Tunnel Vision

by Gary Braver

  He had a dozen questions, but in private contract work you didn’t ask why someone had to be whacked. The hit was strictly business. But he was intrigued. He was also cautious. “How do I know this isn’t some kind of setup, you have a recorder in there taking it all in?”

  “It’s not a setup, and nobody is recording this exchange. Besides, you have confessed to no specific killing—so there’s nothing that has incriminated you.”

  Roman hadn’t confessed to any killing. He looked at the packs of bills. “Let’s say I decide to do this, I’ll need information and stuff.”

  A second, thinner envelope appeared atop the packet of money. Then that was topped by a cell phone. “Full instructions as well as a cell phone to call with your report.”

  Jesus, this was a fucking sting. But unlike anything he could have possibly dreamed up.

  “Whether or not you believe in the devil, you have been called to the highest service of the Lord to defeat him. You have been chosen to soldier for the Lord, and in so doing earning your way back to Him. Do you accept this mission?”

  Roman looked at the fat wad of hundreds and the cell phone waiting for him. He could not determine if the guy was serious or nuts. “You haven’t told me who you are. I don’t know what the hell I’m dealing with here.”

  “You’re dealing with a servant of the Lord who will remain anonymous.”

  A second chance at life eternal.

  “And this guy is really bad?”

  “In the eyes of God, the worst.”

  Roman picked up the envelope of bills, and in his head he heard the words of the psalm in his mother’s voice: Because he hath set his love upon Me, therefore will I deliver him: / I will set him on high, because he had known My name.

  “Fine,” Roman said, and pocketed the envelopes and phone.

  “May the Lord bless you in this mission. May He show you the lighted path back home and grant you eternal life.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Roman said, and left the confession booth and walked out of the church and into the warm glow of the morning sun.

  Even if the mission stuff was all bullshit and Father X was wired, there was $15,000 in the envelope, and Roman had said nothing to take to the cops.

  10

  It was Good Friday, and Maggie had sat with Zack throughout much of the night. There were no changes, and he had not repeated his mutterings. She was exhausted, and on the nurse’s suggestions, she went down to the café on the ground floor. She had coffee and a muffin, feeling numb, as if the core of her body had been infused with Novocain. While in the cafeteria, she tried to get lost in a copy of The Boston Globe that someone had left on the table.

  The news of the wars and the economy filled most of the front pages, so she turned to Section B and the local news. A strange headline caught her eye: SUICIDE BY FRIEND: VICTIM HAD RARE PUFFER FISH TOXIN IN HIS BLOOD.

  The story went on to explain that a homeless man was found dead with the toxin in his system. He had been killed with a baseball bat while sitting on the rail of Harvard Bridge. Because of surveillance cameras, the batman had been apprehended, claiming that his friend had asked to be killed because he had been plagued by “demons” in his head, the result, according to the assailant, of scientists doing experiments on his brain. How he had acquired “tetrodotoxin” was unknown, but authorities assured the public that it was not a new street drug, nor was puffer fish legal in American cuisines. “The perpetrator could not give any explanation of who the scientists were or what experiments were performed on the victim, only that they paid well.”

  Maggie folded the paper, thinking how she, too, had a demon in her head—the sick certainty that she would never have her son back.

  After half an hour, she finished her coffee and walked to the elevators. Ahead of her were a middle-aged couple and their teenage daughter in a wheelchair. The girl appeared to be a victim of some neurological disorder. Her mouth hung open and her head moved loosely on her neck, and she made inarticulate sounds. Clutched in her fingers was a string of rosary beads.

  Maggie went to push the button to the seventh floor, but it was already lit.

  “Are you here to see Zachary?” the father asked.

  The question caught Maggie off guard. “Pardon me?” Zachary? No one called him that. And how did they know about her son?

  “Zachary Kashian. Are you going to him?”

  “Yes,” she said, wondering about his strange wording. He was about fifty and was dressed in brown pants, blue blazer, and plaid shirt buttoned to the top. She did not recognize him. “Do you know him?”

  The elevator door closed as they started to ascend. “We’re friends with Zachary in Jesus. We’re here to pray for him.”

  Before Maggie could respond, the woman looked at Maggie. “We’re bringing Agnes to him.”

  The man held out his hand. “I’m Burt Wickham, and this is my wife, Judy, and my daughter, Agnes. Are you here to be healed?”

  “I’m his mother, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The man made a sheepish smile. “Oh well, we’ll pray for you too in your suffering. The Word of God penetrates where nothing else can go.”

  “Look, I don’t know your intention, but my son is in a coma in a private room and no visitors are allowed.”

  “But this is very important,” he said. “We’ve been praying for a sign like this for years.”

  “What sign?”

  The man looked at her in surprise. “How can you not know? God is speaking through your son, announcing to the world that he’s been chosen to do God’s healing.”

  “What are you talking about? My son’s in a coma.”

  “We know. We saw him.”

  “What do you mean you saw him?”

  Then the daughter muttered, “On YouTube.”

  The elevator door opened and they stepped into an empty foyer. “YouTube?”

  “He’s a chosen,” the wife said. “He’s got the power.”

  The mother produced a BlackBerry and held it up to Maggie. On the small screen was a brief and shaky video of Zack in bed muttering nonsense syllables. The moving banner beneath the image read: “God Speaks Through Coma Patient.”

  “He’s speaking the tongue of the Lord.”

  Maggie looked at the image, dumbfounded. Her first thought was Damian. He had shot the footage of Zack muttering nonsense syllables with his cell phone. How could he do that to Zack? Violate his privacy in his most vulnerable state?

  “God chose Zachary to work His miracles, which is why we’re here,” the wife said, and she looked toward her daughter in the wheelchair.

  “I’m sorry for your daughter, but you cannot visit my son. He’s in a private room, and no one but family are allowed. Is that clear?” She ran down the hall to the nurses’ station to ask for security, but the station was empty. Then she heard a commotion down the cross-corridor. Her heart nearly stopped. Outside of Zack’s room was a small crowd of people arguing with Nurse Beth Howard, two other nurses, and a resident physician, all trying to keep people from pushing inside.

  “What is going on?” Maggie said to Beth. “Call security.”

  “We did.”

  Maggie pushed her way inside the room, where maybe a dozen people were pressed around Zack’s bed—elderly, young, old, white, brown. A small woman with Down syndrome was pawing at Zack’s arm as a camera flash went off. Through the bodies, she could see with relief that Zack was still breathing and that the monitors still registered his vital signs. But his blanket was covered with rosary beads, prayer cards, religious trinkets, statues, and photographs. And around him were people muttering prayers and crossing themselves, touching his hands and face.

  Maggie felt insane. “Get out of here!” she screamed. “This is my son. Get out of here!”

  “I have a tumor,” one woman said. “All I want is to be healed.” Her mouth quivered as she pleaded.

  Another beside her said, “Jesus is here to make me better. I don’t w
ant to die.”

  A man pressed against her insisted that a divine presence was in Zack. “We want Jesus to save my wife. She’s very sick.”

  “Then get a doctor and leave my son alone.” As Maggie pushed her way deeper, she spotted a tall white woman looking out of place in a navy blue suit. She stood in the corner behind the others, staring at Maggie intently. There was a reddish birthmark on her cheek or maybe a melanoma.

  The shouting of security guards filled the room. “Okay, everybody clear out.” Half a dozen guards were pulling people out of the room as protests rose up.

  “You have no right,” one woman cried.

  “The Lord Jesus Christ is speaking through Zachary,” cried another. “It’s in the video. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  But the guards cleared the room in spite of the pleas and protests. As the people were led out, one woman grabbed Maggie’s arm. “She’s here! She’s here!” The woman’s eyes were huge.

  “Who?” Maggie asked.

  “The Blessed Virgin. I smell roses. They’re her flower.” The woman looked crazed.

  Maggie pulled away toward the bed when a guard caught her arm. She turned. “I’m his mother!”

  From the hall, Nurse Beth shouted confirmation to the guard. He let Maggie go and continued removing the others. She gasped when she reached Zack. He had not been disturbed by the melee, and the monitors blinked stable life functions. But the bedcover was strewn with religious objects and dozens of photographs of people, making it look like the shrine of a dead saint.

  Beth took her arm. “I’m so sorry. We’ll clean it up. They must have come up through the back stairwell.”

  “There’s a video of him on the Internet.”

  “Shit.”

  Less than twelve hours had passed, and a fifty-second YouTube video of his nonsense mutterings had summoned a small mob hungering for miracles. “I think it was Damian.”

  “No. It was Stephanie, my aide.”

  “What?”

  “She had her cell phone, but I thought it was to call the desk. I’m sorry. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I can’t believe she did this.”

  “Where is she?”

  “It’s her day off, but we’ll report her to the chief administrator.”

  “I want him moved to an undisclosed room with guards.”

  “Of course.”

  Beth took Maggie’s arm and led her outside while orderlies began to remove the stuff from the bed. The halls had been cleared, and several security guards patrolled the corridors. Maggie walked with Beth to the nurses’ station, where someone handed her a coffee.

  As she made her way back down the hall, she spotted the tall, stylish woman with the birthmark at the elevators. The woman glared at her. A moment later, the elevator light went on and the door opened. Before stepping inside, the woman said something.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I pray that your son is a miracle child.”

  Before Maggie could respond, the woman entered the elevator and was gone.

  11

  Satan’s doorman lived in a large Tudor home on Greendale Road in Falmouth on Cape Cod. Roman Pace sat in his car on a small parallel street beside a vacant lot that allowed a clear view of the rear of the house.

  Roman never met those who hired him—just anonymous telephone calls and cash delivered to a drop spot. It was a good arrangement, since anonymity kept things discreet and simple without the chance of compromise. Roman had no idea if the guy on the other side of the confessional booth was a priest, a bishop, or Friar Tuck. But he wasn’t Father Timothy Callahan. And after a week it made no difference, because a part of Roman began to believe that he was, in fact, in service to God. The same part that began to believe that God Himself had directed Roman to that confessional booth in the first place.

  Your chance to reinstate your soul with God.

  It was a promise that he latched on to.

  The rear end of a detached garage had a window that allowed a view of the interior, not that he cared about the contents. The garage door was open, and twenty minutes ago the headlights of a white Lexus had lit up the window as the owner pulled in and then entered the house through the rear door. The neighbors looked to be away, maybe because it was Easter weekend.

  After fifteen minutes, Roman exited his rental and walked to the front of the house. Lights burned on the first floor and in one bedroom room on the second. The entrance was flanked with leaded windows through which he could see a foyer, but no movement. He rang the doorbell, and an outside light went on. A moment later, an old guy opened the door. “Sorry to disturb you, but are you Dr. Thomas Pomeroy?”

  “Yes.”

  He was listed as seventy-one and looked it. His face was lean and pale, with loose flesh under the chin. He had dark, baggy eyes and receding gray hair. He was dressed in chinos and a long-sleeved T-shirt. His expression projected annoyance. “My name is Roman Pace, and I’ve got a message from Thomas Infantino.”

  “Who?”

  “Thomas Infantino.” And with his left hand, Roman handed Pomeroy a stiff manila envelope with his name printed in bold letters. As Pomeroy took the envelope, Roman pulled a pistol from his jacket and pressed it against Pomeroy’s middle. “I think we best discuss this inside.”

  “W-what are you doing?”

  “Inside, and not a peep.” Pomeroy’s face froze in shock and horror, but he backed into the foyer, and Roman closed the door behind him.

  “What do you want? Who are you?”

  “I’ll ask the questions.”

  A red Oriental carpet filled the foyer, which was lit by a glass chandelier. A set of dark stairs ran up to the second landing, where a light burned in the room at the top right. “Is anyone else in the house?”

  “No.”

  “Your wife?”

  “My wife is dead.”

  This was true, and his daughter lived in Arizona, and he had no other children according to the spec sheet. “Other relatives? Live-in housekeeper?”

  “N-no. I’m alone. Who are you? You want money? I can give you some.” He made a move toward the staircase.

  But Roman stopped him. “I don’t want your money.” He nudged the man into the living room—a space with dark-wood bookshelves, a black baby grand piano, and a maroon leather sofa and matching chairs—and directed Pomeroy to the sofa.

  Pomeroy did as he was told, his face ashen with terror. Roman sat on the leather chair facing him. “I want you to tell me stuff,” he said. “And if I like your answer, I’ll make this easy for you.”

  Pomeroy looked into the stolid eye of the Beretta. “Okay, but please don’t—”

  Roman raised his finger. “Shhh. Cooperate, and nobody’ll get hurt. Okay?”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Are you a religious man, Dr. Pomeroy?”

  “What?”

  “I asked, are you a religious man?”

  Pomeroy hesitated. “No.”

  “Have you had any dealings with St. Pius Church in Providence, Rhode Island?”

  “No, I’ve never even heard of that.”

  “What about the name Timothy Callahan?”

  “No.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Do you believe in Satan?”

  Bafflement clouded Pomeroy’s face. “No.”

  “Look, you’re a big-time physicist with awards up to here. So how come someone in the Catholic Church wants you dead?”

  An involuntary squeal rose from his lungs. “I don’t know. Please don’t kill me. I’ll pay you anything you want.”

  According to online sites, Pomeroy was celebrated for solving some problems involving magnetic resonance, resulting in hospital machines that improved the imaging of cancer cells. Apparently it was a big breakthrough, because several news releases announced articles he had coauthored in the Journal of Chemical Physics and elsewhere. Roman grasped the importance of Pomeroy’s work, though he couldn’t imagine why in th
e eyes of the Catholic Church it was an abomination.

  The man continued to beg.

  “You have cash in the house?”

  “Yes, yes, in a small safe upstairs.”

  Roman snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Let’s go.” He kept the gun to the guy’s back as he followed him up to a bedroom, where he opened the door of a closet. On the floor sat a small safe, the kind you’d find in hotels. “If there’s an alarm trigger, consider yourself dead.”

  “No, no alarm up here. Just the back door.”

  Roman watched as Pomeroy twirled through the combination, opened the safe, and pulled out four packs of bound fifties and hundreds—$5,000.

  Roman took them and put them into his jacket pocket. “Fine. You just bought the rest of your life. Downstairs.”

  They walked down the stairs and back into the living room.

  “We’re going to make this look like a break-in, so I need to tie you up. I’ll call 911 from the road. Capice?”

  “Yes.”

  He then bound Pomeroy’s legs together with plastic ties. The same with his wrists, but over his shirt to avoid marks. He put a washcloth across his eyes, then secured it with a small bungee cord. He then had him lie flat on the floor with a sofa pillow under his head.

  According to the spec sheet, Pomeroy had a history of arrhythmia and was taking medication for high blood pressure and cholesterol. Actuarial statistics would give him a higher than 70 percent chance of dying by cardiac arrest. That narrowed the options to one.

  And that came from a plant that grew four thousand miles south of Cape Cod in the rain forests of the Amazon—curare, a vine whose compound was used by local Indians to poison their arrows and blowgun darts. Also known as tubocurarine chloride, the substance upon injection caused paralysis of skeletal muscles, resulting in respiratory failure and death. With the standard autopsy, no trace of the compound would be detected, and the cause of death would be listed as cardiac arrest.

  You’re a warrior of God, a voice whispered in Roman’s head. Like St. Michael. “Okay, lie still.” For a man of 170 pounds, it took about seven minutes. In that time, the victim would remain conscious but incapable of sucking in a breath of air. He would die of asphyxiation. To appear natural, the body could not have any marks of struggle. And because the toxin had to be injected, not even the prick of the needle could be visible on the autopsy table. Special circumstances demanded special strategies.