Valley of the Shadow (7 page)

    It was serious business after all. Eternity. Conner was surprised—and saddened—at how little thought most people seemed to give the topic. Death was the one thing they could be certain of, yet they acted as though ignorance would make them live forever.

    And he had been the same way. But no longer. He had witnessed the darkness firsthand. He had stood on the brink of eternity and gazed deep into the abyss. His pride and self-sufficiency were gone, and he desperately wanted his friends to know how his stoic agnosticism had finally melted away to faith.

    Though not a blind faith. To his surprise, Conner had discovered plenty of evidence for this carpenter who had risen from the dead. It was there for anyone willing to examine it with an open mind. Yet for all his efforts, no one ever seemed very interested. No one responded with anything more than a polite smile and nod. And then an excuse to make a quick getaway.

    It seemed the harder he tried, the more they avoided him.

    It was just after ten o’clock when Henry Brandt called Conner into his office. Henry was the senior partner at the firm and a longtime mentor since college. He was semiretired, in the office three days a week. Though in his seventies, Henry still carried a lean, athletic build. He had just returned from a trip to Maui, and against his tanned skin, his neatly cropped white hair looked positively angelic.

    Conner had always admired the man. Henry’s agnosticism had been deeply influential during Conner’s college years. Because of this, Henry Brandt was the one person with whom Conner had been too intimidated to discuss his faith. Not that he regretted his decision, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow he had let the man down.

    Henry leaned back from his wide mahogany desk as Conner flopped into the leather armchair with a snort of exasperation. “How are you doing, Connie?”

    “Fine.” Conner took a breath and held it a moment, not sure how to proceed. Then he puffed out his cheeks in a sigh. “Actually, I’ve never felt better.”

    Henry nodded. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. But I didn’t ask how you were feeling; I asked how you were doing.”

    This was typical Henry Brandt sophistry.
Feeling.
Doing.
What was the difference? At length, Conner shrugged. “In that case, maybe not so good.”

    Henry only smiled. “Having trouble getting back into the swing of things?”

    “In a manner of speaking. Nancy’s turned into a Stepford secretary—not that I’m complaining, mind you. But I can’t help feeling that some people here are avoiding me.”

    Henry gazed into the distance for a moment. Then he drew a breath. “Look, I’ll be frank with you.”

    “Please.”

    “I think you’re making some folks here a little . . . uncomfortable.”

    “Uncomfortable? What do you mean?”

    “Well . . .” Henry rubbed his jaw. Conner could see he was trying to choose his words carefully. “Some of them think you’re becoming a bit of a . . . well, a zealot.”

    Conner blinked, then chuckled. “A zealot? C’mon, Henry . . .”

    “Connie, you’ve gone from being a hard-core skeptic to the apostle Paul in a matter of weeks. Didn’t you think that might be a little disconcerting to some of your friends?”

    “Look, maybe I’ve been a little overeager,” Conner said. “But I’m not trying to preach at anyone. I just want to share what I experienced that night. I almost died, Henry. It had a profound effect on me and my outlook on life. I think it’s a pretty important subject. I mean, we’re all going to die sooner or—”

    “See . . .” Henry held up a hand. “That’s the thing. People don’t like to talk about death all the time.”

    “I don’t talk about it all the time.”

    “Well, they say you’re sounding obsessed.”

    Conner frowned. “You’ve had complaints?”

    Henry shook his head. “Just overheard bits of conversations.”

    Conner sat back and folded his arms. “Well, I wouldn’t describe it as obsessed. I just think in general we should be more aware of the fact that none of us knows how much time we have.”

    “We’re all aware of that, Connie. Most of us just try not to dwell on it so much. It’s a depressing subject.”

    “
Depressing
isn’t quite how I would describe it. More like
terrifying.
”

    Henry sighed. “These so-called near-death experiences are actually quite common for people in your situation. And easily explained…”

    “Not mine.”

    “Look, I’m not trying to repress your need to talk about what was obviously a very traumatic experience.”

    “Henry . . .” Conner leaned forward. It was time to lay his cards on the table. “You don’t know the whole story. I mean of what I went through. This wasn’t some hallucination or a bunch of random brain synapses. And I can prove it.”

    Henry blinked. Then frowned. “How?”

    “When I was dying, this place where I found myself . . . I wasn’t alone there. I met five other people who were all dying too. All at the same time.”

    “What people?”

    “I had Nancy look them up. After the heart attack, I called from the hospital and gave her a list of names: Helen Krause, Mitch Kent, Devon Marshall, Ray Cahill, and Howard Bristol. These people are real. I had never met them before. Had no knowledge of them. But they were all dying too, at the exact time I was having my heart attack. And we all crossed paths in that . . . that place.”

    “What are you talking about?”

    Conner hesitated. It had been hard enough to share the details of his experience with Marta; how could he possibly let Henry know? For two months, he’d kept it secret. Bottled up. Afraid of what people might think. But maybe that was the point. Maybe God was wanting him to share it. No matter how crazy it made him look.

    He took a breath… and a leap of faith. Then, starting from the beginning, he relayed all the details of his experience. The storm, the creatures, the seizures, the mysterious boy who had saved him. Everything. Henry listened without interruption. Almost without expression. He just sat there and stared at Conner.

    When Conner had finished, Henry said nothing. His gaze lowered.

    After a moment, Conner said, “Well? What do you think?”

    Henry took a deep breath and shook his head. “I think I’d like you to take some more time off.”

    Conner narrowed his eyes. “You don’t believe me? Check with Nancy. I’ll give you the list. Check for yourself—”

    “We can handle things here. I’ll put in a few more hours if I have to.”

    Conner sat back and laughed. “Henry, I have evidence. Just check out the names. These people actually existed. You don’t hallucinate that type of stuff.”

    “And I want you to see someone. A professional. Get some help, Connie.”

    Conner’s jaw tightened. “I’m not crazy, Henry.”

    “I’m not saying you are. But there’s obviously something seriously wrong. And as your friend, I’m asking you to get help.”

    “What are you afraid of? That it might all be true?”

    “This isn’t about me, Connie. This is about you. I want you to get some counseling.”

    Conner now saw an older version of his former self in Henry Brandt. Denying the possibility that something might exist for which there was no scientific explanation. Not even willing to examine the evidence. For all his intellect, Henry really wasn’t open-minded at all.

    Conner clenched the armrests of his chair. “Y’know, Henry, you’re going to be dead a lot longer than you’ve been alive. I just think you should know what you’re getting into.”

    Henry fell silent again. This time he stared directly at Conner. So long, in fact, that Conner began to squirm. He lowered his gaze, feeling like an upstart wolf pup in the presence of the pack’s alpha male.

    At length, Henry spoke. “This is obviously interfering with your ability to perform your job.”

    “Henry, I don’t need—”

    “Connie.” Henry Brandt wasn’t smiling. “As your boss, I’m telling you. Take another week. In fact, make it two. Give yourself some time to get your head right.”

MITCH STARED AT HIS FATHER
in the darkness of the stockroom.

    Walter Kent gazed back at him. His face was pale but darkened around his eyes. His lips seemed to tremble at the sight of Mitch.

    Mitch backed away, the flashlight shaking in his hands. But his fear was slowly surrendering to anger. What did the man want after all these years? Why had he invaded Mitch’s oasis? In some ways, Mitch had found a measure of peace in this dismal Indiana solitude. For while part of him hated the farm, still he found himself clinging to it like a tattered life preserver on the open ocean. He knew it wouldn’t keep him afloat forever, yet he didn’t dare think of letting go.

    Mitch clenched his teeth. “What do you want?”

    His father’s brow furrowed. He took a step toward Mitch, his eyes glaring. “Why did you do it?”

    “What are you talking about?”

    “You killed her, Mitch. Why did you do it?”

    An image flashed into Mitch’s memory like the muzzle flare of a gunshot. The sight of his mother—thin arms flailing, struggling to breathe—and Mitch as a fourteen-year-old boy, standing over her. Sobbing. Forcing the pillow over her face.

    Mitch pressed himself against the wall of the stockroom. “Leave me alone!”

    His father took another step. “She was your mother!”

    Mitch straightened up. “She was already dead!”

    “She gave birth to you! She loved you!”

    “She was suffering. You couldn’t see that? How much pain she was in? No, you were too busy to notice! I put her out of her misery.”

    His father’s eyes widened, then narrowed. His lips parted and he hissed, “That wasn’t your choice to make. You played God.”

    “Somebody had to!”

    In the beam of the flashlight, Mitch spotted a metal can on the shelf beside him. He grabbed it and hurled it at the image of his father, but it crashed against the door. Mitch swept the light across the room. His father—or whatever it was—was gone.

    Mitch sank against the wall. His eyes stung as he fought his tears. He wouldn’t cry. Whatever these aliens were doing, he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. He wouldn’t let them manipulate him like this.

    After a minute, his breathing slowed. He got to his feet, picked up the cases of oil, and brought them out to the truck.

    Howard was sitting in the cab, staring straight ahead. Fingers drumming on the wheel.

    “Sorry,” Mitch mumbled as he climbed into the truck. “I had to . . . It took a little longer than I thought.”

    They pulled onto the highway and headed back to the farm in silence. Mitch struggled to push the images of these most recent hallucinations out of his mind. First this Nathan character and now his father. But more than anything else, what Mitch found troubling was how long it’d been since something like this had haunted him. Why now? Why after all this time had he started to see things again? Was something happening to him? Were the aliens trying a different tack?

    He sighed and rubbed his eyes, pondering whether he should share these events with Howard. He glanced at the old farmer. But Howard had stopped whistling and was staring, blank-faced, at the road ahead.

    Mitch could sense that he’d somehow offended the old man with his talk of a vacation. He sighed again and scratched the back of his neck. “Look . . . dude. Really, it wasn’t anything personal. It’s no big deal. I don’t need a vacation. I just got the itch…”

    Mitch stopped and frowned. He could see Howard wasn’t paying attention. Rather, the old man was now squinting at the road in front of them. A light afternoon fog had begun to settle and was starting to cramp visibility. Mitch peered into the mist and could see a vehicle up ahead, pulled off to the side of the road.

    A lone figure stood next to it, waving to them.

JIM MALONE FOUND HIMSELF
sitting in the office of the corrections facility’s assistant director, waiting for the man to arrive. At least he assumed it was a man. The name on the door read
D. Curtis
in black letters on the opaque glass. Steel file cabinets loaded with books and periodicals lined the walls on either side of the small room. Piles of manila folders were stacked precariously at the edges of the bulky metal desk. And amid the desktop clutter were a pair of wire baskets, also crammed with paperwork, and an old-style black rotary telephone.

    Jim felt as if he’d been catapulted back in time to the seventies.

    Then the door opened and the assistant director entered: an enormous black man, built more like a pro football player than an administrator. He stood well over six feet with beefy shoulders and chest and an ample stomach. His white pin-striped shirt was tight around his girth and only partially tucked into his belt. His head was shaved and he sported a thick salt-and-pepper goatee. He was perusing a folder through rectangular, black-rimmed reading glasses perched at the edge of his nose. Jim guessed it was Devon’s file.

    He sidled past Jim, squeezed around behind his desk, and sat down, looking almost comical, as if sitting in a child-size school desk. At first he ignored Jim, his eyes fixed on the folder in front of him. Then he sighed and looked up at Jim over his glasses.

    “Mr. Malone, I’m Darnell Curtis.” His voice was about as deep as Jim would’ve expected from a man that size. He reached a large, meaty hand across the desk. “Thanks for sticking around to talk to me.”

    “No problem.” Jim shook his hand. “I told them everything I know. Devon was acting strange from the moment he entered. Like he was in a daze. I thought he might’ve been drugged or something.”

    “Devon was not medicated,” Darnell said, glancing at the folder. He rubbed the top of his clean-shaven head. “You mind explaining exactly how you know this young man?”

    “Well . . .” Jim hesitated a moment. “I don’t really know him. I was the one who called 911 when he was shot a couple months back.”