Wardenclyffe · Shoreham, New York · 4:11 a.m.
Dr. Ambrose Teague had eleven minutes left and he intended to spend them walking.
The brick laboratory behind him was the last building Stanford White designed before a jealous husband shot him in the face at Madison Square Garden. Teague had always thought that was the honest epigraph for this place. Everything here had ended badly and none of it had been wrong.
The tower was gone — sold for scrap in 1917 against a hotel bill. But the foundation remained under the weeds. An octagon of concrete, and beneath it the shaft, sunk a hundred and twenty feet into Long Island sand, because Tesla had insisted that to grip the earth you must first get your hand around it.
Behind him, the woman was still coming. She had not hurried once.
That was the detail he could not stop noticing, even with his shirt going warm and heavy against his ribs. She walked at a fixed rate. She had walked at that rate through the parking lot, through the treeline, through the twenty minutes it took her to find him, and she was walking at it still. A metronome inside a person. Teague had spent forty-one years measuring things and he knew a calibrated instrument when he saw one.
"Doctor." Her voice was pleasant. "You've made your point. Where is it?"
He did not answer. He put his left foot down, then his right, and he counted.
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