This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
World Castle Publishing, LLC
Pensacola, Florida
Copyright © Barna William Donovan 2018
Hardback ISBN: 9781629899503
Paperback ISBN: 9781629899510
eBook ISBN: 9781629899527
First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, July 16, 2018
http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com
Licensing Notes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
Cover: Alisha Moore Damonza.com
Editor: Maxine Bringenberg
Chapter 1
Incident on Scenic Lane. The Globe. Just
Around the Corner. What the Doctor Saw.
A Hint of Success. And the Point Is….
1.
Rick Ballantine drove through the inky darkness of the forest alone, just as he had been instructed. A confirmed city-dweller, having lived his entire life in Los Angeles, only now could he appreciate how truly dark the night could be when one ventured far enough into the Northern California wilderness.
Aside from concentrating on this road that seemed to lead further and further into nowhere, Rick had a script to recite. “As an ex-cop,” he said, “I appreciate the valuable information confidential sources can provide. But you have to be skeptical. The Mount Shasta area has been a hotbed of unexplained phenomena for centuries. Native American tribes have seen strange lights in the skies, and legends claim the mountain is the center of all creation. Are they talking about true supernatural events? Or is there a scientific explanation for what’s going on here? I have been contacted by a local who insists that I come and talk to her alone, so the rest of the crew has to stay back at our hotel. She claims she has some answers. And I certainly hope so, because that might take us one step closer…to confirmation.”
Mention you’re an ex-cop. Check. Rick crossed an item off his mental to-do list. Mention name of the show. Confirmation. Check.
As nervous as it made him, he even cast the occasional glance into the SainSpeed F198 night-vision camera on the dashboard as he spoke. No matter where he was, no matter the circumstances, a performer had to try and make some eye contact with the camera.
Following the directions on the car’s GPS device, it turned out that the address he had been given by Eunice Stevens, his publicity-shy local contact, was almost literally off the beaten track. The “Scenic Lane” she lived on was a gravel road, rising and dipping through the dense forest ten miles east of Mount Shasta City. Although in theory it seemed to pass for a two-lane road, Rick dreaded coming upon every blind turn that suddenly hooked out of the darkness. Then he hit a stretch of road that ran straighter than the previous mile and a half. The only obstacles in his way now were the sharply elevating hills. Every time he came upon one, he strained to see any lights on the peak, any indication that another car would come barreling at him from over the top.
It was only after he negotiated one such hill with no oncoming traffic that he found disaster flashing out of the darkness.
From one split instant to the next, there was no more road in front of his headlights. He kicked the brake pedal, felt the car skidding to a halt, but it was too late. There was some immense dark—circular?—obstacle blocking the entire road and no way to avoid colliding with it. The nightmare sound of crumpling, shattering metal and glass rang through the Pathfinder. Then the airbag exploded in Rick’s face and the world blinked out of existence.
2.
Rick couldn’t decide what was more incredible, the object that had totaled his SUV or the fact that he and his crew were being treated like criminals.
“Can you believe how many people came out here so early?” Cornelia Oxenburg asked quietly as she stepped next to him.
Rick noticed that for the first time since they had arrived in Mount Shasta City she wasn’t clutching her iPad. And she knew that he noticed because she returned a thin little smile before saying, “There are no new developments from the hijacking story this morning. But even if there were, the health and well being of my colleague is first and foremost on my mind.” She punctuated the sentence with a quick wink.
Rick, of course, couldn’t blame her for her distraction over the past two days, over the fact that she looked like she probably wanted to scream, “I’m a real reporter. Get me out of this miserable place and off this ridiculous show!” A journalist by training, Cornelia had five years of on-air experience. Young and beautiful with blonde, cheerleader looks, she should have been in the prime of her career. She should have been making a name for herself with a major story breaking in San Diego right now. Yet here she was, standing among a crowd of new age enthusiasts on a dirt road in the middle of a forest, her career as a reporter most likely over, shooting a yet-unsold pilot for a “paranormal reality” television series. If he were in Cornelia’s shoes, Rick thought, he would have been looking to do much more than scream. He would have been looking to sink down to the bottom of a very deep bottle of bourbon and live there for a long time.
“I appreciate that,” Rick said, and returned the wink. “But as I was about to say—”
“Look at that!” Someone’s ecstatic voice rose from somewhere among the crowd of onlookers. “It’s incredible. I don’t see any explanation for that. None whatsoever.”
Rick looked over his shoulder, but he couldn’t be sure who had spoken. Aside from the Confirmation cast and the police chief and five of his officers, the local spectators must have numbered around two hundred people or so. But the real show was just about to start now that an excavator had been brought out here, and a flatbed from McIntyre’s Towing and Body Shop, which had removed the Pathfinder last night, arrived.
“Again, as I was about to say,” Rick reiterated, “word of the unexplained spreads very fast around here.”
“In that case,” Cornelia said, “how do you explain…that?”
“I think I know how the local cops will.”
That was what appeared to be a solid stone globe measuring some fifteen-feet across. It sat nearly square in the middle of the Scenic Lane gravel road. Making a rough estimate, Rick would have pegged the enormous object as weighing anywhere between fifteen and twenty tons. The perfectly smooth monolith hadn’t even budged when he slammed the SUV into it last night. While the front end and engine compartment of the vehicle had been completely obliterated, the giant globe sustained little more than a few minor scratches along its curving face.
What had, in fact, amazed Rick after he regained his bearing last night, after he staggered out of the trashed car and proceeded to try and make sense of what he had run into, was how perfectly, flawlessly smooth the object was. Whoever had chiseled this thing out of an enormous slab of rock must have applied every polishing technique available to masonry to make the face of the globe feel almost glassy smooth.
Furthermore, looking at the object in full daylight now, he realized that aside from the meticulous polishing job, whatever engineer had created the globe made sure that his or her—or their—job was flawless in every possible way. The monolith appeared to be a perfect sphere.
Rick couldn’t fathom what purpose anyone might have had for carving this gigantic object…or how they managed to place it out here in the middle of this stretch of road.
> Apparently neither could the locals. With the area being a magnet for paranormal—and spiritual-phenomena buffs, many people in the gathering crowd had imaginations that were more fertile and adventurous than average. Phrases like “unexplained,” “supernatural,” “a sign,” “a portent,” “the government,” “strange lights,” “cover-up,” “spirits,” and “aliens” rose from the conversations all around.
And those comments would sound great on the air, Rick knew. Luckily, the entire spectacle was being documented by five of his good-looking young colleagues with cameras and sound equipment, all the while the globe itself was being closely scrutinized by the oldest member of the cast.
Rick had been repeatedly told to think of and talk about all the members of Confirmation: Investigations of the Unexplained as “team members,” but as far as he was concerned, they were all in showbiz here; they were a “cast”—entertainers, all of them.
Confirmation, according to Rick’s agent, was conceived as a “scientifically rigorous reality show about the unknown, bringing together the most seasoned field investigators ever assembled. A journalist, a noted academic, a no-nonsense street cop, a special effects wizard, and their crack team ready to find the truth behind America’s greatest legends.” Rick was the “no-nonsense” cop. In truth, what they had been shooting here in Mount Shasta City for the past two days was shaping up to be more like a gauche exploitation of unverified claims by the unstable and unscrupulous for the entertainment of the gullible and those desperately in search of some form of faith and a sign that something bigger and more mysterious existed outside of mundane, ugly, and hopelessly screwed up reality.
“Tell Jerry not to bother with his Viagra prescription. This thing’ll give him a four-month-long hard-on,” Dan Knight, the “noted academic” of the group, associate professor of Anthropology at Bakersfield State University, standing next to the globe said. Then, after a calculated, theatrical beat, he glanced toward one of the video cameras aimed at him and added, “Oops. Can I say that on television?” His voice had the taunting edge of a schoolyard bully who tripped you on purpose, then mocked with something like, “Ooh! I’m sooo sorry. Did I hurt you?”
Jerry Peretti was Confirmation’s creator and executive producer. Rick knew that Knight had been unhappy with his salary for the pilot episode they were filming almost from the moment he signed his contract. In turn, he had taken this sort of malicious, juvenile pleasure in taunting and antagonizing Jerry ever since. Most of it he had been doing on video footage like this, footage that would later be sent to Jerry himself.
Rick noticed the young techies barely suppressing grins and chuckles. The prickly Dan Knight had become the “cool old guy” of the cast.
Their team, Rick knew, had been assembled not only with an eye toward their expertise but their demographic appeal as well. Confirmation had to draw a broad cross-section of audiences interested in supernatural phenomena. Rick and Cornelia, thirty-seven and thirty-one years old respectively, had been cast to appeal to those on the very late tail-end of Generation X. Cornelia, according to the show’s publicity materials, was an “uncompromising, empowered female reporter. She took on the powerful and the corrupt as an investigative journalist. She backs down from no challenge and she is tough, skeptical, and ready to ask the hard questions when confronted with claims of the paranormal.” As an ex-cop, Rick was envisioned as the show’s real-life action hero. He found out that the producers had written in their casting memos that their cop needed to be a “dangerously mischievous Johnny Depp-type.” He wondered if someone forgot to wear his glasses when they looked at his audition tape. The oddest comparison to someone famous Ballantine had ever gotten was being told that he looked like Patrick Duffy in the 80s soap opera Dallas. Knight, at sixty-two, described as “the controversial author of over twenty books on folklore and claims of true paranormal experiences,” had to appeal to baby boomers. He would be the leader figure of the team. In each episode, he would present the team with a supernatural legend to investigate. Knight, of course, would also join the team in the field. He, according to the press kit, “embodies a generation that made its own rules and is not ready to step aside.”
The rest of the team members rounded out the proper diversity of what Rick liked to think of as the “youth quake” half of the cast.
Tony Griffin, the twenty-four-year-old cameraman covering Knight at that moment, looked like a pouty teen idol with his perpetually tousled hair and somewhat melancholy cast to his eyes that resembled the soulful gaze of a young Elvis Presley. Rick was sure all the girls Tony ever glanced at found that look to be irresistibly dreamy.
The second cameraman, getting shots of the crowd all around the globe, was twenty-five-year-old Matt Cooper, a handsome African American who had been ordered to shave his head after casting to look like a “Tyrese Gibson type.”
Twenty-seven-year-old Lacy Anderson, snapping pictures of the globe with her smartphone, was their surveillance and audio analysis expert. With her boyish, short haircut, jogging pants, and a Star Wars T-shirt reading “Han Shot First,” she looked like anyone’s tomboy little sister. Rick recalled Jerry’s jaundiced characterization of the “type” he was looking for in the techie as being Cornelia’s exact opposite. “If Cornelia’s the ex-beauty-queen, the tech specialist should be total 180. She goes to Star Trek conventions and doesn’t wear too much makeup. They’ll say we’re providing a great role model for sensitive little girls who don’t fit in.” Rick wondered if the final cut of the pilot would also mention that Lacy got most of her tech specialization in the army.
Their audio engineer, twenty-three-year-old Melinda Rowland, hovering close to Knight with a large boom microphone to record all of his cool-old-guy bon mots, was cast in the tomboy mode as well. The first thing one noticed about her was her strikingly muscular shoulders. A former college swimmer, Melinda had briefly competed as a natural—or steroid free—bodybuilder three years ago.
Ian Durfy, twenty-seven, was the team’s “special effects wizard,” a former designer of visual effects for the low-budget science fiction and horror films Jerry Peretti used to produce before he decided to branch into reality television. Ian’s job would be to stage the recreations of all the alleged alien, ghost, and monster sightings the show was planning on documenting. With his six-foot-five-inch physique and flowing mane of dark brown hair, Durfy looked like a male model off the cover of a bodice-ripper romance novel. Behind his back, Knight had taken to calling Ian “Fabio.” At the moment, Rick saw Ian talking to a couple of local men who were vigorously gesticulating with their hands, as if imitating mysterious objects flying around in the sky.
“You were saying about the cops?” Cornelia leaned closer to Rick and asked quietly.
Following her gaze, he noticed the local chief of police, James Carpenter, approaching again. He and his entire cadre of officers had been getting ever more antagonistic as the morning wore on and the crowd of gawkers kept building up.
“It looks like this is going to take a while,” Carpenter said a moment later. “So why don’t I ask you a few more questions? No problems, I hope.”
Rick thought that Mount Shasta City’s top cop looked and carried himself like an aging football coach, someone old enough to have been mimicking John Wayne with a saddle-sore, hip-swinging amble, but with the quietly insinuating questions of Lieutenant Columbo. Carpenter, Rick knew, was about to ask him yet again about the message from Eunice Stevens. He wondered why the chief was not acknowledging that he was dealing with a former cop who was clued in to the ploy.
Rick saw Cornelia tensing as Carpenter approached. As an ex-reporter familiar with interrogation techniques, she must have been getting increasingly agitated with the repeating questions.
“What’s that, Chief?” Rick asked curtly.
“You’re sure that the one message you got from Eunice Stevens yesterday is the only time she communicated with you?”
> “And the reason I decided to drive out here in the middle of the night after that one and only message is because we’re on a tight schedule and a tight budget. We came here to interview locals about their paranormal experiences and she was offering information. And it was nice and theatrical and melodramatic the way she wanted to conceal her identity.”
When Rick paused, he saw the surprised look on the chief’s face, one marked with transparently feigned indignation. It was the Columbo look of, “Have I said something to offend you? Because, gee, I really didn’t mean to do that.”
“I came over the top of that hill and didn’t see this…this thing until it was too late. It was nearly pitch black, after all, and because of the rise in the road it’s impossible to see it until you’re smacking right into it. Does that make sense? I had an accident because I was driving down this road for the first time in my life, in the dark, and I didn’t expect the road to be blocked by a giant stone ball.”
The chief watched Rick with a sort of slack, tired expression now—except the cop’s eyes looked sharp, focused, and skeptical. Somewhat hostile even, as Rick estimated.
“Look, I had an accident. And I don’t understand why I’m being treated like a suspect.”
After a beat, Carpenter said, “Is that what you think you are…?”
“I had twelve years on the L.A.P.D. and I know how interrogations work. I’ve told you—and we all told you—the same story like, God, I don’t know, ten times already since last night. So why don’t you tell us what the problem is here?”
His rising voice, Rick noticed now, had attracted Knight’s attention. The professor had been intently examining the globe again, running his palms over its surface, no doubt looking for chinks and flaws in the carving. But now he stepped away from the monolith and started ambling toward the fray with Carpenter. Catching sight of the taut, veiny muscles rippling in Knight’s forearms as he quickly clenched his fists in and out, Rick’s adrenaline spiked. It wasn’t just their executive producer Knight enjoyed mixing it up with. As Rick had learned since Confirmation had been cast, Knight enjoyed fighting any opponent any opportunity he got. Looking at his steely hard bearing, Rick was sure Knight was capable of much more than just verbal confrontation and battles of wit. He could, no doubt, still easily put many disrespectful younger men in their place. One of Knight’s favorite stories, and one he had already repeated more than a dozen times—usually after imbibing an immense quantity of hard liquor—was of the time he threatened to punch out the father of one of his students demanding that a D final exam grade be raised to an A lest the well-heeled family stop its generous donations to Knight’s school. “I wasn’t always the man of peace and intellect you see educating America’s youth today,” Knight had also joked several times. Looking at the old man’s face, somewhat resembling that of a retired boxer, with a nose that must have been broken several times and some scar tissue around his eyebrows, Rick thought the story about threatening that student’s father was probably more than just a tall tale for the pub. Nevertheless, escalating the tension with the local police chief was probably a very bad idea right now.
Confirmation Page 1