by Gary Braver
Back then, Roman’s only yearning was for Father Infantino to wrap up so he could go to Goodwin Park and play ball with the other kids.
But as he headed north on 95 toward Watertown, Roman experienced his own little epiphany, and it flickered in his head like a votive candle.
76
The sensation was back.
They were only a few miles into Maine on the northbound side of the turnpike. They had passed a long stretch of marshland that gave way to forests of pine and deciduous trees. Maybe it was the thick claustrophobic woodlands that triggered some recall or premonition, because a strange awareness hummed in the fore of his brain. And it was stronger.
He thought about telling Sarah but decided against it. He didn’t quite grasp what he was experiencing—if it was real, some quirk of his imagination, or if he had slipped into another neurological ditch. But the longer he drove on, the more he felt that he was following an invisible beacon beamed at him by some unknown source.
He kept his hands on the wheel, moving with the turns of the highway, half-certain that if he let go, the car would proceed under some weird remote control.
He was also convinced that whatever pulled him was not a matter of recall. None of the landscape looked even vaguely familiar. Nor was it some kind of déjà vu. In fact, it seemed like déjà vu in reverse. Instead of being compelled by things familiar, Zack felt propelled by a prophetic rightness. A prescient awareness maybe like the kind that inspired saints of old to take up spiritual quests—pilgrimages to sacred places.
“Zack!” Sarah screamed.
“What? What’s the problem?” He looked ahead, expecting to see a car in their path or an animal. But the road was wide open. “Why’d you yell?”
“You were driving with your eyes closed.”
“What?”
“I looked over and your eyes were closed. You dozed off.”
“No.”
“You did,” she insisted. “Want me to drive?”
“No, I’m fine,” he said. Dozed off? Did I really blank out?
“I think maybe we better take a break. The sign said there’re outlets at the next exit. I have to use the toilet, and maybe you can get some coffee. I can also pick up some overnight stuff.”
He didn’t like the idea, but a couple of miles ahead he turned off and merged with Route 1. They found a strip mall with several clothing outlets, and he pulled in and turned off the engine.
“Aren’t you coming in?”
“I think I’ll just rest a little.” And he lowered his seat back and rested his head.
“Sure you’ll be all right?”
“Just a little tired.” He watched her get out of the car.
“I won’t be long.”
“Good.” She doesn’t have a clue, he thought, and he followed her with his eyes into the entrance of L.L. Bean. This wasn’t some serotonin country ride. This was a mission of salvation. Something bordering on a religious pilgrimage. He closed his eyes. A stabbing shock to his side made him gasp out loud.
A sign.
His eyes flipped open, and his heart started racing. He didn’t have much time. Where the hell is she? he thought. In there buying clothes while his father was dying by the minute.
Jesus, why did he bring her?
77
Roman Pace sat in his rental across the street from the neat white Victorian house on Mt. Auburn Street in Watertown. From the outside, it could have been another late-nineteenth-century private home with a manicured lawn, a full red Japanese maple tree, and a variety of rhododendron and hydrangea. The only sign that it was not a private residence was a plaque by the front door: “Fraternity of Jesus Christ—Second Floor.”
Roman had called on his way in from Medfield, saying that he had big news to share. Babcock said he’d meet him at his office at eleven thirty. Roman arrived early. Since he had nowhere to go, he sat in his rental and went online to search some Google maps.
At about eleven fifteen, a black Mercedes S550 pulled into the driveway. Two men got out—Babcock in a red polo shirt and chino pants, looking as if he’d been summoned from a golf game. The other man was unfamiliar but wore a white shirt and black blazer and matching pants. He dropped off Babcock and pulled the Mercedes behind the building, then emerged a minute later in a silver BMW 328i sedan and left. Babcock let himself into the front of the building, disappearing upstairs.
At eleven twenty-five, Roman crossed the street. An accountant’s office occupied the first floor through a separate entrance. The door leading up to the Fraternity of Jesus offices was locked, so he pressed the button. Moments later, a male secretary opened the door. Roman introduced himself, and the guy nodded and led the way upstairs to a front office. He picked up the desk phone and announced Roman’s arrival. Then he led Roman down a hall to an office that clearly used to be a master bedroom before the place was converted.
Babcock was behind a mahogany desk, his face pasty against the bright red shirt. He shook hands and invited Roman to take a seat across from him. A brass plaque on his desk read, “The Lord Be with You.”
“Nice office,” Roman said.
On a table beside the desk was a computer monitor. On the desk were photos of his family and a gold crucifix mounted on a marble base. On the walls hung religious pictures as well as photographs of Babcock with other people, including clerics in robes.
“It’s small, but comfortable. So what do we have?”
“We’ll need your computer,” Roman said.
Babcock agreed and let Roman come around. Over the next several minutes, he showed Babcock some of the video of Zack Kashian’s suspension and the imaging data. “They claim he had a near-death experience and merged with his dead father.”
Babcock studied them quietly, his face seeming to fill with blood.
“I gotta say, they’re pretty impressive,” Roman said.
“Charlatans usually are.”
“Well, I mean, some of these people are convinced he’s crossed to the other side.”
“Mr. Pace, these people are necromancers, who’ve crawled out of the sewers of science to seduce the masses and get filthy rich. They’re willingly working for the devil, proselytizing his evil.” He pulled the black leather Bible off his desk and flipped to a page, stabbing a passage with his finger. “‘And the Lord proclaimed, “Do not practice divination or sorcery.… Do not turn to mediums or seek out spiritists, for you will be defiled by them.”’ Leviticus 19:31.”
Roman glanced at the page. It hadn’t taken Babcock long to get home. His flushed face looked like an extension of his golf shirt.
“And that’s what they’re doing. That’s what that bastard writes about in his books, on the God lobes and God spots and finding the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s what they’re doing in that bloody lab of theirs.” Babcock continued full steam, whipping through the pages for another passage. “Here! Second Thessalonians 1:8, 9: ‘And for those that do so, “In flaming fire take vengeance on them that know not God, and that obey not the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ: Who shall be punished with everlasting destruction from the presence of the Lord.”’” He turned the book around so Roman could read. “That is what our role is. Your role is. Vengeance. What more proof do you want?”
Babcock was on fanatical fire about Gladstone and his scientists. But Roman did not want to send the guy into cardiac arrest before he completed his purpose here. “I get it. But the kid was quoting Jesus, reciting the Lord’s Prayer in God’s own language. That’s not exactly words from a horned demon.”
Babcock rubbed his face as if he were weary of Roman’s thickness. “No, but it’s how your horned demon gets people to listen. Then once he’s got followers, he does his evil. That’s how Satan works—by deception. Here he disguises himself as a poor comatose kid and spouts off scriptural passages. And that’s the deadliest weapon in his arsenal—what he’s done since seducing Eve in the Garden of Eden. What you’re seeing in those videos is Lucifer masquerading as a follo
wer of Jesus. Do you get it? Lucifer, God’s onetime light bearer. That’s the bloody devil in disguise.”
Babcock’s face looked as if it would burst.
“Look, I explained this to you several times. Their so-called NDEs are supposed to be tunnels to the afterlife—that everybody goes to heaven and there’s no hell—which means that even fucking Osama bin Laden and every other heathen bastard would live forever. Hell is the other rock of the Catholic Church, okay?”
“Let me ask you something,” Roman said. “I’m still trying to sort things out, and I’ve been reading stuff. You’ve got this big organization…”
“We’re not a big organization,” Babcock interjected. “We’re a small, elect few.”
“Well, you got this office and I don’t know how many numbers, but you got resources.”
“Your point?”
“Even the pope isn’t worked up over these NDEs. With all due respect, it’s like you’ve got this radical thing about Gladstone and what they’re doing with this kid. What’s the archdiocese say about this, or the local bishop and cardinal? They crying blasphemy, too?”
Babcock took a deep breath and rocked back in his chair. “Mr. Pace, let’s just say that ours is a radical theology, and one that’s not subscribed to by the diocese or the local cardinal or the so-called Holy See. And it’s their fundamental failing. Our fraternity stands firmly on the true teachings of the Lord and to true Roman Catholicism. And if others don’t subscribe or persecute us, then it only confirms that we’re the elect, the true defenders of the Church. Period.”
“Did you know the Kashian kid’s father was one of their test subjects?”
“What?”
“A few years back, they ran him through the same tests. Seems he was some kind of lay brother. I guess he had the same hot God lobe the kid has.”
“So what?”
“Well, they put the kid on TV saying he merged with his dead father, channeling him or whatever, and they show all their fancy neuroimages and stuff and the brain images overlapping and all, back-to-back with his talking Jesus video—the kid’s gonna be bigger than the pope and all the saints put together.”
Babcock looked as if someone had stuck his finger in a light socket. He glared at the computer monitor with a split screen of Zack’s brain and the A&W root beer logo. He muttered something to himself. Then he turned to Roman. “What are you proposing?”
“To take care of him. To take out the Kashian kid.”
His head bobbed. “Yes. Except he’s fallen off the face of the earth.”
“I have an idea where he is.”
“How do you know?”
Roman said nothing, just stared at Babcock.
When Babcock got the message, he said, “Are you sure you can do it?”
“Have I let you down?”
“No, but I want him dead and untraceable.”
“No problem.”
“But I want hard evidence.”
“How about his head?”
Babcock blinked a few times, then said, “That’ll do.”
“Okay. Which brings up the question of how desirable.”
“What are you asking?”
“One million dollars.”
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? I’m offering you a threefer.”
“What threefer?”
“Father, son, and unholy ghost.”
Babcock put his hand to his head, flustered. “I can’t make a decision on that kind of money just like that. I have to talk to people.”
Roman looked at the expensive furniture and statuary around the room. The building itself had to be worth three or four million. “Fine. But the longer you take, the deeper in hiding the kid goes. And the cooler I get.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you have four hours to talk to your associates and raise the cash.”
“Cash?”
“Five hundred up front, five hundred for his head.”
Babcock leaned back in his chair. After a long pause, he said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“No, by three forty-five this afternoon.”
“I can’t raise that kind of money in four hours.”
“You’re the true defender of the Church. Bet you can.”
Babcock was speechless.
But Roman could hear thoughts churn in his head. He glanced at his watch. “Three forty-five, and I call and tell you where.”
Babcock stood up. The meeting was over.
Roman extended his hand. Babcock hesitated at first, then extended his, which felt like a damp puff of fat. “The Lord be with you.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Roman was riding down Storrow Drive toward Boston. It was a beautiful day, and dozens of sailboats were cutting down the river in bright white sails. Across the river, the Cambridge skyline seemed to stand out in high-def clarity.
The way he looked at it, the Kashian kid was either divine or the Antichrist. Either way, Roman won. If, as Babcock claimed, the kid was some kind of talking head for the devil, killing him would not only fatten Roman’s bank account but would help win his way into God’s graces. That was how warriors of God were rewarded, right? On the other hand, if the kid was divine, then protecting him would be Roman’s service to God.
Faith was all. But faith could swing both ways. The same with service to God.
What Luria, Stern, and company had created was some kind of religious Manhattan Project. The project was dead. But Roman wanted that bomb.
78
“What the hell were you doing in there?” Zack said when Sarah emerged from the store.
She tossed two bags into the rear and handed him a coffee. “What’s the problem?”
He put the coffee in the holder and pulled the car out of the slot with a jerk. “The problem is we’re running out of time.”
“It was crowded. And a line for the coffee.” She turned her face out the window.
He pulled back onto Route 1, thinking that she was probably regretting she had come with him. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, hoping to clear the air. “What did you get?”
“A change of clothes.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You brought sleeping bags. I’m not overnighting in the woods.”
“We’ll be fine.” They drove without saying any more, but a prickly silence filled the car. He pulled back onto the turnpike.
“You have a compass?” she asked.
“What for?”
“If we’re going to be walking in the woods, we’ll need one.”
“Yes, I have a compass.”
She glanced in the direction of his duffel bag. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” She doesn’t believe in you, he thought. She doesn’t believe any of this. But that’s okay. She’s blindsided.
He merged with the turnpike traffic, which was heavy with weekend beach traffic.
The sun was still high in the sky. It hadn’t begun to tilt to the western tree line yet. But it would soon enough. Then night would fall.
Let there be time, he whispered in his head. Let this be so.
79
A little after twelve-thirty, Warren Gladstone entered the bar at the Taj, and Roman recognized him instantly. Except that he wore a gray blazer over a white shirt instead of the sky blue robe in his broadcasts.
Earlier, Roman had left a message for Gladstone at the Taj desk to call him for important information regarding the whereabouts of Zachary Kashian. As expected, Gladstone complied and said to meet at the bar instead of his private suite, playing it safe.
Roman introduced himself as John Farley, showing his bogus ID. Gladstone had a shiny, pink face with sincere blue eyes. He ordered a Scotch and water, and Roman asked for seltzer on the rocks.
“So what exactly is the FBI’s interest in Zachary Kashian?”
“Let me begin by saying what we both know—that Zachary Kashian is missing and you want him back, correct?”
Gladstone to
ok a sip of his Scotch. “What makes you think that I’m interested in him?”
Roman opened his briefcase and pulled out a folder with several images downloaded from Gladstone’s Web site as well as images of Zack’s brain and stills of mathematical data from Morris Stern’s computer. “Because he’s your great Day of Jubilation, and without him you’re blowing in the wind.”
Gladstone thumbed through the pages, which also included photos of Zack arriving and then leaving in a limo with Sarah Wyman. Also shots of Gladstone’s church and the lab behind his tabernacle.
When he was through, he closed the folder. “You know a lot. Who else has seen this?”
“No one.”
“And you say you know where he is.”
“I’m saying I can bring him back to you.”
“Why do you think we want him?”
“Because he is your ticket to heaven and because others want his head.”
“Who does?”
“Reverend, please let’s cut the bullshit, okay? People have been gunning for you and your GodLight thing ever since you started with the Day of Jubilation promises. It’s all over the Internet. The point is there’s a contract on his head, so he’s on the run. And I’m the only one who can bring him back to you alive, capice?”
Gladstone flicked through the folder again. “How did you get all this?”
“Our office has been investigating the deaths of three other scientists who’d worked on this project of yours.” And from his briefcase Roman produced the obituaries of Thomas Pomeroy, LeAnn Cola, and Roger Devereux.
Gladstone stared at the write-ups. “Then your office knows about Kashian.”
“They’ve never heard of him. They’ve never heard about NDEs or your lab. Just these deaths.”
“Then you’re here on your own.”
“That’s right. And if you’re thinking of contacting the local field office, they won’t have heard of him. And he’ll end up in his own obit within the next twenty-four hours. And I will deny ever meeting you.”
“And who’s out to harm him?”
