Tunnel Vision

by Gary Braver

  “He looked it, stumbling out of here like he was moving on brain stem impulses alone,” Karen said. “So where the heck did he get puffer fish toxin? It’s certainly not anything we stock.”

  “Because it has no medicinal benefit. It’s strictly a research compound.”

  “So you think he broke into your lab?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Can you run that again?” Zack’s eyes were still fixed on the monitor.

  “Sure,” Karen said, and restarted the video from the beginning.

  When it got to where the man emerged from the bay, Zack hit the pause button.

  The video stopped on a frame of the man in profile as he headed down the empty corridor toward the exit. It was grainy and hard to make out. “And you never got an ID on him?”

  “He didn’t have any. Just pants and T-shirt. No wallet of IDs. No shoes or socks. His feet were bloody. He was also covered with bug bites and sand.”

  “Sand?” Zack said.

  69

  Roman’s first impulse was to follow the woman out of the Neuroscience Research Center building. She was beautiful and shapely, and it would be fun tailing her butt. Except he knew who she was—Sarah Wyman, a postdoctoral research assistant at Tufts. Also a part-timer at a lab that, according to Norman Babcock, conducted the NDE project in a converted preacher’s home on the grounds of Gladstone’s church in Medfield.

  It was the old guy in the office upstairs who held his interest. The name on the door said, “Dr. Morris J. Stern.” He didn’t know the nature of her relationship with him, but the way she looked when she left suggested that they’d had something of a dustup.

  Whatever, Roman had some time on his hands, and keeping tabs on Stern seemed like a good idea. So he went back down to the lobby, where he hid behind a book he’d picked up on near-death experiences. He had never experienced one but wondered if there was anything to them. What he read sounded pretty silly—people floating around, looking down on their near-dead selves, and feeling love-happy. They all sounded similar yet deadly sincere. Nearly every one claimed that their dying wasn’t awful but wonderful, using words like “blissful,” “sweet,” “tender,” “sensuous,” “tranquil”—as though it felt so good, they didn’t want to go back to life.

  But Roman was confused. While he gladly took Babcock’s money, he couldn’t understand Babcock’s outrage. Nearly every account went on about glorious encounters with beings of light, communicating mind to mind with “a loving omniscient presence,” which some called God and others Jesus. And they all claimed that the experiences transformed their lives for the better—made them more spiritual, loving, kinder, more in tune with the universe. Some NDEs even turned agnostics and atheists into believers.

  So where was the blasphemy? Where was old Satan in all this?

  70

  They couldn’t go to the police without first gathering evidence linking the test victims to the lab. They would also need proof that Sarah had joined Proteus after they stopped using street people as guinea pigs. But that would take more time than they had. So Zack had Sarah drive them to Zack’s place, where he showered, changed, and packed some overnight clothes. Then they headed up Commonwealth Avenue to a dealership just beyond the BU campus, where he rented a Nissan Murano and drove to a parking lot on Longwood.

  While Sarah waited in the car, he climbed to the third floor of the Goldenson Building on the Harvard Medical School campus. And just as the secretary had said when he called, she was in her office. Without knocking, Zack opened the door.

  Elizabeth Luria jerked visibly in her chair, her face draining of color around her birthmark.

  “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” He closed the door behind him.

  She let out a small squeal as her mouth quivered for words.

  He walked to her desk, which was covered with paperwork. “Back from the dead, and hotter than ever.”

  “I can explain.”

  “What, how you kidnapped me, then buried me alive? I’d really like to hear that, Elizabeth.”

  “W-we needed just one more run to confirm merger, just that one, but I know how you refused. We were so close, I—I just felt desperate.”

  “So you force-flatlined me and left me for dead for real. But I bet you got your data.”

  Her face lit up. “Yes, yes. It’s remarkable. Really. It confirms—”

  “Blah, blah, blah. Then you buried me alive.”

  “That was an accident, I swear. We couldn’t revive you. Something went wrong. Maybe it was too early for another suspension. Maybe the sedative was still in your system. I don’t know.”

  “But you tried, of course.”

  Her face exaggerated itself. “Oh, God, we tried. Of course. Of course—injected you with epinephrine. Used defibrillator paddles over and over. Nothing worked, I swear. You had no heartbeat no matter what we did.”

  “So, what I’m wondering is how hotshot neuroscientists with the most sophisticated MRI machine on the planet couldn’t see that my brain was still alive.”

  “We couldn’t get a reading. Something went wrong.”

  “But you confirmed that I transcended and merged with another sentience.”

  “Yes.” Beads of perspiration had formed in the pockets under her eyes.

  “And you buried me on Sagamore Beach.”

  “Because that’s where you said you felt most spiritual.”

  “A little déjà vu all over again.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Just like my father.” As soon as he said that, he felt a sharp jab in his side.

  “What?” She froze for a moment. Then her hand jerked toward the desk phone. But he reached over and yanked the wire out of the wall.

  “If you yell for help, I’ll fucking kill you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to tell me why you killed my father.”

  Again she hesitated, trying to gather herself. “We didn’t kill him. He died on the gurney.”

  “He was still alive when you buried him.”

  “What?”

  “He clawed his way out,” he said. “EMTs brought him to Jordan Hospital with tetrodotoxin in his blood.”

  Her mouth quivered as he described the security video. “We didn’t know.”

  “Like you didn’t know with me.”

  She made no response, looking overwhelmed.

  He picked up a bronze brain-shaped trophy. According to the pedestal engraving, it was the Department of Neurology award to Luria for teaching excellence. He felt its solid heft, smacking it against his palm and thinking how it would feel to bash her face if she screamed.

  “That was three years ago, before we had the MRI machine. We had no idea his brain was still alive. And that’s the truth.” On a shelf behind her was another photo of her son posing on a pony, with Elizabeth standing next to him beaming.

  “So you just drove to Sagamore Beach and buried him in the sand.”

  “Because that’s what he wanted. He entered the same place on the questionnaire.”

  In spite of himself, Zack felt his throat thicken. Where they had felt most connected with the universe. Where they’d been the happiest as a family. “Except he dug himself out.” And Zack had relived it all in his head, then last night for real. “This was all a setup from the start. You had my father’s brain patterns on record, and when he died you went after me, hoping if I crossed over, I’d contact him. All because you wanted secrets of the dead. Well, you got it,” he said. “And the secret is he wasn’t dead.”

  She looked at him blank-faced and said nothing.

  “Whose ashes are those on my mother’s fireplace?”

  “Nobody’s.”

  “Nobody’s? Then who was Brother Albani?”

  “Bruce.”

  “Bruce? So, you buried my father alive, then sent that fucking creep in a monk’s robe to give my mother some bullshit story how he died in his sleep, clutching his crucifix. And for three years we thought thos
e were his remains when it’s probably charcoal from one of your friggin’ lab cookouts.”

  “I don’t deserve that.”

  “No, lady, you deserve a lot worse. You destroyed people’s lives in pursuit of cheesy glory.”

  “It wasn’t glory. The activity in your father’s brain was off the charts. So was yours with identical circuitry. We hoped you’d transcend and make contact with him.”

  “I did,” he said. But he wasn’t the father I had hoped for. Again, the stabbing pain to his left side. He winced and straightened up. “How did you end up suspending him?”

  “He volunteered.”

  “Don’t give me more bullshit.”

  “I’m not. We began scanning people who claimed to be spiritual. That brought us to religious groups, including Carmelite nuns and the Benedictine monastery where your father was. When we told him what we were doing, he volunteered to be suspended.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he wanted to contact your brother.”

  Zack couldn’t quite define it, but his heart clutched in a primal reflex of jealousy. His father had always favored Jake. Smooth, smart, confident Jake, he thought sourly.

  “We never determined that he did,” Luria continued. “When we read about you, we saw an opportunity to test the genetic possibilities, hoping that you’d merge with him.”

  “I did.” And he’s a psychopathic killer.

  “And that was incredible.” Her eyes lit up again. “Zack, our intention wasn’t to harm people. We weren’t conducting some kind of Nazi experiments.”

  “Then what about these, mein Führer?” From his back pocket he pulled photocopies of the articles of people who had killed themselves or died—all with tetrodotoxin in them.

  She scanned the articles. “These deaths were not intentional. I swear.”

  “Right.” He felt another jab in his side. He had to leave. Time was running out. “How does the good reverend reconcile these deaths with the Word of God?”

  “These were technical accidents.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “He wasn’t pleased.”

  “And what about last night?”

  “He has no idea.”

  “But it was his men who kidnapped me.”

  “They’re security guards working for the lab. I called them.”

  “How did you turn Damian into a fucking Judas goat? Thirty pieces of silver?”

  “We paid him nothing. We read about you in the papers, and he agreed to put us in contact with you. He knew nothing more than we were looking for people with spiritual powers to scan. And that’s the truth.”

  “How did you find him?”

  “At one of Reverend Gladstone’s sermons.”

  Pieces were snapping into place as if magnetized. On some level, Zack wasn’t surprised. From the first day, he had felt that he was participating in someone else’s game plan. “Did it ever occur to you that what you did in that lab was wrong? That maybe you were going after forbidden fruit? That you were playing God?”

  “I was playing God. I was hoping to find what every person who has ever lived wanted: hope of going on. Hope that there’s more to this life. Hope of seeing loved ones again. And last night you gave us conclusive evidence that your father still exists in some realm. That nothing ceases to exist. Nothing! With all my heart I believe that now.”

  “And you didn’t let kidnapping and murder stop you.”

  “But they died only in body.”

  “So, you’re a savior, too.”

  He put the statue back on the desk and left.

  Nothing ceases to exist. Nothing!

  Her words hummed in his head like a chord struck on a church organ as he walked out of her office and down the corridor to the stairs leading to the parking area.

  Sarah was still in the car behind the wheel of the Murano. When she saw him, she climbed into the passenger seat and he got behind the wheel. “We have to go,” he said, and checked his watch.

  “Where to?”

  “I’ll let you know when we get there.”

  71

  That same morning, Roman heard back from Norman Babcock with his next assignment. The drop this time was at the Fresh Pond Mall parking lot near Whole Foods at seven A.M. In the bag was the usual $15,000 in packs of hundreds and another secure cell phone. And the next hit lived with his wife in a historic red farmhouse in Arlington, Massachusetts, with a sign that said, “Circa 1706.”

  He found the man two hours later on his knees, on the other side of a stone wall, weeding a bed of flowers. “Dr. Morris Stern?”

  The man looked up. “Yes.” He stood up, wearing a red Tufts sweatshirt and old jeans, the knees of which were stained with grass and mud.

  “My name is John Farley, and I’m with the Boston office of the FBI.” He leaned over the stone wall to show the phony ID. “We’re investigating the deaths of Roger and Ruth Devereux. I’m wondering if I might ask you a few questions.” He pulled out copies of the obituaries and articles on the Devereux and handed them to Stern. They flapped in the breeze.

  “Yeah, sure.” He peeled off his work gloves.

  “We can do it out here or someplace else.” And he gave a quick glance toward the house.

  Stern seemed wary and said, “Out here is fine.”

  “No problem.” Roman pulled out a small laptop and placed it on the wall. He clicked a few buttons and moved his finger on the pad. “I don’t know if you can see this in the light, but it’s a photo of Roger Devereux. Is he someone you recognize?”

  Stern squinted at the too bright screen, trying to shade it with his hands. Then Roman attempted to make an awning with the obit photocopies, but they flapped uselessly in the breeze. Finally Stern said, “Maybe we better go inside.”

  “Are you sure? We can sit in my car.”

  “No, it’s cooler in the house.”

  “Fine. And may I trouble you for a glass of water?”

  “Sure.” Stern led the way through a side door into the kitchen, where he poured Roman a glass of water and then invited him to sit at a table in a small sitting area by an ancient fieldstone fireplace.

  “Great place. I noticed the sign saying it’s on the register of historic homes.”

  “The oldest place in town. Some say this fireplace dates back to the 1690s.”

  Roman could see the wrought-iron fixtures embedded in the stone. “Wow. The 1690s. Wasn’t that the time of the Salem witch trials?”

  “I think so.”

  “Amazing. The original inhabitants of this place may have witnessed the actual burning of witches.”

  Stern’s expression changed a little. “Possibly, though they didn’t burn witches. I think most were hanged.”

  “How about that?” Roman sat in a red armchair as Stern sat across from him with a coffee table between them. “History was always my weak subject. Do you live alone?”

  “My wife’s visiting our grandchildren. So, what exactly are you investigating?”

  “Well, the local police have ruled their deaths a murder-suicide. But we’re investigating the possibility that the Devereux were both murdered.” He pulled a small notepad from his sport coat pocket and, for effect, squinted at his writing. “The names Thomas Pomeroy and LeAnn Cola mean anything to you?”

  “You wouldn’t ask unless you already knew the answer.”

  “Got me there. So, they were associates of yours.”

  “Yes. And maybe you can tell me what this is all about.”

  “Of course,” Roman said. “Information came to our Boston office that the Devereux, Pomeroy, and Dr. Cola were murdered because of a secret scientific project they worked on. Unfortunately, your name came up as a coworker. I don’t mean to upset you, but we think your own life may be in danger.”

  “What?”

  Roman then unzipped his attaché case. “And there’s some pretty solid evidence.” He extracted the silenced pistol and aimed it at Stern’s midsection.

&nbs
p; “W-who are you?”

  “I’m here to ask questions, and you’re going to answer them. Be straight with me, and this will be easy for you. Give me bullshit, and this will be a very bad day. Capice?”

  Stern nodded, stunned in his chair.

  “What’s so special about Zachary Kashian?”

  “How do you know about him?”

  “He was your prime test subject. Tell me about him and why he’s so special.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  The Lord. “I want to know about him. I want to see the files and videos of him in suspension.”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “That’s not important. I understand you taped experiments with him. I want to see them.”

  “I don’t have them.”

  Roman aimed at a spot between Stern’s feet and snapped off a shot. “The next will be between your eyes.”

  Stern stared at the hole between his feet. “Okay, okay. But please, I’ve got children and grandchildren.”

  “A deal. You show me the stuff, and I’ll let you live.”

  “Swear on your life.”

  “I swear.”

  Stern stared at Roman for a long moment. “They’re in my laptop.” He got up and led Roman into the kitchen and to a narrow set of stairs leading to the second floor. In a small corner office with a window was a desk with a computer monitor and stacks of papers.

  “Play it.”

  Stern clicked the mouse and ran the first video of Zachary Kashian in a soundproof chamber wearing a motorcycle helmet with wires. Stern explained how they had stimulated parts of his brain and how he had emerged claiming he sensed his dead father. The next video showed Zack in suspension, shots of the various monitors, computer images of his brain. Then his awaking and requesting root beer, which proved the kid had an out-of-the-body experience. Then clips of him coming out of near-death experiences, claiming he’d killed people. Stern explained that the other scientists believed that Kashian’s spirit had merged with that of his dead father.

  “Is that something you believe?”