by Gary Braver
“Not harm him, kill him. The same people who think he’s the Antichrist who’s going to bring down the Catholic Church if you put him on your show.”
Gladstone swallowed more of his Scotch and ordered a second. He was silent for a few minutes as he processed Roman’s claim and thumbed through the folder material again. Finally he whispered, “Nothing can happen to him. He’s very special.”
Roman leaned back and sipped his bubbly water. Gladstone was beginning to see the light. “Let me ask you something, Reverend. You really think he made contact with his dead father?”
“All the evidence points to that.”
“Then would you say he’s divine?”
Gladstone’s brows arched like a church window. “Divine? No, he’s mortal, but I believe he was in contact with his father’s spirit and glimpsed the realm beyond. He’s living proof.”
“What about the scientists? Do they think he had a spiritual experience—you know, been to heaven and back?”
“Why are you so interested?”
“Just wondering.”
“Are you a religious man, Mr. Farley?”
“Yes.”
Gladstone smiled approval. “Well, some prefer calling it a ‘paranormal’ rather than spiritual experience.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is that paranormal avoids religious interpretation—no acknowledgment of God.”
“You mean like that New Age astral projection crap?”
“Yes. Maybe some kind of telepathy thing. Essentially heaven for agnostics and atheists.”
“And you don’t buy that.”
“No.”
“So you don’t believe that someone can have a soul without there being a God?”
“I’m saying that we all have a God-given soul, which is what makes us His children, and that if you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, you’ll have everlasting life in heaven.”
“Some of your enemies say near-death experience claims are blasphemy—that anyone can get into heaven, any sinner and nonbeliever. That they’re all tricks of Satan.”
“That’s ridiculous. Having a near-death experience doesn’t mean they automatically go to heaven when they die. God is still the final judge of that. Because you can see the moon doesn’t mean you can fly there at will.”
“But what about the claim you’re practicing sorcery?”
“That’s selective theology. You don’t hear these people calling the visions of Saint Teresa or the Lady of Fatima sorcery. No, they’re revered and the stuff of sainthood.” Gladstone took another sip of his Scotch. “In fact, Jesus himself was accused of performing his miracles by the power of Satan—miracles that bore visions of heavenly beings and feelings of peace and love. He himself warned against attributing to Satan works of the Holy Spirit. The very critics who claim that NDEs are works of Satan are themselves blaspheming the Holy Spirit—a sin that Jesus said is beyond forgiveness.”
Roman was all the more confused. No matter what you believed, you could find passages in the Bible to back yourself up.
“Okay, let’s get back on track,” Gladstone said. “You say you know where he is.”
“Yes, and I can bring him to you.”
“For a fee, I presume.”
“Tell me you work for free.”
Gladstone gave him a toothy grin. “Okay, the ugly stuff.”
Roman finished his seltzer and leaned forward so that his face was inches away from Gladstone’s. “One million dollars in cash, fifty percent up front.”
Gladstone did not flinch. “And you’ll bring him in alive and well.”
“Alive and well,” Roman said, wishing he had asked for more.
“How long do I have to think this over?”
Roman checked his watch. “Two hours, cash in hand.”
“That’s not much time, Mr. Farley.”
“There are banks all around here where you can get money transfers. And while you are, these people are scrambling to find that kid and put a stake through his heart. If they do, we both lose—you more than me.”
“And how do I know you won’t take the money and run?”
Roman laid his hand on the folder. “First, I’m the only one who knows what this kid is worth. Second, I want that other half million.”
Gladstone nodded, then pulled his iPhone out of his pocket and said to the party who answered, “Bruce, bring the car.”
“I’ll meet you across the street in two hours under the statue of George Washington. Two forty-five sharp.”
“Make that three. I have to buy a suitcase.”
* * *
At three o’clock, Gladstone walked up the flowered path from Arlington Street with a leather carry-on bag in his hand. He was alone.
He gave the bag to Roman, who laid it on a bench near the statue to inspect the contents. When the area was clear of strollers, Roman backed up and asked Gladstone to open the bag himself and tilt it toward him to see the contents.
Gladstone cocked his head at him. “You think I’ve got a bomb in here?”
“If you refuse to open it, I will.”
Gladstone snapped open the bag and tilted it toward him. It was full of bound hundred-dollar bills. Roman walked over and reached randomly into the bag to check the packs. All Franklins in packs of ten thousand. He didn’t have to count them. He closed the bag.
“When will I hear from you?” Gladstone said.
“Within the next twenty-four hours.”
Roman then watched Gladstone walk the same flower-lined path to Arlington Street. To be sure Gladstone left, he cut across the grass to where the Lincoln Town Car waited at the curb. While Roman watched through some bushes, he saw the driver get out and open the rear door for Gladstone. With a shock, Roman took in the face of the chauffeur. It was the same guy who had ridden to the Fraternity of Jesus with Babcock.
Son of a bitch! Roman thought. Bruce was burning his candle at both ends, too.
80
About two hours after stopping, Zack came upon the Biddeford/Route 5 exit. Nothing looked familiar, but he turned off.
“Is this it?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
There was a new motel complex just off the exit ramp that still had scaffolding on one wall and construction machinery in front.
“But that’s all new, and you haven’t been here in twenty years.”
“Believe me, this is the right way.”
“I’m trying to.”
There was a clutch of fast-food restaurants on the access road.
“Maybe we should stop for directions and get something to eat.”
“We’ll find a place when we get closer.”
“Closer to what?”
He didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to startle her. But the sensation was now electric. She wouldn’t understand, and he couldn’t put it into words that made sense.
But he really should thank Sarah for helping to lead him out of the tunnel and into the light. If it hadn’t been for the suspension tests, he’d still be stuck in the gray materialist world. Although he had long denied it, something had gotten into his head that first day with the stimulation helmet, then burned like a pilot light throughout all the nasty flatlining; and now it was a discernible beacon.
Ironically, the only one in that lab who had insight was the same person who tried to kill him. Funny how he was now coming around to respecting that woman. She had had her eye on the prize. And the prize was just ahead.
He turned onto Route 5.
Just a few more miles.
81
At three fifteen, Roman called Norman Babcock to tell him to meet him in half an hour and named the drop spot. Babcock agreed.
At three forty-five, from his rental car, Roman watched Babcock drive his Mercedes to a deserted corner of the Watertown Mall. Roman pulled out of his unseen slot and moved to within fifty feet of Babcock, who, as inst
ructed, stood in front of his car with a travel bag. When he was certain no other cars had accompanied Babcock, Roman called him on his cell phone, instructing him to approach his car. As he did, Roman rolled down the driver’s-side window.
But Babcock did not hand him the bag. “How do I know you won’t just disappear yourself?”
“I didn’t do that for the last four assignments, right?”
“Yeah, but this is half a million.”
“And I want the other half.”
“And when will I see the results?”
“Twenty-four hours,” he said, and pulled over an empty backpack from the passenger seat.
“What’s that for?”
“Today the money, tomorrow his head.”
Babcock nodded. He handed Roman the valise. But Roman shook his head. There were no cars nearby. “Step back ten feet and open it and show me the contents.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it.”
Babcock froze for a moment as Roman raised his weapon so it was visible and rolled up his window to watch.
Then Babcock unzipped the bag and tilted it toward Roman’s side window. He even pulled out a pack of hundreds and fanned it with his thumb.
When Roman was satisfied, he rolled down the window and let Babcock hand him the bag. He unloaded each pack of hundreds and transferred them to his backpack, leaving Babcock with the original gym bag just in case it had a homing device on it.
“Twenty-four hours,” Babcock said, still looking torn.
“‘“Believe in me,” saith the Lord.’”
“But you’re not the Lord.”
“No, but I’m the best warrior he’s got.”
82
Roman drove from the Watertown Mall to a Bank of America in Watertown Square to deposit the cash from Babcock and Gladstone in a safety deposit box.
The parking lot was nearly abandoned because the bank was closing shortly. He had a few minutes and pulled to the rear of the building. Before he got out, he slipped the DVD of Zack Kashian’s first suspension into his laptop. Something in that first interview had stuck in his mind like a thorn. And for the third time he reviewed the kid’s emergence.
“Hey, Zack, you’re waking up.” The voice came from a woman off camera. “Zack, can you hear me?”
He grunted.
“He’s coming to,” said an unseen male.
“Come on, Zack, wake up.”
The kid opened one eye.
“That’s it, Zack, open your eyes.”
“Welcome back. How do you feel?”
“If your mouth and tongue feel tingly, that’s normal. Can you tell me your name?”
Kashian gave the woman a blank look but said nothing.
“Okay, you’re still a little foggy.”
“Can you tell us your name?”
He shook his head.
“No? Sure you can. It’s Zack. What’s your last name?”
After a moment he said, “Kashian.”
“What was that?”
“Kashian.”
“Right. Good. And do you know where you are?”
At that moment, Roman paused the video. From the far entrance, he spotted a silver BMW sedan with Bruce behind the wheel and some guy he didn’t recognize. Before they could block him in, he spun the car around and pulled into the street.
He shot up Mt. Auburn, and the BMW kept right behind him. Roman pushed the bag of cash onto the floor and raced up the hill with the BMW still on his tail. The sons of bitches had followed him from the drop. It was a setup from the start.
Ahead he saw Watertown High School and turned down the side street and into the large parking lot. Because it was the weekend, the place was abandoned.
He cut a half circle so that his car faced the entrance from the street.
A second later, the BMW pulled in. Before he could give Bruce a target, Roman turned hard to his left, then cut a sharp right. He could see the passenger aim a gun at him. But Roman zigzagged his car, floored the accelerator, and rammed the BMW broadside with the grille guard, crushing the passenger door and pushing the car to a screeching stop.
Roman jumped out with his silenced pistol and ran around the rear of the BMW. Before Bruce could recover, he smashed in the driver’s-side window, shot dead the passenger, and rammed the gun into the soft of Bruce’s neck.
“Don’t, please. I didn’t mean anything.”
“Yes, you did.” And Roman pulled the trigger.
Ten minutes later he was back in the bank parking lot, but it had just closed. Furious, he pulled out his cell phone and called Babcock. “You send any more of your frat boys after me, and you’re dead. You got that?”
“Roman, I swear I had nothing to do with that. They must have followed me. I swear. They were acting on their own.”
“Well, it won’t happen again. They’re permanently flatlined. And if you want this kid taken out, don’t fucking mess with me.” He clicked off.
All the banks were closed and he had $1 million in cash with him. He’d have to drive home and drop it off.
In the meantime, he went back to his laptop and turned on the DVD again.
“Okay, you’re still a little foggy.”
“Can you tell us your name?”
“No? Sure you can. It’s Zack. What’s your last name?”
“Kashian.”
“What was that?”
“Kashian.”
“Right. Good. And do you know where you are?”
The kid responded.
Roman paused the video, went back, and played that part again. Then he thumbed through a folder of data he had gotten from Morris Stern. After several minutes, he found what he was looking for.
“Oh my,” he said aloud.
He turned on his GPS. There was no time to head home. Suddenly this had turned into a religious pilgrimage, he thought. And he pulled onto the street and into the fast lane.
83
It was a little after six when Zack turned off Route 5 and onto 202, a two-lane blacktop that cut through dense woodlands.
The indefinable instinct was like having a GPS system on the inside of his skull. They entered the center of Farrington, a strip of houses, a volunteer firehouse, and a small service station attached to a general store. Zack pulled up to a pump. Sarah got out to use the restroom and grab something to eat.
When nobody came out, Zack got out and removed the pump. As he did, a man in an orange top and black cap emerged from the store. “Second door to the left. No key needed,” he said to Sarah, who thanked him and walked to an outside entrance.
“I wasn’t sure if it was self-serve or not,” Zack said.
“Ayuh. This ain’t Massachusetts. We give you either option up here.”
It came out uhpeeyah. They really did talk that way. Ayuh. The guy had a salt-and-pepper beard, the mustache part curling over his lip. In a side pocket of his mind, Zack wondered why he didn’t trim it and tried not to think of him eating an egg-salad sandwich. He handed the pump to the man and asked him to fill it.
“Just wondering if you ever heard of Magog Woods.”
The guy cocked his head. “Ayuh.”
“Are we going in the right direction?”
“Depends on your direction.”
Because of the location of the pumps, their car was pointing west. “North.”
“Ayuh, ’cept the sign’s been down some years now.”
“Any landmarks?”
“Trees.”
“That’s all there is up here.”
“You got that right.”
Except for this minivillage, impenetrable woods girdled the roads. “How far would you say?”
“To what?”
“Magog Woods.” Zack was beginning to feel that the guy was either playing games with him or just slow.
“Fourteen, fifteen miles.”
“Is there an entrance of sorts?”
“Not of sorts.”
“How will I know I’m there?”
“Prob’ly won’t, ’less you know what you’re looking for. Just a cut in the trees, if it’s even there anymore. I don’t go up that way much myself.” Through the rear window, he glanced at the rolled sleeping bags and backpacks in the cargo space.
When he finished pumping, Zack handed him $60. The guy inspected the twenties as if suspecting counterfeits. When satisfied, he pulled out a roll of bills, licked his thumb and forefinger, and slowly peeled off four singles. While the man went through the motions, Zack noticed two people inside the general store studying him.
“Is that where you’re planning on camping?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because there ain’t anywhere to lay down a tent, ’less you walk a fair distance. Thick as barbed wire. A pond or two deep inside, but nobody goes there anymore.”
“How come?”
The guy cocked his head again. “If you ain’t got business there, I’d move on.”
Zack felt the rat in his gut claw at something.
“Plenty of good campgrounds down Fryeburg way, Kezar Lake. Running water, and they’re safe.”
Just then Sarah walked out of the store with a bag of food and drinks.
“Got some maps of local campsites.” He looked at Sarah. “The lady who sold you those will be happy to assist.”
Sarah glanced at Zack. “What about motels?”
“Got those, too, and some nifty B and Bs made special for Massachusetts folks. Just ask Marianne.”
Sarah went back inside. Zack waited until she was out of earshot. “Are you saying there’s a problem at Magog?”
“Specially for the folks that went in.”
“What happened?”
“Never came out again.”
Zack nodded; it was all local rumor. “Any idea what became of them?”
“Hard to say. Maybe got lost. Maybe got hurt. Maybe fell into quickmud. Maybe worse.”
What could be worse than sinking in quickmud? “You mean like animals?”
“Got lots of those about.” He bobbed his head as if running through an inventory of creature dangers. Then he added, “Could be something else.”
“Like what?” The rat began gnawing on something.