Chapter 4: One Mystery Solved, Mistle Zeroes In On Another

Chapter IV

"Would you like some pretzels, sir?"

The bronzed flight attendant leaned in toward Mistle, flashing a million-dollar smile as she awaited his reply. But his eyes were glued to the mysterious man seated next to him, studying every last detail of his seatmate in a desperate attempt to place him.

Had he seen him in the newspaper? Was he a long-lost relative? Perhaps they had worked together in the past?

"Sir?" the flight attendant hammered, finally losing her patience. "Pretzels?"

Mistle snapped out of his head and back to reality.

"Sure," he said. "I'd love some."

She launched a snack size pouch of pretzels into Mistle's chest, the bag crinkling as it bounced from his plaid shirt to the tray table in front of him. He wrestled with the bag for a few seconds, tearing it open to reveal a half-dozen tiny pretzels and an assortment of broken bits. Perhaps he shouldn't have skipped breakfast today.

He again turned to the man next to him, studying his features as though he would suddenly realize the identity of this mystery man. He didn't.

"I'm sorry to bother you," Mistle stammered. "But do I know you from somewhere? You look really familiar."

"I don't blame you for forgetting—I didn't have this the last time you saw me," the man replied, combing his fingers through his beard. "We were in the service together."

Mistle coughed, flecks of pretzel dust pelting the headrest in front of him. It all came flooding back. Long nights on watch. Grueling drills in the rain. Choking down mess haul food together. 

"Hank?" Mistle asked.

"In the flesh," his seatmate laughed, extending his hand. "You can still call me Dreidel if you want."

Mistle chuckled and felt a swell of relief pumping through his heart. He flashed back to all of the times, good and far from good, he and Hank Ivey spent together in the Marine Corps. He thought, What are the odds we would reconnect on a random flight. For the moment, he'd forgotten about the cause of his panic—what appeared to be bulging packages beneath the man's shirt.

"I like the beard," Mistle said, smiling. "It's a good look."

Ivey smiled back.

"Nice haircut," he said in return. "Not quite military grade, now, is it?"

"I thought you lived in Ohio," Mistle said. "Why are you headed to my neck of the woods?"

"Oh, uh, well, it's my daughter," Ivey replied. "Yeah, she's kinda sick, so I'm spending the holidays with her in the Twin Cities."

Mistle glanced at Ivey's missing left hand, suddenly wondering when and how he had lost it. Mistle then moved his eyes past Ivey's shirt, jostling him back to his initial fear—that the man had brought a bomb onto the plane.

Mistle grappled internally for what felt like hours, before finally deciding it was a valid question.

"Not to be rude, but I have to ask," Mistle started, "What are you hiding under your shirt?"

* * *

EDITOR’S NOTE: November is National Novel Writing Month, and we need you to help Minnesota Patch write a holiday novella. Here's how it will go: We’ll post a new chapter every Monday, Wednesday and Friday for the next four weeks, each written by one of the Local Editors from a Patch in the Southwest Metro.

Our Patch writers will incorporate your ideas into the next chapter. Take our poll or contribute your thoughts below for plot twists, character names or settings for scenes. Through a lot of fun, improvisation and unpredictability, by Dec. 16, we’ll end up with a finished holiday novella.