by Gary Braver
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you’re banned for life from stepping into a casino on American soil.” His finger pointed toward the exit. “Out of here.”
“But I wasn’t counting cards. I swear.”
“Whatever you were doing, you’re not coming back ever.”
“What about my chips? I want to cash out. Cash out and leave.”
They walked them to the cashier, where Zack redeemed his chips for a $533 check. The guards then escorted them to the parking lot and waited until they moved to Anthony’s car. “Were you counting?”
“No.”
“You see him check out the river jack? Like he thought it was marked.”
“How could it be?” Damian said. “The dealer changes decks every game.”
“Don’t know, man. You played that guy like a friggin’ shark. The hell were you doing?”
Zack sucked in the night air as if to drain the atmosphere.
“Hey, you okay?” Anthony said as they moved to the car.
Zack nodded but could hardly catch his breath. When he didn’t answer, Damian took his arm. “Sure you’re all right? You’re sweating like a pig.”
“Yeah,” Zack said. I saw his cards. I saw his buried jacks.
“Probably spooked by the security guards.”
Zack nodded as they reached the car.
“So what were you thinking?” Anthony asked.
“I don’t know. It was just a weird hunch he had me beat.”
“Weird hunch he had four jacks to your nines? You’re either wicked lucky or psychic, is all.”
Zack said nothing and got into the car.
23
During the next four days, Zack tried to sort out what had happened that night and settled on a rational explanation. His brain had suffered considerable trauma and rewiring over the last four months. As a result, he had deluded himself into thinking he had mind-glimpsed the guy’s cards. But in hindsight, it was no more than autosuggestion crossed with pure dumb luck. Since then, he had experienced no more weird fugues.
Earlier that day, Damian had called Zack to join him at Uno Chicago Grill at Huntington Avenue and Gainsborough Street, just off the NU campus. Damian said it was his treat. Zack was still a charity case. His Discover bill was now $4,200 and growing by the hour.
“So, what did you do with your winnings?” Damian asked, sipping his Coke.
“Paid off half of next month’s rent.”
“What about the other half?”
“Anthony.”
“Maybe it’s a good thing they banned you.”
“Those days are over, online and off. Gone cold turkey.” He took a bite of pizza. “My postcoma resolution.”
“Hear, hear!” Damian raised his glass. “To cold turkey.”
Zack clinked him. “Except I can’t live on everybody’s dole. Twenty-four friggin’ years old and I’m drowning in debt,” he said. “I’m going to have to get a job.”
“You can’t do that and finish your thesis.”
“Maybe I’ll put in for another extension.”
“Your adviser could die of old age before you’re finished.” Then Damian pulled something out of his shirt pocket. “This is what I called you about. From a notice board in the union.” He handed Zack the flyer. “They’re looking for research volunteers.”
The announcement was written in bold letters. And under it was an 800 number.
IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU CAN MAKE MONEY (!) AS A PARTICIPANT IN A SLEEP STUDY. CALL THE PROTEUS RESEARCH CENTER AND LEAVE YOUR NAME AND PHONE NUMBER TO SCHEDULE A TIME.
“Some kind of sleep study. I called and they pay two fifty a session.”
“Just to go to sleep?”
“I think it’s an insomnia study. Might even be a twofer—figure out your sleep problem and pay you for it.”
“Probably not a university project with the 800 number.”
“They’re looking for volunteers between the ages of twenty-one and fifty. No drug or alcohol dependency, no history of mental disorders. And two hundred and fifty dollars if eligible.”
“Did you say you were interested?”
“Yeah, and I asked if they could use another, and they said yes. They’re interviewing tonight down the street at the Colonnade. What do you think?”
“Can’t hurt.”
Damian paid the bill, and they walked to the Colonnade. When they asked at the desk about the Proteus interviews, the clerk directed them to a suite of rooms on the third floor. As they approached, a male and female about their age came out the door. Damian asked if this was for the sleep study, and they said it was. They tapped the door, and a man with fuzzy gray hair and a white shirt let them in. He introduced himself as Dr. Morris Stern and asked them to wait a few minutes, then disappeared into another room.
A minute later, he emerged with a tall woman who introduced herself as Dr. Elizabeth Luria. Splashed across her right cheek was a red birthmark. She thanked them for coming, then checked her watch. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to begin immediately.”
They agreed, and Stern led Damian into one room while Zack followed Luria into another that had a desk with a laptop and printer. Luria directed Zack to take a seat across from her. She looked to be about sixty and had quick, dark eyes behind perfectly round glasses. The birthmark began an inch or so under her right eye and ran down her cheek, making her look as if tears of blood had dried on her face. “So, what exactly have you heard about us?” She spoke in a sharp, clear voice that went with her quick, dark eyes.
“Just that you’re doing sleep studies.” He unfolded the flyer from his pocket.
“Yes, we do a variety of sleep-related projects, including assessment of disorders. You and your friend are students, so I needn’t explain how loss of sleep can impact the way you function both physically and mentally.”
“I thought sleep studies were done in hospitals.”
“They are. And some are in universities or private research centers. Let me say right off that we cannot take volunteers with a history of drug or alcohol dependency.”
“I’m fine there.”
“Good, and no history of seizures, epilepsy, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, psychosis, or other mental problems, including hallucinations.”
Zack shook his head, trying to keep his expression neutral. “None of the above.”
“Fine, but we still will require full medical records before we begin.”
Zack felt his insides slump. If they learned about his head injury, they’d probably dump him. His school medical records predated that, and hopefully she didn’t read the newspapers. “I can provide those.”
“Good.” She adjusted her glasses. “We’d like you to fill out a questionnaire. It’s rather lengthy, so to expedite matters, the form is in a Word file.” She nodded to the laptop and printer. “Shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”
“Okay.”
“Good. Any questions?”
“Well, actually, if you don’t mind…”
She read his expression and smiled. “Compensation. This is merely the application stage. Should things work out, we’ll give you a call for the study, for which you will be paid.”
“I heard two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Correct.” She moved to the laptop and called up the application. “When you’re finished, just tap the door.” Then she left the room.
Zack paged through the application, which had several sections. The first asked for standard demographic data—age, gender, education, marital status. The next, “Family Relations”—parents’ age; if they were alive, separated, divorced; any siblings and their ages. The third asked about any neurological disorders—migraine headaches, epileptic fits, seizures, brain injuries, and so on. He entered “NONE” to each of these.
The next section, “Religious/Spiritual Background,” seemed superfluous—which religion, if any, was he raised in; if he currently practiced religion; the importance of religion or spirituality
in his life. Irrelevant as they seemed, he answered each with “NONE.” Then followed two questions: Where do you go to feel most connected with yourself (e.g., home, work, elsewhere)? He entered, “Hiking in woods.” Where do you go to feel most connected with universe/God (e.g., religious center, mountaintop, ocean, etc.)? Zack entered, “Sagamore Beach, Cape Cod”—where they vacationed each summer.
The next section, “Sleep and Dream Patterns”: the average number of hours he slept each night? The quality of sleep (good, fair, poor)? How often did he dream the same dream? How often did he have nightmares? Describe it (them). The final section asked about his most memorable dreams: the people in them; the emotions he felt; his worst nightmare. Did he ever dream of someone who had died? Or of an evil or demonic presence? Or an encounter with a religious being? Did he ever have a mystical experience? He guessed that the application was screening out full-mooner types. He typed in “NONE” and did not mention the casino episode.
When he was done, he printed up the form and tapped the far door. Luria returned and scanned his answers, then thanked him and said they’d get back to him. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’m curious why all the questions about dreams.”
She seemed momentarily absorbed in his answers. “Because some sleep disorders are caused by recurring dreams or nightmares.”
“So why all the questions about religion?”
“We’re interested in emotional or psychological sources of one’s dreams.”
“Sounds like you’re more interested in dreams than sleep disorders.”
“I suppose it does.” But she didn’t elaborate, and her birthmark seemed to flare.
“If I turn out to be eligible, just what will the tests entail?”
“If you don’t mind, we’ll cross that bridge if and when we get to it.” She led him to the door. “And please send us your medical records.” She handed him a card with a Boston post office box. “We’ll contact you should we proceed to the next stage.”
Zack didn’t like the abrupt dismissal, but he said nothing.
Damian was in the lobby waiting for him. “How’d you do?”
“I’m still in debt,” Zack said as they walked outside.
“Yeah, well, maybe that’ll change.”
The air was cool, and Boston glowed against a dark indigo sky. Before they parted, Zack said, “Meanwhile, they’ll check to see if we’re New Age freaks or junkies.”
“At least they won’t do a credit rating.”
“There may be a God after all.”
24
Warren Gladstone inspected his face in the mirror. He checked that his teeth were clean, his shave was close, all hairs were in place. He adjusted his gold tie peeking through the collar of his sky blue robe and flashed the GodLight smile that would light his way to the Promised Land. He then stepped to the podium and beamed at the cameras. The studio was small, and technicians crowded behind the two cameras. On cue from the video producer, Warren began.
“And it came to pass that the world once lived in peace and happiness. All loved God, and God loved all. Then one day Evil came into the world. Yes, men of a different god invaded the world and brought with them a false deity. Under a banner of ‘true authority,’ these invaders claimed the new land as their own, armed with their books and documents of iron words that promised false freedom and false peace.”
As he read the teleprompter, Warren could feel the heat of his own conviction.
“And these men dreamed of unifying all God’s children under this false idol that promised freedom from what they called delusion. Freedom from what they called oppression.
“And they filled the world with believers, not of the one true God, but worshippers of their false god, reciting so-called truths. And the one true Creator who feeds, clothes, and protects them was rejected. They cursed His gifts and piled them into trash heaps. They scorned and derided God’s true people. And the false god ruled, and his book of lies was shipped.”
He took a sip of water, his veins throbbing with heavenly purpose.
“And their book is called Science. And their false god is called Reason. And their followers have taken the true God’s world without valid authority. And they teach the belief that science provides the answer to every question and liberates the mind from ignorance. And that anyone who believes in the Almighty God is backwards and stupid.
“But I tell you that the rise of secularism has so hollowed out Western society that it gave rise to moral relativism, which regards all beliefs and principles as equal. This secularism has resulted in the junking of moral codes that have sustained people for twice a thousand years, leaving Western religion vulnerable to attacks of radical fundamentalists from afar.”
He judiciously avoided naming Islam so as not to politicize his message of global unity.
“You’ve heard me say countless times that God doesn’t require us to understand His will, just obey it, unreasonable as it may seem at times. You’ve also heard me paraphrase Mark Twain, When scientists explained the rainbow, we lost more than we gained. But the truth is that the more science unravels the mysteries of the world, the more mysterious the world remains. As many scientists have proclaimed, there need not be a conflict between religion and science.
“We’ve all heard the expression ‘Fight fire with fire.’ I believe it was Shakespeare who first said that. And there is great truth to that. And soon, yes, soon we will fight fire with fire and show how reason and science can be enlisted to verify the Word of God.
“No, I can’t say when exactly that’ll happen, but soon. Soon, my brothers and sisters. Soon we’ll demonstrate to all the world the truth of God’s promise to you. The truth that has sustained the faithful for twenty centuries. Truth that has driven this ministry. Truth—irrefutable truth right from the hands of science itself.
“It is coming, my brothers and sisters. It is coming. Hallelujah, the great day of the Lord is coming.”
A moment later Warren stepped into the office, puffed up and beaming. “So what do you think?”
“You could sell condoms to a priest,” said Morris Stern, whose small eyes flickered at him behind his glasses.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Warren gave Stern a hard glare. The man was a brilliant scientist, but an insufferable infidel. God only knew where Elizabeth had found him.
“Just kidding,” Stern said. “You’ll have them eating out of your hand.”
“At first, you had me a little nervous making science sound like the God killer,” Elizabeth said. “But you came around nicely.”
“I’m not about to feed the hand that smites me.”
“You are the wordsmith, Warren.”
Gladstone seated himself at his desk. On the wall behind him hung a plaque that replicated the mission bannered on their GodLight Web site: “Ours is a covenant with the Lord God Almighty to spread the Gospel of the Messiah by means of mass communications to the whole world.”
Warren’s plan was to continue making these teasing little broadcasts, priming the spiritual pump until they had the evidence they sought—evidence that would reconcile religion with science and once and forever put an end to the rancor and enmity between the two camps.
“By the way, did you find someone to replace what’s-his-name … Pomeroy, you know, how to process all the cellular activity or whatever it is?”
“No,” said Stern. “But we have Sarah Wyman, a former student and very competent woman who’s working on that.”
“What’s her philosophical position?”
“She’s a dedicated scientist.”
Stern’s code phrase for atheist. “As long as she can do the work.”
“That she can.”
“Then how come you look like you’ve just come from a funeral?”
“Well, we have a bit of bad news.”
Warren stiffened in his chair. “What happened?”
“We lost another contractor. LeAnn Cola,” said Stern.
“What happen
ed?”
“Gas leak while she slept. Luckily her daughter had the air conditioner on.”
“What a terrible shame, and poor child. Will that affect us?”
“No, not really.”
“There’s something else,” Elizabeth said, and handed him a news article. “Police are investigating two dead males with high levels of tetrodotoxin in them.”
“How were they identified?”
“An illegal alien from Haiti, found dead on a back street in Charlestown. The other, a homeless guy fished out of the Charles with his head crushed. Before he fell in, a witness saw him on the rail of the Harvard Bridge in the middle of the night while another man smashed him on the head with a baseball bat.”
“Good God,” Warren said.
“A witness claimed the victim appeared to wait for the other to hit him. A mercy killing.”
Warren scanned the article. “We’re hoping to send them to heaven, instead we created a living hell. This is terrible.”
Stern cut in. “Before you get all worked up, he was a drug-addicted nobody.”
“That’s not the point. We can’t be sacrificing people to find God even if they’re street people.”
“Well, science often moves from the bottom up.”
Warren felt his face fill with blood. “These people talk, they have friends. What if the police trace them to us? Good God, we could be put away forever.”
“That won’t happen,” Elizabeth said. “We’ve taken every precaution imaginable.”
“But you don’t know?”
“Warren, calm down. There’ll be no more mistakes,” Elizabeth said. “We’ve turned the corner with a whole new category of test subjects—younger, cleaner subjects whose brains aren’t rotted out by drugs and booze and suffering delusions.”
25
“Hey, brother, we passed.”
“There’s a claim to fame,” Zack said. “We’re qualified to sleep.”
It was a little before noon when Damian called. It was Friday of the Memorial Day weekend, and three days had lapsed since Zack had sent Dr. Luria his medical records. In that time, Zack had received another overdraft notice from Bank of America for a check he had written just before his accident. The coma had cost him $125 in fines alone. He was now nearly $5,000 in debt.