The Drifter's Gift. Lauryn Chandler

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       Prologue

       San Bernardino, California

      “Look, Daddy, Teacher says every time a bell rings another angel gets his wings.”

      “That’s right. That’s right! Atta boy, Clarence.”

      The last lines of It’s a Wonderful Life competed with the phlegmy hiss of a decrepit heating unit in the corner of Sam Mclean’s motel room.

      Sam gazed inexpressively at the black and white TV as Jimmy Stewart, Donna Reed and a gaggle of Hollywood extras gathered around a Christmas tree for a rousing chorus of “Auld Lang Syne.”

      Shifting on the lumpy, coarse motel mattress, Sam grunted. TV programmers were a sadistic bunch. Barely through one holiday, and they couldn’t wait to remind you there was another panting in the wings.

      Reaching for the small plastic bottle on his night stand, he glanced at the digital clock—the most modern gadget in the room—and sighed. Four hours to go until midnight. Officially, it was still Thanksgiving.

      Holding the vial of pills in his right hand, he used his thumb to pop off the plastic top. He was getting good at this—could hold, open, hang on to the top and even close the bottle again with just one hand. It was a little game he played with himself, a talent he’d perfected with lots of practice and which left his other hand conveniently free for the water chaser.

      Shaking two oblong white pills into his mouth, he reached for the glass of tap water he kept by the bed, swallowed and set everything on the nightstand. Leaning on his left hip, he winced. And swore. Once again he’d waited too long to take the painkillers.

      The fact that the meds were supposed to be ingested with food could not persuade him to return to the dinner he’d abandoned two hours earlier. Pressed turkey, gravy that was the same bright yellow as the bugs smashed on his windshield, and cubes of damp bread that tasted like they’d been stuck together with Elmer’s White Glue—the turkey special from Hungry Harry’s Country Diner made mess hall slop look like five-star cuisine.

      Gripping the handle of the handsome walnut cane his outfit had given him the day he was discharged from the base hospital, Sam sat up and carefully lowered his feet to the floor.

      Jeez!

      Every move made him feel like he was being stabbed from the inside out.

      He stood, gained his bearings and walked—or rather limped—to the window, passing the small round table that held his aborted meal as he went. Lying open next to a cup of piss-poor black coffee was the letter his friend Joseph Lawson had sent one week before Sam’s discharge.

      Come to Idaho, Joe had written. Hang out for awhile. Take some time before you make any major decisions. And remember, there’s a job waiting at Lawson’s. Lawson’s, the family store Joe had taken over when his father passed away. Mom and the girls would love to see you again. Hell, why spend the holidays alone?

      Sam adjusted his body, leaning his shoulder against the wall so his better, right leg would bear most of his weight. He ignored the remaining pain as best he could while he stared at the hazy moon.

      Starless. There were too many streetlights, too much residual pollution to see the heavens here, even at night. He reached up to rub his eyes, then passed his hand over his cheeks and chin. Both were stubble free. Out of sheer habit he’d shaved this afternoon.

      As a sergeant first class in the United States Armed Forces, he had spent his holidays on base or, when he hadn’t been able to avoid it, at the home of another officer. On those occasions, he’d been surrounded by laughter, good food, bright conversation.

      He hadn’t felt any less alone then than he did right now.

      Across the street, a red neon light blinked Bar. Sam felt his leg throb in cadence with the pulsing light, the pain an ever-present reminder that his days as a platoon leader were over. For thirteen years of service, he had belonged. If not to someone, then at least to someplace, something.

      Now what? A desk job, pushing paper all day?

      “Damn.” Sam whacked his cane against the wall with enough force to chip the plaster. An overwhelming sense of fruitlessness, an awful, gnawing emptiness assailed him. Without his work, who was he?

      Once more his gaze fell to the letter he’d been carrying around for three weeks. There’s a job waiting at Lawson’s.

      He rubbed his temples. Maybe. At least it would be somewhere to go. A way to pass the time while he figured out what to do with the rest of his life.

      For a moment, he closed his eyes. The pain that washed through him this time had little to do with his leg.

      When the wall heater gave a particularly nasty belch, Sam lifted his head and stared out the window, disappointed by the filmy clouds that veiled the face of the moon. Tired, he laid his forehead against the wall and came to a decision, if only to end his infernal waffling.

      Maybe there would be stars in Idaho.