by Peter Parkin
PRAISE FOR SKELETON
"I loved this book from beginning to end. Peter Parkin and Alison Darby spin a tale of love, government corruption, and good overcoming evil. It had me on the edge of my seat wanting more. I highly recommend this book."
Linda S., Florida
"Great book. Couldn't put it down. Lots of action, twists and turns to keep you gripped all the way to the last page."
Clarice T., United Kingdom
"The great thing about these authors' yarns is that they skillfully take you to a fantasy world that could easily match real life. In the case of Skeleton, as with their other books, I sure hope I am wrong about that. But, who knows?"
Rae J., Alberta
"Loved this book. Great story line and characters. Fast-paced, action-packed. I hope to see more from these two authors. Obviously a great collaboration. This would make a great movie."
Marilyn C., Ontario
ALSO BY THE AUTHORS
Serpentine
Majestic
Headhunter
SKELETON
PETER PARKIN & ALISON DARBY
A division of 10361976 Canada Inc.
300 Central Avenue West
Brockville, Ontario
K6V 5V2
Toll Free 1-800-563-0911 or 613-345-2687
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ISBN 978-1-988281-48-3
Copyright © 2018 Peter Parkin
http://www.peterparkin.com
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Kristine Barker and Wendy Treverton
Edited by Sparks Literary
Formatting by Renee Hare
Publisher Kristine Barker
Author Agent Sparks Literary Consultants
“Everyone’s Gone To The Moon” - Music and Lyrics by Kenneth King, Published by Marquis Music Co.
Publisher’s Note
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales, are intended only to provide as a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the authors’ imaginations and are not to be construed as real.
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1st Printing March 2018
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CHAPTER ONE
Dennis Chambers shuffled down the hall toward his mother's room. Room 207 had been her home for the last five years, a place that could only be described as antiseptic; not the least bit conducive to any kind of creative thinking. However, he knew painfully well that there wasn't much chance of that kind of thinking going on anyway in a place like this, from any of its residents.
The place smelled like death.
He continued to drag his feet down the corridor, tracks he had made more times than he could count. This route always filled him with the same feelings: anguish, trepidation. No joy at seeing his mom. No shared laughter like they had enjoyed for so many years before this terrible disease had stolen her mind and her soul. Stolen at least at the conscious level anyway, and he had now pretty much convinced himself that there was nothing at the subconscious level either. But Dennis always prayed that somewhere deep down inside the labyrinth of her being that she still existed; still remembered who she was, still remembered him and his sister, and still remembered and cherished her long-dead husband.
But while Dennis prayed every day for that, he was sure it was a moot point. He was just going through the motions. There was no denying that the body of his mother was just a shell now, a vessel that reflected to loved ones the physical reminders of what had once been a full and good life.
The corridor seemed to get longer and longer on each visit. This time was no different. Nurses passed him along the way, nodding respectfully. But there was no warmth on their faces. Just the tepid expressions of realism and resignation. They knew the score and in their own day-to-day duties they received no gratification, no exhilaration—none of the feelings that a nurse on a normal care floor might experience. No feedback, no satisfaction in knowing that the care they provided was being appreciated by their patients.
Their patients didn't even know they were there most of the time. Nurses who dedicated themselves to geriatric care were somehow oddly doomed just like their patients were. It was a dead zone, no chance to recover, no possibility of getting better, only the guarantee of getting progressively worse. It took a very unique person to be able to do that job, Dennis thought wryly.
He opened the door to room 207, and he had mixed feelings knowing this was the last time. This nursing home was being closed permanently due to government funding cutbacks. It was an ancient structure that needed millions of dollars to bring it up to code. It was far cheaper to build new structures than renovate old ones. And for now, there was no other place for his mother to go—except to Dennis' home. All the nursing homes were filled to overflowing, with a healthy majority of patients suffering from the same affliction as his mother—Alzheimer's and Dementia. People's lives were being prolonged now beyond what nature had ever intended, causing the emergence of diseases like these that had probably never been seen back when the life expectancy was only sixty-five. Lives lasted longer now, but the memories and souls were already dead long before their bodies gave out. What was the point?
Dennis' mother was sitting on the edge of her bed when he came through the door. She looked up in surprise. "Who are you?"
Dennis was used to this by now, but it still hurt like hell. "Mom, it's me. Denny. You remember me."
She squinted her eyes and examined him. "Are you the doctor who gave me that needle the other day? I didn't like that, you know. It hurt."
Dennis knew she hadn't had a needle in years. Her exhaustive regimen of meds were all taken by mouth now. Ten pills a day. And he suspected that the nurses were probably at the point now where they didn't really care if she took them or not. He felt guilty admitting to himself that he wasn't even sure he cared anymore. What were they really prolonging, and why? Despite wishing and praying otherwise, he really didn't believe the soul of his mother was anywhere near planet earth any longer.
"I'm your son: Dennis. I'm not the doctor. Look at my face, look into my eyes. You and I have the same eyes—remember? You used to say our eyes were as blue as the deep blue sea."
His mother looked at him quizzically and for one exciting instant Dennis thought he had made a connection.
"That's a silly thing to say. Why would you and I have the same eyes? And my eyes are brown. You can easily see that, you silly man. Who are you again?"
One thing for sure, his mother hadn't lost her feistiness—a skill she had mastered practicing law and negotiating her way through the corridors of power at the Department of Defense. Lucy Chambers had been a force to be reckoned with back then. That was for sure. As one of the senior counsels at the DOD, she had been privy to most issues that the public never got to see in the news. The same issues that always prevented her from ever truly answering the question, 'What did you do at work today, mom?'
As he gazed at the shell of his once brilliant mother sitting on the edge of the bed, he reflected on how she used to be. And how surprised he was when she had abandoned her stellar career at the tender age of fifty. She was eighty-five years old now, but
didn't look it. A stranger would never guess by looking at her that she was so far gone. And people like his mother— brilliant, feisty, vivacious—were the ones where Alzheimer's was the most noticeable. A slow brain with Alzheimer's was...well...still just a slow brain. Not such a shock to loved ones. But a brilliant brain was like a Roman candle fizzling out after its blazing burn. Noticeable to all, impossible to hide, painful to watch.
She didn't have Dennis until she was thirty. He was three years younger than his sister, Melissa. At fifty-five years old, Dennis was already beginning the countdown to when the disease might start appearing in him and he knew Mel was doing the same. They both knew there was no medical evidence linking Alzheimer's to heredity so their chances were as good...or as bad...as anyone else's of getting it. But since Dennis got to see the disease first-hand it was a worry that was still impossible to ignore. Every time he did things like forgetting where he'd placed his keys, or carelessly leaving the milk out on the counter to spoil, he would think about it. It was impossible not to. He was too close to it.
He was jarred out of his daydream by the sudden appearance of a burly nurse bursting through the doorway. "Well, Mrs. Chambers, are we ready to go to your son's house today?"
Lucy turned her head around with ease and glared at the intruder. "Don't you people believe in knocking? First this doctor fellow, and now you! Where are your manners?"
Dennis grinned at the nurse, and she smiled knowingly in return. His first smile of the day.
Geriatric nurses were trained to ignore these outbursts from patients, because in most cases the yellers forgot within a minute or two that they had even yelled. There was no point in arguing because there was no argument to win or lose. It was merely a moment in time, which was really all an Alzheimer's patient's life was anyway—brief moments in time that were quickly forgotten.
The nurse introduced herself to Dennis as Jennifer, after which she quickly went about her business of bundling up his mother's possessions into a single suitcase. A wealthy life had been reduced to one suitcase. Lucy's wealth was now spread between her two children, and she had most likely forgotten completely now that at one time she had been a woman of privilege.
Dennis went over to his mom and held her hand. "Mom, we have to go. Let me help you into the wheelchair, okay?"
Lucy scowled at him in a manner that only she could pull off, but reluctantly allowed Dennis to pull her up from the bed and ease her into the wheelchair. "I don't know why they insist I ride in this stupid thing. I can still outrun most of the incompetents in this stupid hotel."
Dennis just smiled, spun the chair around and headed out the door. There were several other old folks leaving today too, he noticed. The hallway was jam-packed with wheelchairs, patients, family members and suitcases. He had to do some fancy maneuvering to get around some of the obstacles. Nurse Jennifer was running interference in front of him. She was carrying the suitcase and a potted plant. Dennis had another plant in his free hand, steering the wheelchair with the other.
They rounded the corner and headed out the front door to the sound of several nurses calling out, "Goodbye, Mrs. Chambers!" Lucy ignored them; in fact, she seemed annoyed by them.
Once they reached the portico outside the entranceway, they stopped. Dennis' car was parked right down on the street in front. He was lucky to have found that spot—traffic in Washington, D.C. was horrible at the best of times, and parking spaces were nearly impossible to find. Even the nursing home's parking lot always seemed to be full.
Jennifer headed down the stairs and Dennis steered the wheelchair over to the handicapped ramp. He put down the potted plant, wanting to use both hands to guide the chair down to the sidewalk. He could hear his mother grumbling as he started on the downward slope.
Safely at the bottom, he popped the trunk of his Mercedes, took the suitcase and potted plant from Jennifer and placed them inside. Then he knelt in front of his mom. "Let me take your purse, mom. You'll need your hands free getting into the car—it's a tight squeeze."
"No one takes my purse, young man. Who do you think you are?" She grabbed onto her purse even tighter, seemingly protecting valuable treasures. Dennis knew there were only a few things in that purse—things that were of sentimental value to his mom, like jewelry. But he respected that they were important to her, even though she no longer remembered or felt any sentiment. While she didn't remember the significance of things, part of her brain just seemed to know that they were significant.
"Okay, mom. Hold onto it. I'll be back in a sec—have to go back up and get the other plant." He nodded at Jennifer, leaning his head in the direction of his mom. "Watch her for a second, will you?"
Then he started his walk back up the steps. Halfway to the top he heard the screams. He whirled around just in time to see his mother and the wheelchair topple over while a young thug dragged on the strap of her purse. Jennifer, while trying to intervene, received a kick in the stomach from the thug's partner, sending her down hard.
Dennis leaped off the steps and raced to the sidewalk. He drank in the scene: his mother holding onto her purse for dear life, being dragged out of the wheelchair and onto the sidewalk, finally mercifully letting go.
The thugs ran. Dennis took off after them as Jennifer rose to her feet and reached down to help Lucy back up into her chair.
Dennis was fast. The muggers were young, but he could tell they weren't athletic. They were probably hoping the purse contained money that they could use to buy drugs. Drug addicts generally didn't keep themselves in good shape, which was to Dennis' advantage. At fifty-five he had still retained some of the athleticism of his youth and he called on it now.
He carefully deked around several people while the thugs, about thirty yards in front, were callously knocking them out of the way. At the end of the street they turned the corner and headed east. Dennis saw his opportunity—he cut the corner off, leaping up onto a concrete statue base and running straight across to the sidewalk the thugs had just turned onto. He flung himself through the air in a perfectly timed tackle, taking the kid with the purse to the ground. He pulled the purse out of the squirming thug's hand, then grabbed his long hair in his fist and smashed the kid's head into the pavement.
The next thing Dennis saw was the sole of a foot coming straight toward his face. Impact. He slumped back onto the sidewalk but held tightly onto the purse. No one was going to get his mother's purse. Through his blurry eyes he watched one punk helping the other to his feet, then both running off like scared jackrabbits.
Dennis struggled to his feet, putting his hand up to his tender nose. Some blood, but it didn't seem broken. He shook it off and wearily headed back in the direction he had come. Scores of curious people watched him trudge along, bloodied face, purse in hand.
He had been hoping to hang onto the youth and arrest him, but he knew that would have been mainly just symbolic anyway. The kid would have been back on the street in a matter of hours, stealing more purses, buying more drugs. A misdemeanor at best. At least he had his mom's purse back, so victory was his. And his mother would be happy...well, as happy as her disease allowed.
Lucy and Jennifer were waiting for him beside his car, looking none too worse for the ordeal. Lucy smiled when she saw her purse and it warmed Dennis' heart to see that such a little thing like a purse could bring out a rare smile.
Dennis composed himself while Jennifer stared at his blood-streaked nose and lips. "Okay, let's get back to what we were doing. I'll get that plant, then help you into the car, okay Mom?" She frowned at him, then started fidgeting with her fingers. Dennis just shrugged and resumed his walk up the steps.
Another scream—this time more of a wail—caused him to whirl around once again. His mother had her head buried in her hands and Jennifer was rubbing her back, looking puzzled.
He called back to her. "Mom, what's wrong now?"
Lucy angrily shifted her body, just enough to make the wheelchair spin around so she could face her son. Her eyes were a
lert and she stared right up into his—for the first time in many years she held a gaze into his eyes. She raised her gnarled little fist and shook it furiously. Her regal face was now scrunched up in fear as she pleaded with her son in a strong authoritative voice, a voice that Dennis hadn't heard since she gave up her career.
"Denny, Denny, we can't leave without the package!"
All Dennis could do was stare back at her, his bloodied mouth hanging open in shock.
"Get the package, Denny! Please! You have to get it!"
CHAPTER TWO
Men don't cry. Or, at least, most men don't cry. Or, at the very least, most men don't let anyone see them cry.
Dennis was well aware of the stigma that was attached to the sight of tears pouring down a man's cheeks. But he didn't care. He had never cared about that, because he had always allowed himself to cry. Strong men cried. Confident men cried. Men who cared cried. And Dennis was all those things.
Standing on the steps of the nursing home watching his mother pleading with him, recognizing him, connecting with him for the first time in about five years—it simultaneously squeezed and caressed the crap out of his soul. He could feel it deep within and the tears now streaming down his cheeks were uncontrollable. And he loved the feeling: the warmth, the wetness, the cleansing.
He sprang from the steps and ran over to his mother. He knelt in front of her and cupped her cheeks in his hands. "Mom, you know me! You still know me!"
"Denny, don't be silly. Why wouldn't I know you? You're my baby!" She pursed her lips together and gestured a kiss. Dennis leaned forward and kissed her dry, chapped mouth.
She brought her tiny hands up to his face and wiped the tears away. "Why are you crying? I can see you've hurt yourself." She rubbed away at the dried bloodstains. "How did you do this? Does it hurt?"
