by Ray Deeg
“No, it’s not like that,” Gwen interrupted. “Tom had no idea about their connection, and he doesn’t want anything from her.”
“OK,” the nurse said interrupting. “It’s still obvious there’s going to be more questions, and it’s getting late, so I think this visit should conclude. I’ll just ask for a little advance notice before we arrange any more visits.”
“Yes, of course,” Tom said calmly, realizing he’d surprised the two women with his admission. He stood up. “Thank you, Mildred, and good night,” he said with a smile.
“Good-bye, Tom,” Mildred replied.
Gwen followed, smiling graciously. As Tom and Gwen left the apartment, the nurse spoke from the door. “I’m sorry, but she’s my priority. She has to come first.”
Tom shook his head and pressed his lips together tightly. As they returned to the night air, he buttoned his coat and placed his hands in his coat pockets. The clouds were darker now, and a cool wind whipped past the pair as they strolled up the bleak and quiet street. He was exhausted from the effort of listening and understanding, yet there was an energy still inside him, ready for the taking.
“I knew what that woman was going to say before she said it,” Tom said, breaking the silence. “That was the scariest part about what just happened. It was like we’d been there before. And the fact that Phillip and Everett grew up in Tuxedo Park, that they were childhood friends, that they worked at the lab, that they were business partners, that they started Empyrean. We still don’t know who’s sending these letters, but I know how Phillip was injured, that he knew about the machine. That’s why the patent we found in the archive makes so much sense.”
“And Everett’s model trains,” Gwen replied. “You realize it’s nearly inconceivable that Everett didn’t build the model train Phillip gave you. Do you still have it?”
“I do, and I was thinking the same thing. I haven’t looked at it in years. It’s been sitting in our basement—remember the old house in Greenwich?”
Gwen nodded. “I’m surprised you didn’t sell it after your mother passed.”
“I thought about it, went through the motions, but I couldn’t do it. And I didn’t need the money. But I had an idea—about the house, I mean.” Excitement was growing on Tom’s face. “I think I might give the house to Mildred. If she’ll have it, obviously.”
Gwen’s eyes lit up. “I think that’s a lovely idea.”
“I would need to understand her needs much better, make sure she gets cared for properly, but I can imagine her being far happier there. I’ll call her nurse tomorrow.”
“Wonderful, Tom. Are you OK?” Gwen asked.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“I’m fine, really. And your model train—don’t you think we should go see it?”
“I’m chomping at the bit, and since we’re already this far uptown, we’re halfway to Greenwich anyway.” Tom looked up at the moon and stars. “So much has happened, though, so much to think about. Maybe we should call it a night?” he suggested.
“What about the things Heckie told us?” Gwen asked. “The FBI agent who killed one of his own? And that collider is scheduled to do whatever it is that colliders do at midnight. Maybe you should tell the FBI what you know.”
Tom ran through the events of the last few days in his head. He accepted that his new point of view was resting on shaky ground, given the myriad of unsubstantiated truths he’d uncovered recently. He couldn’t fathom the possibility that he was the linchpin, that there was something he could do—or not do—that would affect any significant outcome, yet he’d waited his entire life to do something of great consequence. He had always felt that deep down, felt it in his mind and bones.
He was skeptical about giving information to the FBI—considering what they’d done to his apartment—and he was doubtful that Heckie had his head screwed on all that well. The small-town cop was following instructions from someone he didn’t even know. Tom was positive someone was manipulating all of them, and he ached to understand why. Everett Lemily, Phillip Hartger, an accident and a fire, Phillip’s face, the model train, an eerie novel written by a scientist at the lab, energy reflections and time loops. Tom could smell electricity in the air again. Everything needs a careful reexamination, starting with that model train.
“I suspect going to the FBI is akin to choosing the nuclear option. And since I’m already annoyed with them for smashing my mother’s vase…well, let’s get to Greenwich and take a look at Phillip’s model train by ourselves.”
“I’m with you,” Gwen replied.
He ordered a car service, and they were off.
CHAPTER 47
JUST TWO BLOCKS from the Cathedral of St. John the Divine is the sprawling complex of Columbia University. Established as King’s College by the royal charter of George II in 1754, Columbia is the oldest institution of higher learning in New York State. The thirty-two-acre campus was abnormally quiet and still tonight. The buildings glowed white beneath the intensity of the full moon. Disoriented by the light—or perhaps even sensing an unnatural thing approaching—the skunks, raccoons, and other night creatures took reprieve from their usual nocturnal activities, finding themselves stuck in a sort of hypnotic lunar limbo and were still, listening to the sound of the wind and waiting.
Esha, Ashok, and Chandran walked past Butler Library, admiring the brightly lit marble sundial just past the university’s south lawn. The excitement of obtaining the two harmonic coils still lingered, as did the adrenaline, but they could feel the heavy weight of stillness setting in. As they moved across the campus, Esha’s henchmen wondered what they were doing there, but Esha had always told them on thing: “The places I lead you are neither accident nor coincidence.” He was a mystery that way.
Esha walked with his head up, taking in the grandeur of the campus architecture. He thought about humanity’s varied pursuits and his own life’s path, as well as what fate had in store. He knew the time was close. Just three hours away. But although he had waited a lifetime, he wasn’t rushed. He knew rushing was never the answer. He stayed calm, taking deliberate steps and breaths. Humility is not self-pleasing, he thought. Ego is what drives man to create those lofty feelings of self-aggrandizement that blur reality. Esha had learned long ago that when the false self is eliminated, the universe becomes unlocked, seen and treated as it truly is without the distorting lens of glamour, vanity, self-interest, or jealousy to blur the doorway to abundance. As the Gospel of John had it, you shall know the truth, and truth shall set you free.
Esha led his henchmen through the campus, muttering phrases from the Vedanta under his breath. They arrived in front of a building marked Office of Admissions. The door was unlocked, and the trio moved down several empty hallways flanked with portraits of past deans, football trophies, academic awards, and other memorabilia until they arrived at a nondescript door. Esha tried the knob, but it was locked. “Kick it in,” he said, stepping back.
Ashok looked around, feeling off-balance, and then took a step back himself. He stepped forward, raised his hulking leg, and in one blow smashed the door open. The trio entered the room and closed the door behind them. They passed through an office to another door marked Records. The records room was filled with metal shelves stocked with hundreds of brown boxes.
“You two—sit over there,” Esha ordered.
The two henchmen sat to the side and watched Esha rummage through boxes.
“What are you looking for?” Ashok asked.
Esha spoke without turning. “Tom Hartger’s application for admission.”
Ashok nodded and then looked confused. “But why?” he asked.
“Because it contains the address of his childhood home,” Esha replied. “He’ll be going there, and we’ll want to pay him a visit.”
“Why not just track him using the GPS, like you did before?” Ashok wondered out loud.
“Because he’s disabled the GPS function on his phone.”
“But
you’re the one who told him about it!”
“He would have figured it out eventually. What I did was intentional, designed to give him a false sense of security. I gave him a pawn so he would bring his king out in the open. Each step must fall into place precisely, or we’ll have to start all over again.”
Ashok looked confused again. Esha sighed. He needed to keep Ashok entertained. “The journal we took, the one belonging to Alfred Lee Loomis,” Esha said. “Open it to the bookmark and then turn back twenty-two pages and read his entry.”
Ashok did as he was asked. He found the entry and began reading.
Friday, April 19, 1931—Today we celebrated Henry’s twelfth birthday, on a day so uneventful it was said by a BBC reporter this morning that there was no news to report. However, the activities at Split Rock were very eventful. Ellen hired a clown to entertain Henry and several of his friends from the park. The clown was utterly spiflicated and reeked of bourbon and cigarettes. His whole body wobbled while he handed out balloons. The thing was a complete disaster for the adults watching, but the children thought it was part of the act. I find it hard to reconcile that Henry is twelve. Time passes so quickly. I’ve been teaching Henry and his friends the art of chess, both at home and here at the lab. Showing them how each piece moves on the board was rather simple, and they understood the fundamentals in no time. Now I’m teaching the underlying principles of the game’s strategies and tactics. In the opening phase, a good player quickly takes control of the board’s four center squares, as they create the most opportunity. And, like the children, I’m also learning that chess—like everything else in the world—contains its own set of mathematical properties that define a thing’s fundamental nature. It must be that everything has some inherent geometric formula or pattern where truths occur again and again, over and over. In chess, the geometry at the center is most crucial because each piece expresses its greatest mobility there, leaving room for the greatest number of options. No single pawn or piece stands alone; it must work in step not only with its fellows, but with the opponent’s pieces, too. Each time a piece moves, the game changes, creating a completely new set of possibilities: the game’s final outcome cannot be known by either player but is equally dependent on both. After all—there are more possible iterations of chess games than there are atoms in the observable universe. Of course it is imperative to maintain the king’s safety, so castle early and shield him behind your pawns. Castling is a great way to safeguard the king and develops one of your rooks at the same time. I have been teaching Henry and his friends that the only strategy is to make threats when developing their pieces. These moves limit the opponent’s freedom of choice, and this dictates the course of the game. Develop, control, threaten, and limit movements: this is the only strategy for creating a desired outcome. The youngest of the children has an uncanny and quite natural ability to focus and control the game. Children have an incredible capacity to understand complex ideas and to see patterns that adults overlook. They can teach us much about our own abilities and cognitive limitations. It has often occurred to me that by knowing the mechanics and functions of the mind, we may come to understand the process of cognition. And, as Tesla never tires of telling everyone at the lab, to unlock the mystery of the mind is to unlock the mystery of the universe.
Ashok looked up from the page toward Esha, but Esha wasn’t paying attention. He was rummaging through another brown box, discarding files haphazardly on the floor, until he felt the silence. “You can begin to understand anything when you understand causality,” Esha finally said. “Everything, everything, everything is a cause, giving rise to an effect, which gives rise to another cause. There is much confusion about the causal principal, not only because of its ontological status juxtaposed with our own intrinsic desire to know God, but because of its epistemological rule of procedure, which is often lost in our linear based logic. Can a flea understand nuclear fission? Can a snail understand quantum mechanics? Just so, we cannot understand God. But this confusion of cause and reason has been indulged by humanity ever since we could ponder our existence. It’s not surprising in the context of a doctrine holding that causation—even time itself—belongs only to the sphere of the observer. These mixed ideas reflect—even mirror—the confusion of material reality with its reconstruction inside the mind using the building blocks of thought.”
Esha knocked on a nearby shelf. “Our soul and heart suggest the doctrine of some long-ago-established harmony between man’s reason and this world’s reality, and attempts at philosophy have fostered the notion that the effect is contained in the cause in the same way empirical thinking is entailed by its premises, where nothing new can come into the universe unless some God above looks down on us sad creatures and takes pity on us, tossing us a little knowledge like a dog getting a scrap from the table—or like Prometheus giving us fire. How many scraps must we be tossed before we learn to build our own seat at the table? And if the idea is granted that the universe is uncaused, that this is all self-propagated, then the existence of this material does not need to be justified by human reasoning. It is simply accepted as something that has always been. But even these thoughts raise the same question: Why is there something and not just nothing?”
Chandran rolled his eyes.
Esha removed a weathered piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and compared it with the labels on the boxes and then returned it to his pocket. He started in on another box, allowing his fingers to sift through the files. The action made a rhythmic, rustling noise. “Here it is,” he said, pulling up a thin file.
Esha was quiet while he read. “Greenwich, Connecticut,” he murmured and then checked his watch. “I knew it would be close, given this late hour. Let’s go—we can be there in twenty-five minutes. Ashok, put the Loomis journal in this records box and close the lid. We have no use for it now.”
“But the things we might learn,” Ashok replied in a frustrated tone.
“You have the memory of a flea,” Esha said. “Yes, Ashok, we could stay here in this very room and read that journal for hours. We could become distracted by this or that and lose sight of our destiny because we took a path we have already taken many times—and already learned many times that it is the wrong path.” Ashok cocked his head sideways and then squinted at the journal. “You’ve already read it over and over, and nothing happened,” Esha said. “You were sitting right over there; can’t you remember?” Esha pushed his finger to his temple.
Ashok looked around the room. Chandran only stared.
“Ah, well, the gift is different in each of us,” Esha admitted. And while Esha knew he most certainly had a gift, he was cheating, too.
“Why must you speak in riddles, Esha?” Chandran said. “Just tell him what he should know. Let’s suppose there is some terrible man with a knife waiting to stab me. Let’s suppose he’s hiding around the corner in the darkness. Well, if this is the case, Esha, would it not be much better to say, ‘Chandran, there is a man with a knife around the corner who is going to stab you’ instead of speaking to us in riddles?” Chandran spread his arms and hands out, giving his best Esha Durga impression. “Beware, Chandran,” Chandran said in Esha’s rough tone. “The tormented soul bearing daggers of ill-repute waits endlessly in the shadows with sinister intentions.”
Ashok giggled.
Esha snickered too, but mostly at seeing Chandran’s frustration. “I have told you both everything you need to know,” Esha replied. “What are you waiting for, Chandran?”
Chandran’s eyes burned into Esha, who stared back but spoke in a kinder tone. “But perhaps your mind is not as sharp as it could have been had you not polluted it with heroin and opium.” Chandran’s mouth turned down, but he held his stare. “You were so thin you could only keep milk in your stomach,” Esha said. “You were on the verge of death, but someone saved you. Who cared for you when your family would not? Who educated you? Who invested in you, gave you a home, a good job, and something to believe in, something
to feel proud of?” Chandran’s eyes let go of their grip and moved lower. “The first time you make a mistake, it is OK. Maybe the second, too, but each one thereafter is a choice. Carl Marx is famous for saying that all great world events happen twice—the first time as a tragedy, the second as a farce. Now turn that frustration into something useful and open your mind—nothing will stop you. The final step to nirvana is yours alone to make. I cannot text you the code. We make our own history, Chandran.”
Esha stood up and walked out of the room, touching Chandran on the shoulder as he left. He turned as he reached the door. “Enough lessons!”
Ashok eyed the Loomis journal and then placed it inside the Records box. He hesitated for a moment and then closed the lid.
CHAPTER 48
INSIDE THE LIVERY car, en route to Greenwich, Tom Hartger pressed his cheek against the window and stared blankly out at Interstate 95. He thought about Phillip Hartger and wondered why his parents had failed to tell him anything significant about the man. Tom’s father died when Tom was twenty, but he had had his mother for so many years. She must have known something. Had she intentionally hidden things from him? He had never thought about his family and their deeds in life beyond the usual sentimental thoughts. But pondering a loved one’s intentions after death is a tragic sort of pain and memorial born of deep love and suffered by most deep thinkers. Tom had always been proud to be a Hartger. He’d grown up in Greenwich and felt plugged into that place. He felt grounded in the land, the trees, the red maples and black birches. The charming townscapes and the people he had known there were permanently etched in his mind. He felt connected to the water of the Long Island Sound, the tidal estuary of the Atlantic Ocean. He had learned to swim there, had his first kiss on its beach. His own father had spread his grandfather’s ashes there. Even from inside the car, he could smell the unique blend of fresh and salt water and imagined that a little of that stuff might flow in his veins. These ideas about himself, about being a Hartger, had been a kind of insulated moral high ground where he’d always made his stand. It was comfortable up there, safe. Its foundation had been unshakable.