Tunnel Vision (45 page)

“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. Nothing 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.

“To education and a life of poverty,” Zack said.

“Well, there’s that,” Maggie said with a chuckle.

“At least some things won’t change,” added Damian.

“But the hounds are off my back.”

“And you don’t have to sell your blood and soul for the good folks at Discover.”

So much had happened since the events in Magog Woods.

Elizabeth Luria left no formal suicide note, just the blood and neuroelectrical activity recorded during her self-suspension. Although she would never know the diagnostic results, the analyses of the data indicated that she had experienced momentary transcendence. As an act of redemption for all the harm done to others, she had left most of her estate to a homeless shelter in Boston. She also had sent Zack a Treasury check for $10,000. It was Zack’s hope that she had found the union she had long sought.

Because Byron Cates and Sarah had joined the lab after the deaths of the street people, they were not incriminated in the police investigation.

As for Norman Babcock, he was arrested as an accessory to murder. The evidence was overwhelming since, as insurance against betrayal, his hired assassin, Roman Pace, had recorded their conversations in which they discussed the killing of project scientists. The large sums of money found in Pace’s rental car matched the cash withdrawals by Babcock.

Police were still investigating the Fraternity of Jesus to determine if any others were complicitous in supplying funds for Pace’s hire. That investigation was still ongoing. Authorities had questioned Timothy Callahan, pastor of St. Pius Church of Providence and nephew of Babcock. In an interview with the local media, Callahan denied knowing anything about Babcock’s criminal activities, claiming that his uncle was a misguided loner whose online diatribes against Warren Gladstone and the near-death experience research were private obsessions not to be taken seriously. According to the bishop of the Boston archdiocese, the Fraternity of Jesus was a “disturbingly reactionary” splinter group of sedevacantists who rejected the current Church policy of ecumenism and religious tolerance as well as the last eight popes and, thus, was not recognized by the archdiocese or the Vatican.

Maggie, of course, had been shocked to learn that Nick had been alive and living in Magog Woods. She was doubly shocked that he had killed four people in revenge for Jake’s death. A letter of apology was forwarded to her from his lawyer, explaining how Nick could not defeat the darkness and how he had entered the monastery in part to shield Maggie and Zack from his own corrosive despair. He asked for forgiveness and said that his consolation was to cherish his brief bond with Zack. Maggie did not understand that last statement, and Zack did not attempt an explanation.

The waitress and two male assistants arrived with their orders. Since the young woman had first taken them, Zack had sensed her attention. In fact, he’d picked up on it as soon as they put in for a table with the hostess. As they waited for their champagne, he felt lines of awareness converge on him from the wait staff and a few customers.

When she placed his dinner before him, she could not help but ask, “If you don’t mind my asking, is your name Zachary Kashian?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes lit up. “When I saw the name on the reservation, I thought it was you. I read about you in the newspaper.” She smiled nervously. “Nice to see you, and enjoy your dinner.”

“Thanks,” Zack said, noticing a gold crucifix around her neck. And before she left, she repositioned his plate of salmon, brushing her fingers against the back of his hand. It wasn’t an accident.

During the one interview he’d granted—to a reporter of the
Boston Phoenix
—Zack had admitted that he didn’t fully understand how he had recited that excerpt from the Sermon on the Mount while comatose. He guessed that his father had taught it to him as a child and it somehow came out of his memory after he’d slammed his head into the light pole. But he didn’t believe he was channeling Jesus. And no, he still couldn’t say that he believed in God—at least not the God of religious writings. But he did say he believed there was something greater than humankind—a spiritual essence that may be felt in human life.

In spite of the NDE tests, he still didn’t know if there was an afterlife. But he did think that it was probably better to believe than not to believe. When asked to explain, he said believing not only got you through the hard parts of life, but made it easier to face tragedies with more than mere resignation. If you saw life through a lens of hope, you were less afraid of crises, less afraid of death. It was what motivated Elizabeth Luria and that professional killer and a lot of people in between. We all sought eternity.

When asked if clinging to hope of the hereafter made people more effective in helping others, he said that depended on the person. His mother didn’t believe, yet she was a good and caring person who helped others out of the goodness of her heart, not from the hope of rewards in the afterlife.

As for Luria’s project, he reminded the reporter of the message of
Frankenstein
: Don’t tamper with natural forces. Believing in the afterlife was fine, but trying to prove its existence may be venturing where we shouldn’t.

Zack did not tell the press that sometimes while lying in bed he would send up thanks for his mother, Sarah, his friends, and his own life to whatever phantom deities might be listening. He could never say for sure if what happened in those woods was an accident or something higher, but he also thanked his father, just in case.

Perhaps believing made it so. Perhaps wanting to believe was the essence of faith.

And with that thought, Zack glanced across the table at Damian, who for a moment closed his eyes to say grace to himself. When he looked up, Zack caught his attention and nodded. “Me, too.” And Damian smiled.

“Okay,” Anthony said, downing the rest of his champagne. “The papers and TV are off your ass. So I gotta ask, what really happened up there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean how did you get a jump on the guy? He was a professional hit man who went to a pistol range every week. According to the papers, the guy was Annie Oakley.”

“I don’t know what happened,” Zack said. “My guess is he just snapped.”

“The cops found cartridges everywhere. So what was he shooting at?”

“I haven’t got a clue. Maybe he was hallucinating.”

“Did he look like he was on drugs or something?” Anthony asked Sarah.

“No, he looked crazed.”

“So, you’re saying he got distracted by this hawk that flew down.”

“Something like that.”

Half-consciously, Zack fingered the silver chain around his neck. It wasn’t his father’s crucifix. That they had buried with him. The chain he had purchased at a local shop that did custom work; and hanging from it was a small red tail feather. Only Sarah knew that he wore it. If anyone asked, it was only a good-luck charm.

He and Sarah had been over the events of that morning, telescoping the moments and parsing each movement to understand what had really transpired. To this day, and in spite of his memory, Zack could not recite more than the first few syllables of that Aramaic prayer that had held the killer spellbound. Where those words came from, he couldn’t explain—though Sarah’s quick thinking had distracted the killer. Nor could he explain how that bird appeared to have died and come alive again. Nothing could settle him on a conclusion that made total rational sense.

“I don’t know, bro,” Anthony said, shaking his head. “Either you’re one lucky dude, or someone up there likes you.”

Everybody else nodded and returned to their dinners.

Everybody but Sarah. She raised her eyes to Zack’s. It was fleeting so as not to draw attention, but he knew in the depths of her eyes what she was saying.

“Maybe so,” he said, and felt her hand slip under the table and give his a squeeze. “Maybe so.”

OTHER NOVELS BY GARY BRAVER

Skin Deep

Flashback

Gray Matter

Elixir

WRITING AS GARY GOSHGARIAN

The Stone Circle

Rough Beast

Atlantis Fire

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

TUNNEL VISION