Small Purple Cube

By Terrence McMurray

Lee Kane is paid to participate in a strange experiment. It's undeniably risky, yet he can't seem to say no… He steps into a column of purple light and is transported from modern Manhattan to a world of the future in the past. The ever-charming Kane navigates this futuristic metropolis, all the while wondering if he'll ever get home. As it turns out, the two NYPD detectives hunting for a vicious killer are looking for Lee Kane, and wondering the exact same thing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GusRay Editions
• Release date: Feb 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985222500

Book preview

Chapter 1

The cabdriver finally rested, his twisted heart beating evenly, Elaine’s blood untouched on his jacket and trousers. The taxicab he used was back at the garage, and he was weary from the return walk to his hotel. He looked around his small hotel room, satisfied. The laptop and the suitcase were safe in his room. He had passed through the lobby and climbed the stairs unnoticed.

His blood was pulsing with hatred and lust, an exalted emotional cocktail that was his to recognize and his to cherish. He had considered the deed for so long, and now it was done. And this was just the beginning.

There was a cash bonus for this reservoir of hatred. He wouldn’t have to drive a cab for weeks, maybe longer. There was roughly two thousand dollars in cash in her suitcase; he hadn’t finished counting. And he had almost thrown the suitcase into the brush.

When he got the baggage back to his forlorn hotel and saw the cash, he almost suspected she was not what she said she was, but then he looked at the bills, in used envelopes, old and carefully wrapped in rubber bands, and he understood. A great saver. Week after week. Year after year. Probably didn’t trust banks, but she trusted him.

The man laughed. A rarity.

Anxiety challenged exultation. He knew this would occur. He reached for his vial of pills. He emptied onto the bed the sedatives that scrambled his memory. He chose three pills and swallowed them with a small sip of water from the basin sink. Using the vial to depress a spot on the bed, he rolled the vial, causing the remaining pills to slide back inside. He capped the vial and sat on the bed, thinking that he’d never hear about her again.

He calculated, without having sufficient means to do so, that there were so many disappearances in New York City, this one would just slip by. Her relatives would worry and finally call the cops. One day, the body would be found. A big-deal lieutenant or maybe a captain would call the parents. Afterward, nothing would happen.

The man gazed out the window of his overheated New York City hotel room. Small apartments with vacuum-vapor heating systems tend to heat up. He gazed greedily at the snow. It was 2 a.m., and the blizzard was intensifying. He watched the ghostly descent of the puffy flakes and approved. He knew that it would add to the confusion; the body was already well hidden.

Elaine Newly’s notebook was orderly. However, the man did not possess the patience to do more than glance through it. Comprehension was tough for him.

Luckily for the cabdriver, Elaine had talked. She spoke as if she had a need to release a quantity of words. She told him about a device capable of producing vast amounts of power. She said she didn’t have a photo of the device or even a description. A person told Elaine that the device could not be photographed. But Elaine didn’t believe that.

Elaine worked hard, battling toward her outcome, the noble endgame she envisioned. Her beneficial outcome would help the world. But that changed when a villain stepped into her path. It was his outcome and his endgame now, not at all what Elaine Newly envisioned.

When he first gathered her at Pennsylvania Station, she named a hotel on West Seventy-Fifth Street as the destination, and he suspected she was the one. When she began speaking about her research, he was certain.

He convinced her that calling her hotel was sufficient at this point. He asked her to go with him for a drink. Charmed and flattered, she told herself she would not allow this cabdriver to take her to a dark place. She was on her guard. They stopped at a well-lit Upper West Side eatery with a young, excited crowd. The bartender saw them enter. The hostess gave Elaine the nicest smile. She loved it. She liked her new friend. A little rough, but very attentive.

They drank beer with pineapple salsa and purple chips. He asked where she grew up and if she had childhood pets. He remembered what he heard on a daytime talk show, different women explaining how men should be nice to girls. What questions to ask. What not to say. He flirted with her in a respectful way. She thought he was a bit dumb, but he was a driving a cab, after all. She was happy.

She went to the restroom.

When she returned, they were leaving, and the man said, Drink up now.

Elaine finished the remainder of her beer, because her great-grandmother had lived through the Great Depression and had impressed upon her that she should never waste food.

Moments later, as they left the restaurant, Elaine Newly had already soured on her new acquaintance. The man had cursed out a homeless individual, twenty feet away, bothering no one. Not loud, but with such ease and venom, it gave Elaine chills.

They reached his parked cab and he got behind the wheel. Elaine got in the backseat.

Can you drop me at my hotel? said Elaine with an effort to still sound friendly.

Where else would I be taking you? said the cabdriver, with threatening jocularity. He acted as if he didn’t recognize the sudden chill in the air and the brush-off inherent in her tone. He acted that way, but it was clear to Elaine that he understood.

I need to go to my hotel, she said politely.

Yes, Elaine, right away.

He seemed to be using her name a lot. She liked it at first, but now every time he said her name, she cringed. She couldn’t think of anything neutral to say.

The cab pulled into traffic and eased along slowly.

Drive carefully, said Elaine.

Whatever you say, Elaine.

Again with my name, thought Elaine. Why does that bother me? And what’s wrong with me? Elaine slumped forward.

What did you do to me? Elaine said frantically, trying to maintain consciousness.

The cabdriver laughed, an evil, horrifying laugh. Waves of terror broke over Elaine’s consciousness as she realized something very serious was wrong.

Unwittingly, she had ingested the pill that the cabdriver had dropped into her Molson bottle when she went to the ladies’ room.

Drink up now.

She thought of her mother finding out she never made it to her hotel. She tried to maintain her thoughts, but it was like grasping smoke. She struggled until she passed out.

He parked his cab and pushed the small, unconscious girl into the well of the rear seat. He covered her with a blanket. He drove to his hotel and moved her belongings up to his room. He waited past midnight until the streets were empty, and then he drove to the Upper West Side along Riverside Drive and parked by a dark spot with a break in the high chain-link fence.

A light snow was falling.

Twenty minutes later, satisfied that his activities had not been seen, he pushed the young woman through the fence opening, and the body slid ten feet to an overgrown spot.

He drove back downtown.

Snowfall increased.

She should never have told him her story about a new power source. That was a big mistake. But then, it didn’t matter. She was the one. It was settled and done.

She thought she was being careful. She didn’t mention the name of the scientist currently in possession of the device. But now, the cabdriver had her notebook.

He fell asleep holding tight to the details of the murder of Elaine Newly, aged twenty-five.

Chapter 2

A paralyzing blizzard hit New York City. The storm ravaged the East Coast from New England to Georgia. Snow started in Manhattan just before midnight Thursday. By noon Friday, it was a slow-moving, once-in-a-century blizzard. High winds swirled the snow as it fell; snowdrifts covered cars. Visibility fell off madly.

The weather predictions were accurate. People found warm, well-lit rooms, with friends and material comforts.

At 7 p.m., it was still snowing hard. The snowstorm would continue for a few more hours. The rare taxicab came from nowhere and moved along slowly. No buses and no cops. Just snow with considerable drifting and fierce winds, sharp to the face.

None of it bothered Leland Kane. He left his small apartment on Hudson Street and was out for a walk in the storm; he had a lined raincoat with a hood, and he wore fifteen-inch-high vinyl boots. Essential boots for the frosty sludge lakes that formed at New York’s endless curbs, dousing the uninitiated with a memorable ice bath over the ankles.

He enjoyed the disarray of the blizzard, with nature demanding not just inclusion but prime consideration. Nature in charge.

Kane had left his smartphone at home, switching the SIM card to an old flip phone. This way he could still get calls and text messages but was not tempted to look something up on the internet. It was part of his peace-and-quiet initiative.

Kane had been scheduled to drive a taxicab that day, but he’d canceled due to the storm. He didn’t like the job. He took days off at the first sign of a good reason.

He stepped carefully, but he felt like dancing. A downtown theater company, The Zorski House Players, was including Kane’s play, The Devastated Room, in their new season. Kane’s foot no longer held the door ajar; he was in the room.

Kane had worked hard switching gears. He used to be a dancer. Three Broadway musicals and promising words from all involved, until an accident. He slipped in the rain. Not exactly Gene Kelly. Three back surgeries later, he moved fine without pain, but he could no longer dance like he used to. A great regret. He decided to write plays and found it came to him easily enough. His early ten-minute plays were praised. After that, he wrote longer one-acts, followed by two full-length plays, produced in small venues. This was the first production that paid more than a stipend.

Kane slipped into Leo, Oscar & Patsy’s Lounge and ordered vodka over ice. Slowly, he sipped his drink and relaxed. The wild snowstorm was intense, as seen through the window of the bar. It was also quiet. The imposed quiet of bulletproof glass.

Kane took Many More Things, Horatio from his bag. For ten minutes, he read the book and was not disturbed. Then a voice.

I wrote that book, said a man, smiling.

Kane politely returned the smile and looked at the book for a picture of the author, submerging his skepticism as best he could.

There’s no photo, said the man.

Why is that? asked Kane.

The same reason I don’t do TV. I have no desire to be a household name. I’m Simeon Scofield.

Kane shook his hand. Lee Kane, he said. You’d be perfect for TV.

Yes, said Scofield, I’ve been told. My agent is quite convinced, for a man his size. And my agent is considerably oversized. He would be pleased that I am mentioning him, so I will cease doing so. I’m so happy to see a young person with my book. Very happy. Are you enjoying it?

Scofield, well-dressed with bright-green eyes, smiled confidently. Late fifties, well fit, well groomed, with sculpted silver-gray hair. With his dark-gray suit and neatly trimmed mustache, he resembled the ubiquitous dust jacket photo of Dashiell Hammett.

Kane still had doubts. It’s tough. Many times, I read something three times, still don’t get it, and turn the page anyway.

I know all about that, said Scofield. Struggling to comprehend. But you keep turning the page?

So far, said Kane.

Good.

I liked the Feynman stories, said Kane.

So did my editor, said Scofield. I had to remind him I only met the man twice.

The editors write the history.

For the most part, said Scofield, that’s true.

Kane and Scofield hit it off. Kane realized that this person was too impressive to claim he was someone else. He did write the book. They discussed a wide range of topics. They spoke of string theory and alternate dimensions. Scofield was entertaining. He was sharp minded but knew when to listen.

Snow continued to fall. The initial rush of customers in the neighborhood bar finally thinned and was not replaced by the normal Friday night crowd.

The two men talked about books. Juan Rulfo, Walter Tevis, Jane Gardam, Peter Taylor, Clifford D. Simak, and others were recommended and discussed. Plus extraterrestrial abduction, dark matter, and other topics, speaking and drinking freely. The men spoke for hours. They ordered ribs and wings at the bar. It was nearing midnight. Kane asked Scofield about his most farfetched belief.

I used to say my certainty over dimensional theory, but things have changed. The foundations of my world have shaken lately. I’m a bit troubled by it.

Oh yes? said Kane, slightly more alert.

Scofield lowered his voice. Recently, I acquired a device. I’m experimenting on it …

A device? said Kane. What kind of device?

There’s a problem … said Scofield. He gazed around nervously, then stared at Kane intently. This story is too big to tell, he said, speaking softly. I’m a well-respected fellow. If I tell a story like this once, in public, I’m finished. The scientific world would exclude me entirely. I’d be branded a lunatic forever. There is no turning back. If I tell this story once … I can’t tell my scientific colleagues. I can’t tell my editor, I can’t tell anyone.

Kane said, Tell me.

Telling someone is not the same, said Scofield. You need to see it.

Okay, said Kane, show me.

Scofield spent a few moments considering.

All right, he said, I’ll show you. You’re the first.

The bar was nearly empty. The two men were alone at their end of the quiet bar. Scofield looked about, then reached into his brown leather case, undid an inside zipper, and produced a beige jewelry box.

Immediately, Kane visualized a table somewhere with five hundred duplicates of the jewelry box piled high for a never-ending list of suckers.

Do you bring it everywhere you go? Kane asked.

Scofield ignored Kane’s sarcastic tone. I do, but it’s a very good point. This should be secure. It’s not secure with me. But I keep it with me, because if I leave it somewhere and it goes missing, I’ll go crazy.

Scofield briefly lost his aura of command and became distraught, glancing around the bar, checking hurriedly. He swiveled toward Kane and slowly opened the jewelry box, his attention fixed on Kane.

A small purple cube rested in the satin. Marble perhaps, maybe granite. A bit more than two inches square, softly luminescent, a light shade of purple that pulsed. It was a discreet pulse; you could miss it if you did not focus. Instantly, the object demanded attention. Kane leaned forward. What is it? he asked.

I don’t really know, said Scofield.

What does it do?

Many things.

This small object was so different, so unique, Kane immediately felt a desire to pick it up and examine it. May I?

Sure, said Scofield, but don’t press it. Or squeeze it.

Okay, Kane said, why?

Pressing activates things, said the scientist.

Kane picked up the cube. Got it. I won’t be pressing it.

Fine, said Scofield. It has an array of uses, but I only know a few, and I do not understand the fundamental nature of the cube. One time, I squeezed it, and the electricity in my house went out. I looked outside, and the entire block was dark. Five minutes later, the electricity returned. I’ve come to understand it can dampen electrical fields, but I don’t really understand.

Kane held the cube. It did not emit heat. At times, the purple seemed backlit. It fascinated Kane. It was heavier than it looked, but elegant and comfortable in the hand. Kane wanted to hold it forever, and he felt strongly that the device wanted Kane to hold it, as well and to understand it. The glow appealed to him in a way he could not explain, the shimmer so endearing. With rounded corners, no visible seams, and a natural, imperfect texture, the beauty of the cube rivaled that of nature. He moved the cube from his right hand to his left reverently. Tranquil wonder swam through Kane. He no longer felt intoxicated.

Can I have this? asked Kane.

Scofield laughed. Not on your life.

As Kane held the cube, a dot appeared, at the exact center of one side. The color was neon green. Slowly and evenly, the dot started to move, creating a thin green strip, a quarter of an inch wide. It unrolled itself; slowly moving around the surfaces of the cube, the strip joined itself at the starting point and glowed. A fiery neon-green line fully banded the cube.

If the green ribbon surprised Kane, it amazed Scofield. Scofield managed to keep his voice down, but he was elated.

Whoa, said Scofield, as softly as he could. It’s never done that before.

The emerald strip flared brightly, slowly faded, and disappeared. The duration of the display was fifteen seconds, and no evidence remained.

Who made it? asked Kane.

I’ve no idea, said Scofield.

Is it man made?

You mean human made?

I guess I do, said Kane.

That’s the question I continue to ask myself.

It’s so … beautiful, said Kane. It’s hard to imagine someone built it.

Maybe it’s just hard for us to understand. It’s so advanced. It’s the famous question, said Scofield. What would a cave dweller think of TV? And then, what would he think of the remote?

Is it that far advanced? asked Kane.

Scofield, the proud father, said, It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. And I suspect it is unlike anything anyone has ever seen before. I cannot identify the material. The texture is unique; the weight varies. Some days, it’s slightly less than three ounces. One day it was four. Then two ounces. One morning, it was nine ounces. A few hours later, it was back to three ounces. And one morning, it was too heavy to lift off my desk. The legs of the desk were stressed. I thought it was going to collapse. But by afternoon, it was two ounces. Sometimes, it maintains the same weight for a week straight. One night, the cube projected an image of a planet, a world, in my lab, floating in the air. It was a projection, and it was fantastic.

Interesting, said Kane.

It only lasted three minutes, said the scientist. It was stunning. A blue-and-red planet. The planet was mostly ocean with thin landmasses, red as ginger. Great topographical details. Mountain ranges and rivers. Brilliant small white ice caps at the poles.

Jesus, Simeon. You haven’t told anyone else about this?

Twice, said Scofield. I went to see friends with the intention of telling them, but I could not do it. It is difficult to bring up.

Just show them, said Kane. That’s all it will take.

I understand that, said Scofield. I lacked courage. But I’m pleased I showed you. My first contact with the cube caused me to think it was terrestrial. I don’t think so anymore. What were your impressions?

Extraterrestrial, said Kane.

Quick answer, said Scofield.

As soon as I touched it, I felt some unique … energy. Otherworldly. I don’t know how the hell I would identify otherworldly, but the feeling was strong.

A strong feeling?

Yes, Simeon. Where did you get it?

I bought it from a man in Sweden, said Scofield. It was expensive.

That was all Scofield was prepared to say. He steered the conversation away from the story of the acquisition.

Kane no longer felt the drink. Holding the small purple cube was probably the craziest event in Kane’s life. The green strip was a greeting from a very sophisticated computer. Highly sophisticated. Perhaps even alive. Enchanted, Kane held an idea he could not shake. The cube is aware. It was a peaceful notion. Like finding a four-leaf clover, in the midst of an orange sunset on a carefree day. Kane felt that he and the cube were part of the same startling universe, members in a club.

Kane reluctantly gave the cube back to Scofield.

Scofield furtively placed the cube back in the jewelry case.

I only know a few functions, he said, but I know it is capable of wonders. I’ve experimented with it. I mentioned the power outage. Sometimes it makes sounds. A hum or a short melody composed of strange chimes. I treat the cube respectfully. Scientifically. If I touch the cube, I make a notation.

Scofield paused and steeled himself. Lee, he said, my next statement is the one they would dwell upon if they were serious about putting me away.

Let’s hear it, said Kane.

One day, I felt I should run my finger alongside the cube as it rested on my desk and press the center of the top …

You felt you should do this? asked Kane.

Yes, said Scofield. That’s the best I can describe it. The urge to see what would happen was there, but there was no reason behind my actions. When I pressed the top, it made a sound, an unusual chime, and a pulse of energy was emitted by the cube. Most remarkable. The pulse hit the ground and formed into a bright-purple column of light, a few feet wide, from ceiling to floor. My three-hole punch was inside the purple column.

Your three-hole punch?

Accidental, said Scofield. I was moving a desk earlier, and my three-hole punch landed on the floor, and I hadn’t picked it up.

So, what happened?

My punch was enveloped in the bright-purple light and then vanished.

The purple column was some sort of transport beam? asked Kane. Is that what you’re telling me?

I believe I am, said Scofield with full composure.

If Kane had never held the cube, he would have ended the conversation immediately.

Did it come back?

Yes. Eighty-three seconds later.

Where did it go? asked Kane.

I don’t know exactly, said Scofield. Outdoors. To someplace cold. The punch had fresh snow on the bottom.

Where did it go? asked Kane. Another dimension?

That’s what I suspect, but I don’t know. Someplace cold, as I say. I experimented. Once I figured out how to activate the beam using the cube, I was able to determine the duration of the trips. I sent back cups and trays and other snow-gathering efforts at different times of day. Then I used rabbits. I found out a great deal. Placing equipment, light meters, thermometers, and other measuring tools on a large platter positioned to intersect with the beam, I got a sense of things on the other side. I figured out the temperature and the day-night pattern. The sun pattern is different. It’s morning there now. About twelve hours ahead.

Interesting, said Kane. What temperature is this place the objects go to?

Fourteen degrees Fahrenheit during the day or roughly minus ten degrees Celsius. On average, fifteen degrees colder at night. The daily numbers vary a bit.

I see, said Kane. Did you send a camera?

Yes, but I had no luck. I’m fearful at that sort of thing. White and more white. But as I say, amazing snow.

Amazing snow?

Very low carbon content, said the scientist. Much lower than any snow for thousands of years. I’m attempted to say eons.

Your three-hole punch went into the past? asked Kane, not hiding his disdain.

That’s one thought, said Scofield, ignoring the tone. But I have no idea. The past is just another dimension …

It is? asked Kane.

Oh yes, and that’s when the snow was clean.

And who knows about this? asked Kane.

No one else.

Kane was troubled by the answers. Scofield saw it and said, You can say whatever you’re thinking, Lee.

Did you steal it?

No one had ever accused Simeon Scofield of theft. He bristled a bit. No. I paid for it.

"I don’t