by Ray Deeg
Randall spotted a pigeon on the short ledge outside his window. Its neck glimmered green in the setting sun. It peered into his office, locking on to Randall and then cocking its head and cooing some transcendental tune. He watched the bird for a moment and then continued typing and talking. “All evidence collected will be maintained at the FBI’s Federal Plaza evidence locker room—which is conveniently down the hall from my office. But I’ll leave that last part out.”
Randall attached the digital photos he’d taken of Esha, Ashok, and Chandran, as well as the photos he’d found of Gwen and Tom. He finished typing his APB and stared at the Submit button for another moment. The pigeon took another glance inside as it finished its tune and then turned and flew away. Randall watched until it disappeared and then clicked the Submit button.
The empty expression on his face disappeared, replaced with a look of satisfaction. He retrieved a business card from his drawer. The FBI had taught Randall to use the media to tell the stories he wanted told. It was time to pull out all the stops now. He picked up the phone and dialed the number on the card. The world had a right to know about these horrible atrocities.
CHAPTER 25
THE VIEW FROM the George Washington Bridge from New Jersey to New York is grand and luminous. Tom Hartger glanced to his right and saw far more than the sprawling city. He saw his entire life spread out across the horizon, all the living mysteries inside that change and grow and evolve and die. The sight of Gwen sitting next to him was magic. She is spectacular, in every way, he thought. Her nearness made him feel awake. The clouds looming above the skyline on the Hudson glimmered like a silver dome keeping unwanted things out. He felt the inspirations of his youth, inspirations that had long been dissipated by the tedium and frivolity of adult life. But they were coming back, rising to the surface, and little by little, he was becoming himself again. His mind was being pacified and strengthened. Tom thought about his quest, about the true weight and value of pure belief. Faith, he thought. To know something in your heart and mind and hold it above all else.
But he would have to take existence a little more seriously, because as far as he knew, it was still finite. He’d realized that for a while now. It had become crystal clear when his mother died. He was holding her hand as she departed from this place, and almost immediately an idea began to form. He felt driven to chase something he’d longed for his entire life, but the idea was shapeless; he wasn’t sure what it was, exactly. But not knowing was OK. He sensed that he was equipped to handle it.
Gwen stared at him. What have I done to deserve another chance with this incredible woman? he thought. She had come back into his life at the very moment his life had become exciting again. He was positive the two events were connected; this couldn’t be a coincidence. Causality and karma. Who knows how these things work? He thought about all the times he’d longed for a break from the mundanity of earning. Perhaps his asking had been telegraphed to a place where those types of requests could be set into motion. But you’re forgetting something, Tom. A man has been murdered. Those East Indian men are after you—and maybe Gwen, too. If anything were to happen to Gwen, he’d be broken.
“I have an idea,” Tom said, breaking the silence. “I think you should sleep with me tonight.”
“Oh?” Gwen replied tartly.
“No, I mean I think it would be smart if you stayed at my apartment tonight—in a separate bedroom, I mean—until we learn who these Indian guys are. Actually, until Monty’s murder is solved. The medal, Tesla’s notebook, now Loomis’s journal—someone wants this stuff bad.”
Gwen nodded her head and then turned back toward the city. “Just when I thought you were hitting on me.” She sighed.
“Well, I never said I wouldn’t take advantage of the situation,” Tom said playfully. “Seriously—I really do think it’s best that you’re not alone. Why don’t we talk about all of this over—wait for it—the most decadent dessert mankind has ever known, Baked Alaska? We can make it at my place, have some wine, relax.” Tom’s hands were tight on the steering wheel. He stared forward, keeping his cards close to the vest.
“OK, I’m in,” Gwen replied.
The lobby in Tom’s building was modern, nearly futuristic. Colorful artwork lined the walls. The high vaulted ceilings and slim light fixtures created the feeling of an art gallery or a mall. Tom and Gwen stepped into the elevator, and Tom pressed the top button, number fifty-eight. Gwen was reading from the Loomis journal. “Line a baking sheet with parchment or heavy brown paper…don’t tell me you have parchment paper up there?”
“I do, actually.”
Gwen smiled. “Well then, the man has parchment paper. Great. Place the cake in the center. Turn the ice cream out onto the cake—we’ll have to figure out how that works—and then quickly spread meringue over the cake and ice cream and across the paper to seal.”
Tom thought about how quickly life can change. He felt like the luckiest guy in the world.
As the two stepped out of the elevator, Tom stopped walking. He held his arm out like a barrier. They both went silent and tried to make sense of the wood shards scattered across the hallway carpeting. Looking down the hallway, they could see that the door to Tom’s apartment had been smashed open and was hanging by a single hinge. The front of the door was covered with black strike marks.
Tom quietly stepped forward, pushing the door open, but the remaining hinge detached from the jamb, and the entire door collapsed with a clatter that sent shivers through his body. As he peered inside, he could see his foyer and living room in a shambles. Neither said a word. They moved in slow motion, each one’s eyes darting left and right, stealthily scanning room by room. Framed wall art lay shattered on the floor. As Tom entered the living room, the extent of the damage became more apparent. Furniture was tipped over, stuffing ripped out, drawers and shelves emptied onto the floor. Papers and books were strewn about, and broken glass littered one corner of the room. Tom stared at the pieces. He knew it was a blue vase that had belonged to his mother. His grandmother had given it to her, and she had given it to him. He took a deep breath and then tiptoed into his bedroom.
When he returned, he was less stealthy. “Whoever did this is gone,” he said. “The three Indians—it had to be them. I’m not sure how they gained access to my apartment, but…”
Gwen held up a blue sheet of paper she’d found on the kitchen table. “Or the FBI,” she said.
Tom examined the paper, struggling to comprehend what was happening. Warrant for search and seizure, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Tom looked away from the document, struggling to work it out in his mind. The medal, the dreams, the journal, the constant déjà vu, a man’s murder…
“What the hell is happening, Tom?” she asked in a tone that made him cringe. “I need you to be totally honest with me.”
Tom felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. His eyes moved to the floor. Being perceived as dishonest had always sunk Tom’s spirits, even when he’d done nothing wrong. The feeling emerged the same way each time, crawling from the depths of his guts and spreading outward until it choked him. That goddamn guilt. Discomfort always followed, but this time it was unusually acute. I must really like this woman. It took a moment for him to compose himself.
“All right, Gwen. I’m going to tell you everything. Back in college, not long after we broke up, I needed money. You know that FBI warning that comes on before movies—unauthorized reproduction of copyrighted work is illegal, and so on and so forth? Well, I ignored it. Conrad and me, actually. We would rent popular DVDs and burn dozens of copies. At first we only did it for our friends on campus, but the demand was there, and we started making money. Pulp Fiction, The Shawshank Redemption, Forest Gump, Nell…we copied them all. Conrad handled supply; I handled distribution. I’d send our classmates to busy intersections with picnic blankets filled with DVDs. They spread the blankets out so people could see what they were selling, and if the police showed up, it was easy to fold it up and walk
away—run, if they had to.” Tom palmed his face with his hand. “If only I’d listened to the FBI’s warnings—who knew they actually meant it?” Tom looked around theatrically at the carnage in his apartment. “And now, my secret is out. You got me, Gwen.”
Gwen’s bemused expression turned into a grin. “OK, sorry for the pointed question,” she said. “I didn’t mean to imply…Look, your house just got trashed; you’re in shock; we both want answers.”
Tom pushed the couch upright, and they collapsed on its cushions. They caught their breath and surveyed the disaster area. “It’s fine,” Tom said. “But why would the FBI respond to a homicide investigation and not the police? Why would they vandalize someone’s home? I mean, even If I’m a suspect, it’s obvious they’re looking for something. And it must be important, judging by this disaster. No, this is about the medal, or Tesla’s notebook. It’s about the machine, this Skyring Project. I’m certain of it.”
Tom examined the blue document, and his eyes got wider. He began reading out loud. “Is so ordered and permission granted to enter and to search the residence and place of business of suspects identified as Tom Hartger of Manhattan—and Gwendolyn Pierce, MD, of Manhattan.” Gwen’s mouth dropped open. “At least they respect your degree,” Tom said. “And listen to this: it ‘expressly authorizes search and seizure of all property that likely constitutes evidence of the commission of any criminal offense, including all property and documents, either paper or digital,’ et cetera, et cetera, blah, blah, blah.”
“Let me see that,” Gwen said, reaching for the paper. “How do they know my name? Why am I involved?” It was clear from Tom’s expression that he didn’t know the answer. He had no idea why his own name was there, let alone hers.
Gwen retrieved her phone, fumbled with the screen, and then placed it against her cheek. “Hello, Marty, it’s Gwen. I need a favor…” Gwen went quiet as she listened. Her face grew white as the female voice on the other end frantically spouted. Tom could only make out every third word, but it was clearly bad news. “Are you OK, Marty?” Gwen asked. “Listen, don’t say anything to anyone or give out any information. I’ll explain everything when I see you. I understand. Thank you, Marty.” Gwen dropped the phone and sank deeper in the couch, staring straight up. “Nice ceiling,” she said.
“I’m guessing that was a neighbor named Marty,” Tom said.
“Yup.”
“I’m guessing Marty had bad news.”
“Yup.”
“I’m thinking the FBI trashed your place too,” he said gently.
“Um-hmm,” she replied.
“Oh, Gwen, I’m so sorry.” Tom put his hands on his head to hold in the frustration.
“Well, you’re certainly more exciting than you used to be, Mr. Hartger.” Gwen pointed to a smashed picture frame lying against the wall and shook her head. Tom snickered and then pointed to a Lucite lamp that was tipped over and cracked near the fireplace. Gwen giggled.
They took turns pointing and laughing until an idea crept into Tom’s head. “I feel like we’re on to something here. It’s something important enough that everyone wants it. Please don’t worry about your place, Gwen. I’ll pay for everything the storm troopers damaged, and I’m gonna—”
“It’s OK,” she offered in a reassuring tone. “Sure, it’s shocking and disturbing and sick. But in a weird way, it’s probably exactly what this doctor needed.”
The sunlight cast a golden yellow hue across Gwen’s face, and her eyes caught the light. Like emeralds, Tom thought, or grass. There were simply too few words to describe the color of Gwen’s eyes. “Spend a few days with me, and we’ll figure this out together,” he said softly.
Gwen looked at her palms as if considering. “Let’s see. I can turn myself in to the FBI, be arrested, interrogated for murder, and probably jailed—or I can stay with you. Decisions, decisions.”
“Oh, that hurts,” he replied.
Gwen eyed him. “OK,” she said. “But only if you promise that once this mess is settled, I’ll get to try Baked Alaska.”
“You have my word.” Tom picked up his phone. “Connie, I need a solid. Some things have happened. I need to stay with you for a few days, and I’m bringing a friend. I’ll explain everything when we get there. And, Connie, don’t tell a soul.”
CHAPTER 26
LIKE MOST MEN, Tom Hartger owed little—or perhaps nothing—to his environment; at least he felt so. But there was something connecting him to another possibility, an endowment that had matured and was ready to be claimed. With it came forth a tide of new life, waiting to break forth and flood the world. Slowly, inevitably, destiny’s tide rolled in from the Atlantic Ocean, pouring into the Long Island Sound and the Lower and Upper Bay. It surrounded Manhattan, filling the East and Hudson Rivers with a thick luminescence that glimmered in the moonlight. It washed up near Conrad’s apartment on West Eighty-Ninth and Riverside Drive. Then, through a process similar to capillary action, destiny drew closer still, permeating the earth and asphalt. The apartment was the only home Conrad had ever known. His father had bought it in 1966, for one reason: it had an amazing view of the Hudson from its fifteenth-floor vantage point. It had been five months since his father had passed, and Conrad was glad to have guests—especially Gwen, whom he hadn’t seen in ages.
As they stood in the elevator on the way to Conrad’s floor, Tom leaned toward Gwen and whispered, “Let’s ease him into this; he gets spooked easily.”
Gwen nodded.
After greetings were made and sleeping arrangements settled, the three moved to the business of catching up—but the polite conversation ground to a halt as Conrad’s curiosity reached its breaking point. “OK, what’s going on?” he said. “I helped you sneak into Tuxedo Park earlier, and now you need to stay with me. Are the cops after you?”
Gwen gestured at Tom, who took a deep breath. He told Conrad all about visiting New Hope, buying the medal, and finding the photo and journal inside the case. “That was yesterday,” Tom said. “And last night, I had this incredible dream—a vision, really.” He told Conrad about the three men who had appeared in his lobby early that morning and about the phone call he’d had with Chief Heckie. He showed Conrad the photo and explained that together with passages in Tesla’s journal, it had led them to Tuxedo Park.
“You found a secret safe?” Conrad repeated.
“Yes.”
“And it was in the wall of an old wine cellar you located when this Rudy fella translated Latin on his laptop?”
“Yes.”
“And then you opened the safe and found a notebook belonging to Alfred Lee Loomis?”
“No, we found a journal belonging to Alfred Lee Loomis. We’d already found a notebook belonging to Tesla. But yes, it’s all real, Connie,” Tom replied. “We even got Rudy—nicest guy, by the way—to lend us the journal.” Gwen held up the journal, verifying Tom’s claim. “You should see what the FBI did to my apartment. They trashed it. They broke Veronica’s vase.”
“I’m sorry, Tom,” Conrad replied. “And this is when you were going to make baked Alaska?” Conrad asked sarcastically.
Tom rolled his eyes. “Yes, Connie. And then Gwen’s neighbor told her the FBI had raided her place, too.”
Conrad moved to the window. He opened the blinds with two fingers, peering down onto the street below. It was clear and quiet, not a soul. “What if they come here?” Conrad asked.
Tom looked annoyed. “I don’t know, but we haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Well, you snuck into Tuxedo Park,” Conrad replied with a smirk.
“Connie, this isn’t a game,” Tom said, sitting up straight. “This is big guys, really big, and I’m gonna figure it out. This machine, this project Skyring, this is the thing they’re all after.”
They showed Conrad the drawings in Tesla’s notebook and Loomis’s journal. Conrad’s demeanor changed. The drawings looked familiar, but he wasn’t sure why. He flipped through the pages, and his eyes moved franti
cally across the handwritten entries. He’d become a genuine pro at reading patent drawings, schematics, and claims for methods. Having worked for Empyrean Ventures for years now, Conrad was highly adept with technical specs. As he digested the pages, he imagined the machine’s function. He spoke out loud as he read.
“This larger wheel spins and seems to fit inside this groove at the base. These four harmonic oscillators seem designed to emit an energy field within a specific reoccurring circular pattern, and this component looks like an enormous transmission or lock tumbler that works to form wedges that spin on an axle through a set of predetermined patterns. The tumbler follows the gears as it moves outward, almost like the gear system on a ten-speed bike. But this is no ten-speed. This looks like a ten-thousand-speed. The lock tumbler has a bunch of axles, and each axle looks like it has twenty-five positions.” Tom only nodded as he listened. “It appears as though the four oscillators on the wheel emit a sequence of pulses based on the position of the sequential gearing system. But where do the pulses go? What does it activate? Is this the world’s first automatic garage-door opener?” Below one of the drawings in Tesla’s notebook, Conrad noticed a handwritten note and began reading out loud.
December 15, 1942—There are so many things I will never understand. As I look back on my life, I can see the clarity of the ideas in my mind. And I now know that so many of them were dangerously ahead of their time. If mankind is not ready, then technology can indeed come too early. I told Walter Russell to lock his ideas in a safe for a thousand years, because man was not ready for them. Why then was I so blind in my own work? This century has brought much progress, but we’ve moved far too fast. Man is unable to digest his own progress this quickly. One of my biggest mistakes was Skyring, but it was never truly mine. It was a design given to me by Vivekananda, which I then gave to Loomis. It did not require my discipline to attain it, and I was blinded by ego. I wanted to prove that I was more intelligent. I wanted to show the world a power that would make them shudder. But we were standing on the shoulders of a god, and before we understood what we had, we were testing it and thinking up ways to make money. The damage we caused was catastrophic, and so many suffered. What monsters we were. If I could change one thing, I would go back and destroy that infernal machine—melt it down into a copper-alloy soup so there was nothing left. Then I would bury it in a hole, along with the designs, until a time when mankind was ready.