Tunnel Vision

by Gary Braver

  Voices. Lots of them, some he recognized. His mother. Aunt Kate. Anthony. Damian. Geoff. Beth Howard, his nurse. Also voices he didn’t recognize telling him dumb stuff like to wiggle his toes and squeeze their fingers and open his eyes. He tried to tell them that he was stuck in a foolish dream, that he’d wake soon and get hustling.

  But as in all dreams, he had no control. He could hear them but couldn’t respond. Couldn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t move. It was as if he had become afflicted with some kind of paralysis. But that happened in dreams, like his legs freezing when he was being chased. He couldn’t just shake himself awake. And just as weird was how things moved in dreams, how the familiar world took on non-Cartesian logic, non-Euclidian geometry, and how gravity could be suspended.

  Like the snap of a finger, he found himself bodiless and floating above his bed—

  no, not his bed, not the one in his apartment, with the blue paisley spread his mother had bought, but a bed all in white in a strange room with colorless walls and IVs dripping and flickering, beeping machines—

  and all those people were standing around him making demands. He could see them. And he could see himself in the bed, but from above, as if he were some kind of ectoplasm hovering in the air, and below was himself: dead asleep, eyes shut, face colorless and shrunken, head roughly shaven and cocked on a pillow, arms gaunt and limp by his sides, with tubes and wires running from them and his gut to drips and bags and monitors like so many umbilical cords.

  A hospital room, of course. He was asleep in a hospital room for unknown reasons.

  And his mother was holding his hand and weeping. Also Anthony—a big guy with pecs like gladiator plates and biceps like muskmelons, fidgeting over his bedridden pal—and beside him Geoff, whose big toothy grin and exuberant face had given way to a solemn mask as he, too, beheld the sleeping figure. And Damian—pale, lean, angular Damian with that sincere ascetic face and premature bald spot, looking like a monk in a medieval painting before the reposed figure in sainthood.

  “Glossowhat?”

  “Gibberish.”

  Anthony. He recognized the voice, but the view outside was wrong. Nothing lay beyond the window. No buildings, no grasslands, no river, no woods—as if fog had clotted the view. Then someone in a low voice said, “This is good. Right here.” The next moment, the wind blew sand in his face, filling his eyes and mouth. And his chest felt as if something were threatening to press the life out of him.

  Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe, and mouth filling.

  “Open your eyes. Open your eyes.”

  Can’t. Got sand in them. Can’t breathe. Chest crushed. Heart’s stopped.

  Why was this happening? What did they want from him?

  Then the lights went on and they were all around him, dressed like picture cards—jacks and kings and queens, black and red, spots all over them—as if he were being hauled away by creatures from some Lewis Carroll looking-glass world. And one jack raised his spade and brought it down full force onto his face, disintegrating into granules that filled his eyes, mouth, and ears. And all went black.

  It’s God’s punishment.

  He floated above the scene and could see the bloody knob of his head, a broken bicycle on the street, lights, and people swarmed around the twisted body in the gutter.

  “Wake up. Please wake up.”

  His mother. She was calling to him over the vast expanse. She wanted him to open his eyes. But every time he did, they would fill with sand.

  Then he found himself alone again, moving down a gauzy, featureless corridor. But, strangely, he couldn’t feel his feet or solid ground under his shoes (a bright white pair of Nikes!). Yet he was moving through a dim tunnel as if traversing some realm between consciousness and unconsciousness—or maybe this world and the next. As he moved toward the light, he became aware of how totally alone he was. No more voices, no more people, no more sense of his family and friends by his side. Alone in this funnel of mist.

  Then that changed.

  Suddenly he became aware of another’s presence—as if someone had sidled up to him. He looked around but saw no one, just the gray nothingness. Yet he knew in his heart of hearts that someone else was near him just beyond the threshold of perception.

  As he proceeded, he heard a voice, a familiar voice, saying something in a language he couldn’t decipher. And it was coming from the bright end ahead of him. He picked up his pace, and the harder he listened, the more familiar the voice sounded, but the words were meaningless.

  As the light got brighter, he stirred, feeling the softness of the bed beneath him. Summoning every fiber of will, he forced open his eyes. Caked with matter, they cracked open to the light. Bright white light. White walls. White ceiling. White sheets. The impressions of his legs running down the length of the bed. Tubes. Wires, beeps. The same hospital room, of course. And with a burst of air he woke himself up.

  “Dad?”

  The room was empty. Soundless but for the muffled beeps of machines. But the single syllable resonated in his ears. Alone, he closed his eyes to get back. A moment later, he slipped back into the tunnel, now lost in darkness.

  False alarm.

  9

  On the third day, Roman Pace returned to St. Pius Church just outside of Providence. He had no idea why he had been asked to return for his penance or to further confer with the priest. But he feared a setup.

  It was a Tuesday morning, and he showed up two hours early. The church parking lot was empty, and so were the few cars parked on the street of the residential neighborhood. He drove around the block several times, finally convinced that cops weren’t staked out anywhere. He entered the church fifteen minutes before ten. The interior was empty, and two candles burned up front. The only other light streamed through the stained-glass windows.

  He walked the full length of the nave to be certain that he was alone. No one, not even the priest, was in sight. He went outside again and saw nobody. And the sixth sense that years in his trade had honed did not alert him to an ambush. When satisfied, he went back inside and entered the confessional to wait for the priest. Even if police were staked out, he had not incriminated himself.

  He carried no weapon. In fact, he had not carried one since his last kill. That was four months ago, when he had suffered a heart attack and decided to give up contract work. Yes, he missed the money because the recession had hurt his auto body business as people stopped coming in with dings, dents, and fender benders. Furthermore, as an independent, he could not compete with chains that cut pricing deals with insurance companies. Nearing his fifty-second year, he reminded himself, while sitting in the confessional, that his father had died of a coronary thrombosis at fifty-five and his mother a year later of a stroke.

  What had brought him to this booth the other day was his reaching out to God. Lying in that hospital bed four months ago and fearing he was going to die, he had sent up a prayer from the bottom of his soul that he would give up the killing if God would spare his life. The next night, he could have sworn that Jesus had appeared to him. It was probably just a dream, because he looked like the Jesus in the picture his mother had on her bureau—a tall figure in white standing on a hillside with people gathered around his feet, listening. And beneath it the Ninety-first Psalm. He could still recall the words:

  He shall call upon me, and I will answer him:

  I will be with him in trouble;

  I will deliver him, and honor him.

  With long life will I satisfy him,

  And show him my salvation.

  But as Roman sat in the dim light waiting for the priest, he recalled the promise of those words and the bargain he had made. He had fully recovered, certain in the belief that God had answered his prayer and forgiven him. Certain that while he lay in his hospital bed, God had visited him like one of the guys from the body shop or softball team. And he knew because he could feel something happen inside his soul—something that told him that God was real. And that God had actually loved h
im enough to have intervened, telling him, You still have some work to do, so let me help clean you up.

  A little after ten, Roman heard someone enter the other side. Because of the low light and screen, he couldn’t see the profile of Father Callahan.

  “Good morning, my son.”

  “Good morning, Father,” Roman said. Then he began: “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The words tumbled out of his mouth like gravel. It was the second time in forty years he had uttered them.

  “Would you care to confess your sins, my son?”

  The voice did not sound like that of Father Timothy Callahan. This was a different priest. “I was here three days ago.”

  “Yes, I know,” the voice replied. “But I still need to hear your confession.”

  Roman felt his chest clench. A setup—the guy on the other side was a fucking cop, his backup hiding in the pews or behind the altar. “You’re not Father Callahan.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m a brother in spirit and am bound by the same vows of confidentiality. Father Callahan is a new priest and shared with me the special circumstances. But I can assure you that what is said in this confessional is strictly confidential.”

  Brother in spirit? “What about Father Callahan? How can I trust that he’s not shared my confession with others?”

  “He hasn’t. He’s bound by the holy sacrament and his sacred vows.”

  Maybe Roman’s sins were so awful that the young priest had to call in a heavy hitter—a bishop, maybe, or even a cardinal. “I’ve committed mortal sins.”

  “God will hear your sins.”

  “I killed some people and want to redeem myself.”

  “I see. It’s good that you want redemption. Let us pray that God forgives you for your sins and gives you guidance and strength.”

  Through the decorative grate, Roman could hear the man praying. The last time Roman was in the presence of a priest was when he was a teenager. His mother had made him go to church, and he’d hated every moment of it—an hour plus of mumbo-jumbo, half in Latin, half in bloated threats. The only matters that held his attention were stories about saints being crucified or roasted alive. For more Sundays than he cared to count, he sat numb-butted on hard pews that smelled of Murphy’s Oil Soap. But instead of losing himself in it all, he watched others lock into complex rituals of praying, kneeling, standing, and crossing themselves. And never once did he feel any mystery or peace—just near terminal boredom, surrounded by a lot of people going through the motions out of duty, fear, and hope. As for confession, he went because Father Infantino insisted he go. That had always struck him as silly—a way to shed guilt and get a free pass to sin some more.

  Now, sitting in this oaken box, he could not repress a deep unease that took him back to those days at St. Luke’s at the south end of Hartford, where Father Infantino tried to pound the fear of God into his adolescent brain.

  “Were you were raised Roman Catholic?”

  “Yes—early on.”

  “So, you strayed from your faith.”

  “Something like that.”

  “What made you choose this parish to return?”

  “I guess it’s like the traditional Catholicism I grew up with.”

  From what he knew, St. Pius Church still held sacred pre–Vatican II dogma, resisting efforts to modernize the Church—holding fast to the sanctity of the literal Bible, the Latin mass, the dress codes for women, the firm stand on divorce, and the conviction that there was no salvation for those outside the Roman Catholic Church. The parish also rejected reconciliation with the Jews. From what Roman had heard, St. Pius Church was a small, white, conservative enclave of traditionalist worshippers who upheld Catholic purity within a Church that had become too liberal and a culture that rejected God’s Word. Given his sins, Roman figured that he needed a ministry of severe unction.

  “Then we welcome you back, my son, but know that your sins are very heavy.”

  “I know and I’m asking forgiveness.”

  “Good, and no matter how heavy, there is a way back to God, my son.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “But for such special circumstances, special sanctions are necessary. Do you believe in God the Father Almighty and his son Jesus Christ our savior?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe that God answers prayers?”

  “Yes, and I ask that He save my soul.”

  “He will because God sees you and He loves you. And He will welcome you home.”

  Roman took in the comfort of those words. “Thank you, Father.”

  “Do you believe in evil?”

  “Evil?” The question caught him off guard. “I guess. There’s a lot of it out there.”

  “So it seems. Do you believe in the devil?”

  “No, not really.”

  “So you believe only people are evil.”

  “Yeah. Because evil is what people do, what gives them pleasure.”

  “I see. Did you get pleasure from your profession?”

  Roman picked up on the careful wording, though he was beginning to wonder about the direction of the interrogation. “It was a job, and I was good at it.”

  “You did it for money, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what do you think are the motivations of evil?”

  “I never thought about that. I guess lots of motivations—power, money…”

  “No, only one: revenge. It is the one true source of evil in the world. All other motivations—power, money, lust—they’re mere variations. Revenge. It’s what Satan taught mankind. It’s his sole motive: getting back at God. You plied your trade to get back at the economic inequities in your life, correct?”

  Plied your trade. The guy was being discreet, knowing that Roman was looking for any sign of a trap. “I guess you can look at it that way.”

  “Revenge against higher forces,” he whispered. “It’s the same motive behind Satan’s attempt to overthrow God. It’s what Satan did to get back once ousted from heaven. It’s still what he does, filling the world with evil in vengeance against God. If you believe in God, my son, belief in Satan is only a half step away. He’s as real as you and I.”

  All Roman could think to say was, “Okay.”

  “Would you like to reinstate your soul with God?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Would you like to reconcile your life of sin with God, to make up for your transgressions?”

  “If I can, yeah.”

  “You can, but you must believe completely. And if you have any doubt in God’s love and forgiveness, you must ask yourself if your disbelief is worth forfeiting eternal life in paradise. And that’s what hell is—never waking up, being dead forever and not knowing it. But for those who believe, heaven is living forever in the eternal awareness of God’s love.”

  Roman was losing him. “Okay.”

  “And you are wrong about evil being solely the acts of man. The greatest evil is the handiwork of Satan—Satan, the Great Deceiver. Satan, who leads man astray. Satan, whose greatest trick was convincing the world that he doesn’t exist. Satan, who stands in the way of your own salvation.”

  Now the guy was going off on a tangent.

  “Do you know about Saint Michael?”

  “No.”

  “Saint Michael was the perfect Christian soldier, the archangel of God who led forces against the darkness of evil led by Satan. He is the defender of God and the protection of the Holy Catholic Church.”

  “Uh-huh.” Roman wished the guy would give him his Hail Marys and let him leave.

  “Your being here is not an accident. God sent you to earn your way to salvation by following the path of Saint Michael through the darkness into the eternal light of heaven.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re telling me.”

  “I’m telling you that a mission of salvation is before you.”

  “What mission?”

  “To be a warrior for the Lord God Almigh
ty, Mr. Pace.”

  Mr. Pace. “How do you know my name?”

  “That’s not important.”

  Roman wondered if maybe a security camera outside the church had recorded his license plate and they had somehow had access to the RMV database.

  “What is important is that you accept this mission to redeem yourself in defense of the Lord Jesus Christ.”

  More silence filled the booth. “What are you asking me?”

  “To ply your trade in the name of the Lord.”

  It must have taken the better part of a minute for Roman to absorb what the man was saying. “You want me to whack Satan?”

  “No, one of Satan’s doormen. Someone who’s blasphemed against the Lord God Almighty.”

  “This is crazy. Who are you? How do you know me?”

  “None of that’s important.” Then the small door at the base of the grille slid back and the priest’s hand slid through a plain brown envelope that was as thick as a brick. “Please open it.”

  Roman did. Inside was $15,000 in three banded five-grand packs of hundred-dollar bills.

  “This is yours, and so is salvation should you accept this mission.”

  Roman looked at the money, feeling the heft. He placed the pack on the sill between them. He still could not see the priest’s face—if he was a priest. “This isn’t what I came for.”

  “I’m sure, but your coming was a godsend.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” he said, feeling his resolve slip. “So, what exactly did he do?”

  “He and his associates are offending the Lord in the worst possible way.”

  Roman muffled a chuckle with a humpf. “What’s worse than murder?”

  “Blasphemy against the Holy Spirit. And God is asking you to be His warrior and is offering you a second chance at life eternal.”

  A second chance at life eternal.

  “Right.” As a result of all his years of contract killing, Roman had lost the capacity for surprise, but this was a first—hired by a priest to be a hit man for the Lord.