The Unlikely Savior (The Unlikely Savior Trilogy)

by T. S. Seley Elliott

  But the boxes. The boxes with the alleged “savior’s” name on it; “savior” was a term Lisa used as liberally as “angel.” The young mother would have had to go through an incredible amount of trouble to add this piece to the story, not to mention she would certainly be competitive for an Academy Award for her performance upon finding the gifted treasures in the trailer. It very loosely added up, he considered.

  Unlike normal journalism, the rules of engagement for tabloid articles leaned far more in favor of reader interest than pesky little things like valid facts or truthful story lines. Typically, he’d already have enough for an Angel Tracker story with photos of Green Acres, Lisa and the baby, as long as he omitted the actual name of the alleged mysterious healer. But his focus was entirely personal now; he needed to find out who Johnnie Carter was, and subsequently find her.

  Most compelling and frustrating was a possibility which made Byron’s blood pressure peak, his temples pounding. If Lisa was being truthful about the boxes of goods showing up during her brief absence to meet him in town, and if Ms. Carter had personally delivered them, then he had missed her, probably by minutes. He may have driven right past her between Chut and Green Acres. Years of wondering and a five-year search reduced to an unnoticed drive-by on a deserted desert road. Damn it!

  Byron was so deep in thought as he sought a cell phone signal to contact the near-by Air Force base, he missed the alternating dull and reflective glass foliage to his right as he eased onto the old paved road announcing his arrival to Chut’s version of civilization. Byron absently raised his phone toward the rearview mirror, as if the two foot difference in orientation would magically produce connectivity, and from his distant post, the keeper of Emerald City mistook the gesture for a greeting and tipped his sweat stained hat in kind.

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  Juanita Parks did not love cleaning motel rooms, but she didn’t hate it either. Elko wasn’t a big enough town that an unskilled single mother of four could be picky about employment; this job paid well enough and the hours worked perfectly now that her kids were all in school. She’d never experienced financial abundance, thus, making ends meet was her only fiscal goal. As her mother would say, “Everything else is gravy.”

  As she gathered dirty linens from her last room of the day, her body worked on auto-pilot, compensating for the scourging pain in her abdomen; her feverish mind heatedly sorted through her options. She knew she needed to see a doctor about this thing in her stomach which had slowly grown in size, upping the agonizing ante in painful wagers. Snatching towels and wash cloths from the bathroom floor, she reviewed for the hundredth time, versions of her future based on the potential diagnosis.

  She had no medical insurance, but Medicaid would get her through the appointments. But, Medicaid wouldn’t replace her income if she had to miss work, and certainly wouldn’t keep a roof over her children’s heads if this problem required an extended absence. She wasn’t a brilliant woman, but she was one who knew the ways of the world and she knew her body. This was not common illness and her fear of the prognosis nearly made the ignorance worth the pain.

  As a deep ache radiated hotly through to her lower back, sweat formed on her brow and upper lip. Setting a clipboard with the cleaning checklist on the bathroom vanity, she perched on the edge of the spotless commode lid, nervously licking the moisture from her lips and wiping drops gliding from her hairline with the back of her hand.

  “Finish the job,” she told herself urgently. She had dealt with life’s stresses one day at a time over the years, always centered on her children. Lately, however, this physical burden lessened her coping time-segments from days to hours, and now, to tasks. Narrowing the aperture helped her focus and move forward.

  Respite from the pain came long enough for Juanita to place new soaps and towels in the bathroom, completing her duties for this room and, thankfully, for the work day. After securing the door, she keyed the ancient plastic walky-talky and checked in with the front desk of the Humbolt Inn and Lodge. She told the desk clerk that Room 214 was complete and unless there were unexpected tasks, she would leave after putting her cart and supplies away. School would be out in thirty minutes, so she might actually beat the kids home.

  Ten minutes later, after she’d discarded the dirty linen in the motel laundry and placed her cart in the main housekeeping room, she silently cursed, realizing she’d left her clipboard in 214. Some may have made a decision to not worry about a little paperwork in a guest room, but Juanita’s strict work ethic and need for this job made that decision impossible. Her mama had taught her the value of character in any situation; the image of her mother always swayed her to right action and she grabbed her purse. Ensuring she still had the master key, she closed the storage room door behind her and headed up the corridor toward the staircase. Since she would be the first to report in the morning it should not be an issue just to keep her clipboard and key till then, she reasoned. She could leave directly from 214 to head home.

  Fortunately, the searing pain didn’t hit till she cleared the last step to the second floor and Juanita rested for a moment against the fire door. This time it took her breath away and she doubled over, only holding herself up with a white knuckled grip on the door release.

  Alright, then. She would call a doctor in the morning…and pray tonight. The vision of her children, coupled with sheer determination, straightened her spine as she opened the heavy door by pushing her rump into the release panel. Once inside the guest room, without her cart to block it, the door automatically closed behind her as she turned the corner into the bathroom to retrieve the paperwork. In a flash, a spasm in her stomach became a convulsion that rocked her entire frame. Out of control, Juanita’s hand hit the clipboard and it slapped hard onto the tile floor, her purse fell next and her quivering body landed last, full weight. Her cry for help, while piercing in her mind, never parted her lips.

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  Johnnie eased her conscience, just a bit, when she recalled Lisa’s comments about Betsy…how the canine had just shown up and how if the she left, Lisa figured she wanted to go. But she was still formulating a plan to at least let the woman know where the dog had gone. After that, she’d make a decision about Betsy’s disposition. For now, she was oddly grateful for the company.

  “Says we got about sixty miles to Elko, Girl,” Johnnie shouted to her companion over the roar created by the still-open windows. She didn’t know what exactly could help with gassy dogs, but she’d figure it out tonight and see if she could improve the cab’s air quality for tomorrow’s drive. Pepto for Pooches, Beano for Boxers…whatever it took, she was game.

  Betsy now rode shotgun, leaning on the passenger door to compensate for the missing right back leg. Her ears flopped in the rushing air, drool flatly plastered to the sides of her face and neck. Johnnie had to laugh at the look of pure, unadulterated joy. It reminded her of an image she’d once seen of a dog running across an open field, tongue out, ears flying. The poster read, “Live like someone left the gate open.”

  Her natural sense of optimism, although weak of late, teased the edges of her mind. At this moment, she felt like her gate was open and she wanted badly to just keep running. This tactic had been quite successful for years, but she knew for the first time in her life, it would probably be unwise to look only forward; her “yard” was still cluttered and she needed to deal with it.

  Watching the road, she leaned across the cab, reaching in front of the oblivious Betsy and opened the glove box. She snatched a plain white envelope before it was sucked up by the wind and smacked the box closed with the side of her hand. Glancing at it quickly, she shoved the envelope into her purse on the floorboard. It presumably contained a card or note from Captain Stass, and this was one piece of unfinished business she’d tend to tonight in the motel.

  Early this afternoon when she’d dropped by his office to s
ay goodbye, he had not been there, but the envelope with her name on it awaited her, propped on his desk. She had mixed sentiments about missing him…she was partly relieved that she wouldn’t have to once again face disappointment at his distance from her. She was somewhat let down, regardless, because of the bond they’d shared before this mess all began. She would have liked to say goodbye to the friend, although not necessarily the officer who had done what he needed to do.

  Friend. Was her opinion of their interaction overrated since she didn’t have an extensive list under that heading? She was high on acquaintances, but could name few friends, and certainly lacked in lasting intimate relationships. No one else noticed this trait because her general disposition was so likeable, she was an active and self-motivated worker, and was typically involved in community projects. She had personally paid little attention to this void in her life until Major Benson, the psychologist, asked her in-depth questions about personal involvement and social interactions. While under the microscope, her shortage of deep relationships, of any kind, was glaring. And under his scrutiny, in particular, she hadn’t enjoyed seeming like such an antisocial dolt.

  She felt very comfortable with her new road mate, she considered, shooting a glance at the owner of the tail which continuously slapped her arm. She reached over and scratched Betsy’s rear, instantly speeding up the wag’s cadence.

  A dog. She was comfortable with a dog, but not people? She really didn’t want to dwell on this, but was hardly in a position to put introspection on “ignore” any longer. Why didn’t she foster close friendships? Why did all this crap have to happen to her before she noticed such an obvious deficit in her life? If she had, indeed, had a hand in “saving” total strangers, was this some sort of odd retribution for not being close to people that she actually knew?

  That was quite a stretch, she calculated, but certainly not a greater stretch than the tales her benefactors had woven about her heroic actions. Besides…how would Colonel Sanders factor in here? Just the thought of his troubled, but kind manner put her heart under siege. What had happened to him? Why did she uncharacteristically befriend a total stranger just to lose him, and with no explanation as to her involvement?

  She sighed loudly with exasperation. This was too much. Her circuits, well accustomed to bypassing such in-depth analysis, were overloaded and she flipped off an internal emotional switch as she turned the radio on. Cranking the volume to hear over the wind tunnel, she scanned extensively to find a station without static. The sound of a nasal voice warbling an old rock-folk song competed with the sound of forced air. She had never heard the song before, but Roger Sanders’ face would not leave her mind as the lyrics seemed to dominate over the background noise.

  Death is not the end of the road

  Don’t let it worry your heart

  When life is over and has let you down

  Your dying breath can be a start

  Everything you know stays the same

  But the world, this old world will always change

  Keep what matters close to your heart

  Because that last breath is a new start

  Let go…let go, when what you hold is a load

  Something better awaits at the end of the Road…

  The song continued, but was lost to Johnnie as she suddenly recalled the moment in her storage room when she’d found the book with Colonel Sanders’ clone on the cover. She vividly recalled the unsolicited feeling of calmness and almost resolution as she saw the image. This had happened before she knew the old soldier had died so there was no reason to believe it was fabricated from grief or in any response to his death and her possible connection.

  Then, and even more so now, she could feel a connection. The voice on the radio piped in again, seemingly intentionally.

  If you’re sad and so lonely

  Don’t know what your dreams have cost

  Close this chapter and book…

  All is not lost

  She adjusted behind the wheel, eyes boring down on the road. She was uncomfortable with this line of thought, but seemed unable to stop the ideas as they braided together into a perfect fit. Roger Sanders was the last of his kind among his friends, as well as his family. Although proud and certainly not needy, he had somehow told a total stranger, within an hour of their meeting, of how disillusioned he was with the world situation, with his inability to influence, with his loneliness in the twilight hours of a great life. Her throat dried suddenly, and not as a result of the arid climate.

  He had wanted to go. And he didn’t know how.

  Lightheaded, she lifted her foot from the gas pedal just a bit, and taking a chance on Betsy’s benevolence in her moment of weakness, she pressed the buttons to roll up the windows so she could quiet her mind. She switched driving hands, turning the radio volume down and the air conditioner on. Betsy immediately leaned forward, finding the blasting vent with her large dry nose. A look of complete satisfaction seemed to seize her with this new and fabulous sensation.

  Unaware of the dog’s delight, Johnnie’s attention was back on the pavement and her equilibrium had returned; she carefully picked up the thread of thought. The old officer spent his days in the veteran’s cemetery because it was the only place where he found comfort and kinship. He was ready to leave this world, not in a depressive suicidal way, but because it was his time. But, she now remembered, he feared that his desire was craven and lacked courage.

  Yet shortly after their meeting, his wishes came true and his departure was far from cowardly; the news writers called it romantic and heroic. The soldier was unknown and forgotten before his death but appreciated and acknowledged afterward by many due to the place and manner in which he died.

  But, how long after their meeting had he perished? Anxiously, she wondered if, perhaps, it wasn’t after their meeting, at all…which, frankly, she had feared all along. She strained the corridors of her brain to isolate the last thing she could remember about their conversation before she “disappeared…” She remembered her utter conviction that the man was anything but a coward and recalled feeling great respect mixed with sympathy. And there was nothing after that. Nothing.

  Billboards randomly appeared on the right side of highway announcing their pending arrival at Elko. Emotionally weary and feeling as though she’d been wrestling with ghosts, Johnnie welcomed the distraction.

  Filtering out many enticing calls for her patronage, she honed in on signs for motels, realizing only now that she needed to find a place that would accommodate Betsy as well. She also spied a Wal-Mart sign and noted the exit; she would raid the pet aisle to ensure proper care, and more importantly, feeding of the beast. The dog, apparently exhausted by their great adventure, plopped heavily across the bench seat and shoved her large head onto Johnnie’s lap. Suddenly very glad she hadn’t worn shorts today, Johnnie rested her right hand on Betsy’s neck and attempted to ignore warm spots of slobber widening on her jeans.

  “Looks like us,” she announced when she spotted a motel sign touting a reasonably priced, pet friendly environment with free WIFI. Always baffled by the double titles such as “Inn and Lodge,” she decided, tongue in cheek, if offered, they’d opt for “Lodge.” It sounded more relaxing than an “Inn,” and she was more than ready for a little relaxation.

  Nostrils burning again, Johnnie urgently stabbed at the window buttons, mentally adding another item to the shopping list. Tums, maybe? A cork probably wouldn’t work with this dog’s high capacity gas production.

  “First stop, Wal-Mart. Second and final stop, Humbolt Inn and Lodge.” The driver announced to her solitary, now snoring, passenger.

  Byron Hoffstedder had dealt with enough military stories in his second career to know that all matters involving the media had to go through installation Public Affairs offices. When he contacted that very office at the air force base closest to Chut to inquire about Staff Sergeant Johnnie Carter, he expected the standard Privacy Act and Freedom of Information Act spiels, and he was f
ully prepared to pull out all charismatic stops to circumvent those inhibiting processes. However, instead of the canned response, the young man on the other end of line instantly corrected him, stating that the subject of his inquiry was a Technical Sergeant (apparently superior to a Staff Sergeant), and that Technical Sergeant Carter no longer worked in that office.

  Byron was not only surprised by his unbelievable good fortune to strike so close to home, but also knew he’d hit some sort of nerve with this airman; military personnel were characteristically professional, but also typically very polite until they had a reason to be otherwise. This fellow’s voice shifted to a defensive posture the moment Carter’s name was mentioned. If this hadn’t been such a personal quest, Byron’s journalistic interest (what little he actually possessed) would have been piqued. But this was too near his heart for tabloid tactics and he didn’t want to lose what may have become the best shot at finding this woman.

  Taking a gamble on his gut feeling, Byron adjusted to a more intimate approach. After clarifying the airman’s identity, he told Senior Airman Barker that although he was, indeed, employed by the Constellation, his inquiry was personal and he meant no harm. He’d held his breath after casting that line since he knew the federal privacy laws applied to all inquiries of government entities. The airman was not authorized to release any information without referring the caller to the appropriate process.

  Barker had paused, and asked him to hold the line. After returning a moment later, the young man quietly asked for his name again, phone number, and the nature of his inquiry. After gathering the information, he quickly told Byron that he’d receive a return call by the next day, as it was the end of the duty day.

  Not looking forward to a long night in his cheap motel room with little to contemplate outside the day’s events and their possible implications, Byron set up his computer and e-mailed Margie to see if she’d be up for an early phone call this week.