The God Machine (6 page)

“That's the place. My good friend, Provincial Secretary Logan—who tarries in the Bake and Brew as we speak—has promised them five pounds and five hundred acres apiece. They'll start on the bed of the old Durham road, make haste past Red Hill, dining at Wilson's, the trader, before crossing the Lehigh a mile below Bethlehem. They'll breach the Blue Mountains at Smith's Gap, in time to sleep on the north side of the mountain. Then, at sunrise, they'll continue on the old Indian path that leads from the hunting grounds of the Susquehannas down to the Delaware River near Bristol. It's the same route the Indians used to follow on their visits to my father here in Pennsbury.”

“You know what the heathen will say: that the walk should have been made
up
the Delaware; that your men walked too fast, or they ran; that they didn't stop occasionally to shoot game, or to smoke or to eat…”

“Let the Indians say what they will. It won't matter. By the time they bring it to council, the land will be mine.”

“How far will they walk, by your estimate?”

“About seventy miles. That's what they accomplished the first time.”

“The first time?”

“Yes, they had a practice run when we first blazed the trail.”

“Seventy miles!”

“I'd say more than a million acres. One and a quarter, perhaps. An area the size of Rhode Island.”

Church Elder Andrews struggled to his feet once again. He lifted his glass. “I commend you, Proprietor. A million and a quarter acres,” he muttered, half under his breath. “A fortune.”

“More than enough to remove our impediments.
Including that troublesome printer.” Penn finished the last of his brandy. He wiped his mouth with a kerchief which he plucked from his sleeve. Then he smiled and looked down upon Andrews. “We'll either buy Franklin or bury him.”

J
OSEPH
K
OSTER HAD BEEN INVITED TO
N
ICK
R
OBINSON'S
summer house at Point O'Woods several times through the years, had attended more than his share of Nick's Soho soirées, but judging from the celebrities milling about on the deck of the five-thirty ferry from Bay Shore, Long Island, tonight was going to be different. Koster recognized local politicians, including the new governor of New York, movie actors and Broadway stars, business luminaries and TV media personalities. There were models and aspiring rock stars, concert pianists and painters, and, of course, there were writers, including the author of that best-selling new biography of President Alder. And they all carried the identical tote bag, of royal blue Kevlar with the Compass Press seal on the side. The bag had been a part of the invitation, complete with beach towels and sunscreen.

The first Friday in June was the date of the annual Robinson bash. The sun might be eclipsed, the moon halved in phases, the stars might spin from the sky, but
every year, rain or shine, you could set your watch by the Robinson party.

Joseph Koster stared out across the Sound, at the distant line that marked the coast of Fire Island. A rather ordinary-looking man in his late forties, with sandy blond hair, pale blue eyes and a delicate nose, Koster was dressed in a long cashmere coat, midnight blue—with that one regretful burn mark on the lower right side—a summer-weight blazer, gray trousers and loafers. He was looking off to starboard, watching the lighthouse at the western end of the Fire Island National Seashore, just east of Robert Moses State Park, as it blinked and it turned. It blinked and it turned once again, warding off mariners.
Robert Moses. Robert Moses. See me!
Koster's hands played the railing like a concert piano. His long fingers danced as he counted.

The lighthouse was the work of mid-twentieth-century New York's most notorious builder, a man who had transmogrified shorelines, built roads in the sky and morphed vibrant neighborhoods into ghost towns with a wave of his hand. Koster had studied Moses's urban planning principles in architecture school. Robert Moses's decisions favoring highways over public transit had helped create the modern suburbs of Long Island, and influenced a generation of engineers and urban planners. And, in the course of redesigning the city and pre paring for the age of the highway, Moses had displaced hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers, thereby contributing to the ruin of Coney Island, the decline of public transport, the departure of the Brooklyn Dodgers…

See me, see me
, the lighthouse blinked.

Koster was not in a good mood. He had been working on a new project—a tower in Newark—and everything had been going so well when, suddenly, right out of the blue, the project had been unceremoniously yanked
from him. That very afternoon.
A conflict with the client
, the senior partner had called it.
A division of vision
. Koster laughed to himself. Well, at least they hadn't pulled the plug altogether; they had simply requested new oversight. Koster leaned over the rail and looked down at the water, the way that it tore at the bow. “Take a vacation,” the senior partner had told him. “It's been far too long, Joseph.” And then that final warning: “Use it or lose it.”

If he fell from here, Koster wondered, would he be sucked down by the currents and drowned? Or would his body be tossed into the ferry's propeller, torn apart? He performed a few mental calculations, mapping current speed to direction, when the horn blew and he was forced from his reverie. There. The Fire Island dock was finally coming into view.

Founded in 1894, the community where the Robin sons summered still maintained a level of exclusivity unusual even by Long Island standards. The oldest beach enclave on Fire Island and, some would argue, the most beautiful, Point O'Woods had been launched originally by the Chautauqua Assembly as a religious retreat, offering discussions on cultural and political topics, lectures on languages, cooking and photography, seminars on physical and spiritual development. Foremost amongst the community's guiding principles was the importance of family. While other communities were regarded as “family-oriented,” P.O.W. made it a rule. No one without children could live there. Prospective buyers had to be recommended by at least two existing members. Each suffered through an agonizing battery of interviews before being introduced as “guests” to the community. Only after renting for a minimum of a year did one become eligible to buy. This careful screening process, plus the emphasis on children, helped explain why there were so
many third-, fourth-and even fifth-generation families in residence. Nick Robinson was a fifth-generation Point O'Woodser.

The ferry finally docked and the passengers gathered up their dark blue bags with the Compass Press logo and disembarked. Soon, a line of guests made their way up the trail by the community's tiny commercial center: a grocery store, a candy shop, a post office. But no liquor store, Koster noticed. Even in the face of ongoing onslaughts by Manhattan's A-list, Point O'Woods still managed to retain the old-world charm of a private beach community.

The passengers filed up the path, across several raised walkways that straddled the dunes. Most of the guests were staying at the Club House, a sprawling clapboard structure, complete with tennis courts and a health spa housed in an unfortunate extension. Only a few, like Koster, were bunking at the Robinsons'. Well, strictly speaking, Koster thought, Robinson didn't actually own the property. Families were sold ninety-nine-year leases. Koster struggled up the hill, circled a stand of pines and the house finally came into view.

Robinson's “cottage” was a huge gray-shingled three-story cape, with eight bedrooms, a solarium and a large widow's walk on the roof. The structure sat on a promontory overlooking the ocean, at the far end of P.O.W., only a few hundred yards from the Sunken Forest. A path ran down to the beach by a boathouse, to a long wooden jetty that jutted out into the bay.

Koster mounted the steps. Like the widow's walk on the roof, the porch wrapped around the entire circumference of the house. Bloodred geraniums and lavender hyacinths dangled from planters that hung down from hand-carved details in the arches. The sound of children's laughter blew in off the beach. Someone was barbecuing
somewhere, he noticed. Koster dropped his overnight bag on the porch, and sighed. Despite the pastoral scene, the decompressing boat ride, the mind-numbing perfumes of summer, he felt an unshakeable weight at the heart of his being. He could barely stretch out his fingers to reach for the knocker—a kind of mermaid—when the front door swung open. It was Theresa, Robinson's wife.

Theresa smiled and opened the screen door. “I saw you coming up the walk. I'm glad you could make it, Joseph. Nick's been anxious to see you. Here, let me help you with that.”

Mrs. Robinson grabbed his overnight bag and carried it into the foyer. She was a beautiful woman, always had been, with sparkling brown eyes, long brown hair and a regal yet unpretentious demeanor. She was wearing a white cotton blouse, tight-fitting black slacks and black Top-Siders. Her unassuming manner belied the fact that, like Nick, she had grown up in startling affluence, the sole progeny of Bill and Anne Huntington, of the Texas Huntingtons—oil and gas. Educated in Europe, like Koster, she had studied art and art history, and had even written a book on da Vinci. “You're looking well, Joseph,” she said, standing back and taking him in. “You've gained weight. You were too skinny before. No more dreams?”

“Just occasionally.”

Theresa Robinson smiled. “It's a pleasure to discover there are still some constants in the universe. You are, and always will be, a bad liar, Joseph,” she said.

Koster began to stammer out a rebuttal when Macalister, Nick's man, appeared in the hallway at the far end of the foyer. “Mr. Koster,” he said. “Mr. Robinson's expecting you.”

Theresa patted Koster on the arm. “I'll have your bag
brought to your room. You run ahead. You might want to freshen up before meeting the guests at the Club.”

“The guests? What am I, then?”

Theresa smiled. “Why, Joseph. You don't count.” She turned and hurried away down the hall, trailing the words, “You're practically family.”

R
OBERT
M
ACALISTER LED
K
OSTER UPSTAIRS, DOWN THE LONG
narrow corridor—splashed with photos of sailing regattas—all the way to Robinson's study. It had once been a bedroom, but Robinson had transformed the guest suite into an office and gallery. Paintings were stacked up against the far wall, some by coveted artists, some unknown. Koster wondered if Robinson had a good security system in place to keep out intruders. The collection was worth a small fortune.

Three bay windows looked out over the beach and the flint gray Atlantic beyond. A cherry wood desk, made by Nick Robinson's great-grandfather, stood beside the central window, its surface littered with books. Nick Robinson was nowhere to be seen. Koster circled the room, keeping a wary eye on Macalister. “Where's Nick?” he inquired.

“Mr. Robinson will be here shortly.”

Koster stopped behind Robinson's desk. The panels and drawers were inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Nick had placed a green leather mat with mauve blotting paper
on the surface. An inkwell and quill stand stood off to one side, by a malachite letter opener and a leather-bound book. “What is it, Macalister?” Koster said. He could feel the man staring at him.

“What's what, sir?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I'm waiting for Mr. Robinson.”

“You don't trust me very much, do you?”

Macalister smiled. “Not at all, sir,” he began to protest.

Koster didn't know how to respond. He glanced down at the desk, at that book with the tan leather binding. It was open. The text was in English but the words didn't make any sense. The lines were clustered together in long sets of three. The door closed with a bang.