The Apocalypse Four: 93 Million Miles To Gotham Read online

  “I know where he lives; I counted on one of my contacts to get us into the hotel and up to his room.”

  “Can’t we go back to the hotel?”

  “I don’t think this is a good time to attempt that approach. Too much happening on the street that will get us thrown in jail or worse. You can contact me tomorrow. You still have my card?”

  “Yes,” Crowley commented as he remembered the card. “Impressive printing”.

  “Thank you,” Garvey responded. “I set it up myself.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I was trained as a printer.”

  Garvey turned to look at the crowd one more time and turned back to Crowley. “I guess it’s not your Will today to find Nikola Tesla,” he smirked and walked off.

  Crowley watched him move away and kept this new bit of information in mind. A printer was someone he needed all the time. A good printer could make or destroy a publication.

  Crowley turned and began the slow walk back to his current lodgings. The sun set an hour ago. He needed to get to someplace warm before his artist benefactor decided to lock up for the night. Although he could always rap on the door, there was no guarantee the artist would be there to open it. The artist had taken to spending time away from the garret as of late. He didn’t want to talk about why he did this, but Crowley felt it had something to do with the man’s estranged relationship with his parents. They’d never approved of their son’s career choice, although the man was a talented painter. He’d created a favorite portrait of him. It showed Crowley as a seated Buddhist in a yoga position.

  He stopped when he saw the woman ahead. She was by herself on a street lit by a faint gas lamp. She turned to Crowley and smiled. At first, he thought she might be a lady of the evening, but remembered they didn’t ply their trade in this part of town. The great and the good regulated that business to another part of Manhattan.

  She tossed her hair and walked into a shop to her front. She didn’t care if he watched her or not. Crowley was certain the woman gave him a suggestive smile as she left the street.

  Could she have been Babalon? He wondered. The appearance of Her today was unnerved him. He was scared she could manifest at any time.

  Chapter 4

  April 2, 1917

  “There’s a letter for you on the table,” the artist told him the next morning. He’d been home the night before, at work on a new painting when Crowley rapped on the door.

  Still trying to chase the sleep out of his eyes, Crowley walked over to the table and picked it up.

  It was from his estate manager in Scotland. Crowley took a deep breath and tore open the envelope. It didn’t take him long to read it. Finished, he tossed it in the trash and sat down on the worn chair near the door to the hallway. Crowley stared at the floor.

  “What’s wrong?” the artist asked, as he looked up from the easel where the latest portrait sat.

  “They’ve sold my house,” he fumed. “The money was used to pay off my creditors in England.”

  “Are you getting any money out of the sale at all?”

  “Not a farthing. All of the money went to my debtors.” He swore and tried to figure out what to do next.

  “I don’t understand it,” the artist spoke again. “How are they allowed to do this if you own the property? Did you give your estate manager the power to sell the house while you were gone?”

  “No!” Crowley fumed. “He did it on his own. The press over there is calling me a traitor because of what I tried to do with the Irish cause and because I worked for a German American newspaper. The man took it upon himself to sell it all and be rid of any association with me.”

  “He told you that in the letter?”

  “No, but I can tell by the way he worded it. Now, I’m worse off than before.”

  “Look on the sunny side,” the artist returned. “You don’t have to worry about the place. What did you call it?”

  “Boleskine House,” Crowley replied. “I’d wanted to keep it a holy site for others to use. I mentioned it specifically in some of my meditations and rites. People are supposed to face it at certain times.”

  “Wanted your own private Mecca, eh?”

  Crowley glared at the man and let the insult pass. “I’d hoped to return to it, but now that won’t happen for a long time. I may never get it back.”

  He stood up from the chair and put his coat on. Crowley opened the door and turned back to the artist.

  “Will you be here tonight?” he asked him. “I have no idea when I’ll return.”

  “I plan on being here the next few days, won’t need to leave town until this weekend.”

  “Good,” Crowley spoke. He left and shut the door behind him.

  He walked down the stairs, his mind on Tesla. Now that he knew where Tesla lived, it shouldn’t be that difficult to locate him. Crowley emerged into the morning air of another day.

  It was Monday, the first day of the workweek for this megapolis. Crowley found himself here after leaving England years ago. He’d thought it would be fertile ground for Thelema, but his reputation had preceded him. Crowley couldn’t get anyone to listen to him. No matter how many tarots card readings or how often he consulted the Book of Changes, it came out the same time. Oh, he could find an audience for his ideas on the relations between men and women, but those people never stayed around long.

  He looked up at the tall buildings in front of him and marveled at how new they were. It wasn’t the capability, New York City lagged behind London in building techniques. It had plenty of labor flooding into the city every year.

  He paused and looked down the street at a family working their way in his general direction. They consisted of a mother and children. She pulled several girls behind her. The woman had to be Jewish from the way she wore her clothes and covered her head. The Hebrews seemed to have come here to find a home they couldn’t anywhere else in the world.

  He watched them pass by and heard a multitude of words in a strange tongue as they continued on their way. He recognized a few words in Hebrew, but most of what they said was undecipherable to him. They had to be speaking that strange dialect that the ones from Eastern Europe used. Yiddish, he seemed to recall it being called.

  Today, he decided to walk the distance from the garret room to the hotel where Tesla lived. It wasn’t that difficult, so long as you remembered to avoid the bad areas. At least everything in Manhattan was built on a grid pattern, more or less. Back in Europe, some of the cities were thousands of years old and you could find yourself lost down a maze of streets that had no name. The side streets were even worse.

  By now, the traffic had increased to a point where the noise was hard to avoid. Crowley despised the modern motorcar that belched out smoke and ran over everything in its path. He hated the noise they made and how the wheels spun dirt everyplace. Still, they weren’t much worse than the horses, which dropped dung all over the streets. At least the city still employed people to clean up the horse mess, not much could be done about exhaust fumes as they vented into the air.

  He walked at a steady pace, always on the lookout for Her. If Babalon could manifest herself to him in a park, She could appear anywhere. However, this time She chose to keep her appearance from him. Crowley knew She’d return, but it would be at a time of Her own choosing. He sighed and continued to walk.

  He stopped for a moment when he noticed a young man selling newspapers at an intersection. There was something about the youth that attracted him. He saw the man, who could be no more than twenty-five, look him in the eyes. With all that was on his mind, now was not the time for any dalliance with a member of either sex. He still felt a strange pull. Crowley stopped and made his way over to the vendor, who was on the corner.

  “How much is the paper, lad?” he asked. The newspaper seller, who had dark hair and eyes to match, seemed not to hear what Crowley said.

  As he felt around in his pockets for coins, the vendor handed the newspaper to him. “For you it is free,�
� he spoke. “Mr. Crowley.”

  He took it from him. “How did you know my name?” Crowley spoke. He then remembered whom the vendor resembled.

  Viktor Neuberg. One of the adepts he missed the most. A young man with so much potential. What was he doing here? Wasn’t’ “Vicky” supposed to be serving in the army on the Eastern Front?

  Crowley looked down at the paper. He saw “Tesla Kidnapped!” blazoned on the front cover in huge letters. Below the headline was a standard depiction of the Serbian inventor. It was an older drawing, but one everyone would recognize.

  The article went on to detail how three men broke into Tesla’s laboratory the previous evening and demanded a particular notebook. It was the one where he kept a record of his latest designs. Tesla refused. The criminals forced him at gunpoint to come with him in a car that was waiting outside. The article concluded with a warning that enemy saboteurs were everywhere and Americans should be vigilant at all times.

  This was horrible. Tesla abducted? Not only did it cost him the interview, but also it meant there was some truth to Tesla’s ranting the day before. Even if Earth wasn’t doomed from a celestial object from beyond, someone took Tesla seriously enough to send people out after him.

  The article mentioned that the abductors had smashed many things in Tesla’s laboratory. It concluded with the address of his lab and a plea to give any information that could be used to rescue him to the local police.

  Crowley folded the paper up and placed it under his arm. The first thing he needed to do was go over to the address listed for Tesla’s laboratory. It wasn’t far from where he stood this very moment. Perhaps there would be police there and they might be able to let him know how the investigation was progressing.

  “Thank you,” he said to the man who reminded him of Neuberg, but found himself facing empty space.

  The vendor was gone. Crowley didn’t even hear the man leave. He stood there stunned. Crowley thought about asking several of the people around the intersection if they’d seen where the newspaper seller went. Instead, he decided to head over to the address listed in the paper.

  He reached the location in about thirty minutes. Crowley wanted to run, but decided that a portly Englishman rushing down a street in Manhattan wasn’t a good idea. He didn’t like the way the police eyed him from time to time and preferred to stay out of their vision. The streets increased in traffic as he hurried down the road on his way to the location, a small workshop in an old factory district.

  As he approached it, Crowley saw the signs of the working classes everywhere. The fancy shops disappeared. They were replaced by corner candy shops and neighborhood saloons. He rushed past them, intent on finding the workshop listed in the paper. Several times, he stopped to consult the street signs and tried to remember if he was in the right part of town.

  From what the paper briefly told about the space, it was a shabby affair that was a former spoon factory. The current owner broke the property up into smaller rooms and shops. Several families lived on the second floor. Crowley wondered if they knew the kind of work Tesla did. He doubted anyone would want to live over a man who liked to create his own lightning.

  The building was only three stories high and sat behind a row of similar buildings. From the sounds that came out of them, Crowley could tell they were still used for industrial production. He noted several groups of men standing outside, one with a cigarette, who wore leather aprons. This was not a place anyone would want to spend time at unless they had to be there.

  He walked down an alley decorated with trash and used tin cans. Crowley hurried toward the location of Tesla's workshop. It was supposed to be on the ground floor, but he couldn’t be sure. Too rushed to consult the paper again, Crowley found the address just as he was ready to head back and ensure he had the right street.

  There were only a few windows to let the sunlight into the shops. Crowley walked up the stone steps and peered at the cards on the mailboxes. There it was; the one for N. Tesla. He hurried down the hallway and found the door to the workspace. It was open slightly, so no reason to knock.

  Inside, the place was every bit the mess described by the news article. Benches over-turned, boxes tossed on the floor and pages ripped out of scientific publications. Glassware was smashed and metal coils strewn over the floor. Someone had turned the place upside down in their attempt to locate something.

  The destruction was fresh, he could tell by the fluid that hadn’t dried on the floor. This all took place a few hours ago. He tried to step over the broken glass, but it was everywhere.

  As Crowley left the workshop, he spotted a man staring at him from the other end of the hall. This had to be one of the local tradesmen. He wore faded clothes and a beard growth that was several days in progress.

  “Did you see what happened over at Tesla’s place?” Crowley asked him as he left the building.

  “Who?” the man asked him.

  “Nikola Tesla,” Crowley answered. “The inventor. Tall thin gentleman with an accent.”

  “Oh, him,” the man remembered. “I never could figure out what was wrong with that man. Did something bad happen to him?”

  “His workshop is a mess. The paper had a story on it this morning. Some men came in there and smashed things up.”

  “I suppose he owed the wrong people money,” the man commented. “That’s what usually causes that sort of thing to happen.”

  The man turned and went up the stairs to the second floor.

  Crowley stood there, unable to believe that the man had so little concern for someone of Tesla’s standing. He turned and walked out of the building the same way he’d entered it.

  Checking his pockets once again, Crowley decided he had enough money to take a train all the way up to Hearst’s mansion. Hearst would want to know about Tesla’s kidnapping and he might be able to help. He’d be able to accomplish a few things the local police wouldn’t.

  He caught the nearest train he could find and took it uptown. Today, the train car was filled with working people going to and from jobs. No one spoke much and the few conversations he heard around him weren’t in English. He sat quietly in the train and waited for his stop. Several times, he thought about pulling out the paper to read, then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Besides, he didn’t like reading anything in the bouncing train cars.

  The chauffer at front of Hearst’s mansion nodded to him as he walked down the drive. This time the servant recognized him as he knocked on the back entrance to Hearst’s mansion.

  “Mr. Crowley,” the servant spoke to him. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, even if Mr. Hearst told me you might be coming back. Shall I see if Mr. Hearst is available again?”

  “Yes,” Crowley responded. “If I can speak with him, it would be good. Something of great importance has come up and I need to talk with him.”

  Crowley sat down on the bench outside, hat in hand. He didn’t expect to wait very long this time and wasn’t disappointed.

  The door opened and the servant looked down at Crowley. “Mr. Hearst will see you now,” was all he needed to say.

  Once again, Crowley followed the manservant through the elegant mansion to Hearst’s study. There was no need to knock this time. The servant opened the door and allowed Crowley to go inside unattended.

  Hearst was seated at this desk. He looked up from a stack of papers before him and seemed surprised.

  “So soon, Mr. Crowley?” he asked. “I am surprised at your resourcefulness.”

  “I’ve been to Tesla’s workshop,” Crowley told the newspaper publisher. “He’s been abducted. Someone searched it before they left with him. They thoroughly destroyed the inside best as they could, but I don’t think they found what they wanted.”

  “What are you talking about?” Hearst asked him. “Has something happened to Tesla?”

  “Kidnapped yesterday by roughnecks. I assumed your papers would have something on it and you would know by now.”

  Hearst gave h
im a puzzled look. “Mr. Crowley, this is the first I’ve ever heard of it. Where did you get this information?”

  Crowley was stunned. “But I read about it this very morning. Do you mean to tell me your newspapers don’t know about the incident?”

  Hearst swept his hand over a series of front-page editions on the desk before him. “Do you see any mention of it?” he asked.

  Crowley bent over the desk and looked down. Not one single headline had anything to do with the Tesla abduction. All of them had to do with the upcoming congressional vote on war with Germany.

  “But I don’t understand,” Crowley spoke to him. “It’s on the front page in this publication.” Crowley took out the newspaper from under his arm and handed it to Hearst.

  “The Enochian Times?” Hearst spoke as he read the name of the paper. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of this one. Granted there are many newspapers around these parts that I’ve never encountered, but I thought I knew about all the ones in Manhattan. Where did you get this?” He looked up, puzzled at Crowley.

  “I bought it from a vendor on a corner,” Crowley told him. “And not that far from where the incident happened. I went over to the location mentioned in the article and found his workshop a bloody mess. Someone had tried to find whatever he didn’t give them and now it’s in a terrible state.”

  By now, Hearst was in the process of examining the newspaper in front of him. He seemed confused.

  “I admit this does appear to be a legitimate paper,” he told Crowley. “For a second I thought this might be some kind of joke. However, this paper before me appears to be authentic. It’s full of ads and local stories. I need to check and see where it’s published later, would like to find out how they got the jump on us as regards to the Tesla kidnapping. I’ll have one of my boys in the newsroom get on it right away.”

  Crowley didn’t tell him about the vendor who resembled Viktor Neuberg or how he’d vanished the moment he turned back to him. If the secret chiefs were involved with this, anything was possible. Best not to bring it up to Hearst until later.