Tunnel Vision (26 page)

“The preliminary data do show a lot of sensory activity.”

“But?”

“But so did other suspensions that turned out to be flash dreams after we ran the math.”

“So when will you know?”

“In a day or so.”

Bruce was in the car and waiting for him in the parking lot alongside the building.

“She keeps asking me if I was alone in these dream visions or whatever they are. Is that something you can determine?”

“That’s what we’re hoping. Which means separating out the neuroelectrical signature of your own mind from other data we’ve picked up. If the other neurodata can be identified as an external sentience, it would be a major leap. Are you okay for another run?”

He really didn’t know. Standing in those woods and facing that mute hooded figure was not something he was yearning to return to. Yet he felt compelled by a bizarre sense that these suspensions had produced a queer narrative—but one that seemed to be growing darker, more secret.

Secrets from the grave.
Luria’s words swooped across his mind like that bird. “I suppose.”

“See you soon.” She gave him a hug, and he left with the driver.

44

Roman’s weapon of choice for assignments was the 9 mm Beretta 92FS Parabellum. Its name derived from the Latin,
Si vis pacem, para bellum,
meaning “If you seek peace, prepare for war”—which could have been Roman’s own motto these days.

What he liked about the Beretta was its accuracy at high distances. The manufacturer boasted a flat trajectory for a hundred meters, but Roman didn’t need that in his trade, since most kills were up close. And the 9 mm had lethal stopping power. Especially important was the long barrel, which added to the noise suppression provided by a silencer. Silencers didn’t really silence the way they did in the movies, they only reduced the gunshot to maybe a hundred decibels. Like car mufflers, they contained and dissipated the hot gases from the exploding propellants, suppressing a much louder escape blast. Thus, the longer the gun barrel, the better the suppression.

Every couple of weeks, Roman would bring his Beretta to the Pawtucket Rifle and Pistol Club to shoot off a box of rounds. He had done this for years, even after officially retiring. He’d love to fit the weapon with one of his suppressors, except that they were illegal for private ownership in Rhode Island or Massachusetts. Only the military or police could use them. So he wore his ear mufflers and fired full blast at various distances. He did, however, bring his own special-order paper targets, which came in a wide variety, from the dart target board to deer silhouettes to human silhouettes. Today he was shooting at a slightly demonic blackened skull with the bull’s-eye on the forehead. He liked that because it reminded him of the devil. No matter what the target, range shooting was great therapy—pure eye–hand coordination and a chance to clear his mind of the usual debris.

But his thoughts today kept coming back to that fucking Kashian kid.

What he knew confused him. Here’s this kid who quotes the Lord’s Prayer in the original while half-dead. A bunch of people flock to him for miracles, some feeling Jesus in the room, some smelling roses of the Virgin Mary. Yet Devereux claimed that they were testing him, hoping to confirm the spirit world was real—and maybe the reason Roman had been hired to pop the scientists. That made no sense.

He went online and looked up “near-death experience,” finding hundreds of reports. Most accounts were firsthand testimonials of people who nearly died in hospitals or in accidents, then went sailing down tunnels to a bright, happy paradise where they met with the spirits of dead loved ones and holy ghosts.

He also found Christian Web sites dealing with NDEs—Web sites that outright condemned attempts to contact dead relatives or saints, claiming that “great spiritual dangers” awaited those who made such attempts. Apparently those interactions weren’t with dead loved ones or Jesus, but with demons—or Satan himself, hoping to lead victims away from dependence on God. The worst offenders were NDE charlatans who exploited victims of grief. One blogger claimed that the death of a loved one should drive us into God’s loving arms, not New Age books full of lies and false hope.

The complete disparity in claims not only quickened Roman’s curiosity, but blurred his theological mission. He took aim at his target and put five holes in the skull’s forehead, thinking that he’d better check out this kid at close range.

45

“We have a little surprise for you,” said Dr. Luria on the phone the next Tuesday. “No suspensions tonight, and please come dressed up.”

That was all she told him, except to meet at the usual pickup spot near Symphony Hall.

Zack’s sole dress-up wardrobe consisted of a blue blazer, a pair of chinos, and a blue shirt. His one tie was balled up with a pair of dress socks. He ironed that, and at six sharp he was at the corner of Huntington and Massachusetts Avenues, picked up this time by a Lincoln Town Car, not Bruce in the SUV. And the driver came with a personality.

“Where we going?” Zack said, getting in.

“The Taj Boston.”

He had heard of it and knew it wasn’t exactly a grad student hangout. “Sounds good.”

“I take it you’re not from around here.”

He didn’t want to sound dumb, given that he was born and raised just ten miles out of town. “Nope, just arrived.”

“Where from?”

“Maine.” He had no idea why he said that.

A few minutes later, the driver pulled up to the corner of Arlington and Newbury at the doors of the most elegant hotel Zack had ever been to. When the driver let him out, Zack fumbled for money, but the man said that was all taken care of.

“Tenth floor.” He handed him a card: “Commonwealth Suite.” “Enjoy your stay in Boston.”

Zack thanked him and went inside, instantly aware of his have-not status. The lobby was bustling with people dressed in high-end clothing and looking as if they had stepped out of travel posters. Along the foyer were glittering shops and window displays of designer clothing and jewelry and a fancy café. The interior of the elevator looked like a jewelry box. At the tenth floor, Sarah greeted him, wearing an emerald green sheath that nearly knocked the wind out of Zack. “Dazzling,” he whispered.

She grinned and gave him a warm hug. “You’re looking pretty good yourself.”

She took his arm and led him through a fancy door and into an elegant suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Boston Public Garden. Several well-dressed people sat on floral sofas or stood around with cocktails. He recognized a few faces from the lab, including Morris Stern dressed in a blue blazer and Byron Cates in a smart gray suit. Uniformed staff moved through the crowd with drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Along one wall lay a sumptuous buffet elaborately arranged.

When Dr. Luria saw him, she waved expansively for them to join her small clutch of people. “Here he is,” she chortled, and gave him a hug as if he were a favorite nephew. “I want you to meet a very special person. Zack Kashian, this is Dr. Warren Gladstone.”

Gladstone was tall and lean, with a tight, boyish face that contrasted with the loose skin of his neck, making Zack think that he had had cosmetic surgery. His chocolate brown hair, which was perfectly coiffed and parted with optical precision, looked artificially colored against the gray sideburns. A bright, toothy smile lit up his face. He looked like someone you might have seen in movies.

“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to meet you,” he said, pumping Zack’s hand. “You’ve been a real asset to our program. And by the way, I’m not a medical doctor. Doctor of theology.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Zack said.
Theology?

Elizabeth put her hand on Gladstone’s arm. Beaming, she said, “Warren is a very accomplished writer and televangelist. He has so graciously supported our research. In fact, I don’t know what we’d do without him.”

“The pleasure is mine and the rewards are great,” he said. “So, you’re at Northwestern.”

“Northeastern.”

“Of course. And what’s your major?”

“I’m doing grad work in English.”

“Marvelous. English was my favorite subject at UT in Chattanooga. That’s where I discovered Shakespeare, a heaven-inspired man if there ever was one.”

Zack nodded politely as Gladstone continued nonstop to tell him about the courses he took and dramatic productions he was in, quoting various lines.

“My favorite was
Hamlet,
of course. I played Polonius.”

“Of course,” Zack said, thinking,
Typecasting
. Polonius might be the biggest windbag in Western world literature.

“I ended up second in my class in English studies. I wanted to be a poet and minored in English but decided to go into the seminary.”

A waiter came by with a tray of champagne and wine. Thankfully, Elizabeth spotted him. “Warren, why don’t we let Zack get a drink, then we can chat some more.”

“Of course. ‘A man cannot make him laugh; but that’s no marvel; he drinks no wine.’ Recognize that?”

“Sounds like Falstaff,” Zack said.

He patted Zack on the back. “Very good.
Henry the Fourth, Part 2.
Now go wet the whistle and we’ll chat later.”

Sarah joined him for a refill. As they made their way to the waiter, he whispered, “Second in his class for nonstop talking.”

“Can you imagine who took first?”

“Some kid named Tourette.”

She snickered. They got their drinks and found a private corner by the window. “Be nice,” she said. “He’s Elizabeth’s sugar daddy. That fMRI machine has his name on it.”

That made sense, since no university, government agency, or legitimate scientific institution would sponsor NDE research. “Who’re the rest of these people?”

“Friends and associates of his.”

“He must have a pretty good-size ministry.”

“Plus a few bestselling books.”

“On what?”

“Near-death experiences.”

Then the name clicked. Reverend W. G. Gladstone. “You mean like
Tunnel to Heaven
?”

“That’s him.”

“How about that?” He had read up on NDEs, and Gladstone’s book was one of the few that had hit the
New York Times
Best Seller List. Zack remembered that it had included several reports, including Gladstone’s own, claiming to have died during an asthma attack some years ago—an experience that led him to his ministry. He also had recorded accounts of NDEs from blind people, atheists, even children whose brief encounters with death triggered paranormal experiences. What distinguished Gladstone’s book was its unabashed nondenominational interpretation of near-death and afterlife experiences. It also celebrated the healing powers of a loving nondenominational “Being of Light.”

Zack also remembered scathing reviews condemning the use of Gladstone’s ministerial authority to sell books with anti-Christian notions: that no one need fear death; that God was a nonjudgmental wimp; and that heaven was an open door. One reviewer railed, “In Gladstone’s heaven, you can have a garden party at the same table with Mother Teresa and Adolf Hitler.” As expected, most of the criticism came from religious conservatives.

While they chatted, a large, bald-headed man whispered into Gladstone’s ear. As he stretched, Zack noticed a bulge under his jacket. “Who’s the guy in the gray suit?”

“I think he’s an assistant to Gladstone,” Sarah said. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”
The guy was armed.

The buffet consisted of lobster tail, shrimp Newburg, scallops, and a lot of other fancy dishes. He and Sarah ate at one of the stand-up tables located throughout the suite. He went back for seconds on the lobster. Later, Gladstone wandered over and asked Zack to move to the window where they could talk. The bald guy and another closed in on them, making a wall. Across the room, Sarah made a shrug.

“I just wanted a chance to chat privately.” He handed Zack a business card with shafts of light through a cloud. Embossed in gold was “GodLight,” under which were contact numbers and a Web site for Gladstone’s sermons. On the reverse side, an inscription:

O
URS IS A COVENANT WITH THE
L
ORD
G
OD
A
LMIGHTY TO SPREAD THE
G
OSPEL OF THE
M
ESSIAH BY MEANS OF MASS COMMUNICATIONS TO THE WHOLE WORLD
.

“Elizabeth has told me all about your remarkable test results.”

“I guess she’s pleased.” The wattle under his chin didn’t go with the smooth face.

“As you may know, I’ve researched NDEs for years and heard all sorts of inspiring claims, hoping to find hard evidence to substantiate them.”

Zack nodded, knowing where this was leading.

“Zack, I’d like to hear it directly from the horse’s mouth.” He leaned closer. “How do you explain reciting words from Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount in Aramaic?”

That was not what Zack had expected. “I really can’t.”