The Polar Track

By Kim Kinrade

One of America's dreams is to build a fast link between Alaska and the "Lower 48." With the advent of "magnetic levitation" technology the project finally becomes a reality, allowing the train to travel the 5000 kilometers from Fairbanks to Seattle at speeds of over 500 kph. Linked with this rail is a pipeline for a commodity that America, especially those states in the southwest, will need in critical amounts: water. Ice melt from three large glaciers is to be shipped in large pipes suspended under the viaduct along with pipes carrying oil and natural gas from the Arctic tundra.
In Georgia Strait, between Vancouver Island and the B.C. mainland, a music teacher’s family is killed in a collision with a fast-ferry owned by the same company that is building a Mag-Lev rail from Alaska to the lower 49. Haunted by his inability to save his family members, Greg Majewski finds an unlikely ally in a former Canadian Army sniper, Bill Whittle, who has been decorated for his prowess against the Taliban in Afghanistan. Persecuted by the large Mag-Lev company during their search for answers the duo threatens to turn the new line into a 5000 kilometer inferno., igniting an international manhunt spearheaded by special forces teams from two countries.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kim Kinrade
• Release date: May 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9780978427344

Kim Kinrade

Bestselling author Kim Kinrade was born and raised in Kimberley, British Columbia, on the B.C. side of the Canadian Rockies. He put himself through the University of British Columbia - where he received a degrees in Political Science - by playing guitar and singing in lounges. During this time he recorded his first single and an album.After graduation Kim went into music professionally, touring Canada with a showband band. During the 1980′s Kim became one of the busiest pub performers in western Canada and also did a stint in Australia. Besides getting married and becoming a partner in a British pub he recorded two more singles and produced a video that aired on the Jerry Lewis Telethon.Moving to Halifax, Nova Scotia in the early 1990′s Kim continued to perform professionally at night while looking after a young daughter and infant son during the day. It was during this time that he rekindled a past-time that had been put on hold while studying at U.B.C. – writing short stories. An Honourable Mention award in the Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia-sponsored writing contest spurred him on to write another short story focusing on his grandfather's exploits in World War I. This was expanded into his first manuscript, "The Salient."As well as having a long stint at one of Nova Scotia’s premier resorts Kim has played in Europe, Great Britain and the United States making new fans with his unique brand of entertainment.On the writing side Kim has penned 8 novels of which 6 have been published. He is a member of the Writing Council of Nova Scotia and has been a judge in national writing competitions.

Book preview

FOREWORD

I wish to acknowledge the following authors whose works were invaluable to me in writing this novel: Major-General Lewis MacKenzie, retired; James Davis; Scott Taylor; David Bercuson; Brian Nolan; Jack Granatstein; and David Pugliese.

As well, I would like to thank the Canadian Department of National Defence, Canadian Coast Guard, and the U.S. 101st Airborne Division for their help.

And last, I would like to salute the men and women of the Canadian , American and British armed forces who are giving their all in Afghanistan.

––Kim Kinrade

August 4, 2009

In memory of

Cliff Hood III

Skipper of Lady Megan II

"I am not bound to win,

But I am bound to be true.

I am not bound to succeed,

But I am bound to live by the light that I have.

I must stand with anybody that stands right,

And stand with him while he is right,

And part with him when he goes wrong."

––Abraham Lincoln

PROLOGUE

May 14, 2011

Polar Track Mile 452,

North of Prince George, B.C.

0717 Zulu (11:17pm Pacific Standard Time)

His tool of choice was a forty-year-old Whamo! Wrist Rocket, an aluminum-tubed slingshot he found in the mini-storage lying in an old, wooden box also containing his fly-tying vice, an old Marine Band harmonica and a Dom Perignon cork, a souvenir from his nineteenth birthday.

The sun was gone now, but the mountain sky provided more than enough illumination for the job ahead. Using slow, determined movements, as if laying a landmine, he anchored an ancient Garcia-Mitchell fishing reel, also from the old storage box, to the base of the tree with a thin rope using a twig to hold open the spring-loaded clutch. Next, he tied the end of the polypropylene line to a heavy, one-inch steel nut and placed that into the leather pouch of the slingshot. The worn texture of the pouch instantly reminded him of his childhood days when the light weapon had been used for propelling cherry bombs, M-80 firecrackers and other items of pyrotechnical mischief. Then, like the eroding of a dream with the morning light, the memory faded. But that was a blessing. Memories were a burden right now.

Standing directly under the tree, he slowly drew back the laden pouch until the rubber tubing would stretch no more. He aimed the U forks of the slingshot straight up the stately trunk and then, finding a branch-free corridor, let the pouch go. Accompanied by a loud snap the heavy piece of steel rocketed up the tree spooling out light line from the whirring reel like a thin rocket exhaust. It smacked a few small branches and twigs and finally lost momentum. A few seconds later, the nut arched and fell back to the ground, its trail of line slackening into curls.

He took off the weight and tied a one-eighth inch nylon line to the slack leader that wafted in the breeze as high up as the top branches. Kneeling down beside the reel, he snapped the clutch shut and gently reeled in the light fishing line, pulling the heavier line up and around the lofty limb in the process.

In a few minutes the reel was full and both ends of the larger line were in his hands. To one end of this he knotted a half-inch, polyester-Dacron, braided rope and pulled hand-over-hand on the lighter line. In short order he had the heavy rope encircling the lofty limb.

His method of ascending the tree now in place, he paused for a moment to listen and scan his surroundings. Bill had taught him this. Hear like you got four ears instead of two. The first two are for your own curiosity but the other ones are for the animals. They’ll tell you what’s going on.

The relaxed call of the birds and the slight whistling of the breeze reassured him that his presence was the only human invasion in the area. There were no tell-tale signs of intruders like the bark of a squirrel or the scolding of a raven.

When you scan the area, don’t look for a man or a car or an animal, Bill’s advice went on through his mind. Look for parts of ‘em, because it’s not very often you’ll ever see a complete target. Look for something that doesn’t fit in: a bush that’s too bushy, a tree trunk that’s too dark or a silhouette that’s a bit off-color.

Bill Whittle’s words were interrupted by a sudden gust of wind and he quickly checked the line up in the swaying crown of the tree. Satisfied that all was well up there he carefully stowed away the reel, light rope and slingshot. Then he slipped into a mountaineering saddle-harness and affixed two double-auto-locking, stainless-steel carabiners to the main tie-ins on the harness. One end of the rope was tied to the carabiners using a Blake’s or magnus hitch, a common rock-climbing knot.

Once he was in position for the ascent he snapped the eye-hooks of his gear into four dog-leg, or non-locking carabiners, and bounced with his weight a few times. This served to both secure the rope on the top branch and to get used to the fifty pound weight he was packing. Over his shoulder he looped the twenty-five foot daisy rope, a multi-purpose line he would use to anchor himself once he reached his desired altitude. After another thorough perusing of the area to make sure he had left nothing behind, he secured the last item to his kit: the big rifle.

At barely one hundred-sixty pounds, he was certainly was not a big man so a fifty pounds plus a heavy weapon was a sizeable load. Using the double-rope technique his sons had taught him, he pulled down on the second rope and slid the Blake's hitch up. With this method, a self-belay system, a climber was automatically held in place if he let go of the rope. Besides being the optimum method for a single climber it was easier for man in his weakened shape to ascend. Then he began to climb, one foot at a time, his moccasins making it easy to grip the fir bark.

After ten minutes of painstaking, upward movement he reached the fulcrum of the rope, a branch he judged was forty feet from the ground. He noticed to his disappointment that this tree was more slender than the one on which he and Bill had practiced and so the foliage was fairly thin up here. He quickly put the thought aside. The military camouflage would hide him from all but the most powerful of spotting scopes. And that was if there were someone knew where to look for him.

A strong gust made the tree sway and the hanging objects below his rucksack swung around like the components of a large mobile. He reached up and carefully tied nylon ropes to several branches above him. Then he snapped the carabiners of his load to them. Now feeling secure he loosened the clasps, shrugged off his rucksack and pulled on the twine. The pack raised above his head and he tied it off on a branch. He felt the blood rush back into his tired shoulders like a cool, welcoming massage.

His fingers, however, were not as easily soothed and the blood flow returned like liquid barbed wire. After a half-minute of flexing them the combined shooting pain and numbness finally subsided.

His last move was to tie the daisy rope to the main branch to anchor his feet in the loops and take the weight off his saddle harness. This was necessary so that the circulation would not be cut off in his legs while he slept.

When he finally settled in, the horizon was darkening and the planet Venus was joined by a myriad of the night’s first stars. As he hung in the harness, gently swaying with the tree, he quickly tried to induce sleep by closing his eyes and meditating, using the sound of the tree movement as his mantra. It usually worked for him and was one of the ways he was able to shed the siren ca of drugs and booze years ago. But tonight was different. Although deeply tired, restful sleep avoided him.

Memories sifted through his semi-conscious mind - mostly of his wife and sons. Years before, when he had expressed his anxiety about his sons spending the night in a tree, young Sean had assured him that the night creatures were harmless. He said if they did come around, they were always small rodents that scurried up and down the trunk completely ignoring the big lump in the tree canopy. Mosquitoes, he explained, almost never made it up to that height. Because, he assured his father, if they did venture upward they would be picked off by a bat or a night swallow.

The images came in a stream of video clips narrated in Sean’s voice and brought to life by the smell and motion of the tree. Robert, the philosopher, was foremost.

"Dad, the best part about spending the night in a tree is when you dream. Mr. Bertles said that sleeping patterns are altered up there. I, like, so-o-o believe him because my dreams are always, like, bizarre. But in a good way, y’know, with all the colors and flashes of a video game. He says this might have to do with the tree being a far cry from a normal bed.

But he also says that when you’re suspended high in the tree top your nervous system is, like, in a state of mental readiness. Maybe it’s a throwback to man’s primitive days, Dad. And maybe the oxygen supply is, like, way less up there. But I really think it has to do with the swinging back-and-forth and the moaning of the wind through the branches.

Robert’s mind always stretched beyond his fifteen years. Before his grandmother died she had maintained that he is an old soul.

However, the mature Robert could also conjure up a flurry of adolescent excitement that could rival his younger brother. Y’know what Caitie thinks? This’ll, like, slay you, Dad! She says the sound up there is really the spirit of the living tree communicating with our subconscious. She, like, so-o-o believes the cracking and moaning is the trees talking to each other and to their god - a tree god. Now is that rad or what?

Then, as quickly as his enthusiasm spiked, Robert could flip back into being the philosopher again. But, you know what I think, Dad? Don't laugh, but I think it is God. ‘Cause after climbing for three years now I have to admit that I think God exists. And he lives up there in the canopy. Know why? ‘Cause when I'm up there I get this real cool feeling that kinda rushes through me and I can’t explain it any other way. What do you think, Dad?

Rad, Bertles, Caitie? He missed hearing his sons say those names. He missed their quarrels around the kitchen table, teenaged squabbles that usually ended up with Linda sending them to their rooms. He missed the look in Robert’s eyes when he saw his girfirend, Caitie. He missed Sean’s skater boy view on life.

But most of all he missed Linda, the love of his former life whom he thought he married for all time. Since the day he rooted through their possessions in the mini-storage he had felt her presence with him. It was an odd feeling, as if they were going on one last adventure together where the outcome didn’t matter. If he lived, he lived. But if he died, she would be waiting for him. He knew that for certain.

*

A soft, mauve haze greeted him as he entered the bedroom and, disoriented by the unexpected hue, he stumbled on a box-like structure just past the bed. Just lie on the bed and don’t move and inch.

It was Linda’s voice . . . but it wasn’t. The demanding tone was low and sulky, almost frightening to him. Instinctively, he kneeled on the large bed and flipped his torso over until he was propped up on his elbows.

The room began to throb with AC*DC’s Back in Black and at the same instant the purplish décor was invaded by spikes of strobing color. And that’s when he noticed the metal pole. It flashed like a phallic icon each time a light bursts hit it.

Suddenly, from out of the shadows, a figure leapt onto the platform and clasped the pole with an outstretched right arm. Like the voice, it was another form of Linda, an animalish caricature that was both scary and erotic in the same instant.

Greg focused past the colored spears and saw she was wearing a red bead-and-sequence, halter-neck outfit with fine, red tassels on the breast and crotch area. As she rubbed the smooth pole with her right thigh the shiny tendrils moved with her. Her eyes fixed on him she began circling the glossy pipe it as looking for an opportune moment to climb its smooth surface. But she just circled and glared at him, never once breaking eye contact.

You wanted to know where I came from, Greggy, she huffed, her body adjusting on each revolution. You said you wanted to know everything about me.

As AC*DC’s song reached the chorus her bare right leg snapped around the pole. At the same instant her left hand grabbed it too, just below her knee. With a practiced motion she was spinning gracefully and artfully, sliding ever so slowly until her shimmering form rested on the platform.

Well, lover, she moaned, staring up at him from her prone position on the small podium with the mesmerizing gaze of a cobra. Her crystalline-blue eyes reflected a myriad of colors with each bolt of light and he could hardly breathe. It was as if she were a sorceress.

What do you think of mousey Linda now?

Her words were a purring flow and Greg, sneaking a shallow breath, was spell-bound. This wasn’t just a stripper at Number-Five-Orange. This was every man’s fantasy: being married to a soccer mom who transformed into a harem goddess at night

Her ten minutes of erotica culminated with the removal of the final stitch of sequence-and-tasseled material. Then, without warning him, Linda dove off the platform and onto the bed, her sudden weight knocking him flat on his back. That was just the appetizer, she snarled. Then, roughly straddling him, she ripped open his shirt scattering the popped buttons over half the room.

It was truly a night to remember. But the best part about it, he mused later on after her contented, worn-out figure lay sleeping next to him, was that she belonged to him.

*

Karen suddenly slid into his mind and Linda wafted away in a willowy mist. His memories and immediate concerns became entwined and he suddenly became angry and cynical. He wished he had some pills to whisk the sudden pulse of anxiety away.

Shifting uncomfortably in his harness his semi-dream state evaporated. What about Karen? What about his three years with her? Would she even want him if he did come back?

Taking some deep breaths the panic attack finally subsided and his ears tuned to the lazy, echoing call of a raven. As his homemade hammock rocked him, he focused in on the swaying branches. Then he keyed in on the irony, as if the dreaming was his penance for what he was about to do.

Because if Robert was right, and God truly lived in the tree canopies, then the Almighty couldn’t have known his boys very well. Instead of God being the father-like-protector image that had been drilled into his head years ago in Sunday school, maybe He wasn’t that at all. Maybe God really couldn’t see what was going on below Him or, if He did, was powerless to do anything about it. Maybe God was just along for the ride, like Sean and Robert in the tree canopy. Because if God had known them like a real father did, then there would have been no way He would have let anything happen to them. No way in Hell.

Shaking the images from his mind he suddenly flipped his eyes downward to the long nylon-wrapped package secured to the lower limb. It swung back-and-forth with him in the mild breeze like a Siamese twin, a harbinger of what he had to do.

It didn’t matter if God was up here beside him to remind him of what was good and what was not, and what was right and what was wrong. Those questions could be answered tomorrow with a few well-placed .50 caliber bullets. And this time he wouldn’t be aiming at trucks.

CHAPTER ONE

1.

April 1, 2002

Bennett Bay, British Columbia

Vancouver Island side of Johnstone Strait

A crisp shot reverberated through the large, cavernous building temporarily overcoming the cacophony of shouts and grunts of the onlookers and the tortured squeals caude by metal scraping ice. Barely a split-second later, another sharp report echoed around the large building like a hammer striking several pipes. This was followed by dozens of voices exuding a throaty, Oh!

The hard-rubber, hockey puck careened off the iron post and smacked the plexiglas barrier, rebounding directly into the melee in front of the goal tender. One of the players in the blue jerseys, discernible from the others of his team only by his number, flicked the curved blade of his hockey stick at the black rubber disk, changing its direction. The heavily-armored goalie, his mask airbrushed to resemble the helmet of a medieval knight, countered the move with his huge, netted glove. His movement, however, miscalculated the puck’s direction and it bounced off the nylon-skinned padding of the wrist guard, speeding out towards the blueline.

For his efforts, the shooter in blue was jostled by one of the large defencemen in the gold jerseys and he felt the hard butt-end of a hickory hockey stick in his lower right ribs. Reacting to the sharp pain the smaller man shifted to protect his injured side. However, the defenceman never quit the attack. Taking advantage of his opponent’s unbalanced posture the bigger man shoved him headfirst into the steel goalpost.

Mimicking the vocal outburst following the near-missed goal, the crowd reacted with a pained abhorrence. Almost every eye turned to the referee for justice for the cruel infraction. When the striped-shirted adjudicator appeared as if he were not going to call a penalty, an outpouring of rude epithets followed.

What do you call that, ref?

Where're your bloody eyes!

Get an eye transplant, yah dweeb!

The injured player rose up slowly. He was about to skate to the team bench when he saw that his own defenceman had trapped the puck and was ready to shoot. The player’s whole body moved like a husky, blue whip as he made contact with the puck and the ice together.

The hurt player in blue caught a glimpse of the black rubber disk streaking through the legs of an opposing player and instinctively poked at it with the blade of his stick. The goal tender, his huge pads completing the image of an impregnable, human fortress, kicked out a large, black skate to ward off the fast-moving projectile. Above the shouts of the players and noises of the fans he could hear then goaltender’s grunt with the effort.

The puck, traveling at around ninety miles-per-hour, and inch off the pitted ice surface, made a muffled snap when it connected with his stick-blade and immediately changed direction. Rising up in a forty-five degree angle, it slipped over the right shoulder pad of the astonished goalie and drilled the netting just underneath the red, iron crossbar. Its momentum played out by the dampening effect of the webbing, it dropped into the light-blue-colored ice inside the net. A red light behind the goal instantly signaled the goal was good and the troubled shouts from the fans immediately collected into one loud roar of approval.

Raising his arms triumphantly, Greg Majewski felt a stab of pain in his ribs and almost collapsed. To further aggravate his condition, he was mobbed by his own players whose slaps and punches of congratulations felt like daggers on his injured side. Greg’s eyes suddenly rolled up. Then his saliva-dripped, plastic mouth guard fell from his teeth and he went limp.

*

Overtime goal, Guitar Man! It doesn't get much better than that!

Jim MacGregor slapped his large hands together and brought his right hand around in a suburban white man's attempt at a black salutation. Amused, Greg Majewski let his big friend perform all the semantics. Right at this moment, a time in his life that should have been one of his top ten events he really didn't feel like one of the boyz. His cracked ribs hurt too much and tno position on the small, hard hospital bed could make them feel any better. As well, a headache was setting in.

Who’d have thunk it? MacGregor continued. Our own Guitar Man pots the game winner in sudden death. Kinda o' makes a person wanna cream their jeans, know what ahm sayin'? His head bobbed in amusement, the tight, black curls resembling a fuzzy bathing cap.

Like his torso, MacGregor’s face was big. He was always smiling and this tended to hide half of his brown eyes as well as show the gold-capped incisor on his left side of his open mouth. The rest of his teeth were perfect, like chicklets, and Greg envied him for his luck at the dentist's office. Greg had a mouthful of fillings that made him flinch when drinking anything not room temperature.

Greg Majewski's features were smaller and softer than his friend's. He had what Linda once described as a baby face. His hazel eyes, small nose and roundish chin, along with a slender 175-pound body, projected the illusion of his being perpetually twenty-five when he was actually thirty-six. His longish hair was straight and full and, because of his dirty-blonde color, had yet to show the salt-and-pepper effect of the increasing gray strands.

MacGregor's eyes left his friend and followed a shapely nurse as she paused to speak with a doctor in the next examination room. The pause was a welcome respite for Greg. His headache matched the fire in his injured ribs and MacGregor was not the best companion right now. What he needed were some painkillers and less of MacGregor's humor. The big man seemed to be uninformed about the excruciating effects of sudden tremors of laughter when ribs have suffered trauma. In his mind, he felt he kept Greg's spirits up by telling jokes. However, Greg didn't need uplifting. He needed a doctor's discharge so he could go home and sleep.

Oh, my god, what happened to you? Linda Majewski’s inquisitive head poked around the doorframe followed by a five-foot-eight frame that matched Greg's in height. Her sandy-blonde hair was pulled back and clipped with a dark-blue barrette that blended in well with her dark business attire. Powder-blue irises, recently freed from glasses and contact lenses by laser surgery, glistened like two dolls' eyes as they darted over the bandaged torso of her husband.

A truck hit me, Greg smirked, his blood-shot, hazel eyes reflecting the pain that throbbed from two sources.

Actually, it was a trucker, chuckled MacGregor, still giddy from the win. A big Port Alberni, logging-trucker.

Ooh, are you sure you’re alright? Linda cooed, stopping just short of the bed, her mind searching for a way to comfort her husband without causing him any more distress.

I will be when the doc gets back. He's been gone twenty minutes and my head's killing me.

Linda reached into her purse and pulled out a small bottle. She flipped open the top and retrieved two white tablets. These will help until he gets back, she said, popping them into Greg's mouth as if they were Flintstone vitamins.

You shoulda seen the goal, Lin, MacGregor bragged. It was a tip-in, compliments of yours-truly. 'The Greg' got hit hard by that big Jenkins dude but he stayed on his feet like he was Mark Messier. I nailed a hard one from the blue-line and, bingo, Greg tips it to the top corner. Red light. Game over. We win the silverware. Island League hockey champs. Vancouver here we come!

A smile slowly came over Linda's face. At thirty-three she was just shedding her girlish cutes for a mature beauty. Tiny laugh-lines appeared around her eyes and mouth but they were barely noticeable on her fresh, youthful face. With her fashionably short skirts, she still turned heads when she entered a room. As well, when making her financial presentations at company meetings, she got more attention than the average speaker – male or female. She once over-heard one of her co-workers remark, All that woman wasted on a music teacher. She never confronted the man - she just worked hard and took his job. Then she lengthened her hemline - but only an inch.

Well, now you can take a couple of weeks off, she ordered gently.

Greg's eyelids flipped wide open. Oh no, Lin, he groaned, the Kiwanis Festival. I have to be there for the music practices.

Ah, they'll get a sub for you, MacGregor quipped. I mean, how hard is it to wave a wand in front of a bunch of kids who are blowing into plumbing parts. He began to laugh at his witticism but Greg wasn’t comforted.

No, no, you don't understand, he sighed. I've got the two stage bands, a brass quartet and five soloists on the go. Who can they get to come way up here that knows--

Then you and I will figure something out, Linda cut in, as if scolding a pouting child. In the business world, Linda was used to dealing with crises and had learned that every problem has a solution. Besides, the kids know their stuff. I mean, you've been working with them since September.

They made a good pair: Greg, the musician with a nerdish zeal with regards to technology; and Linda, the former exotic-dancer-turned-financial-consultant.

But how am I going to give them the polish they need? he sighed. Thankfully, the pain was beginning to deaden and he took his first deep breath in a long time. I need to hear them, I need to see how they're doing.

Linda's eyes suddenly grew to the size of light-blue aggies. Hey, I'll get Jimmy to line you up with a digi-cam and interface it with a computer at the school. This way you can both watch and hear the practices and, as well, give them advice.

A smile widened Greg's cherubic face and his shoulders slackened in relief. Lin, what a fantastic idea!

Hey, Linda chirped, that's what I do all day.

2.

April 4th

Bobbo caught a blow at 'The Hun' and he went, like, so-o insane!

’The Hun?’ Linda asked. Insane? What are talking about?

Mom, that’s the hundred-foot mark on ‘Darth Vader’. The voice was very adolescent and very insistent. You know the big tree in the park we climb. He rocked for days.

Linda knew that much. Darth Vader was a one hundred-fifty-foot Douglas Fir that was the favorite of the local grove, or tree-climbing club. Days, Sean? Linda challenged, sliding a bowl of macaroni-and-cheese in the line-of-sight of her twelve year-old son.

Well, it seemed like it, he shrugged, his enthusiasm interrupted only when his hand found the glass of juice. He downed the contents with a loud gulp and then lunged for his spoon as if it were the only one on the table for the four of them. With utensil in hand, Sean made a wild swing into the bowl and it came up overflowing with pasta. At the same time, he ducked his head down to greet the food and literally vacuumed it off the spoon. After swallowing it in one gulp he saw his mother staring at him and he lowered his eyes sheepishly.

Is this the way you guys eat at your friends' houses? she sighed.

Course not, Sean replied, indignantly. He dove back into the lunch with out another word, his eating sounds causing Linda to twist up her face in disgust.

If she were forced to pick a favorite among her two boys, it would have been Sean by a whisker. He had the same, fine features as her father however that was where it ended. His personality and stubbornness, he picked up from Greg; that teasing way that both infuriated and entertained her at the same time. As her mother had once said, Linda, the boy is a rascal but he wears his heart on his sleeve.

His nose was flatter than his brother’s, reminding her of Eddie Van Halen, the guitarist, albeit a sheep dog-looking version. At times, when her patience wore thin, his manners would drive her crazy. However, it rarely ever got a rise out of Greg. So in the next breath she would utter, Oddballs of a feather . . .

During Sean's next loud bout of slurping, Linda shook her head and made up another bowl for her older son. A loud clomping signaled that Robert was on his way downstairs. As he trod down the oak staircase his baggy jeans and shiny-black combat boots appeared first. Next came his designer sweatshirt and then his shoulder-length, dirty-blonde hair. Before he reached the bottom of the stairs he reached back and made an attempt to tie the hair into a ponytail but most of it was still on his face when he arrived at the table.

At fifteen, it was clear that Robert Majewski would be a cookie-cutter image of his birth father, albeit taller. He had the same lead-colored eyes and chiseled face. His father, however, was not in the picture. Jordie Grant had been murdered on a snowy night in Toronto when a drug deal went sour without ever knowing that he was to be a father.

After hearing of Jordie's death, a frightened nineteen year-old Linda packed up one suitcase and took a bus back across Canada to her parents' home in Bennett's Bay. Her mother and father knew that a pregnant, single woman would not have much of a life in the small community so they set her up in an apartment in Victoria.

After Robert was born, Linda enrolled in Commerce at the University of Victoria and her parents took in the baby. As Victoria was only a three-and-a-half- hour drive away, she saw the child on weekends and holidays. It was on campus that she met a music education major named Greg Majewski.

As for mimicking Greg's mannerisms, Robert had garnered that show me, I'm from Missouri attitude, never taking a situation or people at face value. It must have oozed in through osmosis, she would often say. She admired that quality because it would help him through his youth and well into adulthood whereas the impish Sean would require heavy maintenance.

However, there was a deep brooding quality that began to emerge as Robert evolved into a teenager. Her mother recognized it first because Linda had been the same way - and still was, to some degree.

Robert swept his stringy bangs straight back behind his ears revealing smatterings of acne blemishes on his forehead. A slight smile creased his thin face as he plunked himself down into the wooden chair. 'Sup? he asked, his brooding eyes suddenly brightening.

Huh? Linda asked, cocking her head.

He means, 'What's up?' offered Sean in a bored tone. All his friends rap ‘urban’.

Huh? Linda repeated, rolling her eyes.

They talk like they're rap stars, Sean sighed, weary of explaining his cultural nuances to grown-ups. Robert just shrugged and grabbed his glass of juice.

Heard you had a good time today, she quipped, refilling Sean's glass.

Caught some cool gusts at ‘the Hun’, Robert replied, checking out the pot on the stove. Then it started to rain so we, like, packed it in.

Sean, again, offered the translation. The hundred foot mark on ‘Darth Vader.’

Sounds like fun, Linda remarked, ignoring Sean. Did you guys get wet?

Nah, we were so-o down at the van before it started. Robert glanced out the window and pointed at a light-blue patch in the gray clouds. Might clear, yet.

The Weather Channel's calling for fog tomorrow, Linda replied, but it's been more wrong than right this month.

His back erect, Robert ate his lunch one bite at a time in stark contrast to Sean's shoveling motions.

"So, your Dad's letting you drive The Great One, Linda grinned, her older son's table manners giving a lilt to her voice. And your brother and I get to see this first hand. I can't wait."

Linda Majewski meant no sarcasm by the remark. She was extremely proud of Robert's boat-handling skills. He had excelled in sailing and navigation in Navy cadets and so piloting the cabin cruiser came easy to him.

I’m pumped, Robert quipped, giving his little brother a caustic glance.

*

It sends shivers up my spine when I think of those two kids up there, Greg sighed, tipping the last of the beer foam out of the can. He then carefully inserted the rimmed top of the aluminum container into the last empty ring of the plastic carrying handle and placed the completed six-pack of empty cans on the counter. Later, he would stack them on a special shelf he had in the garage for containers to go to the recycle station.

Well, they're teenagers now, Linda replied, polishing the bottom of a cooking pot.

Yeah, but when we were teenagers we didn't go whole hog into the extreme like the kids do today. Greg scooped up his frosted beer mug and waved it for effect as he spoke. Linda never responded. She never