Edwin's Reflection: A Novel

by Ray Deeg

  “The date on the entry is close to Tesla’s death,” Tom replied. Tesla’s entry had struck a nerve. He could understand what Tesla was saying.

  “Tom, you’re my best friend,” Conrad said. “We’ll figure this out, together. Look, it’s late, and I assume we’re working tomorrow.”

  “I have a warrant for my arrest, Connie. I’m not going to work until this is settled. It may take a day or a week—I don’t know.”

  Conrad turned to Gwen. “Gwen, do you know who’s buried in Grant’s tomb?” he asked.

  Tom perked up and then smiled in anticipation. “Actually, Conrad, no one is buried there,” she said evenly. Tom and Conrad waited for the ball to drop. “You see, the remains of President Ulysses Grant and his wife, Julia Dent Grant, lie interred inside the tomb—in sarcophagi, if I’m not mistaken—and that means they’re resting above ground. So, no one is buried in Grant’s Tomb—darlin’.”

  “Impressive,” Conrad remarked, conceding defeat.

  “And that, my dears, is the last shred of mental capacity I can expend today,” Gwen admitted. “It’s been a long, long day. If you gents don’t mind, I’ll turn in.”

  “Of course, we always have tomorrow,” Conrad replied.

  “Good night,” Tom said fondly.

  “G’night,” Gwen cooed as she closed her door, offering a final glance in Tom’s direction.

  “I’m gonna turn in too, Connie. Thank you for letting us stay here.”

  “Grant’s Tomb,” Conrad said to himself. “Sarcophagi?” he asked the ceiling. “C’mon, Hartger. No one gets that one.”

  “G’night, Connie.”

  Tom dressed in pajamas once worn by Conrad’s father and sat down on the bed, staring out a large French window flanked by built-in bookshelves well stocked with classics. He peered down at the Grant National Memorial, otherwise known as Grant’s Tomb. It was just across the street. A conical dome, he thought as he eyed the well-lit structure. Tom spread out, propping his back against a pile of pillows, and opened Loomis’s journal. He skimmed the entries; the few he’d read at Rudy’s only made him more eager to understand.

  Saturday, May 21, 1927—It was announced that a man flew from Long Island across the entirety of the Atlantic Ocean, landing in Paris, France. I find this quite extraordinary and have no doubts that larger aerial vehicles could be used to create circular routes, ferrying passengers and cargo to all corners of the globe. We’ve killed dozens of frogs and fish with our supersonic sound-wave machine. I retained Dr. Newton Harvey of Princeton to examine the effects of our death ray on living cells. His initial findings conclude that our sound waves break apart biological tissue and blood vessels and have deadly effects on smaller animals and certain plant life. After Robert and I exposed the green algae floating on the surface of the lake to our sound ray for five minutes, we found that the cells of the Spirogyra were irreparably damaged. The next day, the algae on Tuxedo Lake was completely gone.

  Tom realized that Loomis had discovered a form of ultrasound. It’s strange, he thought. The technology we use to treat disease and scan internal organs was once a “death ray.” He continued reading.

  Sunday, October 30, 1927—The fifth annual Solvay conference highlights are very interesting. They contain the same fundamental questions we find ourselves asking. A universal theory is emerging from within the highest echelons of the physics world. It is thought that the results of experiments and outcomes in the areas of physics are being directly affected by the act of human observation. Many, including Max Planck and Niels Bohr, are postulating that all the matter in the universe acts as a wave form containing only the possibility of becoming solid until such time as a conscious human observer looks upon or measures the matter in question—at which point, the matter instantaneously adopts a predictable and measurable solid-state form. Tesla agrees with these ideas and tells us they coincide with Eastern philosophies about the very nature of the cosmos. And with these new theories, Tesla insists that human brains are only receivers, and that the universe contains a core from which we obtain all knowledge, strength, and inspiration. Tesla’s machine is operational; however, the spherical distortion pattern it produces is highly unstable and dangerous. The edges of the corona pattern have already burned and even disintegrated dozens of test mice, various tools, a chair, and many other objects. We have begun calibrating the coils and harmonic system so that the edges of the corona can be stabilized. The Bureau of Investigation and Department of War have been in contact and have asked for our thoughts on the subject of quantum systems. Ironically and thankfully, they have not contacted Edwin or Tesla—who are both rather loose-lipped. The new Holland Tunnel is scheduled to open in two weeks’ time. This should make trips to the city much faster.

  It was getting late, but Tom was determined to learn as much as he could. He kept reading.

  Saturday, February 4, 1928—On a trip abroad, I was able to purchase three Shortt clocks, which will help us keep the measurement of time more accurately. We installed the clocks on three separate brick piers at the lab. We had the piers laid so as to be detached from the laboratory structure, whose base extends down to the bedrock. All three pendulums swung in near-perfect unison for nearly a day. I was astounded that they could have become synchronized by the gravitational interactions from each pendulum, but I was wrong. I came to realize these incredible synchronicities were related to the clocks coupling together through the bedrock so as to swing in unison. There is something nearly inevitable about uniformity when a thing becomes connected with another thing. And when we suspected as much, we moved the clocks off the bedrock facing inward, and the coupling was broken. There are so many forces that men cannot understand with these crude senses. The Bell Laboratory time-oscillator signal was installed at the lab in order to compare it to the Shortt Clocks. Their crystal quartz oscillators with low temperature coefficients are by far a more precise measurement. By using two separate means of tracking time, I was able to demonstrate the moon’s enormous effect on the pendulum clocks. Of the eight time measurement experiments we preformed, we found two significant irregularities with the Bell Lab oscillator signal and our Shortt clocks, both of which occurred last week. This was also the same day Tesla was testing his Skyring machine. Perhaps the magnetic resonance, the corona emitted from the machine, is interfering with the clocks. Tesla’s machine has been tested multiple times, and while the corona has been stabilized, I am uncomfortable with the idea of human experiments. If something were to go wrong, all the good work being performed here could be placed in jeopardy.

  Tom’s mind was spent, overwhelmed. An idea welled up in his heart, encouraged by the tenacity of his spirit and by a strong sensation that much of his destined life in the world, his very reason for being, was yet to be fulfilled and that it was close at hand—perhaps just days or hours away. He allowed himself to relax. He listened to the faint sound of cars passing fifteen floors below. His eyelids closed, and he noticed the familiar fractal patterns dancing on the backs of his eyelids. Proceeding through those patterns was nothing new, and the subtle, nearly invisible approach of twilight became more perceptible. The blackness of the night sky melted away from the steel rafters that held the giant dome in place. The stars called out, and beams from Pollux, Altair, and Rigel melted together. His mind’s eye broke free of its fixed position. His vantage moved outside the apartment, into the night air, and over the conical dome of Grant’s Tomb toward the water. He allowed himself to glide just a few feet above the dark Hudson, fingertips brushing the calm surface still teeming with destiny’s tide.

  He moved underneath the George Washington Bridge and felt the clarity returning again. All the fog evaporated, and he could again see how deluded his thinking had been from an unshakable foundation of unbiased truth. His questions could not be evil, because guilt was useless here. He’d always had good intentions, but he could plainly see that his views and thoughts had been distorted—perverted by years of life’s relentless demands, by his own f
ears, by his need to bend and conform to meet the demands of others, people he didn’t even know. It made him delusional, just like everyone else, but he could brush all that aside now. It was all part of this incredible journey—the peaks and valleys, the sweet and sour. He moved faster up the river. The water beneath him began to shimmer with his movement, and with a powerful burst, he ascended into the night sky. Responding to his momentum, the water formed a ripple that moved outward.

  From his new vantage, he could see the city in the distance, the bright bed of cotton clouds floating overhead. It was quiet up here. He watched the ripple below him expand outward. As each ripple reached the river’s bank, it caught the moon’s attention and lit up in a momentary flash of brilliance. It was a shape, a pattern—could that possibly be the Buddha?—one he’d recognized, cast in white moonlight and carved on the water’s surface. The symmetrical vision wavered for a moment and as plain as day, and he understood the nature of nature.

  He understood the sacred mathematical formulas inherent in all things, the fingerprint of God. He had seen the spirit of man react to the laws of his species and to the laws of the universe. And here, in this amazing time, he could see its true evolutionary meaning. What we were contemplating at this momentous point in our history and growth was the emergence of clarity in our own thought and reason, the acquisition of technology, the inevitable culmination of centuries of earthly gestation and experience hitting its epoch. Tom watched the pattern glow brightly, leaving its mark, until it grew dimmer and faded away. The water became still and black. Tom understood that something was wrong, that it had been wrong for a long time. This thing had its own grand plan. He felt it tapping the inside of its cage, looking for a weak spot. It couldn’t be contained much longer.

  CHAPTER 27

  OUTSIDE GRANT’S TOMB, on the West Side Highway, cars idled bumper to bumper. But across the street and fifteen flights up, the day was just getting started. “Tom, it’s almost nine o’clock. Wake up, sleepyhead,” Conrad shouted from the hallway. “I’ve decided to help you on your treasure hunt, so get in here. You won’t believe what I found in Tesla’s notebook.”

  Tom sauntered into the living room and texted his assistant. He informed her that he wouldn’t be in and that he was staying with Conrad. Before he hit Send, he removed the part about Conrad. Gwen was lying on the couch in a robe. “Good morning, Mr. Hartger,” she said.

  “Good morning to you both,” Tom replied. “I guess we’re all playing hooky today. It feels damn good, doesn’t it?”

  “I was skimming through Tesla’s notebook last night,” Conrad said excitedly. “Listen to this.”

  Monday, January 25, 1932—We have decided to disassemble Skyring. I suppose it was really Alfred who decided. He’s been dealing with so much fallout. That monstrous thing has been nothing but heartache. In hindsight, I should have known it was too much for us—too much for me—to handle. I could not see the inherent danger in what we were setting out to do. We were children playing with matches. The two remaining coils will be hidden by Alfred’s colleagues, Carl Akeley and William Manning. I have met these men and trust them to be honorable.

  “Interesting,” Tom replied. “What’s the date on that entry again?”

  “January 25, 1932,” Conrad replied.

  Tom flipped through the Loomis journal, scanning entries. After a moment, he looked up. “Aha, listen to this.”

  Saturday, January 23, 1932—Last night Ellen and I attended a film called The Champ at the Astor Theatre. The story was altogether sad and rather cumbersome. A pitiful man who beats people with his hands for a living surrenders himself to drink, only to be redeemed by his son in the end. Perhaps everyone can learn something about righting their wrongs. I know I have. Carl has done what I asked. Yesterday, he informed me that he has successfully camouflaged the coil inside the leg of a dead gorilla. When I asked for his help, I would never have imagined that a man of Akeley’s intellect would decide to hide something of great importance inside the corpse of a ghastly beast. However, after pondering the notion, the idea grew on me. I realized that its sheer absurdity is precisely what makes it so brilliant. Carl informed me that the museum plans to make the dead gorilla a permanent addition. This ensures that it will remain hidden for decades. Despite the dead gorilla’s ghoulishness, there are many exhibits worthy of attention. I’ve asked Ellen to make a generous donation to the museum. We continue to experiment and measure brain waves with a device we are calling an electroencephalograph. Tesla’s machine was far too ahead of its time, and these new brain-wave experiments will fill in the gaps, helping us understand man’s brain and the mind inside. We will get to peering behind the curtain in time, but for now we must clean up this mess. Speaking of, Franklin Roosevelt announced his candidacy for president of the United States. He’s been an ally, and although his policies were not anything I could have stood behind previously, it’s clear the country needs someone to pull us out of this depression—which I feel so responsible for. But if it hadn’t been us, it would have been Charles Mitchell or Frank Keech. It was going to be someone; it was sure to happen, regardless of anything we did. Or maybe I just need to believe that.

  “I got it,” Gwen gushed as she scrolled through her phone. “Carl Akeley was quite a man in his day. He was a biologist, a sculptor, a photographer, a naturalist—and apparently the father of modern-day taxidermy. He patented something called the Akeley “pancake” camera, which was adopted by the War Department and by Hollywood movie studios for aerial photography. The man went on a yearlong African safari with Theodore Roosevelt, too, but he’s most famous for his diorama—it’s called Gorilla, and it’s still on display at the Museum of Natural History.” Gwen smiled playfully.

  “Can it be that easy?” Conrad asked. “C’mon, it can’t be that easy.”

  “Destiny has a plan for us,” Tom replied. “Connie, I need you to do something. I don’t think I’ve ever asked this of you before.”

  “What is it Tom?” Conrad asked, almost longingly.

  “I need you to scramble up some eggs, my friend, and some of those little potatoes, too. We’re going to need our strength, because”—Tom stood on the couch and saluted—“Tonight we break into the leg of a century-old stuffed gorilla.” Tom glanced at Gwen, who began nodding enthusiastically.

  “Can I come, too?” Conrad asked.

  Gwen and Tom turned in unison to answer. “No.”

  CHAPTER 28

  CHIEF IAN HECKIE wandered out onto his front porch, moving down the steps and walkway still half asleep. He wore a robe and slippers he’d absconded with from the downtown Philadelphia Marriot a few months back while attending a law-enforcement conference on the psychology of mass shootings. The thing he remembered most was that all the perpetrators profiled felt justified in their actions. All were certain that they were right and everyone else was wrong. Heckie knew he couldn’t solve the massive resentment permeating the world today, but the robe was extraordinarily comfortable.

  The morning was gloomy and almost cold enough for him to see his own breath. His mailbox was the shape of a lighthouse. He wasn’t particularly fond of it, but it was there when he’d bought the place, and he hadn’t bothered to replace it. He emptied the box and shuffled through the usual suspects when an envelope caught his eye. It was golden yellow, with a red stripe running across the bottom and a clear window on the front. He recognized it as the same as those he’d seen at the home of Everett Lemily. He wondered why it would appear in his stack. There it was; his name and address printed on the paper behind the clear window. He looked at the sender: J. P. Morgan Trust and Fiduciary Services, 270 Park Avenue, New York, New York. Just like the others. He stared at the envelope, trying to make sense of it all, and then tore it open.

  Dear Police Chief Ian Heckie—You may have overlooked an important piece of evidence at the residence of Everett Lemily. Take a look on top of the bookshelf in the library.

  Heckie read the short note again, trying to make s
ense of this unsigned, two-sentence letter delivered from J. P. Morgan Trust and Fiduciary Services and in an envelope identical to those he’d seen at the residence of Everett Lemily. This was peculiar, to say the least. Extraordinarily bizarre, if he was being honest with himself. He went back inside, quickly threw on some clothes, and drove to the estate previously owned by Everett Lemily.

  The property had recently been sold, but its new owner hadn’t moved in yet. There was a large roll-off container in the front driveway filled with debris. Clearly, the new owner was renovating.

  He tried the front door handle. Locked. Heckie walked around to the backyard, checking the back door and even a few windows, but they were also locked. Take a look on the top of the bookshelf. The words were seared into his mind. Surely he wasn’t about to let a little thing like breaking and entering come between him and what might be waiting. Search warrants take too long, and if they’re denied, then you’re really screwed. He used his elbow to shatter a window in the backyard. He reached in and unlocked it and then climbed in, falling awkwardly on the kitchen floor. It was darker inside than he’d expected. He retrieved a small flashlight from his pocket and toured the place, looking for anything out of place. As he walked the empty house, Heckie saw himself at sixteen. He saw the juvenile delinquent that he used to be busting into strangers’ homes and rummaging through dresser drawers in search of jewelry or cash. He’d broken into dozens of homes, and always on his way home from school. He remembered the sandy windstorms of that small, sour town beating on the windows of the houses he cased. First he’d knock to make certain nobody was home. If someone did answer, he’d claim he was looking for a man named Akira Watanobi and ask them if they knew which house he lived in. They never did.