Middle Falls Time Travel Series, Books 4-6 (Middle Falls Time Travel Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Shawn Inmon

  Joe braced for the repeated blast of the .38, but none came. Instead of that sharp retort, he heard a dull thud.

  He opened his eyes and saw Scott Mckenzie standing over the man who wanted to be famous. Scott held the gun in one hand and what looked like a piece of metal in the other. The man was cradling his right arm against his chest.

  Joe leaned back against the stone structure, hoping to pass out, but consciousness stayed doggedly with him. He opened his eyes again and found himself nose to nose with John Lennon.

  “Lay still, lay still, bloke. You’re going to be all right.” He turned his head away and raised his voice. “Jose! Jose, are you there? Call the police!”

  John took off his jacket—leather, with a black fur collar—and laid it under Joe’s head.

  “Thank you.”

  “Lad, I owe you me life. I think he was here to kill me.”

  The next few minutes were a blur to Joe. The front of the Dakota was soon filled with police cars, and flashing lights.

  The first cop on the scene wanted to take everybody but John Lennon into custody, and let God sort ‘em out. John put a stop to that.

  He pointed to the soft, pudgy man cradling his broken right arm and said, “There’s your culprit, officer. He wanted to kill me. These two”—he pointed to Joe and Scott—“stopped him. I think they saved my bloody life.”

  The officer put the handcuffs on the injured man none-too-gently. The man whimpered and cried, but no one paid him any mind.

  “Nutty as a loon, he is,” John muttered. “Now where’s the damn ambulance? This lad is in pain.”

  Less than a minute later, the ambulance arrived and Joe was gently lifted onto a gurney. He looked where he had fallen and saw a large, thick pool of blood.

  The first EMT examined his disproportionately large exit wound and quietly said, “Hollow point. Let’s get him there, stat.”

  As he was wheeled into the ambulance, Scott called to the EMT’s, “Which hospital?”

  The EMTs were too busy to hear him, but John laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “It’ll be St. Luke’s. I expect he’ll be in surgery tonight, but Yoko and I will go see him tomorrow.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The deep darkness of unconsciousness that Joe had wished for, found him in the ambulance. He stayed under during the initial exam and was immediately put completely out by the anesthesiologist who helped prep him for surgery.

  While he slept, Joe missed the ruckus the incident caused. A shooting in New York may or may not make the nightly news, but a shooting at the Dakota, along with the attempted murder of John Lennon, led newscasts and was front page news all over the country and across the globe.

  Once again, Howard Cosell broke into the Monday Night Football broadcast to make an announcement about John Lennon, but this time it was to say he was unharmed, and that only a heroic young boy from Oregon had been seriously injured.

  In a Hollywood movie, when the hero gets shot in the arm, he tosses the gun into the other hand and continues fighting the good fight. In real life, when a human body is shot at close range from a .38 revolver loaded with hollow point bullets, extensive damage is done to muscles, tendons, and blood vessels.

  Joe’s initial condition was listed as critical, due to loss of blood. Once he made it to St. Luke’s, and was assigned the same surgical team that had labored over John Lennon in another lifetime, his odds of survival improved immensely.

  By the end of the four hour operation, he had lost a lot of tissue, and the surgeons had done miraculous work in reconnecting his damaged tendon. Joe’s left arm would never be quite the same, but there was no doubt he would survive.

  Joe didn’t regain anything near full consciousness until the next morning. When he opened his eyes, he tried to speak and found his throat was so dry, he couldn’t.

  “Water?” he croaked.

  A nurse sitting beside his bed sprang up and said, “Too soon for water. I’ll be right back with some ice chips for your throat.”

  Joe turned his head a bit to the left and saw that his whole left arm was encased in plaster from his collarbone to his fingers.

  Guess it will be a while before I can play racquetball again. Images of the night before flashed through his mind. But we did it! It’s December 9th, and John Lennon is still alive. I’ve got to find Scott and ask him what happened while I was incapacitated. He must have come up behind the shooter just as he drew a bead on John. I need to thank him.

  The nurse returned with a small plastic cup and spooned a stingy few ice chips onto his tongue. Joe closed his eyes and savored the cool relief on his throat. He raised his eyebrows to say, “More?” but she shook her head firmly.

  “Doctor will be here to see you in just a few minutes. If he says it’s all right, you can have some more then.”

  Joe nodded and dozed off again.

  When he woke up again, the sunlight through his window was slanted in a different direction.

  Must have been out for hours.

  He turned his head to the right and saw an IV drip bag running into his right hand.

  Don’t know what they’ve got in there, but I feel fine.

  A different nurse than he had seen the first time stood beside the bed. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hart.”

  “Just Joe,” Joe croaked out. “Water?”

  “Yes, the doctor says you are doing well, and can have a few small sips of water. We need to take it easy, though. Your stomach may not be ready for it.”

  Joe nodded and gratefully accepted three small sips before she took the cup away.

  “Thank you,” he said, in a voice that was now more human than frog.

  A tall man with thinning blond hair walked briskly into the room.

  “Hello, Joe. Welcome to St. Luke’s. I’m Dr. Jenkins. I’ve been in charge of your care since the surgery.” He pulled a chart up off the end of the bed and flipped through several pages. “Everything looks fine, considering someone tried to amputate your arm with a .38.” He glanced around the room. “We’ll be moving you soon. This is the surgical recovery room. We have a special suite ready for you.”

  “A suite? Doc, I don’t have any insurance. I can’t pay for that.”

  Dr. Jenkins grinned. “No worries about that. Your friends John and Yoko have instructed that you are to receive the very best care we have to offer—which is outstanding, by the way—and all bills are to be sent to them.”

  Joe tried to speak, but had difficulty. There was a lump in his throat. He settled for a nod, then a wince. He realized he shouldn’t nod.

  “You need to lay as still as possible. These first few days after a major surgery are critical, and we don’t want you undoing any of the stitch work the surgeons did inside your arm. In the meantime, you’re going to feel like sleeping a lot, and that’s the best thing for you.”

  WHEN JOE WOKE UP AGAIN, he felt more clear-headed. He had been moved into a spacious suite that was more hotel room than hospital. There were curtains on the windows, not just blinds, there were couches and chairs scattered about, and a refrigerator sat opposite his bed. There were bouquets of flowers scattered around the room.

  Damn. This room is bigger than my place at home. And who are all those flowers from?

  Once again, a nurse was standing by, waiting for him to open his eyes.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hart.”

  Every time I wake up, someone is right here. What am I getting, a round-the-clock nurse?

  “Morning?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s a snowy Wednesday morning and you are still the talk of the town.”

  “I’m what?”

  “Every radio and television station in New York, America, and England have requests in to interview you. Don’t you worry, though, they’ll never get past us.”

  “But, why?”

  “Why? Because you saved the life of John Lennon.”

  “I didn’t, not really. My friend Scott did. He’s the one everyone should be talking to.”

>   “Believe me you, mister, they’d love to talk to him too. But, after he was cleared by the police, he disappeared and hasn’t been heard from since. He’s the invisible man.”

  Damn! I wanted to see him again. To thank him, and just because I liked him. He was a cool guy. Maybe I can find his sister in Evansville. He said she was married, so she’ll have a different name, though. Another problem for another day.

  The nurse brought Joe some green Jell-O and another small cup of water.

  “Let’s see how you respond to this, then maybe we can move you up a notch on the food chain.”

  Joe nodded and spooned a small amount into his mouth. He felt clumsy and his aim wasn’t perfect. He dribbled some down his chin. He dropped the spoon onto the tray and was about to wipe his chin when a movement caught his eye. He looked up to see John and Yoko standing at the foot of his bed. Embarrassed, he quickly wiped the Jell-O away.

  “Hello, lad,” John said. “They taking good enough care of you here?”

  Joe once again felt star struck in his presence. He nodded, said, “Yes, sir.”

  “I just heard on the telly that your pop was Rodrigo Hart. Is that so?”

  Another small nod. Another “Yes, sir.”

  “I had his album, back in ’59. He was a great songwriter.”

  My God, what would that have meant to him if he had known? Dad, wherever you are, I know you’re smiling. A Beatle loved your songs.

  John tapped lightly on the end of Joe’s bed and sang, “Won’t you come to me, to the place that I wait, I’ll wait forever for you. Forever, for you.”

  It was a song Rodrigo Hart had written for Chandra, called “Forever for You.”

  Tears spilled down Joe’s cheeks. “He wrote that for my mom.”

  John nodded and pulled Yoko close. “I understand.” He laid a hand on Joe’s knee. “We can’t stay. We weren’t supposed to be let in yet at all, but Mother has a way of getting her own way.” He turned and smiled at Yoko. “Don’t you, Mother?”

  Yoko, who hadn’t spoken, simply nodded the truth of it. She came to the side of the bed and laid a hand against Joe’s cheek. “Thank you for my John.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The next few days and weeks passed in a surreal blur. Joe, who had been completely invisible for nearly fifty years, was suddenly and somewhat uncomfortably, the center of attention. Nurses, doctors, and other hospital employees who really had no need to be in his room found an excuse to be there.

  Reporters clamored to speak to him, but Joe had no interest in being interviewed.

  I can’t think of a single good thing that would come of that.

  John took some of the heat off him by giving a number of interviews that recounted the whole story of that night at the Dakota. In each interview, he painted Scott and Joe as the heroes who came to his rescue.

  After the first visit, Joe didn’t expect John or Yoko to come again, but he was wrong. They didn’t come every day, but several times before Joe was ready to be discharged, they stopped in and spent time with him.

  Once, John stopped in by himself with his guitar and played for almost an hour. He sang old Buddy Holly, Donny Lonegan, Roy Orbison, and even a few of his own songs.

  Joe sat on one end of the couch, watching the most famous musician on the planet, playing a concert just for him.

  It’s the John Lennon Unplugged concert that MTV never got a chance to air.

  Just before he put his guitar away and said good-bye, John said, “One last one before I go. I had to relearn the chords for this one, but I think I’ve got it.” He strummed a few chords, then sang Rodrigo Hart’s Forever for You.

  As the last note faded, John said, “Thank you for reminding me of this song. I’m going to put it on me next album.”

  “I don’t know what to say, except thank you, and how happy that would have made my dad. It would have meant the world to him to know that his song was still being heard twenty years after he died.”

  “That’s the thing about music, and musicians, isn’t it?” Lennon mused. “We are temporary, but the music lives forever.”

  THREE WEEKS AFTER HE was wheeled in unconscious, Joe was released from St. Luke’s. Reporters had been tipped off that Joe was being released and had staked out the lobby of the hospital, waiting to take his picture and shout questions at him.

  Joe and the hospital managed to outwit most of them by taking him via wheelchair to a waiting taxi parked outside a delivery entrance at the back of the hospital. One enterprising stringer had staked the area out, though, and got a few shots of Joe as he stepped from the wheelchair into the cab. Those pictures were sold and appeared in newspapers around the world. One which clearly showed the left side of Joe’s face appeared in The National Enquirer, under the headline, “Lennon Hero scarred for life.”

  When he saw a copy of that story, Joe laughed. Well, it’s true, I am scarred for life, but it has nothing to do with what happened at the Dakota.

  During his stay at the hospital, a doctor had approached him about his birthmark.

  “We’ve been making miraculous progress with our surgical techniques when it comes to birthmarks. Mr. Lennon has authorized us to offer to do our best to remove it for you, if you’d like.

  Joe’s left hand unconsciously touched the skin on his left cheek.

  What would it be like to look in the mirror and not see this? To be like everyone else?

  “Thanks, doc, and I’ll be sure to thank John and Yoko, but I think I’ll stay the way I am. I know it’s not beautiful to most people, but it’s part of who I am.”

  The doctor had smiled and said, “You are wise beyond your years, young man.”

  The idea was never raised again.

  His left arm was no longer encased in a cast from his chin to his knuckles. His new cast began at his shoulder and extended just below his elbow, giving his arm an “L” shape. That made it easier to slip into a sling, which protected it from as much bouncing around as possible.

  The doctors had advised Joe not to fly right away, and John and Yoko stepped in once again. They gathered his belongings from the Empire and moved him into an apartment at The Carlyle, a luxury hotel that also rented out residential units on the Upper East Side. Joe had tried to stop them, and told them he was happy at the Empire, but they insisted, and Joe finally relented.

  I don’t know how much money John and Yoko have, but I know I can live off the proceeds of a single Christmas song each year. I can only imagine what the proceeds from the greatest musical catalog of all time would look like.

  FINALLY, AT THE END of January, Dr. Jenkins gave Joe permission to fly home.

  Joe had been in steady contact with Stan and Claire ever since the shooting, and he called them to let them know he would be arriving back in Portland on February 3rd.

  He said a final goodbye to John and Yoko at his apartment at the Carlysle then packed his suitcase and summoned a cab to the airport.

  When he got back to JFK, he stepped to the sidewalk and looked around with a sense of wonder.

  When I landed here two months ago, I felt completely lost. I may not be a veteran traveler yet, but I feel like I can handle what life throws at me, now.

  Joe had long since finished The Sirens of Titan, so it was tucked safely away in his suitcase. He stopped at a bookstore on the concourse and picked up a paperback copy of Joe Haldeman’s The Forever War.

  I read this once before, but some books are worth a reread.

  In another airport, Joe’s suddenly famous and easily recognizable face might have attracted a mob. At JFK, though, not unlike LAX, people are used to the famous walking among them. Joe didn’t cause much of a disturbance, aside from curious glances. He was used to that. People had stared at him long before his picture was splashed across newspapers and magazines.

  His long-delayed flight home was painful, as anyone who has ever had to fly with a cast on can attest. He hadn’t taken one of the pain pills Dr. Jenkins had given him, because he had to
drive to Middle Falls when he landed. He knew he would need a clear head to manage that with only one arm.

  When he touched down in Portland, the view outside his window looked unchanged from when he had taken off. Dark clouds filled the sky and rain beat against the plane’s windows as he sat waiting to disembark.

  He waited until everyone else was down the aisle before he stood up from his seat. The idea of standing in a packed jostling line with his injured arm was unthinkable. When he stood, he realized how exhausted he was. After two months of inactivity, a cross-country flight constituted a lot of excitement.

  What I’d like to do is curl up somewhere and sleep for an hour or two. The one thing I want more than that, though, is to see the inside of my little house in Middle Falls.

  That thought revitalized him, and he walked up the ramp to the gate with more spring in his step. When he walked out onto the gate, he was shocked to see JD, Bobby, and Stan and Claire Fornowski.

  Joe stopped dead in his tracks. “What in the world are you guys doing here?”

  Claire stepped forward and managed to give Joe a full hug and without hurting his left arm. Everyone else just stood around with huge smiles on their faces.

  Claire held Joe’s face in her hands and said, “Did you really think we’d let you sneak back into town and drive all that way with a bad arm?” She leaned in, hugged him again, and whispered, “I told you to be careful. You didn’t listen.”

  Half an hour later, they had collected Joe’s suitcase and car. Bobby and JD fought over who got to drive the Grampamobile from Portland to Middle Falls. They finally agreed to split the drive in half.

  Meanwhile, Joe climbed into the back of Stan’s Chevy Caprice, where Claire had laid out pillows and blankets for him. He was asleep before they got out of Portland.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Joe enjoyed being back in the cocoon of his little house for a few days while he recuperated from his adventure. Dr. Jenkins had tried to refer him to a doctor in Portland for his follow-up visits and the removal of his cast, but Joe had no interest in that. After his trip to New York, he was more than ready to just hang out in Middle Falls.