Tunnel Vision

by Gary Braver

  Zack kissed his father’s forehead, a great ache racking his heart.

  Maybe another hour passed as Nick’s breath became shallow, and he closed his eyes for the last time, his chest laboring for air.

  They sat with him in silence, holding his hands, Zack on one side, Sarah on the other. And after several minutes, he fell into a deep sleep.

  Maybe an hour before dawn, it was over. His last breath was a gentle Ahhhh—as if he had found something that he’d once lost. Then his chest ceased moving, his heart silenced, and his pulse faded to nothing.

  Zack waited several more minutes, still holding his father’s hand. Soon it lost its warmth as his body became something ceremonial.

  Then Sarah moved to the other side of the room as Zack washed his father’s body with a towel and water from the dispenser. They redressed him and wrapped him in a blanket. One more time, Sarah read the burial instructions.

  Then they opened the cabin door to the chilled gray air.

  Somewhere beyond, a loon screamed.

  88

  Zack was numb as they headed out.

  It wasn’t just grief. On some wordless level, he felt abandoned. All the preternatural glimmerings seemed to have vanished in the morning chill. His father had died, and something had left Zack’s soul—a small glow that had burned in the background of his consciousness like a filament.

  Overhead, behind the black snarl of trees, the iron gray light began to seep out of the sky.

  Zack carried his father, now a swaddled bundle, through the woods, following Sarah with the flashlight. Nick had lost so much weight from dehydration that he felt like a child in Zack’s arms. Probably the way he had felt when his father had carried him so many times up to his bed when he had fallen asleep on the family room couch.

  They moved along a vaguely worn path through the brush and fallen tree limbs, guided by Sarah’s flashlight. The air was heavy with predawn moisture and the mustiness of the soggy ground. Out of the mud and muck of decay, new shoots were coming up.

  After maybe ten minutes, they arrived at a huge granite outcropping that rose maybe twenty-five feet in the air to a conical peak, looking something like a hooded figure hunched up out of the scrub. He knew this monolith. He had climbed it in his little-kid sneakers. Tabernacle Rock. The name came to him from nowhere. He didn’t know if that was the name given by earlier settlers or his father. But he had brought Zack and Jake here as children.

  At the base of the rock was a pile of dead branches and leaves. Beside it sat a pile of dirt covered by a plastic tarp. Zack laid down the body of his father, then he and Sarah removed the covering. Below was the grave hole his father had made—about six feet long, a couple of feet wide, maybe three feet deep. It had been dug with functional intent—roughly squared off, though not lined with rocks or pruned of stray roots.

  Zack removed the plastic tarp to reveal the overburden as well as a short-handled military-surplus shovel. With a small shock, Zack realized that his father—a man who had no friends, who had hermitted himself away up here in the middle of nowhere—had dug his own grave with the sole purpose of relieving Zack of the unpleasant task. More than that, its careful planning anticipated Zack’s journey here—maybe even his summoning. There were so many unknowns, so many unseen things.

  Before they lowered the body into the hole, Zack folded back the blanket to reveal his father’s face one more time. Perhaps he was imagining it, but it seemed to hold a look of peace.

  He kissed him on the forehead again. “Good-bye, Dad.”

  Then, with tears blurring his eyes, he folded the blanked over again. Sarah pulled him in a tight embrace. They both were crying now. For a long moment they knelt beside his father’s body, pressed against each other.

  Sometime later, Zack picked up the shovel and began to bury his father.

  Sarah stood beside him with the flashlight. Overhead, birds were awakening to the dawn. He could hear their chirps and twitters as he covered his father’s feet and legs, part of him in disbelief, another part feeling a strange fulfillment.

  He was almost finished when he turned toward the path, half expecting to see something emerge from the cut in the trees.

  “What’s wrong?” Sarah said.

  “Nothing.” The trees made a dark inert wall. “Just a deer.”

  Zack went back to the shovel.

  He buried his father while Sarah sat silently on the tarp, her knees pressed to her chest as she watched. Neither of them said anything. The gray light grew steadily brighter.

  When he was finished, Zack covered the mound with fieldstones, making a small cairn. According to his father’s wishes, he did not place a cross of sticks on it. Instead, with Sarah by his side, her arm around him, he said a silent prayer.

  “Good-bye, Dad. May you find peace wherever you are.”

  “How touching.”

  Sarah screamed.

  Out of the trees behind them stepped a man with a gun.

  89

  “Who are you?”

  The man emerged from the shadows, pistol raised at Zack. “The real question is, ‘Who are you?’”

  He was dressed in a camouflage jacket, pants, and hat. Over his shoulder was a backpack with something protruding from it ending in a black handle. And aimed at Zack’s chest was a long-barreled pistol, exaggerated by what appeared to be a silencer. Nobody went hunting with a silencer.

  The man moved into the clearing, his eyes wide. “So, you’re the miracle man.”

  He looked vaguely familiar. “What do you want?”

  “They told me you’d split. But Morris was kind enough to show me your videos. Which is how I found you. Magog Woods—not exactly a tourist trap.”

  “What did you do to Morris?” Sarah said.

  “Morris? You mean the late, great henchman of Satan? Let’s just say I relieved him from his life of blasphemy.”

  “You bastard.”

  He disregarded her and looked at Zack. “Some say you can perform miracles. Others say that you’re the devil in disguise. I’m just wondering which it is.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You recite Jesus’s words in the old language. You see things that aren’t there. Maybe got God talking through you. That’s pretty awesome. You could also be the Antichrist.”

  The man’s face suddenly connected. The guy at the bar at Grafton Street Pub & Grill in Harvard Square. He had been stalking them.

  “What do you want?”

  The man stepped closer. “What I want to know is, which is it—are you angel or demon?”

  The expression on his face said his question was dead serious. And he glared at Zack with the same look of wondrous expectation that he imagined lit the faces of those who had gathered around his hospital bed. Except this guy had a gun, just in case Zack turned out to be the wrong one—or neither.

  “You’ll have to decide that yourself.” He felt Sarah looking at him in horror, wondering why he was baiting the guy.

  “Demon or angel, you can do things the rest of us can’t. Isn’t that right?”

  Zack didn’t answer.

  “I mean, maybe you’ve got some heavy-duty powers. So, either you’re working for the man upstairs or the guy down below. Which is it?”

  “If it’s money you want, we can go to the nearest bank.”

  “You’re worth more to me than whatever you can get from a bank.”

  “Meaning what?” Zack said.

  “Meaning people will pay big-time for you—alive or dead.” He stepped closer. “Come on, show me your stuff.” He bent down and picked up a rock from the grave. He felt the heft of it, then tossed it at Zack’s feet. “Turn that into a loaf of bread.”

  Zack looked at the rock. “Be serious.”

  The man flared up and jabbed the pistol at him. “I am serious. I’ve got serious up to here. You got Jesus in you, do it!”

  “I can’t.”

  “No?” He then picked up a branch from the groun
d and tossed it at his feet. “How ’bout a serpent?”

  “I don’t do magic tricks.”

  “I’m not asking for magic tricks. I want the real thing. You’re supposed to have supernatural powers. I want you to show me them. I want to see a miracle.”

  Zack said nothing.

  “Come on!” he demanded. “Make the sky cloud over. Make the mist lift. Make something happen—a fucking pillar of fire or something. Show me what you are and why everybody is fucking hot for you—willing to pay millions.”

  “I can’t…,” began Zack.

  The man snapped the gun at Sarah and shot her.

  She screamed and grabbed her arm. The bullet cut through her sweatshirt just above the elbow. She pulled up the sleeve to reveal a bloody stripe in her flesh.

  “Come on, miracle man, heal her. You can do it. You’ve got the God brain or whatever. Do it!”

  “You son of a bitch,” said Zack, and lurched at him.

  But the guy stopped him at gunpoint. “You want to live? Then heal her. Do it. You channel the powers of God, so do it. Goddamn it. Show me you’re God.”

  Sarah groaned in pain as blood seeped through her fingers. Without saying anything, Zack removed his jacket, bit a hole in the sleeve of his shirt, and tore it off his arm. He wadded up the cloth to stanch the blood. It was only a flesh wound, though bleeding steadily.

  “Think this is a joke?” he yelled. “I want you to make her wound go away, not a fucking bandage.”

  With his belt, Zack made a compress on Sarah’s arm. “Sorry,” he whispered.

  “I’m telling you to fucking heal her wound.”

  “I can’t.”

  The man aimed the gun at the grave and fired twice into the dirt mound. “What about raising the dead, huh? Jesus did that with what’s-his-name … Lazarus. Come on, raise up your old man.” The intensity in his eyes was fierce. “Bring him back.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Crazy, am I? Yeah, maybe I am.” He looked at Sarah as if thinking about shooting her dead.

  “What the hell do you want from me?”

  He swung the gun at Zack. “I want you to show me you’re for real, not some fucking rumor. But that’s what I think you are—a fucking rumor.” He shot at a spot between Zack’s feet. Sarah screamed.

  “A fucking lie like the rest of it. And God’s the biggest lie of all. Might as well believe in Santa Claus. Because you know what? There’s nothing else.” He raised the pistol at the sky and fired. “Not fucking up there!” he shouted, saliva spraying from his mouth. “It’s all bullshit. All fucking liars—Father fucking Infantino, the saints, the pope. All bullshit. No fucking heaven. No fucking salvation. No God, Jesus. All empty fucking frauds is all.”

  He jabbed the gun at Zack and shot another hole in the dirt before him.

  “This is the real hell,” he continued. “We’re living in it. There’s nothing else. And when it’s over, it’s over. A black hole in the dirt forever.”

  With one hand he reached over his shoulder, gripped the black handle protruding from the backpack, and pulled out a machete. He then aimed the gun at Zack’s chest. “You’re worth more to me dead.”

  “No. Don’t!” screamed Sarah.

  The man held up the machete, the long shiny blade like a large sliver of light in his grip. “Who hired you?” Zack said.

  “Some asshole who thinks you’re the devil. But you couldn’t light a fucking match.”

  “Tell me his name.”

  The guy looked at him with dead eyes. “Norman Babcock.”

  “You killed Tom Pomeroy,” Sarah said.

  “Yeah, and now you, you fucking fraud.” He raised the gun to Zack’s chest.

  “No!” Sarah screamed.

  The gunman suddenly turned toward the thick of the woods. His face was taut, his eyes shocked open. He dropped the machete and assumed a two-handed stance, taking aim at something just behind the dark wall of trees. He fanned the area, trying to fix his target, moving the gun to the left and then the right, then up into the treetops. Suddenly he froze his arms straight out and squeezed off three shots in quick succession.

  Small branches and leaves blasted in all directions. But Zack could see no one—just scrub and trees and small birds flapping away. Still in a two-handed stance, the man swiveled to another position and emptied the clip, then shoved in another from his pocket.

  Zack pulled Sarah to him. “What’s he shooting at?” she asked.

  Zack had no idea. The guy was tracking something unseen in the trees, swinging this way and that. He fired off more rounds, emptied the clip, then slammed in another. More flashes of tree debris, and the only sound was that of startled birds. If there were hunters or even police, they’d have made themselves known or returned shots.

  With the last wild volley, a shriek rose up. And out of nowhere, a large hawk shot out of the sky, wings fully extended.

  In reflex, the gunman took aim and fired.

  The bird flapped awkwardly out of the sky and hit the ground with a muffled thud maybe twenty feet away. One wing was spread unnaturally, the other half-folded under it, maybe broken, its head at an odd angle. Zack glimpsed a flash of red, but he couldn’t tell if it was blood or tail feathers. From the rumpled heap, an open eye stared at Zack.

  Without thinking, he raised his hands toward the bird. “Avvon d-bish-maiya, nith-qaddash shim-mukh.”

  “What?”

  “Tih-teh mal-chootukh. Nih-weh çiw-yanukh:”

  “The hell’s he saying?”

  “ei-chana d’bish-maiya: ap b’ar-ah.”

  “He—he’s…,” Sarah began.

  “Haw lan lakh-ma d’soonqa-nan yoo-mana.”

  “It’s Jesus,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “It’s Jesus. He’s speaking through him.”

  “O’shwooq lan kho-bein: ei-chana d’ap kh’nan shwiq-qan l’khaya-ween.”

  “Cut the shit.”

  “Oo’la te-ellan l’niss-yoona: il-la paç-çan min beesha.”

  “No, for real,” she said. “Jesus is speaking through him. Those are his words. It’s Jesus.”

  Zack heard the syllables trip from his mouth, not knowing where they came from or how he could pronounce the alien sounds, but he continued uttering the incantation, while the gunman stood before him, stunned in place, the pistol in his hand still aimed at Zack’s heart.

  As the words continued flowing from Zack, the man gazed at him in wide-eyed wonder, as did Sarah. Perhaps to test him, the gunman raised the gun to within inches of Zack’s face and poked the air before his eyes. But Zack did not flinch, he did not cry out, but continued reciting the ancient prayer.

  “Mid-til de-di-lukh hai mal-choota”

  “I don’t know if he’s in a trance or fucking faking it.” Then he aimed the gun at Sarah. “This is some kind of bullshit act.”

  “oo khai-la oo tush-bookh-ta l’alam al-mein. Aa-meen.”

  “Son of a bitch.” He poked the gun at Zack’s heart.

  “No!” cried Sarah.

  Suddenly rising from the ground, the hawk flapped up toward the man. In reflex, he wheeled toward the bird and fired. He missed, and the bird flew off. But before he could turn on them, Zack leapt for the machete and with all his might he swung. The blade snapped through the man’s gun arm. In disbelief, he cried out as blood geysered from the severed stump, his dead hand lying in the weeds still gripping the gun.

  Zack stepped on the gun and drove the man back with the machete. Gripping his stump, he stumbled down the path toward the cabin, yelping in pain.

  Zack helped Sarah up, then they moved after him. They cut down the path, still heavy with morning shade. Because of the thick brush and the man’s camouflage, they couldn’t see where he had gone. Nor could they hear him.

  And all was silent.

  Soon they came to the clearing where the cabin sat. No wind in the trees. No twittering of morning birds. No buzz of insects. The place looked like a still life. Not
hing moved.

  Nothing but the dripping of blood.

  Sarah made a faint gasp, and it took a moment for Zack’s mind to catch up to what had startled her. The gunman was draped across his father’s splitting stump. His arms were splayed by his sides, his legs open, blood pooling on the ground from the severed hand.

  From all appearances, he had stumbled over the stump, impaling himself on the exposed spike of his father’s ax.

  For several minutes they searched the area where he had unloaded his clips. They found white scars on the trees and shattered branches from the bullets. But no footprints. No trampled new growth. No signs of any other presence. From what they could tell, the man had been shooting at nothing.

  Nothing visible.

  EPILOGUE

  SEVEN WEEKS LATER

  “To Zack, on the acceptance of his thesis,” Maggie said, raising a flute of champagne. “Congratulations.”

  “To Zack.”

  And six glasses clinked over the table.

  It was a mild August evening, and they were sitting at an outside table at Daisy Buchanan’s, a trendy restaurant on Newbury Street. Zack had gotten the good news from his adviser two days ago. And celebrating with him were his mother, Sarah, Anthony, Geoff, and Damian.

  “So, you get your degree in December, then what?” Anthony asked.

  “Then I find a teaching job,” said Zack.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Maggie said.

  He knew that would make her happy, since she had spent twenty dedicated years in the classroom. Although his adviser encouraged him to pursue his doctorate, he decided to apply to high schools and community colleges within an hour’s drive of Boston to be close to his mother and Sarah.

  For nearly two months, he and Sarah had been seeing each other exclusively, and in that time Zack had felt warm possibilities fill his soul. It helped that Maggie had grown fond of Sarah.