The Unlikely Savior (The Unlikely Savior Trilogy)

by T. S. Seley Elliott

The door still wouldn’t latch, but she pushed it closed and wedged a beat-up rake handle as tightly as possible into the knob, hoping it would hold. She’d turned toward the truck before she realized she hadn’t said goodbye to Betsy and looked around to no avail before remembering she’d given the panting girl some tap water in a battered plastic Cool Whip bowl she’d found on the kitchen floor, presumably for that purpose. She must have shut the dog inside. Considering what a pain it had been to secure the door, she said a mental farewell, and trotted to the Ram. The truck door was still open, but the ornery seat which hated moving forward had fallen back into place, so she was able to make a quick escape.

  As the truck and its driver nearly jounced out of their respective frames lurching along the dirt road, finally beginning her real journey, Johnnie suddenly felt a familiar flush of freedom and excitement. Her childhood town-hopping had seemed dreadful at the time, but inadvertently infused her with a nomadic spirit.

  As an adult, she loved the exhilaration of moving, seeing new things and, right or wrong, leaving old things behind. Independent in ways that probably bordered neurosis, she averted any kind of attachment…to people or things. Environments and situations considered stable by most standards, she found very disconcerting.

  Drilling down more deeply into this tunnel of thought, Johnnie located the splinter she’d pushed far under the surface since first travelling this bumpy back road with Captain Stass. Prior to that day she’d found guilty comfort in the unknown elements of life. It was something of a paradox that someone with such tight control over her personal sphere could be so attracted to a chaotic path, but she was and had thrived on it for years. Truly, this tendency had made military life a perfect fit. But comparing the “pre-accident” Johnnie, to the person in her skin now, ignited an angry internal fuse. How could she have let anything, no matter how daunting, take away her sanctuary? The allure of the unknown had been replaced with the thing she most despised: fear.

  “Whoa, Nellie!” she erupted as the Ram struck a large rock causing her butt to clear the seat by such a margin that she braced her head for impact against the worn headliner. She didn’t hit the top, but as her bottom slammed back down, she said a quiet thank-you to Sir Newton. Gravity had not only jerked her out of her too-deep thoughts, but reminded her it might be best to pay more attention to the road conditions than her pointless self-analysis.

  Back in Chut, she took a final look at the miniature Emerald City, offering one more silent wave to the Wizard, who nodded in return from his post.

  Driving forward, but looking right, she missed the car headed out of town toward Green Acres. Even in her state of mind, she likely would have thought it odd to see an eggplant colored PT Cruiser in this neck of the woods. The spectacle of her least favorite car model sporting the ill-advised purple hue would have certainly distracted her from seeing Lisa Douglas in the passenger seat, beaming at the driver. The face behind the wheel would have been concealed anyway, as the man worked his hand through his oiled locks, wondering how in the hell this prize rental could navigate the potholes and bumps on the horizon.

  “Don’t mind the dog,” Lisa said as they bumped into the space in front of her home. Byron remained behind the wheel after cutting the engine, taking in the general scenario, very worried about Lisa’s last remark. Cujo would be a much more natural fit here than Lassie. When no foam-mouthed beast ran to meet Lisa, who had already exited “the nicest car she ever rode in,” Byron decided he was close enough to the trailer door to make a run for his life, if necessary.

  “What the hell?” Lisa exclaimed as she saw the rake forced against the door handle. Suddenly appalled at her own language, she quaintly covered her mouth with her fingertips and shot her guest a shy look.

  “Oh, excuse me! It’s just that this don’t belong against the door. Ollie’s not coming back for a week…”

  Still wary of the onslaught of a rabid dog, Byron sized up the situation and eased her mind about entering.

  “Well, Ms. Douglas, even if someone was here, they couldn’t be inside now, seeing as that thing is propped from the outside. But would you feel better if I went first?” Not wanting to seem too eager, but wanting even less for his last breaths to be taken in a remote desert trailer park, he eased both hands across their slick tracks over his ears. This ten-fingered move was reserved only for his rare tense moments.

  Not accustomed to such fine treatment, Lisa blushed and stepped back.

  “Mr. Hoffstedder, you are so smart. But, yes, please if you don’t mind.”

  He moved over and yanked the rake out of its place. The door swung out so quickly and unexpectedly, he leapt back to avoid dripping teeth followed by a hundred pounds of dog, which he was sure had caused the hard swing.

  “Dang thing ain’t worked since we moved in,” Lisa said embarrassedly, not noticing Byron’s own red flush when he realized the imagined killer dog was simply a broken door driven outward by the leaning structure. He recovered quickly and climbed up into the dark, musty room.

  He could hear better than he could see, and all his ears detected was a congested hum of what was likely an air conditioner. His eyes adjusted and although he was quite sure there were no human intruders, he was now anxious to get Lisa in and close out the threat of a growling variety. He offered his hand to the young woman, who blushed once more.

  “Thank you, and I wish it was a nicer place, but you said you wanted to see where it all… What the hell?!” She had stepped inside and flipped on a dim light. Even after coming in from the bright outdoors, she immediately noted the television and boxes on and around her battered coffee table. No apology followed her expletive this time, as she stared agape at the things which had magically appeared during her brief absence.

  Hand on chest, she shook her head as if she were seeing things. She pointed at the television, and looked at Byron, who was far more interested in securing the door than anything his hostess had to say.

  “These things ain’t mine and I don’t know how they got here,” she said, clearly confused.

  Byron, satisfied with his work, now eyed the objects of her attention and ran a finger between his shirt collar and neck. He always wore a tie for these meetings, although it added no finesse whatsoever to his generally rumpled look, and it seemed to increase his body temperature by fifty degrees. Sweat was making his neck itch something awful. Lisa noticed his action and looked aghast.

  “Where’s my manners?! I’ll get you some water.”

  She backed away from the mysterious items, bumping into the card table, where dog-eared copies of The Constellation were neatly and prominently displayed.

  “You can sit here if you want…” She pulled out one of the metal chairs and turned toward the kitchen area, then stopped so suddenly she rocked backward, nearly losing her balance. Eyes fully used to the light, she had spotted the boxes and bags on every surface of her miniscule kitchen.

  Thinking she would tip over, Byron quickly stepped to Lisa’s side and steadied her. He didn’t have a clue what was going on, but this was not necessarily uncommon at interview sites of a tabloid reporter. He’d seen some crazy things over the past few years and short of dying at the jaws of a large animal, he was pretty much prepared for anything. He gently eased her to the stained couch and, reversing roles, went to get her some water.

  The tiny sink in the kitchen was overcome by the apparently unexplained abundance of groceries and he only found the water source by honing in on the slow tinny dripping sound amongst the boxes. After filling a small plastic cup, he headed back to the Lisa.

  Rather than taking the water however, she ran her hand along the side of a cardboard surface near her calf with a slow look of recognition which, in an instant, became visible excitement.

  “See?! I told you, I done told you!! This is from her. It’s all from her. She is an angel!”

  Confused, but game for whatever it would take to get to the point of his being here, Byron set the cup on the television and dropped to on
e knee so he could see what she was pointing at.

  He felt his heart’s violent reaction as he read the label on the box, grubby with dirt and smeared ink. A moving carrier had clearly marked the container with the recipient’s name, delivery destination, and a moving date of over two years ago. All Byron saw was the name: SSgt Johnnie M. Carter.

  It was her. She was real.

  ________________________________________________________________________

  Wing Liang silently stared at the screens in the Situation Room. Each day, each briefing grew graver and seemed to offer elements for a perfect storm. In fact, if anyone with knowledge of world matters had made a checklist for factors that must fall into place to create the ideal scenario for an all-out world political implosion, it could not have been more precise than the series of events now taking place. Liang had always loved a challenge, but this was bleeding past the sphere of “challenge.” To call it a “potential crisis” would be a gross understatement, considering the degree of flammability this tinderbox contained.

  Today’s addition to the ever-fragile house of cards was an intelligence update indicating China was actively negotiating with Iran. What could the massive republic bring to Iran’s table as a bargaining chip for cheap crude oil and natural gas? What the small, oil-rich country needed most, of course. Complete backing for the floundering Iranian nuclear program.

  Experts assured the President that only U.S. and Israeli sources had secured the information for the time being. President Liang hardly saw this tossed bone as a consolation considering Israel had long favored a pre-emptive strike against their rival. The U.S. had only managed to prevent this from happening, to date, with the use of diplomatic and economic pressure against Israel.

  “Check”… thought the President, mentally moving a hash mark from the “diplomatic options” column to the more weighted side of the perfect storm; a list he had privately labeled, “Ingredients for World War III.”

  “Mr. President?”

  Wing had no idea how long he’d been silent as he shifted his eyes and attention to Frank Wallace. He still had his fingers pressed together, temple style, in front of his face; index fingers indented his silent lips, his elbows were planted on the table before him. Although he did not reply, the direct gaze to his chief advisor was sufficient for the man to continue.

  “Sir, there will be a point when our inaction becomes action. I don’t know how much longer we can wait…”

  “…to start World War III?” President Liang asked, quietly. This was the first time he had uttered the term out loud. He was not being sarcastic or dramatic, but he would also not let this man, or any other, allow a “first move” strategy to overshadow the fantastic gravity of this situation.

  “Mr. President, we all know the implications here…At a minimum, we need to endeavor to influence China to stop these negotiations immediately.”

  “And ‘we all’ are not the ‘one’ who tips the first domino.” Wing swung his chair around and closed his eyes.

  To the back of his eyelids, and to Wallace, he quietly said, “Get me a proposal by noon. How we influence China to support U.N. sanctions against Iran…how to manage that domino.”

  Although extremely in tune to, and proud of his heritage, he would not allow his staff, reporters or advisors to cite his obvious connection to his own nation’s greatest threat. He was sure historians would have a field day with the irony of this moment in the life and times of the first Chinese-American President. It was interesting to be sure, but it wasn’t a factor, nor could he allow it to be one.

  He envisioned the mythical figure of Atlas with the planet Earth balanced on his massive shoulders; while Wing Liang was physically no comparison to the figure, he was certain they had one other thing in common. One wrong move from either, and the world as they all knew it would topple into a court of unknown rules and boundaries.

  Surrounded by advisors and tense activity, Wing had never felt so alone in all his life. He didn’t need a strategy.

  He needed a miracle.

  Johnnie figured she’d make it as far as Elko that night, and probably had between seven to nine more days of travel to get “home” to see her mother. Although her intent was to simply visit and honor her mother’s insistent request, she also needed this intermediate time to think and fill in the void till she knew if her episodes would continue. She had absolutely no plans beyond that.

  The government paid per diem for the travel home, but money wasn’t an issue anyway for the time being. She’d lived humbly and saved well over the years, and for that she was grateful. Moving on to the next chapter of her life hardly seemed a priority right now, or even feasible for that matter until…

  “What in the name of God?!” she burst to no one but herself, covering her nostrils with the back of her hand. This was the fourth time since she’d hit Interstate 80 that the cab of her truck filled with a vile odor which could have peeled paint from any wall. She initially wrote it off as outside air coming in through the vents, but only so many dead skunks could litter a major highway in such a short distance. And they’d have to be decayed, mutated zombie-skunks to produce this foul smell anyway. Hundreds of them. She decided to stop at the next exit or rest area to get to the bottom of this. Had something crawled into her engine and died?

  The force and noise of outside air at eighty miles per hour was deafening, but rolling down the windows seemed the most effective avenue to breathe through her nose without gagging…and she refused to breathe through her mouth. As crazy as it seemed, she’d always had an irrational fear of inhaling nasty smelling air through her mouth, certain the odor would adhere to her tongue. With a gargoyle-like face, corners of her mouth down and tongue out, Johnnie pondered the possibilities when she saw a sign for a rest area near Lovelock. Perfect… she’d scrape animal remains off her motor if necessary to clear the air in her cab.

  As she decelerated onto the exit leading to a very desolate looking rest area, Johnnie felt the base of her ponytail push firmly into the back of her head, then release. With the lowered windows, her hair had made noble efforts to escape into the wind, but all that movement had been outward; this last sensation was unmistakably inward, against her skin. Her right hand flew to the spot and felt nothing but her own gathered hair as she concentrated to stay on the pavement.

  The uneasiness in the pit of her stomach was less rational than the series of possibilities racing in her head; no one could have hidden in the extended cab behind the seat; she hadn’t stopped anywhere since loading the food before heading to Lisa’s….wait; she had stopped at the bar. That bar! But no...she would have seen a crouched intruder when retrieving the bags...

  Stretching into the most erect position possible, she shot quick glances into the rearview mirror, peering as far downward as she could manage, seeing only the closed slider window in the rear of the cab and the very top of the bench seat.

  Briskly shaking her head, Johnnie steered off the ramp in to the parking area. She was almost pulled into a spot when an unmistakable soft, warm upward pressure into the back of her head and neck caused her to simultaneously ram her sneaker onto the brake pedal, slam the truck into parking gear and scramble from the truck as quickly as the groaning door would allow.

  Shaking, but ready for the fight, she literally leapt out of the vehicle, turning while airborne to face the open door. Her fierce expression and best Bruce Lee stance were impressive, but definitely overkill as she spied her opponent. Slobbering, but in eager anticipation for the scratch rather than the fight, Betsy, the three-legged wonder, hung her huge head over the driver’s seat looking at Johnnie with a lopsided grin. In near rhythm to the pounding in her own head, Johnnie could hear the hard thump of a tail echo from inside the cab.

  The entire parking lot was barren, short of the woman, the truck and the dog. Hands on hips, Johnnie locked eyes with her stow-away as the wind whipped her hair along with the dog’s drool-stream. The good news was, she supposed, there were no rottin
g remains trapped in under the truck hood. She crossed her arms, still in stare-down mode, contemplating the bad news: she could now add “dog thief” to her list of indiscretions and she was over 100 miles into her journey…she was not turning back. And to add insult to injury, it appeared her new traveling companion had an Olympic case of gas.

  In resignation, Johnnie broke her pose to properly greet her eager companion while in her heart of hearts, she dreaded this would be a minor, if not inconsequential event, in the days to come.

  Byron’s head reeled as he pulled onto the slightly smoother dirt fairway, rutted, but less like a minefield than the driving paths in Green Acres. He rubbed his face vigorously with his free hand, before it made its one millionth glide past his ear, hair springing immediately back out of place as if to mock him.

  He needed to calm his excitement and think clearly on the potential of the situation he was in. The PT Cruiser was about as adept at picking its way across this course route as a tricycle would be on a dirt bike trail, so he eased the gas pedal and settled on a fifteen mile per hour pace. Fast enough to get out of Lisa’s sights as soon as possible, but slow enough to keep from damaging this hot rod. It would also give him time to process the events and information he’d gathered in the last hour.

  Although he still needed significant verification of the details to see if Staff Sergeant Johnnie Carter was the person whom he sought, enough dots already connected to prevent his heart from finding its normal, slower rate.

  Lisa’s story of the Soldier Angel seemed pretty incredible. Even after meeting baby Emily, whom Lisa fetched from an unseen neighbor and babysitter-in-need, Byron had no way whatsoever of knowing if the military visitor had indeed “healed” the baby. The dog, which Byron was only too happy to have missed, never returned leaving another element of Lisa’s story open – the detail of how the vicious canine allowed the angelic soul access to the house, and even slept protectively by her side. That Lisa commented on the dog missing one leg made its existence somewhat more believable, since that would be an odd factor to fabricate – or it could just prove that Lisa Douglas was totally crazy.