Tunnel Vision

by Gary Braver

  Yes, more tests would be needed, as Elizabeth had said. But he felt a near rapturous anticipation of the day he could grasp the Holy Grail and show the world that the Lord God Almighty exists.

  And the possibilities were endless. No longer would belief be simply a leap of faith. No longer would death be final. His would be evidence of things unseen. Evidence that all the world would embrace. Gone would be barriers that separated Christians and Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, and the rest. All would be joined in one unifying belief system, at the core of which would be Warren Gladstone and his tabernacle. Yes, there would be cries of trickery, even heresy, perhaps even temporary backlashes—the inevitable resistance and protests against any pronouncement from Evangelical Christianity. But he’d cross those bridges when he got to them, fortified by the realization that he was at the vanguard of the greatest revelation ever: that he had found God.

  “And you’d said he declared no religious affiliation?”

  “Sorry. He entered ‘NONE’ on the questionnaire.”

  “Sorry nothing,” Gladstone chortled. “All the better. He’ll be our own Doubting Thomas who not only sees the light but sheds it on the world.” Then he added, “Guard him well. This young man is manna from heaven, a gift from the Lord God Almighty Himself.”

  “It couldn’t have happened without your generosity.”

  “Worth every penny.” Warren stared at the images from the fMRI. “And delicious irony abounds. Deus ex machina.”

  Elizabeth Luria smiled. “That may be, but we still have more computations to do before we claim vindication.”

  “Then do them.”

  And as Warren lost himself in those pulsing colors across the schematic of Zack Kashian’s brain, he felt the breathless promise well up in his soul. He knew he was looking at the mind of the Creator—but he also knew in his soul that he would indeed live in the house of the Lord forever and ever.

  Amen.

  55

  Zack had called Dr. Luria two days ago to explain that he was not interested in any more suspensions. It was taking too much of his time, and he had to finish his thesis. His manner was polite and his tone neutral. And he said nothing about the murder flashes because she would use that to fuel her insistence that he return for more tests.

  As expected, she did not take kindly to his announcement, beseeching him to reconsider, proclaiming that they were on the cusp of a great discovery, et cetera, et cetera. She had enlisted her best appeals short of begging. To soften the blow, he said that he would get back to her if he changed his mind.

  In the meantime, he worked on his thesis, occasionally flipping through library books on NDEs. Most reports described the standard experiences—tunnel rides, total serenity, a oneness with the universe. And the standard presence of light and spiritual beings. A great number of claimants reported how NDE changed their lives for the better, making them more faithful and caring. But none reported anything like his horror shows.

  As he did most mornings, Zack headed for an isolated table in the student union café that Thursday. It felt good to be back at his thesis without distraction. He worked steadily for a good part of the morning, until a voice startled him.

  “Hello, Zack.”

  He looked up from the screen, and out of a half-glimpsed premonition there stood Elizabeth Luria. She was holding a tray with two coffees and croissants.

  “I wasn’t sure if you liked cheese or chocolate, so I got one of each.”

  Zack had seen her only in a white lab smock, but she was dressed stylishly in a pink blouse, tan slacks, and black blazer. Her hair was done up, and she wore a silver locket around her neck.

  “May I join you?”

  “Sure,” he said. He got up and pulled over a chair for her. “How did you know where to find me?” He tried not to let his irritation show.

  “It wasn’t easy.” She sat down. “Working on your thesis?”

  “Trying to.”

  “Well, I won’t be long.”

  “I mean it’s just hard to get back the enthusiasm.”

  “I’m sure it’ll return.” She took a sip of her coffee. “You probably suspect why I’m here.”

  “Yes, and I’m not interested.”

  “Because you had an unpleasant experience, and I’m sorry that happened.”

  Had Sarah told her? He didn’t think she’d betray him. But maybe she had. Luria was her boss after all. “Whatever. I just don’t have the time.”

  “I understand.”

  She reached into her handbag and pulled out an envelope. From that she extracted a photograph and turned it toward him. It was a studio shot of a handsome young boy smiling broadly at the camera. Behind that was a shot of the same boy with a golden Labrador and an older man. “This was my son, Kevin, and his father, my husband. They were killed in an automobile accident some years ago. He was twelve at the time.”

  “I’m very sorry, Dr. Luria.” It was the same child in the photograph on her lab desk.

  “Thank you, and please call me Elizabeth.” Then she continued, “I’ll be straight with you. When I first started working on the project, I regarded all NDE claims as the brain’s defense against the onslaught of death. But I’ve seen growing evidence that points to transcendence. And your sessions confirm that.”

  He could see that she was fighting back emotions.

  “Zack, I believe that we are on the threshold of validating the existence of the afterlife.”

  He nodded, beginning to feel sorry for her.

  “We’ve analyzed all the MRI data from your last session and, like the first run, everything points to the conclusion that you crossed over.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I was brought up in a religious home, but from a young age I didn’t believe in the soul or God. I saw no evidence that the supernatural existed. But now I do. And my investment in this project goes beyond science. Frankly, I’d like to know that my son and husband are in a good place—that they’re all right.”

  “Dr. Luria, what are you asking me to do?”

  “I want you to submit to another session,” she said, her body ramrod straight, her voice steady, without inflection, her eyes wet. “I want to confirm that the afterlife exists. I want confirmation that my child may still be alive in some form.”

  After a long moment, he said, “With all due respect, I’m not some kind of medium or swami.”

  “No, but you’re the only person who technically died and returned with evidence that our essence goes on.”

  “What evidence?”

  “The brain patterns, the electrical activity, the bloodwork—they all verify that your mind had actively separated from your brain, that your sentience continued even in flatline. That you had a near-death experience unlike anything we’ve seen before.”

  From nowhere rose the image of that man’s ruined face under Zack’s hands.

  “This may be the greatest discovery ever: that we don’t die but continue in some conscious form. Think of the hope that knowledge would afford people.”

  “Can’t you use another test subject?”

  “None of the others come close to your results.”

  “You mean I’m your only test subject?”

  “At the moment, yes.”

  Tears began to flow, and she caught them with a napkin. Shit. He felt himself soften.

  “I don’t have the words to tell you the kind of grief and guilt I’ve experienced. Nor do I want or expect your pity.” Then her face stiffened. “Did you have another unpleasant experience in the last run?”

  “It’s not worth talking about.”

  She glared at him as if trying to read his mind. Then from her purse she removed a checkbook. “If you don’t care to discuss it, fine. But I’m willing to pay for your time, knowing full well your other responsibilities.”

  And in a fine hand in blue ink she wrote a check and handed it to him. “I’m hoping this will convince you how important it is to let us test you again.”

&n
bsp; Zack looked at the check in disbelief. It was made out to him for $10,000.

  His first thought was that this was the largest check he had ever seen with his name on it. The second thought was that he could clear all his debts and have money left over to give to his mother. The third thought was that for ten grand he could take the chance of another three-minute suspension. “This is a lot of money.”

  “You don’t have to make a decision right now. All I ask is that you please think it over before saying no. Will you do that for me?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “To agree to let us test you a few more times.”

  “To put me in suspension.”

  “Yes.”

  “How many more times is ‘a few’?”

  “Until we get certain confirmation.”

  “But you already said you have confirmation.”

  Her face hardened and she said simply, “We need more data.”

  “And how will you know when you get what you want?”

  “The mathematical analysis is complicated. It has to do with probabilities—which Morris can tell you more about.”

  She was being purposefully vague again. Nonetheless, he saw no point in having her twist in the breeze. “I’ll do it on one condition: that I decide when one more suspension is too much.”

  “Fine,” she said. Her eyes fell on the photograph of her son, and they filled again. In a moment, tears were flowing down her cheeks. “I know I can never have my son or husband back.” She dabbed her face with a napkin. “But there would be great consolation to know that there’s something beyond and the possibility that I may be with them again.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” she said, and thanked him. Before she left, she said, “His name is Kevin. Kevin Luria.”

  Then she turned and walked away, leaving Zack staring at the photograph and the check, thinking how she wanted him to give her hope in something he could not get his own mind around—something that perhaps should remain beyond human grasp.

  56

  Roman Pace lowered the student newspaper and watched the woman walk away.

  He didn’t know who she was—maybe the kid’s mother. Maybe one of his professors. She had slipped him an envelope, which could have been a homework assignment or a letter of recommendation. Anything. But it looked like serious business. Not light talk.

  When she got up to leave, Roman was tempted to follow her but decided to stay with the kid. He did get a couple shots of her on his cell phone.

  As for that younger, good-looking woman from the Grafton Street place, they seemed to be more than friends. He had overnighted at her place last week.

  Whoever she was, he’d find out.

  57

  Tetrodotoxin is a powerful neurotoxin found in puffer fish and is 10,000 times more lethal than cyanide. Twenty-five milligrams could kill a 165-pound man. There are no known antidotes for the toxin, which kills by causing respiratory failure. For 70% of the victims, death follows within four to 24 hours. The toxin works by shutting down electrical signaling in nerves. Nonlethal dosages can produce dizziness, headaches, and hallucinatory effects.

  The last two words jumped out at Zack as he glared at his laptop later that evening.

  He was staring at three options:

  Behind Door One: He was brain-damaged and had hallucinated murder scenes. Door Two: He was an actual killer who murdered two strangers while in a trance. Door Three: He had crossed over and linked up with some homicidal psyche.

  In spite of Elizabeth Luria’s pleas, even Morris Stern’s concession that he may have had out-of-the-body experiences, Zack did not buy the supernatural, no matter what their fancy MRI recorded. He didn’t believe in ghosts. And he didn’t think he was nuts.

  That left the puffer fish toxin.

  And there it was: “Nonlethal dosages can produce dizziness, headaches, and hallucinatory effects.”

  He had gotten nearly 470,000 hits from Googling “tetrodotoxin.” Aside from all the data on how it was probably the deadliest substance in the natural world, he learned that the prime source, the puffer fish, though outlawed as a menu item in America, was a coveted Japanese delicacy called fugo that when prepared by an expert sushi chef produced a psychedelic high for the diner. “In the skilled hands of an expert fugo chef, if just enough tetrodotoxin is left in, the preparation of puffer fish flesh leaves the customer with a pleasant tingling sensation to the lips and a slightly mind-altering buzz.”

  “A thrill without the kill,” proclaimed one fugo blogger.

  Before he logged off, he noticed a link to The Boston Globe. Dated four months ago, the story described a homeless man murdered by another with a baseball bat on the Harvard Bridge. According to a witness, the murder appeared to be a bizarre mercy killing. The Massachusetts State Crime Lab reported traces of tetrodotoxin in his blood. Either the guy had exotic taste and a bad cook or a new drug had hit the streets. Yet a Boston Police Department spokesman said, “I don’t know how a homeless man ended up with puffer fish toxin in his liver. It’s a first for us.”

  According to another site, a nonlethal dosage dropped one’s temperature and blood pressure to the point of inducing a deep coma. In a few accidental food-poisoning cases in Japan, victims recovered days later after being declared dead. In Haiti, tetrodotoxin was known as the “zombie drug,” used by voodoo priests to fake the deaths of victims who were revived hours later to the dismay of others.

  In the United States, tetrodotoxin was on the “select agents” list of the Department of Health and Human Services, meaning that the drug could be used only by registered research scientists.

  58

  Mitch turned onto Connecticut Route 84 and headed north for the Vernon exit. It was Saturday night, and he had been at the Outback in Manchester, celebrating his promotion to floor manager at the Buckland Hills Sears. And, of course, he’d had a few beers and was wiped out and dying to get to bed.

  He was driving a 1992 Mitsubishi 3000 VR-4—one of the few all-wheel-drive sports cars on the road and one of the best looking. He had bought it used four years ago and had it repainted and detailed. Today it was in mint condition, even though it had seen 162,000 miles. He loved the sculpted design, the wide wheel base, the low-slung macho look. And with three hundred horses under the hood, the Mitsu had balls.

  He was maybe two miles shy of the exit when he heard a deep rumble. “Shit!” he cried, and slammed his hand on the wheel. His muffler had blown a hole. He growled down the highway, sounding like something out of a NASCAR race. He had gone maybe half a mile when he heard the connector pipe hit the ground and drag, no doubt leaving a trail of sparks. “Fuck!” The car began filling with fumes.

  He opened the window and took the next exit down Bolton Road to a clearing among trees. There were no streetlamps in this area, but he had a flashlight and some rope in the hatch to tie up the pipe. Luckily it had happened a few miles from home.

  He pulled the flashlight and a fishing knife from the glove compartment and got out. He looked under the car. The muffler was still intact, but the pipe was on the ground. He opened the hatch and removed the jack, then raised the car maybe a foot so he could slide under.

  The hangers that held the pipe to the muffler had come loose. But it had cooled enough to be roped to an opening. Unfortunately, the pipe had rusted through and would have to be replaced. By the time the Midas people got through with him, he’d be talked into a whole new exhaust system, putting him back at least a thousand bucks. And given the year of the car, it might take a week for parts to arrive, which meant he’d have to get a rental. Hell, he didn’t need this.

  Even though the air was cool, it was hot and cramped under the car, and his arms tired working the rope. Worse, he was exhausted and yearning to be in bed.

  He had worked for maybe twenty minutes when he heard something. He didn’t know if it was the wind or the traffic, but it sounded as if someone had approached the car. He looked down the l
ength of his body, then to the right and left. Nothing. He squirmed to face the rear of the car, maneuvering the flash in the tight space. Still nothing. Just the underbrush and shadows.

  Yet he had a sensation that he was no longer alone.

  After a few moments, he dismissed the feeling and continued tying the pipe to the car’s underside.

  A minute or so later, he again thought he heard something. And again he looked around, half expecting to see feet out there. Nothing. Probably the sound of the engine cooling, the metal contracting in the cool night air.

  He was just finishing the last makeshift rope hanger when he heard some scuffling just to his right.

  “Who’s there?”

  Nothing.

  Mitch waited until he was sure it was only in his head. He continued securing the rope to the pipe.

  “Mitchell.”

  His name. Someone had whispered his name. But it was so soft, it could have been the wind in the trees.

  The next moment, he heard the jack cranked down a notch. The sound shot through him like a bullet.

  The car had lowered on him.

  He turned the flash toward the jack, expecting to see a pair of feet, but only the jack lit up. Before he could move to squirm out, another snap of metal, and the underside of the car came down an inch closer to his face. He could feel the searing heat of the engine. He could smell oil and rust. He could taste terror.

  Before the car came down another notch, he squirmed out from under. He fanned the flashlight around, but no one was there. Just the trees and scrub, making shadows against the light. He pulled himself to his feet, then moved around to the other side of the car. Through the passenger window he reached into the glove compartment, where he kept a loaded .38-caliber Smith & Wesson. “Okay, you son of a bitch.” He turned a complete circle, holding the gun straight out.