The Unlikeliest Candidate

By J.S. Frankel

Harry Cannel, thirty-four, bound to a desk job and staring into the abyss of a failed marriage, suddenly finds his life changed after allegedly rescuing passengers from a doomed flight. 

However, he didn’t do it alone. He had help from beyond—as in extra-terrestrial help—but the problem is, no one believes him. He becomes the butt of jokes, loses his job and his marriage, and finds himself an outcast.

Still, there is a mystery to be solved. Harry is determined to find out just who his helpers were. John, a stalwart strongman, and Linda, a dazzling redhead with whom Harry falls hopelessly in love with, are his quarry. 

Along the way, Harry meets up with comic book aficionados, rabid fans, a man named Twitt, and a group of otherworldly beings that want him dead. He also discovers something inside himself that he’d suppressed for a long time—the wonder that dwells within all of us, the wonder of what’s really out there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Jan 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781487416089

Book preview

Dedication

As always, to my wife, Akiko, and children, Kai and Ray, as they have made every single day of my life my greatest adventure. And also thank you to Sara Beth, Harlowe Rose, Lyra, Beth, Paula, Safa, Mirren, Leslie, and too many more people who have supported my efforts.

Chapter One: Flying High

Chicago O’Hare Airport, one PM, a weekday, summertime

Harry, I’m waiting!

Harry Cannel, thirty-four, craned his neck to search through the shifting crowd for the person who’d spoken, his wife, Maggie. O’Hare Airport was a busy hub, one that served as a jump-off point to the west coast, and it was usually crowded. Today being a weekday, Thursday to be exact, it was no different.

However, Harry’s mind was not on the crowd or the noise or the movement or the heat. At six feet even, he had a decent vantage point from which to view things. However, his mind wasn’t focused on his wife’s sharply barked statement, but on an abyss which had abruptly appeared, a portrait, really, of early-onset middle age.

It depicted a stark reality—his reality—which meant a job that had gone nowhere, a marriage in decline with no children to show for it, and a wife who didn’t care. All of that overload rebounded from the unknown depths of the abyss and smacked him in the face, making him blink.

With a massive mental effort, he forced himself to back away from the pit. A more physical aspect of reality intruded when someone bumped into him from behind and jarred him back to the here and now.

The bumper, a fat, middle-aged man with a balding pate and an anxious look on his face, apologized. I’m sorry, buddy, he said, and took off in order to find his flight.

It’s okay, Harry said in a voice so soft only the wind caused by the movement of the other people moving to and fro could have heard it. He straightened up, and in an effort to take his mind off the downward spiral of his life, focused on the spot where Maggie was waiting. She wore a frown on her narrow, fox-like face. After seeing that expression of disapproval, it didn’t make him feel any better.

Married for almost twelve years, he’d read the warnings from the various experts that a man in his position would experience the proverbial seven-year itch. Even though it was five years past the deadline, he’d never contemplated fooling around. As the saying went, he was unflagging in his faith, although his faith had been sorely tested the last few months. No, make that years.

And it looked like it would be tested again as she tapped her foot impatiently. Even with all the noise around him, he heard the sound of her toes clicking on the cement. How she could actually manipulate her foot in such a manner was beyond his comprehension, but she managed.

Finally, in a fit of disgust, she waved her arm like a pennant flapping in the breeze, stamped her foot, and bawled, Harry!

Startled by her yell, he sheepishly ducked his head and grabbed the suitcases. Never mind how everyone stared, never mind how much she enjoyed showing him up in public either gesticulating like a wild-woman or screaming like the proverbial banshee, she did what she did and never, but never—ever—cared what anyone else thought.

There was nothing to do but to do it. He grabbed both suitcases, grunted, tugged, and then finally managed to haul the luggage over to her position more than slightly out of breath. Her frown deepened to the point where deep grooves stood out on her jawline like a jagged coastline.

As always, she’d gotten dressed in the latest brand-name fashions, a fashionable cream-white blouse and matching skirt, while he made do with a pair of jeans and a polo shirt. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded more cutting than usual. Harry, you have to get a clue about these things. That fat little man, did he lift your wallet?

It had occurred to him that the other man might have been a pickpocket, so Harry checked the rear pocket of his pants. Yes, the wallet was still there. It’s all good.

His wife still didn’t seem satisfied. Then again, she never was. "You do realize they called the flight, don’t you? It’s one o’clock, and it leaves in thirty minutes." Her voice went up half an octave.

Yes, I know. After looking at the clock on a column in the middle of the airport, he figured that they still had more than enough time to make it. It would have been easier if you’d taken one suitcase, Mags.

Either she didn’t appreciate him calling her by her nickname or doing something physical, but whatever the reason, her mouth twisted up into a rictus of anger. Harry, if you had any strength of character you’d know it was your job to do this. My parents will be waiting for us and you know we haven’t seen them for a long time. They’d be embarrassed to know their son-in-law doesn’t have the strength to lift two bags.

They never really liked me. The words suddenly came out unbidden. No, upon reflection, the words were not unbidden, as his antipathy toward them had been building for some time. After thinking about it, it had started from the day they’d gotten married.

Maggie stared at him, aghast, her hand over her heart in a melodramatic gesture. If there was one thing she was good at, it was theatrics. How can you say that?

Inviting me into their house and always forgetting my name has a lot to do with it. Calling me by your maiden name might also provide a clue.

Maggie scowled, but a brief, grudging nod from her proved him right. She turned her gaze toward the contents of her purse and rooted around as if to find the secrets of the universe. Her search offered Harry a brief respite, and he took the time to reflect on the past few years.

His parents-in-law had always taken the opportunity to trash him, what he did—database operator and analyst—and find a character flaw to harp on. They’d taken pains to point out that she could have married any number of men, but no, she’d chosen him. It was meant as a diss, he took it as such, and he’d once asked her father, So why didn’t she marry someone else?

The elder Simpson, short and wiry with a perpetual frown, shrugged his narrow shoulders as if to say who knew about the idiocies children engaged in. She chose you, but for what reason, I can’t say. You’re an actuarial assistant, a numbers cruncher. A grunt came from him as if it took a massive effort to provide an answer. I guess there’s no accounting for taste.

With another grunt, he turned away and picked up the newspaper as if to dismiss Harry’s existence altogether. His mother-in-law was no better as she invariably served him the smallest portions at dinner and spoke aloud of better times to be had with a more giving son-in-law. It galled him no end to hear that crap spew from their mouths, but who said you could choose your in-laws?

And what, the presents he’d brought over weren’t enough? After asking Maggie what her parents wanted, she replied that her father favoured Scotch and her mother liked a particular brand of perfume. He’d dutifully gone and purchased the items, presented them with the appropriate humility, and her father had merely glanced at the label.

Not the brand I usually drink, he sniffed and set the bottle aside as if someone would soon take it and put it in the trash. Her mother said more or less the same thing.

He couldn’t win.

At times, he desperately wished his own parents were still alive, but they’d passed on long ago, and he’d been raised by his grandparents. They’d been decent to him, but after he’d entered university they’d died rather quickly during his first year, and he’d been on his own, working two part-time jobs in between classes to earn money.

Then he’d met Maggie. At the time, he thought it had changed his life for the better. In retrospect, it had turned out to be a poor choice indeed, but hindsight was always a twenty-twenty thing.

Too late to cancel things. Her parents lived in a nice suburb outside Los Angeles. Harry had visited them once before on his honeymoon and a few times thereafter, and knew they doted on their only child, waiting on her hand and foot.

Still, they were getting on in years and wanted to see their only child before it was too late. Even though Harry had never really liked them, he thought it the right thing to do. He could sympathize with Maggie’s emotions up to a point. He did have some sympathy for her situation, although her personality, bitter and self-centered, worked against him actually having any sort of deep-rooted feelings outside of a peripheral emotion of pity.

The drive from their suburban house just outside Chicago’s city limits hadn’t helped, either. They’d gotten up at seven, driven to the airport, and parked their car in the airport’s underground garage. As usual, Maggie harped on the traffic, the bad drivers, and anything else which crossed her mind which happened to be almost everything.

Harry tuned most of her complaints out although he did notice the weather. Clouds, thick, grey, and ominous-looking, hovered in the northwest part of the sky and a light mist had already started to fall. It was a very early summer, the date was June seventeenth, and it just had to rain. The air had been hot and sticky when he woke up, but not overly heavy. Now, however, Mother Nature seemed to have changed her mind.

Wonderful, they’d have to fly in the rain. Flying made him somewhat airsick, and he couldn’t sleep for any amount of time. How other people managed to nod off was beyond him. Nerves—they got him every single time.

A cigar-tube of death, was how one frequent flier had put it. Passengers were at the mercy of the elements and the pilot’s competency, along with the mechanic’s possible ineptitude. So many things could go wrong and sometimes, it all went bad. One had to have a certain amount of trust and Harry had never really been the trusting type when flying the friendly skies.

Harry!

The buzz-saw tone of his wife’s voice cut into his daydreaming. I’m waiting! A few people heard the exchange and shook their heads—in sympathy for him, he figured. Everyone had their own problems, and he’d married one.

Wordlessly, he picked up the luggage. The gate was only a few feet away, and Maggie, all five feet four inches of self-righteousness, didn’t bother waiting in line. No, she mercilessly forged right through on to the front, ignored the protests of the other passengers who’d also been waiting patiently-impatiently in line, and presented the tickets which would take them from O’Hare Airport out west to Los Angeles.

As usual, O’Hare was crowded, and he banged into people along the way, apologized, and then got hit in turn. Added to the crowd woes were the security checks. While he understood the reason behind it all, he never really understood why the TSA had to check everyone.

He certainly didn’t fit the profile of the typical terrorist suspect. With blue eyes and rather nondescript although by no means unpleasant features, nothing about him stood out outside of having a slight pot belly.

He’d once been in very good shape, lean and muscular, having boxed in college and able to whip just about anyone even though he didn’t particularly care for fighting. But those days had been left far behind in favour of sitting at a desk all day working as a numbers cruncher for an insurance firm.

Not very edifying work, but it was what he did. He stared at a computer screen and input numbers which formed data which in turn formed the entire backbone of McWhitter and Co., Actuarial Specialists. Compared to his job, university hadn’t been much better, but it had served as a turning point of sorts. He’d met his wife there...

Are you coming or did you suddenly grow roots?

The words, witheringly spoken, pulled him out of his daydream. His wife stood in front of him, and once again tapped her foot impatiently. We have our tickets, Harry. My parents are going to wait for us at LAX, so let’s make our flight. She turned on her heel, and like the trained puppy dog he’d become, he felt obligated to follow her.

As he walked onto the plane, he noticed the other travellers and the looks on their faces. Looks of happiness, excitement, anticipation and more, they actually wanted to get on the plane and ride it to the stars.

Not him. He’d always been afraid of heights from the time he was old enough to know what being more than ten feet off the ground meant. Nevertheless, it was the fastest way from point A to point B, and even though he would have preferred to take the train, spend a little quality time with his wife and try to salvage their marriage, Mags would have none of it.

We’re going by plane, Harry, she’d said earlier on in the week. Daddy got us tickets at a discount. You know he has an in with someone at Alliance Air, so we’re going.

Her voice brooked no argument. If it wasn’t her father doing a favour for them, then it was her mother, or her best friend, Frieda, or someone else. Never mind he pulled long hours at his office, went without eating dinner—Maggie didn’t believe in cooking and when she did even a starving person wouldn’t have touched it—and gave up his weekends so she could sleep late.

What had happened? They’d started off so well. After a whirlwind courtship during university, they’d gotten married. He’d found his job and Maggie had taken a part-time position as a sales clerk in a boutique downtown. Then his career took off, and he got moved to a different division.

Numbers had always fascinated him, and he enjoyed the mental gymnastics that the job required, so much so that he was soon promoted to the head of the division. It was a division of one, mind, but he did his job well. So well in fact, his wife informed him one day she’d quit her job. Recession or not, she wasn’t going to work. Harry, dear, if we’re going to have a family then perhaps I need to stay home more.

He hadn’t argued. Having a family had been part of the plan all along. They’d discussed it during their dating period, and the idea of becoming a father excited him. Then Maggie had dropped the bomb. She couldn’t have them, a fact she saw fit not to mention during their dating days. The sex had been good. They’d whispered the usual sweet nothings into each other’s ears... and then they got married.

After the honeymoon period, though, the turndowns had begun. Maggie went to a doctor, the kind who specialized in hormone treatments, and he’d found her healthy in every way. So all in all, they should have been doing the wild mambo on a fairly regular basis. After all, other couples didn’t have any problems that way.

Or did they? Harry had gone to a fertility specialist, given his sample—something he found very embarrassing to do—and waited for the results. You’re very motile, Mr. Cannel, the doctor told him as they sat in his office. The doctor, middle-aged and serious looking, glanced at the report in his hand. You have lots of swimmers.

And that means... He left the question hanging as he didn’t quite know what the doctor meant.

Face implacable, the specialist told him very succinctly all was well. It means if there’s any trouble, it’s with your wife or your marriage. You tell me.

He couldn’t. If Maggie was healthy and he certainly was, then it had to be something he’d said or done. He didn’t know, his wife never told him, and the only thing he did know was Mags had turned off the romance button, and nothing he could say or do could get her to turn it on again...

Do you want the aisle seat or the window seat?

What? He’d been daydreaming again.

Once more, Maggie pulled a face, her expression denoting great displeasure at being ignored by the one person in the world who should have been worshipping the ground beneath her feet. She repeated the question, and after a moment of indecision, he took the aisle seat. I’d like to stretch my legs.

His wife sighed. Fine, I’d rather look out the window, anyway.

Before they got buckled in, one of the flight attendants, a young woman in her twenties, came over and asked if he minded helping out the other passengers should a situation arise. Uh, yes, I can do it, no problem.

The flight attendant—her name read Grace—gave him a professional smile and told him they weren’t expecting any trouble. I wouldn’t worry too much, sir. There is some bad weather coming in, but we should be able to ride it out.

Her words didn’t make him feel any better.

Maggie settled back in her seat and gestured for him to do the same. Try and relax, she admonished. It’s only about three hours.

It was very easy for her to say. Maggie loved flying. In spite of the queasiness in his stomach from the impending takeoff, he forced himself to settle back. I just hope we have a smooth flight.

Maggie shrugged and closed her eyes. She was the type of person who expected things to go her way. We’ll be fine, she said in a don’t-argue-with-me tone.

No, arguing was not the answer. He really didn’t feel like it, not anymore. Once the plane was full, and once everyone had been seated with their bags stowed in the overhead compartments, the plane started to taxi along the runway. He felt his stomach lurch and then it settled down. The takeoffs and the landings were the worst part.

Soon, they were moving faster and faster down the runway and then with a bump they left the ground and soared into the friendly skies. The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. He identified himself as Colin Thompson, a ten-year veteran of the skies. He also mentioned that a storm front was approaching the greater Chicago area, but not to worry.

We’ll be cruising at an altitude of thirty-five thousand feet so we should be able to have relatively smooth sailing. Our flight time to Los Angeles will be a little under three hours. Thank you for flying AA. The intercom clicked off, and Harry prayed for the flight to go well.

At first, it did. Alliance Air, flight three-two-four, took off at exactly one-thirty on that slightly rainy Monday afternoon and quickly climbed to its top altitude. The flight attendants served the obligatory drinks. Maggie took orange juice, and Harry took the same. Neither of them drank. About thirty minutes later, they served the mystery meal. Harry thought it looked like meat—but he couldn’t be sure.

His wife’s voice interrupted his eating. Harry, once we get out to LA, let me do the talking with Mommy and Daddy.

Mommy and Daddy. Maggie was thirty-four, the same age as he was, and she still talked about her parents like a little girl. While she prattled on, he swivelled his head to the right. A cute little blond boy and girl sat in the center aisle, maybe six and four years old, respectively. They were sharing some kind of picture book.

Their parents looked at Harry and gave him a strained, yet proud smile. It was the smile of parents who’d put up with the midnight crying jags, the feedings, the diaper changings, and the nightmares all young children seemed to get when they were learning about the world around them. Woes of child-rearing aside, he suddenly envied them very much.

A smack on his arm caused him to turn around. Do the talking about what? he asked.

He had a sneaking suspicion she’d mention why they hadn’t had any children yet. All parents wanted grandchildren. Well, first off, you had to have sex in order to start the process moving along. For the past three years, they hadn’t had any. At first, he naturally thought she’d been cheating on him. No, she hadn’t. She simply wasn’t interested anymore. Self-satisfaction—also known as jerking off—hadn’t helped, either. It was the physical contact he wanted, but it didn’t seem as if it would be coming anytime soon.

You’ll let me do the talking about the children, she snapped but lowered her voice. Swivelling her head sharply to eye the other passengers as if making sure no one else was listening, she continued. I told you about not having them. I can’t. So let me break the news to my parents in my own way. She settled back in the chair, finished her meal and eyed his. Are you going to eat that?

Take it. Harry found that he wasn’t hungry anymore. He stared out the opposite window at the dirty white clouds while his wife inhaled the airline’s excuse for a meal. It had gotten darker in the past few seconds, almost like night even though it was barely past noon. Why they couldn’t have taken a flight on another day was beyond him but Maggie, once she set her mind to something, would not be swayed.

The plane gave a sudden lurch. Harry noticed the sky had turned pitch black with angry clouds all around them. There, in the distance, he saw something that looked like a cone forming.

He narrowed his eyes and... yes, it was a cone, and that meant only one thing—tornado. They usually formed over flat areas of land which meant the plane must have gone beyond the confines of the Chicago area and into the next state. What’s happening? Maggie asked, meal forgotten.

Rain suddenly splattered against the glass and startled him, and then the flying metal cigar dipped sharply. Maggie gasped and clung to Harry’s arm. What’s happening? she repeated. Her voice had risen into the terrified range.

"I