Paraglide

By Peter Anthony Kelley

For siblings Jim and Erica Winters, a summer vacation to London promises adventure and a bit of freedom from their overprotective mother. But once they arrive, they end up with more excitement than they bargained for. Their mother is kidnapped and her captors demand the one thing they can’t produce – their long-absent father.
Unable to trust the authorities, Jim and Erica set off in pursuit of their father, racing across Europe and fending off mysterious assailants. As the trail of clues dries up, help arrives in the form of a raven-haired beauty. Is she the answer to their prayers or a romantic distraction?
With the kidnapper’s deadline looming, the truth about their father’s shadowy past is revealed. In a last ditch effort to save their mother, Jim and Erica must climb high into the Swiss Alps where a perilous choice confronts them. Can they trust their father who has repeatedly betrayed them? Their family's survival may depend on it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Anthony Kelley
• Release date: Jan 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465853479

Peter Anthony Kelley

Peter is the author of the young-adult novel, Paraglide. He lives in Minneapolis with his wife, two daughters and a cranky nineteen-year old cat named Brownie. He graduated from American University with a Master's degree in International Relations. When he's not writing he loves travel, biking and watching soccer.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Genevieve Winters was gone. Vanished! Jim and Erica raced through the gift shop and around the ticket windows, searching up and down the long curving lines of sightseers, ignoring irritated cries about budging and queue jumping. Jim clutched his sister’s hand and ran to the visitor’s plaza. He examined every face, chasing after turned heads and hunched shoulders, whipping a hoodie off a startled skater boy. Nothing. Their mother was gone.

They’d arrived in London yesterday afternoon, bleary eyed and jet lagged on a nonstop flight from Minneapolis to visit Abbey Brewer, their mother’s cousin.

I didn’t know you had relatives in England, said Erica when their mom surprised them with news of the trip.

She’s a second cousin. Or maybe a first cousin twice removed. I can never remember which it is, Genevieve shook her head. She stood up and stared out the kitchen window, absently twisting a dishcloth in her hands. She cleared her throat. Abbey moved to England, a town north of London called Colchester with her stepmother when I was still a kid. You’re father and I visited once.

Why did she invite us now? asked Jim.

Genevieve shrugged, a distant look in her sharp green eyes. We’ve been meaning to get over there again for ages. The time just never seemed right.

Jim frowned. Another family outing. Ten days of forced togetherness. When his mom first mentioned Europe, he had visions of Paris, the food capital of the world. The best chefs, the best restaurants, lounging in sidewalk cafés, eating freshly made crepes or baguettes with gobs of sweet butter and hunks of cheese. Instead they were heading to England, home of mushy peas, sausage rolls, and greasy fish served in newspaper.

Once upon a time their mother would have solicited their opinion, asked them where they wanted to go, what they wanted to do. Vacation destinations were a group decision, majority rule. Only ties were broken by a parent. But there were no ties anymore. Even if he and Erica outvoted their mother two-one, she held veto power and wasn’t afraid to use it.

His mom used to be cool. When Dad was still around. They talked. She actually heard him. She didn’t mind if he cruised all over town, biking up and down Rock Creek Park, over to Georgetown and even down to Alexandria. As long as his cell phone was charged and he got home by nine, she trusted him. But ever since Edward walked out and they bailed on D.C., she’d become distracted and refused to let him do anything on his own.

For the past eight months, she acted as if he needed a bodyguard just to step out the front door. When he got on the school bus every morning he could see her watching from the kitchen window. It was all he could do to keep her from standing with him at the street corner like the kindergarten moms. Even worse was being dragged around every place she went: shopping for Erica’s shoes, visits to the dentist, even trips to her salon. It was Minnesota. Everyone was nice. What could possibly happen? He was fifteen years old. He didn’t need a chaperone while he brushed his teeth and tied his shoes. He didn’t need a chaperone at all. But his mom didn’t see it that way. It’s a new place for us, she’d explained. Once we get settled in, everything will be back to normal.

He tried not to complain or argue too much, especially when she got that distant look in her eyes. His parents’ separation and their move to the Land of 10,000 Lakes had been hard on his mom too. But it was tough enough making friends in a new town and a new school without your mother and your nine-year old sister hovering in the background like overeager puppies. If he had to spend one more Friday night visiting the video rental store with his mom and Erica, he would go ballistic.

They landed at Heathrow Airport and took The Tube into central London. Erica read a dark blue sign on the dingy platform. Piccadilly, she laughed. That’s hilarious. Piccadilly. Pick a lily. Pill a licky. Lick a pilly. Lick a pillow.

Jim rolled his eyes and waited for his mom to quiet Erica, but she didn’t. Genevieve had been unusually happy from the moment they’d gotten off the plane, actually bouncing when they picked up their luggage and went through customs. She smiled indulgently at her chattering daughter and winked at Jim. This was more like the easy-going parent Jim had known in Washington. Not the stressed out, overprotective den mother he’d lived with for the past eight months. Flying first class must have been just what the doctor ordered. Or maybe she was excited to see Abby again.

Their train approached three minutes later, its arrival heralded by a hollow chime and a gust of dank, musty air. The glass and metal cars blurred along the platform, racing toward the tunnel on the far side of the station. Was it going to stop? Jim and his mother exchanged troubled glances. Maybe they had the wrong platform. Erica stepped back, her nonsense rhymes swallowed up by the clatter of the oncoming train.

The cars finally began to slow. A pair of flight attendants positioned themselves near the edge of the platform. Jim relaxed and leaned toward the tracks, readying to board. Something gray flashed in the corner of his vision. He turned his head and was roughly bumped from behind. He sprawled toward the still moving train.

Jim! His mother cried, grasping desperately at the dangling straps of his backpack.

Jim caught himself with one hand on the cool concrete floor. He stood and spun around, searching for the culprit, catching sight of a dark-haired man wearing a long gray raincoat disappearing into the crowds at the far end of the platform.

Are you OK? Genevieve asked, brushing a patch of dust off his jeans.

No problem, he said, leaning to get out of her reach. He raised his eyebrows and stared after the now departed man. But watch out for businessmen on a mission.

I guess, his mom continued, still fussing over him.

We should go now, said Erica, pointing to the open train doors in front of them.

They gathered their luggage and bustled into the compartment. A calm British accent instructed them repeatedly to mind the gap. Whatever that meant. Crumpled Styrofoam cups and sections of abandoned newspaper littered the floor. A cold mildewy aroma filled the air. Threadbare blue and purple seat cushions lined the walls. The Tube was nothing like the clean Metro cars in D.C. At least they have a subway, Jim said quietly. Northfield didn’t have any public transportation, unless you counted the muddy tractors the occasional farmer let you climb on as they clattered down the country roads.

They managed to find three open seats, two side-by-side and a third across the aisle. Jim took the single chair and started reading ads lining the walls – mostly posters for the latest West End theater productions: The Sound of Music, Les Miserables, The Lion King and Monty Python’s Spamalot.

Genevieve had floated the idea of getting tickets to a show while they were in London. Erica desperately wanted to see Hairspray. She adored the John Travolta movie version and had listened to the soundtrack on her iPod at least a hundred times. Jim was indifferent to the idea. He didn’t really care for plays and found musicals ridiculous. Nobody ever broke into song like that in real life. But when he saw the description of Spamalot, he quickly changed his mind.

He’d been obsessed with everything Python since he was eleven and his dad brought home a copy of Monty Python’s, The Meaning of Life. The two of them watched the movie twice that day, then picked up all the troupe’s TV shows and other films in the weeks that followed. It was probably Jim’s best memory of his dad: sitting on the old leather couch in the back room, laughing until they cried. Watching Python remained the one thing they continued to share, even as his dad grew increasingly distant.

Neither Erica nor his mom shared their passion, so Jim assumed his chances of seeing Spamalot were less than slim and only slightly better than none. And, he didn’t hold out much hope for staying at the hotel by himself given his mom’s paranoia. So he resigned himself to two hours of bubbly singing and over-eager dancing. But his mom surprised him by being open to his suggestion.

Let’s wait and see what we can get once we arrive, she said a week before they departed. We’ll hit one of those last-minute ticket stands and take whatever’s available.

They exited The Tube at Covent Garden station and meandered toward their hotel. On the way, they passed through the Central Market, a huge open-air building full of arty little stalls selling jewelry, clothing, antiques, and huge assortment of hand-crafted items. Scattered amidst the shops were a selection of cafés, pubs and wine bars, each with its own portable blackboard out front announcing the daily specials in neon-colored chalk. The air smelled like a carnival: a mix of grease and cotton candy, tendrils of assorted perfumes and aftershaves, car exhaust and bubble gum.

One board offered afternoon tea with all the trimmings. While Paris would have been preferable, a few British culinary traditions did pique Jim’s interest. At home, he never would have lived down attending a tea. His friends would have razzed him mercilessly. He kept his love of cooking pretty much to himself. It wasn’t what the normal kids did. But the thought of a hot scone with strawberry jam and clotted cream made his mouth water. He asked his mom if they could come back later.

A small but exuberant crowd had gathered on the edge of the market. Curious, Jim and Erica slipped into the throng, squeezing past an elderly couple and a pale-skinned Goth girl. Genevieve stood guard over the bags a dozen feet behind, another sign their formerly relaxed mother had returned. At the front they found a street performer wearing bright yellow pants, a red-and-white striped shirt and lime-green jacket. He juggled knives while balancing on the top of a seven-foot aluminum extension ladder, walking the legs of the ladder around the small area like metal stilts. The crowd oohed and applauded with each trick.

Jim raised his eyebrows and pointed to the dull knives. He could catch them by the blade and it wouldn’t hurt, he said.

You still couldn’t do it, Erica pointed out.

I didn’t say I could. I just meant it wasn’t that dangerous, that’s all.

While the two siblings debated, the performer jumped off the ladder and leapt to where they stood.

A volunteer! He shouted, grabbing Jim’s arm and pulling him forward.

No… I…, Jim stumbled.

Ah yes, another sap… I mean volunteer, rendered speechless by my incandescent brilliance! Not to worry, my lad! I have the same effect on pensioners and small dogs.

The crowd laughed and Jim’s face reddened. He tried to pull away, but his arm remained locked in the grip of the street performer. Jim swallowed and looked up. A hundred pairs of eyes bored into him. His fingers grew cold and sluggish. It was the jazz band fiasco all over again. The two minute sax solo should have been a snap. He knew the music, played it every day in practice. But as soon as he got in front of an audience his body refused to move. The director told him to relax, but the longer he sat there the more uncomfortable he became. All those expectant faces focused only on him and his silent instrument. What could be worse? Gazing out now at a sea of unfamiliar people, Jim’s body tensed and his mind went blank.

What’s your name, lad?

Jim didn’t move.

The performer punched him lightly on the arm. Your name, my boy. Everyone has one. What do they call you?

Jim blinked and spotted Erica grinning at him. Jim. Jim Winters.

And where are you from Jim Jim?

Um…It’s just Jim. I’m from America.

Um… where in Americer, Just Jim, said the performer, using a mock American accent.

I’m from Washington D.C., Jim began. Er, no. I mean Minnesota.

Well which is it now? Make up your mind. You can’t be from two places, can you?

Jim started to explain, but was cut off. Well, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jimmy. My name is Lionel and together you and I are going to give these fine people a bit of a show. Lionel raised his hands in the air and turned in a broad circle, taking in the audience all around him. Are you ready for a show? he asked.

A few audience members nodded. Feeble calls of yeah floated out from the crowd.

I said are you ready for a show? Lionel shouted, prancing about the makeshift stage and waving his arms like windmills.

Yessss, answered the crowd a bit more enthusiastically.

Lionel shook his head and put his hands on his hips. Better. But…what say you, Jimbo? Good enough? I don’t know if we should let these lot off with that pathetic display. You reckon they can give us a bit more?

Jim summoned a weak smile and nodded.

Jim ‘ere doesn’t think you’re loud enough. Lionel took a step back and pointed at him with an accusing finger. Jim didn’t care how much noise the audience made. He wanted only to merge back into the crowd and become anonymous again. Where was his overprotective mother when he needed her?

Let’s try it one more time. Lionel paused. Are you ready for a show? he shouted.

Now knowing the drill, the audience roared its assent and added a dose of applause. Lionel hopped up and down like an excited monkey, alternately clapping and pumping his right arm into the air. Jim stood frozen, waiting for it all to be over.

As the crowd quieted, Lionel picked a tattered canvas sack off the ground, theatrically stuck in his arm and pulled out three huge curved swords. They were the kind seen in old pirate movies: bright silver, wide in the middle and tapering to a sharp point –the weapon used by Blackbeard and Long John Silver to prod hapless victims down the plank. And unlike the knives Lionel had been juggling earlier, these swords had razor-sharp edges.

The brightly clad performer removed a fresh pineapple from his sack. He turned the fruit for everyone to see, then tossed it high into the air. As the pineapple fell, Lionel swung one of the sabers in a wide arc, cleanly slicing it in half before it hit the ground.

The crowd oohed appreciatively. Lionel bowed and stepped toward his audience. He extracted a large orange from his jacket pocket and held it up in one hand, the sword in the other. Orange juice, anyone?

The laughter echoed around Jim. His vision dimmed. Memories of a visit to the Ichiban Steak House sprang to life. His twelfth birthday. Erica stayed home with a sitter and his Dad was between assignments. It was just the three of them. Jim marveled as the Japanese chefs prepared the meals, their knife blades barely visible as they whisked through the air. Mom had to remind him to eat. Even his dad’s announcement – another trip, two months in South America – hadn’t put a damper on the evening.

The vision of flying knives allowed Jim to relax a bit. He spied Erica grinning at him. He smiled back. He caught a glimpse of his mom’s face for a moment, but lost it when two men stepped in front of her. Jim frowned. He craned his neck and the men shifted again, as though deliberately trying to block his view. What were they doing? Jim signaled to Erica, wanting her to check on Mom, but she shook her head, unable to understand him.

Jim mouthed mom as Lionel pushed him toward a large white board leaning upright against a wall. Stand there, lad, said the showman, pointing to the outline of a body spray painted in red on the board. I know it looks like something out a crime scene, but you needn’t worry, I’ve not lost anybody yet. Lionel took a step away from Jim, leaned toward the audience, and cupped a hand against his mouth. That French bloke doesn’t count. He moved. Lionel winked. And besides, he was from France.

When Jim was correctly positioned against the board, Lionel picked up the swords and took six long paces. Now Just Jim, you need to keep perfectly still. Do you understand?

Jim nodded.

Lionel waved a sword in the air and cocked his arm. Remember, don’t move. This won’t hurt a bit. Lionel lowered the sword and spun around, letting Jim and everyone in the audience see his fingers crossed behind his back. Turning back to face Jim, Lionel cocked his arm again. Ready? he asked. Before Jim could respond, Lionel’s arm came down with a jerk. Jim jumped. He heard the crowd laugh and realized the sword had never left Lionel’s hand.

I told you not to move, said Lionel with flamboyant flourishes of his hands. What are you, French or something? The crowd hooted with approval. Jim shrank against the board. He looked for his mom, but couldn’t see her or the men blocking his view. He pursed his lips and tried to recapture the confidence he’d had in the Ichiban chefs, but the frolicking presence of Lionel hopping around the sidewalk was too great a distraction.

All right, enough of this monkey business, Lionel shouted, quieting the audience. You didn’t come ‘ere for mindless frivolity. You want a trick. You want pizzazz and razzmatazz! You want mayhem and body parts! I know you do, don’t you? He grinned and pointed to a large man with a red face, his big head moving up and down as though it were on a spring. This bloke ‘ere is out for blood. Look at him. Nodding like a bloody bobble head doll, he is. What do you think this is, the Jack the Ripper tour? We run a family operation ‘ere, nothing to frighten the young ones. Lionel winked at the man, cocked his head and put his hand aside his mouth. Gimme a fiver and I’ll make sure you get a finger or two.

Lionel stepped back toward Jim and pulled a black handkerchief out of his pocket. All right, it’s show time! He quickly tied the handkerchief over Jim’s eyes and whispered into his ear, Remember Jimbo, it’s only a performance. It’s all for the audience. Lionel obviously meant to comfort him, but sweat continued dripping down his forehead. The blindfold helped a little. In the blackness, he could almost imagine he was all alone, somewhere else, not the target of a crazy sword-throwing street thespian. It will be over soon, he told himself again and again.

Jim heard the clank of the swords and more of Lionel’s non-stop patter, but the specific words failed to register. Lionel’s voice blended into the buzz of the crowd. Jim heard a loud gasp and then applause. He started to think nothing was going to happen when the audience began counting down, Three…two…ONE!

Jim heard a strange whistling noise, the kind someone made when they were imitating a falling bomb. It was followed immediately by the crunch of splintering wood. The board vibrated against his back. The audience responded with an odd mix of laughter and boisterous applause. Why were they laughing? He took a step forward and felt a hand gently pushing him back. One more, my boy, Lionel said. A moment later he heard a second countdown, followed by the same whistle, splinter and applause.

As the clapping continued, the blindfold was removed. Jim tipped his head. The two-foot sword lay embedded in the wood under his arm. The second weapon stuck inches from his left shoulder. He wheezed out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The blood rushed from his head and his knees quivered.

Let’s hear it for Just Jim! shouted Lionel, raising Jim’s hand into the air and shaking it as though they were candidates running for office.

Jim stood by awkwardly as people buffeted him in their effort to drop money into Lionel’s outstretched hat. Indistinguishable voices buzzed in his ears. The crowd began to drift away and still he didn’t move. Someone grabbed his hand. That was so cool, said Erica, pulling him aside. I wish he had chosen me. She bounced up and down. "Did