Stone Junction

  Her name was Ravana Dremier, the twenty-six-year-old daughter of a French smuggler and Jamaican shamaness. By general consensus, Ravana was the most gifted healer in AMO. She explained to Volta that they’d found him unconscious in the raft four days earlier. They were on the Pinga del Ray, one of the few boats in AMO’s Caribbean fleet. When he asked her if she’d been singing, she said, ‘Only if it was your song.’

  In their four years of travel as allies and lovers, Ravana led him deeper into the magical arts. Ravana’s mother had, like Volta, ‘entered the mirror,’ a practice, according to Ravana, she’d abandoned almost immediately, warning it was solitary magic, a sensational power not worth the risk. She’d told Ravana, ‘Entering the mirror requires a unique combination of gift and circumstance. But entering the mirror is simple compared to escaping it. To escape, you must swim the river of stone or fly into the sun.’

  ‘Yes,’ Volta said. Near death on the ocean, he’d found his magic – the art of escape.

  Having affiliated himself with AMO before the Pinga del Ray reached Haiti – Ravana possessed an eye for talent and persuasive ways – Volta availed himself of Alliance resources, particularly the LUC, its Library of Uncollected Collections, a wildly decentralized network of personal libraries. With a phone call and an access code, a book was mailed the next day. Even better, Volta discovered, was picking the book up in person, because the librarians were scholars of their keep, repositories of distilled information. When they didn’t know the answer, they knew the best place to look. They saved Volta time by keeping his focus precise. Volta supplied the passion and discipline. Less than two years later, he performed his first magical escape.

  While each of Volta’s seventeen escapes are renowned, and each culminated in that moment of dramatic astonishment at the heart of magic, his final escape is a legend of the art. It was performed in St Louis, on a barge towed to the center of the Mississippi River. Dressed only in tights, Volta was bound in a straightjacket and then shackled in twenty-gauge chain. Assistants helped place him in a cramped steel cube, each side drilled with a series of one-inch holes. When the cover plate was bolted down, a gas-driven crane swung the shining cube over the side and dropped it into the river. People thronged to the rails. Fifteen minutes later, as their anxious babble faded into a numbed silence, Volta, attired in a tuxedo, his hair dry, stepped from his makeshift dressing room. ‘Forgive my tardiness,’ he said, adjusting the rose in his lapel, ‘but I wanted to change into something more comfortable.’

  The crowd went crazy.

  So did Volta.

  When all explanations but the impossible were eliminated, the secret to all of Volta’s escapes was simple: He dematerialized his body; disintegrated; vanished into air. The steel cube was empty before it touched the river. But as Ravana’s mother had warned, with each disappearance, returning became more difficult. He almost hadn’t returned the last time, had barely escaped the escape. With a cellular certainty that both terrified and compelled, Volta knew if he ever entered the mirror again, he would not return. The next day he announced his retirement.

  But though he’d returned to his flesh, his spirit had snagged on the threshold – he was physically intact, but not quite coherent; dull to sensation; emotionally hollow. He couldn’t find a material essence powerful enough to silence the siren-song beyond the mirror, its promise of ecstatic oblivion, final surcease. He couldn’t find that binding essence in Ravana’s flashing eyes, couldn’t feel it in the wind or sense it in the shimmer of salmon moving upstream in the moonlight, couldn’t touch it in petals or flesh. Ravana brought her powers to bear but she couldn’t reach him. As his desperation drained into depression, Volta realized he could no longer love her as she needed and deserved; to honor Ravana, he forced himself to leave.

  AMO provided him with a new identity, a small apartment in New York, and a job as a sensori, the Alliance designation for freelance investigators who identified and assessed useful information. The only information Volta wanted was a way to wrest his spirit from the mirror. He found it in a New York museum displaying the Treyton collection of precious stones. Saw it in the brilliant center and irreducibly dense reality of the Faith Diamond, fourth largest on Earth. Needed to touch it, hold it, feel its clarity. He smashed the display case glass with his forearm and was gently lifting the diamond in his cupped hands when a guard clubbed him from behind.

  Released from the hospital three days later, Volta was taken directly to jail and booked on grand theft. A squat, pug-faced sergeant with a child’s pink skin uncuffed Volta in front of an open cell, punched him in the kidneys, and shoved him inside. Volta grabbed the rust-stained wash basin to keep from falling. When he looked up, he saw himself in the steel mirror bolted above the basin and instantly spun away from the glittering hunger in the mirror’s eyes. He used a washcloth to cover the mirror.

  Volta was dreaming of sensuously interlocked loops of diamonds when he was slammed awake by a long shuddering wail: ‘Nooooooo!’ As two guards wrestled the new prisoner past Volta’s cell, he glimpsed a skinny, pimpled kid, not more than eighteen, throw his head back like a coyote and howl again – ‘Nooooooooo,’ a cry at once a denial and a plea.

  For an hour after he was locked up and the guards had left, the kid continued wailing, at ten-second intervals, that single, anguished ‘Nooooooo!’ oblivious to the other prisoners’ curses to shut up.

  The double metal doors at the end of the cellblock banged open and the pug-faced sergeant, his pink skin florid with rage, shambled down the corridor, lightly slapping a blackjack against his pudgy thigh. The cellblock fell instantly silent; then the kid, as if understanding what that silence meant, screamed ‘Nooooooooo!’

  As he unlocked the kid’s cell, the sergeant said thickly, ‘You know what your problem is, son? You need something to plug that little pussy mouth of yours. Now you get down on your knees here for me.’

  ‘Nooo,’ the kid moaned, but his cry had lost its haunting denial. He was begging.

  Volta screamed, ‘Noooooooo!’ He heard the two quick blows from the blackjack and the kid’s sharp cry slurring into a whimper.

  The sergeant panted, ‘I said, on your knees, fuck-face.’

  When Volta heard the kid gag, he tore the face cloth off the mirror. If he vanished and reappeared quickly in the kid’s cell, he might be able to stop it – but only if he could reappear. The eyes looking into his own – wild, inviting – urged him to try. Volta looked through them into the mirror. ‘No,’ he said. And he stood there watching himself weep until the kid’s choked sobs and the sergeant’s thin, rapid wheezing finally ceased.

  Stood facing himself as the sergeant, humming, swaggered out, leaving the kid lying on his cell floor, vomiting.

  Stood looking at his own haggard, mortal face, his tears, the spittle on his chin. Stood listening through the long desolate silence suddenly broken by three quick sounds: the tiny shriek of springs as the kid leaped from the top bunk; a strangled gasp as the noosed belt cinched; the soft, moist pop of the neck bone breaking.

  Volta closed his eyes, leaned back, and, drawing every shred of power from nerve, meat, and bone, howled, ‘Nooooooooooooo!’ And when he looked in the mirror again he saw a large spherical diamond – perfect, radiant, real. He was looking for the light in the diamond’s center when the sergeant bellowed, ‘Which motherfucker was it?’

  Volta turned from the mirror and walked slowly to the barred cell door. He could hear the faint rhythmic tap of the blackjack against the sergeant’s leg.

  The sergeant, his voice dropped to a cold murmur, warned, ‘Last time, scum-buckets: Who screamed?’

  ‘Me,’ Volta said.

  ‘Well pucker up, fuck-face,’ cause you’re next.’

  ‘No. You’re next,’ Volta promised. ‘That boy just hung himself.’

  ‘Good,’ the sergeant said. ‘S’posed to cull the weak.’ He yelled over his shoulder to the other guards, ‘Bring a mop’ then turned back to Volta. ‘One, fucking, peep …
and you’re going to die trying to escape.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Volta said, starting to laugh, ‘I’ve already escaped.’

  ‘Yeah, sure looks like it t’ me, you loony fuck.’

  Volta gathered enough breath to explain, ‘Appearances are deceiving,’ and then surrendered to the comic beauty of his last escape, finding freedom in jail. He wanted to share his delight with the diamond in the mirror, but the diamond had vanished.

  Hours later, Volta was released on bail supplied by AMO. The Alliance also provided lawyers from their in-house ‘firm’ – warmly referred to as Sachs, Pilledge, and Berne – and the charge was quietly dismissed on the court-directed stipulation that Volta receive mental health care. His psychiatrist was Dr Isaac Langmann, a member of AMO’s Star, who agreed with his patient that the best course of treatment was advanced training in the Raven’s arts.

  Shortly after Volta completed his training, Dr Langmann offered Volta a job as his field representative on the Pacific coast.

  Volta loved the work. Since a field representative functions as a nerve to the Star – mediator, messenger, field general, fixer, and roving trouble-shooter – each day brought new people, places, and problems. The people he worked with were impressed with the clarity of his understanding and the fairness of his judgments. When Isaac Langmann retired from the Star in 1963, he nominated Volta to replace him. Fulfilling its most important function, the appropriate integration of talent and task, the Star unanimously approved Volta on the first poll. At the time of the Livermore explosion, Volta had served with distinction for seventeen years.

  Volta was standing at the foot of the bed when Daniel, after nine weeks in a coma, opened his eyes. Daniel looked dully around the hospital room and then, squinting, focused on Volta.

  Volta nodded slightly. ‘Welcome back, Daniel.’

  Daniel trembled as he tried to speak. Volta waited. When Daniel failed again, Volta said softly, ‘Your mother is dead.’

  Daniel lifted his hands as if he were going to cover his face but they collapsed weakly across his chest. He shut his eyes tightly, but couldn’t stop the tears.

  ‘I share your sorrow,’ Volta said. ‘I appreciate the poverty of condolence at such a loss, but I offer it nonetheless.’

  Daniel moaned, arching against the bed as if trying to sit up.

  Volta said, ‘I know I’m presuming on the intimacy of your grief and have clearly violated your privacy, but I’m afraid I must.’

  Nodding distractedly, Daniel brought his hands to his face, fingertips pressed hard against his closed eyes.

  ‘My name is Volta. You’ve met two of my most trusted friends, Smiling Jack and Elmo Cutter. I serve AMO as a member of the Star, the Alliance’s facilitating council. I’m here to offer our heartfelt regrets and, if you want it, our wholehearted help.

  ‘Your situation is complicated, Daniel. You were injured in the explosion; a sliver of metal from the clock’s hand pierced your temple, traveled upward at approximately a forty-degree angle through the edge of the right hemisphere of your brain, and lodged against the skull. Although the EEG and other tests indicate ‘normal’ brain function – whatever that might be – you have been in a coma for nine weeks. There may be damage the tests haven’t revealed, but other than the coma, all indications are excellent.

  ‘You are nominally under police guard, no visitors allowed, but since the posted guards were withdrawn a month ago, the restrictions are merely formal. When they find you’ve regained consciousness, you’ll likely be arrested. If so, you can expect to be interrogated by people who know how. My advice is to say you don’t remember anything from at least a month before the blast; conditional amnesia is medically consistent with trauma. So is selective recall. It would probably be best if you had no idea that your mother was planting a bomb. All she told you was that she was delivering something for a friend – better yet, a stranger.’

  Daniel uncovered his eyes, looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then back at Volta. He wet his lips. ‘How did you know? The bomb? That it wasn’t already there?’

  Patiently, Volta explained, ‘I know because Shamus called and told me everything. He was extremely distraught. He blames himself.’

  ‘They were in love!’ Daniel sobbed. He shook his head helplessly. ‘Oh Mom, Mom, Mom.’

  ‘Yes,’ Volta said, ‘I know they were in love. I know it hurts.’

  Daniel lashed, ‘Tell me who killed her!’

  ‘Nobody,’ Volta said calmly. ‘By all evidence, it was a faulty bomb.’

  ‘Nobody? Then why were her last words “Daniel! Run!”’

  Volta looked at him sharply. ‘She called to you?’

  ‘She screamed!’ Daniel sobbed.

  ‘And then?’

  Daniel struggled for composure. ‘The bomb exploded before I could even turn to look. Like her scream set it off. That fast.’

  Volta considered the information.

  ‘She was warning me,’ Daniel said.

  ‘Clearly. But about what? Did you notice any people or activity immediately prior to her shout?’

  ‘No. And I was looking.’

  As much to himself as Daniel, Volta murmured, ‘She may have sensed something go wrong with the bomb.’

  Daniel didn’t respond.

  Volta asked, ‘Did she arm the bomb before entering the alley?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she have time to do it before it detonated?’

  ‘She must have. It blew up.’

  ‘The pavement was wet. Maybe she slipped and dropped it. Heard a connection sputtering.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Daniel said weakly. ‘I don’t know. She screamed and it exploded.’

  ‘If you want, we’ll look into it. It will take time, no doubt, but perhaps less if you know who built the bomb.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Daniel said. ‘Shamus should, though – ask him.’

  ‘I’d like to. However, I’ve been trying to locate him for over a month now to discuss your situation, but he seems to have vanished. Any ideas where he might be?’

  ‘No. But I want to know anything you find about my mother. I want to know what went wrong.’

  ‘Naturally. You will be kept completely informed – on that you have my word. Which leads to other matters we have to discuss. For instance, your future, and how we might help you.’

  ‘Help me do what?’

  ‘First, to escape the thirteen or so charges that will be filed against you. They only have inklings that the bomb was connected to a plutonium theft, so be very careful about what you say.’

  ‘They haven’t linked her with Shamus?’

  Volta lowered his eyes, then looked back up, straight at Daniel. ‘Your mother didn’t leave any fingerprints, Daniel. Everything they know is from paper. They think she was Mrs Wyatt. We’ve cleaned the Baton Rouge connections, the bank account and land titles, and would be grateful if you forgot Dubuque completely.’ Volta kept talking to distract Daniel’s imagination from what the blast must have done to his mother. ‘However, from the snowshoe rental receipt in your pocket – the homemade driver’s license in your wallet had a phony name but the right address – the McKinley Street house was raided before we could cover it, so you also face some forgery and illegal possession charges. You’d be well advised to have an exceptional attorney, and we’d be glad to provide one free if you so choose.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ Daniel said.

  ‘You’re fourteen, so you’ll be tried as a juvenile – actually, if things go well it’ll probably end up as a hearing, not a trial. It would help things go well if your amnesia proves intractable. Follow your lawyer’s instructions. We’ll try to get all charges dismissed and have you placed in your aunt’s custody.’

  ‘I don’t have an aunt.’

  Volta cocked his head. ‘Aunt Matilda and Uncle Owen? The Wyatt Ranch up in Mendocino County?’

  ‘All right,’ Daniel said.

  Volta crossed his arms. ‘Now, your f
uture. Many people have spoken highly of you, people whose judgment I esteem – Smiling Jack, for one; Dolly Varden, Johnny Seven Moons, Elmo, and others. They think you have special qualities which should be developed and refined. AMO has some uniquely talented teachers who might help you transform potential into ability.’

  ‘Can I accept the legal help and not the teachers?’

  ‘Negotiation isn’t necessary. These are unconditional offers of assistance. Avail yourself as you please.’

  ‘I want the lawyer. The rest I need to think about.’

  Volta said, ‘I’ll contact an attorney the moment I leave, which must be soon. But first I want you to know that I facilitated your return to consciousness by using simple, but suppressed, techniques that were taught to me by a woman named Ravana Dremier. Basically I joined your mind through the powers of empathy, and then I reminded you of life. I assure you I implanted no ideas or suggestions; I merely summoned your attention. I’m telling you this because you may remember my voice calling you – if you don’t at present, you may in the future, particularly in states of dream or reverie. It was your decision to return. I’m sorry about Annalee, Daniel. Heal quickly.’

  Volta was at the door when Daniel called, ‘Thank you.’

  Volta turned and said, ‘Yes. You’re welcome,’ and closed the door behind him.

  Two: EARTH

  The earth, being eager to generate, always produces something; you will imagine you see birds or beasts or reptiles in the glass.

  —Philalethes

  Transcription: Radio Call Between

  Volta and Wild Bill Weber

  VOLTA: Bill, it’s Volta. I need a decision about Daniel.

  WILD B.: You’re sure he’s never been to any school?

  VOLTA: As perfectly sure as the last time we discussed it.