Confluence: A Novel

By Jay Stephens

Hero cop Martin Magnus encounters a bewildering series of events; including a baffling investigation that impacts him personally.

A pedophilia victim , Martin has become a womanizer. After two marriages Martin is infatuated with his psychiatrist. But he falls for Linda Jordan, a woman half his age who has loved him from afar. Then he brings her into the vortex of his investigation, causing her serious harm and ending their affair. Disillusioned, Martin hooks up with Virginia Schultz, a degenerate schemer. Ironically, Virginia leads to Martin to meet his one true spiritual partner.

CONFLUENCE is replete with mystery, suspense, romance and spiritualism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 12, 2004
• ISBN: 9781465331496

Jay Stephens

Jay Stephens is a three-decade veteran of the Canadian alt-comics scene, starting out in the early 1990s with the influential creator-owned series' Sin, The Land of Nod, Atomic City Tales, and Jetcat Clubhouse, while also dabbling in licensed comics work like Aliens, Star Wars, Teen Titans, and The Invisibles. Also known for his kids' comic strips, Chick & Dee, Arrowhead, and the syndicated newspaper strip Oh, Brother!, as well as the underground weekly strips, Oddville! and Nod. Jay's side career in film includes working in the Art Department on a few low-budget horror movies, and creating and producing animated television like Jetcat, the Emmy-Award winning Tutenstein, and Cartoon Network's The Secret Saturdays.

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Copyright © 2003 by Jay Stephens.

Cover Illustration by Norman Arinsberg.

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:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

This book is dedicated to my wife,

Patricia,

who has inspired and encouraged me to start and complete

this project, and has taught me the truest meaning of the word

con ·flu ·ence (kahn’floo-ens) n. [ < L. com-, together + fluere, flow]

1. a flowing together, esp. of streams

2. the place where this occurs

3. a coming together

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I give [this watch] to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won… They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

—William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

"Time is not a stream flowing

equably, constantly, from the beginning of all things to the end of all things

as Newton believed.

Instead time is an intricate web of is and was and will be,

all coexisting in a continuum of time and space,

each fraction of a moment a point in the continuum.

All times exist at once, and the future, just like the past,

is already there."

James Bradley, Wrack

Prologue

Last night he knew rain. Now dawn was well up and vapor rose from fresh meadows. Bleached grasses danced gracefully under bright white light as a distant wall of willows restlessly swept the earth, a citadel behind which a forest unfurled to the horizon.

And there, by the lane along which he had been traveling for as long as he could remember, there grew a flower unlike any he had ever seen, and yet it seemed somehow familiar to him. It stood very straight and tall, almost as tall as he. There was not one other flower among the vast field of grasses. He felt an urgent attraction emanating from this single flower. He was compelled to go to it, touch it. Its vivid aura beckoned him. All his attention was now upon this single flower. Everything else seemed to retreat from him.

As he approached this solitary flower curious details became apparent, and as he lifted his hand to examine it the flower twisted and curled to face him. This seemingly voluntary movement startled him. Although frightened, he did not withdraw. He merely widened his eyes.

Deep brown velvet petals, long and straight, infused with fine virescent veins, warmly seduced his touch. Their apparent symmetry belied a complex disarray. They formed a spiral that drew his gaze into the blossom’s brilliant iridescent center. Its face moved closer still, regarding him with evident curiosity. The leaves along its stem trembled rhythmically, sensually, a warm breeze caressing his cheek and neck with feral feminine fingers.

Music. A flute. When did it begin? He listened earnestly, but his eyes never strayed from the flower. It was a melody he could not understand. Its unpredictable intervals were foreign and defiant. It became more persistent, louder, infusing his mind. Were he to leave, or even move, he felt certain that he would no longer hear it. He knew that once lost, he would not regain it. Anemone’s song.

Now, with undeniable certainty, he knew that he was fated to find this flower. He knew its nature, its reason for being, its purpose in attracting him. Furthermore, he realized that this lane was the only one leading to this place, to this flower and this melody. He might have chosen other paths along his way but had not. He asked himself why and could not know. There was no answer.

He stared intently into the center of the flower, a bright hemisphere ringed by slender supple tufted stalks, a shallow mound, myriad intertwined spirals of red, yellow, green, blue, indigo. Now suddenly seized by vertigo, he dared not look away. And then he swooned, falling heavily to his knees. He closed his eyes and bent to rest his brow against the cool earth at the foot of the flower.

After a time he opened his eyes again and saw the flower standing perfectly erect once more. Its face was no longer facing his face. The music was now very, very faint. He had to concentrate to hear it at all. The whisper of a breeze eclipsed the melody, it seemed. Had the flower lost its affinity for him? Was it ignoring him? He could not bear to resume his journey and to leave it behind. And he could not possibly bring himself to sever it from the earth that gave it life. He knew that if he were to do so it would quickly die, its strange alluring beauty gone forever.

His heart wrenched painfully in his chest. His mind seized in dull, dense agony. He stood to leave, dizzy still, heat behind his eyes. Where had he been going? He strained to recall. He could not. He walked into the forest beyond the willows, the flower now standing taller than before, impervious to him. Had it somehow derived something from him? The lane, his path, now was remote memory.

Soon he came upon a brook, startling in its clarity, tiny fish darting in its depths between rocks and stones and fallen twigs. He removed his battered shoes and tattered clothes, discarded them, and waded into the water’s unexpected warmth. Stepping carefully on smooth stones, he ventured downstream and shortly found a gourd, split lengthwise, lying hollow on a moss-covered log beside the bank. He filled one half the gourd with water from the brook and with care he carried it to the flower.

As he neared, the flower turned to him and spread its petals. He gently poured the water on the earth about its stem and the music began anew. He sat in the grass and at last he touched her stem, tenderly, lightly stroked a leaf. The flower bent its head, a tiny dewdrop fell upon his wrist. He shuddered, bent forward, and kissed the flower’s center. Its petals closed against his lips. Nectar flowed into his mouth. He swallowed and was lost.

Released now from her kiss, he lifted the gourd and placed it in his lap. The flower leaned toward him, allowing its petals to rest upon his shoulder. Slowly, his tears filled the gourd. He was happy beyond imagining. He fed her his tears. Each would sustain the other. He lay his head upon the moist soil and slept.

When he awoke she was standing over him, glistening ebony, her eyes shimmering kaleidoscopes. A dappled stallion shifted restlessly at her side. He rose and went to her. In her embrace he was at peace.

Chapter 1

When’d it go over? then watched him take a photograph.

Go over? Whaddya mean go over? You see any skid marks? I don’t. Guardrail’s not even dented or nothin’. Good thing you ain’t no detective, Fergo as he snapped another picture.

How the hell’d it get there, then? Fell outta the sky or what?

Couldn’ta fell, neither.

How’s that?

Don’t have a scratch on it. Nowhere.

The fuck? Y’mean like somebody put it there? Placed it down there? Like a toy or somethin’? The fuck you sayin’, Larry?

Officers Block and Ferguson stared through the darkness over the cliff at the brand new Mercedes-Benz sedan perched on the ledge below them, nose down, balanced perfectly on its grille. An enormous military helicopter hovered in the canyon, level with the car’s front end, its searchlight piercing the windshield. Block’s hand held radio squawked, Two inside! Man and a woman! Man’s in front, woman in back! Look totally naked! Not a stitch on ’em! Should I try’n lift it?

Affirmative! Block shouted into the radio, screamed it to be heard over the helicopter’s racket. The two highway patrolmen, Block and Ferguson, watched as the helicopter rose and assumed a position directly above the rear of the car. The winch slowly lowered the grappler toward the rear bumper.

So, Ferguson asked, if there wasn’t no crash or nothin’, how’d you know it was here in the first place?

Anonymous phone call to the station, replied Block.

Phone call? Y’mean like, ‘You wanna see somethin’ really weird? Head north on route 16.’ Like that?

Well, whoever it was made like they knew how this got here. Might’ve even been the perp.

Wha’d they say?

Don’ know.

Don’t know? Whaddya mean, don’t know? You spoke to the guy, right?

Wrong again, Fergo. You’re not plannin’ on takin’ that detective’s exam any time soon, are ya’, pal?

Awright, awright. No need for that shit. Just tell me what’s the story, awright?

Captain took the call, slow and sing—song, as if talking to a small child. He enjoyed teasing his friend, Ferguson. "The guy… uh, person… don’ even know if it was man or woman… would only talk to her, the Captain y’know, gradually reverting to normal speech, and she wouldn’ tell me what he… the person… said. Only to check it out, just go and secure the scene, make sure the press or TV don’t hear nothin’ any sooner than absolutely necessary. ’At’s what she said, so I’m here. An’ you? How’d you wind up here anyhow?"

Dispatch said meet you here, so I’m here, only slightly offended by Block’s tone. It was a condition of their relationship he tolerated somewhat uneasily. Didn’ sound like nothin’ more’n routine anyway, y’know? No idea it’d be anything like this here. Too fuckin’ weird, Larry. Too fuckin’ weird.

The helicopter struggled, strained to lift the big sedan, but eventually it began to rise, the car gently swaying, first away from the cliff face, then back toward the road. Slowly the big bird lowered its cargo onto the turnout area. Under the pilot’s expert control, the car’s front bumper alit first, then, as the helicopter slowly sank, the car’s rear tipped down and landed on its tires, the rear ones thudding and screeching into the dark earth. The two patrolmen unhitched the grappler, Block waved to the helicopter crew, and the big bird turned and headed back toward town. They walked around the car, Block on the driver’s side, Ferguson on the opposite, looking inside at the dead couple.

Not a stitch on ’em, all right. Naked as jay birds, Larry.

I can see ’em, I can see ’em. They’re wearin’ their seatbelts, and with no clothes on. Whaddya make of that? An’ he’s behind the wheel and all. He’s white. She’s black. Block whistled low and quiet to himself as his gaze lingered on the woman. He’s drivin’ and she’s a back seat passenger. Never seen nothin’ like this. Never even ever heard of nothin’ like this. Doors’re all locked. Don’t see no obvious injuries to the two of ’em. Nothin’ else inside but the two of ’em that I can see. You see anything, Fergo?

Nope. Nothin’ but them. ’Cept for where the grappler just scrunched up the rear end, this car looks like it just left the showroom, too. Want me to go get the Slim Jim outta my cruiser and lift these locks?

Yeah, good. Thanks. Block headed back to his cruiser in order to radio the station. Tossed the camera in the back and plopped himself onto the front passenger seat. He watched as Ferguson first pushed the wedge down between the driver’s door and window of the Mercedes, then inserted the long, flat tool into the opening. Watching him, Block keyed the radio. Bravo one four home, over. Pause.

After several attempts, Ferguson managed to unlock the car door. Then he opened it and the man’s body immediately slumped toward him. YO! FERGO!! PUT HIM BACK AND SHUT THE DAMN DOOR, DAMMIT!! Block was screaming. Ferguson did as he was told. Now get the hell over here! now merely shouting.

Home to bravo one four. What’s up, Larry? Everything okay? Over.

Yeah, yeah, Colleen, sweetheart. We’re all right. Need to talk to Sinclair ’bout this scene here. She around? Over. Ferguson was standing over Block now, just inside the open door of the cruiser, his back to the Mercedes.

She’s on a call, Larry. What can I do for you? Over.

Okay, Colleen, here’s what you can do, honey. Have a CSU an’ a couple detectives sent out to this location pronto, okay? Twelve and a half miles north on 16 off the 112, okay? An’ tell the Captain we’ve got the scene under control and everything, awright? An’ oh, yeah. An’ meet me for pie an’ coffee after your shift’s over. How ’bout it? Over.

Behave yourself, Larry, please. You’re impossible, really. I’m going to tell Marie if you don’t cut it out. Those units will be on their way in less than five minutes. And I’ll inform Captain Sinclair the moment she’s free. All right? Over.

Block could sense her blushing over the radio. Thanks, Colleen, honey. You’re the best. We’ll be right here meanwhile. Over and out. He motioned to Ferguson to move back so he could exit his cruiser. When Ferguson stepped aside, he saw that the Mercedes was gone.

Chapter 2

Police headquarters in Confluence, Pennsylvania, the Quippahannock County seat, was an unremarkable three-story cinder block and stucco affair in a group of local government buildings four blocks east of town center. Its thick coat of beige enamel glowed in the early morning sun. The proud and tidy mountain community of fifty-five thousand souls shared its ninety or so full time policemen with several neighboring townships and boroughs when unusual circumstances warranted. The Borough of Bear Claw, bordering Confluence Township to the north, boasted only a sheriff and one deputy. Confluence actually had a Detective Squad and a Crime Scene Unit. The person, whoever it was, who reported the incident on Route 16 had not bothered to call Bear Claw Sheriff Tom Whitney, but instead phoned Captain Sharon Sinclair in Confluence directly, asking for her by name. Now, since the prime cause for the call had vanished, she had to decide whether or not disciplinary measures would be appropriate for Officers Block and Ferguson. They stood before her now, bracing for her unbound wrath.

So you’re both telling me now that neither of you heard anything. No ignition, no engine noise, no tires on gravel, nothing. Just gone. Like magic. Is that what you’re saying to me now? Sharon Sinclair was livid. But she would never raise her voice. The anger, the near rage, however, was clearly evident in her tone. A vein stood in relief like a blue worm crawling down the center of her forehead. She was standing, leaning forward behind her desk, supporting herself on clenched fists, eyes probing the downcast faces of the two patrolmen.

Neither Block nor Ferguson said anything. They had already tried all their excuses to no avail. Clearly, the Captain held them responsible for this fiasco. Behind them detectives Montgomery and Williams entered silently and took seats on the couch to the left of the door. In disgust, Sinclair blew air audibly through her compressed lips. Block and Ferguson remained silent. Stared at their shoes like guilty children.

Montgomery spoke next. Captain, ma’am?

Yes, detective?

Initial report from CSU shows fresh tire tracks with a tread pattern matching the one in the photo Block here took. Standard tire for that make and model. They poured casts.

You boys go back now and complete your reports. Hear? to Block and Ferguson. Then, as the two shuffled out, Are you telling me that the suspect vehicle just drove away? Under its own steam?

Well, Cap’n, interjected Williams, Seems that’s exactly what happened.

The dead man drove it off, a short nasal snort expressing both her disbelief and her disdain.

Well, Cap’n, continued Williams, Actually there are a couple of possibilities here.

Really, a statement, rife with sarcasm.

Yes, ma’am, only slightly flustered. For one, there may have been a third party in the vehicle that escaped the officers’ attention. That person may have taken the wheel and driven the car away. But that’s not the likeliest explanation.

Really, softening a bit now.

Yes, ma’am. You see, that third person would have had to remove the man from behind the wheel, unbuckling the restraints and all, then get in there himself before starting the car. That would have taken too much time and Block or Ferguson probably would have taken notice.

You think so. More sarcasm. Go on.

We figure that more likely the man behind the wheel was not dead at all, but very much alive. The patrolmen said there were no visible wounds on the two people, no obvious sign of injury, so they may have been feigning death or they may have just been unconscious.

And our two friends out there heard nothing.

Well, that’s a real quiet car, Cap’n, even when you start it up, and the chopper was still near enough to be making enough noise to cover whatever sound the ignition did make. And the tire sounds, too, for that matter. With all respect, ma’am, I think you may be coming down a little too harsh on our boys there.

Objection noted, detective. I’ll deal with them in my own way, thank you. At least one of them still should have managed to at least keep an eye on the suspect vehicle, don’t you think? Never mind. Don’t answer that. So. Where are we then? No crime, no foul, right? Even if we apprehend the couple we can’t charge them with anything? Indecent exposure, maybe?

This is just a theory, now, Cap’n, said Montgomery. "We can’t know until we find these folks whether or not there’s been any foul play. As far as we know, either one or both of them may actually be dead. So far, though, no matches in missing persons, around here anyways. There’s an APB out on the vehicle. It shouldn’t be too hard to spot, what with the rear end damage and all. And we have the plate number off one of the photos. It was a Pennsy tag and DMV should have the registration particulars for us any minute now. We’re on it, Cap’n, really. The tire tracks indicate the vehicle was headed toward town when it left the scene."

At the very least we should be able to stick them with the bill for the helicopter rescue, she said. Some stunt they pulled, if that’s what it was. Shaking her head and sitting down. I can’t imagine how they pulled it off. And just where has your beloved Lt. Magnus been through all this, anyway? Williams? Why was your lieutenant absent?

He’ll take over for you now, ma’am, Montgomery answered. Williams’ mouth hung open, having been caught without an explanation and not knowing how to deflect the question effectively. You needn’t bother yourself further about this until we have our initial findings or actually have the car and occupants in custody, Montgomery continued, trying to cover for his L T by brushing aside the question of his earlier whereabouts.

How long…

It’s been three hours since the APB went out, ma’am, interrupted Williams. They should turn up very soon now. Very, very soon.

But the car, driver and passenger were never seen again. By anyone. Anywhere.

Chapter 3

Martin Magnus was intensely hung over. Massaged his temples slowly, deeply with the tips of his forefingers. His face wrung tightly, portraying the thudding agony in his head. Reflux searing his throat he reached for the glass of warm juice on his desk, swished, gargled, swallowed, moaned quietly to himself. Williams and Montgomery approached his desk cautiously. How’m I doin’, he said to them, low, almost rasping, not looking up.

Boss, said Williams with real empathy, You really look like shit, man.

Thanks, he replied softly, barely audible. He ran the fingers of both hands slowly back through his tightly curled black hair, looked up at them, eyes red. They saw he had burst a small vessel in his right eye, an unsightly bright red flag at the inner corner. He placed his palms gently on the desk top, noticeably trembling.

Think maybe you should go home, L T? suggested Montgomery.

You’re kidding. Right, Mike? I just got here. I was missing on duty last night. And thanks for covering my ass by the way, both of you. I owe you big time. Now there’s been no sign of that car or those people. Am I right?

Hey, you don’t owe us a thing, Lieutenant. You know that, responded Montgomery, Williams nodding in assent, adding an unintelligible grunt. These