The Dove's Eye

By Shawn Jennings MD

Six-year-old Jacob Thompson is not supposed to be home this Friday afternoon; he should be spending the night with a friend. Instead, his drunken father takes him hunting, during which Jacob witnesses his fathers deathan event that for years afterward Jacob believes was an accidental shooting.

Only two people know the truth about Freds death. Shelly Thompson is tired of her husbands physical abuse and fears for her childrens safety. She feels trapped and, with the help of her new love, Scott MacKinnon, plots to murder her husband.

Jacobs youth is tormented by nightmares about watching his father die. When he recedes into a depression after a tragic event, he seeks psychiatric help and begins to explore his memories via hypnosis. Guilt and fear block Shelly from telling Jacob what his father was really like and how he died. As a young man, Jacob finally discovers the awful truth about his fathers death. His familys future now relies on whether he responds with understandingor more violence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450266673

Shawn Jennings MD

SHAWN JENNINGS, MD, had a brainstem stroke at the age of forty-five that left him completely paralyzed except for his eyelids. He now lives with his wife Jill in Rothesay, New Brunswick. The ideas for this story emerge from experiences working as a family doctor for over twenty years.

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The Dove’s Eye

SHAWN JENNINGS, MD

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

The Dove’s Eye

Copyright © 2010 by Shawn Jennings, MD

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-6665-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-6666-6 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-6667-3 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 10/25/2010

To my children Colin, Beth, and Tara

Acknowledgement

I wish to thank Yvonne Wilson, a former professor of creative writing, for her time spent reading and editing my manuscript. After reading my first draft of The Dove’s Eye, she implored me to become Jacob and write with his voice more. If I succeeded and the reader hears and feels Jacob, I owe it all to Yvonne Wilson.

Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.

—John 8:32

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 1

Six-year old Jacob Thompson bounded down the steps of the yellow school bus stopped in front of his house on the Kingston Peninsula. There was no other house around, just woods and a glimpse of the St. John River behind him in this rural part of New Brunswick.

Look both ways now before you cross the road, the driver called.

He stopped on the steps and turned to the bus driver. I will.

The bus driver grinned mischievously and said, I’ll see you tomorrow, Jacob.

Tomorrow is Saturday! he said, laughing. We don’t go to school on Saturday!

She chuckled, told him to have a good weekend, and closed the bus door.

He crossed the road to his white house with blue trim, ran around the front lawn onto a dirt yard, and called, Cocker! His dog bounded toward him, jumping, barking, and wagging his tail so wildly, his backend threatened to bring him down.

Jacob squatted down to receive Cocker in his arms. Easy, boy, easy! he cried, laughing as Cocker licked his face and almost knocked him over. He buried his face in Cocker’s neck of long yellow fur and rubbed his head. Missed me did you, boy? he said. I’ve got all weekend with you, Cocker. Let’s go see if Mom’s got a cookie.

Cocker raced towards the backdoor, glancing back frequently to make sure Jacob was following.

Jacob opened the screen and then the wooden door to the back porch. Brooms and mops, the vacuum cleaner, firewood, and a cot that Cocker used as his bed filled the room.

Jacob opened the door to the kitchen and saw his father standing there, holding a beer and staring out the window as if he was hypnotized.

Daddy! he cried, running to his father with arms extended.

Fred put his beer down on the kitchen table that stood under the window and lifted him up. He looked puzzled. I didn’t see you coming, Jacob, he said. What are you doing home?

Jacob suddenly realized that he was supposed to get off the bus with Mark Dugay and stay at his house until his mother picked him up. This might be bad.

Your mother left me a note, Fred said. When I got up no one was home, but this note was here on the fridge. His father put him down and retrieved the note. "It says here:

"Dear Fred,

"Jennifer and I have gone to town to do some shopping. We will be late getting home. Jacob is at the Dugays’ and I will pick him up later tonight. I made you a lunch in the fridge for work tonight and you can warm up the leftover stew for supper.

Shelly"

Jacob panicked. Perhaps he could say Mark was sick, or perhaps he was sick. He hesitated, feeling his father’s glare. Best to tell the truth. I forgot, he said meekly.

At that moment, the phone rang. Oh hello, June, his father said. Yes, Jacob is here… I guess he just forgot to get off the bus at your house… Yeah, boys aren’t good with plans, especially with the weekend comin’ on… No, no, it’s no bother having Jacob with me. I was up… I’m going to work at the Pulp Mill at eight… Well, I’ll tell you… If Shelly ain’t back by then, I’ll drop him off with you until she comes home. If that’s all right with you… That’s okay… Then fine, June… I might see you later. Fred hung up the phone and turned to him.

He was afraid he was in for a scolding or worse, but his father smiled. Want to come huntin’ with me, Jacob? he asked. I know your mother doesn’t approve of me taking you huntin’, and that’s probably why she had you going to the Dugays’. She doesn’t understand us men. You want to go huntin’ with your daddy, don’t you, Jacob?

Jacob smiled. No punishment for coming home. Great! You bet, Daddy! he exclaimed.

His dad took off Jacob’s coat, added a sweater from the closet, wrapped a woolly scarf around his neck, and put the coat back on him with gloves and a wool stocking cap as the final touch. There’s my man, his dad said, clapping him on both arms. November’s cold, boy; especially as the sun goes down.

Think we’ll see a deer today, Daddy?

You bet. We’re going to get us a big buck today.

A buck is a boy deer. Right, Daddy?

Right on, Slugger. I don’t really expect we’ll be lucky so close to home an’ all, but you never know. And besides, the walk `ll be good.

Better than watching TV. Right, Daddy? He wasn’t totally convinced about this, but his father seemed to like to hear him say it.

Right. Now come on. Let’s get a move on. Stay, Cocker!

Fred picked up his rifle as they passed through the back porch and Jacob followed into the yard. They crossed the dirt backyard, and then walked between the barn and a woodpile to a pasture of yellowed grass. He walked quickly behind his father up a gentle rise in the pasture that levelled out until it met the woods at the far end.

He shivered from the cold November winds that swept down the hill and across the exposed pasture. He was glad when they reached the shelter of the woods.

They met a path that ran alongside a brook just inside the tree line and followed it upstream. He watched the water flow over logs and rocks, creating little waterfalls with white foamed mini-whirlpools. Sometimes the brook roared and then within a few steps bubbled quietly as it moved along. He resisted the urge to throw a stick into the brook and watch it float downstream; his father might get angry. He didn’t like him playing when they were walking in the woods. His father had told him, Hunting is a man’s job. There’s no time for play and foolin’ around.

He watched his father walk in front of him. His father was tall with light brown hair that spilt over his jacket collar. He walked like a king with big, easy, king footsteps. Indeed, he felt protected and yet a little scared of his father like a serf in a medieval kingdom.

After a while, his father stopped and turned to him. Would you like to climb up to the secret meadow from here, Jacob? he asked.

Sure. You think there’s deer up there?

Maybe. Grazing. Or at the very least, we could shoot some squirrels or birds.

He started ahead of his father up a steep embankment, hands grabbing saplings, feet sinking into soft loose soil, releasing an odour that smelt like their dirt cellar. He laughed when he felt his father’s head on his bum, propelling him up the hill and almost fell down from the shove’s force.

* * *

Scott MacKinnon vomited on the ground beside his garage. He wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve with trembling hands. He forced his hands to open and close and then, taking a deep breath, he walked back to his car.

He was late. The damn gas delivery truck had arrived well after lunch, instead of in the morning as the guy did every bloody Wednesday. Moreover, Mrs. Henderson, his part-time help at the store, had never accepted gas delivery before and she had been adamant that she didn’t want to learn today. She didn’t want the responsibility. This was not how the day was supposed to go. He had worked the morning and Mrs. Henderson would take the afternoon shift as she always did every Wednesday afternoon. That damn delivery truck!

He had waited for two hours, pacing in the stock room, flexing his fingers, and willing himself to breathe slower. He blew out air through pursed lips to a count of seven. He had read that somewhere.

He had tried to avoid Mrs. Henderson as much as possible because he imagined he was looking and acting anxious. He told her he was doing inventory in the storeroom and he did not need her help, thank you. He created garbage just to have an excuse to leave the store for a while, and shuffled and reshuffled cans in the storeroom to sound busy.

When the gas delivery truck finally arrived, it was after three and he had to restrain himself from yelling at the guy to shut up and just fill the tanks. The deliveryman wanted to explain to him the whole details of how his truck broke down this morning and whom he called and what they said and how they managed to secure another truck and how he got back to the terminal and there he was. Scott managed to force a smile and act interested, fighting the desire to yell, WILL YOU SHUT UP!

He was tense and jittery and wondered if he succeeded in acting nonchalant as he said good-bye to Mrs. Henderson. He drove home to retrieve his rifle from the garage and hide it in the trunk of his car. It was then, just as he slammed the trunk closed, his stomach heaved and he ran to the side of the garage and vomited.

He was late. He had planned to be sitting beside the brook by now waiting for that bastard to come by doing his big-game-hunter thing. He stepped into his car, closed the door, and tried to breathe slowly. After all, it isn’t every day that you murder someone. Murder! How did it come to this! His body shook. He bit his hand to stifle a cry. He had never even had a speeding ticket before. He was a Mr. Nice Guy, who managed and financially supported a Little League baseball team. Today seemed so unreal. It wasn’t as if anyone was forcing him to kill Fred. It was his idea. Shelly had tried to dissuade him from killing her husband, but he saw no way out. Shelly. He loved her so and wanted to keep care of her for the rest of his life. Her husband was cruel to her. A real shit bag. A nut. A pervert. He couldn’t stand to see her spend one more abusive night with that bastard.

He turned the key and started up the car. He drove down the Reach road and turned left towards Bayswater. After a few miles, he passed Shelly’s house on his left. Fred’s truck was in the yard. No sign of anyone around. That was good. He drove for another half a mile and turned left onto a dirt road that was really a logging trail. Branches slapped and scratched at the sides of his car. He felt his car grind as the bottom hit and slid along the rough road. He thought about slowing down, but his foot seemed stuck on the gas pedal. Then his car banged with a bounce that overcame the shocks and his foot jumped off the gas petal. He lurched forward, narrowly preventing his face from hitting the steering wheel.

The car came to a stop and he rested his head on the steering wheel. He didn’t want to murder Fred; unconsciousness would have been one way to stop today from happening. Time to rethink this whole matter over. There must be another way! He had thought and thought about Shelly’s mess for a year now and had formulated and discarded hundreds of plans. No. The time for thinking was finished. It was time to act. Stick to the plan; another week of abuse for his love was intolerable.

Shelly was afraid to go to the RCMP and report Fred. She said they would just give Fred a warning and then he would really hurt her. If he ever got jail time, he would track them down when he got out and kill her and the kids. He was that crazy, violent. She was afraid for Jacob. She had told him she did not want Jacob to turn out like his father. He was a good boy but the amount of time Fred was spending with him lately seemed unusual. What was he teaching the child? What perverse perspectives was he imparting to her little boy? Shelly felt Jacob was starting to act different to her at times. Sarcastic.

She was especially afraid for her little girl, Jennifer. Fred had generally ignored her up to this point, but if he was as sick as Shelly thought, then incest was not impossible. Shelly showed him the magazine but she insisted there was more—things she could not tell him—that reinforced her suspicion that Fred liked little girls. Sicko! Scott snarled and drove on.

He stopped when he came to a wide section of the road, took his rifle from the trunk and headed left into the woods. He walked for nearly thirty minutes until he came to the predetermined brook site of long yellow reeds in a marshy area that camouflaged him perfectly. He had heard the self-important bravado that Fred was imparting to Jacob for the past few weeks from this site. Fred sounded like a know-it-all who had finally found an audience in his innocent kid. Neither Fred nor Jacob had ever suspected he had been there. It was a perfect site—at least for spying. Scott hunkered down in the reeds and waited.

Shelly had arranged for Jacob to go somewhere after school, so Fred would be hunting alone today. He always went hunting in the late afternoon and if nothing else, he was a creature of habit.

He may have missed Fred walking by, but he will come back this way. Shelly was right about the routine thing—he was like clockwork.

He turned away a branch that was touching his face. Why would you take a little boy hunting with you? Kids should not be around guns. What an asshole! He shook his head and cocked his rifle.

* * *

Jacob burst through the dense wood into an open clear meadow of long yellow grass mottled with dead wildflowers. The meadow lay on the side of a hill surrounded by woods with no obvious way in or out. The wind had died down and the sun was shining low in the sky. Far past the trees, the hill continued until it met a river running by. He could see whitecaps on the river even from up here.

Fred emerged from the woods and stood beside him. I believe I’ll have a little rest right by this tree, he said.

He placed his rifle on the ground and sat with his back against a huge oak tree. The tree had a natural curve in its trunk, and Fred sighed as he leaned back and found his position. He pulled a can of beer from his coat pocket, snapped the ring tab up and released a torrent of white bubbly foam that spilled over the top that reminded Jacob of a volcano erupting.

Whoops. Fred dove, mouth open, towards the foaming can. He gulped, his larynx bobbling up and down like a yo-yo. Jacob watched fascinated and impressed with the frantic activity of his father’s Adam apple. Ahh. Now that’s good, Fred said, wiping the foam from his beard. He let his head fall back against the tree and closed his eyes.

Jacob stood silently beside his father and waited. He admired his father’s thick brown worn boots. Good boots, his father had told him. A man needs good boots. Jacob wanted to have boots like those someday.

He followed his father’s heavy green work pants up to a thick brown belt that had a huge eagle buckle—a fearsome looking bird that grasped a lightening bolt like he was really, really mad. The eagle frightened him.

He watched the beer foam disappear on his father’s brown beard and wondered if he was falling asleep. He didn’t dare say a word.

His dad opened his eyes and smiled. Don’t think I forgot you, Jacob, he said. He pulled out a can of root beer from his other pocket—Jacob’s favourite. He accepted the opened can and sat down beside his father.

This meadow was magical to him. A mystical, mysterious location with no obvious way in or out. A secret place known only to him and his father. Sometimes, when his father was tired of hunting, he let him run down the meadow. He had run, squealing with excitement as his legs tried to keep pace with the meadow’s descent until finally, he fell and rolled to a stop, his dad laughing from the top of the meadow.

At other times, he explored. In the summer, he watched bees fly from flower to flower, fascinated, but scared of their buzz and the possibility of a sting. Butterflies flew an uncertain route; he wondered if they had any idea of where they were going. So different from the methodical search of the bees. Ants. The meadow had quite a few anthills. He watched and respected the ants scurrying in and out of their little mounds with some unknown purpose. His father had told him ants were good for nothing but stomping on.

He leaned against his father’s arm and looked down at the river. Sure good to be up here again, ain’t it, Daddy.

Nothing like it. Been the same since I was a kid. Never changes.

He fingered the rifle that lay between him and his dad. Are we finished hunting?

I think so, Jacob. I’d like to rest here and soak up the last of the sun. You be careful where you handle that gun—you hear me? I got the safety on. I ain’t no fool, but you can never be too careful. Remember what I told you?

He knew this answer. It was easy. You have to earn the right to put your finger on a trigger. It is an honour to do so. He nodded gravely and looked up at his father for affirmation.

That’s right, Jacob. Holding a gun is a privilege and you have to prove yourself a man to put your finger on the trigger. There are too many idiots with guns nowadays who’d probably shit their pants if they saw a deer. Or more ‘n likely shoot us. Damn fools, Jacob.

He imagined him and his dad in their backyard, bestowing this honour on people who had earned that right. Folks lined up in front of his dad and him, kneeling, hands up, head bowed, and accepting with great humility, the honour of his dad and him placing their finger on the trigger.

He slurped his pop. He loved moments like this: talking to his dad, hearing the same old tales his dad always told about the meadow and the river. For the umpteenth time, he asked, How do you suppose this meadow came to be, Daddy?

His dad took another drink and then put his arm around him. You know how. You’ve heard the same thing from me many times.

Please, Dad. Tell me again.

All right. His father pointed with his chin toward the meadow. It’s funny how this meadow came to be, he said. Out here… On top of a hill. Damn smack in the middle of the woods. I figure an early settler started to build up here, but thought better of it and moved on. Or maybe a lightening bolt struck a tree, started a fire, and burnt this much of ‘er before the rain put it out. Or it was an ancient Indian burial ground. That explains why trees never grew in here—trees don’t grow on sacred ground.

He placed his hand on his father’s arm. Tell me the story about the river, he asked.

You remember the name? his father replied, looking down at him.

Jacob was afraid of getting the wrong answer. It was like the time at school when Mrs. White had asked him a question in front of the class and he didn’t know the answer. No, the fear was worse than that. His father had a temper. Especially over something important like this.

St. John? he said.

"That’s right. A long, long river that empties in the ocean—right through the city of Saint John. The river does many important things. When my father—your grandfather—was a young man, he sometimes rode a log