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SHANE PEACOCK
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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.
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this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council
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.
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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
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15   14   13   12   â¢Â   4   3   2   1
To Susan and Jackson Peacock,
best of friends
“Go and look again at the roses.”
âANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPÃRY,
“THE LITTLE PRINCE”
Contents
SEVEN
REVELATION IN THE COUNTRYSIDE
FOURTEEN
THE KEY TO THE CHAUVET
“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 deathâ¦at age ninety-two.
My aunts, one uncle and five cousinsâmost of the McLean family, in factâwere 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 thatâ¦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 withâif 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 flewâone 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 thoughâsaid 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 meâstrong 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 wantâthe one all of us guys at McKinley High wantâthe 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 sceneâ¦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 onâall 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.
