by Ray Deeg
CHAPTER 3
ON THE TWENTY-THIRD floor of Federal Plaza, in downtown New York City, Sentinel’s bank of servers purred away diligently. Developed by Lockheed Martin, Sentinel was the case-management system and hub connecting the FBI’s network of departments, its servers constantly combing far-flung databases around the world. Today, for no particular reason, one of Sentinel’s servers was crawling a local police database in Pennsylvania when it found a match to a legacy case file. The data sped its way through a network of circuit boards, processers, and hard-disk arrays, following a fiber-optic cable into a cubicle where it was delivered to a computer terminal used by FBI special agent Jolanda Kulish, a trainee of nearly two years. Her screen flashed, and the adjacent printer produced a single sheet of paper. She appraised the alert but was neither shocked nor impressed by its contents. Everyone dies, she thought.
Alert in hand, she navigated the maze of cubicles, reflecting that those great stretches of bureaucracy demonstrated scarce evidence of the genuine human caring or goodness that had originally been intended. She saw only row upon row of machines, whose heartless surveillance stripped clean the humanity of their operators—just as it stripped the dignity and constitutional rights of anyone unfortunate enough to land in its sight. Listen as one may, one would hear no voices of concern for anything or anyone here. Any righteousness that was to be distributed from this place of justice had long ago been trodden down by the soldier feet of empty minds marching to the orders of fearful bureaucrats and candidates seeking reelection. As Jolanda moved through row after row, she hardly lifted her head. Her instincts told her this place and the people here were not the pillar of good they claimed. Each person there had been cleansed of empathy through the training process, and the organization had long ago lost its grip on the magnetic chain of humanity. There were a few genuinely good people, but they were quickly whitewashed of their empathy—or fired. This place could not be sympathetic or gentle. It operated not on empathy but on bloodless law, and therefore it had no right to share in men’s secrets. Its operators looked on the population as the unpredictable subjects of its experiments, Jolanda reflected bleakly, turning man and woman into citizen puppets, pulling, tangling, and often cutting their wires when the mess got too complicated.
As Jolanda approached her destination, she heard music. The door was cracked just a hair, so she peered in. Her mentor, veteran agent Randall Evans, had been distracted lately and for the most part had been ignoring her. He hadn’t lifted a finger to fulfill his obligations as her supervisor in the last few months. She could tell his heart hadn’t been in the game for some time, probably since long before she’d arrived some twenty months earlier. Now, his head was raised to heaven, and his eyes were closed as if in deep meditation. He sensed Jolanda’s presence and spoke without turning or even opening his eyes. “Has someone blown something up again, Jojo?”
“Nothing that exciting,” she replied as she stepped in. “Just another stiff I’m deleting from the central watch list—as if we were actually watching him.”
Randall opened his eyes but didn’t turn to face her. “Terrorist, child molester, or bank robber?” he asked, offering only a fraction of his attention.
“None of the above,” she replied. “This is the guy you asked me to set an alert on, jeez, way back when you first started training me. Everett Lemily. Nothing surfaced before today, but Sentinel got the hit, and bingo—he’s dead.”
Randall continued humming for another moment and then frowned. “Wait—who’s dead?” he asked. He turned around and saw his trainee smiling with joyful annoyance.
Jolanda batted her eyelashes sarcastically; it was something her mother did too. “Hello, thanks for joining us today,” she said. “The name, the one you asked me to set an alert on a while back, Everett Lemily. He’s dead—as in lifeless, deceased, extinct, stiff, departed, in oblivion, defunct, no more. Sentinel got the hit from a local police report in the Village of New Hope, Pennsylvania. Sounds quaint, doesn’t it?”
All at once the gravity of Kulish’s words registered. Randall clicked the music volume lower. “Everett Lemily,” he said out loud, keeping the scale of his growing excitement hidden.
“Mm-hmm,” Kulish confirmed for the third time.
“Everett Lemily,” Randall repeated. “Yes, I remember now. I was showing you how to set up alerts in Sentinel, of course.”
“A suicide, apparently,” she said, reading from the sheet. “Decedent’s body discovered in his residence by housekeeper, blah blah blah, deep gaping incised wound present on both left and right inner wrists. Let’s see here…cut over the ventral aspect of the left wrist, length is 25.5 cm, and maximum width of the wound was 5 cm in the center; depth of wound is 9 cm near the left angle, blah blah blah. Cause of death is exsanguination.”
“I got it,” Randall said, feeling his heart rate rising. “He slit his wrists.”
“And get this,” Kulish continued. “He was the last living person listed in this file. All the other people listed in this case died decades ago. And the case has labels dating back to, Jesus, 1926. The original case wasn’t even input into Sentinel until seven months ago, when they began digitizing the old paper archives.” Jolanda wiggled the paper so it dangled like a snake from her fingertips. “This, my friend, is ancient. What’s the 411 on this guy?”
“What’s the case number and password?” Evans asked, remaining as calm as possible.
Kulish referenced the sheet. “One six four, seven two nine. The password is AMN—Alpha Martin Nancy—seven one.”
Randall did the math in his head. “One six four sounds like a new case prefix.”
“It is new, but the prefix is designated for old paper cases. And the original case number—are you ready for this? Seventy-four. Can that even be right?”
Randall had keyed in the numbers before she finished speaking. Seventy four. His mind was racing and his heart pumping buckets. His screen lit up, and he began browsing dozens of documents and a sea of photos. My destiny. “Agent Kulish,” Randall said in a supervisory tone, “did you create a work order or log entry on this? Have you mentioned this to anyone?” He’d become serious, and she could sense he’d become excited.
“No, you told me not to,” she replied.
“I did. Good, good,” Evans said out loud.
“What’s the deal on this case?” she asked again.
Randall turned toward her. “I’m not exactly sure yet, and I don’t want to say anything out of turn, but I need you to remove any alerts or logs on this and keep this between us. I’m dead serious, Jojo.”
“What’s the big secret?” she asked.
Randall peered at her, his stare as serious as he could muster. “In time, Jojo, but this has to be between us for now, OK?”
She recognized the stare and backed down. “Wouldn’t be the first secret I’ve kept around here,” she said to no one in particular.
“Listen, thanks for the alert, but I’m slammed,” he said.
“I can tell by your music recital,” she said, rolling her eyes. But she acknowledged Randall’s not-so-subtle hint and sauntered out, leaving the alert behind.
With newfound purpose, Randall pulled himself closer to his desk. He sat more erect now. This is Walter’s case—the stories he told me, my legacy. Photos of prominent scientists and strange devices from the 1920s and ’30s flashed across Randall’s screen. With each passing frame, he became keenly aware that the images, notes, and letters matched his grandfather’s mesmerizing stories exactly. And as he devoured the contents, the details he saw were strangely familiar. And the name, Everett Lemily, the only name he could remember—it was real. It had paid off. He found himself wandering through his memories as he waded through the case file. He scoured dozens of briefings from the Department of War and handwritten notes from bureau agents written back in the days when they were called G-men. The people referenced were gone now, and so were most of the government departments—they’d closed decades ago.
Suddenly the image of his grandfather, a vibrant young Walter Evans, appeared on his screen. Walter! He was inside a laboratory holding a ruler and kneeling down to examine a series of tubes protruding from a device. Alongside Walter, other agents smiled for the camera. There were dozens of photos. Grandpa, I’ve waited years for this to happen. The hairs on Randall’s arms stood on end as he took in the details of every photo. Images from the case file flashed on the screen and reflected in his eyes while he devoured the content. Interference patterns, reflectors, microtubules, the stock market crash, thought manipulation, a semipermeable membrane…When Randall had had his fill, he began browsing the police report detailing the suicide of Everett Lemily and noticed the man’s date of death. This guy died nearly four months ago. Do these hick police do anything by the book? Four goddamn months; shit!
Randall dialed some numbers. “This is Agent Randall Evans with the FBI. I’d like to speak with a…” He referenced the name he saw in the report. “Police Chief Ian Heckie.”
The receptionist put him through. “Ian Heckie,” a male voice said authoritatively.
“Hello, my name is Randall Evans. I’m an agent with the FBI’s criminal division here in the New York field office. I’m investigating the death of Everett Lemily—he was connected to one of our legacy case files. I was looking through the report filed by your department and signed by you several months ago. I was hoping you could help me.”
“Yes, what part can I help you with—Randall Evans, you say?”
“Randall Evans; that’s correct. Well, your report describes the library where the decedent was found as being in disarray, a tabletop embedded in a wall and various components from a machine scattered in the center of the library near the decedent’s body. Were you able to ascertain the machine’s function? And do you know the machine’s current location?”
There was a long pause. “This is Randall Evans with the FBI, you say?”
“For the third time, Chief Heckie, yes. My name is Randall Evans, criminal division, FBI.” Randall’s patience had long ago been depleted and he found himself snapping at the slightest irritation, but this was no regular case. He glanced at a pamphlet pinned to a corkboard on the wall to the side of his desk. Listed were the five traits that make up every human’s personality. His eyes moved down the list. Conscientiousness, agreeableness, neuroticism, openness to experience, and extroversion. OK. Play the game, Randall. He calmed himself. “Would you like to call me back, Mr. Heckie? For verification purposes, I mean?”
“No, that’s not it. I’m just wondering why this man’s death is a bureau case.”
“This is not an active bureau case. What I do know is that Everett Lemily was associated with a legacy file in our system—which, to be candid, no one here cares much about anymore except for this damn computer. I don’t even know if it’s the same guy, to be completely honest. Everett Lemily might have been someone important sixty years ago. Look, I’m just a little cog in a big machine assigned to investigate things when this silly computer tells me to. I was hoping to save us both some time and get these blanks filled in, you know what I mean?”
“Yes I do, Mr. Evans,” Heckie replied in a less guarded tone. Randall tapped the pamphlet with his pen. “When my team discovered Everett Lemily’s body, the machine was a mystery to us,” Heckie spouted. “The thing could have been an engine—hell, it could have been a steam cleaner. We’re just a bunch of hick cops, so what do we know?” Randall raised his eyebrows and nodded in agreement. “It was an eerie scene. We had to open the windows to breathe. If you’ve ever been around a machine shop, arc welders and such, the smell was about the same. I don’t know if this Lemily fella was insane or a genius. He didn’t have any family or friends we could locate. Even the maid left straightaway. She packed up, washed her hands of the man, and left that day. And the contents of the house, including the machine, became the property of his estate. I did get a call from a legal firm. Let’s see here: McAlister, Shuman, and Bock—out of New York City. They were fast, like all you New Yorkers. They took charge, contracted with a local funeral home, and took possession of the man’s remains. They sold the house and everything in it. That’s all I can say for certain, Mr. Evans.”
“Well, that will get these blanks filled in just fine, Mr. Heckie. I don’t want to take any more of your time. Thank you so much.”
“Please let us know if you uncover anything of interest. We’d be very appreciative.”
“All righty then, will do. Take care now.”
Randall began pecking on his keyboard and then printed off several pages of the case. He inserted them into a red folder emblazoned with the FBI logo and its endless circle of thirteen stars, denoting unity of purpose as exemplified by the original thirteen states. He picked up the phone again. “I’m going to let you in on my side project, but this is just us, OK?”
“Of course,” Kulish replied.
“My stiff, Everett Lemily—his estate is being handled by the law firm of McAlister, Shuman, and Bock. Get me everything you can on Lemily, his history, his property, and his estate. I need to know everything he owned, where it is, who’s got control, and the names of any heirs. Specifically, he had the machine described in that police report. I want to know where it is. Get it all—and again, nothing official.”
“I’m on it,” Kulish replied.
That visible mass of liquid droplets that had been suspended over Randall, the one blocking the sun and casting a shadow over everything, was suddenly lifting. Randall felt reinvigorated, surging with a new energy. He scrolled through photos and documents, absorbing the information, until a receptionist walked into his office.
“Sorry for the interruption—this was just dropped off by a courier. He said you were to receive it right away.” She handed Randall a yellow envelope with a red stripe along the bottom and a clear window upfront. He noticed the sender: J. P. Morgan Trust and Fiduciary Services. As the receptionist walked out, he tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter inside.
Dear Randall,
I have written this letter a hundred times. This is going to be hard for you to understand, but I’ve seen the future. Do you see the photo on your desk, the one of your family to the left of your telephone? Well, I’ve seen it too. I’m sending you this letter from the past.
Randall looked around the room, feeling disoriented, but he kept reading.
I want you to have something. My first desire was to keep you out of all this, but you can serve a useful role. In my work, I came across something I didn’t understand, and I made some mistakes. Many of us did. But you can make things right. I can’t give you many details, because discovering it for yourself, as I did, is the best way forward.
Do you remember the park in Ridgewood, three blocks from the old house? There’s a cemetery down the road called Fairlawn. Near the far end of the large field, you’ll find a headstone engraved with a Greek woman’s name: Sue Htemorp. You won’t find a corpse, but there is something there for you.
Causality is a strange thing, and timing is everything. Because you’re reading this letter, the course of your life will change. But you alone make your path. It’s important that you push forward. There will come key moments in the next few days when you will have to make life-and-death decisions. I accept that I alone have placed you on that path. Of all the possible moves I can see, this one can make things right again. You will not fully understand everything until the end of your journey, but in time you’ll see the greater good. If what I write gives you pause, then disregard this letter—forget all about it and live your life. But if you decide to change history, then get to Fairlawn Cemetery.
Randall was dizzy with shock and curiosity, but he also suspected a prank. This has to be Walter. Who else could know these things? Reality seemed to defy gravity. The objects in his office looked different now, just copies of themselves, and he wondered whether he was the subject of someone’s cruel experiment: Let’s see what he’ll do when we send him this let
ter…But even the FBI wasn’t this good. He reread the letter. Monday, February 15, 1943. He did the math in his head. That was over seventy years ago.
He shook his head to wake himself, unable to wrap his head around the idea. And like a black hole pulling in everything, the notion shattered the laws of physics. It was as if he’d been offered a glimpse of something even greater than his imagination could fathom. But this was exactly what he’d been asking of the universe. It was what he’d been waiting for. All at once his body shuddered. There may be a limit to what the human mind can bear when reality is shred apart. Like terra firma on which to plant your feet, how much can collapse under you, how much reality can be torn away before your mind gets lost in the abyss. He remembered staring into the mirror above his dresser as a child. He’d gone through a phase of being afraid of the mirror, convinced that at any moment the boogeyman might appear behind him. He had stopped looking into mirrors unless absolutely necessary, turning away before anything could materialize. But over the years, his fear lessened as his resentment grew. When he saw a mirror lately, he’d stop and stare, daring any ghoul to show itself—he could smash and shatter its whole world. His anger had grown so large and pushed itself into every corner. There wasn’t room for anything else now. His fears were pushed out, but so was his reason. And so he imagined a world where this letter was real.
He scanned the room again, half expecting his colleagues to burst in at any moment laughing hysterically. But he didn’t hear anything beyond a faint ringing in his ears. He stood up, opened his office door, and peered down either side of the hallway, but no one was there. Not a soul was waiting to point and burst into laughter. How could there be? How could anyone have known these things? It has to be real. He clicked play, and “Ave Maria” rushed through the speakers as he accepted his new reality. He had a directive, one he’d waited for his entire life. Calm down now. Focus.