Doom Lake Holiday
Doom Lake
Holiday
Tom Henighan
Copyright © Tom Henighan, 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Editor: Barry Jowett
Design: Erin Mallory
Printer: Webcom
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Henighan, Tom
Doom Lake holiday / by Tom Henighan.
ISBN 978-1-55002-847-8
I. Title.
PS8565.E582D66 2009 jC813’.54 C2008-906211-6
1 2 3 4 5 13 12 11 10 09
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
Printed and bound in Canada.
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To my friends, Dan Boland, Rosie Dalgliesh, and Angela.
Poetry, painting, a piano, and the joy of sharing joy.
“What calls from the cold attic?”
asked the digger of his doom.
“It’s the rattle of a nightmare,
it’s a knocking in the tomb.”
“What calls from the deep water?”
asked the innocent young man.
“It’s a terror haunting childhood,”
answered grizzled Caliban.
1
A Family Vacation
They were lost. Chip Mallory knew it. He’d been sitting in the back of their SUV, watching a movie on his DVD player, wearing his super-noise-cancelling earphones, and not paying much attention. After a while, however, he couldn’t miss his father’s hesitation at the intersections, the stop-and-start motion of their vehicle, and the obvious concern about their route.
Distracted, Chip unhooked from his movie. His sister Lee tossed her copy of Flare across the seat in front of him, and threw up her bare arms in frustration.
“That route-finder thing broken, Dad?” she asked.
“Just acting up a little,” John Mallory reassured her. “Maybe there are some metal deposits around here, or one of the satellites is on the fritz.”
“Why don’t we just use a map?” Anne Mallory suggested. “It’s getting a bit late, and if we’re going to have a swim today…”
“I definitely want to try out my new bathing suit,” Lee informed them. “And I don’t want to freeze to death, either.”
“Don’t worry, Sis,” Chip put in. “It’s brutal out there. And if we arrive in the chilly night you’ll keep warm running away from the bears — or maybe Dad’s new hydrofoil water scooter will turn out to have headlights and a heated seat.”
“Now that you mention it, I hope that thing’s secure up there on the roof,” Mr. Mallory said. He pulled the SUV slowly onto the margin of the road and stopped the vehicle, but left the engine running. “You notice those bumps back at the last detour? Maybe I’d better check the boat, too. That glass-bottomed job cost me a fair bit. I’m afraid the scooter might be whacking against it.”
Mr. Mallory sighed, unfastened his seat belt, and swung the door open. He stepped down on the dirt road. He was a middling-tall, trim figure of a man, with a narrow, strong face, dark eyes, and neatly cut dark hair. He was dressed in designer jeans and a light yellow T-shirt, with fancy running shoes and a carved wooden tiki pendant — one he had picked up on a recent business trip to Australia.
Mr. Mallory was president of his own successful computer company, with headquarters in Ottawa’s Silicon Valley North, but in recent years he had been travelling all over the world — so much so, in fact, that he had begun to complain about it. “I need more quality time with my children,” he had recently told Chip and Lee. “I’m always flying off somewhere, and when I get home you’re never in. Why don’t we take a vacation together — the whole family? Let’s just head out to a lake somewhere. I’ve always wanted to take my family to an Ontario lake. When I was a kid, you know, we never went. Dad couldn’t afford a cottage — not even a rental. Heck, if I find one I like, maybe I’ll buy us a nice summer place and we can go there every year. You guys won’t be around home forever — we should spend as much time together as we can!”
Chip, seventeen, and Lee, sixteen, had listened politely to their father’s suggestion, but inwardly they were resistant. Their father’s concern sounded a bit artificial: had Mr. Mallory been reading a “how to get closer to your teens” article in one of his flight magazines? That summer Chip’s friend Peter had invited him to Toronto, where he was sure they would be able to hang out with friends, go to some Blue Jays games, and have a great time. Lee had immediately thought of four or five picnics and parties she was hoping to drop in on with her first serious boyfriend, Dirk, who was eighteen.
In the end, though, she and Chip hadn’t had the heart to turn their father down. After all, he was providing pretty well for them. The family shared a relatively new but pretty hot little mansion in Ottawa’s expensive Rockcliffe Park, and they both had techno-toys beyond most young people’s wildest dreams. So they had grumbled a bit, but when Mr. Mallory looked disappointed — and promised to buy them new cellphones with all the extras so that they could keep in touch with their friends — they caved.
“Hey, Chip! Can you give me a hand up here?” his father called. Mr. Mallory had opened a side door so as to access the roof rack and the hot August air was pouring in, making all three passengers squirm and groan.
Chip put down his DVD player and started to climb out. The scene was monotonous. Bare fields stretched away, parched and yellowing, randomly dissected by barbed wire and half-fallen snake fences. Beyond them lay clumps of cedars and a few cultivated acres thick with corn. The green, leafy maize plants seemed to dissolve in the steaming air and dazzling sunlight.
“Up here,” Mr. Mallory explained. “Just hold the tarpaulin while I tighten these ropes. You know, son, I’m beginning to wonder about that Jackson woman’s directions.”