After consuming an obnoxious combo meal from a local hot dog booth touting the world’s best Wieners, he rummaged through his bag to locate anything that could offer heartburn relief. Not sure if it was the Weiner or tots violating his digestive tracks, he told himself for the hundredth time to avoid roadside claims to fame when it came to fast food.
As he searched, he pondered challenging their advertisement and suing for a mere bottle of Maalox; would Legalzoom.com be able to help? Grasping any absurd line of thought in order to keep his mind off the obvious, he was flooded with relief when his cell phone loudly announced an incoming call. Surprised, but delighted that Margie had already responded to his message, he snagged the device and answered with his best Art Garfunkel impersonation. Singing loudly and poorly, he greeted his bride.
“I only have eyes for yoooooou,” When there was no sound on the other end of the line, he went for the throat and adlibbed, completely out of tune, “That would be yooooooou, Margieeeeee…” The response gave him a start. Margie’s voice was terribly wrong.
“Um, I was calling Byron Hoffstedder? Do I have the right number?” The young man asked hesitantly, with not a little fear in his voice. Byron may have guffawed at his own blunder if it hadn’t been for the voice; although faceless, it bore great significance. He was certain it was Airman Barker from the public affairs office. This was a huge surprise and he instantly suspected the young man did not represent his office with this after-hours call.
“Oh, you have the right number for a conversation, but possibly the worst one if you want a good serenade,” he answered with forced humor and calm. “I apologize; I thought it was my wife, who probably would have hung up with that performance anyway. Airman Barker, I presume?”
“Well, yes, Sir. Please call me Jason…um, this is not a professional call, and, well, I shouldn’t be calling you at all. Please…”
“Say no more. I think I understand, and frankly, I find myself in a similar situation,” he surprised himself with the disclosure, inwardly acknowledging that if this conversation brought personal gratification, it would not be beneficial to his employer.
“Sir, you wanted to know about Johnnie, and you said it was personal. I could get in a lot of trouble for even calling you, but I just had a feeling and…. Well, could you tell me what this is about so I can see if I’m wasting your time and mine?”
Byron rapidly chose and measured his words. He needed to be honest, but he had to keep a close hand. No one but his wife knew his real motivations, and most reasonable people would balk. He also had to keep perfect footing on this tight rope until he knew if he was, indeed, representing the Constellation or himself.
“OK, Jason. And thank you, I know you took a big chance calling me and I assure you, regardless, I will not tell anyone about this. Trust me on this. Are we OK?”
Still hesitant, but replying with some ease, Jason answered.
“I think so, but this is pretty personal for me too. I looked you up after you called today. Are you the Angel Tracker guy? And why are you calling about Johnnie?”
The repeated mention of that name, Johnnie, used first hand and so personally triggered Byron’s adrenaline flow. His hair appeared to respond to the intensity of the moment, springing up more rapidly than usual after being futilely wooed backward with predictable nervous stroking.
“Jason. Yes, I’m that guy. But I used to be a teacher, was for a long time. I had a student, many years ago named Johnnie, her last name wasn’t Carter then, but last names aren’t always reliable. Anyway, there were some unusual circumstances around her… about her departure. I’ve wanted to find her for years. Personally.” He stopped; he had only fibbed a little. He formulated his way ahead.
“I came here to do an interview for a potential story for the Angel Tracker column, with a woman outside of Chut... she called because she felt a woman named Johnnie, who was in the military may have, may have done something worthy of my column.” He was really on thin ice here if he wanted to stay on this side of the rules with the young G.I. He could hear Jason’s slight hesitation through the receiver, then with conviction, the young man asked,
“Mr. Hoffstedder, can we meet personally? Privately, I mean? Confidentially?”
Negotiating the lumps in the mattress that night, Byron lay on his back and wondered why he’d even gotten into bed. How could he sleep? Jason had to work the next day, but wanted to meet off base, out of uniform. They agreed to rendezvous for an early breakfast. Byron had sensed that Jason was almost as eager for the meeting as he was, and this was a mystery to him.
“What’d they do, stuff this thing with hamsters?” He asked the low stained ceiling, giving up on the mattress and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He remained seated, flipping on the small bedside lamp. In muted light, the tiny room didn’t look quite as dumpy, but his mind was far away from his surroundings anyway.
Although he could hit a big fat dead end tomorrow, Byron felt deeply that this would not be the case and had already e-mailed his editor that some unexpected personal business had surfaced and he would need immediate time off. If the breakfast conversation turned out to be a dud and he could find no other leads on Johnnie Carter, he would go back on the time clock. Otherwise, he’d follow his nose and work out the travel expense details with the Constellation upon his return. His integrity demanded that he discontinue the reporter charade now that it was possible he’d found a trail that could lead him to his long-sought mystery woman.
He stood, enduring his body’s percussion of cracks and creaks and slowly leaned backward, hands pressed into his lower back. He’d rather recline on a gunny sack filled with melons than this pathetic excuse of a bed, and besides, it was already two AM and he was still wide awake. With a deep stretch, he decided he may as well be comfortable while trying to corral his stampeding thoughts.
Johnnie Cantrell. Pacing the floor, in his mind’s eye he strained to picture her image from the one and only time he’d laid eyes on her. She had never graced his classroom or even worn his school’s colors, for that matter…the basis of his only lie to Jason. If not for a few seemingly unrelated events and the largely unknown circumstances surrounding her departure, he would have never known she existed.
The only reason he could be absolutely sure of what she’d looked like was the small wallet sized school photo he’d located when his knowledge of her grew and, later, bordered on obsession. Truthfully, he had forgotten far more students than he remembered from the seas of faces over the dozens of school terms -- although he was sure they’d all taught him far more than he ever taught them. And ironically the child in the little worn photo had had the most lasting impact on him although he’d never even spoken to her. Yet for reasons totally unbeknownst to him, keys to her true nature had been virtually placed in his hands. And they remained there with no discernible use.
“Who are you and why me?” He asked in the dark.
Approximately three hundred miles away, in a similarly humble, but homier setting, Juanita Parks also paced the floor. And bent to touch her toes. And randomly jumped up and down, even at the risk of waking her sleeping children. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but what she knew for sure was, for the first time in months she was pain-free and had never felt better.
For what was likely the twentieth time that evening, she pushed her pants down to her hips, right there in the middle of the living room, and leaned awkwardly to see over her breasts to the area below her belly button. Nothing.
Manically retreading the path to her bathroom, she again studied her body in the mirror. Her lower stomach was red, not from feverish illness as before, but from her constant poking and prodding as she looked for any remaining evidence of the huge, painful lump. It was completely gone!
“Thank you, Lord, THANK YOU JESUS!” she blurted, and dropped to her knees on the bathroom floor. She cried and prayed, not caring that she knelt next to a toilet. It seemed fitting, in fact, in light of the fact that she was certain she�
��d been healed in a similar setting in Room 214 at the Humbolt Inn and Lodge.
Finally feeling a little tired, Juanita tipped back, butt landing on the bathroom tile and she leaned against the wall, mentally tracing the miraculous.
By her own calculations, she must have been passed out on the motel bathroom floor for at least a few hours when she had slowly come to consciousness; strangely, she’d thought someone was washing her face. In the darkness of her mind, she’d guessed she was in the hospital, regretting it already. That illusion had vanished, however, the moment she’d opened her eyes to see a massive dog meticulously lapping her cheek, tongue sliding warmly to block her vision. When she yelped and rolled onto her back, the licking stopped and she froze. The large eyes peered at her, its head rocking back and forth. From her position, the nose had looked like a double barreled shot gun.
She remembered how, as she scrambled to her feet, fear turned to wonder with the discovery that the only pain had been in her hips and back, presumably from laying on the cold floor with a clipboard and handbag trapped beneath her body. But no stomach pain. At all. The recollection, alone, shot a new thrill through her entire body.
At the time, however, in shock, she’d backed away from the dog while pressing her abdomen, locating nothing more remarkable than her flat soft stomach and protruding hip bones.
Although confused and frightened at the time, Juanita now chuckled, thinking of the weird dog which was missing a hind leg -- and how it had blocked her exit from the narrow bathroom. She could swear, now, that it had smiled at her, its whole body rocking to maintain balance with the wildly wagging tail.
Maybe she should have awakened the woman who appeared to be passed out on the guest bed? Had she been right to gather the clipboard and her purse and just flee?
Briefly frowning, she now pushed herself into a standing position, unable to ignore the fleeting joy in her ability to do so with no effort or agonizing pain. She brushed off her bottom and shot one more satisfied glance in the mirror.
No, she’d done the right thing. If the woman had seen her unconscious on the floor, she would have surely called the front desk or an ambulance – or at least tried to rouse her. When Juanita awoke, she had been disoriented, instantly worried about the kids upon noting the time…and, of course, concerned about her job. It could have been quite a scene if the guest awoke with her standing in the room, although she’d been there all along. She’d quickly reasoned that she must have been concealed by the bathroom door and the woman had entered and gone straight to bed, fully clothed. Only the dog knew her secret and while it could evidently smile, she was sure it couldn’t talk.
As if the complete healing of her illness weren’t enough of a miracle, she thanked God for the additional blessing of having escaped the room undetected, thus, there would be no impact on her job. What the guest and her boss didn’t know would do no harm, and she had a new lease on life!
Praise the Lord! Her prayers had been answered!
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Pulling thickly through a tunnel of darkness, Johnnie’s first conscious feeling was one of dread. Her head hurt faintly and she had reluctantly become accustomed to what this awakening feeling could mean, along with a dawning hint of something familiar from long ago.
Don’t open your eyes till you remember where you last were, she warned herself urgently, although she sensed she was indoors, and actually quite comfortable. Further concern was moot, however, when she felt the soft nuzzling against her dangling hand, slick with warm slime.
Betsy. She found the dog’s head with her damp hand as she eased open her eyes. Eureka! Alone in what she presumed was her Elko motel room, she saw nothing amiss. She pushed the insistent dog away so she could slowly sit and try to remember what had happened.
The old clock radio by the bed told her it was five thirty; if the little red “AM” dot next to the illuminated numbers was correct, she had slept all night. She would have preferred to have undressed and showered before crashing, but these were all still signs that she could handle. Betsy interrupted her tired analysis by throwing her lunky head back and wrangling an unintelligible, but sad statement in her own language – while wordless, it expressed heartfelt intention.
“What?” Johnnie demanded, temporarily suspending her detective work. Oh, right. She had someone else’s needs to consider now.
“Oops. How thoughtless of me…sorry, Girl. You need food.”
Pain lingering in the base of her skull, Johnnie stood with care as she remembered buying out the Wal-Mart dog supplies the night before. Walking slowly across the room she also remembered hauling the bags to her room after checking in last night.
Flipping on the floor lamp to better locate the purchases, she realized that her last recollection, in fact, was unlocking the room door while juggling the bags and Betsy, who had fussily protested the constraint of a new collar and leash.
Scanning the room, she saw the door to the hallway was closed and remembered she hadn’t hauled her personal bag in with the first and only trip from the truck. The only space she couldn’t see now was the bathroom, so she nudged the very persistent Betsy out of her way with a knee and moved in that direction.
Suddenly aware that she may still not know all there was to know, Johnnie cautiously reached through the half closed bathroom door and flipped on the light. The mirror reflected no one and nothing out of place till she noticed half of the shower curtain was high centered over the edge of the tub.
With a slight increase in her heartbeat she quickly stepped in and yanked the curtain open, then jumped back, fists poised. The bathtub contained nothing more threatening than a plastic bag filled with pet paraphernalia and a large package of dog food. Crooking her mouth into an upside down “u,” eyebrows up, Johnnie wondered why she’d tossed everything here. Crowded against the edge of the bathtub by the eager hound, she located food and water bowls to take care of business.
Shortly thereafter, as she undressed to shower, Johnnie couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that she stood in the proximity of an untold story and could do absolutely nothing about it.
___________________________________________________________________
Byron had heard it said that all great deals were made in the booths at Denny’s. He agreed and secretly believed the volume of private and business negotiations that transpired over gallons of tepid coffee and quiet conversations would probably never be truly appreciated. He had always been intrigued by the concept and executed as many interviews as possible at “America’s Diner;” his extreme fondness for “Moons over My Hammy,” at any hour, was a pure side benefit. Denny’s, to him, was an experience all in itself and regardless of the quality of his interview, he typically exited the establishment contentedly, senses loaded and stomach full.
Impervious to the diner’s charm on this day, however, Byron left the restaurant preoccupied and distant, lambent sunshine accenting every line in his creased expression. Although he held the door open for an elderly couple, he failed to offer his typical jovial exchange, simply nodding politely at their thanks.
Stopping outside of the P.T. Cruiser, he raised his hand to Jason Barker and watched the young man speed out of the parking lot in his old Plymouth Breeze which was probably manufactured when the airman was still in grade school. Jason returned the salute with a quick glance, apparently lost in his own thoughts.
As he drove mechanically back to the motel, Byron’s expression, even with its natural animation, did not belie the excitement and disbelief coursing through his veins.
Once inside his room, he tossed the keys on the bed, absentmindedly scooping up the remote control, and turned on the television. Caught up in the pseudo world of yellow-journalism, Byron had developed the habit of monitoring media channels to stay grounded in true news. He executed the act more out of habit with no mind of what filled the screen.
Having served its purpose, the remote was also released into th
e air, landing near the keys in a jumble of sheets. He spread his notes from this morning’s meeting across the scuffed dresser, transfixed by the content. Next to the notes were a thumb drive and a small paper bag, also products of the meeting.
Jason had unwittingly opened the older man’s emotional floodgates freeing wild currents of over twenty years of auspicious wonder and speculation. For a quarter of a century, Byron Hoffstedder believed he had been offered insight into the existence of a near-divine anomaly and then, frustratingly, left to keep the secret. Maker of miracles, angel and “savior;” these were just semantics to Byron and all led to a bottom line that was still unclear to him. He only knew he had a role, however inconsequential, and while he still had no clue what that role entailed, he felt a growing responsibility to find out.
His notes may have been sketchy to some, but to him, they contained bombshells which delivered renewed force as he reviewed them.
Accident victim – critical injuries. – Homer Reeder (775-291-0003)
Healed? (see photos).
Rock and stick?
JC No memory, denied it (from there to Lisa’s?)
Bus station, cops found – dog/blood “Shirley” (police blotter)
JC told JB were other “factors”
Dr Benson… From office calendar (---545-2967)
JB will provide JC home of record, next of kin contact – off the record
He picked up the thumb drive and inserted it into his laptop port, although he knew it contained the photos Jason had nervously shared on his I-Pad at the restaurant. Before and after shots from the accident.
There were just too many stars lining up for this to be a coincidence. Too many similarities. It was her, all grown up. He was sure of it. How could she not know what was going on?
Leaning back, he allowed the years to fade and his memory’s tide pull him backward in time.
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The Unlikely Savior (The Unlikely Savior Trilogy) Page 13