Bridge to Eternity

By A. J. Marshall

John Elliott Cornell, a renowned author, whose life seems perfect, disappears.

A year later, Alex McKay, a reporter for World Mirror Magazinea man whose own life is in tragic discordis assigned the job of writing an article about Cornell, to be published on the anniversary of Cornells disappearance.

Mystery surrounds the missing author. The novels story is the unfolding process of Alex McKay discovering the secrets of that mysterythe reasons for Cornells unusual relationships with those who knew him, the enigmas associated with the man, and ultimately the elements in his life that led to his disappearance.

As the plot develops, Alex becomes increasingly involved with those who were close to the author. He also becomes aware of a strange, seemingly unaccountable connection between himself and the missing Cornell.

A series of clues, left by Cornell, eventually lead Alex McKay to an unpublished manuscriptan autobiography that provides the answer to the mystery. That answer begins with the question weve all asked ourselves: If I could do it over again, knowing what I know now, how would I live my life?

Alex discovers John Cornell was given the chance to do just that. The core of act three of my story is what Cornell does with that chancewhat he does right, and what he does wrong. Cornells adventures in his second world become a play within a play, and ultimately reveal why the author disappeared and where he has gone.

Finally, when Alex McKay discovers John Cornells fate, he also discovers his own. He finds the reason for the link between himself and Cornellwhy the lives of two men who never met, in the world Alex knew, were destined to be interwoven in a much larger fabric of time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 19, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462829064

A. J. Marshall

Chloe’ was born in Dallas, Texas, to Joella and William Vickers.  Her only sibling, Patsy, was born two years later. Chloe’ was eight when her parents moved from Dallas to Los Angeles with their two daughters. When she was in college, Chloe’ majored in Fashion Design. Following graduation she became a custom dress designer or a prominent Beverly Hills boutique.  Eventually Chloe’ added Modeling to her career in Fashion. Chloe’s sons, Damon and Dayna, are from Chloe’s first marriage.     On August 19, 1972, Chloe’ married Tony Marshall. On January 24, 1998, Chloe’ died of breast cancer.  She was just fifty-two years old.                                    -------------------- Tony Marshall was born in Detroit, Michigan, to Ezabella and Arthur. Following his discharge from the Navy, Tony studied engineering at Syracuse University.  When he graduated, he moved to the West Coast.  As an aerospace engineer, Tony devoted most of his career to designing rocket engines for the Saturn and Space Shuttle. Tony has three daughters from his first marriage—Kristin, Cynthia, and Susan. Now retired, Tony is writing a second novel, a trilogy based on the metaphysical responses to a loved one’s death.

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Copyright © 2000 by A. J. Marshall .

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

BIBLIOGRAPHY

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love, and thought, and joy.

Image364.JPG

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

TO

CHLOE’

MY CHLOE’

WHO WAITS PATIENTLY IN THAT OTHER WORLD

Stay for me there! I will not fail

My Chloe’ To meet thee in that hidden vale

CHAPTER 1

T

he Disappearance

John Elliott Cornell had been successful, in every sense of the word. From his earliest years, he had cultivated his mind and his body, nurturing each to its full potential. He had excelled at everything he attempted—sports, his academic efforts, all phases of his career. He had written histories, biographies, novels, plays for the stage, plays for motion pictures, plays for television. And, in the process, he had won all kinds of awards. Few authors had been more prolific than John Cornell, and few more appreciated. He’d even been awarded a Pulitzer Prize—not once, but twice. At fifty-four, John Cornell looked thirty-eight. And a laboratory microscope would have told you he was twenty. Though he lived alone, he appeared a man content with the life he had chosen.

The home of John Elliott Cornell was located on the shoreline of California’s Monterey Peninsula, a hundred feet above the Pacific. It was a magnificent stone structure, old world Spanish, 1920 vintage. A wide plateau of lawn, supporting several ancient cypress trees and pines, separated the home’s rear terrace from a sheer, jagged cliff. Walls of glass provided breathtaking spectacles of sky and ocean.

In short, the existence of John Elliott Cornell had seemed as close to perfect as an existence could be. Then, one day, he disappeared.

Just a year ago (the way you and I look at time), on an Indian Summer morning—a morning like many others for most of the residents of Monterey—a promising early sun burned through the coastal haze. A lone fishing vessel could be seen near the misty horizon of a placid gray ocean. Lazy swells rolled to shallow crests, broke in sap green slow-motion, foamed, ran, swept, receded. Sandpipers dodged the water’s final efforts, then quickly followed its retreat in search of their morning meal. Gulls gathered on a cluster of boulders to watch a comrade glide, pause, and dive into the quiet surf. And the temporary residents of Seal Rock prepared for their morning siesta.

In the distance, John Elliott Cornell jogged on the sand near the water’s edge, his powerful strides like those of a marathon runner. Though he had taken the same path a thousand times, on that particular morning he was more acutely aware of the elements around him than he had ever been before. He focused on each, lingered, searched for the essence of each—sea . . . sand . . . clouds . . . sky . . . birds. . . . He engraved their images in the walls of his memory. He knew those images would have to last a long, long time.

When he reached the half buried remnants of a dock, John Cornell turned inland. He soon passed the old quarry near the dunes and an unoccupied fairway of Spyglass Country Club. Eventually his track became The Peninsula’s Seventeen Mile Drive as it curved back to the ocean and traced the shoreline several miles to the heavily treed area near Cypress Point. The sun, now bright, penetrated the upper branches of the trees in kaleidoscope patterns. When John Cornell reached the stone wall that separated his property from the road, he slowed his pace and began to walk. At an open gate, he turned and followed a soft gravel driveway through a grove of ferns and eucalyptus to the entrance of his home.

Moments later, John Cornell removed his jogging clothes and stepped into his shower. This was to be the final cleansing ceremony in the current chapter of his existence. He knew he was about to take a long and unusual journey and that, to take that journey, he would have to separate himself temporarily—perhaps even permanently—from everything familiar. Knowing this made him keenly sensitive to the physical qualities around him—the beads of water collecting on the tile, reflecting the light; the vortex at the drain; the particles of spray pelting his arms, his face; the sounds of the shower echoing with pronounced crispness.

That afternoon, John Cornell sat behind the massive oak desk in his study, his arms resting on the arms of his chair, his eyes fixed on the world beyond a wall of glass. Unfiltered rays from the sun angled in to sculpt the room’s sparse furnishings in sharp contrasts of lights and shadows. Framed photos graced the mantel of the stone fireplace in a corner of the room—photos of a young man standing at the mast of a sail boat; of a group of women gathered on a knoll of grass; and of a man and a woman, their hands on the shoulders of two young boys. A classic guitar was propped against a wall near the hearth. Behind the chair in which Cornell sat were shelves of books and cabinets containing stereo components, discs, video tapes, and a monitor. An art stand at the end of the room supported a life-size portrait, in oils, of a beautiful woman.

Cornell’s eyes turned to the portrait. They lingered a moment on the woman’s face before shifting back to the wall of glass. He waited. He knew the boy would come.

And in time, a harvest moon replaced the sun, painted the clouds and sky in shades of soft gray and orange, cast its image on the water below, silhouetted the cypress and pines on the plateau beyond the terrace, and reflected on the oils that portrayed the woman.

Cornell had not moved. Once again his eyes shifted from the glass wall to the painting, lingered, absorbed. But this time, when his eyes shifted back, something had changed. The silhouette of a small boy had appeared on the plateau of lawn at the edge of the cliff. When he saw the boy, Cornell’s hands moved from the arms of the chair to the desk.

The boy seemed to sense Cornell’s awareness of his presence. It appeared to be a signal for which the boy had waited. He immediately crossed the lawn, climbed the steps to the terrace, entered the study through an open door at the end of the glass wall, and walked to the desk. The boy wore a cap from the Thirties, a sweater, and knickers. His eyes were fixed on Cornell’s eyes, his expression stoic. Cornell knew the boy’s age. He was nine. And this time he knew the boy’s name. Cornell’s lips curved slowly into a smile. Seeing this, the boy responded with his own smile. Cornell got up from where he had been sitting, took the boy’s hand, and they walked toward the terrace door.

Jake Stark, forty-five, sat at his desk in his office on Sunset Boulevard, eating a sandwich and drinking coffee. When the intercom rang, he pressed the appropriate button and waited.

Jack Owens is on one, Mr. Stark. It was the voice of Marge, Jake’s secretary.

Thanks, Marge.

Jake pressed the buttons labeled speaker and one.

Hello, Jack. What’s up?

The angry voice of Jack Owens, the Executive Vice President for International Films, blasted through Jake Stark’s speaker.

It’s his goddamned meeting, Stark. Not mine. Where the hell is he? I’ve got a picture to start tomorrow and he’s going to fuck up everything.

"Hey! Wait a minute. Take a deep breath, Jack. Just slow down. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.

Wait, hell! Maybe managers can afford to wait. Maybe writers can afford to slow down. But I can’t. Producers don’t have that luxury. Fucking contracts with fucking writers! Three goddamn gold statues on his mantel and he runs the business—picks the actors, tells me where I’m supposed to shoot my picture, tells me how he wants it shot. I put up the goddamn money . . . and I’m taking orders from him. Goddamnit, Jake, do you have any idea what it costs me if I don’t start shooting tomorrow?

Cornell didn’t show for final script approval. . . .

Well, for christsake, the light finally goes on.

Just calm down, Jack. You’ll give yourself a heart attack. I’ll handle it and get back with you. I’m sure there’s a good explanation.

Jesus-h-christ! What the hell does I’ll handle it mean? And what the hell can I do with an explanation? Just get Cornell’s fucking ass in here. And I mean now!

Jack Owens hung up for emphasis.

Jake Stark pushed the intercom button. Marge, get me John Cornell. Right away.

CHAPTER 2

A

lex

On an afternoon ten months later, Nick Timpko, forty-two, was lying in bed watching Nan McKay, thirty-six, in the initial stages of getting dressed. Nick’s hands were behind his head. A cigarette hung from his lips. Nan picked her garments from a trail on the floor. Nick and Nan have been having an affair. Nan was suffering after-orgasm remorse. It showed. Nick found Nan’s guilt amusing. He laughed. Nick’s laugh gave Nan the excuse she needed to be angry.

«Why the laugh? Did I say something funny?»

«Not out loud.»

«Don’t you think you should let me in on it?»

«No . . . I don’t think so.»

Nan stopped what she was doing and turned to face Nick. «It doesn’t bother you,» she said, «does it? It doesn’t bother you to do what we just did . . . in your wife’s bed?»

Nick’s laugh returned for an encore.

«What does that damned laugh mean?»

«Oh so righteous, Mrs. McKay! I ask you, what is more appropriate than a laugh? Look in the mirror. Look at yourself . . . standing there in your bra and panties, filled with virtuous indignation on behalf of the absent Mrs. Timpko—the lady whose bed you so recently occupied with such unrestrained intensity.

Incidentally, from my point of view, my dear, the image won’t be complete unless you throw in at least a dozen or so calories of moral concern for your loving and devoted husband, Alex—a fellow who happens to work for the guy you just screwed.»

«My god, don’t you feel anything?»

«Well, I guess I’m supposed to feel guilty . . . so that you don’t have to. Is that it? Is that what you want? Okay.»

«That’s not what I want.»

«Oh yes it is. That’s exactly what you want.»

Nan turned her head reluctantly and looked at herself in the vanity mirror that belonged to Nick’s wife. Nick was right. The half naked woman looking back was both humorous and pitiful. The angry expression on her face seemed ridiculously out of place. «Why do I do it?»

«You do it because you have to. It’s not as complex as you think it is. You have needs. Alex isn’t satisfying those needs. You ‘re just doing what you have to do to survive. And so am I. Do you think I like sneaking around behind my wife’s back? I just don’t want to hurt her. And you feel the same way about Alex.» Nick put his cigarette out in his night table ashtray. «Come on over here for a minute. We’ll fix it up.»

Nan gave in. She got back in the bed that belonged to Nick’s wife and moved close to Nick. Nick kissed her.

«I have a surprise,» Nick said. «We ‘re going to have some time together. Days. And nights. My wife is going to stay in Europe with her sister until Christmas. And Alex will be going away . . . for a month. The magazine wants to publish a feature about John Elliott Cornell, on the first anniversary of Cornell’s disappearance. I’m going to assign the job to Alex. We need some fresh material. And, for Alex, that means going to Monterey to do his research . . . and to write the first draft of the article.»

«First draft?»

«Alex is a good information man. He has a feel for separating the wheat from the chaff. And for organizing. Talents that count, all on their own. But let’s face it, Alex is not the best writer in the world.»

«And you are?»

«Alex works for me, Nan. I’m the boss, for a reason. I take whatever he brings me and I refine it, make something out of it worth publishing. Then I take it to the powers that be and try to sell it.»

Nan returned to her garments and resumed dressing. «And whose name goes at the top after you get through refining and selling?» Her words dripped acid.

«Hey, is that fair? Is that the kind of thanks I get?» Nick got out of bed and put on his robe. «This is a real opportunity for Alex. He’ll get credit. What the hell kind of a guy do you think I am?»

Nan knew precisely what kind of guy Nick Timpko was. But she needed him. And that was the bottom line. So she went to Nick, put her arms around him, closed her eyes, and kissed him. With her eyes closed and her lips against Nick’s, she didn’t have to think about Alex.

«That’s better,» Nick said. «You know, you should learn to accept life’s little compensations gracefully. And you can look at it another way. This assignment could be very important to Alex. Cornell’s disappearance is still a mystery. Alex might just get lucky, discover something, become a big hero. By the way, that reminds me, I’m having a party tomorrow night. I want you and Alex to be here. I want to introduce Alex to someone who might help him with the Cornell project.»

As one of Mirror Magazine’s assistant feature editors, Nick Timpko would have been way over his head living in the upper elevations of Sherman Oaks if it hadn’t been for his older, formerly widowed, recently acquired wife. As a wedding present, Nick’s wife bridged the gap between Nick’s appetite and pocketbook by presenting him with the deed to a white, flat roofed, pillared miniature of Caesar’s Palace, complete with statues, spotlights, and Florentine fountain. In addition, thanks to the abundant insurance of his wife’s deceased husband, Nick also became the proud owner of a Stutz Bearcat.

It was party time at Nick’s place. On such occasions, the Bearcat, freshly washed and waxed, top removed and stored, was strategically parked center stage on Nick’s circular driveway. By the time Nan and her husband, Alex McKay, arrived at Nick’s place, cars belonging to Nick’s other guests filled the remainder of the driveway and lined both sides of the street nearby.

When the maid answered the door, Nan and Alex entered Nick’s Italian marble foyer. As though on cue, Nick emerged from a group of guests, spotted his new arrivals, and beamed in a large host type grin as he approached. Nan. Alex. Glad you could make it. While Nick spoke, he took Nan’s wrap, gave it to the maid, and grabbed Alex’ hand.

Alex despised Nick. He had all he could do to tolerate Nick’s pretentious greeting and handshake.

While her husband struggled with these problems silently, Nan gave her best impression of someone seeing Barbara Timpko’s decorating skills for the first time. To reinforce her performance, Nan added, Impressive.

Nick stayed in character. You ain’t seen nothing yet. He nodded toward a pair of open French doors at the rear of the living room, took Nan by the waist and Alex by the arm, and guided them in that direction.

Nick’s acre of upper suburbia was a plateau in the sky bounded by widely spaced pillars of Italian Cypress. There were life-size Roman statues, huge pots, and stone benches. The valley and surrounding hills were a sea of lights. For Nick’s party, the pool was lit, decking torched, and pop classics came from hidden speakers. Nick’s guests were scattered in clusters.

When they entered the yard, Nick guided Nan and Alex to the patio bar. What will you have? he asked.

Champagne will be fine, Nan answered.

The bartender poured Nan’s champagne. Nick handed her the glass.

How about you, Alex? Scotch for the Scotsman? I have something special.

Alex nodded his acquiescence. Nick turned to the bartender. Robert the Bruce. On the rocks. A pair.

The bartender reached under the bar for a hidden bottle, filled two cocktail glasses with the bottle’s contents, added ice, and pushed the glasses in front of Nick and Alex. Nick took both glasses from the bar, handed one to Alex, and raised the other in a toast. To a successful Monterey adventure, Alex.

Alex sipped his scotch, reluctantly at first; then had a change of heart and guzzled most of the contents in the glass. He knew he’d need all the help he could get to make it through the evening. And if he had to use Nick’s expensive hooch, normally reserved for the host, so be it. He put the half empty glass back on the bar and addressed the bartender directly. Top that off. Apparently some of it evaporated.

Moments later, Nick, Nan, and Alex stood at the far end of Nick’s swimming pool, cradling their drinks in their fingers and looking at the view.

What did I tell you? Nick made a shoulder high sweeping motion with his glass. Ain’t that something?

When Alex failed to comment, Nan filled the gap. Very nice.

All it takes is money, Nick said.

Nick laughed, as though he’d made a joke; then milked the moment, as though there were a moment to milk.

Alex guzzled more of Nick’s personal stock, while he tried to figure out why he was standing in Nick’s backyard, next to Nick, listening to Nick’s bullshit, drinking Nick’s liquor, and acting as though he didn’t know the man was screwing his wife.

Nan searched for something—anything to keep the conversation going. Where is Barbara, Nick?

While Nan spoke, Jake Stark stepped from Nick’s house to his patio. Nick’s attention turned immediately to Jake. Nick had a problem. He needed Jake. And Jake was his enemy.

His response to Nan’s question was mechanical. My wife is spending a few months in Europe with her sister. Excuse me a moment, will you. I have to corral someone who just arrived. I want you to meet him, Alex.

Alex made no attempt to determine the source of Nick’s comment. He was preoccupied with his scotch and with studying the lights in the valley below. He was trying to figure out if the lights looked like a giant lizard or a giant rat. Nick Timpko had inspired both images.

Nick left Nan and Alex, walked back the length of the pool to the patio where Jake was standing, and greeted his newly arrived guest. Glad you could make it, Stark.

Jake tried to recall why he accepted Nick Timpko’s invitation. He had no respect for Nick’s magazine. He had brought legal action against the publication. And he had even less respect for Nick. Nick himself had been the cause of that legal action. But Nick had pushed the right button when he phoned Jake. He had told Jake the Mirror would be writing an article about John Cornell.

Nick reached for Jake’s hand. Jake went along with the formality, because his mother had taught him to always be polite and because he was never able to shake the habit. But his act of etiquette cost Jake a palm full of dignity.

Drink? Nick asked.

Jake responded to Nick’s offer with, Do you have anything as simple as beer?

I think I can handle that.

The two men walked to the outdoor bar.

Nick addressed the bartender. Beer for my friend.

The bartender complied. Jake picked up his glass of beer.

How’s it going . . . since Cornell I mean?

I’m surviving, Jake said. He smiled at Nick’s awkward effort to break the ice. Nick picked it up.

Of course . . . I know you manage a lot of people besides Cornell, but . . . .

Jake interrupted. The article, Timpko.

Okay. In a couple of months, it will be a year since Cornell disappeared. The magazine . . . that is . . . I’ve decided to do a first anniversary feature. In fact, I have a man assigned to the job . . . .

Jake interrupted a second time. . . . who just happens to be here tonight. So . . . I’m working for my drinks. Is that it?

Nick’s hands went up in an I’m-caught gesture, and he manufactured a grin to go with it.

No thanks, Timpko. I have plenty of beer in my refrigerator. Besides, I doubt if you have enough liquor behind that bar to match my hourly rate.

Hey! Don’t take it like that, Stark. Look, since we’re going to do the article anyway, I want it to be right. I want anything we say about Cornell to be the truth. Regardless of how you feel about me, whether you like me or not, that’s all I’m after. The truth. That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here tonight. Right? And that is why I’m even sending my writer to Monterey for a month.

All right. I’ll talk to this guy. But don’t cross me in that rag of yours or, I swear to God, I’ll own it before I get through. And the first thing I’ll do is get rid of you.

You have absolutely nothing to worry about. I guarantee it. Follow me.

During Nick’s absence, Nan had experienced graphic flashbacks of she and Nick swimming nude—and doing other things—in the chlorinated water just a few feet away. Since the final two ounces of Nick’s scotch had provided Alex with unusually sensitive tuning-in powers, Nan’s efforts to engage her husband in casual conversation, as a means of paying penance, had been remarkably unsuccessful.

Though unknown to Nick, Jake and Alex were old college buddies who hadn’t seen one another in twenty years. The last thing the two men expected was to see one another again at Nick Timpko’s party.

When Jake and Alex came face to face, it took a moment for each man to find and retrieve a past image of the other, overlay the image on features that had aged two decades, and allow the composite to ring a bell.

McKay?

I’ll be damned!

Sonofabitch!

Soon a pair of giant-sized grins developed; and the two men gave each other twenty-year-hugs, separated to make sure there was no mistake, and repeated the hugs.

You know one another? Jake and Alex ignored Nick’s question.

I can’t believe it, Alex said.

Me neither, Jake added.

I guess so, Nick commented, and was still ignored.

You got older, you shit.

Well, for christsake, you did too.

Jake and Alex took the moment, but eventually Alex remembered Nan and realized an introduction was in order.

This is my wife, Nan, Jake. This is Jake Stark, Nan—my roommate, and best friend, at Syracuse University, during the Punic Wars.

Pleased to meet you, Jake.

Likewise, Nan.

Jake shook hands with Nan. He held on for a moment to check the vibes. When he let go, his attention returned to Alex.

Well?

Well?

Well, shit, Alex!

"I can see right now old