Edwin's Reflection: A Novel

by Ray Deeg

  He needed a place to regroup, some pocket money. He needed to find the machine, and the Waldorf Astoria was the key. Enjoy the room service. He thought about his new station in life, about what was happening to him. He didn’t think of it as surreal, but as inevitable. He was fully committed to his legacy now, and there was no turning back. He opened his phone and accessed Sentinel—they hadn’t yet removed his access. He deleted Esha’s Visa Alert, as well as some notes he’d made. That would buy some time.

  CHAPTER 38

  IT WAS TEN minutes to noon, but the day was just getting started inside Conrad’s apartment. Conrad and Gwen were chatting it up in the kitchen, drinking coffee and munching on toast points smothered in butter and topped with orange marmalade. Tom, still in his pajamas, sat cross-legged on Conrad’s couch flipping through entries in Loomis’s journal. After reading a particularly interesting passage, he performed a web search on his phone. He scrolled through listings and images, comparing them with the journal entry. Something clicked. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s it!” he yelled. “I got it, guys! I know where the second coil is hidden—it’s right by our school!”

  Conrad and Gwen came in and sat next to him. “OK, tell us,” Conrad said, mouth half filled with toast and orange jelly.

  “I was reading about Alfred’s friend, a man named William Manning. There’s an entry from 1932 that mentions a rose window in a cathedral, so I did some searches using the man’s name and the word cathedral. Only one William Manning had any association with a cathedral and a rose window—he was a bishop for the Episcopal Diocese of New York. Anyway, listen to this.” Tom opened the journal and began reading. “William informed me that his cathedral’s rose window was recently completed. He’s concealed the machine’s third coil inside a dark-colored brick that he personally ordered installed.”

  “And…” Conrad said, waiting for an answer.

  “And that’s where the second coil is hidden: inside a dark-colored brick in the rose window of—drum roll, please—the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. It says right here that Bishop William Manning oversaw a ten-million-dollar fundraising effort for the cathedral right around 1932, exactly when the window was completed. Even more specifically, it says that Bishop Manning oversaw the work of the stonemasons employed there. Anyway, as both of you know, the cathedral is just two blocks from Columbia. My God—it’s right there.” Tom held his phone up. On the screen was a photo of the cathedral’s famous Rose Window.

  As Gwen and Conrad studied the photo, it disappeared, and the phone began to vibrate. Tom turned it around to see who was calling him. Edgar Michelson—a member of Empyrean Ventures’ board of directors. “Hello?” Tom answered.

  “Tom, it’s Ed. You have a moment?”

  “Ed! Of course.”

  “Look, Tom, I’m not sure what’s going on, but we’ve had a very strange morning here.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, for one, the FBI was here—an agent named Jolanda Kulish. She was looking for you and asking questions about a machine. For two, your photo is being aired on television in connection with a man’s murder. It’s being aired, by the way, with a caption that identifies you as the CEO of Empyrean Ventures. And for three, the manager of our office security brought us footage of you in the Empyrean archive early this morning. It looks like you were with Conrad Perth and a woman. The phones are ringing off the hook, Tom. What the hell is going on?”

  Tom listened to Michelson, imagined his board panicking. He imagined managers and department heads wondering about their jobs and clients brainstorming on how they might use this as a way to finagle lower licensing fees. “Ed, I appreciate your calling,” Tom said in a reassuring tone. “All of this is a misunderstanding. We had nothing to do with that shopkeeper’s death.” Tom felt sick inside.

  “Tom, for God’s sake, why haven’t you turned yourself in to the authorities?”

  Ed’s question was both penetrating and irritating. Tom was skilled at spotting ignorance. He saw it daily in e-mails, in phone calls, and in the day-to-day work he saw people perform. Tom had become a connoisseur of ignorance and could easily discern its source, be it inexperience, stupidity, or just plain laziness. But Ed’s question came from a brand of ignorance he particularly despised. It was a lethal cocktail of anxiety and self-righteousness, activated without enough data or critical thought. It was the same closed-mindedness that convinces some people that their own set of beliefs are somehow magically endowed with a greater virtue than those of the other seven billion people on the planet. Tom believed that this brand of solipsism was the root cause of racism, sexism, and injustice of all types. It was a brand of self-righteousness that was highly infectious, too. He could see it spreading through the office. Tom’s first reaction was to rip into the man for allowing panic to take hold of his faculties, but his better nature urged him to forgive. “Ed,” he said in a tone somewhere between patience and kindness. “You’ve known me for over ten years. We’ve worked together. We’ve traveled together. Remember London and Dubai? Let me ask you: In all that time, have you made any observations about me that would lead you to think I was a thief—let alone a murderer?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you for that, Ed. I’m grateful you’re using your head. Now, there is something strange going on—no doubt about it—but the truth is, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Look, Tom, we’re in a bit of a panic here. These are serious allegations. We’ve been putting out fires all morning. I’ve been trying to call you—”

  “Ed, I just turned on my phone. Why don’t we meet for dinner—wait, I actually can’t do dinner tonight. Can you meet for breakfast tomorrow?”

  “Tom, listen to me. The board feels it would be best if you were suspended as CEO—just until the authorities have completed their investigation and until the story dies down. Tom, I’m sorry, but that’s the board’s decision.”

  Tom felt as if all the air had left the room. He could smell Ed’s panic through the phone. There was a long silence while Tom stared out the window. He saw the sun glistening off the Hudson, little silver dots ebbing and flashing. For as long as he could remember, he had been terrified of disappointing others. He’d always been unnerved at the idea of people judging him, especially based on misinformation. And now he could imagine that they were falling over themselves to do just that—to marvel at the fall of the golden boy. What a scandal, they’d be whispering to one another. I told ya he was a bad apple. He took a breath and felt steady again.

  Suddenly he made out the shape of the Mandelbrot shining across the ripples, and calm washed over him. “Ed, it’s fine. I understand that you can only react to what you see and hear. I’ll check in with you now and again until this gets resolved.”

  “Tom, I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks for the call, Ed.” Tom ended the call.

  Conrad and Gwen were staring. “Well, Mr. Hartger,” Conrad said. “Finding your rainbow sometimes has to interrupt your regularly scheduled programming. Nobody said it would be convenient. You asked for it, and now you got it.”

  Gwen placed her hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Forget all that for now,” she said. “Tell me more about the bishop’s rose window.”

  Tom’s grin returned. “Connie, get me your dad’s toolbox,” he said. “I need to charge his drill.”

  CHAPTER 39

  RANDALL EVANS STOOD in a dark, empty parking garage, staring into the trunk of a brand-new Mercedes Benz. He was breathing heavily and used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his forehead. When he’d seen enough to know the car owner’s condition was permanent, he closed the trunk and walked to the elevator. Copper-colored plates on either side of the car bounced his reflection back and forth. He positioned himself to view his face, smiling into the infinite distance. He followed his reflection back through infinity, but the smile disappeared, and there was only emptiness. He noticed something on his face and moved in for a closer look. There was a splatter of blood on his neck and coll
ar. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped into the opulent lobby of the Waldorf Astoria. A catchy Cole Porter song was playing, but that was nothing new—the famous singer had lived at the Waldorf Astoria in the early thirties and had played there regularly. His piano, nicknamed High Society, still sits in the lobby today. As Randall passed it, looking for a men’s room, he hummed along.

  He cleaned up and made a final inspection and then took in a deep, cleansing breath. Good as new. It was time to check in. He told the pretty girl at the front desk that he was sure he’d made a reservation—the name was Kyle Holland.

  “Yes, here it is; looks like you’ll be staying with us for three days, Mr. Holland,” the girl said.

  “More or less,” Randall answered.

  “I’ll need a card on file,” she added with a corporate smile.

  He offered her Kyle Holland’s American Express card, which he held with his thumb and finger clasping the edges, not the surface. His foot tapped to the song’s rhythm. The smiling guests, and the golden colors of the opulent lobby, were soothing. The stress of the day was slipping away, and he could feel himself recharging now. He marveled at the gilded tray ceilings, the wall-to-wall Persian carpeting, and the ornate four-sided French clock standing in the middle of the large lobby. Guests smiled as they passed, and Randall was happy to smile back.

  “The clock was created for the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair,” the girl remarked, seeing her guest appreciate its majesty. Randall nodded as one does when learning something new. “The Astor family bought the clock for the original hotel, and it sounds the Westminster Chimes every fifteen minutes. It’s nine feet tall and weighs two tons, so don’t try to steal it, Mr. Holland.”

  Randall gave her a cheeky smirk. “I’m sure it’s safe and secure under your watchful eye,” he replied. “By the way, I’d like to surprise an old colleague who’s staying here. Can you tell me the suite number of a guest named Esha Durga?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Holland, but we don’t give out suite numbers without a guest’s prior approval. But I’d be happy to leave a message.”

  “No! That’s OK; I’m sure I’ll bump into him.”

  “I just need your signature here,” she said. “Enjoy your stay!” The girl handed him a room key and returned the American Express card.

  “Oh, I almost forgot—do you validate?” Randall held up a ticket for the parking lot.

  “Of course,” she replied, rolling a red stamp over the ticket.

  “Thanks,” Randall said, thinking about the man in the trunk of his own car.

  Today had been terribly unfortunate for Kyle Wilhelm Holland. Randall had happened upon the man in the lower parking area while he was unloading his bag from the trunk. Just two days earlier, Kyle Holland had picked up a new car, a Mercedes E350, which he adored. It could practically drive itself. He’d parked in a distant and isolated corner of the lot—it was only natural that he’d want to avoid dents or dings. But the frugal act would be his demise. Randall had spotted the opportunity, snuck up behind the man, and shot him in the back of the head with Deleon’s Glock. He’d fallen perfectly into the trunk, too, so there wasn’t much work left to do. Randall had simply lifted the man’s legs in, taken his wallet, and closed the trunk. Tragically, Kyle Holland would no longer be able to attend the International Summit on Suicide Research. The annual meeting, held at the Waldorf Astoria, brought together suicide researchers studying topics ranging from neurobiology and genetics to prevention and intervention. Even more tragic, Kyle had been the keynote speaker. Still, Randall figured it would be at least twenty-four hours before anyone filed a missing person’s report.

  Now that he was successfully installed in his room, Randall could finally relax. He was enchanted by his suite; anyone would be, he thought. From the elegant furnishings to the crystal chandelier to the thirty-second-story view, it was gorgeous—and very comfortable. He would stay here undercover, gathering Intel in luxury, until he could get his hands on the machine and claim his legacy.

  As he settled in, his mobile phone began vibrating. He could see it was his home number calling. He answered and held the phone to his ear without speaking. He could hear the voice of a woman sobbing; it was his wife. “Hello? Hello, Randall?” she said in a near-hysterical tone. “Are you there?” she pleaded.

  Randall crossed his legs, leaned back, and continued listening. “There are agents here! They told me what you did! That man had a wife and children. Why in God’s name? Please make me understand—why, why, why, Randall? The girls, your life—why?”

  But there wasn’t much Randall could say. He ended the call. He pressed his lips together and felt something stir inside his gut. He knew what he had to do.

  He picked up the hotel telephone, dialed a two-digit number, and spoke with conviction. “Yes, I’d like to order a Waldorf salad and a crab cocktail,” he said to the operator. “And I’ll take a very generous slice of that famous red velvet cake.” He glanced out the window. It was a glorious fall day. “I hear you make it with real beets,” he added, staring into the distance.

  He hung up and retrieved one of the stolen library books from his satchel. He allowed himself to became enveloped in the quiet, feeling completely at ease. His destiny was on autopilot now. Everything he did or didn’t do was preordained, and if his path needed to be changed, his grandfather would instruct him. There was no sense getting worked up about it; he had everything he needed. He felt the weight of the ornate key around his neck and then removed it and placed it on the glass coffee table. He stared at the inscription again. EG1. He had no idea what it could mean or what it was for. He kicked off his shoes, raised the book to his face, and sank deeper into the couch.

  CHAPTER 40

  WALKING ALONG 112TH Street, Tom and Gwen approached the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. It emerged slowly, alive with light and color as the setting sun illuminated each of its ten thousand pieces of stained glass. The lofty western Rose Window reflected in Tom Hartger’s eyes like a lost jewel, a hypnotic mandala finally discovered after a lifetime of being misplaced. The cathedral loomed over Amsterdam Avenue, its sheer size and scale somewhat disorienting.

  Tom worked to center himself in the present so he could take in every detail. Looking back now on his life, Tom realized he’d been lonely, especially in the last few years. The only people he could call friends were his colleagues—Conrad in particular. Now he’d been fired, but he’d get the job back when this mess was cleared up. Tom considered the events of the last few days, seeing their totality in that moment. He saw the details in each of the thousands of carvings adorning the cathedral’s facade. He could imagine an army of men working for decades to craft them. Nature’s order, the cosmological design of truth and symmetry, came bursting from those divine geometric patterns. Although the cathedral had remained incomplete—only two-thirds of its original design had been finished—to him it was perfect, consummate.

  Slowly, as he focused, the bustling city and the noise surrounding him faded. And in that moment, he found himself naked and alone, with nothing left to hide. Even his birth name had been stripped away. It was just him, the observer inside, standing in front of the portal to God, to heaven. It stared back at him with a powerful, all-seeing gaze. But the power was kind and welcomed him back, washing away the fog. The abstraction and distraction, the guilt and regrets—they all vanished. This structure knew him, and it absolved him of his trespasses. It cleansed him, and he stood in awe, feeling a serene power well up in his heart and mind. We never had anything to worry about, did we? His eyes welled up as overwhelming clarity and pure joy washed over him. Gwen, too, was mesmerized. This was ordained, destined, as predictable as the mathematical formula used to design the universe. It was the same formula used to design the cathedral and that magnificent window, and it was probably the same divine math used those many decades ago at the Tower House—the palace of science—to create a device that would allow a man’s mind to pierce the curtain of this plane and travel across th
at distance that is unfathomable. She took Tom’s hand in hers, smiling, and without uttering a word led him inside the cathedral to find the thing that had been hidden from the world.

  Stepping inside was transformative, breathtaking. As the pair moved past the golden narthex, inside the great west doors, Tom raised his head toward the Gothic arched ceiling. They walked toward the middle of the cathedral, and Gwen motioned to Tom. As if reading her mind, Tom turned, and they both stared at the sun pouring through the Rose Window. It cast beams of colored light inside the cathedral, crisp reds and golds and hues of blue so gentle they could have been stolen from the sky—a mix of every color in the visible spectrum. At the very center, the Rose Window depicts Christ in glory with his arms spread out, palms up. Christ is adorned with seven gifts of the spirit and surrounded by a choir of angels. This place, this incredible place, Tom thought. Of all the places in the world where a soul’s prayers might reach God, this is most certainly one.

  Tom motioned toward the two high balconies on either side of the Rose Window. “It’s the largest rose window in the United States,” he said. “If the bishop did hide the coil up there, it was with the intention of keeping it concealed for a very long time.” Tom could see apprehension on Gwen’s face. The height of the Rose Window and the immensity of this place made this a daunting task indeed. “Do you see the yellow petal at the top?” Tom asked.

  “Um-hmm,” Gwen replied.

  “True yellow is the color of gold,” Tom said. “It signifies treasure, spiritual enrichment, and enlightenment. It’s an elevation of the spirit. If we’re going to reach it, we can’t have any doubts. Our focus needs to become elevated.” Tom had a coy look on his face.