Last Message Read online

  SHANE PEACOCK

  LAST

  MESSAGE

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2012 Shane Peacock

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Peacock, Shane

  Last Message [electronic resource]/Shane Peacock

  Seven (the series)

  Electonic monograph.

  Issued also in print format

  ISBN 978-1-55469-936-0 (pdf).-- ISBN 978-1-55469-937-7 (epub)

  First published in the United States, 2012

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012938219

  Summary: At the request of his late grandfather, Adam flies to France in order to perform three difficult tasks that involve a lost painting, a famous book and a forbidden cave.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed

  this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council®.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing

  programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada

  through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts,

  and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council

  and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  Author photo by Kevin Kelly

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1

  To Susan and Jackson Peacock,

  best of friends

  “Go and look again at the roses.”

  —ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPÉRY,

  “THE LITTLE PRINCE”

  Contents

  ONE

  MATTERS OF CONSEQUENCE

  TWO

  SECRETS

  THREE

  TESTS

  FOUR

  THE FIRST ENVELOPE

  FIVE

  VANESSA ENCHANTED

  SIX

  IN THE AIR

  SEVEN

  REVELATION IN THE COUNTRYSIDE

  EIGHT

  MY MOMENT COMES

  2

  NINE

  THE SECOND ENVELOPE

  TEN

  SEARCHING THE DEEPS

  ELEVEN

  MESSAGE FROM THE SEA

  3

  TWELVE

  THE THIRD ENVELOPE

  THIRTEEN

  CASING THE CHAUVET

  FOURTEEN

  THE KEY TO THE CHAUVET

  FIFTEEN

  INTO THE GREAT CAVE

  SIXTEEN

  THE MEANING OF LIFE

  LAST

  SEVENTEEN

  IN FLIGHT

  EIGHTEEN

  WAIT HERE

  NINETEEN

  A SIMPLE SECRET

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  MATTERS OF CONSEQUENCE

  “He’ll never amount to much.”

  That’s what he said. In fact, it was the last thing he said about me.

  I tried not to resent him as I sat with my mother and father in the gloomy, wood-paneled room in his lawyer’s office in Toronto, Canada, fifty floors up in the clouds. It wasn’t the appropriate time to resent him, not at all. I very much doubted that anyone else in the room had even remotely similar feelings. He was dead, after all, freshly flown off on his final adventure into the skies, so fit and “with it” that we were all shocked to hear of his death…at age ninety-two.

  My aunts, one uncle and five cousins—most of the McLean family, in fact—were gathered around too, restless in big leather chairs. I assumed they were thinking about how great he had been. They were right. I held my bottom lip tightly, though I think it was quivering a little. All three of my aunts had Kleenex in hand, and their faces were pretty red. My Uncle Jerry sat stoically, his mouth in a straight line, and my cousins, all boys, were looking down at the floor or up at the ceiling, not making eye contact with anyone, likely deathly afraid they might start to cry. Even DJ, the oldest grandson (actually only a few minutes older than his twin Steve, but much more mature) who liked to think of himself as kind of the leader of our generation, seemed a little shaky. I think Canadians are a bit wimpy anyway, despite what they can do on the ice.

  Mom and Dad looked different. They’re really strong people, just like Grandpa, and it showed in their faces. We were the American branch of the family, maybe that was why. We had converted Mom, who was born up here. She was her father’s favorite; everyone knew that, so you’d think she’d be the most upset. But you wouldn’t know it if you saw her today. She was holding herself together, looking as calm as I’m sure Grandpa was (Canadian, but no wimp) when he flew one of his missions over France, or as Dad looked the day he landed his American Airlines Airbus at Kennedy Airport on one engine, with three hundred passengers on board.

  The blinds were drawn in the room, keeping the bright Canadian morning out. Other than the odd sniffle, no one was saying anything. An old, upright clock ticked loudly in a corner.

  It wasn’t that I wasn’t sad. I was. And it wasn’t that I didn’t love my grandfather. I definitely did. I knew I would miss him hugely, we all would. You’d have to be a robot not to. But I just wished he hadn’t said that about me. And I wished it wasn’t the last thing I heard out of his mouth. I had enough issues without that…though I think I’ve hidden them pretty well.

  The McLean family was used to getting together for much happier occasions. Grandpa was always the center of things, even when he was really old… just like today, when you think of it. He never shut up and he never stopped moving. He had a story for and about everything and anything, and they were always well told. But then again, he had a lot to work with—if you wanted to know about being shot at over Nazi-occupied France, sky-high adventures in Iceland, or flying dangerous sorties in Eastern Africa, he was your guy.

  I remember the last time we were all in one place, just last summer up near his cottage in the Muskoka Lakes district in the province of Ontario, where lots of movie stars had huge holiday homes. I heard Tom Cruise had property up that way, and (of course) loads of hockey stars summered in those parts too. The cottage was a special McLean place, and we’d had all kinds of fun there over the years. But the highlight for just about everyone but me was the day a few years back when we met in a field near the lake so Grandpa could fly his airplane in and take his grandsons up for a ride. It was one of the last times he flew—one of the final missions in his incredible career. I, uh, remember it all too well.

  I threw up. Barfed all over the inside of his precious big bird. And, of course, I was the only one who performed that particular sacrilege. I think I covered up well though—said I hadn’t been feeling the best all day. I could be wrong, but it seemed like all the other guys aced the thing with flying colors (so to speak). I came down as white as the door of his plane.

  Problem is, it isn’t supposed to be that way with me. That was why that “He’ll never amount to much” thing was really hard to deal with. I’m the son of his favorite daughter; I was given his second name; I was the one he flew all night to see in Buffalo on the day I was born (which just
happened to be his birthday too); I’m the one about whom he whispered to Mom, “This one is precious.”

  It would be different if I were a loser. But I’m not. I’m on the football team and the hockey team (ready for my Canuck cousins at the rink any day), and I’ve got a nice-looking girlfriend. My marks are okay too. But that’s the problem. Okay. Everything is just okay with me—strong safety in football, not quarterback; fifth in scoring in hockey, not first; barely on the Honor Roll, not top of the class. And the girl I really want—the one all of us guys at McKinley High want—the goddess Vanessa, with that killer body and blond hair that seems to blow in the wind even when she is just standing at her locker, barely knows I exist. I sometimes feel guilty about my interest in her, since it’s probably just about looks and because everyone wants her. I know I can be insecure sometimes, and it makes me act like a jerk. But I feel like I have so much to live up to. I’m tall for my age and have Grandpa’s dark looks, so I have something to work with. You’d think I’d do better. I’m Adam McLean Murphy, grandson of a legendary war hero, son of John Murphy, the famous airline pilot and decorated Gulf War hero, and Victoria McLean, who ran the 400 meters for Canada in the Olympics and made her father proud. And I’m just “okay.”

  In my opinion, that isn’t good enough.

  He’ll never amount to much. As usual, Grandpa was right on the money. If he’d said that when I was ten or twelve, that would have been different, but it was just last month, last bloody month. I’ve only got a couple of years of high school left! It feels like the die has been cast.

  The door opened and in came Grandpa’s lawyer, dressed in a very unfashionable suit and tie. It looked like he’d bought it at a Target store or some Canadian equivalent.

  “Good afternoon,” he said with a forced smile. It was quickly obvious that he had been under David McLean’s spell too. He began by mumbling something about it being a sad day and how much he had revered Grandpa and couldn’t believe he was dead, despite Grandpa being a lot older. It was as if he figured the great man would live forever.

  Actually, he will live forever, I thought, up there in the sky, looming over us all like a giant shadow.

  His funeral had been very difficult. Everyone was really broken up. It was so hard to believe that he was lying there in that open coffin, actually still for more than a second. I could barely look at him. I was overwhelmed with both sadness and anger. It wasn’t a good scene…inside my head.

  The lawyer started droning on in legal terms about Grandpa’s will. Blah, blah, blah. I just wanted to get out of there and move on—all of this stuff was for our parents’ benefit. And I was still feeling too guilty about not being sad, or at least, not sad enough. I wanted to wrap this up.

  But on and on he went, speaking about “assets” being “liquidated and dispersed to the heirs.” Big surprise! If I hadn’t been packed full of conflicting feelings, I would have fallen asleep. I began thinking about Vanessa: those tight jeans she wears, those form-fitting sweaters.

  But then the lawyer actually said something interesting. He stopped for a moment before he said it, as if he had a momentous message to convey. It got my attention.

  “A sum of money,” he said, his voice dropping lower, “a rather substantial sum, has been put aside to fund an undertaking…or I should say, seven undertakings.”

  Seven undertakings? There are seven aunts and uncles, including Webb’s stepdad, who wasn’t here. The twins’ dad had died a long time ago.

  But there was something about the way he said it. He’d raised his eyebrows and emphasized the word. But why would Grandpa fund some sort of mysterious project for each of his daughters and sons-in-law? Wouldn’t it be better to do it by family—the four families? Why would Dad, for example, take on one thing and Mom another? It didn’t make much sense. And what could these undertakings (which sounded like something funeral directors did) possibly be? Something strange was going on; Grandpa had something up his sleeve. I looked around at my cousins. There were six of us, not seven—five Canucks and a Yankee.

  “This is without a doubt one of the most unusual clauses that I have ever been asked to put in a will.” The lawyer shook his head and smiled.

  Now he had my full attention.

  But then he said he couldn’t share the details with everyone. It seemed like a polite way of telling the grandchildren that secrets were going to be kept from us. There was an eruption of protest. The lawyer tried to silence everyone by continuing to speak. But what he had to say didn’t help at all.

  “Some people will have to leave the room prior to the undertakings being read.”

  One cousin, good old Steve, snorted and began to make a bigger fuss. That was when the rest of my cousins—Webb, Spencer, Bunny (I know, it’s a lame name, but he’s a weirdo and he likes it, and I might too, if my name was Bernard) and even the holier-than-the-rest-of-us DJ—started complaining more too. At first there were just a few comments; then things got louder and all hell broke loose. They really gave it to the lawyer about “not going anywhere.” The parents didn’t help. As they tried to calm their kids, they muttered a few things about this not making sense.

  But not my parents: Mom and Dad were the only ones who didn’t offer any sort of protest. They were often the best-behaved people in any room, and usually the best-looking too. It really ticked me off.

  I wished I was as relaxed as them. My stomach was churning. Something about this had begun to worry me, really worry me. I looked at the lawyer and saw his eyes twinkling. I had a distinct feeling that this wasn’t what it seemed. Our grandfather was pulling strings—again—and we were all about to be surprised, big-time.

  “I need to have everyone except the six grandsons,” said the lawyer with a pause and a barely detectable smile, “leave the room.”

  TWO

  SECRETS

  Once all the parents were out of the room, a miracle happened. The lawyer directed our attention to a TV in a cabinet, pressed a button on a remote control, and suddenly Grandpa was alive again. He looked out at us from a television screen, saying that he loved us and telling us that life was a journey. When he talked about our grandmother, Vera, tears came to his eyes. She was an amazing lady (of course) who had died long before any of us were born. He had raised his four accomplished daughters on his own. As he talked, he was funny and crusty and brilliant (of course) and I missed him like crazy. I also wanted to yell at him, tell him he was wrong about me. His ever-present black beret was on his head, making him look more worldly than any man his age had a right to be. It said that he knew Europe like the back of his hand, had been everywhere else too, done everything, and looked down upon the planet from above—the Picasso of adventure.

  Then he said something weird. He mentioned his “wonderful, incredible”grandsons. But that wasn't what was so strange. It was what he said after that. He called us his “seven blessings.”

  I looked around at the five other guys. DJ raised his hands at me to indicate that he didn’t know what Grandpa was on about; Steve made a little circle in the air with his hand, right near his head, as if to say the great David McLean had lost it. The others just sat there with puzzled expressions.

  I started thinking: seven grandsons, seven undertakings. Almost the moment I thought that, Grandpa confirmed that the undertakings were for us. My eyes snapped up to meet his. Every one of my cousins leaned forward in their comfy leather chairs.

  “In the possession of my lawyer are some envelopes…” Grandpa continued.

  I didn’t hear much else. My mind was racing.

  When his image vanished, we sat there in silence.

  Then the lawyer dropped a final bomb on us. He told us that Grandpa had had a brief relationship with a woman long after his wife died, and recently discovered that he had another daughter, who had a son. There were indeed seven grandsons.

  As we tried to take that in, we were handed our undertakings, seven assignments. Some of the envelopes were bigger and thicker than others, b
ut each had nothing but our names on the front. It was as if we were CIA operatives. I glanced around at the other guys again. Most of them seemed pretty calm, more curious than concerned.

  But not me.

  I knew what was really happening. David McLean was testing us from beyond the grave, each and every one of his boys, his mighty grandsons. This had the smell of a competition. And if we were going to be tested, I had to do well. Very well. Better than well.

  I had to win.

  THREE

  TESTS

  As we drove home to Buffalo that night, it was quiet in the SUV. Mom was at the wheel, going top speed as usual, and Dad was fast asleep in the passenger seat. Or at least, he seemed to be. She appeared preoccupied, as if she were contemplating her next big real-estate deal. One of the top ten realtors in New York State last year—that was Victoria McLean Murphy. But I knew they were acting. I doubted he was really asleep or that she was thinking about anything other than the four items on my lap, all from one of the biggest packages my grandfather had left for any of us—three large manila envelopes and one small white one.

  I didn’t blame Mom and Dad. Who wouldn’t have been curious? Grandpa had such a sense of drama. All the parents had been called back into the lawyer’s office after we’d seen the video. Things had been explained to them. But not everything. And they knew it.

  It was me who broke the silence in the car. It was nice to have held it for so long, controlling things, in charge of my parents for once.

  “I’m sure you are wondering exactly what happened in there.”

  “Pardon me, dear?” asked Mom.

  “Did you say something, buddy?”

  Nice try, guys. “I’ll tell you.”

  “No need,” Mom said.

  “No, it’s okay,” I said.

  “Well, if you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “You don’t need to explain everything.” Dad smiled.

  “I won’t.”

  “What do you mean, you won’t?” asked Mom, a little sternly.