The Tesla Legacy

by Rebecca Cantrell

  ash: do u have it?

  quantum: yes

  ash: xchange?

  Quantum entered details for a Bitcoin account. He would probably pick the payoff up at a Bitcoin ATM, making it more difficult to find him. Clever, but not clever enough.

  ash: how do i get device?

  quantum: the price has tripled

  ash: has it?

  Quantum posted a link to a video feed. When Ash clicked on the link, he saw a large metal box with a glass door. It looked like a gun safe, which meant that the door was probably not glass, but ballistic glass. He could hire someone to break into it, of course, but that would take time.

  The camera zoomed in on one of two objects inside. He recognized the flat bottom and distinctive cylinder. It was the Oscillator, just as Nikola Tesla had drawn it many years ago. As if on cue, the camera panned to the left to display a bomb. Thirty minutes left on the counter, and it began to count down.

  quantum: can detonate or stop the detonation remotely

  ash: intrigued

  quantum: triple. we both know it’s worth more

  ash: ??

  quantum: hello segment

  He stared at the words, not sure what they meant. Then he realized that they were synonyms. Synonyms for two words that might be high on the NSA’s radar today. Hello meant hi or high. And a segment was part of a line. High line. Ash gulped. Quantum was saying that the Oscillator was responsible for the collapse of the High Line park extension. Ash needed to make it clear that he understood the reference with some synonyms of his own for park.

  ash: green space

  quantum: y

  If Quantum hadn’t knocked the tracks down, it would be one hell of a coincidence that a freak earthquake had happened in Manhattan on the day that he stole the Oscillator. Ash’s heart raced. It worked! And he had to have it. The clock ticked down on the video feed. Would Quantum really blow it up?

  ash: triple is fine. where is it?

  quantum: safe

  He posted a street address on Park Avenue and the Realtor code for the lockbox. Quantum must have hidden the safe in an empty apartment for sale. Again, a clever boy.

  Ash picked up his secure phone and sent a man to that address. The man said he’d be inside in twenty-five minutes. That didn’t leave much margin for error.

  ash: will get eyes on the device

  quantum: once u verify, send me the bitcoins. when i have them in my acct, i will stop remote countdown and open safe

  He admired the young hacker’s audacity. Ash began the transaction, but waited for final confirmation. He’d get the money back later, regardless.

  ash: waiting for verification

  His secure phone beeped and displayed a picture of the safe and the device, the man he’d sent to retrieve it reflected in the glass door and the timer at four minutes. He pressed the Transfer button on Bitcoin.

  ash: on its way, but bitcoin transactions can take up to 17 minutes

  The number on the timer changed to seventeen, so Quantum was still there. After a few tense minutes of staring at the video feed, the countdown stopped, the clock went dark, and the door swung open.

  quantum: use it in good health!

  ash: thx

  Not that Quantum was guaranteed good health. Not when Ash found him. Quantum must know that, so he would run.

  But Ash knew a few things about the hacker beyond his real name. Quantum had exchanged emails on a temporary account with a hacker in Berlin, whom Ash suspected of pretending to be a woman. He’d learned from those emails that Quantum had never left the country, and the most logical assumption would be that he wouldn’t leave it now. But a clever boy like Quantum would challenge that assumption.

  Ash was willing to bet the cost of a few operatives at the international terminals of JFK, LaGuardia, and Newark’s Liberty Airport that he was right.

  Chapter 39

  Joe woke up, but he didn’t open his eyes. His head, neck, and back ached so much he had trouble thinking between the electric pulses of agony that he eventually recognized as his own heartbeat. He flowed with that pain until he could relegate it to background noise. That accomplished, he used the tiny bit of his brain that didn’t hurt to figure out what the hell was going on.

  He was in a quiet room, and he heard breathing that wasn’t his own, so he wasn’t alone. He drew in a slow breath and sifted through the smells. Lilac. Dog. Disinfectant. Home.

  But he couldn’t be home. Last time he woke up, he’d been in a hospital. His heart raced at the memory, and he kept his eyes closed out of shame. He’d completely lost it in front of his mother and Vivian, and he might have even thrown up on a doctor. He was lucky they hadn’t carted him off to the psych ward. Maybe they had.

  He cracked open one eye, grateful for the subdued lighting. His mother sat next to him in a comfortable wingback chair with a crocheted doily on the back. Someone had taken that chair from his parlor and put it next to the bed.

  In her hand was a leather-bound book from the Gallo collection, but she wasn’t reading. She was watching him.

  He was home.

  A black nose slid over the side of the bed, and a warm tongue licked his cheek.

  Joe croaked out, “Hey.”

  Joe heard the thump of Edison’s tail against the rug. One (cyan), two (blue), and three (red). His head throbbed with each color. No more counting.

  With a worried smile, his mother leaned forward and held a glass of water under his chin. She angled the straw between his lips. Pain knifed through his head with each swallow, but he couldn’t stop drinking. He’d never felt so thirsty.

  He thought he might throw up again, and his mother moved a bowl toward his head as if she thought so, too. The bowl was thick white china from his own kitchen, more proof that he was home. His stomach quieted, but the pain did not lessen.

  “Sleep,” his mother told him, and he did.

  He slept and woke, over and over. A red-haired man in a white lab coat made him swallow pills, checked his eyes, and asked him questions. Once the man even helped him to the bathroom, although the details of that stayed mercifully murky.

  Finally, he woke with the thought that he might be up for a while. His headache was still there, but his head felt clear. He heard Edison’s rough breaths, and the softer sounds of someone turning a page. He opened his eyes again.

  His mother marked a place in the book she was reading. “You look better.”

  He turned his head and groaned, then stopped because groaning only made the pain worse. “Don’t feel better.”

  His mother patted his hand. “I’ll get Dr. Stauss.”

  Dr. Stauss was a tall man with flaming-red hair and a calm manner. He came into the room alone. He looked into Joe’s eyes with a tiny flashlight, then checked his field of vision, the sensations he could feel on his face, and a battery of other tests.

  “You’re doing great,” he said. “Recovering well.”

  “Is there any long-term damage to my brain?”

  His sympathetic brown eyes flicked ever so slightly to the side. “Not from your head injury. If you rest and follow instructions, you’ll recover completely.”

  Then he made a list of restrictions: no computer, no television, no reading, no mental activity at all. Just sitting in a darkened room, maybe listening to soft music. Joe figured he’d be able to follow those instructions for a day, maybe two tops, before the boredom drove him insane.

  “Over time you can do more,” Dr. Stauss said. “But you don’t want to push yourself. Doing too much, too soon can lengthen the recovery process and maybe even cause brain damage. And you are very likely to experience some amnesia, so don’t be alarmed.”

  Not something Joe wanted to hear. The doctor clearly knew his business, but early on in the conversation he’d lied, and Joe went back to that. “When I asked you about long-term brain damage, you said not from my accident, but I got the feeling you were holding something back.”

  Dr. Stauss smiled. “No problems
with your observational skills, I’ll give you that.”

  “And?”

  He closed the bedroom door. Bad sign. “The hospital did a CT scan when you were admitted, and your mother mentioned that you had one done a few years ago because of migraines, so we have something to compare it to.”

  “Yes.” He wanted to tell Stauss to stop talking. He didn’t want to know what he was about to say.

  “The impact to your head gave you a concussion, and that’s what we’ve been dealing with here.”

  Joe’s head throbbed, almost a warning. “And?”

  “And we discovered that your amygdala has become greatly enlarged between the two scans. This phenomenon has been encountered in soldiers with PTSD, but not to the degree that we see in your case, and particularly not in such a short space of time. As you probably know, the amygdala regulates memory, decision-making, and emotional responses.”

  “What changed it?” He wanted to ask more complicated questions, but his head ached, and he was still afraid of the answers.

  “We don’t know. A traumatic event maybe, or a chemical intervention.”

  “What kind of intervention?”

  “I’ve spent most of my time down here in your lovely home researching that. I’ve been in touch with various colleagues, without using your name of course, and so far I haven’t found anything conclusive.”

  “Can it be fixed?”

  The doctor’s eyes flicked to the side again. Another lie coming. “The brain is a very plastic organ. Reducing stress, meditation, adopting a positive attitude. Those could all go a long way toward sensitizing your amygdala to positive emotions instead of negative ones.”

  “But?”

  “But you may always have difficulty processing fear.”

  So, his agoraphobia might never go away. No surprises there.

  “You might be able to work through it. People work through traumas all the time.” Dr. Stauss took his arm. “Let’s get you out of bed for a bit.”

  A half hour later, Joe had used the bathroom, washed himself off with a warm washcloth, put on clean pajamas, and was tucked in bed between fresh sheets. Everything hurt and took longer than he would have imagined possible, but it felt good to be clean and awake.

  Before he left, Dr. Stauss gave him a happy drug. His head still hurt like hell, but he didn’t seem to care about it quite so much. It also didn’t bother him that his head was half-shaved, or that he had a row of stitches in the back. The drug was that good.

  “I brought you some broth.” His mother set the bowl on his nightstand, then adjusted the pillows against the headboard so he could sit up.

  The most delicious smell in the world wafted to his nostrils. Beef, vinegar, and spices—sour meatball soup, or at least the broth. His stomach growled, and his mother laughed and handed him the bowl. A few tiny pieces of meat floated in the broth, along with grains of rice and a few shreds of onion.

  “You made this?” He hoped so.

  “From scratch. Like you used to drink when you were a sick little boy.”

  He held the bowl to his lips and drank every drop. It tasted salty and rich and heavenly. It reminded him of the colds of his childhood, when his mother would bundle him up in blankets and set him propped against the trapeze net with a thermos of soup, so she could keep an eye on him while she practiced.

  Edison licked his lips when Joe finished. “This is all mine, buddy. It’s too good to share.”

  His mother smiled.

  The dog rested his head next to Joe’s hip. He looked as content as if he’d been given the bowl himself.

  “He worried about you,” his mother said. “We have to tear him away from your side for his daily walks with Mr. Peterson.”

  Joe rested his hand on Edison’s head. “Was he hurt?”

  His mother shook her head. “The police say that your attacker used a Taser on him and locked him inside a wardrobe. Edison broke the door and fetched a security guard to help you.”

  Edison must have been in agony when he was tased and terrified inside the dark wardrobe. Joe remembered hearing him whimper before the wardrobe had fallen on him. The sound still haunted him.

  Rage welled up in Joe, and with it more pain. Apparently, there weren’t enough happy pills in the world to temper his fury that someone had hurt his dog.

  “Don’t anger yourself,” his mother said. “Dr. Stauss says that getting upset will make your head worse.”

  He took a few calming breaths. Self-soothing had become his new way of life. He should be able to manage. “Did they find a device in the corner of the basement?”

  Someone tapped on his bedroom door.

  “Come in,” his mother called. “He’s awake and talking sensibly.”

  That indicated he’d been awake and not talking sensibly before. Great.

  With silent steps, Vivian entered his bedroom. She wore jeans and a gray T-shirt and her gun in a shoulder holster. She looked ready to take on a room of armed assassins, and it reminded him again how weak he currently was. “You’re looking better, Mr. Tesla.”

  “Miss Torres has been guarding us both round the clock,” his mother said. “After she took you from the hospital.”

  “Did they find the Oscillator in the basement?” he asked. “Was it by the wall?”

  Vivian shook her head. She explained what the police had been able to piece together about his attack, and that footprints showed that someone had gone to the back of the room and retrieved something, but they didn’t know what it was.

  So, his attacker had taken Nikola Tesla’s famous earthquake machine. He’d recognized it the instant he pulled it away from the column, before he’d heard Edison’s sad whimper.

  His father had warned him to tread carefully, but he’d been heedless. He’d blundered into one of the most powerful devices ever invented, and he’d let someone take it from him. If it worked, and his attacker used it, all those deaths would be on Joe, and on his father for putting him in the position to begin with. Not that shared guilt made things any easier.

  “You need more sleep,” his mother said. “We tire you.”

  “I’d like to rest,” he lied.

  He couldn’t rest, not until he got the Oscillator back.

  Chapter 40

  Quantum liked the anonymity of Newark Liberty International Airport. Nothing ever happened in Newark. No one knew who he was, and no one cared.

  Security trusted that he belonged to the forged passport he’d used to check in. He was Matt Chang, an Asian guy on a business trip. Nobody looked twice at him.

  The generic atmosphere of McGinley’s Irish Pub wrapped around him like a warm blanket of anonymity. He took a long pull of dark Guinness and set his glass on the black granite bar. McGinley’s clearly wasn’t splashing out on authenticity. The bar was the same kind of stone used in a lot of upscale kitchens in the nineties, not a wooden bar like he’d seen in the movies, so the whole place felt more like someone’s kitchen than an Irish pub.

  But he didn’t care. In forty-five minutes he’d be on a plane to Dublin. Then he’d see what was real, and what was leprechaun clichés. He’d mingle with the Irish lasses and keep his head down until Ash gave up on him. They had enough high tech in Dublin that an Asian geek from America wouldn’t stick out too much. Plus, he had no links to Ireland. He’d taken a list of likely international destinations that he had no connection to, given each a number, and let a random number generator choose where he should go. If it were up to him, he’d have picked Berlin, which is why he hadn’t let himself pick.

  A heavyset man in a nondescript gray business suit sat on a nearby stool. The bar’s overhead lights reflected off his shiny bald spot. He was glued to the soccer match on the bar’s television. Quantum supposed he’d have to learn to like soccer in Ireland.

  A commotion in the terminal drew his attention away from the game. A wiry blonde pulling a hot-pink suitcase was screaming at the man standing next to her. He had a hot-pink suitcase, too, obviously a domest
icated man, and he’d apparently run over her expensive shoe. She was giving him colorful hell for it.

  Quantum reached for his beer without looking and took another sip of the bitter brew. He was facing the terminal now, enjoying the show. No amount of apologizing on the man’s part would make such a transgression right again, that was clear.

  The woman took off her shoe and waved it under the man’s nose, so that he could really understand the depth of his crime. Quantum would miss the New Jersey accent and attitude. But he supposed Dublin would have its own charms.

  Nausea passed through him, and he swallowed. He hadn’t had Guinness in a while, but he didn’t remember this reaction. Grogginess drove his head toward his chest. He set his beer down so hard that the glass broke, and dark liquid splashed onto his shirt. The businessman was gone. He’d left a crumpled ten-dollar bill on the bar, and he’d taken Quantum’s laptop.

  Quantum staggered to his feet, one hand on the bar to steady himself. He’d been poisoned. Ash had found him, and he’d been poisoned, and he was going to die at a cheap chain bar in Newark.

  “Are you OK?” The bartender caught hold of his elbow and was trying to get him to sit down again. His blue eyes looked concerned.

  Quantum stumbled away from the stool. Plenty of time to sit when he was dead. That was coming soon.

  His life didn’t flash before his eyes, and he didn’t think of some girl he’d missed his chance with. All he felt was a desire for revenge.

  Ash probably thought he was going to die in the bar, probably had made it look like a heart attack. His death probably wouldn’t even make the nightly news.

  Not good enough. He was going to make damn sure that the police investigated his death, did a thorough autopsy, and that his last moments would be splashed all over the Internet for all the world to talk about.

  He summoned up the last of his strength and shouted the only words that would do that.

  “There’s a bomb in the terminal. I put it here myself.”