Chrono Nexus – Rivière du Temps
Copyright © 2024, by Paul Kelemencky
Published by ZenInBlack Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Revision 20241124
Chapter 6: Shadows in the Sanctuary
The sunrise peeked through Belle’s guest room blinds, painting golden stripes across worn wooden floors. Jack stirred to consciousness, his muscles still carrying the lingering warmth of deep sleep. Outside, a street sweeper’s distant rumble mixed with the sharp aroma of coffee drifting from the kitchen. The air held traces of last night’s ritual—sweet copal incense and dried herbs—a reminder of the protection Belle had woven around him.
As he rose and stretched, Jack savored the crisp morning air. Through the slats, he glimpsed scattered beads glinting in the gutters and tattered streamers hanging limp from porch railings—the spent confetti of yesterday’s revelry. Another Ash Wednesday in New Orleans, his mind drifting to the challenges ahead. Jeff’s in custody caught up in something big. And Lynda… The memory of her presence yesterday still haunted him, her absence a bitter contradiction to the peacefulness of the morning.
A spoon clinked against a ceramic cup in the kitchen, followed by the soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. Belle was already up, her presence a comforting constant in the tumult of recent events. Jack felt a surge of gratitude for her support and the sanctuary her home provided—this little bungalow with its charming Arts and Crafts furniture and walls lined with dried herbs and old family photos.
With a final stretch, Jack made his way toward the promise of coffee and his sister’s warm company. As he stepped through the bedroom doorway, vertigo gripped him without warning. The walls shimmered like heat waves off summer asphalt, threatening to dissolve into another time.
Not now, he thought, clenching his fist. I can fight this.
The edges of his vision blurred, and for a moment, he felt suspended between realities. Unbidden, a memory flashed before him: Lynda, laughing at one of Jeff’s jokes during last year’s Mardi Gras. The image was so vivid, so real, that Jack could almost feel the warmth of her shoulder pressed against his, smell the powdered sugar from her half-eaten beignet.
Time doesn’t exist. It’s all happening at once. Zenin Black’s words echoed in his mind, bringing an unexpected clarity.
Jack’s vision swam, but he focused on the rich aroma of coffee cutting through the haze. Coffee. Belle’s kitchen. Now. Stay here. His fingers found the rough texture of the doorframe, grounding himself in its solidity.
As he concentrated, the vertigo slowly receded. The walls solidified, the shimmering faded, and Lynda’s image dissolved like mist in sunlight. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, but Jack barely noticed it. He was too preoccupied with the realization dawning on him.
Did I just… control it?
He exhaled slowly, his breath shaky but tinged with a hint of excitement. For years, he’d been at the mercy of these shifts, a passive victim to their whims. But this time, it felt different. He’d caught it early, recognized the signs, and somehow… pushed back.
A mix of emotions engulfed him—relief at averting the shift, grief at losing Lynda’s image so quickly, and a cautious hope about his growing control. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as helpless as he’d always believed.
Belle stood at her vintage stove, her curly hair wrapped in a bright yellow scarf. The morning light caught the gold threads woven into her protection amulet, casting tiny sparks across the walls. The kitchen smelled of chicory and warmth. Herbs hung in bundles from the ceiling, their shadows dancing with the gentle breeze from an open window.
“You, alright, cher,” Belle said, turning with a steaming mug in her hands. Her eyes, so like their father’s, studied him with gentle concern. “Bad dreams?”
“Yeah, something like that,” Jack replied, his voice steadier than he felt. No need to worry her with the details of his temporal struggles. He accepted the offered mug, noting the hand-painted voodoo symbols that decorated its surface.
As he settled at Belle’s small kitchen table, Jack remembered his early encounters with Zenin Black and how they’d set him on this path of unraveling the mystery of his time shifts. And perhaps, with this newfound control, he might finally be able to piece together what happened to Lynda and Jeff.
The memory of Zenin’s mischievous grin and knowing eyes lingered in his mind. Everything that was, is, and is yet to be has already happened, Zenin had said. Jack wondered if he was finally starting to grasp what that truly meant – and what it could mean for solving the case that had consumed him.
“We need to talk about Jeff,” Belle said, settling across from him with her coffee. “I’ve been thinking about what the cards showed us last night.”
Jack nodded, wrapping his hands around the warm mug. The scent of coffee now wasn’t just a comfort but a tether to this moment, this timeline—and perhaps the key to unlocking the mysteries that lay ahead.
Jack inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as the chicory-laden steam carried memories upward. The world lurched sideways, reality fracturing like light through a prism. Suddenly, he saw Belle as she’d been seven years ago—younger, uncertain, her hands trembling as she stirred her coffee with desperate precision. The ghost of that moment overlaid the present like a double exposure. He blinked, and the vision faded, leaving him slightly disoriented in the warm morning light.
“You alright there, frère?” Belle asked, concern etching her features as she leaned forward in her creaking chair.
Jack shook his head, clearing the last vestiges of the time-shift. The familiar weight of his coffee cup held him to the present. “Yeah, just… remembering. This coffee reminds me of the day we first met. That little coffee shop near Tulane Medical Center? Mardi Gras, 2012?”
Belle’s eyes lit up with recognition. Her hand unconsciously touched the small Voodoo talisman she always wore, its worn surface smooth beneath her fingers. “Mais oui! I was 22, you were 40. I was shaking like a leaf in the wind.”
“I remember seeing you parade with the BabyGirls,” Jack’s tone softened with nostalgia. “Something about you caught my eye, something familiar I couldn’t place.”
Belle nodded, her expression thoughtful as morning sunlight caught the gold flecks in her eyes—like his own. “Mama told me about the spell, about our father, when I was 17. For years, I’d imagined this mysterious older brother.”
Jack’s expression tightened slightly at the mention of the spell, that familiar resistance rising. “You know, Belle, I still struggle with all this Voodoo business. Part of me wants to believe, but…”
“I know, cher,” Belle said, reaching across to squeeze his hand, her touch warm and comforting. “But you’ve seen things, non? Things that your logic can’t explain?”
Jack nodded reluctantly, the morning breeze carrying the distant sound of traffic through the window. “True. Speaking of which, we need to figure out our next move with Jeff’s case. Any ideas from your… um, spiritual side?”
Belle’s eyes sparkled with a mixture of amusement and thoughtfulness. “As a matter of fact, yes. The cards last night spoke of hidden knowledge. I think we need to revisit the scene of Jeff’s arrest, look for something we missed.”
Jack raised an eyebrow, his coffee forgotten. “Back to the bar, the storage closet? That could be dangerous, Belle. Those Skull and Bones guys, or who knows who might still be watching.”
“Danger, don’t scare me, none,” Belle said, her voice taking on a steely edge that reminded him of their shared bloodline. “We Creoles, we face our fears head-on, yeah.”
Jack couldn’t help but smile at her doggedness. “Alright, alright. We’ll go after my morning walk. But we’re being careful, you hear?”
As Jack rose to leave, the world around him shimmered again. This time, he saw Belle as an old woman, still sitting at the table, her eyes twinkling with the same persistence. The vision faded as quickly as it had come.
“Jack?” Belle’s voice brought him back to the present. “You sure you’re okay?”
Jack smiled, a bit shaken but steadied by her concern. “Yeah, just… time doing its thing. I’ll be back soon. And Belle?”
“Oui?”
“Thanks for being here. For everything.”
Jack headed outside, breathing deeply as the crisp morning air filled his lungs. Mid-City lay unusually quiet, the post-Carnival hush settling over the streets like a benediction. His footsteps echoed against worn sidewalks, matching the steady rhythm of his thoughts.
With each step, Jack focused on his newfound control over the time shifts. The ability felt like a muscle he was just learning to flex. When he passed beneath a flickering streetlight, the familiar temporal pull tugged at his consciousness—a sensation like vertigo mixed with déjà vu. This time, he pushed back, focusing himself firmly on the present—a small victory but one that brought a slight smile to his face.
City Park emerged before him, its sprawling oaks wearing their Spanish moss like tattered gray shawls in the morning light. The breeze carried the earthy scent of damp soil and fresh grass, nature’s own cleansing ritual after Mardi Gras excess. Jack needed this walk beyond mere reflection—somewhere in his mind, a plan to help Jeff was taking shape, and the park’s tranquility offered the perfect canvas for his thoughts.
He paused at one of the park’s iconic stone bridges, weathered granite cool beneath his palms. Below, the lagoon’s surface held perfect reflections of dawn clouds, like a mirror someone had laid across the water. The scene’s serenity struck him as appropriate—this renewal moment echoing his journey toward understanding and control. Jack gathered his thoughts as he strolled on.
The collision came out of nowhere, a sudden jolt interrupting his thoughts as he bumped into someone. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry…” The words died in Jack’s throat as he recognized the impeccably dressed figure: Victor Duval, the media mogul from yesterday’s riverside farewell.
“Mr. Dupré, you seem distracted.” Victor’s piercing blue eyes fixed on Jack.
A chill that had nothing to do with the morning air crawled up Jack’s spine. This meeting felt too perfect, too arranged. “Mr. Duval,” he managed, keeping his tone carefully neutral while his fingers instinctively sought the comfort of his jacket pocket. “Didn’t expect to find you in this neck of the woods.”
“Taking in the calm after the storm of Carnival, Mr. Dupré?”
“Something like that.”
Victor smiled. “Ash Wednesday is a time for reflection, is it not?” He gestured toward the park with a manicured hand, his platinum cufflinks catching the early light. “New Orleans has such a unique way of blending the sacred and the profane. The transition from Mardi Gras to Lent… fascinating.”
Jack’s mind raced beneath his composed exterior, recalling Victor’s intense scrutiny during yesterday’s farewell procession. Coincidence felt too convenient an explanation.
“Indeed,” Jack replied, measuring each word. “The city is full of contrasts.”
“Speaking of contrasts,” Victor continued, adjusting his tie with practiced precision, “I couldn’t help but notice the rather elaborate farewell for your friend yesterday. Such an inspiring celebration of life amid grief. Quite moving.”
Jack’s shoulders tensed involuntarily. Every word from Victor seemed carefully chosen, loaded with unspoken meaning. “Lynda would have wanted it that way,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady.
“I’m sure she would have.” Victor nodded thoughtfully, his expression impossible to read. “Well, Mr. Dupré, I won’t keep you from your morning constitutional. Perhaps our paths will cross again soon.” With a polite tip of his hat—a gesture that somehow managed to seem both courteous and vaguely threatening—Victor continued on his way.
Jack watched him go, unable to shake the feeling that this encounter carried more significance than a simple morning meeting. What was his connection to Jeff’s situation? To Lynda’s death?
The aroma of fresh-fried beignets and coffee drifted from a nearby café where staff were preparing for the day. The familiar New Orleans aromas offered momentary comfort. Jack breathed them in, letting the combination hold him in the present.
The significance of the day wasn’t lost on him. Ash Wednesday marked the beginning of Lent—a time for reflection, sacrifice, and renewal. This year, those themes felt especially poignant. Between the mysterious shifts in his timeline, Jeff’s predicament, and now this unsettling encounter with Victor Duval, his existence had taken on layers of complexity he was only beginning to understand.
Late morning sunlight sliced between buildings, casting shadows across Canal Street as St. Anthony of Padua came into view, its twin towers and limestone walls rising above Mid-City like a weathered sentinel. Jack traced the wrought iron fence with his fingers, each groove and scar in the old stones telling stories of hurricanes endured and prayers answered. The church bells tolled the hour, their deep resonance stirring Jack’s memories of childhood Masses, drawing him toward the sanctuary he hadn’t planned to visit but suddenly needed.
A splash of color on the sun-warmed sidewalk outside the church caught his eye. A young street artist knelt on the ground, her hands covered in chalk dust that caught the light like scattered stars. She was focused intently on her work, long dark hair falling over her face as she leaned forward. The soft scrape of chalk against concrete was barely audible above the distant rumble of streetcars.
Jack stopped, curiosity piqued. Street art wasn’t uncommon in New Orleans, but something about this piece drew him in. As he got closer, the chalk lines began to take shape, triggering an uneasy feeling.
The artwork depicted two tall, imposing figures. Their bodies were cloaked in shadows, but their faces… Jack’s stomach dropped as if stepping off a ledge, his pulse quickening. The faces were unmistakable—skeletal, with hollow eyes that seemed to stare right through him. They were exact replicas of the menacing figures that had pursued him on Mardi Gras day.
How is this possible? Jack thought. How did this artist know about them?
The familiar vertigo of an approaching time shift tugged at his consciousness. He closed his eyes as he concentrated on Zenin Black’s words about the nature of time. Stay present, he told himself. Control the flow. To his surprise, the disorienting sensation receded like morning mist, leaving him firmly anchored in the present moment.
“Excuse me,” Jack said, his voice shakier than he’d intended, the words carrying on a warm breeze scented with incense from the morning Mass. The artist looked up, brushing her hair from eyes that reminded him uncomfortably of dark church windows. “Your artwork… where did you get the idea for these characters?”
The young woman squinted against the morning sun, chalk dust shimmering on her hands like remnants of Mardi Gras glitter. “Characters? It’s just a couple of skeletons, man. Day of the Dead stuff, you know?”
Jack shook his head, pointing at the chalk figures while his other hand unconsciously sought the comfort of Belle’s amulet. “No, these specific ones. Have you seen them before? Maybe during Mardi Gras?” The skeletal faces stared back at him from the pavement, their hollow eyes holding secrets he couldn’t decipher.
The artist’s confusion turned to concern, her shoulders tensing as she stood up slowly, wiping her chalky hands on her faded jeans. The streetcar rumbled past, its bell cutting through the morning quiet. “Look, mister, I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s just something I made up.” She glanced toward the church entrance where early morning parishioners filtered out. “Are you feeling okay?”
“But they’re exact!” Jack insisted. “The height, the posture, even the way their eyes seem to follow you. It can’t be a coincidence.” The chalk dust caught in the breeze, swirling like spirits around their feet.
The young woman stepped back, reaching for her phone in her pocket. A strand of prayer beads wrapped around her wrist caught the light—not Catholic, but something older. “I think you need to calm down. Maybe you should go sit in the church for a bit… clear your head.”
Jack realized how he must look—a middle-aged man getting worked up over a sidewalk drawing in front of a church. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, forcing a smile. “You’re right. I’m not feeling myself today. Your art is… very evocative. Keep up the good work.”
He turned away quickly, his mind spinning. As he climbed the worn steps to St. Anthony’s, the image of those chalk figures burned in his memory. The stone beneath his feet held nearly a century of footsteps, prayers, and secrets. Were his pursuers closer than he thought? Or was he starting to see threats where none existed?
Jack paused outside the heavy wooden doors, taking another deep breath. The familiar scent of church incense floated in the air. Memories washed over him—sitting in church with his mother, feeling safe and certain about the world. Now, as an adult grappling with time shifts and Voodoo rituals, that certainty seemed like a distant dream.
He felt a mix of anticipation and unease as he prepared to enter, his hand hovering over the brass door handle worn smooth by generations of faithful. The Catholic teachings of his youth seemed at odds with the mystical experiences he’d had recently. Yet, something in him still yearned for the comfort of tradition, the solace of familiar rituals that had anchored his childhood before time became fluid and faith became complicated.
As he reached for the door, movement caught his eye. Across the street, an older man watched him, his gaze sharp, intent, and focused. For a moment, Jack thought he saw a flicker of recognition in the stranger’s eyes, a knowing look that sent a chill through him despite the growing warmth of the day. But when he blinked, the man was gone, leaving only an empty sidewalk.
With one last glance at the perplexed artist and her unnervingly familiar artwork, Jack entered St. Anthony’s. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud. As he crossed the threshold, holy water cool against his fingers, he silently hoped that within these hallowed walls, beneath the watchful eyes of saints in stained glass, he might find some answers—or at least, a moment of peace in his increasingly chaotic world. The scent of beeswax candles and centuries of faith enveloped him as he stepped into the cool sanctuary, leaving the bright morning and its mysteries behind.
Instead of Ash Wednesday’s usual faithful, Jack found only silence waiting inside the church. Ancient wooden pews sat empty, their surfaces polished by generations of faithful hands. Through stained-glass windows, rays of colored light pierced the heavy air like divine accusations, illuminating swirling tendrils of frankincense and myrrh.
The click of his footsteps against worn marble echoed throughout the vestibule, each sound amplified by the unnatural quiet. Dust motes danced in the jewel-toned light, reminding him of the chalk drawings outside—skeletal figures frozen in an eternal dance. The air grew heavier, thicker with incense and age-old prayers.
A cold sensation, like ghostly fingers, traced down his neck. Jack spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. The figure before him seemed to materialize from the shadows—six and a half feet of solid muscle wrapped in an immaculate black suit. Dark brown skin gleamed in the filtered light, his bald head reflecting the colors from the stained glass above. Deep-set eyes bored into Jack’s with predatory intensity.
“What are you doing here?” The stranger’s baritone resonated through the empty church, each word vibrating in Jack’s chest like distant thunder.
Jack’s fingers found Belle’s amulet in his pocket, its worn surface still warm against his skin. The sensation steadied him, a touchstone against the disorientation threatening to overwhelm him. “I was just looking for a place to think,” he managed, forcing himself to meet that penetrating gaze. “Saw people coming in, thought the church was open to the public.”
The man scanned the empty sanctuary and then stared at Jack, his scrutiny feeling like a physical weight. A barely perceptible tilt of his head drew Jack’s attention to movement in the shadows. Another figure emerged—a mirror image of the first, down to the last detail. The matching pendants around their necks caught the colored light, their symbols briefly aligning with the chalk drawings he’d seen outside.
The first twin’s shoulders tensed imperceptibly. “You seem… lost.” His words hung in the incense-laden air. “Are you sure you’re where you’re supposed to be?”
Sweat beaded on Jack’s forehead despite the church’s cool air. His mind raced, cataloging details like he would at a crime scene—identical builds, synchronized movements, the way they positioned themselves to control the space. “I recently lost a close friend,” he said, his voice wavering authentically. “Felt drawn here, needed to say a prayer for her.”
The second twin stepped forward, his movement sharp and aggressive compared to his brother’s fluid grace. “A likely story.” Impatience crackled in his tone. “When exactly did this friend of yours pass?”
“Few days ago, just before Mardi Gras.” Jack injected a note of calculated carelessness into his voice. “You know how time flies when you’re grieving.”
The first twin’s eyebrow arched, a gesture somehow more threatening than his brother’s overt aggression. “Mardi Gras?” The words dripped with skepticism. “You must be more… disoriented than we thought.”
“What kind of bullshit are you trying to pull?” The second twin surged forward, forcing Jack to retreat until his back met the cold stone wall. “Today’s the day before Thanksgiving!”
The realization hit Jack like a physical blow. The familiar vertigo of an unexpected time shift washed over him, the church’s incense suddenly cloying, threatening to choke him. “I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, fighting to keep his balance as the room seemed to tilt. “Meant Thanksgiving. Losing track of days since… everything’s blending together, you know?”
The twins’ gazes pinned him like specimens under glass. The calmer twin adjusted his tie with surgical precision while his brother’s fists clenched and unclenched, tendons standing out like cords beneath his skin.
“You seem confused,” the first twin said, his voice softening without losing its edge. “Perhaps you need more than just a prayer.”
“Maybe you should tell us more about this friend of yours.” The second twin took another step closer, his shadow falling across Jack like a shroud. “We might be able to… help.” The threat in his voice was as sharp as a blade.
Jack pressed against the wall, feeling the cold seep through his jacket. His mind raced through possibilities—could these men be connected to Jeff’s disappearance? To Lynda’s death? “I appreciate the offer,” he said, forcing a weak smile. “But I think I’ve intruded enough. I should go.”
The twins exchanged a glance loaded with unspoken meaning. They stepped aside in perfect unison, creating a path to the door that felt more like a gauntlet than an escape route.
“By all means,” the first twin said, his tone unnaturally cordial. “But remember, Mr…?”
“Dupré,” Jack supplied, immediately cursing his instinct for honesty.
“Mr. Dupré.” The second twin spat the name like a curse. “The church is always open to those truly seeking solace. We hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Jack maintained his measured pace toward the exit, and every step was an exercise in control despite the crawling sensation between his shoulder blades. His hand had just touched the door handle when the first twin’s voice drifted after him, soft as a confessional whisper.
“And Mr. Dupré? Do try to keep better track of time. It can be… crucial.”
“Yeah,” the second twin snarled, “wouldn’t want you to miss any important dates.”
Jack pushed through the door without looking back, the timeline shifting around him as he emerged into the familiar mid-city sunlight of Ash Wednesday. The twins’ words echoed in his mind. His investigative instincts kicked in, and he mentally cataloged every detail—the matching pendants, their knowledge of his name, their pointed focus on time. Each element felt significant, pieces of a puzzle he couldn’t quite assemble.
Footsteps had transformed the sidewalk’s skeletal chalk drawing into a blur of pastels, its once-crisp lines now fading like an impressionist painting left in the rain. The two distinctive figures—now gone.
As Jack headed back to Belle’s bungalow, a familiar, confident stride announced Tempest’s approach. She emerged from the crowd, her fiery emerald eyes catching the light.
“What happened, boo? You look shaken,” Tempest’s voice lilted through the air. “Forgot to get your ashes? Or did them twins give you more than just a blessing?”
Jack’s jaw tightened, his shoulders still carrying the tension from the church encounter. After many years of Zenin’s games, he should know better than to show his irritation—it only encouraged more cryptic responses.
“By the way, sugar,” Tempest continued, “you didn’t recognize the twins, did you? Sometimes, the most obvious connections are hiding right out in the open.”
The realization hit Jack. The memory rushed back, sharp and clear—two towering figures in elaborate Skull and Bones costumes, their faces hidden behind intricate masks. His hands trembled as he recalled the odd symbols adorning their costumes, symbols that now hung around the twins’ necks.
“The pendants,” Jack whispered. “They match the symbols from Mardi Gras.”
Tempest’s smile widened, her teeth gleaming like pearls in the morning light. “Remember, cher, new moon today. You’ve got until the full moon to piece it all together.” Her voice took on that familiar singsong quality that always preceded something important. “Tick, tick, tick, time’s a-ticking.”
“Zenin,” Jack growled, frustration crackling through his measured tone, “can’t you just give me a straight answer for once?”
“Please, sweetie, it’s Tempest,” she corrected, her laugh echoing off the church. “Now, where would be the fun in that, boo? Besides,” she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “you know that’s not how this works. The journey is just as important as the destination.”
Before Jack could respond, Tempest melted into the growing crowd of the faithful heading into St. Anthony’s, her graceful figure disappearing among the ash-marked foreheads and downcast eyes.
Jack’s phone buzzed. Zara’s text glowed on the screen: Hey boo, meet me at Creole House on Canal at 10 AM. Bring Belle.