Edwin's Reflection: A Novel

by Ray Deeg

  Randall smiled. “That’s right. We’ve been tracking them, and we need your help, Monty—it is Monty, isn’t it?”

  Monty took a deep breath. “Monty Palomar. Those men just threatened me, and with my own dagger, too.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “What did they take from you?”

  “Well, they didn’t steal anything. They paid me—rather well, I must admit—but they did threaten me. They wanted some private information.”

  “What information?”

  “They wanted the name and address of a customer who purchased a medal earlier this morning. I told them I couldn’t give out a customer’s personal information.”

  “Did you?”

  “Well, they pulled that dagger on me. There were three of them, so hell yes, I gave them the guy’s information. What would you have done?”

  “Oh, I understand. I’m going to need that customer’s information, too.”

  “Sure, glad to help.” Monty handed Randall the copy of Tom’s American Express receipt.

  Randall took a picture of the receipt with his phone. “Did you call the police—or anyone, for that matter?” Randall asked.

  “No. Should I?”

  “No, the bureau is well equipped to handle this,” Randall replied. “The receipt says it was an Edison Medal awarded to Nikola Tesla. Is that the only item purchased by this Tom Hartger?”

  “That’s all he bought—a medal in a black clamshell case.”

  Randall thought about the case file he’d read and what he knew about activating the machine. “Was there anything else inside the case?”

  Monty answered with a puzzled look. “Just the medal.”

  Randall paced the store, examining the empty space where Tesla’s materials had been. It’s your destiny. It’s your legacy, boy. “The three men, did they purchase all the pieces you received from the estate of Everett Lemily?”

  “You boys are good,” Monty replied. “Yup, they got the whole thing, except for the clamshell case with the medal.”

  “So, just to confirm, there are no other pieces from the Tesla collection in your possession. And the only two customers who have taken possession of these pieces are this Tom Hartger and the three Indian men. Is that right?”

  “That’s correct,” Monty said, becoming curious about the frantic FBI agent locked inside the store with him.

  “And is that the only camera in the store?” Evans asked, pointing to a wall-mounted video camera hanging over the cash register.

  “Oh, that’s just for show,” Monty admitted in an embarrassed tone. “It’s just a symbol, a piece of plastic to keep folks honest.”

  Evans noticed the wooden mannequin staring at its reflection in the mirror, and his eyes narrowed. “So you have no camera equipment or recording devices of any kind?” Evans asked, scanning the room.

  “Nope, there’s nothing,” Monty replied. “Is it just you tracking these three men by yourself?”

  Randall took another deep breath and cracked his neck, pushing his chin to one side with an open palm. “Yup, it’s just me on this one,” he replied with a forced smile. “And is that the dagger they threatened you with?” Randall asked.

  “That’s the one.” Monty reached for it but was interrupted.

  “No, don’t touch it,” Randall said excitedly as he retrieved a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and pulled them snugly over his fingers, hands, and wrists. He walked toward Monty with a gloved hand outstretched toward the shiny thing. He examined it first and then carefully lifted the dagger with a gloved hand, thinking about the last time he’d really hurt someone. After he had chased the young boy around the yard with a rubber spider and making him cry, Stazo’s parents came to their house and spoke to Randall’s parents. Randall was punished. A few days later, Randall noticed the boy in their backyard from his bedroom window. Stazo was swinging on Randall’s swing set while staring up at Randall through his bedroom window, wearing a smile from here to Montana. Of course Randall couldn’t help himself. He went downstairs and out onto the back porch, picked up a healthy-sized clay planter, and lobbed it at Stazo. The planter hit the kid squarely in the head, knocking him from the swing. He landed on his head, and his neck was easily broken. Randall put the clay planter back on the porch, walked calmly back upstairs, and watched the afternoon unfold from his bedroom window. He saw it all: Stazo’s hysterical parents holding the boy’s lifeless body, the ambulance, the police. No one ever suspected Randall; it was just an unfortunate accident.

  “That’s a Yemeni dagger from, oh, about 1925. It’s pure sterling silver,” Monty said proudly.

  Randall examined the knife, feeling its weight and testing the tip with his gloved finger. Randall spoke without looking up. “If those three men had killed you, I could have taken charge of the case—seeing as I found you. I could have had them tracked, with the considerable resources of the FBI at my disposal. When confronted, the men would obviously have resisted, claiming their innocence. But knowing that they had already murdered someone, and seeing as they are armed and dangerous—well, I’d obviously have to defend myself. And I might kill them in the process. I’d say it would be a pretty open-and-shut case. Their possessions would be taken into custody and placed into the evidence locker—which is just down the hall from my office.”

  Monty’s forehead wrinkled as though he were trying to make sense of Randall’s words, and then his eyes widened in fear. Randall took a quick step forward and thrust the dagger into Monty’s chest. The blade found its way between his ribs, and the air was blown from Monty’s lungs. Again and again, Randall pushed the dagger deep inside Monty’s chest and belly. Within a few seconds, Randall had finished, and Monty lay collapsed on the floor. Randall watched the blood drain from the shopkeeper’s body. It flowed across the dingy white tiles, making its way toward the tips of Randall’s cheap plastic shoes.

  He stepped back, catching his breath. The store was silent. He looked into the eyes of the man on the floor and heard his mother’s words: Dead is when you’ve left this place. Evans tossed the dagger on the floor. He didn’t know it, but the scene matched Esha’s painting. Randall walked to the front door and scanned the street outside. With his gloved hand, he unlocked the door and flipped the sign from Closed back to Open. He removed the latex gloves and tucked them into his jacket pocket.

  He tapped the screen on his phone. “This is agent Randall Evans, 22571, reporting a homicide. I need a forensic team in the village of New Hope, Pennsylvania. It’s a retail store on Main Street called Monty’s Oddities. Notify the local authorities and inform them there is an agent on scene.” All the tension was gone, and Randall felt much clearer. He rolled his head around on his neck and yawned.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE YELLOW SPOOL of tape spun as a uniformed policeman dragged it across the street, sealing Monty’s Oddities off for the investigation. A small group of locals had congregated at the edge of the street. A kid on a bike was holding a vanilla ice cream cone and staring at Chief Heckie, who was sitting inside his squad car talking on the phone. He was consoling Monty’s wife. “Claire, I know. I’m so sorry, but I promise I’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll see you at the station later.”

  Heckie got out of his car, ducked under the tape, and entered Monty’s Oddities. Randall Evans stood at the far side of the room next to his colleague, agent Jolanda Kulish. Randall was speaking with two local cops while Heckie circled Monty’s body, shielding his eyes from the photographer’s flashes. He listened to Randall speak and recognized his voice right away. He took in the scene from a distance, considering the FBI agent who had the two local cops mesmerized.

  “You get this?” the chief asked the photographer.

  “Go ahead,” the photographer replied, and Heckie lifted Monty’s lifeless arm with a gloved hand to reveal a bulge in Monty’s front trouser pocket. Agents Evans and Kulish looked on with the local cops as Heckie removed a thick roll of thousand-dollar
bills. Randall stared in silence, his face devoid of emotion.

  After cataloging the cash, the chief addressed Randall. “Thank you for your help today, Agent Evans. You are the same Randall Evans I spoke with yesterday about the death of Everett Lemily—the same agent enquiring as to the whereabouts of the machine that found its way to this shop. Correct?”

  Randall smiled warmly, hand extended. “Yes. A great pleasure to meet you.”

  The chief smiled halfheartedly, pushing his hand out. “My pleasure, Agent Evans. Yesterday you gave me the impression that you were just another cog in the machine—as you put it. Can you tell me how it is that you came to be here today?”

  “As I was telling your colleagues, I want to be as transparent as possible, and there are some things that I can share about this ongoing investigation.”

  The two uniformed cops glanced at the chief. Heckie had taken visible exception to Randall’s comment; his head cocked sideways, and his eyes narrowed. When one assumes an attitude of suspicion, one overlooks no clue. “I’m all ears,” he said.

  “We’ve been investigating three unsubs of East Indian decent,” Randall continued. “A credible source provided me with a description of their SUV, which was parked in Manhattan this morning. I went to get a read on the plate and saw the three unsubs enter the vehicle. I decided to tail them and followed them here. I watched them park right out front and took some photos of them unloading items from this store into their vehicle.” Randall tapped his SLR camera. “I’ve already input the photos into NGI and have identified the three men as Esha Durga, Chandran Baruwal, and Ashok Doshi. All three men have known ties to a terrorist organization called the All Tripura Tiger Force—please keep that confidential for now; we don’t want to create a panic.” Randall used his hands to tell the story, his voice matter-of-fact. “After they left, I entered the premises to question the merchant. That’s when I discovered the body. I immediately called our field office in New York, and they notified your office.”

  “You followed these men from Manhattan to New Hope—a two-hour drive?” Heckie asked.

  “About eighty minutes, if you drive like they did,” Randall replied.

  Heckie stared in disbelief and then turned to Kulish. Kulish looked away. “Is the FBI investigating these men for a crime?” Heckie asked.

  “We are.”

  “What crime?”

  “They’re terrorists,” Randall said again.

  “You said that already. I’m asking you, what crime they commit before today?”

  Randall’s face grew red. “As I said, there are some details I’m not at liberty to divulge.”

  “Right,” the chief said, scrolling through the photos on Randall’s camera. “You called me yesterday, Agent Evans, enquiring about the machine that was found at the scene of Everett Lemily’s suicide. Unless I misunderstand, the last two individuals to have taken possession of this thing both wound up dead in a puddle of their own blood. Now, what’s the connection to these Indian men? What’s so important about it, and why are they after it?”

  “We don’t know. We just knew they were after it, and that’s why I called you yesterday.”

  “But you weren’t straight with me, Agent Evans! As a matter of fact, you lied to me. You told me that you weren’t even sure it was the same guy. You know, had you been straight with me, I could have warned Monty yesterday. That’s what has me so damn pissed off right now.”

  Heckie walked behind the counter and picked up a ledger. “According to this log, there’s been two sales today: a medal for $6,500, charged to an American Express card, and another, $50,000, for Tesla machine components. Now, I can see logging the credit card sale, but the cash sale? That’s honesty right there, folks.” Randall swallowed. “Something is very strange about this. It can’t be a robbery if the customer paid and the sale gets logged. But if they paid, then why kill him?”

  As Heckie spoke, Randall glanced down at the sample writing paper on the counter, seeming to find something of interest in its scribbled signatures. He slowly moved in front of the paper, placed his hands on the counter as if looking around, and then tore off the sheet and shoved it into his pocket. Across the room, Kulish frowned.

  CHAPTER 17

  GWEN GAZED OUT her bedroom window and across the Hudson, reflecting on the warm, sunny Saturday she’d spent with Tom. The city’s lights lit the clouds above like a bed of electric cotton. At that exact moment, Tom peered from his own window, taking in the same florescent skyline. The two smiled, thinking about their day together.

  Tom changed, brushed his teeth, and crawled into bed, staring up at his ceiling again. He glanced at the Tesla medal, now resting on his dresser. The medal sparkled, reflecting a pattern Tom quickly recognized as shadows from his tulip tree’s branches. The branches moved rhythmically, right-right-left, right-right-left. Tom allowed himself to drift.

  Lightning branched out and splintered the sky, striking one of two bronze-clad cupolas atop the Waldorf Astoria’s forty-seven-story structure. Electricity coursed through the structure until the exterior lights on the building popped like old-fashioned flashbulbs. Raindrops fell around Tom, but he wasn’t getting wet. He felt his body rise, encased by warmth, as a breezeless calm washed over him. All the anxiety, the thoughts of despair, and that cruel voice he struggled with in his waking hours were quiet. The madness of an irritated world went silent. His spirit had always been resilient and reacted bravely against his limitations and his mortality.

  Suddenly, he found himself on a railroad track. Ignoring the laws of gravity, he decided to levitate. His body ascended to fifteen feet above the track, and he stretched his arms out, palms up like an angel accepting grace from God. Looking inward, he allowed his body to begin rotating around a visible ring glowing on the train track below him. His quintessence seemed to absorb its knowledge and light. It was an atmosphere he could breathe without thinking, a sunlight that warmed and guided him. It was an idea he’d searched for and struggled to understand many times, but here it was. And it was so simple. Tom had used mankind’s law, his system here, yet he was just as divinely used by it too, often to alien and evil purpose, and always in the shadow of untimely death. A synthetic echo followed him, and the universe began rotating around him. He’d become the center.

  I’ve never gotten this far in a dream and been aware of it being a dream. Paths to the uncharted parts of Tom’s mind opened like floodgates, allowing the mysteries of energy, matter, and the cosmos to enter. There was infinite space to fill now. The falsehoods he’d accumulated were erased, and the concepts he’d struggled to understand poured in, satiating his appetite and then quickly becoming child’s play. The truth—about the universe, about everything—formed like a working model in his mind’s eye. He understood this place and all of its laws—not one at a time, but simultaneously. I’m finally here. A train’s horn echoed off a neighboring building, and in a femtosecond, all the energy ever created became available. He felt it welling up inside. Had this new energy entered him, or had the bounds of his mind become limitless? He realized there was no difference. Physical limits are the paradigm of a physical mind. He measured his new inventory, rubbing his index fingers on his thumbs in circular motions. Consciousness, enlightenment, nirvana…he understood now with innate clarity that there was no beginning or end, no need for fear. All the things he’d known, the accumulation of everything he’d ever learned, could fit on the tip of a grain of sand—a grain lost on a warm, powdery beach where seagulls glide above sand castles. This place had been waiting for him. He understood that the power of immortality was here, vitally at work like a deathless endeavor. Will and faith, too, and there was so much love.

  He found himself rotating faster, and a small copper disc became visible. Was it the medal? The strange, alien thing levitated and then accelerated upward between the building’s twin cupolas, leaving a contrail of parted sky in its wake. As it broke through the atmosphere, the space around him lit up like a gigantic Tesla coil. A
ll the mysteries of life were finally unveiled, lifelong questions answered. And the gap between him and the people he loved was closed: he was fully connected. He would pass from the sphere of well doing to the sphere of well-being, from the outside of the world to the inside, to the core where strength of heart and mind is paramount, but where even weakness and fear have a prevailing fiber of strength.

  A loud buzz sounded, and the noise bent the train track. The fluorescent clouds evaporated. When Tom woke up, the feeling of rotation still played on his inner ear. He stared at his ceiling again. As he looked out the window, morning sunlight filled his eyes, and the fog in his mind returned. The answers, the calm he’d enjoyed, the knowledge that had been child’s play moments before—all had become impossible again. The tips of his fingers and thumbs were numb. Nirvana was gone, and his human status had been returned. He pushed his eyes closed, orienting himself, but could only recognize the familiar floating fractal patterns of motion and light reflecting on the backs of his eyelids. He’d taken a meaningful journey unlike any other, but it had left him feeling empty.

  The buzzer sounded again, and Tom realized someone was ringing from his lobby. He walked to the wall intercom. Through a fisheye lens displayed on a small monitor, he could see three strangers in the foyer. It’s 6:57 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Surely they’re ringing the wrong apartment. Tom pressed the intercom button and spoke, his voice still groggy. “Morning, guys. What can I help you with?”

  “Good morning Mr. Hartger,” a tall East Indian man replied. His face became distorted as he moved closer to the camera lens. “Let me apologize for the interruption so early in the morning. We have a flight to catch, and there wasn’t time to call ahead.”

  “OK, what can I help you with?” Tom asked.

  “Well, this is a little embarrassing,” the man said. “My name is Esha Durga. I’m an attorney representing the estate of the late Everett Lemily. A portion of Mr. Lemily’s possessions related to a machine built by Nikola Tesla had previously been committed legally and morally to the Tesla Museum in Belgrade. However, those items were mistakenly sold at auction to an antique dealer in New Hope, Pennsylvania. There were a number of items, machine parts, and an Edison Medal in a black case. We’ve recovered the other items, but we’re still seeking the medal. I was given your name as the person who purchased it. You see, the medal was never Monty’s to sell—legally, I mean. What I’d like to do is offer you twice what you paid, for your inconvenience.”