by Ray Deeg
“I know what’s going to happen. I remember now,” Gwen said.
Tom held her hand. “I’m scared, too,” he whispered.
Gwen shook her head slowly to silence him. “The laws of nature are but the mathematical thoughts of God,” she whispered in Tom’s ear, so that no one else could hear.
Tom looked confused until Esha spoke out loud. “The laws of nature are but the mathematical thoughts of God,” he repeated.
Tom stared in disbelief. “How did you know?” he asked.
Gwen looked around and whispered again. “All endings are beginnings; we just don’t know it at the time.”
Esha repeated her words. Tom was floored. Gwen appeared to be coming unglued herself, her eyes filling with desperation. He’d never seen that in her before, and it made him shudder. “I remember,” she said. “I’m to give you the final lesson now.”
“Stay calm,” he said, feeling panic permeate the air.
“The light coming in from your childhood bedroom,” she said. “That coagulated piece of plaster on the ceiling and wall. You need to go through it. You need to go beyond that wall now. You’re ready, Tom. It’s calm and quiet up there. You are separate from the things you’re watching. All the fears about the things you see and hear—those are just thoughts, feelings, they are just electrical signals.”
Tom stilled himself and listened.
“It’s natural to create walls in your mind using thoughts as the plaster. Can you visualize the wall you put up to keep yourself protected? It’s all around you, and it keeps you safe, but it’s trapped you inside. And now you’re unable to access so many of life’s gifts waiting just beyond the barrier. You’ve decorated the inside of your mind with all those thoughts. You think those walls are the inside of your mind, but they’re just thoughts. They can’t hold you in, because you have no bounds…you have no bounds.”
Her voice was calm now, and her words fit like a key in his head, pushing each tumbler open one by one. Her words unlocked all those hidden secrets, and a window opened. A wall came down, and he saw a beam of light the same way he remembered, shining into his bedroom from the outside hallway. As he listened, her words flowed like water, propelling him forward as if on a current; she was saving him from the vision of a life that drifts aimlessly and lazily down the stream with no hand on oar or rudder.
He felt a burst of heat travel through his body, a release, and he knew the real strain of pure happiness, a mix of joy and suffering. He saw a life of true faith, where he was grateful to love enemies and accepting of injustices he suffered. He saw a life where he could be wronged and dare turn the other cheek. He understood that the purest magic was to keep hope and imagination and love burning brightly, to push aside hate and ego, vengeance and fear, and finally embrace what the heart knows. He could feel pain but not suffer, love endlessly, and live fearlessly. Her words gave him the nudge he needed to step past those imaginary lines. He was seeing a far grander scale in his mind now, one that magnified everything—the depths and the heights—in proportion. And he knew that he was capable.
CHAPTER 55
THE UNDERGROUND PASSAGEWAY was dark and damp. Randall moved forward, and the sounds of the voices ahead grew clearer. He drew the Glock and stepped lightly. As he rounded the corner, he saw the train track and looked up, out of the tunnel, to see the train station and the orange lights hanging from the ceiling. He stepped out of the small corridor onto the track and was greeted with a hypnotic sight. There, resting on the tracks in front of him, was the machine, completely assembled and glistening in the light. It was waiting for him, and whatever happened next was ordained; his destiny was inevitable. As he moved forward, he saw the three Indians on the platform, at a table covered in laptops. He could see Gwen and Tom sitting among a pile of crates.
Esha turned as he approached. As he emerged from the shadows into the well-lit station, Randall’s eyes sparkled like rubies. He was drawn to the machine, and gravity had taken over. The two men locked eyes. Esha considered reaching for his Beretta but realized the man staring at him was in fact an agent with the FBI and was likely a far better shot. Brown stone faced off against ruby lasers, and the two men began reading each other’s minds. Chandran and Ashok turned, and there was total silence as Randall stepped forward, the Glock trained on Esha and steady as iron.
“Good evening, Agent Evans,” Esha said gently. “I take it you found the key?”
Randall didn’t speak. He stepped to the machine and allowed his free hand to wander over the copper tubes, valves, and fittings. He wondered how Esha could know about Walter’s key. Randall touched the wheel and breathed in the moment. He saw three coils installed on the reflector wheel and a fourth empty slot at the center. Randall opened his bag and retrieved his coil. He held it with his left hand. “I don’t have time to engage in riddles or word volleys,” Randall said. “I’m going to execute each of you unless I get exactly what I want. Listen carefully: one of you will install this fourth coil and then turn the machine on. I’m going for a little ride.” He trained the gun on Chandran. “You, come down here and install this.”
Chandran pointed to Ashok. “He knows the machine. I know the programming.”
Ashok frowned at Chandran. “Thanks a lot,” he said in a sarcastic tone, keeping his eyes on Randall’s gun.
“I don’t care who does it, but do it quickly—before I realize you’re of no use to me.”
“Of course we will do as you ask,” Esha said calmly. He nodded to Ashok, who walked to the platform’s edge and hopped down to the tracks. Ashok walked toward Randall, hands raised in front of him. Randall assessed the situation and carefully handed Ashok the coil. Ashok accepted the coil, bowed his head, and took a few steps backward toward the machine. He snapped the coil into position and fiddled with the wires, making certain the connections were sound.
Randall compared the man’s work to the other three coils; it appeared identical. Neither of them noticed Heckie, watching from just inside the tunnel, his eyes also fixed on Randall’s Glock.
“I’m sure your grandfather, Agent Walter Evans, thought he would travel too,” Esha said. Randall stayed silent as he inspected the machine. “Walter was afforded a chance to see behind the curtain, but the future he saw wasn’t altogether accurate I’m afraid.”
“How so?” Randall asked.
“You see Tom over there? His grandfather was the last person to see behind the curtain,” Esha said. “The things your grandfather saw were accurate only until they were altered, however slightly, by the things his grandfather did.” Randall looked confused. “His grandfather, Phillip Hartger, was the last person to see behind the curtain. He saw your grandfather place that little brown box in the cemetery plot. But the real instructions your grandfather left for you are still waiting inside a safety deposit box. You don’t know that because you never received the key. You never got the key because I bought the company that Walter retained to deliver it to you.”
Randall thought on Esha’s admission and then spoke. “Even if that were true, here I am, exactly where I want to be. The machine is assembled, and I’m prepared. I’m also the one holding the gun.”
“Your grandfather knew he had stumbled onto something incredible,” Esha continued. “Like you, he had highly acute senses. He felt the power of the collective, and maybe you can too—anyone can feel it if they try. But you are another pawn in this game, nothing more.”
“My grandfather saw the future. He saw all of this,” Randall said. “This is my destiny. Now turn it on!”
“The yellow envelopes with your instructions,” Esha said. “The ones from J. P. Morgan: they got them, I got them, you got them—we all got them. You wanted so much to believe that your grandfather wrote them. You wanted a way out of your miserable existence so desperately that you’d have believed anything. Phillip Hartger counted on that.” Esha was silent for a moment then spoke to close the deal. “Phillip Hartger set up the trust at J. P. Morgan. He’s the author of its ins
tructions and each of those letters. He set our destinies into motion decades ago, using his last vision behind the curtain as his guide. He knew that all of you would see what you wanted to see. He planned for Tom to find Loomis’s journal and recover the other two coils. I knew about all of it: Phillip selected me to travel. I began receiving my letters over twenty years ago. Phillip instructed me on what companies to buy and sell in order to build my empire—he put all of this into motion. He told me how to complete the machine, told me what to do, and where to be in order to take the three coils from his grandson.”
Randall looked around, unsure of himself. “You’re a liar,” he said to Esha, his voice cracking. “My grandfather sent me those letters. This is my destiny, my legacy—and I said turn it on!”
“Was there a signature or a name on your letters?”
Randall was silent.
“I didn’t think so,” Esha continued. “And visiting your office, killing that agent, what did that get you other than becoming boxed into this corner now? We’ve done this over and over, many times. And every time, you finally realize you’re just another cog in the wheel, and you—”
Without much sentiment, Randall pulled the trigger. A pop echoed, and Esha grabbed his gut and dropped to his knees. He looked down at his hands. They were covered in all that red, sticky stuff.
“Did that ever happen before?” Randall asked calmly.
Ashok and Chandran were frozen in place.
Esha pulled himself together. “It has to happen,” he replied. “My body must die in order for my soul to become untangled from the microtubules in my brain. Without releasing our consciousness, our souls can only receive and transmit into the collective. Biological life anchors us to this plane. And the mind, as manifested by the capacity to make choices, is to some extent inherent in every particle of—”
“Save it,” Randall replied. “I know all that crap, and I’m ready to die. And I’ll let you in on a little secret: you don’t have to bleed to death for the brain to release the self.”
Randall retrieved a black pocketbook from his bag. He opened it to reveal a vial of clear fluid and a syringe. “Liquid cyanide,” he said, holding the Glock in one hand and fiddling with the syringe with the other. “Perks of having access to the FBI’s evidence locker. OK, enough talk. Turn it on, or you’ll need a new shirt too,” Randall said to Ashok.
Esha again nodded. Chandran walked to the laptop and began pecking at the keyboard. The machine lit up. Strange noises echoed through the train station—they reminded Tom of a wind chime or a chorus of synthetic angels. A low vibration rolled through the ground. It moved through the station, and the wheel began rotating. The monitors lit up with new calculations.
“Randall Evans,” a voice shouted from the main entrance. “Drop the weapon and step away from the machine.”
Everyone turned toward the voice. Two tactical agents stood at the main door. “Drop the gun, Randall,” the agent ordered again.
Randall pulled the trigger four times, and the tactical agents hit the deck. He’d hit one of them in the shoulder, but the other returned fire. His assault rifle spit out spent casings as Chandran and Ashok ran for cover. Tom and Gwen ducked behind a wooden crate, but they were directly in the crossfire. Randall fired two shots and then stood behind the machine and fired three more times, one by one. Heckie burst out of the tunnel and fired twice, hitting Randall once in the shoulder. The bullet spun Randall around, but he quickly returned fire, hitting Heckie in the chest. Heckie moaned and then dropped and crumpled into a ball.
Randall stepped closer and lowered the Glock to finish the small-town cop, but when he pulled the trigger, nothing happened. The Glock only held thirteen shots. Holland in the parking lot, and then the butler, and then…oh, it doesn’t matter. He still had some shots in the pistol on his leg.
The machine’s wheel was picking up steam. The remaining tactical agent had squatted behind a row of crates and was closing the distance between himself and Randall. He took a couple sporadic shots while he moved. Randall needed to hold off the remaining agent for another twenty seconds, and then he could travel. He knelt down to retrieve the concealed weapon. As he did, someone he knew stepped out of the tunnel’s darkness.
Kulish and Randall’s eyes met. She had her own Glock, and it was aimed squarely at Randall’s face. Kulish and Randall studied each other the way old friends do, perhaps finally seeing each other for the very first time. The sound of synthetic angels whipped around the underground tunnel, and Randall heard his mother’s words. Death is the place you go when you leave here. He stared at Kulish, his hands slowly inching his pant leg up to reveal his weapon.
And in that moment, Randall realized his true role. He understood that all of this was of his own making. For most of his life, he’d allowed anger and resentment to force him into corners. But hell doesn’t come from below; it comes from inside. He’d done each of those things of own volition, and for his own selfish reasons. He saw it now: he had wasted so much by hating, and he’d become blind with rage. But whether it was through an injection of cyanide or a bullet from his trainee’s gun, Randall was determined to leave this rotten place.
His hands moved quickly, releasing his weapon. Kulish waited until the last second then squeezed. The bullet ripped through his eye and head, ejecting pink-and-red material in its wake. Randall’s very last thought was of the vastness of time. The universe was swift to dispense justice, and in the very end, every soul would be relieved of its suffering. His limp body collapsed on the tracks.
Tom heard Gwen moaning and looked up to see her holding her side. He saw blood. She’d been hit in the exchange.
CHAPTER 56
GWEN LAY GASPING, holding herself, disoriented and confused. Her eyes blinked as she struggled to catch her breath. “Something happened; something’s wrong,” she said.
Tom quickly moved to inspect the wound. Gwen’s hand moved aside, and he shuddered. “Get an ambulance!” he yelled over the wailing of the machine.
But the wheel was picking up momentum now. Tom watched Gwen struggle against the pain, a real-life horror show. He wasn’t entirely sure that this was real and not some horrible dream. He was seeing everything twice: the first time in his head, like his dreams, and the second time with his eyes. Which was real?
“Get an ambulance!” he screamed again, putting pressure on the wound at her side. The blood was coming out so fast. He saw Gwen’s hair moving. It blew around her face, and time slowed. She grabbed his hand and touched his forehead tenderly as her eyes searched for something in his. She looked off in the distance, as if she were still searching but whatever it was had moved out of reach.
Tom could see her suffering, and it caused him physical pain—anguish and nausea. His angst blossomed, and tears streamed down his cheeks. Gwen whispered something softly, but her breathing quickened and she struggled for air. He maintained his pressure on her side, but he could feel her movements slow, her grip loosen. He lifted his head and scanned for help, but none was coming. “Help me!” he yelled, and his voice echoed through the emptiness of the abandoned station, becoming lost in the roar of the machine now hitting its stride.
Gwen’s eyes met Tom’s, and this time they stayed locked. He saw acceptance. Her breathing slowed and then stopped. Her eyes fixed. She was gone. She wasn’t there anymore. Tom was paralyzed, completely frozen, a hand-shaped blood smear now shining on his forehead.
Chandran, watching nearby, looked from Tom to Esha’s painting, still resting on its easel. He saw the identical smear on Esha’s face and called frantically to Tom: “You are the traveler!” Chandran yelled.
Esha, lying on the ground, raised his eyes to Tom’s forehead and smiled faintly. With his bloody hand, Esha reached into his pocket and retrieved some tattered pages that rustled like leaves in the wind. There were many of them, dozens, written on J. P. Morgan letterhead. Esha loosed his grip and allowed the pages to separate. They ascended in the air and swirled around the station.
Tom glanced at the light now enveloping the machine, but it no longer held his interest. The pain in his heart and mind was overwhelming. Guilt and regret filled his head, and he was all too happy to succumb to it now. He held Gwen, sobbing uncontrollably.
“You can save her,” Chandran shouted over the noise, but Tom wasn’t listening. He felt the guilty sting of selfishness stabbing at him. He reached deep down inside to relieve himself of all the hopelessness, but it was drowning him. He was flawed and weak—all too imperfect. He screamed, a guttural roar. He could smell the electricity and taste the metallic sourness in the fleshy part of his throat.
“You can stop the loop,” Chandran screamed.
The remaining tactical agent was moving toward Tom now. Chandran stood up and charged the man, sacking him like a quarterback. Immediately the injured agent jumped on Chandran, and the three men began wrestling. “Do it now!” Chandran yelled, straining against the men.
The guilt had filled Tom’s body and was now welling up in his mind, but he watched it from a distance. He remembered Gwen’s words—it’s never too late to love. Tom rested Gwen’s hand on her stomach. His body shook, and tears streamed hopelessly down his cheeks. Midnight tonight. He looked at his watch: 11:58 p.m.
He stood up calmly and grabbed the black clamshell case as he walked by the table. He removed the Edison Medal and jumped down to the tracks. Tom walked calmly past Kulish without making eye contact, and she stood aside allowing him to pass.
Tom bent down and retrieved the vial of clear liquid and the syringe lying near Randall’s body. He inserted the needle and pulled back the plunger, filling the tube with the clear fluid. All the notions he had had about life evaporated, and although his heart was broken, he allowed his mind to guide him. It was quiet up there again.