Edwin's Reflection: A Novel

by Ray Deeg

  “These photos, all this research—I’d never seen any of it until yesterday. For the past three years, however, a division of the WMDD has been tracking the progress of the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva. You may know the LHC collides protons in order to recreate conditions that occurred during the creation of the universe. These collisions create significant bursts of energy, which echo off buildings and mountains. They’re so powerful, in fact, that they radiate off the moon and even other planets in our solar system, clusters of atmospheric dust—you get the idea.

  “An FRB, or fast radio burst, is a high-energy astrophysical phenomenon manifested as a transient radio pulse lasting only a few milliseconds. FRBs show a frequency-dependent dispersion consistent with propagation through an ionized plasma.” Perren referenced an illustration of the cosmos with a grid overlay. “Basically, an FRB is a rare astronomical event, so rare that only a few have been recorded. As echoes return to Earth, we can track the original event back to specific dates when collisions originally occurred. But since we began tracking echoes caused by the LHC, we found over forty individual events, and this made us scratch our heads. You see, the LHC hasn’t fired anywhere close to forty times.

  “When we took a closer look at these individual events, we saw fainter patterns that appeared to be far older than those created in March of 2010, when initial testing started at the LHC. So we dug deeper. We found patterns that you can see are clearly echoes of echoes—same peaks and valleys. By our estimates, these forty events were created here on Earth between 1928 and 1932, and these FRB-like bursts have been bouncing around the solar system ever since. They also have similar peak energies as the bursts created by the LHC. The collider creates an event that you could describe as an opening event. See the small tip, which gets wider. The echoes from these older events from decades ago create what you could describe as a closing event. See how the wide tip gets smaller. You’ll also notice that they’re mirror opposites, perfectly symmetrical. When you place them together, they look like this.” The screen lit up with another illustration. “This takes the shape of a wormhole, and it connects two points on a linear plane.

  “Our concern is that if these bursts or reflections were to intersect, it’s possible they could create a curvature or loop in the space-time continuum—which, in theory, could disturb the natural order of time and causality. In just the last few years, physics has proven that time can move backward. Future states can determine past positions when those future states are projected. Now—recently—we’ve obtained this schematic. It had been in the possession of an agent here who, unbeknownst to the rest of the bureau, was searching for the machine even though the case had been closed for years. What has us all a little spooked is that there are two holes punched in this blueprint. Each is circled and inscribed with a date and time. The first date reads 11:23 a.m., February 23, 1932. That date corresponds almost exactly to the last and most powerful of the bursts we recorded. The second date reads 12:00 a.m., November 4, 2015. That’s eleven hours from now, and it happens to be the same time the LHC is scheduled to perform a record-breaking collision.”

  Perren turned off the monitor. “Now this is either a very sick and elaborate joke, or this is something that should make us all shudder in our boots. In my opinion, each of you needs to use every resource at your disposal to do two things. First, find this machine. And second, stop the LHC from performing its test.”

  A man opened the door and interrupted the meeting. “Sorry to disturb you. I have a police chief here from New Hope, Pennsylvania. I think someone should hear this guy’s story.”

  Heckie pushed into the room. “Who here is Randall Evans’s superior?” he asked.

  Davis lifted his hand.

  CHAPTER 37

  RANDALL EVANS STOOD in the lobby of J. P. Morgan Chase’s Trust Services, staring at a portrait looming on the wall overhead. An inscription read, “J. Pierpont Morgan became one of America’s most powerful and influential bankers, heading what became the nation’s preeminent private bank.” Randall was waiting to speak with the head of the division when his phone began to vibrate. It was a text message, an alert from Sentinel he’d set up just two days before. Sentinel had unfettered access to databases and information from all over the world and included hundreds of travel databases, banks, and merchant credit-card systems. As Randall’s luck would have it, a charge had just been posted to a VISA account under the name Esha Durga in the amount of $33,445.23 by the New York Waldorf Astoria. The bill even contained an itemized receipt detailing meals and drinks. Twenty-seven crab cocktails at $45 each, red velvet cake at $22 a slice. These guys are living large. Randall was sure he’d found the three Indians and was certain the machine would be close.

  A man approached Randall. “Douglas Sawney, vice president of Trust Services. It’s my pleasure to meet you.”

  Randall didn’t have time for this now. He had to move fast. “Mr. Sawney, something’s just come up. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to reschedule.” Randall walked out as fast as he could, feeling the weight of the coil in his satchel. It pulled him down, as if he were walking on Jupiter.

  Federal Plaza was bustling with government workers, and he spotted familiar faces, the same ones he’d seen for so many years now. It was almost noon, but if he hurried, he could get a warrant before lunch was over. As he walked toward the main entrance, a young man approached him wearing a face he hadn’t seen. “Randall Evans?” he asked. The young man removed a yellow envelope from his jacket pocket.

  “I am,” Randall replied, scanning the surroundings.

  “I was asked to deliver this before you entered the building,” the young man said.

  “Before I entered? But why? Who do you work for?” Randall asked.

  “I’m a courier with J. P. Morgan Chase,” the young man replied as he walked away.

  Randall tore open the envelope and began reading.

  Randall—Leave your satchel and coil underneath the first floor stairwell before you get into the elevator. Get to your office. There will come a moment when your hands are tied, and you’ll be forced to choose a path that has no possible return. You alone must choose. Once you’re done upstairs, get to the Waldorf and enjoy the room service.

  He read it again to make sure he understood. Sounds simple enough, he thought. But why? What’s next? He was getting used to watching his destiny unfold in new and unexpected ways. He realized he was only in partial control now, that Walter was pulling the wires. He could either comply or risk spoiling this inside track.

  Upon entering the building, Randall walked into the stairwell behind the elevators. It was quiet and dark; hardly anyone used the stairs. He placed his bag underneath the stairwell and then walked back to the lobby and into an elevator. He was beginning to feel something. It was strange but familiar, and he gradually recognized it as hope. A thousand thoughts swirled around in his mind. He wanted so much to be able to look back on the richness and grandeur of his life. He wanted to look at those pages from the calendar and see pretty pictures and glorious memories. He wanted to see all the sufferings he’d endured with bravery and integrity, with single eye and dutiful purpose. He wanted to see himself as he saw others—devoted, caring, and trustworthy—but that was proving tough.

  He thought about all the potentialities in his life that had not been realized. All those moments that had been forever etched in time, filled with mediocrity, sadness, fear, and disappointment. Like the time many years ago when his wife had had the idea to take the family to the Caribbean. Of course he was worried about money and put his foot down, made the decision to postpone. It would be next year, for sure, but of course that never happened, either. Was it my fault for being stingy? My fault for not having a higher-paying job? They’d been on so few vacations. But there was also the time he’d forgotten their anniversary, swore it would never happen again—until it did, the very next year. Stupid. And there were all those times he’d had too much to drink and been a jackass at parties or restaurants
, in front of friends and family. The way his wife looked at him these days—well, it just killed him. Her growing disappointment had seared itself in his mind and made his head so heavy. For as long as he could remember, he’d been angry, irritated with work, annoyed with life and himself. He was so uncomfortable in his skin that he’d shut down, even when he wasn’t working. It was the voice in his head punishing him, and he couldn’t control it.

  He remembered being happy when he was younger; he’d been almost weightless then, completely unencumbered by all the baggage that clogged his mind now. He heard violins begin to play in his mind—he adored that sweet, graceful whine. He’d always found violins fascinating and relished the idea of playing but had never lifted a finger to find one. He’d done so little to grab life by the horns, to create happiness, to have a goddamn picnic or do anything else to make himself or his wife or children happy. Instead, he’d spent his weekends hiding behind a computer screen, ignoring his family and life. So many pages were gone from his calendar now. My life has been meaningless, but that will change when I realize my destiny. Then my wife and children will love me, and that will become the monument to my existence. Everything in his future was hinging on transitory possibilities from a voice that was no doubt in possession of some innate power. It has to be Walter.

  The elevator doors opened on the twenty-third floor, and he stepped out, exhausted from the long ride up. As they made eye contact, the receptionist’s smile went from happy to polite to apologetic. Strange, he thought. The Three Indians, the Waldorf, the machine. Enjoy the room service? He would need a warrant and a tactical crew to take them and the machine into custody. He would have the machine seized and then stored in the evidence locker.

  As he passed though rows of cubicles, the office felt still and unusually quiet. He caught passing glances from coworkers, who made awkward eye contact and then turned away. God, did he hate this place. He noticed that his office door was open and realized there were people inside. What the hell is going on? A tall man he’d never seen before came into view. He was wearing a holstered side arm. They made eye contact.

  “He’s here,” the man said.

  Randall pushed his office door open. “Good morning,” he said, his voice cracking unexpectedly. He cleared his throat, taking inventory of the office. It had been turned inside out; it didn’t feel as if it belonged to him anymore. Change comes fast, and the mind needs time to adjust, but he immediately knew what was happening. He’d been asked to roll an agent’s office once himself. Someone closed the door behind him—his good friend, agent Deleon. The four men were now shut in the chaotic office.

  “Randall,” Section Chief Davis said in a disappointed tone.

  “What’s up, guys?” Randall said. He wondered what they’d found.

  “First off, the game is over,” Davis replied. “That should be a relief to you, knowing what I do now. Your buddy, Chief Heckie from New Hope, he just had a little visit with us. You know him, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Randall said.

  “Well, you just missed each other. He provided me with some rather interesting evidence and testimony about that antique shop in New Hope—which, by the way, you had no reason to be at in terms of your duties to this agency. But aside from that, you’ve been making false statements, misappropriating bureau assets, filing false affidavits with the court, performing illegal raids, and accessing files that you have absolutely no business accessing.”

  Randall was getting annoyed; this was definitely going to interfere with his plans. The Indians, the Waldorf, the Machine.

  Davis continued his barrage. “Or how about this one, Randall: not disclosing that your grandfather was an agent for the Bureau of investigation. And these strange letters being sent to people from J. P. Morgan Trust Services. Chief Heckie got one, too.” Davis held up a copy of the golden envelope and letter Heckie had received.

  Randall’s mind began racing again. Chief Heckie got a letter? What on earth for?

  “Are you sending these?” Davis asked, but Randall was quiet now. “Then there’s this cemetery plot you dug up, although I’m not really sure that that’s a crime…yet. I have national security experts, homeland security, and the WMDD telling me to find this machine and these three Indian guys, and we’re hearing stories about time loops and particle colliders.”

  Time loops and particle colliders? What the hell is he talking about? Randall wondered.

  “I don’t know how or why you’re mixed up in all this, but I do know you’re working for your own team. And that leaves me no choice.” Davis stared out the window, looking down into Federal Plaza. “Randall Evans,” he finally said. “You’re under arrest. Surrender your weapon and shield.”

  “C’mon, this is a misunderstanding,” Randall said in a forcibly casual tone.

  “Surrender your gun and shield. You’re suspended, and you’re gonna get booked. There’s just too much here. You’ve left us no choice. You’ll be out on bail in a few hours,” Davis said.

  Deleon stepped closer. Randall appraised his situation. He didn’t see an immediate opportunity, so he relented. He removed his weapon and shield, placing them on his desk.

  “Deleon,” Davis said. “Take Agent Evans into custody. Put him in a holding room.”

  “Sorry, Randall,” Deleon said, stepping closer.

  The onion field, Randall thought. I need my hands in front. Randall raised his hands in front, clasping his wrists together, and stared at Davis. Davis nodded his approval, and Deleon clasped the silver bracelets around Randall’s wrists. Having your hands cuffed in front was something reserved for law-enforcement insiders being taken into custody by their own. And he was grateful; he would need the use of his hands.

  As Deleon escorted Randall through the maze of cubicles, the office took on the appearance of a game of Whac-a-Mole. Randall wished he had a mallet. He thought through his options. He decided that most of the charges Davis mentioned weren’t anything to worry about. But if he’d been careless with Monty and they discovered something, he’d be in real hot water. He thought about the letter. There will come a key moment when your hands are tied and you’ll be forced to choose a path that has no possible return. The onion field, he thought again. He began to understand and became more resolute about the thing he would have to do.

  The onion field is a concept most FBI and law-enforcement trainees learn early on. It goes back to a 1963 incident by the same name. Two LAPD officers, Hettinger and Campbell, pulled over a vehicle for suspicious behavior. Unknown to the officers, the two occupants had been involved in a rash of armed robberies. One of the officers, Campbell, was taken hostage at gunpoint. Hettinger was ordered by the suspects, and even by his own partner, to surrender his weapon, which he did. Hettinger and Campbell were then driven to an onion field, where Campbell was immediately executed. Hettinger escaped into the darkness of the night but lived a life of shame for allowing his partner to be murdered. He was eventually fired from the force for PTSD.

  Deleon unlocked the holding room and sat Randall in a chair at a square metal table. Randall had done the same thing to dozens of perps in his custody—in this very room, in fact. He waited for the right moment; it was inevitable now. The onion field.

  As Deleon turned away, Randall leaned down, lowering his cuffed hands toward the floor. He lifted his pant leg and removed the pistol strapped to his leg. He raised the gun and pulled the trigger twice. Two pops rang out, creating two red spots on Deleon’s shirt. After crashing to the floor with a garbled scream, Deleon took several labored breaths and then became silent and still. Randall’s heart was pounding; he could feel his veins pulsating. His hands were shaking. It was strange seeing Deleon on the floor like that. He was dead like Monty, like Stazo, like that bird in the driveway. Randall had noticed this thing in dead bodies, and the sensation was becoming familiar. There was this sense that the show was over, of an empty stage, that the set would be taken apart, the props thrown away and the actors and audience had gone hom
e. The Playbill would be the only evidence that the show had ever run. The body was empty, a shell now, fleeced of air, life, and purpose. What crude matter remained was so motionless that it exuded a concentrated stillness that anything living immediately recognized as death. It was only natural that onlookers stared in silent awe trying to detect movement while pondering how and why this new form had undergone its transformation.

  Randall placed the weapon back in his leg holster and then took the handcuff key from Deleon’s belt and unlocked his cuffs. He took Deleon’s Glock and badge. He figured stealing those would be the least of his legal troubles now, and he might need them. The interrogation rooms were insulated for sound, and as he reentered the hallway, there was no immediate evidence that anyone had heard the shots. Randall moved casually down the hallway and into the stairwell. Now he realized why he’d received the letter earlier.

  He quickly descended all twenty-three flights and grabbed his bag from underneath the stairwell. As he exited the lobby, a security officer smiled. He smiled back. There was nothing to be alarmed about. All law-enforcement personnel are taught the onion field lesson for one very simple reason—to illustrate why you always carry a backup weapon.

  As he walked away from Federal Plaza, perhaps for the last time in his life, Randall could feel the warmth of the sun on his face. What a glorious day it’s becoming. He thought he might be more upset with himself. He thought he might feel bad, but he didn’t. He felt liberated. He was doing what he was meant to do, for the reasons he was meant to do them. But he was on the run now. He couldn’t go home, and his colleagues were going to come after him as a cop killer. In all likelihood, they would try to kill him before allowing any trial to take place, but Randall wasn’t concerned. On the contrary, it was as if the windows to his mind had finally been opened and a fresh breeze had blown away the fear, guilt, and any lingering doubts. Dragging the façade of respectability around for so long had been exhausting, but finally he had shed it.