Chapter 14
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There were no locks on any door in the hospice.
Shortly after two A.M. veil entered the building housing Sharon's offices. He closed the door behind him and switched on the flashlight he had found in the utility closet in his chalet. Aiming the beam at the floor, he walked around the computer, which he did not know how to operate, and went to the bank of filing cabinets placed against the far wall. He pulled open the A drawer and selected a folder at random to see what it contained. It was the file of a woman by the name of Hilda Amery, a Lazarus Person who had been at the hospice for a four-week period two years before. Her file consisted of the transcript of an intake interview conducted by Sharon, a number of lengthy anecdotal reports by and about the woman, and a record of the dying she had counseled.
Veil checked a few other files and found them essentially the same, with medical histories and treatment records added to the files of those men and women who had come to the hospice to die.
Next he pulled open the P drawer. He quickly scanned the name tags, but did not find what he was looking for. He was about to close the drawer when, on an impulse, he pushed the hanging files forward on their metal tracks and shone his light into the bottom of the drawer. A sealed manila envelope was wedged beneath the folders. Resting the flashlight on top of the cabinet, he took out the envelope and tore it open. Inside was a single, unlabeled tape cassette.
Veil searched through the drawers beneath the computer console until he found a portable cassette player. He inserted the tape cartridge and turned on the machine, then switched off the flashlight and sat down in the darkness to listen.
"Mark. Project code: Lazarus. Subject number fifty-three. Assigned cross-reference index number—"
"Don't assign this an index number, Sharon."
Jonathan Pilgrim's voice sounded curiously distant and flat, as if he were extremely fatigued.
"You don't want me to put this in the computer?"
"Not yet . . . not until I say so. In fact, I don't even want a transcript made. Squirrel the tape away someplace safe."
"I don't understand what you're doing, Jonathan."
"I want to go on record, Sharon, but I'm not quite ready to go public. This way, if anything happens to me, you'll at least have the history of one more Lazarus Person to work with. Just go ahead and use the questions on the standard questionnaire; that will make it easier to transcribe and punch into the computer when the time comes."
"Why now, Jonathan? Is something the matter?"
"Nothing's the matter."
"You sound so tired."
"I am tired. I don't mind admitting it."
"Do you want me to get something for you from the pharmacy?"
"No. That stuff screws up my head, and I need all my wits about me for the next few weeks. I have someone coming in who may need a bit of handling. He doesn't know it, but he could make an incredibly important contribution to our understanding of the phenomena associated with the Lazarus Syndrome. I believe he represents a link we've never seen before."
"Then he's coming here to the hospice?"
"No. He'll be with me on the other mountain."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want him to know what I'm doing; at least not right away."
"Who is it?"
"I don't want to identify him to you, Sharon. If things work out, you'll understand why."
"I think I already know why. You don't want me to have any preconceptions if and when I do meet him."
"That's part of it. The fact of the matter is that I don't know all that much about him myself. Henry's out in the field now doing a work-up on his background."
"Jonathan, you're not thinking of . . . going away, are you?"
Sharon's tone had become anxious, and it was some time before Pilgrim answered.
"No. Not yet. Please ask the questions, Sharon."
"Jonathan, I don't know where to begin with you. My God, you are the Lazarus Project, and I know you have things to say that you've never even told me. How can I use the standard questionnaire?"
"This is just for the computer model. I'm writing up my own anecdotal report; in fact, I've been working on it for some time. It's kept in a place where you'll easily find it if anything happens to me."
"Jonathan—?"
"Come on, Sharon, let's get to it."
Sharon sighed, and there was the sound of papers being shuffled.
"Name?"
"Pilgrim, Jonathan James."
"Age?"
"Forty-eight."
"Citizenship?"
"American."
"Place of birth?"
"Boston, Massachusetts."
"Parents living?"
"Yes."
"Siblings?"
"One sister, living."
"Education?"
"Undergraduate work at Syracuse, graduate work at Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I have a doctorate in mechanical engineering." "Profession?"
"United States Air Force, retired. I'm currently the Director of the Institute for Human Studies." "Religion?" "None."
"Do you believe in a personal god at this time?" "No."
"Did you ever believe in a personal god?"
"As a child, perhaps, but not since my early teens."
"Do you believe in an afterlife at this time?"
"Skip this part, Sharon."
"Jonathan?"
"Please, Sharon. I have my reasons. Anything we don't deal with here will be in my report." "Is your family religious?"
"My parents are lifelong Presbyterians. My sister recently converted to Baha'i."
"Did you have a religious upbringing?" "My parents took me to church every Sunday when I was a child, but I can't say it ever had any real effect. I just never took much interest in religious matters."
"You've suffered what is known as 'clinical death'?" "Yes."
"How long were you in this state?"
"I don't know. I was pronounced DO A at the base hospital, but they revived me in the emergency room about three minutes after I wheeled in. I have no way of knowing how long I was dead before I got to the emergency room."
"What were the circumstances of your death?"
"Plane crash."
"Did you have what you would describe as an 'out-of-body experience'?"
"Yes."
"When were you first aware that you were outside your body?"
"Just before I got to the hospital."
"What were your surroundings?"
"The ambulance was just pulling into the driveway outside the emergency room entrance. I was floating along outside the ambulance, looking in at my body through one of the windows. I was a mess; somehow I knew I was dead."
"You didn't find this a contradiction?"
"No—not at the time. Now I do."
"What was your first reaction?"
"My first reaction was, 'Oh, shit.'"
Both Sharon and Pilgrim laughed.
"You said this aloud?"
"I thought it."
"Were you angry? Afraid?"
"None of those things. It was just 'Oh, shit.'"
"Did you feel any other presence with you?"
"No. I was alone."
"Were you lonely?"
"No, just alone. I felt no real emotion in that state."
"Were you in physical pain?"
"Quite the contrary. I felt great. There was a distinct feeling of sensual physical pleasure. If I had to describe it in words, I'd say it was like the feeling you get after a heavy workout and a shower, or after you'd made love. It was also like being in love with someone in whom you place total confidence and trust. In fact, I remember thinking: 'Death is Love.'"
"That's fascinating, Jonathan. You've never talked about this before. All of the Lazarus People use almost exactly the same words to describe the feeling, but they're never quite sure what they mean by them."
"Mmm."
"What happened
then?"
"I didn't want to go into the hospital. I knew—or my body did—that I was dead, and I was doing just fine wherever I was. I suspected that the doctors might try to revive me, and I was afraid of that. I'd lost my eye, and my left hand had been crushed. I knew I'd suffer terribly if they brought me back, and I didn't want that. I was whole where I was, and I wanted to stay that way. So I flew away."
"What were the mechanics of this flight?"
Again Pilgrim laughed.
"You mean, did I flap my arms?"
"Yes, I guess that is what I mean. Did you flap your arms?"
"No. There were no mechanics. To will it was to do it."
"But there was an actual sensation of flight?"
"Definitely."
"What direction did you go in? Up? Down? To the side?"
"I can't answer that, Sharon. Direction is a concept that had no meaning there, so I won't try to assign it a meaning here. I just went away."
"Did you see anything?"
"A huge rectangle of light. I remember thinking that it was a gate; that was the word I assigned to it because I knew there was something on the other side."
"Anything before the gate?"
"Just the color blue . . . a sea of blue. I was at once a part of that sea and something moving through it."
"Did you have any sense of time passing? Can you say how long it took you to get to the light?"
"Time had no meaning."
"All right. What happened then?"
"In the hospital?"
"At the gate of light. Could you see beyond it?"
"No. It was too bright."
"How big was it?" "No meaning."
"Was there anything or anybody in or near the gate? Say, a robed figure?"
"No."
"Voices?" "No."
"Any sound at all?"
"No. There was absolute silence. There's no silence here to compare with it."
"Did you have any feelings at this time?"
"Ecstasy."
"Did you want to go through the gate?"
"Yes. Definitely."
"Did you?"
"No. I returned to the hospital and went back into my body."
"Did you feel hands pushing you, or voices urging you to go back?"
"No. It was a voluntary act."
"If what you were experiencing was so pleasant, why did you choose to return to what you knew would be agony?"
There was a considerable pause before Pilgrim finally answered.
"I was curious."
"Weren't you curious about what might be on the other side of the gate?"
"Yes, but I knew that the gate would always be there waiting for me. On the other hand, I was afraid that I wouldn't have the option of returning once I went through it. Knowing it was there gave me courage. I decided to come back here, at least for a while, and see how things turned out."
"So? How have things 'turned out'?"
"Sharon, I'm still working on the answer to that one—as you well know."
"Yes, I do know. In general, how do you feel now?"
"Well, you're aware of all my medical problems. I have a lot of problems with fatigue. Emotionally, I feel . . . distanced." "Can you expand on what you mean by 'distanced'?"
"I'll try. What I mean is that I find myself constantly amazed—and amused—by some of the things most people take seriously. I used to be known as a man with an extremely quick temper. Now I rarely get angry at anything."
"What you're describing sounds like apathy."
"But it isn't. In fact, I have a much greater sense of wonder and involvement with the world as a whole. It's just much harder to get angry about anything. I think the strongest and most consistent feeling I have is curiosity."
"About what?"
"Everything. Especially us—human beings."
"Are there things you took seriously before the accident that you don't take seriously now?"
"Any number of things, but I don't see any need to list them. The point is that you become more curious and involved, but less emotional. At least I did."
"All Lazarus People do, Jonathan. You know that."
"Compiling statistics is your job."
"I can't argue with that. Once again, there was no religious feel to any of this?"
"None."
"Have you experienced any unusual physical sensations since your near-death experience?"
"Ghost-limb syndrome, but that's to be expected after any amputation. It often feels like my hand is still there."
"Jonathan, that's about it for the questionnaire. Is there anything you want to add?"
"No."
"Are you sure, Jonathan? I'm a little worried about you."
"I'm sure, and there's no need for you to worry about me. Remember that I'm still waiting to see how things turn out."
"You really believe that this man you've invited to the Institute can give you the answer, don't you?"
"Let's close this out, Sharon. I really am tired."
"All right, Jonathan. End of intake interview. Mark."
Chapter 15
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Veil? Can't you tell me what this is all about?"
Veil glanced at Sharon, who was studying him from where she sat at the far end of the conference table in her suite of offices. There was confusion and hurt in her pale, silver-streaked eyes, and she was staring at him as if he were a stranger—a reaction Veil found perfectly understandable, since he had been going out of his way to behave like a stranger. Something about the atmosphere surrounding the Institute, and particularly the hospice, was very disorienting to him, he thought. There was not only the mystery of the Golden-Boy to be solved, but also a mystery within himself— a riddle that had only posed itself since he'd agreed to be Jonathan Pilgrim's guest. It was as if there were something in the air over these two particular mountains that made him open and trusting in ways he had never before been in his life. Now he felt betrayed, not only by Pilgrim—and possibly by Sharon and Henry Ibber—but also by his own instincts. He had been wandering around in a mental fog, displaying the kind of doe-eyed innocence that could get him killed, and he had resolved that it was going to stop.
"Veil, did you hear me?"
"Not now, Doctor."
"Doctor? We're getting rather formal all of a sudden, aren't we?"
"I want to wait until Pilgrim and Ibber get here so that I won't have to repeat myself."
"Henry will be here?"
Veil nodded. "I asked Pilgrim to bring him over."
"Veil, what's wrong?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out. It's time to sort out a few things."
"But—"
"Kendry?!"
Veil turned to face Henry Ibber, who had stopped just inside the door to the conference room. Ibber's high, shiny forehead glistened with perspiration, and the mouth below the drooping black mustache gaped open with astonishment.
"Come in and sit down, Ibber," Veil said curtly. It seemed that Pilgrim had not told his investigator who wanted to see him, and Veil wondered why.
Ibber's dark eyes suddenly flashed with anger. "What the hell are you doing here, Kendry? And who are you to be giving me orders?"
"Go ahead, Henry." Jonathan Pilgrim's voice, soft but insistent, came from the doorway just behind the large-framed Ibber. "Do as he asks."
Ibber thrust his stocky shoulders forward and glared at Veil for a few moments, then abruptly walked across the room and sat down at the table, next to Sharon. Pilgrim, walking casually with his hand in his pocket and a faintly bemused expression on his face, entered the room and sat down at the end of the table closest to where Veil was standing, apart from his two colleagues.
"It's your show, my friend," Pilgrim continued, turning to Veil. "Let's do it."
"We'll do it, all right, Colonel," Veil said, his voice hard. "You've been jerking me around since I got here. I don't like being 'handled,' and I want to know why you felt you had to do it. I a
lso want to know what part you expected me to play in this spook show you've got over here."
Pilgrim glanced sharply at Sharon, who blanched and put a hand to her mouth. "The tape," she said in a husky voice. "He's heard the tape."
"You're damn right I've heard the tape. I've also had a very interesting chat with Perry Tompkins, who was kind enough to show me his latest paintings. That means it's time to tell me the name and rules of the game you've been playing."
Veil had been speaking to Sharon, but the woman was still staring wide-eyed at Pilgrim. "Jonathan, I'm so sorry. I never thought—"
"Don't worry about it, Sharon," Pilgrim said easily as he lit a cigar. "It's not your fault. I'm the one who brought him over here. I knew it was risky, but I couldn't think of any other place to put him where he'd be safe. He'd have eventually found out, anyway; hell, I'd have told him. It's just bad timing."
"My God, Jonathan. He's the one, isn't he?"
Pilgrim looked at Veil and winked broadly. "That's him."
"Come on, Sharon," Veil said. "Are you trying to tell me that you didn't know or guess? You were the first person I was supposed to see. Does the Colonel always use his director of near-death studies to conduct garden-variety interviews on the other mountain?"
"No, but—"
"I'd told her that we had a couple of people out sick," Pilgrim interrupted. "She really did just make the connection, Veil. She saw Perry's work, but she's never seen yours. You've heard the tape; I wanted Sharon to work with you because I needed her special perspective, but I didn't want her to know why. I wanted any discoveries about you to be made independently, not by somebody like me—looking for and hoping to make them."
"Excuse me," Ibber said, looking back and forth between Sharon and Pilgrim. "Would somebody mind telling me what this is all about?"
"Sorry, Henry," Pilgrim said with a shrug. "I'm afraid your time is being wasted. Veil was quite insistent that I include you in this meeting, so I brought you over. I don't think he'd have believed me if I told him that you didn't have the slightest notion of why I really wanted him here."
"Your real reason for wanting me here isn't the point, Colonel. Somebody tried to kill me, remember?"
"I remember," Pilgrim replied softly.
Veil turned to face the Institute's chief investigator. "Ibber's the man who ran my background check."
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