Caleb was skeptical. “Come on, Dad. Do you really think he’s going to talk to us now? After all the stonewalling he’s done?”
“Perhaps not. But we can at least appeal to his sense of compassion. A personal heartfelt plea might get him to change his mind.”
Caleb considered his father’s suggestion. “Well, that appears to be the quickest way to get through to him at the moment. At least now we’re free to contact him ourselves.” He paused. “After all, I do have his phone number and address . . . ”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DEAD END
CALEB’S HANDS TREMBLED AS HE placed the call to Atlanta. He sat by himself in his father’s small, windowless office off the living room of the family residence. His parents had offered to be present while he made the call, but he’d wanted to be alone when he talked with Ellie’s father.
The palms of his hands were so sweaty that he almost dropped the cell phone. Wiping them one at a time on his shirt, he steadied himself as the phone began to ring. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. This was it. The moment of truth.
On the fourth ring, a voice answered the call. But it was not the voice of John C. Smith. It was female. And it was recorded.
“The number you have reached is currently not in service.”
Caleb’s heart sank like a stone. He sat motionless with the phone still to his ear, until the tone reminded him that the connection had ended. He shut off his phone and set it down on the pile of bills his father had been working on. He should have known.
But now what? If the phone number Krystal found was obsolete, then maybe the address was too. Where should he go from here? Caleb got up from the chair and went into the kitchen to get a drink.
As he was getting a glass of water from the dispenser in the refrigerator door, his mother came into the room carrying a basket of folded clothes from the laundry room. She glanced at her son.
“Is your phone call over already?” she asked, a look of mild surprise on her face.
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