The Final Chapter of The Loner

The Final Chapter of The Loner

Super Bowl Sunday…2016

I sat on my porch and stared out across the lake. It had taken a year to build the cabin and two years to open the Margaret Williamson-Rierdon Retreat, a temporary landing area for disadvantaged youth who, through no fault of their own, were left in this universe without an adult to guide them into the future.

Earlier in the day —just across the lake, less than one mile from the back porch of my cabin — laughter echoed throughout the complex as the current flock of young residents played a softball game against the adults, followed by an intense volleyball game, which went down to the wire, capped off at the end of the third set with a slam to the corner of the court by the tallest player on the court, Randy Reirdon.

Seven buildings have been completed and are in use on the property. If you look east across the lake, you can see the new bunkhouse being built. Any other day, if you sit quietly on my porch, you’d be able to hear the sound of the construction workers pounding away at the new structure, which will be called Maria’s Corner and will house anywhere from twenty to thirty young girls, who, upon their arrival at the Williamson-Reirdon Retreat, will never feel alone and unwanted again.

But not today. Today was all about football. A few hours ago, all the residents, camp volunteers, friends, family, and a few state congressmen and senators mingled inside the Holloway Activity Center to witness the first Super Bowl without a Roman numeral — Super Bowl 50.

As for me, it’s been a bunch of giant steps since that Christmas Day in 2013 — the day I battled my way back to sanity.

I partnered with Walker and Harriet to build the youth sanctuary. Walker now has a Chapel on the far east side of the complex, and Harriet sold her practice in Tucson in 2015, accepted the job I offered her as the Williamson-Reirdon Retreat Youth Coordinator, and moved lock, stock, and barrel to Conway. She lives five miles from me, and we are still in the “dating” stage.

As for Charlie Drummond, his wife, Julie, John Avery, and Sammy Dalton, all four had been invited to the Super Bowl 50 shindig today. I last saw Drummond in February 2014. He was a witness at my trial, as I didn’t get off scot-free, but I’m sure some people think I got off with a slap on the wrist, considering my two years of community service. I have, of course, paid that back and more.

In the end, the Judge saw it my way and Drummond… Avery… Dalton and a handful of law enforcement officials from New Mexico also took the stand and shed a pretty good “light” on the former and retired Anchorman.

As for Ramon, he ensured that Maria had a proper burial service, and what was left of the Sanchez family was in attendance on a cold and rainy Sunday morning in Magdalena de Kino. She was buried less than two hundred yards from Father Kino and the Priests.

I took an overnight trip with my two sons to Douglas in early January 2014 and retrieved the money I had deposited at the local bus station. We had also contacted Ramon, and he hooked up the trailer to his pickup, undoubtedly played a few Willie Nelson tunes along the way, and returned the Lexus to its rightful owner.

As for my home on Windspur Lane, the yellow police tape was removed just a few days after Christmas — just days after I had resurfaced and the word was out that I was alive and well.

I flew to Tucson in April of 2014, contacted a real estate agent, and within sixty days, the house was sold. The housing market in Tucson wasn’t exactly booming, and the prices of property, especially in the Foothills, had bottomed out. I should have waited a year, but I agreed on a price after a couple of counteroffers and walked away with a reasonable profit.

There was minor fixing up to do — a refurbished wall, for starters, where Bobby Joe Johnson had left his mark.

The Drummond gang was first to arrive today. Harriet and I welcomed them with open arms. It seemed like a lifetime ago when we were all caught up in the drug bust of the century — or so it seemed.

We all realized, after being up close and personal with the battle against drug smuggling, how much there is left to do to counteract the influx of “killer” drugs reaching our people, young and old.

For Drummond, he was validating what he already knew. For me, it took some time to grasp the magnitude of the problem. During those unforgettable days in December of 2013, I took a match to a batch of drugs — thinking I had saved the world. In reality, the heroin, the marijuana, and the money burned that day weren’t even a thumbprint of what was out there.

The Williamson-Reirdon Foundation will do its part to educate and help our young people get back on the right track — a path to a better life…a good life…not a track up their arms that leaves them lifeless, much like Bobby Joe Johnson found when, as a young boy, he walked in on his mother and found her dead.

What followed was a counter-reaction that led to a life of crime and the eventual death of the Johnson brothers. There are more Johnson brothers out there…more victims…more drugs…and an endless wave of crime.

Drummond had assured me that he would continue to do his part in the Tucson community. And he, too, will no longer be alone.

I patted Charlie on the back as he walked through the front door. I kissed Julie on the cheek and wished her years of happiness. “You have a good man there.”

I shook hands with John Avery. Another man who will continue to do his job to fight crime. As for little Miss Dalton, she has made some changes. “I have resigned from the police force. I returned to the University of Arizona and earned my teaching degree. I keep tabs on a bunch of fourth graders now. Looking down the barrel of a gun is no longer a passion of mine.”

As for my boys, things couldn’t be better. Josh took early retirement from the fire department and moved his family to Conway. Jake stepped down as principal of Conway High School. Josh and Jake are now full-time counselors at the Williamson-Reirdon Retreat, spending every day stress-free, helping the young residents at the foundation grow into adults. They give them the tools necessary to enter society and become upstanding citizens.

At the end of each day at the Retreat, I meet with my boys and discuss the day. We sit by the shore and communicate — a far cry from all those years I let get by me as I bounced around from one place to another. To say I’m in the right place now is almost understating things.

And I can’t say enough about Pastor Williamson. The man loves the Retreat and his little Chapel in the forest. He does his best to divide his time between his congregation in Jacksonville and the young people he mentors in Conway. Even his boys, already on the road to becoming successful businessmen, volunteer six weeks of their time every summer at the Retreat.

But today, we all met to focus on football and Super Bowl 50. It was a toss-up — almost 50-50, half of the crowd pulling for the Broncos, the other half pulling for the Panthers.

I, on the other hand, listened to the announcers as they smoothly narrated the game's story. There was a time in my life when I relished such an event…every moment, all sixty minutes of action, was all that mattered as I searched for the words to describe the game with 80,000 screaming fans cheering on their favorite teams.

Now, I look around the room and realize my place is not in a football arena…not in an announcer’s booth…not on a ship bound for Cancun to boost a rating…but right here in the forest of midwestern Arkansas.

The only words that come to mind are, “Thanks, Maggie.”

Epilogue

Everyone had left. Walker and his boys returned to Jacksonville. Jake, Joan, and the girls returned home, as did Josh, Bonnie, and the boys. Drummond and his gang headed back to Little Rock for an early-morning flight to Tucson. Harriet was the last to leave. She kissed me on the cheek. “You get some rest, you hear. You’re not getting any younger, you know. We want that heart of yours to be ticking for many years to come.”

“Good night, Harriet,” I said with a grin.

Suddenly, it was quiet. I poured a final cup of decaf — at least what was left in the pot. I opened the sliding glass door, took a seat on the redwood patio, and looked past the lake once again.

It was certainly quiet. In Santa Clara, California, 2,000 miles to the west, the Bronco fans were celebrating. Peyton Manning and the Denver defense had shut down Cam Newton and the Carolina Panthers, 24-10.

For me, it wasn’t about football anymore.

I eyed a flock of geese heading south, and the moon had shone a line of light directly on the surface of the water, toward the Williamson-Reirdon Retreat. All was quiet there as well.

I looked past the forest line and then back to the lake and eyed them one more time, the geese, as they headed for their haven.

I suddenly realized I’d seen the picture before. It was a December night years ago. I was in a room at the Hilton Inn in Abilene, Texas. The picture on the wall meant nothing to me at the time…except for raising an emotion in me…a moment of pure loneliness.

Not anymore. This time, as the birds disappeared beyond the forest line, I felt a sense of peace — not loneliness. It was a picture worth a thousand words.

From the author…

The Loner is a work of fiction. All the characters are figments of my imagination. The cities and towns mentioned are real. The professional football players mentioned, and the games depicted in The Loner, are also real.

This book is dedicated to my mother, Kathryn Price, who was born in Jacksonville, Arkansas, on May 15, 1927. She passed away in 2018. She suffered from Alzheimer’s disease. She is the greatest mother in the world, much like Cassie Holloway, the mother of the main character in The Loner.

My beautiful mother: