On the Shoulder of St. Christopher

By Patrick G. Davis

The year is 1969, and it'sonly a month after Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon, when four teenage boysexperience an adventurethat would change their lives. They agree to challenge themselves by riding theirbicycles to a town15 miles away.The simple bicycle excursion manifests into an endeavor that hasmore twists than the road itself. Early into the trip, the boys give a hitchhiker a ride. After a few miles the hitchhiker decides to go in a different direction. Before he leaves, he gives one of the boys an object.They come to realize that the object has ahistorical past along with the man that owned it. Not until 2006 do the boys, now men, unravel the mystery of the object and the hitchhiker they met 37 years earlier.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 19, 2006
• ISBN: 9781467082297

Patrick G. Davis

This is my fourth book. I’ve been encouraged by the readers of my books. They continually tell me to keep writing and that they enjoy my stories. I feel that all my stories have an optimistic message to the reader. The message is broad enough where anyone that reads them will get something good from it. I grew up in a small town in Southern Wisconsin. Outside of five years, Wisconsin was where I’ve spent most of my life. Some of the jobs I’ve had gave me the opportunity to see many states and meet many different kinds of people. I’ve also been overseas to see other cultures. Not until I became an adult did I understand that most people never had the pristine type of childhood that I had. I was very lucky. My childhood has given me a very simple yet positive outlook on life. I am married and have two grown children. I recently became a grandfather for the first time. I will continue writing until I have no more ideas left in my head. Fortunately, I am surrounded by people that always make me think outside the box.

Book preview

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2007 Patrick G. Davis. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 1/24/2007

ISBN: 978-1-4259-7229-5 (sc)

Contents

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Dedication ~To my children: Bennett and Julia ~

May my love for them carry on through the generations. ~

INTRODUCTION

Many times, monumental events that happen throughout our lives carve our character. But sometimes things happen that are so trivial that we are unaware of their importance. This story is about how life, for a handful of people, changed positively because of a few insignificant actions. For this to happen, these certain people had to be aware of how a good deed could not only change one person’s life, but their own life as well. What we do with our short stint here on earth is relatively up to us and the possibility for goodness exists for each and every one of us. All we have to do is pay attention and choose to travel down the road that not only takes us in the right direction, but also takes us in the direction that is right.

1

Parker, you have about an hour of daylight left if you’re going to get that truck washed, my wife Carrie called to me from our deck.

I know, I’m just making some notes on these last chapters, I said.

She walked down the steps and strolled toward me. This is always the hardest part, isn’t it? she asked as she ran her fingers through the hair on my head.

I was sitting in a lawn chair in the driveway with my little notebook that I’ve used for the past twenty-five years. I’ve carried it with me almost everywhere I’ve gone. I learned at an early age that when I had a good idea to insert into one of my books, I had nowhere to write it. That problem was solved in 1981 when Carrie bought me the hardcovered, black notebook. Since then, it has had bits and pieces of my past books scribbled in it.

Yes it is. Writing a book isn’t much different than building a house, I explained. You design the blueprint, which is your plot, you then build the house, the story, and then you spend most of the time finishing the inside until you’ve created what you had in mind.

Next time I ask you a question, lend me your notebook. With that kind of an explanation maybe I should write it down, she said jokingly.

I know, sometimes I get carried away when I try to get my point across. But it’s a part of me you love, right?

If you say so, she said giggling. Listen, I could help you wash the truck if you’d like.

No thanks honey, I’ve spent enough time on this book for one day. There’s always tomorrow.

When did you say the publisher wanted the manuscript? she asked.

The end of September, I still have six weeks to finish it. Plenty of time for this old veteran, I said with a smile.

I’m sure you’ll get it done with time to spare, you always do. I’m going to make some popcorn. There’s a movie I want to watch on HBO, she said walking away.

Which one is it?

‘War of the Worlds’ with Tom Cruise, she said smiling looking over her shoulder. "Say what you want about his real life but he still isn’t bad to look at," she added.

Yeah, yeah. I’ll be in as soon as I get this truck washed, I said with a small chuckle.

My Ford Explorer has been a great truck for me, and several times I thought about trading it in for a vehicle that was more economical, but I liked its dependability. It didn’t take me long to wash it and dry it off. I always vacuumed it last. It was the one part of cleaning my truck I didn’t like. I pulled the old, yellow Hoover out of the garage that was used exclusively for our vehicles. I extended the cord to its length and plugged it in. I opened all the doors of my truck to have easy access while cleaning the floor. I was finishing up the floorboard on the driver’s side when I heard something metallic hit the end of the vacuum. I looked down and there was my chained, St. Christopher medal that I usually had hanging around my rearview mirror. It must have fallen on the floor when I washed the mirror. I turned off the vacuum before it was totally engulfed. I had this medal since 1969, and it was part of every vehicle I owned. From my 1962 Nova to my Explorer, it always made its home hanging on the rearview mirror. I threw the chain around my head and tucked it inside my shirt. The coolness of the medal on my chest actually gave me a small chill. It was the second week in August and you would have thought that the medal would have been warm.

The truck was finished and I retreated to the house to join Carrie on the couch. She had her legs folded with the bowl of popcorn tucked neatly between her knees. How’s Tom doing? I asked her.

Not too good. He’s in a basement with aliens, she said, not looking up as her eyes were glued to the screen.

Sounds like a normal day for Tom, I said laughing at my own joke.

Come on over here, she said patting the couch where she wanted me to sit. I joined her and we finished watching the movie. As luck would have it, Tom would live to make another movie. Carrie went upstairs to bed while I took a shower. When I was finished I grabbed my notebook from the kitchen table and joined Carrie in our bedroom. She was sitting up in bed reading a Nora Roberts novel.

Someday you’ll have to read a Parker Dawson book, I said to her.

"There’s no reason to read your books. You tell me the entire story before it’s even in print," she said laughing a bit.

Well that’s true, I agreed.

I sat in bed next to her while making a few more notes in my book. My eyes where getting heavy so I kissed her goodnight, turned off my reading light, and rolled to my side.

It didn’t take me long to fall asleep. We had just returned from our daughter’s college graduation from San Diego State University, and I was dreaming that Carrie and I were on a beach in California. I could feel the heat from the sun hitting my back. A man with white, sand-covered sandals was standing by my side handing me my ringing cell phone. I wondered why I brought my cell phone to the beach, because it kept ringing and no one was answering it. I finally realized that my cell phone was ringing, but it was laying on the end table next to my bed. I fumbled around trying to grab it, while shaking the grogginess out of my head. I looked at the time and it was 5:58 in the morning. I heard Carrie mumbling, Who in the world could that be?

Hello? I said, trying to clear my throat.

Parker, this is Teddy, I heard on the other end. It was my brother probably calling to ask me if I wanted to go fishing.

What’s up Teddy? I asked.

"You are not going to believe what I found on the internet, he said raising his voice. Go to your computer and check the email I sent you," he added.

Did you finally find Shemp? I asked knowing he had been looking for a Shemp Howard Pez dispenser for months.

Heck no! Check out the attachment and call me back, he said as he hung up.

I rolled over and contemplated making the effort to walk to my computer. I decided not to. Did he find something on eBay again? Carrie asked.

Probably a Jeff Gordon ice shack, I said forcing a small laugh as I rolled over. I heard Carrie giggle and then she got up to go to the bathroom. I fell asleep again, and again my cell phone woke me up. I looked at the phone and I recognized Teddy’s number. Now what? I asked.

Did you look? he asked with some excitement in his voice.

Look at what? Oh, the email. I’ll look when I get up, I told him.

No, look now! he persisted.

Alright, alright, I said, I’ll call you back in a little bit. I got up and made a quick cup of instant coffee and drifted into the den. I pulled out my leather rolling chair and sat in front of my laptop. I turned it on and waited for it to boot up. I was sipping the hot java when I saw the little dog appear on my screen letting me know that I had mail. Carrie must have been the last one on the computer, because she always changes the email messenger to the dog. All my emails were loading, and as usual I had around twenty, including the junk mail.

I could feel Carrie’s hands on my shoulder, So, what major purchase did your brother make this time? she asked.

It must be something, he sounded pretty excited. We’ll see in a second, I said.

I clicked to my inbox to see Teddy’s email with the subject ‘MIKE STEVENSON’. The attachment produced a photo of a World War II soldier in his uniform. Under the picture was the name Mike Stevenson. The article below said that he was from Watertown, Wisconsin, a decorated soldier, and that he was missing in action and presumed dead. The date on top of the paper read March 1, 1945. Teddy had some writing of his own on the email, but I didn’t take the time to read it. Seeing his picture brought up a memory that would occasionally creep into my head when I was creating my own mysteries for my books. It was one that I had never been able to solve, so I let it go years ago. I chalked it up under the ‘some things just can’t be explained’ category and left it at that. The events leading up to the mystery of Mike Stevenson happened when I was fourteen years old.

Remember me telling you the story about the time Teddy, two of our friends, and I rode our bikes to Watertown? I asked.

Refresh my memory, she said.

37 Years Earlier…

I felt the tongue of our family’s dog, Barney, licking my face. I opened my eyes hoping she hadn’t taken a trip to the cat’s box first. Barney had a bad habit of that, but it was her way of telling us she was out of food. That was one of the drawbacks of sleeping on the porch. Barney was a Labrador and she was a Christmas gift from my brother to my sister. She was just one of the dogs we had, whether it was a girl or a boy, each possessed a boy’s name. I guess it was just more fitting that we named all our dogs using boy names, considering there were four boys in our family and just two girls.

When I slept on the porch, the summer’s evening air was always so much better than in my bed on the second floor of our home. Our abode was well over a hundred years old and with its age, it possessed very little circulation or insulation. The second story was always freezing in the winter, and in the summer it was hotter than Vince Lombardi’s temper. I rolled over on my back and stared at the ceiling tiles that lay above me. The hanging plant that Mom set out in June still looked fresh, as it swayed slowly from the breeze coming through the screened windows. There was nothing like summer in Wisconsin. The musical sound of robins singing made me think that it was harmony that never lasted long enough. After