The Unlikely Savior (The Unlikely Savior Trilogy)

by T. S. Seley Elliott

  The trio ate lunch in Wei’s kitchen, which, to the Hoffstedders, represented the old man’s entire world; while they knew it was just one part of the house, the room was obviously the heart of the home. They watched the news while they ate, waiting for more facts. Byron had politely hedged Wei’s question after the breaking news, figuring an honest answer, if he gave one, would have to follow their pending discussion; the discussion. The daytime news host announced that New York authorities were gathering evidence, viewing JFK central security tapes and expected to have a press conference by midafternoon.

  Margie helped clear the dishes, apologizing if they had overstayed their welcome. Byron wore a concerned expression as he shared her sentiment; they had been there for a few hours and hadn’t even scratched surface of the reason for their visit.

  Wei turned from the open refrigerator and leaned on the door. His face, while still warm, revealed a serious and frank expression.

  “Listen, you two. I have no planes to catch, I have no plans, actually, for a few days. Unless you want to sabotage your own needs by being polite, why don’t we agree to get comfortable and get to the bottom of your visit, which....” he paused, closed the refrigerator door and turned back toward them, “...which my wise-old-man intuition tells me may have gotten more interesting since your arrival.” With the last addition, he glanced at the television and back at them, punctuating his remark with a lift of bushy eyebrows.

  “I even have guest rooms if it comes to that. So, please no more apologies, I meant it when I said you were welcome and that I have enjoyed this regardless of your motivation.”

  Now standing in the middle of the room, he faced them with a “the line has been drawn in the sand” air. This old fellow was no fool, and although a good host, their short time with him told the couple he could be so much more. He raised his hands, palms in the air in a sign of expectation.

  The corners of Margie’s mouth lifted into a nervous smile; she plopped a dish cloth on the edge of the sink and returned to the table. Byron was leaning back in his chair, both hands temporarily laced behind his neck after their latest nervous glide over his ears. His hair was spiked, of course, askew and purely reflective of his general demeanor. Without warning, he sprung forward and slapped the table in front of two empty chairs on either side of him.

  “Let’s do it!” He announced, no longer hesitant to spill the beans. And he spilled them in totality because this old oriental gentleman, in a short time, had become more than an additional source...and more than the President’s father. They both felt it without question; he was their friend.

  ____________________________________________________________________

  The U.S. President and the British Prime Minister had finished lunch and separated for a short time for Beresford to change clothes so the two could continue their talks with a stroll through Camp David’s historic grounds. Wing used the time to take the latest updates on the JFK incident.

  Shortly after Beresford’s arrival; Wing had been interrupted by one of the few staff members who had accompanied him on the retreat. He was given the breaking news of an explosion at the New York airport. Like most Americans, his initial reaction was fear and anger of another potential terrorist attack; unlike most Americans, he instantly felt the burden of responsibility for any devastating occurrence on his country’s soil. He had no sooner sat back down with his guest when he received a subsequent update that it appeared the explosion was not terrorist-related and probably the act of a single, likely deranged, citizen.

  The weight on his chest shifted, but remained. His sense of accountability was still overly active, painfully aware that citizens in his country may have been harmed – by one of their own, no less, while they acted in good faith. He felt helpless in his ability to protect them.

  Richard Beresford’s demeanor had changed instantly from a guarded diplomat to peer and friend. He offered sincere empathy possible only by one who understood another’s plight. While he hadn’t been in office at the time of the 2005 London subway bombings, he shared with Wing the perspective of the Prime Minister at the time, Tony Blair. When his country’s security measures were under fire after the incidents, Blair had conveyed a clear message: when individuals or groups are set to inflict death and destruction with no regard for others, no amount of surveillance or planning will stop it from happening.

  “You know the old philosophy, my friend,” Beresford had offered Wing, “We cannot control the cards we are dealt, we can only control how we play them. Let Old Bill get to the bottom of this and let your citizens know that 99.9% of their neighbors are just like them, not like the nutter that caused this. The worst part of things like this is sometimes the reaction of the people against each other...” He had stopped to accept the tea offered by Wing, who quietly thanked him for the perspective. Both were quiet for a moment, then, breaking the silence, Wing solemnly looked at his associate and summed up their common worlds with two words.

  “It’s hard.”

  Beresford eyed Wing over the top of his cup, then smiled.

  “That it is, that it is. But, I guess as you Americans would say, that’s why we get the big bucks, is it not?” Wing chuckled and the two had moved easily into further discussion of the world climate, both knowing they were lining up their mental chess pieces to address the true motivation behind their meeting.

  Alone, Wing read the latest dispatches on the JFK explosion. Most importantly, and miraculously, there were no fatalities and few injuries associated with the bombing. The suspect in custody was likely a lone agent since she had released simultaneous messages to the media regarding her intention and motivations, apparently expecting to die in the act. While the press wasn’t yet privy, digital security videos had already been accessed and were fully usable since the central system was not in Terminal 8. It appeared that the suspect had secured a restroom in the center of the terminal and left a large piece of baggage inside. The explosion certainly took place in that proximity, although experts were heatedly working to verify the exact location and nature of the detonation. Evidence would bear out the rest of the story and the crime itself, and while unfortunate, it appeared to be cut and dried.

  Wing rubbed the back of his neck while finishing the final dispatch which offered the mystery of the day. Additional security shots showed a brief altercation between the suspect and another woman as the suspect exited the restroom. The term “altercation” was still a presumption; the unknown woman had briefly subdued the suspect by holding her against the wall, but had released her to apparently locate and activate every accessible fire alarm in the area. Since it was still assumed that the bomb was on a timer, it was another assumption that without the fire alarm activation and subsequent evacuation of the packed terminal, the casualty count would have been significant. Wing held the report and gazed out the window at the perfect weather awaiting himself and his guest.

  Who was the woman who had pinned the suspect? How did she know to set off the alarms? Where was she now?

  He was a man with, literally, the world on his mind, but these questions were compelling nonetheless. He stacked the reports and, to use Bereford’s British term for law enforcement, he’d have to leave the mystery to “Old Bill,” and trusted he’d be among the first to know when the answers surfaced. Regardless, he was grateful beyond words, for the mystery woman’s actions, regardless of her motivations.

  Was it the Bible that advised one to be careful, for you never know if you have an angel in your midst? He moved toward the door, aware that he had the exact passage wrong...but the sentiment was right. In the part of the mind that never sleeps but works behind a veil, this thought reminded him of another time, another angel and another mystery steeped in gratitude. But the notion was more felt than articulated, and he stopped, just for a moment, squinting. The feeling, faster than the thought, ushered the ideas through his mind too quickly to understand, but he was left with a sensation of unexplained hope.

  Hope was good and i
t provided him what he needed to proceed with his day.

  -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Jeremy had deposited Johnnie in the back seat of the limo and paid her no mind during his Starsky and Hutch-like escape from the terminal area. Once on the main road after exiting the airport, he’d called his employer and friend, James, who had not yet heard about the bombing. It was no small trick for Jeremy to calm James down as he attempted to reconcile his own emotions while negotiating heavy traffic.

  “Look, I don’t know what all happened, and it may sound crazy, but it seems like Johnnie had some kind of connection...”

  “You were not supposed to leave her alone!” James interrupted, shouting with obvious passion.

  “...James....listen to me. She went to the restroom and that’s when it all hit the fan. Please trust me on this – I got her out before the place was closed off and she’s no worse for the wear, just seems to be a little shocked...” He shot a glance at the dashboard monitor which showed Johnnie slumped in the backseat...eyes closed and breathing deeply.

  “In fact, I think she’s asleep, man.” He finished, continuing to calm himself as he maneuvered among cars. It appeared that every emergency vehicle in New York was headed the opposite direction and he was grateful they’d made a clean escape.

  Quieter, but obviously working to control himself, James said, “Of course she’s asleep, and trust me, she will be for a while.” Jeremy heard the man sigh heavily on the other end of the connection before continuing to talk, sounding more like the James he knew and trusted.

  “Look, Jeremy, I’m sorry. I sent you because ... well, because there was a potential for something unusual to happen and I probably should have been more forthcoming...but thanks for doing exactly what I trusted you to do if the shit hit the fan, and it obviously did.”

  Jeremy breathed evenly now, although James’ statement caused his heartbeat to increase again. This was not an awkward exchange between boss and lackey; Jeremy could sense the other’s man’s sincerity because he knew him well. James only employed people who were also friends; individuals who were not only talented in diverse ways, but had also displayed character and integrity. Believe, International didn’t hire “drivers” or “clerks”... it employed a team of people who executed all duties, none were too small; it was the ultimate team concept. Jeremy didn’t balk in the least when he was asked to transport James’ sister...it was a task any one of them would have gladly done. Now he realized it was more than a quick favor for the boss.

  “Jeremy...I’ll leave now and meet you at my place. I should beat you there considering the traffic and distance, so I can help you get her in. Believe me, she’ll probably be dead weight...don’t ask me why I know that. Can you do that?” James was not only worried about his sister, but he felt guilty for having put his friend in such a trying situation without so much as a warning. He’d just thought...well, it didn’t matter what he thought. You either trust people or you don’t. And he had obviously trusted the right guy.

  “And we’ll talk. Thank you and I’m sorry.

  Jeremy was still processing what he knew...which wasn’t much, with the thousands of possibilities flying through his mind. But what he knew for sure, was he was exactly where he was supposed to be, although he couldn’t explain why to James or anyone else.

  “Heaven and earth, James. No apologies necessary. See you at your place; she’s safe with me.” And he disconnected the call so he could ensure there were no more disasters today in the life of the enigma who rested so deeply just a few feet behind him.

  As he quickly crossed his office toward the door, James felt fleeting relief like a small silver rim around his cloud of concern.

  Heaven and earth? What the hell did that mean, anyway?

  ______________________________________________________________________

  With only occasional pauses to check for news, Byron, Margie and Wei spent the afternoon in a round-table regimen. Byron’s original plan for this meeting had been to simply tread lightly around the incident surrounding Wei’s cancer and sudden healing, strictly to gather information about the girl. But the air in the kitchen had changed dramatically between the President’s surprise e-mail and the unexplainable influence of the developing JFK news story; more significantly, the couple had strongly connected with the old man. Byron no longer felt the need for kid gloves, but sensed that Wei was already aware of a much bigger story at play.

  He had no inclination of how Wei would respond to his own part in the story; Byron was utterly in the dark regarding the old man’s memories or whether Wing had discussed the matter with his father. So he started by asking what the older Liang remembered of his sudden recovery in 1986.

  Wei’s expression remained kind, but thoughtful. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and sighed, almost in a mixture of resignation and anticipation.

  “Frankly, I didn’t think I remembered anything other than being very, very ill, then being very well. You need to understand that I had been heavily sedated and was truly deemed on my deathbed, even in my own mind-what was left of it- I was as good as dead. In the past hours, however, I’ve questioned this, but I need a jumpstart. You’ll understand soon enough, I suspect. But you go on, I want to hear what you have.”

  Somewhat confused, but not discouraged, Byron started at the beginning of all he knew about Johnnie Cantrell-now-Carter, and in short order, came to the Liang chapter. He spoke carefully, but steadily as he explained his only knowledge, at the time, of Wei’s ordeal. He was careful to stress the level of the teen-aged Wing’s confidence; he did not want the old man to believe his son was careless or foolhardy with their personal business or his story. At the mention of little Johnnie’s role, Wei placed on finger on his lips and his eyes seemed to focus on a far-away point. Byron stopped when he thought he detected the man’s smile; it seemed genuine, not mocking. Wei immediately looked at his guest, unperturbed, and asked him to please continue, if he didn’t mind, with the entire story.

  “There is much more, I presume?” He asked with controlled interest.

  Byron and Margie looked at each other, then at the television. They both suspected there was more than they dared fathom.

  “Yes.” Marg finally answered. “Byron, go on.”

  And he did.

  Hours later, during which time Byron retrieved his stressed leather bag from the car, the three sat amid a rubble of notebooks, printed documents and photos. The young airman’s thumb drive was plugged into Wei’s laptop, although the graphic images had been minimized once the old man recovered from the predicable shock of the photos and their implications.

  The room fell silent once all details were exhausted. In the awkward quiet, the Hoffstedders felt almost as if they had been under a spell and realized just how much they’d divulged. Wordless and apprehensive, their eyes rested on the little man who, by all rights, could have them tossed onto the streets and placed under immediate Secret Service scrutiny. They found each other’s hands under the table, nervously awaiting a verdict.

  In the silence, they all regarded the latest news updates, mere regurgitation of previous speculation of the airport explosion, although the breathless reporter announced a joint press conference from the FBI and NYC police within the hour.

  Still looking at the proximity of the mounted flat screen television, Wei held the remote control and wordlessly lowered the volume slightly. He stood, in thought, and after turning on the tea kettle and holding up the empty coffee pot in a questioning gesture to Byron’s affirmative nod, he began to speak while preparing the hot drinks.

  “Wing did not share his story with me, and I’m sure it was out of respect because the entire family was in recovery after I was suddenly free of the disease...and I assure you, no one was more surprised than me, because I had accepted my fate and wanted to die rather than punish my family any longer. As odd as it sounds, we all had to readjust to the fact I would live; the ho
use was full of family who had virtually come for my funeral. I can only imagine my son’s feelings now.” He paused with his back to them, but only for a moment.

  They sat in respectful silence as the gentleman returned to the table to retrieve their empty cups. Their expressions were patient, although they’d squeezed all sensation from hidden hands. Rather than turning away, he put the cups back down and unexpectedly sat, looking from one to the other.

  “I have to tell you now, I do remember the child. She was Amy’s favorite friend and had been at our home on and off as I became ill. It was actually helpful because of the distraction for our daughter. Honestly, until now, I thought the rest was part of my deliria.” He raised his eyebrows and shook his head, as if to make room for his beliefs to readjust.

  Marg shot a quick glance at her husband whose poker face was gone. He was slack-jawed as he stared at their host expectantly. Even his hands were struck with suspense and did not accost his hair at this critical moment.

  Wei sighed and focused on his company once more.

  “I was on morphine, among other things, and had been brought home, well, to die. I could not tell you how many days I had been virtually out of it before I woke up...” Wei stopped; even after so many years, the memory was powerful. “I woke up with no pain or nausea or....anything but relief and, apparently, a mistaken belief.” He smiled at them and, standing with their cups, he continued in an almost light hearted manner. He spoke as he moved and they followed the back of his head with their eyes.

  “I always thought my memory of the girl...Johnnie... at my beside when I awoke the first time, was just another dream.” He was back, balancing hot mugs, and summed the memory up as he served them.

  “No harps, no angels singing...no bright light, like your farmer. Just a small girl with a Barbie in one hand and my hand in the other. When she let go, I felt so good, I thought I had finally died and I guess that’s why I went to sleep!” He smiled at them as he sat down. “My only regret now is that my son was troubled by what he suspected, and what I apparently did not. And how could I…I didn’t know it was real.”