Doc Harrison and the Prophecy of Halsparr

by Peter Telep

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  PETER TELEP

  www.docharrisonbooks.com

  Copyright © 2017 Peter Telep

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author, expect by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be published in print or electronic form. All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is coincidental.

  Cover design by Peter O’Connor

  www.bespokebookcovers.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  These wonderful people served as my collaborators and beta readers for this, our third adventure:

  Ms. Cristina Gonzalez has given so much of her time and energy for this project that it’s difficult to thank her with just a few words. Her encouragement is cherished, and her insights into improving this book are invaluable. Check out her blog here: http://www.iamwickedz.com/

  Ms. Michelle Pruss gave me so many great ideas and wonderful reader reactions during the writing of this novel that it’s safe to say I owe much of my inspiration to her. She’s been a fan of the series since the beginning, and I’m grateful to have her assistance yet again.

  Special thanks to Ms. Aja Jacobson, Ms. Jackie Fiest, and Mrs. Suzy L. Davis whose insights really helped clarify this series at its inception. Once again, I’m grateful for their time and hard work.

  My daughter Lauren has served as my final proofreader, but I’m still taking full blame for any remaining errors (because that’s what dads do). Check out her wonderful book blog at laurenslibrary.net

  My lovely wife Nancy and talented daughter Kendall have also been instrumental in helping this series come to life—simply by putting up with me and my rants about the story and characters.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Back in the days when Tommy and I used to play video games, he’d always try to teach me something.

  Between long sips of beer, he would show me how scouting, target selection, and stealthy maneuvering in our game applied to challenges in real life like dealing with online trolls or getting homework turned in on time. We never just played games, and he delivered his lectures in that South Carolina drawl that sounds more like music than advice. This was back in the days before the masks shoved an artificial wreath into his gut as a means to control him, back in the days when all I could think about was making Julie my girlfriend—

  Back in the days before Julie became a mask herself.

  As I stand here in her room, surrounded by all of her stuff, her old life on Earth seems meaningless now—even though she brought me here to pretend everything was still normal. She thought she could just invite me back into her life. She assumed I still love her and that she could get me to do anything she wanted. She thinks if I join her we can defeat the masks and the Armadis.

  I don’t know what her plan is, but I sure as hell don’t trust her anymore, not after she ripped me out of the temple on Flora and brought me back here without even asking.

  If I hadn’t projected my persona and linked up with Keane, Meeka, and Steffanie in the Hood at the last second, I would’ve been captured.

  But it’s not like my situation got any better. My persona is too far away now, and I can’t pull it back into my body. If I can’t get it back within four hours… uh, let’s not go there yet.

  I still can’t believe this is happening. How can my body and my persona be separated by trillions of miles?

  Our personas are limited to the planet, although we can jump as high as the healing wreath in orbit. We can’t jump to Flora’s moons.

  Somehow masks are capable of making interstellar jumps. Maybe once you become a mask, your wreath functions like an engine. Whatever the case, I survived the trip with Julie, despite leaving my persona on Flora.

  And now part of my consciousness is in my persona and part of it is here in my body, yet I’m able to communicate with Keane and the girls in real time over this vast distance. In that way, it’s just like that connection I have with Keane because we’re both laurels and share a common ancestor.

  “Doc? What’re you waiting for?” asks Meeka. “Go!”

  Okay, as Tommy would say it’s time to ruck up. Analyze the situation. Scout, select, and move (which I later learned was his civilian variation of “shoot, move, and communicate” from the Marine Corps).

  Mission: I need to get my body back to Flora so I can pull back my persona. I need an engine to do that.

  Fact: unless someone moved it, my father’s engine is still inside the old house in Chuluota.

  However, and this is a huge however, I need his immortal to operate the quantum computer, but I can’t project that immortal because immortals borrow your persona and I’m already using mine in the Hood. That conclusion leaves me cursing.

  Wait, didn’t Steffanie tell me to find Zach?

  That’s right, my father left him in charge on Earth and (I hope) gave him access to the computer.

  Back in the Hood at the high top table where th
e four of us have gathered, I grab Meeka’s hand. “Hey, do me a favor? Ask Tommy if Zach knows how to send me back.”

  “Okay.”

  “And hurry.”

  “No, I’ll take my time. I want you to die.”

  I wince. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, I’m walking up to him right now.”

  That sounds so weird. While I’m standing in Julie’s room, I’m also sitting in the Hood, looking at Meeka, who’s telling me she’s also at the Monkshood temple in Verbena and going up to Tommy. Just then, another thought strikes:

  “Does anyone know how long I’ve been away?”

  “I’m not sure,” answers Keane. “Maybe fifteen minutes?”

  I check Julie’s Hello Kitty alarm clock, which looks dusty and yellowed from the sun. “It’s a little after five. That means I have until about nine tonight to get back.”

  “Less than that,” Keane says. “Don’t cut it too close.”

  “Roger. The sooner, the better.”

  Finally, Meeka has an answer: “Zach can get you home.”

  “Awesome. Where is he?”

  “We have his address.”

  “How far is it from here?”

  “About a fifteen-minute drive.”

  “How long to walk?”

  In the Hood, Meeka smirks at me. “Go home. Find the keys to your father’s car. Take it. And drive to Zach’s house.”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah. I can do that. I just can’t get stopped by a cop. I only have my learner’s permit. I think it’s still in my wallet in the top drawer of my dresser.”

  “Just go!” Meeka says.

  “Hang on,” I tell her. “Let me check one other thing.” I bolt downstairs to the garage, hoping I can save a little time by taking Julie’s mother’s car.

  But it’s gone. I ask Meeka to ask Tommy about it. He says they moved it over to safe house as a backup. He assures her that my father’s car is still in our garage.

  I hurry outside and jog down the sidewalk.

  Whoa.

  Lighter gravity. I bound across the concrete, flying ten feet with each stride like an astronaut on the moon.

  I slow down and walk easy, just as Mrs. Bossley wobbles down her driveway, heading toward her mailbox. The effort leaves her huffing and puffing.

  Everyone in our entire neighborhood—no matter their age, race, or political party—agrees on one thing:

  Beware of Mrs. Bossley.

  Every morning she drives around our block in a golf cart with a sign for the homeowners’ association plastered across the front. She stops here and there to write up people for serious violations like parking two inches on the grass or having a dead flowerbed or leaving kids’ toys in the driveway overnight. We have some dangerous thugs living in our hood.

  Each month she sends out a newsletter featuring pictures of dog poop and STERN WARNINGS for people to curb their pets—otherwise they’ll witness the full destructive power of the homeowners’ association.

  So yeah, she’s the last person on Earth I want to see right now. But it’s too late. We make eye contact, and she blocks the sidewalk. Easy for her.

  “Hello, Mrs. Bossley,” I groan.

  “Docherty? Where have you been?”

  “Around…”

  She frowns and fans her sweaty face with the retirement magazines and junk mail clutched in her monstrous fingers. “You know I’ve seen all the cars at your house and all those kids. I called Alina, but she’s not answering. The mail lady says no one’s picking up the mail, and I verified that myself. Your father hasn’t called me back, either.”

  “Uh, yeah. It’s summer break, so Julie’s on vacation.”

  “Alina never said anything.”

  “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “You mean working?”

  “Somewhere. Maybe…”

  “Docherty, are you all right?”

  “Fine.” I squeeze around her, oh-so-careful not to step on her grass.

  She calls after me, “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  I nod and sprint away.

  Aw, no. I’m doing those superhuman leaps again, and I know she’s watching.

  I drag my feet up my driveway, cross onto the porch, and grab the door handle. Locked. I check under the mat. No key. I turn over the fake rock near the shrubs lining the walkway. No key there, either.

  Really? Now what?

  I gaze down the block.

  Mrs. Bossley watches me like I’m one of her old geometry students cheating on a test.

  Smiling back but cursing through my teeth, I cross to the garage door keypad. I lift the plastic cover and type in the code three times before giving up. Someone must’ve changed the stupid code.

  Mrs. Bossley asks again if I’m all right.

  I smile and flash her a thumb’s up. Yeah, we’re all fine here. Everything’s under control. Situation normal.

  With no other options, I hustle around the side of the house and start checking windows, but we never leave our windows unlocked or open during summers in Florida. Who does?

  “I’m locked out,” I tell Keane and the girls. “Ask Tommy if they hid the key somewhere else?”

  A few seconds later, Meeka tells me that Zach has all the keys, “but don’t worry, just break a window and get in there!”

  “Maybe I should walk to Zach’s house.”

  “Don’t waste all that time,” Meeka argues.

  It’s incredibly humid and at least eighty-five degrees. My shirt is already soaked in sweat. I check the next window. Locked. “Hey, what about mirage? Do we have any? Maybe I can buy some extra time.”

  “You could check the safe house,” Meeka answers. “But that stuff’s no joke. The first time’s unpredictable. You could get a bad reaction or even OD like Julie did, so that’s your last resort.”

  “Great...” I reach the back porch and check the screen door. Open. I try the sliding glass door. Locked. The window is also locked. We have some outdoor patio furniture, so I grab one of the chairs, close my eyes, and slam it into the window, shattering the glass.

  The house alarm now blares across the neighborhood as everyone’s coming home from work.

  I bet money that Mrs. Bossley is on her way.

  And the alarm will alert the security company operator, who will in turn call the police if I don’t shut it off in time.

  This could not be more awesome. I clear away the glass, push back the blinds, and climb inside.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As I cross the living room with glass stuck to the bottoms of my shoes, I decide I won’t go crazy looking for my dad’s keys until I’m sure his car is in the garage. I don’t care what Tommy said. Who knows what happened after we left, right?

  And knowing my luck it’s gone, just like Alina’s, and I broke the window for nothing.

  Well, I open the door leading into the garage and sigh. The little Toyota’s still here.

  I turn back to the alarm keypad mounted on the wall in our washroom. I plug in the code. Nothing. I try it again. No response. This code’s been changed, too. Cursing, I charge off to find the keys, with the house sounding like it’ll self-destruct in T-minus sixty-seconds.

  Already out of breath, I race into the kitchen. Misjudging the weaker gravity and my own strength, I collide with the refrigerator. Wait. That’s weird. All the family photos I hung from magnets are gone. Did Dad take them?

  I shrug that off and scan the countertops where he usually leaves his keys. Of course they’re not there.

  So I charge upstairs, into my father’s bedroom, whipping my head around—

  And then stop.

  “Meeka, what the hell are we doing? All I need is a phone. I’ll just call Zach and tell him to come get me. Duh.”

  “You know his number?”

  “No. What about Tommy? Ask him?”

  After a moment, Meeka says, “He’s knows it. It’s a number your dad forced
him to memorize. So do you got a phone?”

  “Uh, no. Wait…”

  My father’s keys and his phone lie on his nightstand next to a box of tissues. The phone’s plugged in and fully charged.

  Perfect. All I need is the passcode, but even if I could ask my father’s immortal, I doubt he chose to include it. I mean why would he? With nothing to lose, I tap in a few numbers anyway, like my birthday and my father’s. Invalid. And knowing him, he picked some obscure combination that I could never guess, one of his physics formulas or some other such weirdness.

  Then, for just a moment, I remember where I am. I glance at my father’s pillow and the framed photographs on his dresser. I drift over to the closet and swing open the door. His shirts and pants hang perfectly on labeled hangers and are all catalogued into days of the week, with the dress shoes lined up below, shined to perfection.

  And it’s strange. My dad’s whole life is right here, waiting for him, as if nothing ever happened, as if he never turned into a Mask of Galleon and died when the bomb went off at Brandalynn.

  Out of nowhere, I’m reaching for the wall and breaking down. I’m a little boy sneaking into this bedroom after a bad dream. I tug on my his pajama sleeve. He lets me squeeze in between him and Grace, and in a few minutes, I fall back asleep. I start wiping away the tears.

  “Doc, come on,” Meeka says.

  The house alarm seems louder.

  Wiping off more tears, I rush out of there and take the stairs three at a time. I blast into the garage—

  Just as someone rings the doorbell.

  I wonder who…

  Thumbing the key fob, I open the car doors.

  Okay, just like Julie taught me. Adjust the seat. The side mirrors. The rear view mirror.

  Key in the ignition. Turn. Vroom. Nice!

  Shift lever from park to reverse.

  Tap on the gas—

  And plow directly into the garage door. BOOM!

  Because hello, I forgot to open it. Damn, you never start a car with the garage door down because of carbon monoxide poisoning. They made a big deal about that in driver’s ed.