The spring morning was bright and cheerful—and depressing. Katherine looked out the bay window of her living room and angrily scanned the vibrant colors of the front flower bed.
It should be raining, she thought miserably as she followed the path of a robin with her eyes. The dark bird with its flamboyant red breast hopped down the flagstone path that she and Darryl had worked so hard to install just a year ago. Another monument to a marriage long ago dead. Spring’s first batch of flowers swayed in the warming breeze and newly awakened bees danced around each blossom. It should be dark. It should be ugly.Turning away from the picturesque scene she crossed the living room with reluctance, her black dress shoes clicking on the hardwood floor and the long black skirt swishing about her ankles. Her mood was as dark as her clothing but that was to be expected under the circumstances. A car horn honked from the paved drive and she allowed one last cursory glance in the hall mirror before she left for the funeral home. Black eyes stared back at her, large and heavily lashed. Her pale face looked just that much paler framed in her jet hair and a black turtleneck sweater. Darryl had loved the hair cut, telling her that the short straight layers of varying lengths and angles made her look like a model. He had always found ways to charm her and she smiled grimly at her reflection.
And once again, I’ve been stupid enough to believe all his flattery.Her gaze dropped from the mirror to the stack of mail on the hall table below it just as the car horn blared again. She’d forgotten about the bundle of letters in the aftermath of emotions. Quickly she sifted through the various fliers and junk mail, prepared to throw the whole heap in the garbage when a letterhead caught her attention.
The Corporation of the Town of Sevenforks. And it was addressed to Darryl in his own compact script. Why would he send a letter to himself? she wondered and would have opened it but a sudden insistent knocking on the door caused her to hesitate. She stuffed the letter into the hall table’s single drawer, dumped the rest of the bundle of junk mail into the garbage pail underneath and opened the front door.“Sorry. I was just finishing up a few things. I didn’t mean to make you wait.”
Katherine’s sister wore a look of concern on her face as she wrapped her in a tight hug. “Are you going to be ok, Katherine?” It was a silly question but Jasmine always meant well with her sometimes misplaced words.
“Do you mean—will I be able to handle having people stare at me and wonder what I did to drive my husband to suicide? Yes. I think I’ll be able to deal with it. Remember, I’ve been dealing with Darryl’s crap for seven years and I’m pretty much used to the stop, stare and gossip response.” The bitterness was thick and Katherine pulled away before the tears could come.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. You’ve been through a lot. I just wanted to know if you’re going to be ok.”
Katherine could feel her sister’s hurt and she chided herself for the abrupt response she had given her. As they left the quaint frame house she pulled the door closed behind her and looped her arm in Jasmine’s in a reconciliatory gesture. She allowed her sister to guide her to the rust spattered car that sat idling in the drive. Just before she opened the door, Katherine held Jasmine back and turned her to face repentant eyes.
“Look, I’m sorry Jas. I didn’t mean to be snippy. I just know what to expect. I guess I’m more than a bit defensive over the whole thing. That’s all. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Jasmine offered a forgiving smile. “I know you’re having a tough time of it. Maybe it’s good we’re running a bit late. That’ll shorten the time you have to stand and talk to people. And I have an idea.” Jasmine brightened. “Nate can stand on one side and Tim on the other. That way they can intimidate anyone stupid enough to make a mean comment. Deal?”
Katherine barked a cynical laugh. She loved her youngest sibling in spite of the tendency Jasmine had to mother everyone around her. And Nathan and Timmon, her younger twin brothers, would do exactly as she had suggested too. Jasmine held them all under her gentle powers of persuasion having always had that bossy way of hers.
Slipping into the back seat, she mumbled a brief hello to her brother-in-law and then turned to look out the window as they backed onto the busy street and pointed the old Buick La Sabre toward the west end of town. She remained silent, too weary and sad to carry on decent conversation. She knew Jasmine and Bill would likely recognize her quiet depression and she was relieved when they left her out of their soft chatter. How does a person mourn a suicide? How can I feel the loss of love when I doubt that he ever loved me in the first place? Why did he kill himself after telling me he finally had his life together and was looking forward to starting a family? Why was I stupid enough believe him?
Katherine felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes and tried to think of lighter things. She would not cry forhim. Not this way. Not when he had left her the way he did.
Prologue
It was a harsh land. A land created for survivors. Ruggedly beautiful in summer sharp snow-capped granite peaks jabbed at crisp blue skies, their formidable structures providing a starkly contrasting backdrop. Endless carpets of wildflowers, moss and boldly coloured soil blanketed the vast horizons. And then there were the brutal winters that sealed the land in a tight cocoon of glacial ice, numbing cold and darkness. Far from the eyes of the governing authorities, it was the perfect place to experiment into areas that would otherwise be frowned upon. And it was, after all, only one Beluga whale. Even if the carcass was later found, it would be impossible for anyone to trace the elements back to the source.
The man watched as his subordinates hand cranked the cable that ran from the small but sturdy crane to the net encased mammal not thirty feet from the stern of the mid-sized fishing vessel. The boat rocked with the thrashing of the pathetic creature as it heaved its blanched hide in protest of the rough hemp. The erratic jerking and yanking was offset by the hypnotic rhythm of Hudson Bay’s stiff tides and currents and the man wanted the thing to be done and over so he could return to the safety of land.
He studied the whale as it was pulled alongside the ship. Alabaster white, it was a beautiful mammal. Almost a pity to destroy the thing. But as seemed to be the norm in this crazy world, it was an innocent at the hands of someone else’s agenda. The whale stilled and, as instructed, the men kept it half-submerged. There was no point in stressing it any more than necessary.
He walked to the rail and reached down into a box lined with foam packing materials. Pulling out a large syringe, the man held it up to the grey skies and eyed the dose of clear fluid it contained. It should be enough to give them an accurate testing. If it could kill the whale, it would most certainly do its job on its other intended victims.
He patted the animal’s streamlined, smooth skin gently, almost apologetically. And then he plunged the syringe deep, emptying it of its contents. Surprisingly, the creature never moved. Its eyes were just above the waterline and it rolled the nearest one back to fasten on the man with the syringe. As though it knew its own fate. Returning the instrument back to its case, the man settled back to wait. He figured maybe three hours at best and then the creature would begin to show signs.
Ignoring the quiet whale, the man filled the gradual passing of time by scanning the nearby shore, keeping an alert eye out for any human intervention. It would be awkward explaining what had just been done. Better that there were no witnesses. Along a rocky outcropping, a flock of long-tailed ducks waddled and fussed, pleased with the mild summer as they preened their young and themselves. The tundra was vibrant with unusual and persistent life in the short span of time allowed for the warm season.
The man knew all about the tundra. He had studied it with great detail. He knew every plant from the arctic cotton that swayed in the crisp winds to the lousewort and saxifrage that covered the ground in a tenacious blanket. He had followed the migratory paths of the caribou, seen the polar bear in action and felt his heart swell with the aerial
ballets danced by the peregrine falcons, snowy owls and Sabine’s gulls. This was a land he could truly love given a different life. But he only had the life he’d been handed and he would make certain it counted for something. In spite of those who had shaped it brutally and unknowingly. Because of them.
violent protest and continued to wait patiently for whatever it was meant to wait for.
The creature had earned his instant respect and again he felt a twinge of remorse. Glancing at his watch, he was surprised to find that the three hours had come and gone in his fascinated study of the landscape. He moved closer to the seized whale and examined every inch of its sturdy form. Nothing. A frown flickered across his brow and he turned to his associate. “Are you certain the dose was right?”
The smaller, bespectacled man merely shrugged and nodded.
“I wonder what’s gone wrong then.” He turned back to the whale and gave it another once-over.
“I don’t understand it, sir. This compound is strong enough that it should have shown its mark long before now. Maybe I should draw a tissue sample and take it back to the lab to see what went wrong.”
The man nodded and stepped out of the smaller man’s path. “Get it done then, release the poor creature and we’ll be off. I’ll contact my chopper pilot and he can pick us up on shore. Don’t dawdle.” He gave his associate a knowing look and reached into
his pocket for his two-way radio. “We’re ready.” He barked the two words into the receiver, waited for acknowledgement and then turned to the vessel’s captain. “We’ll pick up my chopper on shore. I’ll need your life boat to get myself and the doctor there. Would that be a problem?”
The ten thousand dollars above the rental fee for the fishing vessel pretty much guaranteed that it likely wouldn’t be and the Captain shrugged his submission.
Finished with his ministrations over the whale, the doctor turned and secured the tissue sample along side the empty syringe in the padded case. He rose and heaved the bulky case into his arms almost jealously and maneuvered across the open deck to where the lifeboat was being lowered to the water’s rolling surface. Before long, the two men were settled, side by side, in the small wooden motor boat and heading for shore.
No one on board the ship could have heard the small burst of sound deep in the bowels of the vessel where the engine room was located. If they had they would be scrambling like ants at a picnic in order to repair the small but effective damage done to the resting engine. So absorbed in the approach of the sleek helicopter were they that they also missed the second muffled pop that punched a small hole in one of the lowest of the ship’s seams.
From his perch in the small heaving life boat the man could tell exactly when their first inkling came that something was wrong. He smiled as the ship tilted slightly more than it should have in the Bay’s choppy waters. The Captain turned away from the rail and his retreating passengers tossing orders to his men and then he turned a wicked eye back to the life boat. The man saluted him, the smile widening on his face. From somewhere aboard a crew member shouted that the ship had sprung a leak.
The first mate scrambled to the bridge with the intent of turning the vessel to shore, but as he fired up the engine, the small damage ballooned into a loud explosion and black smoke roiled up from the stairwell that led to the ship’s center.
The Captain clutched the rail and bellowed for his men to jump ship and
head for shore. If the freezing water didn’t kill them, they might find a way to civilization using the small row boat. Against the backdrop of the distant shouts the man felt the muffled scrape of the boat’s contact with the gravel of the shore and he calmly stepped from the still bobbing craft. From the small cargo area of the helicopter the pilot pulled out a can of gasoline and offered it to his boss. He shook his head in refusal. Let the pilot do it.
He watched dispassionately as his pilot poured the can of liquid over the life boat then and again he smiled as tongues of yellow and red flame leapt from the wooden structure, consuming it in an instant conflagration. He cast a sly glance at the small figures splashing stiffly in the frigid waters. The fire loudly broadcast their fate to them in the heat waves and smoke that plunged skyward, shifting and gyrating with the increasing rotation of the chopper’s blades. He stood a few moments longer enjoying the life giving heat, watching as it faded into weak embers and then he nodded to his pilot and settled himself in a back seat leaving the front passenger seat to his associate in crime. The sleek bird rose in the air, hovered for a moment and then slowly lifted above the smoldering ruins to the clearer air.
The man continued to watched as the crew struggled and splashed their way toward shore. Few of them would make it through the arctic waters and those who did would not likely survive in the harsh tundra. The ship sank quickly, its heavy diesel engine pulling it under the icy waves. Within minutes no sign of it remained other than a dark shadow beneath the churning surface of the Bay. One by one, the men of the small
fishing vessel The Swordfish slipped beneath the waters as they too succumbed to the frigid waters. He nodded to himself and reached forward to tap his pilot’s shoulder. He’d seen enough. No witnesses. That’s what he had decided. That’s what he got. The chopper tilted and sped off toward the south leaving the land as it had been. Empty. Stark. Barren. Incredible.
Yes.
In the underground bunker the voices bounced hollowly, like floating apparitions of sound. It was 1940 and the German war machine was smashing its way, boldly, through Western Europe. Poland was occupied. The Germans had flanked the Maginot line entering Holland without so much as a warning. Britain sat itself squarely in Belgium, like a steadfast bulldog prepared to guard new territory. Japan turned its eyes on the vastness of the South Pacific, hungering for the expansion of her mighty empire, and Italy ceased waffling between the Axis powers and the Allies, firmly deciding to join with the nearest geographical might.
But in the bowels of the earth, none of this was of importance at the moment. No one knew of this particular hole in the dirt. Far below the titanic conflict, that
threatened to destroy all that lived andmoved in this European corner of the world, nestled a conglomerate of rooms tied together by narrow and dimly lit halls. Each room was proportionate only to the ability of its stabilizing structures in their effort to keep the tons of dirt above from swallowing it. But even still, they were large enough to host small groups of scheming and heavy-thinking men who enjoyed their strutting and crowing before the red and black banner of the Nazi movement.The thick language of the German people chopped through one room in particular, anger and dissatisfaction crashing against the steel walls like relentless mortar shells.
“What do you mean, you had to stop 'The Project?' How do you know for certain that anyone is aware of the complex?” The Fuehrer jumped to his feet, knocking the chair back in his tirade, a lock of unruly dark hair flopping across the tense forehead and spittle flecking the corners of his mouth. His eyes were wild with an instant fear and fury as he faced the possibility that his life long dream might be discovered by the enemy. Drawing a calming breath, the man struggled to control his infamous temper, and reached down to upright the chair. He sat slowly again, like a snake lowering itself into its coils before the strike. Glittering eyes scanned the faces in the room, noting with a strange satisfaction that no one would return his intense stare. That wasgood. They feared him.
The young officer who had brought the message stood straight as a rod. But Adolph Hitler could see that the lad was terrified. He wouldn’t be the first one the leader of Germany had shot for delivering an unfavourable message. Hitler narrowed his eyes and looked closely at the young man. Perfect. Beautiful. Foundation stock. Why is he not part of 'The Project'?
He eyed
the second lieutenant like a predator would assess its next meal. The man was easily six feet tall and built solidly. Deep azure eyes drilled holes in the far wall, never wavering. Hair, so blonde—almost white—and silky, covered his head in a thick and wavy carpet. His skin was fair like a woman’s and his cheeks were tinted with a bright red, telling all in the room that he feared the attention of his Fuehrer.“What’s your name, L
eutnant?” He pronounced the German equivalent rank as ‘loy-ten-nant.’.“Eric…Mien Fuehrer. Eric Schneider,” the young man said in an even, steady voice.
“What part do you have in '
The Project'?” The words purred through the room and a few of the Generals shifted uncomfortably in their seats.“I was in charge of security, Mien Fuehrer.”
“I see.” He was suddenly
amused by the craftiness of 'The Project's' chief scientist. The fat old man was a genius in diplomacy and politics as much as he was in his particular scientific field. If the French had discovered the whereabouts of the experimental laboratory, it was because of this young man’s inability to do his job correctly, and the aging scientist would make certain the punishment didn’t land on his own doorstep. Pity such a lovely specimen of the Aryan race had to be so incompetent. He watched as the man swallowed hard, the fine forehead beading with perspiration.“So because of you…” Hitler rose to his feet, clamped a hand behind his back and, stroking his chin with the other, slowly circled the young man, eyeing him thoughtfully, “…my most prized project must stop?”
“Yes, Mien Fuehrer. I take full responsibility and await your decision on my discipline. I don’t ask for mercy. That i
s weakness.”Hitler stopped his circling and looked directly into the Li
eutenant’s hooded stare. He was surprised by the response. And strangely proud. This is a true Aryan. He remained brooding and silent for a moment longer and then he smiled. It sent a chill through the heart of the soldier standing at attention before him.“You will not die today, young Leutnant. Your answer is the right one. You show true Aryan pride and dignity. For this I will reward you. Your genetics will be added to 'The Project' and your family line will live forever.”
A muscle in the man’s face twitched as he thought of some of the cruel and seemingly unnecessary experiments that took place in the name of 'The Project'
. Through his mind flitted a momentary thought of escape followed by defeated acceptance. He wouldn’t get more than five feet from the door before being cut down by the guards in the room. Snapping his heels in resigned salute, accompanied by a raised arm and a strained "Heil Hitler", he turned sharply and marched toward the door, flanked on either side by two SS-Oberschutz.The smile faded from the Fuehrer’s face as he watched the brutal '
black-shirts', his elite killer soldiers, usher the next guinea pig for 'The Project' through the chamber doors. Let’s hope the good doctor uses only the looks and bravery of this man and not his intellect, the cruel leader mused. He seated himself once again and remained still for some time, his mind working through the problem that had been laid out before him, finally rousing himself as a gentle cough shattered the silence of the room, leaving its harsh echo to fade into silence again.“Yes, General?” he said.
“I wish to offer a suggestion,
Mien Fuehrer.”“Go on.”
“The French have been a thorn in your side since the beginning,” the General said, encouraged by the Fuehrer’s silence. “You want to conquer France eventually,
but if we strike now, perhaps we can speed up your supreme reign in Europe. If we can intimidate King Leopold of Belgium, maybe he will surrender. We can then enter Northern France and drive the French into the English Channel. Once we own France, your project is safe again.”The General sat waiting in silence, hoping he wouldn’t be the next victim of 'The Project'. Who knew where the whims of the mad leader would take them. Hitler dropped his chin into his hand and remained silent. The tension expanded. And then the Chief Commander of the Third Reich lifted his gaze to the General and smiled his stiff grin.
“Yes. It’s a good plan, General. It will also advance our eventual conquest of England. And the rebuilding of the Aryan race won’t be interrupted. Very good. Very good, indeed.”
It was never her intention to become a believer in Christ. She had fallen too far to think she could ever have found her way back to such freedom and forgiveness. God had other plans, though. Will miracles never cease? she reflected as she stared absently through the large plate glass window.
She could see the sun, blood-hued and angry looking, rising over the lake, its silver-grey surface duplicating the fiery disk in its rippling depths. Lake Restoule. It was a beautiful place with its abrupt rocky outcroppings and hills covered with dense collections of brambles, ferns, and scrub trees struggling to maintain their grasp on their barren perches--a place of peace.
She smiled at the glorious sight spread out before her. There was a fine lacy edging of ice skirting the pristine lake water, and the birch, maple and elm trees on the island across from her were absorbing the growing light that was transforming colourless leaves into a blaze of oranges, yellows and bronzes. Early morning fauna were rustling nervously through dry and shrivelled grasses that begged for the approaching rain, and the trees had already begun the slight shuffling dance that precedes a coming storm, their awkward and brittle arms lifting papery foliage in supplication to an overcast sky.
Her focus shifted to the ghostly reflection of her own face mirrored, shadowed and indistinct, in the glass that separated her from nature's canvas, and her smile faded a bit. Her outward appearance was a contrast. Native blood, passed down from her mother, flowed strong in her veins, manifesting itself through the hue of her skin. Long, thick hair bore evidence of her father's Scottish ancestry, it's deep auburn tint muted in the early light. She was a tiny woman, like her mother, slim and willowy with a lithe grace in her movements. Her diminutive size belied an incredible strength of limb. hers was a body of speed and economy.
Her eyes dropped to the dim reflection of the long ragged scar that traced a wicked path from the corner of her almond-shaped, chocolate-coloured eyes to just below her mouth. It was a sad mouth, full and sensuous in shape but with a slight turning down of its corners. It contradicted the peace and joy that shone just below the surface of the rest of her young and lovely face.
But it was her eyes that really told the story. Eyes that had once been full of pain and despair, devoid of hope, now showed slow and steady healing. An unearthly patience, forged in the fires of trial and tribulation, dwelled in their dusky depths, speaking of a life of bitter and harsh experience overcome by great victory. They were ancient eyes.
