by Jean Pamplin
Bud could hardly hear Sally over the noise. His news-nose itched while he waited for her to continue.
“I’m sure we’ll figure out what’s bothering us about our John Doe. How about if we meet for lunch and I’ll fill you in on what I find out? It’ll be quieter.”
“Where?”
“Bring two specials from that cute little take-out down the street, and I’ll meet you under the roof by the 107 Shops.” Sally wrapped the remaining few bites of muffin and grabbed her drink. “Sorry, Bud, gotta go.”
“Already?”
Her departing smile overrode his disappointment.
Motioning for Mazie, Elliott’s new ‘amazing Grace’ girl, Bud gave her a tip then questioned the lack of change. “How much was that muffin?”
“Oh, you paid for both you and Sally.”
Bud scowled and watched the doctor’s hip catch the door on her way out. Free of Sally’s bewitching nearness, he lamented the loss of his hard-earned cash, especially since it seemed lunch would be on him too. Women. No wonder I try to stay clear of them.
He smiled despite himself. Sharp cookie, this one.
***
“Code blue.” The voice on the intercom edged on calm panic. “Room 27.”
Headed to third, Sally reacted and punched the second-floor button.
Bowdon raced by. “Is that our John Doe?”
“It is.”
White lab coat flying, Sally jogged after every other available staff member on the floor. Must be something big.
In the room, two hefty male nurse-aides held the patient down until a sedative could be administered.
“No! I told you it was coming. Get out of the way. I’ve got to get out of here.” The patient’s frizzy hair stood on end. His voice lifted in varied crescendos.
“Easy, fella. You’re all right. Give us a minute and you’ll feel calmer.”
“Too late to run. Nothing can stop the asteroid, except maybe a time shift.”
His panic seemed so real that Sally glanced out of the window, half-expecting to see chunks of asteroid sizzling through the atmosphere.
The doctor checked the John Doe’s pulse.
When the sedative finally kicked in, Sally felt more in control—as if the calming solution ran through her own bloodstream. This wasn’t the raving of a madman. The patient believed there was an asteroid hitting earth, and he was running from it.
“Call me as soon as he starts coming around.” She turned from the nurse toward Dr. Bowden and leaned closer. “What are you thinking?”
The older gentleman shook his head. “He may be a candidate for you. Unbalanced. Maybe? Or he’s watched too many warped shows on television.”
“Some trauma can produce panic, but I’m not sure that’s what we’re seeing here.”
“Check it out.”
The first thing Sally wanted to do was call Bud, which she did, but only to cancel lunch. “If it’s all right, let’s skip lunch and meet after work. I may have more information for you by then.”
Not a lie. She’d simply avoided telling everything she knew. Trauma patients were common in the larger cities. Varied causes—drugs were a biggie—but this old man wasn’t an addict. Neither was he the victim of an accident or crime.
Sally spent the next few hours studying asteroid predictions. Easy to do online. She remembered the minor one in Russia, but an asteroid slated to hit around 2029 caught her attention. NASA and other scientists tossed possible scenarios around. Near future, but still future. Hopefully, time allowed for some way to stop it. No reports on recent activity What did that mean?
Some great minds even suggested the 2029 rock could be related to the Wormwood Star mentioned in the Book of Revelation. Sally found that interesting, especially since she’d been taking Brother Joseph’s Bible class. NASA didn’t go that far, but did name the projectile Apophis, after an ancient god of destruction.
The intercom on her wall crackled and a voice interrupted her musing. “Our patient is waking up, Dr. Strange.”
“I’ll be right there.”
The afternoon sun shone in the west window. The nurses had the patient spit-polished, flyaway hair combed. A large butterfly bandage covered the head wound that turned out to be quite minimal.
Sally addressed the attending nurse. “Did you find any debris in the cut?”
“Normal dirt. Besides minor burns, he had a lot of ash film on his hands and feet. He was wearing sandals. Everything is bagged. Since he’s a John Doe, I scraped some ash and dirt into a bag to be tested. You know how administration is. They want every clue so they can find somebody to bill in case an unnamed patient isn’t claimed.”
“Is there enough testing material that I can get Elliott to check it out?’
“Here, I took two little samples.” The nurse opened a drawer and pulled out a small bag. “One should be enough for us. Isn’t Elliott that guy who works for the lawyer, Hank Beck? I hear he’s a good investigator, one you want if you’re innocent.”
“I don’t know him very well, but Bud Hubble sets great store in his abilities.”
“Oh, yeah, the newspaper guy.” The nurse pulled a chair over for Sally. “Just ring if you need me. His vitals are fine, but it may be a few more minutes before he’s fully awake.”
Sally studied the patient’s flickering eye movement. A few groans escaped. Muscular arms defied age-guessing. Was the near-white, Einstein-like hair a premature color change due to extreme fright? She’d heard of that. Red, raw knuckles matched a toe sticking out from beneath the cover.
“What are you looking at, lady?” The raspy voice caught her unaware.
“Well, hello, and welcome back to the land of the living. Just taking inventory. I’m Dr. Strange. We’re trying to figure out who you are.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“You’re in the UT Health Quitman Hospital. Seems you hit your head, and somehow or another ended up at the Senior Activity Center here in town.”
“Quitman? So I made it.”
Odd answer. “It appears so. Where are you from?”
“I’m from Quitman, just been away for a while.”
“Really? When you woke the first time you were in panic mode, shouting about some asteroid. Do you remember that?”
“Can’t say that I do. Bad dream, just crazy talking.” He rubbed his forehead. “What’s this? A bandage?”
“A minor head wound, although you wouldn’t have known it from the blood you dropped all over Tillie’s kitchen. You certainly scared her—and ended a perfectly good game of bingo for the rest of us.”
“Well, I’m fine now.”
“That remains to be seen, Mr...?”
“Jones—A.G. Jones.”
Jones, huh? Not likely. “You suffered a concussion, Mr. Jones. I believe Dr. Bowdon will want to hold you over one more night.”
“Aren’t you a qualified doctor? You dismiss me.”
“I’m more interested in brain damage, or odd behavior from a hit to the head.”
“So, you’re some kind of shrink, are ya?”
“That’s an old-school term, hardly stands up to the number of degrees I have.” The guy’s disregard for her schooling miffed Sally a bit. He continued to play games with her, smart enough to evade real information. A good indication he had no lasting brain trauma.
She patted the packet of ash debris in her pocket. If he wouldn’t give her any information, there were other ways. She called the nurse in. “I believe Mr. Jones...A.G. Jones...can fill out your paperwork now. At least it’ll satisfy billing. Ask Dr. Bowdon about a mild sedative, and I’ll drop by in the morning to make sure there’s no reason to test his neurological behavior any further.” She turned to the patient. “By the way, Mr. Jones, where is the full body of the asteroid supposed to hit?”
“Cali... Didn’t you say your first name is Callie?”
Quick recovery, Mr. Jones, but I’m not buying it. My name is on my badge. “Did you mean to say California? Maybe towa
rd Mexico?” That’s what I read, I think.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. By the way, do you have a newspaper here?”
“The year is 2020. Is that what you want to know?”
The man changed the subject. “I’ll look forward to sparring with you in the morning.”
“As I will you.” Sally waited for the nurse to administer a sedative. “I’m pretty fashion conscious, Mr. Jones. Where did you get your shirt? Nice material.”
The patient glanced down at his hospital gown. “What shirt?” he quipped, and blatantly dismissed her question.
“Have you ever heard of kombucha leather?”
“No.”
His eyes told Sally a different story. If one looked deep enough, the inner man always spoke truth. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Jones.”
He didn’t bother to answer.
CHAPTER 3
SALLY WOVE THROUGH TRAFFIC, ALMOST like New York on an extremely slow day. She liked East Texas, just wasn’t sure why. Philadelphia to New York wasn’t such a big step...but Texas? Her friend Warren Penn was at fault. She suffered from burnout and he’d championed for a complete change to his home state. If Warren hadn’t died, he’d still be laughing at my attempts to conquer Texas.
When she accidently, or by God’s purpose, found a position open at UT Health, she took it. The pay was less, but expenses lower. The move was like clockwork from then on, even down to the newly built condo that Tina, the realtor found for her.
She pulled into her assigned parking space. The plant at the condo door bowed—not because it greeted the Queen of the Castle, but from the queen’s obvious lack of nurture. “Don’t die on me, kid. I’ll get you some water before I leave to meet Bud.”
The lock clicked open and she tried to get in quick. Too late.
“Hey, Dr. Strange. Your cat has been whining all day from your closed-in patio. Did you forget to give her water? I tried to get in to check, but the gate is padlocked.” Ninety-something Eloise Hickey, recently moved in with her daughter, cranked her walker into high gear to get to Sally.
Oh, no—she’s going to want to talk, and I don’t have time. “Just a precaution from my New York days. I’ll check on her. I’ve got to meet Mr. Hubble in a few minutes, so talk to you later, Eloise.”
Besides friendly neighbors, the cat was another concession toward country living. Miss Puss was a determined irritation, but Eloise more so. Just at the mention of Bud’s name the woman would imagine wedding bells ringing. She thought every man needed a helpmate and vice versa.
Darn, I wish I hadn’t thought of Bud. The brilliant, analytical, nosey news guy was too irritating to be a good helpmate. Sally did, however, like being able to fluster and encourage him to question his stoic bachelor ideas. Still, something in the back of her mind questioned…was he just a challenging game, or a blessing?
Sally missed the pomp and circumstance of New York, or so she told herself. Her slinky, notorious little black dress that neither she nor fashion annals could get rid of, fell off the hanger. She took it for a sign. Despite her maturing pounds, the dress hugged her curves quite nicely. Sally turned from the mirror to find the earrings and necklace she’d purchased from a struggling street artist in New York.
Puss and the plant properly cared for, she hurried to the restaurant. The impact of walking in a little late was well worth it. Much to Sally’s delight, Bud responded with a gaping mouth and dropped jaw. Sensory overload. Good.
Per Bud’s usual aversion to city standards, his suit drooped from the day’s activity and his tie hung loose from being pulled away from his neck too often. Interestingly, Sally found the disarray manly and even kind of sexy.
“I should have picked you up.” Bud stumbled over his words. “At least brought you chocolates and flowers.” He didn’t go so far as to compliment Sally on her looks, but she’d see what she could do about that next time.
“Can’t seem to completely conquer my New York love for dress-up dinners.”
Bud tightened his tie. Was that an attempt to come up to par? He pointed to the chips and hot sauce already on the table. “I ordered you unsweetened tea. I’m afraid they don’t serve wine.”
“No worries.” Sally smiled discreetly, hidden by the menu. “Did I understand you to say you were paying?”
“Order what you want. I’m paying.” True to his nature, Bud grumbled a bit. “I just hope your information is worth it.”
The tart answer brought a full laugh. Why do I enjoy provoking this man so much? She looked sweetly over the menu. “Thank you, kind sir. The John Doe’s name is Jones, A.G. Jones, if you can believe that.”
She calmly returned her attention to the menu. “The spinach quesadillas, please.”
Sally could have predicted it. Hunter-gatherer Bud went naturally for the beef fajitas.
“Want to chit-chat?” She asked when the waitress left.
“No. I try to stay away from gossip news on my time off. So, he said his name was Jones?”
Bud was true to character if nothing else. Sally leaned closer, hoping her low neckline wasn’t too low. “Mr. Jones awakened this afternoon, panicked and shouting about an asteroid about to hit earth.”
Bud needed a minute to process her statement. “Is this guy crazy, demented, on drugs...what?”
“Possibly, but not likely. In my opinion, the panic was real. We found slight burns on his body. Could be the result of rock fragments falling through the atmosphere like burning hail. The problem is, there are no asteroids hitting earth right now. NASA reports a possible one in 2029. What does that say to you?” Sally slowly chewed a chip, waiting for Bud to stop staring and react.
“Don’t...don’t you think that’s a little melodramatic?”
“I believe his shouted warnings were real. Once fully awake, he went into caution mode—the less said, the better. I question the validity of his name, maybe the initials A. G. stand for something. Jones is just too common to track. And why he didn’t want to give much information is anybody’s guess.”
Bud grew silent. Sally lightly touched his hand and tucked in a short blessing when the meal was delivered.
“Do you think he lost his memory, some kind of amnesia from the head blow?”
“No. I found no evidence of confusion. Once fully awake, I think he intended to mislead me.”
“Something to hide, I suspect.”
“He did say he was from here, and just recently returned.”
“I can check that.”
“He also said he didn’t know where he purchased his shirt when I asked him about the material. That’s exactly why I wore this necklace and earrings. Can you tell they are made from the kombucha scoby?”
“Huh?”
Bud’s confusion was endearing. Again, Sally explained about the cellulose, bacteria-slash-yeast culture that, when dried and treated, developed leather qualities. She took an earring off for Bud to examine closely.
“So, you think this is what the guy’s shirt was made of?” Disbelief edged Bud’s words.
“A higher quality than this. Somebody must have figured out how to expand the scoby surface and thin the product down to be able to make clothing. The shirt had a tag—“Nature Made.” Didn’t see a place of origin, just cleaning instructions.”
Bud’s brow wrinkled. “I’ll check with Elliott. He had a piece he was going to dissect.”
Sally discreetly pulled the tiny bag of ash and dirt particles from her purse. “Have him check on this while he’s at it. The nurse kept a few samples of debris for the billing department—a possible clue to his place of origin. It’s what they scraped off our guy’s body. Now that they have his name, howbeit questionable, they won’t proceed, but Elliott can.”
“This is an interesting case. If he was in the future, and an asteroid was actually coming into earth’s atmosphere, how did he get here? If he was having a bad-hair dream...why?”
“I don’t have all the answers yet, but I’ll question him again to
morrow.” Sally had one more item to share with Bud. “This is the shard that caused Mr. Jones’ head wound.”
Bud carefully ran a finger over the sharp object.
Sally studied his light, determined touch, fingers that could have been on a musician, but instead pushed a pen. He was old-fashioned enough to maintain paper-and-ink notes. Was that bad? He’d probably open doors for her. And rub my sore shoulder.
***
Elliott stomped into the Speakeasy Coffeehouse. The illustrious newspaper editor was waiting.
I hope Bud’s not going to quiz me about the missing girl thing again. Mitzey and Maeve’s sudden appearance, and equally abrupt return to their time period—all because of a crazy Royal typewriter glitch—wasn’t something he cared to rehash, especially not with the newspaper editor. And as far as he knew, neither did Joseph or Kelly, the other two who knew the facts.
Bud waved Elliott over to his table.
“I need some coffee. I’ll be right there.”
Bud didn’t like to be kept waiting, but Elliott pushed the point by visiting with Misty Dawn who had taken Maeve’s place at the Speakeasy. Sometimes he forgot, and even called her Maeve. The chocolate muffin recipe stayed true to the original Davis family recipe and Misty was also a master at creating images in the cappuccino with milk foam. She was a perfect replacement. Elliott waited for the coffee artist to do her thing.
“I know we promised you and Joseph that we would stay in town for a while, but did Mazie tell you we’re thinking of moving on? We can make more money in the city, maybe Dallas.”
Elliott’s heart sank. He had other plans for Mazie Grace—like being the Amazing Grace Davis of his life, which would include a wedding and a last-name change. “No, she didn’t tell me.” And I just left her at the office typing away. Elliott tried to cover the crack in his voice. “When were you thinking of leaving?”
“We hadn’t really decided. I hate to tell Joseph. We’ve had such fun.”
Joseph wouldn’t be happy. How often do you meet a coffee barista in small town U.S.A. who is also a great baker? In an amazing turnaround, the cousins had reintroduced their great grandmothers, who’d recently made a surprising, time-defiant visit to this century and this town. No time glitches, just a nod of caring from the past.
