The Millennium Man

By Kim Kinrade

Indicted for murder in one of the worst crimes against the Northwest Mounted Police in their storied history 16 year-old Harley Melanson escapes to join the Canadian army, which is heading off to fight in the mud of Flanders during World War I. Behind him is Robert DeWolfe, an inspector with the newly-formed Royal Canadian Mounted Police, who is one step behind him in, what eventually turns out to be, an 84 year chase.

While eluding the police inspector, Melanson becomes a fighter pilot, flying in four conflicts and meeting heroes and villains along the way such as Billy Bishop, Will Barker, Hermann Göring, Sir Arthur Currie, Benito Mussolini, Joseph Stalin, German flying ace, Adolph Galland, Ernest Hemingway and Winston Churchill.

Now masquerading as Brian Shelby, a 99 year-old Halifax multi-millionaire whose fortune was made in the aviation field, Harley is visited by members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and Justice Department who mean to find out if the Order of Canada recipient is really a war hero, or a fugitive “cop-killer.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kim Kinrade
• Release date: May 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9780978427337

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

Since the original manuscript was written during the last year of the 20th Century war history has exploded on the internet. The days of poring through old books in the bowels of a large university library are way in the past as, in most cases, a click can get one information by the bucketsful.

However I do miss the excitement of finding out something that few people besides dedicated scholars have ever laid eyes upon. In some cases it was a sort of Indiana Jones moment when I opened a book that had not seen the light of day since 1956.

So even as I look over this novel there are very few changes that have been made from the original manuscript.

Kim Kinrade

June 2023

Copyright 1999 by Kim Kinrade

1st Printing 2000 by Picasso Publications

ISBN: 1-55279-024-X

1st eBook printing 2013 by Kim Kinrade

ISBM: 978-0-9784273-3-7

2nd eBook printing 2023 by Kim Kinrade

FOREWORD

I would like to acknowledge the following sources for this novel: King’s College Library, Halifax Regional Libraries, The Shearwater Aviation Museum and various sites for aviation on the Internet.

As well, I would like to cite the following authors, each of whose work was invaluable in the creating of this story: Winston Churchill, Richard Collier, Wayne Ralph, Derek Robinson, Chuck Yeager, Adolph Galland, Brian Nolan, Larry Forrester, Wing Commander H.R. Allen, DFC, Len Deighton, Daniel Dancocks, William Stephenson, H.E. Bates, Desmond Morton, Martin Caidin, George F. Kennan, and Charles Albon, MC.

These people were kind enough to the provide language translations: Kelly Miller, Gaetano Galante, Maria Farrell and Patricia Heffernan.

Thanks to Randolph, Luis, Elizabeth, Annissa and Robin at Picasso Publications; and my family: Heather, Samantha, Tony, Shane and Brett.

The bulk of this novel was written at White Point Beach Resort on Nova Scotia’s South Shore.

- Kim Kinrade

November 1999

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Table of Contents

2nd eBook Foreword

Foreword

Dedication

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

Chapter15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

About the Author

Dedication

For Lanny

"It may be that pilots are only happy when they are at home.

And it may be that they are home only when they can somehow touch the sky."

-Richard Bach

A Gift of Wings

CHAPTER ONE

1.

November 26, 1999

Halifax, Nova Scotia

Gillian Smythe's kitchen resembled a small greenhouse. In reality this area didn’t belong to her, however she had been employed in the large house long enough - and had been through more than a few renovations - to have earned the right to call this part of it her own.

Resting on glass shelves, which were anchored against the aluminum mullions separating tall windowpanes, sat numerous plant pots, their herbal hosts drinking in the pale, late-November sun. In fact the whole south wall of the kitchen was laid out in this way.

Gillian's hair was cut in a neat, medium bob with the ends of the straight, light-gray strands turned up just below her chin-line. Her face was one of those that frowned naturally, and with each passing year the irritable look increased in intensity giving her a slight bulldog appearance. This scowl was a permanent feature despite the fact that her skin was relatively smooth for one of her years and her chocolate eyes retained the warm glow of youth. The dichotomy would prompt a frequent jab from Mr. Shelby who could send her into a quiet rage with the word: Smile.

Away from the windows was a kitchen area worthy of a small restaurant: a large stove with gas burners; separate refrigerator and standup freezer; a commercial dishwasher with two washing sinks, linked with stainless steel counter tops. This staid atmosphere was warmed with light-oak shelving and cupboards plus a long chopping island for food preparation made of the same straight-grained wood.

The bane of Gillian Smythe’s life was the rust-colored floor tile that ate dishes and fine china and caused her back to ache. Being seventy-four and having flare-ups of arthritis she sometimes dropped a cup or plate which, on a linoleum covering, would have survived unscathed. But the unforgiving hardness of the tile caused bone china to shatter into a thousand pieces or, at the very least, interrupt an ornate pattern with a gaping hole. Afterward the inevitable sound of muffled applause would drift out of the parlor from an amused Mr. Shelby.

Reaching into an herb drying rack, a shiny, steel cabinet above the stove, Gillian carefully scooped out a tangle of dry, green plant-matter and used the index finger of her left hand to brush away the excess material back into the bin. She gently tipped the deep spoon over a china teapot and let the contents drop. In the past, long before she came to work for Mr. Shelby, she would have used only the silver service but her present employer refused to utilize the great quantities of fine silver housed in the beautiful buffet in the dining room. He warned her that the silver and his herbal concoctions, which she made up to the specifications of a naturopath, might react to produce a toxic cocktail.

Gillian never believed this for a moment. People had been using silverware for years - people of breeding, that is - and Mr. Shelby's paranoia was probably an offshoot of his age. Still, he was a good employer and treated her like a daughter.

Gillian wore the same style of uniform every day: print dresses and comfortable nurse's shoes, even in the winter time. The dresses almost never matched her cream shoes but she defiantly wore the footwear as a badge of sensibility in a fashion-conscious world. In many other ways, she clung to old beliefs, as well. For example, she still boiled water on the stove preferring the reassuring moan of the steam whistle to an electric kettle.

Filling the pot with the scalding liquid Gillian's thoughts meandered to the two men who were with Mr. Shelby in the parlor. When she first answered the doorbell, one look told her she didn't like them. Gentlemen would have telephoned first and requested an appointment. These men just appeared at the door and asked to see Mr. Shelby.

And their query sounded more like a demand. Her first thought was to slam the door in their faces but, as her job included informing him of all callers, she dutifully called him on the intercom.

Not bothering to wait for a reply, one of the visitors had rudely thrust his head over her right shoulder and said something into the speaker. He said, Mr. Melanson, my name is Bannerman. I'm with the Justice Department.

The silence was startling and lingered uncomfortably. An indignant Gillian was just about to ask them to leave when Mr. Shelby finally spoke. It was a polite yet firm voice. Yes, of course you are. I've been expecting you.

As Shelby was not in the room Gillian turned and glared in the direction of the room where he sat and read the newspaper. She was always the first know about her employer's appointments. It had been that way for almost twenty-five years. She suddenly felt her power and usefulness begin to slip away and, instead of a rock steady feeling of her position, a cocktail of disdain and embarrassment began to course through her veins.

Shelby ambled into the kitchen ignoring Gillian. His eyes were locked on the older visitor. Rather than a look of annoyance his old face shone with a wide smile.

Seeing her boss was now in charge Gillian’s professionalism returned and put an end to her awkward feeling. Soon her power of reasoning was assessing the bizarre situation in her presence. Here was Mr. Shelby, a man just a month shy of his one-hundredth birthday, had abruptly altered a regimen that had remained carved in stone for many years. Maybe his herbs and vitamin concoctions had finally betrayed him. The ever-practical Gillian knew they would someday. If it wasn't for Brenda, that bothersome naturopath, Gillian would have had him on a proper diet of steak and fried potatoes instead of the rabbit food he had on a regular basis: vegetables, tofu, nuts and a mixture of the stuff that grew in neat rows against the windows. Thank God fish and range-fed poultry were also on the menu!

However, a stickler for following orders, Gillian would carefully nurture the herbs to the specifications that Janice, the greenhouse lady, had laid out. Janice visited weekly and, even if her conversation on health and diet were a bit obsessive, Gillian loved her company.

Gillian huffed as she slipped the Christmassy crocheted tea cozy over the clay pot. It was November 26th and she always began the Christmas season exactly one month before Christmas Day. But this year her schedule of decorating would be off because of these unannounced callers.

Nosy visitors and vile-smelling tea, she spat, wincing as she arranged the teacups on the tray. For a younger person this would have been an easy task but arthritis had turned her finger joints into bulbous knobs which flared painfully if she flexed her fingers too quickly.

The next thing you know he'll want to fly into space.

*

There's no statute of limitations on murder, especially in the case of law-enforcement officers, Mr. Melanson . . . or Shelby, if that's what you prefer to be called.

Except for the large television tucked into the wall-unit, and the cut of the suits of the two men, the scene in the light-swept atrium might have been from the late Victorian age: rattan love seat and matching chairs; wrought-iron gables framing the heavily-paned, curved windows; and a large Persian carpet on the ornately tiled floor.

Not that the attire of the men was up-to-date. They were working suits, uniforms of necessity because of the formality of their task. And the attire looked to have been purchased before the trappings of domestic life had taken hold of their lives and increased the size of their waists and shoulders. Once seated this became more apparent as the younger of the two exhibited his discomfort with his jacket. He rubbed and shifted as if the dark-blue material was raw hemp instead of fine wool. Then, satisfied, he sat still, staring at the man across from him.

Melanson will do, replied the elderly man as he deposited the television remote control on the carved, teak table beside his chair. The action seemed to require the complete cooperation of his whole body which shifted at his waist in one complete motion, his head and neck seemingly fused to the torso.

Tea, gentlemen? he asked turning to face the men in the chairs. I usually take a spot at this time of the afternoon. It warms me up when the sunlight passes by. Tile and large windows don't hold the heat for long and there's a lag between the time when the furnace kicks in and the temperature gets back up to where I like it. Melanson absentminded buttoned the top of his brown cardigan as he spoke as if anticipating the cold spell.

No, the older visitor, Harry Bannerman, replied his thumbs kneading the fine, burgundy leather of the brief case laying across his lap. His partner Carl McGraw suppressed a frown, his coppery eyes like those of an anxious puppy. The thirty-two year-old Mountie would have loved a warm drink. He had not worn the liner for his topcoat and the wet November cold lingered in his bones. Not only that he was prematurely bald and desperately missed his police cap on days like these.

But go ahead, Mr. Melanson. Bannerman's right hand absentmindedly swiped his thick, curly hair, a greying thatch he had to keep trimmed once a week to maintain a conservative-looking coiffure so important in his position. But he had long since ceased the clipping of the hairs between his thick eyebrows and his face seemed to be divided by a furry, black line. The main color of the irises featured a dull grey but they were flecked with minute slivers of bright-blue which circled the pupils like hundreds of slim propeller blades. This gave the impression that he was more attentive than he actually was.

At forty-five Bannerman traveled near the top strata of his profession: an investigator with the Justice Department. From his lofty position he rarely saw the human suffering that his prosecutions were supposed to placate. His charges were more likely to be white collar crimes: computer fraud; embezzling; drug financing; political swindles. This was the top echelon of bad guys where corpses did not exist, the perceived victims being tax payers, big businesses or large groups sharing a single grievance. A man assured to be running the department before too long, he had been handed the Melanson case barely a week ago as a political plum for serving the right people. Now he was sitting in the house of the man the RCMP called: The Most Elusive Murderer in Canadian History.

McGraw, on the other hand, was an experienced policeman and had seen his share of human misery. A ten-year veteran of the Mounties he'd witnessed the street-level reality that trickled down from executive crimes: suicides; drug deaths; and domestic turmoil. His collars went to penitentiaries while many of Bannerman's convicts went to guarded country clubs.

All his childhood life McGraw had wanted to be a Mountie. With his keen eye for detail - and a master’s degree in criminology - he was promoted from police cruisers after five years. During his time on the street he had been an exemplary cop and, as well, had been to almost a half-a-dozen funerals of officers killed in the line of duty, a sad offshoot that the study groups at Simon Fraser University could never begin to prepare a person.

Harley Melanson pressed the black button on a small console on the side table. His long fingers were the texture of crumpled wax paper, the skin almost transparent exposing thin blue veins that snaked beneath the surface. But the air of fragility ended at a large wrist and forearm. Above that was a torso and shoulders that did not fit the geriatric mold. Harley sensed the cold air of the Mountie but returned the stare with a simple look that revealed nothing.

McGraw’s gaze never wavered. Melanson’s age did not soften his resolve to bring the old man to justice. In his eyes, old Nazi's - the ones that were still at large – looked harmless and grandfatherly too.

A moment later Gillian Smythe entered the room carrying a tray with a teapot and four large, china cups. She had thrown a white knitted shawl over her shoulders that, for a moment, made her seem almost as old as her employer. Placing the tray on the glass top of the rattan coffee table she left as quietly as she had arrived without even a passing glance at the guests.

Thank-you, Gillian, Melanson called after her. Then to the guests, he quipped, Gillian's timetable is as exact as that clock on the wall. She has my tea ready within seconds of buzzing her.

Harley's eyes were like two watery agates, greenish-brown under the constant sheen of tears released too liberally for the air to dry. Above them, the eyebrows were white, bushy crescents, the thick wires intermeshed with the odd yellowish strand. His long nose seemed to bend to the right where the cartilage began.

McGraw noticed the old man's right forearm. It still retained a brawny appearance although the loose skin betrayed some muscle deterioration. There was a tattoo that he could barely make out because it was difficult to distinguish against the bluish veins under the skin. Tilting his head to the right he made out the letters RFC. Pondering this for a second he passed it off as the initials of a former alias. After all the man was a murderer and McGraw had seen hundreds of bad tattoos in jails and prisons.

As you can imagine, Mr. Melanson, Bannerman said, breaking the long silence, you are in a serious situation.

Harley never answered but Bannerman's condescending manner initiated a slight smile on the old man's thin lips. Gillian's daily shaving ritual on his face accentuated a crisp pencil-thin moustache, his trademark for almost eighty years. Raising up at the edges of his mouth it enhanced his perceived mirth.

The action also prompted the facial muscles to move both his ears upward, a movement exaggerated by their almost twice-than-normal size. Above them, a freshly barbered glow of white hair was dazzling to Bannerman's eyes. What surprised him the most was that Melanson's hairline was lower on the forehead than his own. This was not lost on McGraw. He was stunned by the fact that a man seventy years his senior had a full head of hair while he had gone bald at an early age.

Before we go on, continued Bannerman, I am going to turn on a tape recorder. Without waiting for Harley to comment he reached into his pocket and produced a small micro-cassette recorder and switched the machine on. Before placing the small machine on the glass tabletop he identified himself, McGraw and Harley then stated the date and time.

"Now, Mr. Melanson, I want to inform you that you may have a lawyer present for this interview.

Harley, his face frozen in a half-smile, shook his head slightly. His large ears were like information receptors, waving in the air as if to glean hidden meanings from the bureaucrat’s words. I wave my right to legal counsel, Mr. Bannerman.

Bannerman suppressed a smile. Melanson’s statement had just saved him months of legal hoop-jumping. In other words the interview could continue. Let the records show that Mr. Melanson has indicated he declines legal counsel. Do you concur, Corporal McGraw?

I do, said McGraw, his eyes still pouring over the old man.

Harley slowly reached over and lifted a cup of herb tea to his lips, smelling the flowery aroma as he sipped. Drink this tea every day, gentlemen, and you'll never get sick, he said, as if Bannerman's words had emanated from the TV.

It's a blood-cleaner. It's got cranberry and cherry extract, and dandelion and seabuckthorn leaves. Rids the body of free radicals too.

Bannerman waited while Harley made small talk. It would be better to let the old man feel at ease. Experience had taught him that comfortable subjects gave more information.

McGraw's attention was still transfixed on Melanson's thick hair. Then the thought passed and he grabbed the cup of tea.

Could you please give me your full name? asked Bannerman, noticing for the first time that Harley was not wearing glasses. Nor did his sharp eyes detect any case around that might have contained spectacles for reading purposes. So why did Melanson keep dozens of magazines and books within reach, many of them of a technical nature such as Popular Mechanics and Aviation Weekly? This was odd considering the man was almost one-hundred years-old and had no reading aids either on his person or within reach.

My name . . . my birth name, he said pausing in a brief refection, is Harley David Melanson.

There it is! Bannerman thought, a warm flush running through his body. In fact he felt like jumping up and hugging McGraw. This was the exact name on the murder warrant and he had the confession on tape as well as two witnesses. One of Halifax's leading citizens, and a Companion of the Order of Canada, was the same man who murdered Sergeant David Godwin of the Northwest Mounted Police and his brother, Alfred, a constable with the British Columbia police force.

Is that all you want? Harley asked, amused both at the expression on Bannerman’s face and his lengthy pause in the interview.

Uh, no . . . When were you born? he continued.

I was born in the early morning hours of January 1st, 1900, Harley continued, stopping to sip his tea. It was almost ten minutes after midnight, Pacific Standard Time.

Could you state for the record if you remember the town or city? Also, do you recall the name of the hospital?

Harley chuckled and leaned forward. His bony head followed dutifully. I was born in the back of a little Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in cabin outside Dawson City, Yukon. That was the Indian tribe around those parts. Back in those days babies were born at home, or on the trail - or wherever the mother was when the urge came. If there was a problem, and if there was a town handy, the baby could be taken to a doctor's office. But the northern wilderness was kind of short on hospitals. Besides, my mother trusted an Indian woman over a white doctor when it came to childbirth. . . Sorry, I guess that’s a derogatory term now. I’ll rephrase that to First Nations Woman.

Harley's milky-brown eyes flicked toward the window for an instant then rotated in their heavily-skinned pouches and resumed staring straight at Bannerman.

Right, continued Bannerman, seemingly dismissing Melanson's opinion. Harley David Melanson was born in Dawson City, Yukon, on January 1st, 1900.

Harley peered down at the recorder. I’ll speak a little louder. Seems like your recorder is hard of hearing. He chuckled for a few seconds and then took another sip of his tea. Then he waved with hand and said, You may proceed.

Who wrote up your birth certificate? Bannerman went on almost forgetting the name of the document. This was because one half of his mind was on the questioning and the other half was still trying to comprehend the fact that he had caught Canada’s greatest living felon.

Well . . . Melanson continued, staring up at the ceiling as if the key to his recollections were in one of the ornate swirls of Victorian plaster in the crown moulding.

"According to my mother’s diary, she bundled me up in furs and two Indians helped her hiked the five miles - in fifty-below weather, mind you - to Dawson City to one of the two public hospitals there. St. Mary’s, I believe it was. You see, it was important to her that my birth was properly recorded. Captain Cortlandt Starnes of the Northwest Mounted Police signed the birth papers. He was the only official she could find.

But . . . he added, slyly, you already know that, don't you?

Bannerman nodded. Even though he was convinced he had the right man, it was better to have it from Melanson, himself – and permanently recorded.

Right. Let the records show that Mr. Melanson accepts the official documents on his birth. Bannerman scribbled something in his leather notebook and glanced at McGraw. The Mountie's face, he noticed, was one patch of skin from the top of his head to his chin. If not for his fine features the sight would have been comical to him.

However, McGraw's fierce mahogany eyes betrayed the seriousness of the man. And now they were restless, as if betraying his greatest fear at the moment: that the old man would die before confessing. To him, it was a cruel irony that a Mountie had vouched for the birth of a cop-killer so many years ago.

Alright, Mr. Melanson, I guess the Crown will be satisfied with your identity. So let's get on with the details of May 5th, 1916.

When Bannerman looked up he saw that Melanson's gaze had shifted to a wall clock. That's the Regulator from the old Winnipeg railroad station, circa 1894, the old man stated, matter-of-factly. Even against modern, digital devices it still ranks as a first-class timepiece.

Bannerman attempted to say something to get him back on track but Melanson spoke again. And gentlemen, it tells me it’s 3:00. Time for my exercise.

Exercise? blurted the perplexed government man.

Yes, I always exercise at three in the afternoon, Harley explained, plunking his teacup down in the saucer. Will you join me? With that he pressed another button on the console and, a few moments later, a knock was heard at the door.

Come in, Tom. Bannerman and McGraw jerked around to see a young black man in a sweat suit. Although covered with loose, athletic clothes the man called Tom had a neck that betrayed a muscular body.

Good afternoon Mr. Shelby, Tom said giving the visitors a quick nod. Is this a good time?

No problem, Tom. I would like you to meet Mr. Bannerman and Mr. McGraw. They'll be coming with us . . . won't you?

Bannerman reached over and switched off the recorder. Just where are you planning to go? he sighed.

Well, first to get changed, Harley announced.

And then?

Why downstairs, of course.

*

Harry Bannerman and Carl McGraw marveled at the layout of the seemingly old Victorian house. The exterior of the mansion melded in with the architecture of Young Street, in fashionable south Halifax. Inside, the wood flooring was of the period, as were the walls and wainscoting and carved archways that changed from room to room.

What surprised them most, however, was that ninety-nine year-old Harley Melanson had gotten up from his chair and walked across the floor with the ease of someone thirty years his junior. Tom had smiled when he saw their reaction. He always did.

When Bannerman and McGraw had first walked in the front entrance, they noticed the grand staircase and long hallways that straddled it. Panning the rows of pictures that gave the walls a checkerboard appearance, the bureaucrat slowed halfway down and then suddenly stopped. Noticing Bannerman was lagging behind, the others paused as well.

That's Kennedy! exclaimed Bannerman And he's shaking your hand!

Yes it is, replied Harley, casually. I met President Kennedy on several occasions. In this shot he had invited the heads of all the companies working on the Mercury and Gemini programs to the White House: April 1962, I believe. I owned a company that designed the relays coordinating the lateral thrusters, the small rockets that allowed the capsules to be steered by the astronauts. Had he lived we were going to . . . Harley stopped suddenly and stared back at the picture. It was obvious that he had once had a personal attachment to the deceased president.

Caught up in the moment, McGraw recognized a personage in another of the dozens of framed photos. There's you and Prime Minister Trudeau.

Oh, that one, sighed the elderly man, regaining his composure. "That's in '69 right after Trudeau announced that he was getting rid of our only aircraft carrier, the HMCS Bonaventure. I had come to Ottawa to see if I could reason with the man, but it useless. It was a shame that a man of his amazing intellect had zero understanding of military preparedness. You see an aircraft carrier like the Bonny was a great all-purpose craft. In times of turmoil, like earth quakes or hurricanes, she could provide tremendous assistance with a hospital and offloading support vehicles. As well, it could provide enough power to light up a whole city for days."

Realizing he was reminiscing more than usual he stopped. Shall we? he said, moving along the oak floor again. Then, halfway down the left passageway, Harley stopped and reached up with his right hand to a light switch. His neck and head seemed to be operating independently of each other now, as if the walk had freed up some seized bones in his spine. A large panel slid away revealing an elevator.

The four of us can fit in, he said stepping into the small, wood-paneled car. The rest followed suit and, although cramped, were not pressed into each other. McGraw kept an eye on Tom as if he had seen him somewhere before, maybe on TV, maybe in a mug shot on the Internet.

When the door opened they stepped out into a modern health facility complete with gym, exercise machines and three pools. Harley unzipped his sweat top revealing a lithe upper body sprinkled with fine white hair that looked even whiter against his tan. His skin was like a mahogany parchment interrupted in places by pinkish scars, so many that McGraw stared in wonderment - especially at the fat ones above each of the elderly man's nipples. Bannerman gave the Mountie a strange glance.

Well, Tom, let's get at 'er! Harley chirped.

It was then that McGraw recognized the old man's assistant. Excuse me, but aren't you Tom Maddocks, the Corporal asked, the receiver for the Toronto Argonauts?

I was. Tom grinned, helping Harley onto bicycling apparatus. Now I'm the Athletic Director for St. Mary's University.

McGraw's grin took Bannerman aback. This was the first time in a week - which was precisely how long he had known the Mountie - that he had seen McGraw's face muscles move into anything resembling a normal smile.

I saw you in Grey Cup Game in '97, McGraw said, his voice sounding as excited as a schoolboy’s. Saskatchewan blitzed Doug Flutie, but he got it away and fired one long. You showed up out of nowhere and one-handed the ball deep in the end zone. What a catch!

Yeah, grinned the ex-football star, It was the last catch of my career. Now I run the Huskies . . . and watch over Mr. Shelby, here.

Tom comes over once a week and checks me over, beamed Melanson. The rest of the week his students run me through my paces.

More like you run them, Tom said, feigning a scolding voice. Anyway, let’s get going.

Tom Mattocks hooked a series of padded, plastic harnesses on Harley's torso fastening the nylon cables with velcro strips.

What kind of machine is that? queried Bannerman, his interest in the workout, for the present, usurping that of his job.

It's a cross between a treadmill and a bicycle, offered Tom, his head gleaming under the soft lighting. The room had been designed to utilize natural light with columns of skylights that stretched to the roof. You get the benefits of jogging and riding a bike at the same time without the knee strain.

Harley began pedaling while Tom watched a TV monitor to one side. This is Mr. Shelby's vitals, Tom continued. "Heart-rate, caloric burn-off and blood-pressure. And as you can see for yourself my man, here, has the fitness of someone half his age.

That is, of course, Tom chuckled, if the fifty year-old was in good shape!"

After ten minutes of pedaling Harley took a long drink of water from a bottle and continued exercising on various machines, his regimen about the same on each. This went on for an hour and Harley's stamina had the two cops both in awe and a bit self-conscious about their own physical condition.

Then Harley walked over to one of the small pools and Tom helped him on with another harness. This is a current pool, Harley explained. I get into the pool and touch a button on the harness and water flows out from the end. The unit keeps a specific gravity designed for my weight to keep me from going under. But that might still happen if I begin to think I'm thirty and increase the current!

With Tom's help Harley got into the tank and floated on top of the water, the harness giving him just enough buoyancy to keep his head above water. Then a gush of water signaled the beginning of the current flow and the old man began to be pushed backward. Harley immediately began swimming with just enough effort to counter the flow of the water and keep him in a stationary position.

Ten minutes of front crawl and the current went slack. Harley stood upright in the four-foot deep pool and unhitched himself from the swimming apparatus. He touched a button on a panel at the pool's edge and he began levitating. It's harder to climb out than it is to get in, Harley explained, breathing heavily, so I had a lift installed.

The elevating system included a portion of the pool wall which slid up and acted as a safety rail. When Melanson was level with the gym floor he walked out and accepted a drink from Tom.

Vegetable-herb concoction with a soy and fruit mix, he said, still puffing. After sixteen years of drinking it I'm still not fond of the taste. Tom wrapped Harley with a padded bathrobe and the old man stepped into a pair of sandals.

Bannerman watched the old man drain the glass. Mr. . . uh, Shelby, he said, catching himself. Could we continue our interview now?

Sure, Harley said, sweat still running down his face. Workout's over and Tom has another appointment."

Tom Maddocks reached for his sweat jacket and grinned. Well, gentlemen, nice meetin' you.

Yeah, likewise, said Bannerman watching Tom disappear up the back stairs. McGraw's bye reverberated in the hollow acoustics of the gym.

Can we sit here? asked Harley, pointing to a white molded-plastic patio set.

Bannerman nodded and took out the recorder again.

*

So, what you're saying is I'm under house arrest but you don't want the whole world to know . . . just yet, said Harley, patting the sweat off his bushy brow with a towel.

No, not officially under arrest. We are still in the investigative stage but--

Don't leave town? added Harley, continuing the jesting.

Mr. Melanson, you must not mistake these proceedings as pretense for your amusement. Murder, no matter how long ago, is still a serious charge especially since you compounded the situation by both fleeing the scene and remaining a fugitive. In plain terms, you admitted your guilt.

Harley's smile never wavered. The white hair plastered against his thin head resembled a rubber bathing cap further exaggerating the size of his ears. I don’t remember saying anything of the sort. But even if I had you still are not at ease with bringing an old, forgotten case against an old man.

That's not it at all, Mr. Melanson. The Justice Department feels no aversion to age and proves it daily by hunting down Nazi war criminals believed to be in this country.

For the first time Harley's face took on a serious tone. The washed-brown stones that were his eyes looked sorrowful, almost basset hound-like. His lips parted and, a few seconds before he answered, the scar on his right cheek twisting up like a white worm.

Well maybe you should have gone after them with the same zeal that you hunted me.

After a few awkward seconds for the policemen Shelby finally spoke again. I think that’s enough recording for one day. Good day, gentlemen, I’ll buzz Gillian to show you out.

2.

November 27, 1999

Corporal Carl McGraw fidgeted in the large mahogany-paneled room. A light scent of Swedish oil gave a noble quality to the timeless quality of the cozy chamber. It was a man's room in every respect: bookshelves filled with gold-lettered volumes; paintings and numbered prints of aircraft and hunting dogs; and the ornate ashtrays. McGraw pictured in his mind the room being full of Halifax's elite males puffing away on the best Cubans and drinking port, the leather upholstery creaking as they shifted their weight on the overstuffed antique chairs and sofas. It was a place where deals could have been planned, political power plays engineered and a stage where a cacophony of revelry and boasts had once rung out.

I always liked that picture the best. The familiar voice made McGraw wheel around, his body slightly tense. Like most policemen he never liked surprises. Harley Melanson was standing in the doorway looking very comfortable in a navy-blue flannel shirt.

It's my German shorthair, Babe. She was the best pheasant dog I ever had. That's one of her birds on the shelf above. McGraw's eyes glanced over to the large, colorful ring-neck bird where Melanson pointed. Rather than mounted in flight the pheasant strolled, exuding a regal air that seemed to elevate the accomplishment of its hunters. Below, the picture of the dog's head, masterfully captured in brown pastels, stared off as if anxiously waiting for its master to begin the hunt.

McGraw turned back to Melanson and saw that he was leaning on two canes, a far cry from the spry senior citizen of yesterday. Good morning, Mr. Melanson, he said in an official tone."

And good morning to you, too, corporal. The elderly man strode into the room with a self-assured rhythm, the bamboo canes keeping up with his step. It was a fluid motion and it seemed like the wooden appendages were just for show and not meant to assist him. The old man seemed to disappear. You’re flying solo today, I see.

Harley leaned the canes up against the small end table and carefully lowered himself into his favorite chair. Then he kicked off his slippers and stretched his feet on the Persian carpet.

I felt a twinge in my back this morning, he said pointing to the canes, so I thought it'd be best to use my swagger sticks.

Swagger sticks? asked the Mountie, nervously. It was obvious to both men that he was not comfortable with his assignment.

Yes, officer's canes. That one on the left once belonged to Billy Bishop, a Canadian flying ace in the Great War. The other one I borrowed from a chap named Lieutenant James Addison. He never had the chance to be an aerial fighter.

When Bannerman had left for Ottawa yesterday, he said that Melanson had used an almost endless stream of tricks in his lifetime of running and will probably use some on the corporal. But I want to know all of it, Bannerman had added, as he walked through the gate. Let me sort out the bullshit.

McGraw eyes perused the canes. The name Billy Bishop caused him to raise his eyebrows a bit. But, just as quickly as it came, he brushed the thought away. Stifling a grunt of dissatisfaction he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small recorder and turned it on.

He did not like being here in the slightest and, as far as he was concerned, every folksy dialogue was time wasted. There were dozens of ongoing cases that needed his attention. However, because of his duties to this geriatric murderer they would have to wait, holding up dozens of police officers and researchers.

Seeing the device Harley grinned. I guess your boss wants to know what I'm raving about today, does he? McGraw just nodded and stared blankly.

"Well, I’ve got plenty of time, corporal. The wheels of justice may have caught up to me but, if I know Ottawa, the mucky-mucks won’t process my case until after Christmas. They never do. The country's business would interfere with their office parties. And, besides, I don’t think anyone in the Justice Department has figured out how to prosecute me.

Hell, look at how long it took 'em to go after the Nazis, and those guys are spring chickens compared to me.

Harley chuckled at his own remark but McGraw continued to ignore him. Without asking the Mountie sat down in one of the three leather sofas and pointed the tape machine in Melanson's direction. So, you claim that this cane belongs to Billy Bishop.

Belonged. He gave it to me after I shot down five German aircraft in one day.

You flew with Billy Bishop? McGraw asked incredulously, momentarily caught off guard by the remark.

Not really with him, answered Harley. I got into a hell of a fight one day and got shot up in the process. I had to get two slugs taken out of me. Bishop visited me while I was in hospital and gave the cane to me at that time. He claimed I saved his ass that day by drawing three DVII’s off him.

DVII’s?

German Fokker fighter aircraft, replied Harley. Deadly kites in the hands of good pilots.

Oh, right, shrugged McGraw.

One day, a few months later on, Harley continued, I landed at his aerodrome for repairs and we got our picture taken together. Then him and me, and a bunch of pilots from his group, got plastered on napoleon brandy.

Melanson's thick eyebrows moved up and down like white shoe brushes as he spoke. Bishop wanted me to stay on but I had one of you guys breathing down my neck so I had to leave the next day.

Harley grabbed the chair arms and began pushing himself up. McGraw immediately rose to help but the old man shook his head. It took about five seconds for him to get completely upright then he began to unbutton his blue flannel-shirt. As the policeman watched Harley pulled the garment off his left shoulder and exposed a pinkish-white scar just above his clavicle. It was one of the same wounds he had seen the day before when Harley was swimming.

That's the first one I got in that fight, he said, pulling his shirt back up again. The second one I'd rather not show you. It's only a small piece, really. The bullet hit a screw in one of the wooden spars and broke up. One fragment went into the right cheek of my ass. Nailed me to the seat like a rivet! When they got me loose, and the sliver taken out, I couldn't sit for a few days.

Harley methodically rebuttoned his shirt. The third scar I received during that battle was when I crashed but my eyebrows cover it up. I hit the nacelle pretty hard and broke my goggles.

When he had finished speaking he looked at McGraw in a strange way that unnerved the cop. The greenish-brown eyes had lost their inherent merriment and had now attained a hardness, a veneer that McGraw had seen in the gaze of seasoned law enforcement officers, as well as criminals. This, he thought, was the real Harley Melanson: the cop killer.

Harley suddenly looked away and began fiddling with one the canes as if trying to follow one of the patterns in the Persian carpet. For the first time since he and McGraw met he seemed disoriented, almost distracted.

Corporal, he finally said, looking up, his eyes still hard. "I know you don't like being here. And for that matter, I know you have the same feeling for me as you would any murder suspect. That's understandable and I admire your professionalism.

But for some reason, known only to God, I guess, it's important to me that someone knows the truth about my life, whether they choose to believe it or not. It's as if verbalizing it will somehow bring a sort of closure.

McGraw's eyes watched the swagger stick twisting into the carpet in silence. This type of admission was foreign to him and he wondered if he should turn the recorder off and leave the room for a few moments and leave Melanson to his memories. But Bannerman's instructions were etched in his mind: record everything.

Out of the blue, Melanson drove his fists into the padded arms of the leather chair and pushed himself upright again. Gone was the stiffness of a few minutes ago. Come on, corporal. I'm going to show you something that few people have ever seen.

With that, Harley strode purposefully to the darkened wall and reached up to a small, carved ornament; a dark, wooden falcon that matched dozens of others on the burnt-brown panels. When he twisted his hand to the left, McGraw suddenly heard a sound like a small motor and the whole wall began to move to the left exposing a small anterior room. Again, McGraw was reassured by the touch of the 9mm holstered at his ribs.

When the door had completely opened, McGraw was greeted by a large wooden propeller. It was mounted equidistant from the floor and ceiling and was lit by small spotlights recessed into ceiling.

I had this room built to remind myself who I was and where I’m from, Harley said, sounding as if he was addressing a christening. "Everyone has to know their origins, corporal, even you.

In the forty or so years since I had it built this area has been renovated no fewer than eight times by contractors who shall remain nameless because no receipts were ever issued. It wouldn't have mattered anyway because each one was under the impression I was collector of some sorts and so thought the secret entrance was for security reasons. To add to this charade I purchased a quantity of collectibles to sprinkle amongst my own memories.

Without another word Harley slipped through the entrance and McGraw followed suit as if dragged by an invisible rope. It was only when he was across the threshold did McGraw realize that the portal was just the beginning of a long hallway and the propeller was like a logo or welcoming symbol of a museum.

Melanson immediately turned left as he passed the propeller. McGraw followed cautiously behind him like a kid following his father into a darkened room. The old man walked with determined steps, his head bobbing as the canes plopped on the carpeted flooring. More light pots lit the way along featureless, beige walls and McGraw felt a tingle of anticipation as if going into a funhouse at a fair.

Suddenly, an automatic door slid open in front of Melanson revealing a large, dimly-lit room. McGraw froze in wonderment as he followed the old man through the portal and into the chamber.

It was as if they were archeologists exploring the tomb of an ancient king. However, instead of a central sarcophagus there were numerous glass enclosures and each one contained artifacts displayed as a museum would show them. The ceiling was higher than the passageway, but enough only to house strategically-placed lights, soft rays which lit only the cases. Near the base of the cases other lighting ensured that the floor was seen but not until a person was within a few feet. To McGraw it appeared as if the whole scene was out of a movie set.

It might seem strange, corporal, but a few years back - maybe twenty - I would come in here to go back in time, partly to revel in my accomplishments and weep at my misfortunes. But most of all I wanted to remember the people, those wonderful people who both shaped my life and the world around me.

Harley walked in as if he were opening a summer cottage for the first time in many months. His glistening eyes bypassed the obvious exhibits and examined the infrastructure with the keen gaze of a hotel manager checking for misplaced furnishings. At the time it seemed important to me to remember.

Harley stood aside so McGraw could take in the room. As the Mountie slowly approached the first exhibit he saw that it contained a large, framed picture, obviously a reproduction as the much smaller, yellow-stained original was below it in another frame. There were four people standing in front of a biplane: three young men and an attractive woman.

The policeman was immediately intrigued. He had studied the case quite thoroughly and there had been mention of a girl and a native Indian - or, as was in the 1999 revised report, a First Nations male.

Harley sidled up to McGraw and stared at the picture. The policeman turned and saw sadness in the old man's eyes, a forlorn look that, for an instant, caught the Mountie off balance. Then there followed a silence of about ten seconds while Harley collected his thoughts. He then said, That's Ed Piper, the mail pilot; Elijah Bear, my best friend.

Harley reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a wad of Kleenex. And that's Rachel, he said wiping his eyes and then dabbing his large nostrils.

When was that picture taken? ventured McGraw after a pause, somewhat taken aback at his own feelings of remorse.

May 5th, 1916.

That’s the date! thought McGraw, the definite tone in Harley's voice snapping McGraw back into his role as investigator.

How can you remember the exact date? the policeman snapped, a whiny tinge in his voice. I mean it was over eighty-three years ago.

Because, corporal, Harley said, his sad, washed eyes still riveted on the picture. It was the last day of my normal life.

CHAPTER TWO

1.

May 5th, 1916

Fernie, B.C.

Hey, Harley! The aeroplane's comin'!

Elijah Bear pronounced the flying machine's name as air-ee-o-plane as he ran across the greening field, a flash of white teeth dividing his brown face in a wide grin. His long black hair flapped behind him and rode on the light breeze. Leaping over the low garden fence he deftly dodged Harley's step-brother who had just stepped out from the weathered-grey outhouse in back of the property.

Watchit, yah dumb Injin! bleated Joey MacKay, shielding his face against the low-lying, morning sun.

Elijah ignored the much smaller boy and dashed to the back of the small house. Neighbors on both sides stopped to watch the running teenager. One woman was pinning clothes on a long line and another was still in the process of washing in a large wooden tub. The youth's short braids flapped defiantly against his neck, a rebellious symbol against the shaving he had received two years ago at the residential school. The awful place was in Pincher Creek, Alberta, and Elijah had escaped on a freezing February evening, returning home across a hundred miles of twisting mountain roads.

Elijah stopped at the back steps of the clapboard house and, between intervals of lunging for breath he called out the name of the person he sought. Harley! There were clambering noises in the small dwelling and his friend's familiar figure suddenly appeared.

Trying to pull on a worn boot with one hand, Harley Melanson hopped on one foot on the rough planking while trying to adjust his suspenders with the fingers of his other.

Ow! I think I got a sliver in my foot! the tall sixteen year-old complained, stopping to inspect his sole. He pulled at the grey splinter that stuck out of his brown sock and, satisfied it was out, jabbed the foot into the other scuffed, brown boot.

Let's go! he cried, happily, slapping Elijah on the back of his thread-bare flannel shirt. Both figures, their shirt-tails flapping below their woolen breeches, bounded toward the open field.

The smaller boy stood on the narrow garden path with his arms folded. Daddy to'd you not to hang around Injins, Harley! cried Joey, disgusted with his sibling. He to'd you you'd get a whuppin' if'n he caught you!

Running past the eleven year-old Harley jabbed his fist out and caught the younger boy on the chin with his forearm. Joey's feet went out from under him and he fell flat on his back.

He ain't my Daddy, Harley barked, not bothering to look back at his handiwork.

They were halfway across the field by the time Joey caught his breath enough to cry.

2.

Ed Piper eased off the throttle and the biplane cleared the barbed-wire fence with fifty feet to spare. A slight cross-wind from the steep slope played with the fragile starboard wing but nothing out of the ordinary for a mountain landing - especially with such a modern flying machine. At best, flying in through the narrow mountain gap of the Crow's Nest Pass was like shooting the rapids of a long river in a small canoe - with a short paddle.

The greening hay field was perfect for landing. The new growth was short enough so that it wouldn't interfere with the wheels and the old, dead grass would provide a cushioning effect in case the aircraft stalled too high upon its landing roll. It would also dampen the effect of any rocks he couldn't see. Just before the wheels touched Piper glanced at the altimeter, a big eye in the middle of the wooden console. It read 4,825 feet.

Until last week, Ed Piper was a flyer with the Royal Mail. The Dominion government had been toying with the idea of a mail service that would reach outlying areas where either the railroad schedule was too infrequent to service properly or there was no railroad at all. And with new speed records being set daily they knew it was only a matter of time before mail would arrive in Vancouver in a few days as compared with almost a week by train.

At twenty-three, the lanky, blonde flyer had once apprenticed as an automobile mechanic in Vancouver but had found the new technology of flight fascinating. His technical prowess was readily accepted by Inter-Mountain Air Services, especially after more than a few of their pilots had either met their demise in accidents or had joined the army for the thrill of killing Huns. Understanding engines did not guarantee he would be a natural flyer, but Ed was an able student and, within a year, he was flying the Royal Mail.

Until a couple of months ago Ed had flown a procession of motorized kites, flimsy machines where the pilot was almost completely exposed to