Edwin's Reflection: A Novel

by Ray Deeg

  “This is why you are here, Ashok, and your talents will go with you.”

  “I can emulate the wheel if we cannot recover it, but the coil oscillators are more difficult. Something could get lost in translation,” Ashok said. “The only way is to recover the originals. And since you keep much to yourself and do not share with us, Esha, I am often in the dark.”

  “In the dark?” Esha repeated.

  “Forthcoming you are not, Esha,” Ashok offered in a disappointed tone. “Yet you expect us to move forward like a car in the darkness, with only small headlamps to light our way in the short distance ahead. Since I know not of your plan, you are forcing me to trust that the highway will continue to unfold. That is no way to travel.”

  Chandran nodded in agreement, but Esha didn’t take the bait. “And it will continue unfolding for you, Ashok. You shall have your oscillators. Vivekananda predicted these things, and you know I can see them too. It is ordained. Has not everything I told you come true? Have I failed to predict something? No, my brothers. But if something does not happen exactly the way I have told you, that’s when your road will stop unfolding. So pray that my predictions are correct—for your own sake.”

  Esha allowed his fingers to brush over the sketch on the book’s cover. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The Fibonacci series. The secret to building and unbuilding. You can see the key, almost like a zipper, inside everything—seashells, the tail of a sea horse, even in the strands of our own DNA. And when men put these sacred numbers into a computer, they saw the figure of Buddha and passed it off as coincidence.”

  “You speak of the Mandelbrot set,” Chandran replied. “Yes, that is a fractal pattern rendered by reoccurring numbers that build upon themselves to infinity. The Buddha figure is but one common shape rendered by this reoccurring pattern.”

  “Yes but the coincidence is alarming, is it not?” Esha asked. He received no answer. “A figure that originated in the fifth century with Siddhartha Gautama, a man known to have attained enlightenment teaching the Buddha way. And these modern-day researchers and scientists believe that the figure appearing on their machines is nothing more than coincidence? And a whirlpool, a tornado, a hurricane, the shape and nature of our own Milky Way—all coincidence. The culmination of the forces inside you, such powers as are germinant and can be traced by the fire our elemental beings carry within our hearts and minds. We are on the verge of understanding all of this now. Is this coincidence? The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision. What blinders must men wear to ignore truths even these crude senses can plainly see? Our eyes are open; we see the path. Yes, Ashok, you shall have your coils. I have seen the future. Two of the coils shall be given to us in the house of God. Soon thereafter, Tom Hartger shall hand us the third coil. Are you ready to move the machine downstairs to the train station?”

  “Yes,” Ashok replied.

  Esha smiled. “Good, because the fourth coil shall be delivered to us there. Not only will the man who has it place it in our hands, he will ask us to turn the machine on.”

  “I trust your vision, Esha,” Ashok said. “Are we finished, then, with the man and woman?”

  “No. Like Luke, we must shake the bush,” Esha replied. “They need to be directed, or the dominoes will not fall exactly as they need to. And then we would have to start all over again, and I’m getting too weary for that. Hand me my GPS tracker. Tonight we’ll be stepping out for some fresh air.”

  CHAPTER 30

  ONE WIDELY ACCEPTED, if not universal, law unequivocally states that working stiffs require stiff drinks. But no working stiff is in greater need of the devil’s elixir than the government worker. And while there are certainly government workers with the ability to abstain, the gold medal of government alcohol consumption without debate goes to the FBI. Alcohol consumption among FBI agents is legendary. Nearly two thousand agents from the New York City field office are regulars at downtown happy-hour spots such as the Raccoon Bar, a quiet dive on Warren Street, or the Patriot, a honky-tonk-style joint on Chambers. After five, downtown bars fill up with special agents, lawyers, cops, meat and poultry inspectors, judges, IRS agents, and a myriad of other species of city and federal worker.

  Monday night was karaoke and Jolanda Kulish had been invited out by her colleagues, but she had declined. She’d been asked to stay late by Section Chief Davis, and it was her own doing. Earlier in the day, and without properly thinking it through, Kulish had sent a scatterbrained e-mail to him detailing her growing concerns about Randall Evans. She detailed the things she’d seen take place since receiving Everett Lemily’s death alert. She detailed everything: the legacy case file, the letter she had seen on his computer, what she had seen at the cemetery plot. She mentioned the machine and the murdered shopkeeper in New Hope. She claimed that Evans had falsified an affidavit in order to obtain warrants on Tom Hartger, Gwen Peirce, and the three Indians.

  She thought spilling the beans would be the right thing to do but was coming to see that tattling is a freshman move. When you’re older and have developed a little acumen, a little experience dealing with these types of situations, you know to wait. You sit on it, think it through a little, play it out in your head. Now the office was quiet, empty, and dark, and she would miss out on classics such as “Bust a Move” and “Love Shack.” Kulish sat at her desk, deep in thought, gazing through her window at the night’s yellow and white lights. From her window, she could see cars passing on the FDR and over the Brooklyn Bridge. She wondered whether she should feel guilty about outing her colleague. She’d never tattled before. And even though he was clearly doing things he shouldn’t, Randall had been her mentor. He’d spent almost two years showing her the ropes. But something was gravely wrong with him now. He just wasn’t right. As a wise man once said, there are few people who are more often in the wrong than those who cannot endure to be.

  And in just that moment, she realized something she’d overlooked. She was also fascinated by Everett Lemily, by the strange letter sent to Randall, and by the empty cemetery plot and what might have been hidden down there. This wasn’t another garden-variety smash-and-grab job. This was big enough that Randall was risking his career, his family, his freedom. Yet Kulish questioned herself again. But why did I tattle? There were so many rules for working for the bureau that for all intents and purposes, agents had no free will or discretion to exercise their own judgment. Other than tattling, she had no outlet to assert her will. Everything had a protocol, a procedure, and she’d spent the last two years dedicating her life to knowing and following them precisely.

  But watching those cars cross the bridge, she realized that she hadn’t spilled the beans because it was the right thing to do. No, she’d tattled because she was tired of watching while others did. She had done it to shake things up, so she could inject herself into a role more exciting than gathering witness testimony or cross-checking fingerprints from local police databases. And realizing that her motives were completely selfish was OK. That realization became a relief, because it was the first time she’d done something for herself. And besides, she enjoyed feeling sinister. It felt natural and powerful. For the first time in her life, Jolanda was OK having an ulterior, self-centered motive and keeping it to herself. I have to enjoy my work.

  Bleep bleep, her phone sounded, bringing her back to now. “Agent Kulish.”

  “Kulish,” section chief Davis said in a tone that was almost too pleasant, especially for a man who had spoken only a few words to her in the two years she’d been here. “Thank you so much for staying late tonight. Please join us in conference room F.”

  “Us, sir?” Kulish asked to confirm what she’d heard.

  “Yes Kulish, us, as in I’m not alone and there are other people here with me in conference room F.” The tone in his voice was one of cover, procedure, protocol. It was that of a small-town politician or a vacuum-cleaner salesman.

  “Yes, sir.” She hung up the phone, wondering if she’d made a mistake. She
grabbed her mouse and clicked into Sentinel’s case management system. She entered the case number that had been the source of so much excitement.

  164-729 Enter.

  Case File Empty. What?

  164-729 Enter.

  Case File Empty.

  This can’t be right, she thought. Kulish tried again, but the message continued to appear. She gazed at it with a blank stare and crinkled forehead. Bastards! The case file had been moved or deleted by someone with a higher clearance. Maybe they moved the contents to a new file. Of course—they’re reopening the case, she thought. That’s why they want to see me.

  She stood up and left her cubicle. As she navigated the maze of cubes, she saw pictures of crime scenes pinned to corkboards along with photos and sketches of suspects. Cube after cube, more photos, more crimes, more scenes, more suspects, more corkboards. Besides locking up the occasional psychopath, she wondered about the good she was doing here. Let’s face it, by the time the FBI trained its sights on someone, it was highly likely he or she was beyond saving. She was here to lock people up, not help them. She wasn’t preventing crime, only punishing those who had already crossed the line. And in that very moment, walking through the empty office, her work lost its romance. She walked until she reached an open door.

  “Knock knock,” Kulish said playfully, but the smile vanished from her face as she entered. She noticed two older men sitting at the conference table with Section Chief Davis and felt a nervous tingle.

  “Agent Kulish,” a tall, distinguished man said as he stood to greet her. “My name is Blake Savich, and I am deputy director.”

  “Of course, I know who you are, sir. It’s a real honor to meet you.”

  “This is Andrew McCabe, executive assistant director for the National Security Division.” McCabe offered a cold nod. “Please have a seat.”

  An awkward silence loomed. Kulish noticed Davis tapping the side of the tabletop intercom system. His fingernails were choppy, nearly gnawed down to the skin. His thumbnail had clearly been receiving the brunt of his nervousness, and the entire top of the nail had been torn away. Dark blood pooled at the bottom of the cuticle.

  “First,” Davis continued. “You should know that we like to keep all internal discussions, especially ones like this, one hundred percent confidential. We obviously have concerns about your allegations regarding Agent Evans and about the tone in which you’re framing the chain of events.” Tone, Kulish thought, but stayed silent.

  Blake Savich raised his hand to Davis and then spoke. “While we appreciate your informing Davis of these events, you could have spoken to him rather than send that e-mail. Now there’s a permanent record. You’re still a newbie, so we understand you weren’t thinking. But when you send a text or e-mail, be aware that it becomes a permanent record and can put people at risk. And all this about a legacy case that Agent Evans’s grandfather allegedly presided over.” Savich picked up a sheet of paper. “You believe agent Evans—your mentor, by the way—dug up a cemetery plot owned by his grandfather that was used as a hiding place for some secret thing, but you don’t know what that thing is.”

  “It’s some type of amazing technology, sir,” she interrupted. “It’s related to a machine created by Nikola Tesla at the laboratory of Alfred Lee Loomis. It’s a machine that somehow came into the possession of a man named Everett Lemily, who killed himself. The machine was then sold by the antique shop in New Hope, Pennsylvania, the one where Agent Evans reported the shopkeeper’s murder.”

  Savich interrupted. “I’ve looked at all that, but please stay with me. You said you knew that whatever was buried in the cemetery plot was related to some technology. Again, I’m trying to understand how you knew that.” All three men were staring now.

  “Sue Htemorp, sir. That was the name engraved on the headstone. I didn’t know who this Sue person was. There’s nothing relevant about the name in any database. But if you simply reverse the letters, it spells Prometheus.” The three men looked around to see if someone knew what she was talking about. Kulish got the hint. “Prometheus was a deity in Greek mythology. He was the creator of mankind and one day decided to steal fire from Mount Olympus. He gave the fire and knowledge of its use to mankind so they could thrive. Prometheus gave mankind technology that had only been accessible by the gods. Clearly, whoever chose the name Sue Htemorp was thinking about Greek mythology.” Kulish stared at the men while she spoke. She could see stealth in their eyes. These are not friends. “I can only surmise that whatever had been hidden in that plot was related to an advanced technology and most likely the machine in question. Given the other facts in this case, I have no doubt that this is all very spooky stuff.” She waited for a response but was getting the distinct feeling that they already knew most of these facts and were only asking to determine how much she knew and where she stood on sending out more e-mails.

  “Spooky might warrant a discreet conversation,” Savich said in a hectoring tone. “But now you’ve sent this e-mail, it’s documented, and we have to take action. How are you so sure it was agent Evans who dug up the plot? Do you have any evidence?”

  “I do, sir. I went there. The person who dug up the plot left a brand-new shovel behind. I noticed a bar code on its handle; it was from the Home Depot. The bar code corresponded to a purchase made two days ago at a Home Depot in Paramus, New Jersey. I obtained security video from the store at the time of purchase, and Agent Evans can clearly be seen buying the shovel. He’s not stupid; he paid cash. I added the video to the case file, appending it for access by you alone, but for some reason the case file now returns an empty message.”

  All three men sat stoically.

  “Agent Kulish, we appreciate you bringing this to our attention,” Davis said. “We’re looking into all of this. For now, we would appreciate it if you would go back to your assigned caseload and not mention this to anyone—none of it. I need you to keep this confidential. No more e-mails, please! Some of this is likely a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding,” Kulish repeated dully. “Then what are these two doing here?” she said, pointing at McCabe and Savich.

  Davis smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was the smile a respected man wears once it’s been discovered that he’s been boinking the baby-sitter. “Agent Kulish, I ask the questions. You answer the questions. That’s how it works. Look, we’re investigating all of this. It’s not your case. Stop attempting to access the case file, and stop tailing or investigating Randall Evans. That’s an order. I’ve reassigned you to a different mentor. You will have no further interaction with Agent Evans. We’ll take it from here, understand?”

  Jolanda’s eyes locked onto that nasty thumb, still wrapped around the intercom system. She forced herself to look away and into the man’s eyes. “Of course. Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Agent Kulish. You are excused.”

  Kulish calmed herself. “Good night, sir.”

  CHAPTER 31

  TOM HARTGER STOOD motionless outside the main rotunda on Seventy-Ninth and Central Park, the main entrance into the American Museum of Natural History. One of the world’s preeminent scientific institutions since its founding in 1869, the museum is renowned for its exhibitions and scientific collections, which serve as a field guide to the entire planet and present a panorama of the world’s cultures. Tom’s head was raised and his eyes closed as he allowed the setting sun to warm his face. He wondered what the hell he was doing there. But the buzzing sound in his ears and the visions in his dreams came back, and it became clear again.

  “Do you need some private time?” Gwen asked as she strutted past him, glancing back with a playful grin.

  He watched her move ahead with the gigantic structure in the background. Tom had visited the museum many times before, but the building appeared different today. He felt its lofty mission—the pursuit of knowledge, the effort to understand the nature of our universe. Even now, in these blazingly fast times under this empire of law, each soul from time to time pauses
its own life to peer up from the underside of its existence to a power and wisdom enthroned above it and stretching out so vastly beyond man’s own power that he cannot fathom its depths using his own limited perception. It was ironic, Tom thought, that the most incredible thing inside this great museum wasn’t even on display, nor was anyone aware of its existence.

  After paying the admission fee, Tom and Gwen scanned the main lobby. Tom noticed only a few attendants worthy of their plan, but one in particular stood out. Gwen moved toward a bank of cashiers, but Tom gestured her back with his head. His eyes motioned to a staff member at the far end of the room. “That one over there,” he whispered.

  Gwen followed his gesture across the room to a girl standing by herself. She was in her early twenties, her face buried in her phone. Gwen nodded in approval, and they moved closer.

  “Can I help you?” the girl asked, conceding only a fraction of her attention.

  “Hi there. I lost my wallet here yesterday evening,” Tom replied.

  “He’s so clumsy,” Gwen chimed in.

  “I already checked with the lost and found, but they don’t have it,” Tom continued. “You see, there was some cash in the wallet, and because I was the last visitor to leave the museum last night, I suspect that a guard found it and—forgot to turn it in, if you know what I mean.” Tom rubbed his forehead and paused theatrically. Gwen rolled her eyes—what an overactor. “It’s not about the money,” he continued. “There are some photos of our daughter; they’re very precious to us.” Gwen quickly nodded and looked down. “Could you direct me to the night guard who was working in the African Mammal Hall when the museum closed last night?”

  The girl, now very much paying attention, was silent for a moment. “Sorry about your wallet, sir, but I don’t think it was a guard. There are two night watchmen, and they don’t walk around after the museum closes. So if someone found your wallet, it was either a visitor or the morning cleaning crew. I can call our shift manager and…” The girl reached for the desk phone.