Genevieve’s unconscious form, and released the seat belt, pulling her free as the car rode down into oblivion.
Raechen sat in the motel picking through the last of his Chinese food, his gaze locked on Genevieve’s unconscious form upon the bed. She was out cold but alive. Two ribs broken, a contusion on her forehead. She would feel as if she had been caught in a stampede of elephants when she woke up twelve hours from now, but she would be alive. He withdrew a small brown bottle of halothane from his pocket and poured a teaspoon-sized amount onto a small towel. He tucked the resealed bottle back in his pocket and gently laid the cloth across Genevieve’s face, the general anesthetic ensuring the continuation of her unconscious state. He looked at her lying there peacefully. The pictures that he had studied of her had made her as familiar as family. There was an innocence to her that filled him with a momentary shame at the violation he was committing but he quickly shook it off, allowing his son’s suffering to replace the dishonor, to fill him with the most personal determination he had ever known.
Raechen suspected who the shooters were that caused the accident, who were also after Genevieve. If they showed again, he would have to bring his old talents out of retirement. No one was going to stop him. Genevieve Zivera wasn’t going to slip through his fingers after what he had just gone through.
He wouldn’t fail his superiors, he wouldn’t fail his country, but most of all he wouldn’t fail his son. There was still hope.
Chapter 7
A lec Michael St. Pierre stood in his shop. It was really a garage but he had converted it to a fully outfitted workshop for wood, metal, and plastics. While so many fathers spent their time under the hoods of muscle cars or swinging a three wood time and time again in pursuit of the perfect game, Michael’s father found comfort in creation. Shaping and forming, carving and honing; he turned wood into furniture, metal into art, and plastic into whatever his heart moved him to. Michael would watch his father concentrating, lost in his creations, seeming to leave the room—while not in body, surely in mind—for nothing seemed to break his dad’s concentration when he was lost in his projects. He was amazed at his father’s dexterity with such stubby fingers.
By the time Michael was fourteen, they couldn’t have been more different. Michael was thin and muscular, his dad short and heavyset. Michael had the long curly hair of a teenager, while he had yet to meet anyone old enough to remember his dad when he had hair. His father was cerebral; Michael, while smart, leaned to the physical. But as so often occurs, opposites attracted. Michael would sit patiently with his dad every Saturday morning before heading off to play whatever sport was in season. They would sit and talk about everything and nothing. His father would subtly try to interest Michael in working with his tools, building and creating. He insisted that Michael had such a creative mind, if he was only to hone it a bit he could create anything he desired. But like so many teenage boys, he just wasn’t attracted yet to the things his father was. Michael didn’t think it was rebelling, he just had sports on the brain. And while Michael would listen and play along, he really didn’t find much enjoyment in building, though he never said a word, knowing it was his dad’s passion.
While his father never played organized sports, you would never know it from his vocabulary. Alec read up on every sport that Michael was interested in to the point it seemed he was a grizzled veteran.
“Hold this,” Alec said, holding out a metal gear.
Michael took it, leaned over his father, and looked into the complex inner workings of the six-foot grandfather clock that was nearly complete. Each piece was built from scratch: the wooden case, the chimes, clock wheel, gears, even the face.
“Ready for the game
Raechen sat in the motel picking through the last of his Chinese food, his gaze locked on Genevieve’s unconscious form upon the bed. She was out cold but alive. Two ribs broken, a contusion on her forehead. She would feel as if she had been caught in a stampede of elephants when she woke up twelve hours from now, but she would be alive. He withdrew a small brown bottle of halothane from his pocket and poured a teaspoon-sized amount onto a small towel. He tucked the resealed bottle back in his pocket and gently laid the cloth across Genevieve’s face, the general anesthetic ensuring the continuation of her unconscious state. He looked at her lying there peacefully. The pictures that he had studied of her had made her as familiar as family. There was an innocence to her that filled him with a momentary shame at the violation he was committing but he quickly shook it off, allowing his son’s suffering to replace the dishonor, to fill him with the most personal determination he had ever known.
Raechen suspected who the shooters were that caused the accident, who were also after Genevieve. If they showed again, he would have to bring his old talents out of retirement. No one was going to stop him. Genevieve Zivera wasn’t going to slip through his fingers after what he had just gone through.
He wouldn’t fail his superiors, he wouldn’t fail his country, but most of all he wouldn’t fail his son. There was still hope.
Chapter 7
A lec Michael St. Pierre stood in his shop. It was really a garage but he had converted it to a fully outfitted workshop for wood, metal, and plastics. While so many fathers spent their time under the hoods of muscle cars or swinging a three wood time and time again in pursuit of the perfect game, Michael’s father found comfort in creation. Shaping and forming, carving and honing; he turned wood into furniture, metal into art, and plastic into whatever his heart moved him to. Michael would watch his father concentrating, lost in his creations, seeming to leave the room—while not in body, surely in mind—for nothing seemed to break his dad’s concentration when he was lost in his projects. He was amazed at his father’s dexterity with such stubby fingers.
By the time Michael was fourteen, they couldn’t have been more different. Michael was thin and muscular, his dad short and heavyset. Michael had the long curly hair of a teenager, while he had yet to meet anyone old enough to remember his dad when he had hair. His father was cerebral; Michael, while smart, leaned to the physical. But as so often occurs, opposites attracted. Michael would sit patiently with his dad every Saturday morning before heading off to play whatever sport was in season. They would sit and talk about everything and nothing. His father would subtly try to interest Michael in working with his tools, building and creating. He insisted that Michael had such a creative mind, if he was only to hone it a bit he could create anything he desired. But like so many teenage boys, he just wasn’t attracted yet to the things his father was. Michael didn’t think it was rebelling, he just had sports on the brain. And while Michael would listen and play along, he really didn’t find much enjoyment in building, though he never said a word, knowing it was his dad’s passion.
While his father never played organized sports, you would never know it from his vocabulary. Alec read up on every sport that Michael was interested in to the point it seemed he was a grizzled veteran.
“Hold this,” Alec said, holding out a metal gear.
Michael took it, leaned over his father, and looked into the complex inner workings of the six-foot grandfather clock that was nearly complete. Each piece was built from scratch: the wooden case, the chimes, clock wheel, gears, even the face.
“Ready for the game
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