Majestic Read online

  Majestic

  Peter Parkin & Alison Darby

  sands press

  Brockville, Ontario

  sands press

  A division of 10361976 Canada Inc.

  300 Central Avenue West

  Brockville, Ontario

  K6V 5V2

  Toll Free 1-800-563-0911 or 613-345-2687

  http://www.sandspress.com

  ISBN 978-1-988281-12-4

  eISBN 978-1-988281-13-1

  Copyright © 2016 Peter Parkin

  http://www.peterparkin.com

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover concept Anthony Turner, Lanturn Design

  Formatting by Kevin Davidson

  Publisher Sands Press

  Author Agent Sparks Literary Consultants

  Publisher’s Note

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales, are intended only to provide as a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the authors’ imaginations and are not to be construed as real.

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

  For information on bulk purchases of this book or any book published by Sands Press,

  please call 1-800-563-0911.

  1st Printing March 2017

  To book an author for your live event, please call: 1-800-563-0911

  Sands Press is a literary publisher interested in new and established authors wishing to develop and market their product. For more information please visit our website at www.sandspress.com .

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  About the Authors

  Chapter 1

  It was as if there were diamonds floating on the surface of the lake. The midday sun reflecting sparklers off the calm waters was a sight to behold, and Wyatt Carson made certain that he beheld it as long as he could.

  He knew he had to get back to work, but a few more minutes enjoying the eye candy that was Kootenay Lake wouldn’t cause the world to collapse. Work could wait. After all, he was the boss, so it could either wait or someone else could just handle things in his absence. He had a good team.

  He slid open his patio door and stepped out onto the massive cedar deck that embraced the spectacular lake view. Then, he stretched out on a chaise lounge and sighed.

  Suddenly, he cursed—he’d forgotten his cup of coffee. He dashed back inside and then emerged once again, steaming cup in hand.

  Wyatt reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lighter. His doctor had told him he needed to quit these things because his breathing was showing early signs of COPD—but he wasn’t too worried. For now, he still enjoyed it—especially at moments like this; a jewel of a lake, a warm summer day, and a cup of java.

  These were moments to treasure and for some strange reason a cigarette made them even more relaxing to him. He wasn’t stupid, though—he knew it was just in his mind. The opposite was more likely true—that cigarettes actually made him more tense than relaxed.

  He blew out a long stream of smoke and watched as a bald eagle soared overhead. Spying some unsuspecting creature on the forest floor, it dove at breakneck speed until disappearing into the trees. A few seconds later, predictably, the powerful predator accelerated upwards once again, the legs of some hapless little animal twitching feverishly while the eagle’s lethal beak was clamped securely around its neck.

  Wyatt’s eyes wandered, settling on the log structure of his house. He knew the logs could probably use a re-staining, but it was such a massive job that he’d probably procrastinate on that until next summer. In the meantime, they still looked pretty good. Good enough.

  In fact, everything looked good. His lot was one of the most desirable ones available along the shores of the lake. Although not close enough to be able to actually dive into the water, the view from his deck was spectacular and created the illusion of the lake being closer than it really was.

  Wyatt’s house was probably a good 150 feet above the surface, which gave him a panoramic view up and down the long snake-like body of water. Kootenay Lake was 104 kilometers long, three miles across at its narrowest, five miles at its widest. A fabulous lake for boating and fishing…but swimming was hit and miss. If the summers were warm, the water might heat up to twenty degrees Celsius at best, but it was usually no more than eighteen degrees on a typical day. Brisk for swimming, for sure. Guaranteed to make blood retreat to the body’s inner sanctums.

  Wyatt rested his head back against the integral pillow on his chaise mattress and gazed out at the panorama that towered over the lake surface. The Selkirk Mountains—unbelievably intimidating in the summer, and breathtakingly stunning in the winter.

  He took a moment to thank his lucky stars that his parents had moved to Nelson, British Columbia forty-five years ago, while he was just a mere lump in his mom’s uterus. Born in Canada, he had automatically become a Canadian citizen.

  His dad came to Canada in the midst of the wave of draft-dodgers, or as they were affectionately referred to—‘conscientious objectors.’

  But, while his father tended to liken himself to a draft-dodger, he wasn’t. Not really. He just followed the herd of dodgers back in 1970, determined to not sit back and watch that brutal conscription happen one more time. And, that no child of his would ever have to endure what he endured back in 1950.

  It was the Korean War, and 1.5 million American men had been drafted. He rose to the rank of Lieutenant and served two full years in the four-year war. He hardly ever talked about it—a short war, but a particularly brutal one. A war that claimed 5 million lives, half of those being civilian Koreans.

  His dad had hoped he’d never see it again, but then along came Vietnam in 1970. The drum beats were sounding, and the draft was once again instituted. His father would have been too old by that time to be conscripted, but that didn’t matter to him. He’d had enough—didn’t want to live in a country that did that, so he packed up his pretty little pregnant wife and drove north to Canada. Purportedly
just to visit for a little while—at least that’s what they told people. But, they found a way to stay. Along with 125,000 other Americans who were just as disgusted as they were.

  The Americans spread across Canada, most disappearing into the major cities. Then, when the Vietnam war ended four years later, half of them returned to the U.S. under various forms of amnesty.

  But, the town of Nelson, B.C. didn’t lose any. Several thousand Americans had claimed that town as their home, and it was so beautiful and peaceful that they vowed never to leave. Instead, they helped create the artsy heritage community that it became renowned for.

  A town that was as eclectic as it was charming. A town that was as stoned as it was sober.

  Nelson was a thriving artistic center now, with a mountain sports reputation that was unrivalled. In 2012, it was voted best ski locale in North America by California’s Powder Magazine. Not bad, especially to be honored as such by an American publication. Obviously, they harbored no hard feelings towards Nelson’s prominent residents for having abandoned their native country half a century before.

  The town was now a city, albeit a small one. With a population of only 11,000, it still had the charm that one associated with small towns. And, it had a laid-back style that some attributed to the scenery and lifestyle, but still others attributed to the profitable and rampant marijuana production. Still illegal, but most people just snickered and looked the other way. After all, the most prominent residents of Nelson, although getting on in years, were really still hippies in their hearts and anti-war activists in their souls.

  The city was also made famous by the Steve Martin movie, Roxanne. After that film achieved critical acclaim, people flocked to Nelson to see firsthand some of the famous locales, such as the iconic fire hall and all of the heritage buildings. The tree-lined streets inspired people into thinking that was what ‘living the life’ should look like. It was good publicity, but, while residents loved that the movie put their city on the map, they also resented the intrusion of ‘riff-raff’ and city folk who were hoping to move there and citify the lifestyle.

  No one wanted Nelson to change, pure and simple. And Wyatt couldn’t really blame them. Life was good.

  The descendants of those draft-dodgers kind of took after their parents. Most of them still lived in Nelson and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. They’d adopted their parents’ laid-back approach to life and their opinionated ways. Once a draft-dodger, always a draft-dodger, and that usually resulted in rebellious and independent-thinking offspring.

  Wyatt was one of those offspring. And, he usually just looked the other way when hotline tips rolled in to him about marijuana farms and processing centers. He couldn’t care less and, as long as they behaved themselves and didn’t try to sell the stuff to kids, he was okay with it.

  As the Chief of Police for the City of Nelson, that was a delicate position for him to take. But, he managed it—somehow, he managed it. The city’s residents knew that tolerance had its limits. If they played ball with Wyatt, he’d play ball with them.

  So far, it had worked just fine. In the ten years since he’d been appointed police chief, the crime rate in Nelson had dropped dramatically. In fact, most incidents of theft or violent crime were committed by tourists, or transients just passing through. Nelson got a lot of those types, just because it was a magnet to travelers, and to people hoping to find a different way of life. The setting of the city was magnificent, and most people who came to visit never wanted to leave again.

  That was the biggest challenge to Wyatt and his twenty-person police force: getting the non-residents to respect the peace and relaxed lifestyles of the ones who had earned the right to live there.

  He stretched, and then reluctantly forced himself up out of the chaise lounge for the walk back into the kitchen. Lunch break over. He enjoyed coming home for his lunch hour. He lived only about ten minutes outside the city, but it seemed like more than that. Coming home was a true break from the day’s routine tedium.

  Sighing with trepidation at having to leave his little piece of paradise, Wyatt snapped his gun and holster onto his belt and slipped on his jacket.

  As the chief, he had the choice of wearing his official uniform or just going plainclothes. He always elected to work in his civvies, unless it was some formal event like the Mayor’s Ball. Otherwise, he just felt more comfortable in his own clothes and he knew they put his staff and the citizens at ease, too.

  He fingered his cell phone and saw that he’d missed a call.

  Mom.

  Wyatt remembered that today was the day his dad was having a CT scan done at the hospital.

  He was eighty-seven years old now, while Mom was still just a ‘spring chicken’ at sixty-five. Both his parents were in great shape—the fresh mountain air and stress-free living were kind to both the body and soul.

  And, he suspected they still smoked the odd joint as well, which probably helped keep them young—at least in their minds and souls.

  His father had fallen down the front porch stairs earlier, and the doctor had recommended a scan just to make sure he hadn’t broken a hip or something else. He protested, saying that he’d never had an x-ray in his entire life. But, the doctor—and his doting wife—won out in the end.

  His mother was probably just phoning to give him an update.

  Wyatt decided to get back to her before heading to the office. She answered on the first ring.

  “Oh, thank God it’s you, Wy.”

  She always called him ‘Wy.’ Why not?

  “Hi Mom. What’s wrong? How’s Dad?”

  There was an awkward pause. Then, her voice once again, sobbing this time.

  “Please come to the hospital. I don’t know what to do.”

  Wyatt felt a knot in the pit of his stomach.

  “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll be right there. Something wrong with Dad?”

  More sobbing. Then, her soft voice came back on the line, almost a whisper.

  “They don’t know what to say, or do. I can see right through him.”

  She was distraught, and not making any sense.

  “Of course you can see through him, Mom. You’ve known him forever. Just calm down—I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Wyatt clicked off, grabbed his car keys, and headed out the side door to his police cruiser. The Kootenay Lake District Hospital was only five minutes away, located down on View Street.

  He turned on the siren and made it there in three.

  Parked in the front circular drive, he dashed in through general admitting, saw the sign towards the x-ray department and half-ran, half-walked, the rest of the way.

  He was worried, but he was also well aware of the fact that when people reached the age that his parents were at now, they tended to build little things into major crises.

  Sometimes, it was just too overwhelming for them, trying to handle all the details. Even just paying attention to a doctor’s explanation or instructions could be a daunting experience for them.

  He cursed himself for not going with them this morning, but his mother was insistent that she was capable of handling it. And, she had probably indeed convinced herself that she was. She was a fiercely independent lady, who at the very least didn’t want her son to think he had to take care of them like little children.

  They had both been assertive like that since hitting their senior years, and Wyatt understood. He knew he’d be the same way.

  He saw her—alone in the hallway, pacing back and forth, wringing her hands.

  She saw him, too, and rushed up to greet him, wrapping her frail arms around Wyatt’s big frame and squeezing as hard as she could.

  He squeezed her back, then looked into her eyes. They were bloodshot—he could tell she’d been crying.

  “Tell me what’s wrong, Mom. What’s wrong with Dad?”

  Her lips quivered, and her eyes started blinking rapidly.

  “I can see right through him. It’s horrible, Wy.”

  �
�You said that on the phone. What do you mean? What’s horrible?”

  Suddenly, there was a man in a white coat standing beside them. Wyatt recognized him, but couldn’t place his name.

  “Hello, Chief. You may not remember me—I’m Doctor Simpson, the radiologist. I don’t know what your mom has told you, but we have a very unusual situation here.”

  “What’s so unusual? He came in for a simple CT scan. What’s happened?”

  The doctor took a deep breath and then spoke. “We can’t explain it, and we’ve never seen anything like it. He seems to be okay otherwise, but…”

  “But what? Spit it out!”

  The doctor shuffled his feet. “It’s better that you see for yourself. We have your father in a containment room just down the hall.” He pointed. “Follow me. Please just brace yourself. As I said, he seems okay otherwise and we have him under observation. And his condition does seem to be improving.”

  The doctor led the way. Wyatt called out to him, “What condition? It was a simple fall!”

  Doctor Simpson stopped at a window that was shielded by blinds from the inside. He rapped on the window. “It’s best that you just see for yourself.”

  The blinds opened and Wyatt quickly took in the scene that assaulted him from the antiseptic room beyond the glass.

  Three attendants were dressed in what looked like hazmat outfits, hovering around the bed. There was only one bed in this ‘containment’ room.

  Wyatt stared at what he thought was his father. He heard his mother gasp, and was aware of her turning her head away. Wyatt wanted to do the same. The doctor was silent.

  His dad was naked on the bed except for a pair of boxer shorts.

  And Wyatt could see right through him.

  There was a subtle glow surrounding his body, almost like a haze. His eyes were open and, remarkably, he seemed to be conscious and alert. Remarkable, considering that he looked like death.

  Only one word came into Wyatt’s mind to describe what his father looked like. ‘Transparent.’ His father was transparent. His skin was intact, but it looked shockingly thin, almost like plastic wrap.