Fire Of Heaven 02 - Threshold

by Bill Myers

  “But we’re talking about more than just you.” Sarah took a step toward him. “The implications of this research could affect the entire world, Brandon. We could be helping the human —”

  “Well, me is all I got, all right?”

  “Brandon, if you’d just stop and —”

  “Not you, not the world — me!”

  “And you is all that counts?” An edge had entered her voice.

  The boy glanced away. “You got that right.”

  They were losing him. Reichner looked hard at Sarah, a signal for her to play the final card. She scowled, obviously reluctant to go into that area.

  But Reichner nodded firmly, making it clear that she had no other choice.

  And still she hesitated.

  All right, then, if she wouldn’t, he would. He turned to Brandon and asked a single question. “What about your little sister — what about Jenny?”

  Brandon’s eyes shot to him, then to Sarah. But Sarah was unable to look at him.

  He turned back to Reichner. “She’s dead. Or hadn’t you heard.”

  “Perhaps.” Reichner shrugged. “At least in this dimension.”

  He let the phrase hang, making sure the hook was back in the kid’s mouth. Then he rose and began to brush off his slacks. “Well, I see that we have made a mistake. I thought perhaps you would want to help us. If not in the name of science, then at least for …” He pretended to hesitate, then shrugged. “Well, it really doesn’t matter now. We are sorry to have wasted your time, Brandon.” He turned to Sarah, who was unable to look at either of them. “Shall we go, Doctor?”

  She nodded.

  Without another word, they turned and started for the path.

  “If I do that …”

  The kid’s voice stopped them. Reichner almost smiled. So predictable.

  “If I go through with it, you’re saying I might meet Jenny?”

  Reichner said nothing.

  Brandon repeated, louder, “If I go through with it, are you saying —”

  “It’s a possibility,” Sarah gently interrupted. “But nothing’s for sure.”

  Brandon persisted. “But there’s a chance?”

  Sarah paused, then nodded.

  “And you’ll be there?” he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on her.

  “I’ll be at your side the entire time.”

  Brandon stood a long moment. Then he looked toward the dog and gave a low whistle. The animal struggled to its feet and lumbered toward him. Finally he answered, “All right.” With that, he turned and headed back toward the river.

  Sarah hesitated, then called, “Brandon.”

  He started working his way upstream along the edge of the water. He didn’t turn to her when he spoke. “I said all right, didn’t I?”

  To fully confirm it, Reichner called out, “Tomorrow afternoon. That will give us time to set up the equipment. Tomorrow afternoon, at two.”

  Brandon said nothing. Neither did Sarah as she stood watching.

  Reichner turned and started back up the path. Several seconds passed before Sarah joined him. Reichner knew she felt guilty. Too bad. But using people, playing this type of hardball, was all part of the game. And she’d better get used to it if she planned to be a winner. Still, he wasn’t worried. Because if there was one thing he knew about Sarah Weintraub, it’s that she was driven to win.

  CHAPTER 9

  “OKAY, WE’RE GETTING IMAGES.” The Institute’s biochemical engineer motioned for Sarah and Reichner to join him over at the computer terminal.

  Across the room, Brandon lay on a hard, twelve-inch-wide table that had been rolled inside the PET, or positron-emission tomography scanner. It looked like a giant white doughnut with an opening thirty-five inches in diameter that ran forty-two inches deep. It completely surrounded Brandon’s head, which was held in place by two leather straps fastened with Velcro strips. He wore no gown, just jeans and his standard-issue T-shirt. His left hand rested in a plexiglass pan of water heated to exactly 43.6 degrees Celsius. From this hand they would remove multiple blood samples in order to monitor the radioactivity they were injecting into his body through a syringe in the other hand — a syringe surrounded by a silver cylinder designed to shield the technician from the very radiation he was injecting.

  Outside the scanner, on a table near Brandon’s chest, a small cassette recorder played Reichner’s relaxation tape.

  Sarah knew that PET scans weren’t always available to parapsychology labs, partly because of the machine’s 1.8 million dollar price tag. She also knew that the Institute was preparing to order a second. A wonderful indulgence. But PET scans themselves were no luxury. Unlike SCATs or MRIs, which register the same condition of tissue — whether it’s dead or alive — PET scans actually view and record the metabolic rate of a living organism.

  Thirty minutes earlier, they had injected Brandon with three CCs of the radioactive isotope Fluorodeoxyglucose, a sugar that enters the cells of the brain just like any other sugar molecule. But since it is radioactive, it gives off energy — which the special crystals inside the PET’s plastic doughnut (over eighteen thousand of them) are able to record.

  The purpose? To see which areas of Brandon’s brain were the most active when he had his visions.

  The process was relatively painless, except for the hard table Brandon now lay on. All he had to do was listen to Reichner’s prerecorded voice and let it lead him into the lower-frequency brain waves — the brain waves present when the subject is most susceptible to paranormal activity.

  Sarah joined Reichner at the computer screen to watch the first of the sixty-three sliced video images of Brandon’s brain appear. To see pictures of the human brain actually working never ceased to amaze her. The organ is by far the most complex in the known universe, and to this day prompts more questions than science has been able to answer.

  The brain had not always been held in such high esteem. Aristotle figured it to be nothing but an elaborate cooling system that was good for producing mucus (after all, look how close it was to the nose). But eventually, this relatively small, three-pound organ responsible for everything from a Shakespearean sonnet to the horrors of Hiroshima, received the credit it deserved.

  The biochemical engineer sitting at the computer, a young man from Taiwan, whistled softly. “Take a look at that.”

  Sarah directed her attention back to the screen. Not only did the PET scan show what sections of the brain Brandon was using, but it also showed to what degree he was using them. The areas with the least amount of function were shown in the cooler colors of purple, blue, and green. The more moderate working areas appeared as yellow. And finally there was red — the “hot” areas, the areas where the radiation was most highly concentrated, where brain activity was the greatest.

  “His entire right temporal lobe,” Reichner whispered in awe, “it’s on fire.”

  Sarah looked on with equal wonder. For ease in research, the brain was divided into regions by function. The frontal lobe controlled some motor activity but was also responsible for giving us our sociability. The occipital lobe was for vision. The parietal lobe received sensory information and helped in special orientation. But it was the right temporal section of the brain that held their attention now. When this area was stimulated during brain surgery, some patients experienced the so-called ‘out-of-body experience,’ or a feeling of déjà vu, or any number of paranormal sensations.

  “Have you ever seen anything like it?” Reichner whispered.

  “Not like this,” Sarah said, shaking her head and staring. Brandon’s entire right temporal lobe glowed a bright red.

  “Amazing,” the engineer whispered.

  “Okay,” Reichner nodded. “I have seen enough.”

  Surprised, Sarah turned toward him. “What?” she asked.

  “Let’s get him out of here and into the Ganzfield.”

  “But we’re not done,” the engineer argued.

  “We only have him for a day. Get him u
nplugged and down to Lab Two.”

  Sarah frowned. “That wasn’t the agreement. We asked him to participate in one experiment, and for only a couple of hours.”

  Reichner looked at her and scoffed. “We are not going to let an opportunity like this slip through our fingers, Doctor. Now, get him unhooked and moved.”

  “But …” Sarah glanced across the room at Brandon and lowered her voice. “What if he doesn’t want to stay? Emotionally, we’ve put him through a lot already. What if he wants to go home?”

  “He will stay.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “How?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Because you, my dear, know how to convince him.”

  Gerty stood at the stove, savoring the smell of the chicken-and-rice soup. This was how she always broke her longer fasts. It was the gentlest way she knew of easing her digestive system back into operation.

  She had finally finished her time of prayer and petition for the boy. It had not been as long as some of her earlier fasts, but her Lord had said that it was enough. The concentrated period of intercession was over. The boy would still face counterfeits and challenges, and his fiercest battles still lay ahead, but the Lord had made it clear that her time of interceding was over. His perfect will would be accomplished.

  Of course she had no idea what that will would be. And, after last night’s talk with the young boy, she had some very serious concerns. After all, despite the Lord’s power, he always respected an individual’s will. It was always up to the individual whether that person would love the Lord, hate him, obey him, or even believe in him.

  And it was that final choice, the choice of unbelief, that she feared most for the boy.

  Of course she had asked her Lord. But in this area he had remained silent. She knew that he wasn’t being indifferent to her requests. He simply understood the complexities far more than she did. So, at least for now, she too would have to simply believe. Gerty smiled. Of course she would believe. After all their years together, after all those years of his love and tender mercies, how could she do otherwise?

  She reached over to the counter and picked up another of the letters she’d been writing. Although the Lord had said her time of intercession had drawn to a close, he had promised that she could continue writing her letters. How many more, she didn’t know. Perhaps as many as she had time for. Because he had promised her one other thing: Before the week was over, he would take her home.

  Gerty picked up the letter from the counter and read what she’d written.

  Dear Eli:

  I know that you are confused and that you find your gifts frightening. At times you may even wonder if they are from God. It is good to be cautious. That is why he instructs us to “test the spirits.” But let me assure you, dear child, as you turn to our Heavenly Father, those gifts will always be from above. Yes, there are counterfeits. Yes, if you strive for the gifts independent of his will, you will enter regions of the occult, a dangerous world where clever impostors promise good but seek to destroy.

  The soup was steaming now, nearly boiling. Gerty turned off the stove, then reached up to open the cupboard. The door stuck slightly, squeaking when it finally gave way. She took down a small bowl, opened a drawer, and pulled out a ladle. The smell of the soup was intoxicating. With trembling hands, she dipped the ladle into the pan and slowly dished it up. It was Wednesday afternoon, the ninth day of her fast, and the soup smelled so good she could practically taste it.

  When she had finished, she looked at the small formica-topped table, piled with sketches she had retrieved from the attic earlier that morning. Sketches she had been drawing for twenty-two years. She would drop them off at his house. Today, maybe tomorrow.

  But not the letter. Like the other letters, this one was meant to be read later. After she was gone.

  She took a spoon from the drawer and, holding the bowl in both hands, she shuffled past the counter toward the table.

  She slowed as she passed the refrigerator. The Lord hadn’t told her how she would die, or the exact day. But she had sensed, she had known, where it would be: right there, right between her old refrigerator and the kitchen table. Strangely enough, the insight hadn’t frightened her. It simply helped prepare her.

  She arrived at the table and pulled out one of the two chairs. Gently, she eased herself down. She pushed aside the letters and sketches to make more room. Then, after a quiet prayer of thanks, she picked up the spoon and dipped it into the soup. Her hand shook as she raised it to her lips.

  It was warm and rich and full of flavor. She held the broth in her mouth, savoring it a moment, before finally swallowing. She dipped her spoon back into the bowl and took another sip. It was as good as the first. She wondered if she would miss this sort of thing in heaven. Then she smiled. How could she? Her Lord had promised a feast, a wedding banquet in her honor. How could there be a feast without food?

  She took several more spoonfuls, feeling it warm her throat, her insides. She was less than halfway through when she placed the spoon in the bowl and pushed it aside. She would return to it shortly, but right now there were more important matters.

  As she reached for her Bible, she felt a trace of sadness in her heart. She knew she would never see the boy again. Still, she would be allowed to minister to him. Through the sketches, as well as the letters and the verses in her old Bible, she would still be able to help. The thought gave her some comfort as she opened the worn book and began turning its yellowed pages. At last she found the verses she was to give him. She would return to the soup in a moment, but right now it was more important that she clearly underline the verses for him to see.

  “Like a leaf, floating upon the surface of a quiet pond …” Dr. Reichner sat in the observation room, speaking softly into the microphone. He glanced at the clock. They were twelve minutes into the session.

  Down below, in Lab Two, Brandon rested comfortably in the leather recliner, bathed by the four red floodlights. His eyes were covered by the Ganzfield goggles.

  Reichner continued speaking. “No cares, no worries, no thoughts. Just quiet, gentle floating …”

  Sarah sat beside Reichner, still filled with guilt. She’d used Brandon, there was no doubt about it. At Reichner’s insistence, she’d taken advantage of Brandon’s trust in her and had convinced him to stay. It hadn’t taken much; he was already so scared, so vulnerable.

  And he had no one else but her to trust.

  She winced. Once again, someone had manipulated her, someone had used her to exploit another. It was an all-too-familiar scenario, forcing her back to memories of the fights with Samuel, his arguments for the abortion, how having a child would hamper her career. Sarah closed her eyes. Once again, she was feeling cheap and used and very, very dirty. And, once again, to ease the pain, she focused on her work.

  In front of her were the monitors registering Brandon’s heart rate, respiration, GSR, EMG, and the all-important EEG. During Sarah’s childhood, her MD parents had often discussed the EEG craze. Back then, meditation and biofeedback were the talk of the town. Eventually interest died down, but not for the parapsychologist. In parapsychology, interest in the electroencephalograph and brain waves was still very high.

  And for good reason. It was still an important gauge for measuring mental activity. The brain produces electrical current all the time, anywhere from .05 waves per second all the way up to forty. The frequencies of these waves indicate what type of consciousness we are experiencing. Generally, they fall into four categories:

  The beta wave is the brain wave of highest frequency. When this wave dominates our mental activity, our minds are in high gear, concentrating, solving problems, having panic attacks. Next comes the alpha wave. It’s strongest when we’re in that daydreamy, half-awake state. Then comes the theta wave. It’s strongest when our subconscious is functioning — when we’re dreaming, or experiencing that inexpressible “nagging” feeling at the back of our mind, or suddenly solv
ing a problem that we didn’t even know we were thinking about. Finally, there is the delta wave. This is the slowest and most mysterious. It’s been found to be strong in psychics, telepathics, and others who claim to be experiencing supernatural insight.

  In her parents’ day, when everybody was busy achieving “inner peace,” alpha was the fad. But today, everyone from New Agers to Eastern mystics is focusing on theta and delta waves, the waves operating when the mind seems most susceptible to paranormal energy outside of the body.

  Sarah stared at the EEG and frowned. Something wasn’t right. She reached over and rapped the monitor.

  “What’s wrong?” Reichner asked.

  “We have a malfunction.” She motioned toward the screen. “Look how pronounced theta is. Something’s overmodulating.”

  She reached behind the monitor, preparing to push the reset button, but Reichner shook his head. “No.”

  She looked at him.

  “Let it go.”

  She pulled back, still looking at him. Did he actually think that Brandon could be generating that much theta, and in such a short period of time?

  “That’s very good,” Reichner spoke into the mike with soft, velvety tones, “very, very good …”

  Sarah glanced back at the screen. The theta started to shift, to decrease. She motioned to Reichner, who saw it and immediately spoke, “No, Brandon, don’t listen to my voice, just feel it, make my voice a part of you. Let it guide you, help you keep your mind free, help you keep it nice and empty …”

  Sarah watched. This part always made her nervous. She knew that a “free and empty mind” was essential in experiencing the paranormal. After all, the more empty your mind was of yourself, the more open it would be to other input from outside forces. Which was okay, she guessed, except — well, what assurance did they have that these outside forces were always good?

  “Now, keeping your mind free and clear, I want you to tell me what you see, Brandon. Tell me what you feel.”