Knowing

by Laurel Dewey

  After grabbing a few pieces of meat and a slice of cheese, she brought out the greeting card with the Pharaoh picture on it. She typed in the quote at the bottom of the card and found that it was actually only a partial quote of a larger one: “The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!”

  Thine eye be single, Jane focused on. She thought about the lapis stone with the single Eye of Horus. But to Jane, Ajnas and chakras were spiritual concepts with nothing physical to support their existence. She certainly didn’t deny the power of intuition because she’d used it far too many times on the job. If there was something physical that was connected to this ethereal belief, it would lend more credibility to the idea. Without giving it any thought, she did a search for the “Physical third eye.”

  Strangely enough, there was a physical third eye and it was called the pineal gland. Jane clicked on the first link and sat back. At the top of the page, was a subsection of the brain, illustrating the location of the reddish-gray gland. The size of a pea, the pineal sits in the center of the brain between the two hemispheres. It’s an endocrine gland responsible for melatonin production—the hormone that regulates sleep/wake cycles—and is recharged by sunlight. As important as that function is, the spiritual implications associated with the pineal gland were much more intriguing.

  Jane scrolled down the page and took in a quick breath. “The word pineal comes from the word pinea, which means pinecone.” And there was a photo of a perfect pinecone to drive home the visual shock.

  The pinecone was apparently the “hidden symbol” that represented the pineal gland. Suddenly, it was starting to make strange sense. Monroe was right. Gabe was being redundant with the pinecone, pine nuts, the book and the Eye of Horus lapis but she couldn’t make a pineal connection between the sandalwood oil and the Patsy Cline tape. A quick check discovered that sandalwood oil is rubbed on the “third eye” to activate intuition. That left only the odd cassette tape with the highlighted song, “If I Could See the World Through the Eyes of Child.” She recalled how Monroe first set the tape to the side and then reconsidered. That told her that it might not be directly connected with the pineal but it was linked in some manner.

  Reading further, Jane learned that esoteric and “mystery” schools throughout history venerated this tiny but powerful gland, calling it “the seat of the soul” and “the eye of God.” Philosophers and students of mysticism waxed poetically about it. Plato stated in The Republic (Book 7) “the soul…has an organ purified and enlightened, an organ better worth saving than ten thousand corporeal eyes, since truth becomes visible through this alone.” Rene Descartes taught that we had a body and a soul and that the soul functioned in “the innermost part of the brain.” The pineal gland appears in the human embryo around forty-nine days of gestation. This was the exact number of days the Tibetans believed was required for one’s soul to incarnate into their next body. Jane discovered another pineal reference in the Bible that was startling. While open to interpretation, in Genesis 32:30, there was the line, “And Jacob called the name of the place Peniel: for I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved.”

  Jane learned more information from a website that featured chapters from an Indian spiritual book. When one spiritually “awakened” the pineal gland, it was thought to bring about mastery over the mundane life, elevating one into a realm that few people know exists. Reading further, it sounded like a club with a handful of members who had the ability to see what others could not, to delve into the cosmos with precision and return with higher knowledge that could change the course of human history. Maintaining activation of the pineal, Jane learned, is thought to confer “eternal youthfulness” since it works in harmony with the hypothalamus and our biological clock that helps determine the aging process. On the bottom of the website page, there was a quote from “The Sleeping Prophet,” Edgar Cayce that caught Jane’s attention. “Keep the pineal gland operating and you won’t grow old — you will always be young.”

  And it appeared that youth had the advantage when it came to this mysterious gland. Up until of the age of six, it was believed that the pineal functioned without interference, allowing a child to “see” and know things that others could not. But something strange happened at the age of six. The gland began to calcify, growing a crust around it that eventually blocked its function completely. Thus, after age six, the silver cord between the worlds was cut with no access to one’s spiritual source. However, Jane read, “There were those who were able to keep the pineal operating after age six and well into their older years through deep meditation. These rare people were known as Masters of their Destiny.”

  Jane learned that, during meditation, their trigger mechanism for pineal activation was a piercing point of blue/indigo light that often physically appeared as a single illumined dot in one’s line of sight. Known by some as “the blue pearl,” seeing it was acknowledgment that the pineal had been “turned on.” Jane suddenly made the startling connection between what Harlan called the “blue light special” that he experienced before he scribbled in his notebook. And yes, she saw that same point of blue light when she held Harlan’s hand that night. It was overwhelming to her—to have this otherworldly experience first and then read later about a specific element she’d seen in that vision. The confirmation was staggering. As much as she’d tried her best to push away the incredulous nature of this case, there was always a part of her that needed verification that what she was feeling and seeing was genuine and not some delayed flashback from her youth or a lingering side effect of PTSD.

  She continued to locate page after page of information on the pineal gland. This “bridge between the worlds,” was apparently a major player at the time of death. The theory was that upon death or in near-death experiences, the pineal gland excreted a huge amount of a chemical known as Dimethyltryptamine or DMT. Some scientists who studied DMT theorized that it was responsible for the blast of blinding light that people mention who have died and come back to life. Within that light, one progressive theologian wrote, was “the light of God” and the ability to become one with “the source.” To travel into that rarified sphere and commune with the angels was the gift everyone received upon their exit from this life.

  But the light wasn’t an idea born out of someone’s imagination. Information had been collected from hundreds of people who had been clinically dead. Many of them reported seeing an enormous flash of bright white light upon the tremor of death. But none of them feared it. In fact, they bathed in it and even mentioned a “loving voice” that communicated with them without words. When asked how they conversed, the answer was always the same: “With my mind’s eye.”

  Another article postulated that when a person has a near death experience brought on by a terrorizing act, such as an attempted murder, the blast of DMT into the pineal gland is overpowering. It was, Jane figured, as if the terror that preceded it needed to be cushioned and blanketed to absorb the shock when the soul re-entered the body. Whatever the source or trigger, it was clear to Jane that DMT was a powerful chemical that the pineal gland was programmed to consistently produce on cue.

  Finishing the meat and cheese, she sat back, scanning the desolate highway. From what she could ascertain, three themes were at work: death, connection with “a God source” and regeneration. But there seemed to be a concerted effort to keep this information out of the mainstream. There certainly wasn’t a lot of media coverage about this pea-sized gland, where the masses were alerted to its potential power. Except for exploitive entertainment that is easily dismissed, there were no talk shows that seriously discussed how to harness one’s intuitive talents, activate the mind’s eye or how to project oneself into five dimensional reality. That kind of instruction was left to the Saturday evening soirees or “salons” where men with j
eweled turbans lead small groups through meditations. But for most of this world, it was a well-kept secret. And she understood why that had to be. As Monroe so deftly said, “Ancient knowledge is sacred and only those who have the understanding or the ability to convert the knowledge into substance are allowed to discuss it and teach it.” That was followed up by his remark that you don’t waste your time on those who can’t begin to comprehend the complexities and profound possibilities. It was casting “pearls before swine.” She realized he was probably talking about the manner in which Romulus looked at the populace. Glaring down at us from their gilded palace, Jane envisioned them separating the cream from everyone’s jar, leaving a watery, opaque film that never satisfied. If we were to them as Monroe suggested—just links in a chain that were easily manipulated, molded and controlled—it made sense that this kind of secreted wisdom was removed from the mainstream consciousness. Furthermore, Jane surmised that to release that kind of knowledge on a grand scale could easily compromise Romulus’ agendas. As she’d been told, they hated spontaneity. And a populace that was awakened and aware of their vast individual potential was not an asset. To Romulus, it was the greatest danger they could ever imagine.

  Jane returned to her computer and continued to research the pineal gland. But when she searched for images, she was staggered by what she found. There seemed to be an oddly frequent addition of a pinecone motif within sacred or religious settings that spanned the centuries. A staff of the Egyptian sun god Osiris had two “kundalini serpents” that entwine and face a pinecone at the top. The Greek God Dionysus is also depicted carrying a staff with a pinecone at the tip. Many Roman Catholic architectural designs, especially in sacred settings, incorporated a pinecone in their motif. The Pope carries a staff with a pinecone directly above where his hand is positioned. And if that isn’t enough, the largest pinecone sculpture in the world is featured in Vatican Square in where else but the “Court of the Pinecone.” Researching further, pinecone images had been featured for centuries in rugs, clay pots, paintings and other artistic pieces in ways that suggested the artist placed it there deliberately to symbolize the pinnacle of wisdom. For anyone “in the know” who understood the spiritual code, the recognition of the symbol was always a quiet reminder of their secret knowledge. Power had to be contained in order for it to be controlled by a few. And in case any of them forgot, there was a language of visual reminders that harkened back to the knowledge they so desperately guarded. He who held the key to the ultimate knowledge of our universe would triumph beyond everyone else. And through that triumph, immortality would be guaranteed through the bloodline that protected their secrets.

  Jane sat back, feeling the bark of the tree dig into her spine. She thought about the photos she found in Monroe’s hiding place. Since she’d given up believing in coincidences, she felt there had to be some kind of significance. After all, besides her, Monroe only showed the photos to Gabriel. And then Gabriel sent that curious postcard to Nanette featuring children from the Congo. Coupled with the way in which Harlan was set up with the slaughtered prostitute, then taking into consideration the symbolic meme of the pinecone, et al in his burlap bag that directed her to the pineal gland, Jane had no choice but to link them together. The minute her mind agreed to that concept, she flashed on two sentences she’d just read about the pineal gland being open and receptive in children between birth and age six. She then remembered Monroe’s observation when he looked at the bodies of the slaughtered elders in the Congo village and how they were heaped together. The children, however, had been laid out carefully and photographed with clean surgical cuts into their cranium and their brains removed. Jane couldn’t believe what she was beginning to formulate. It was like nothing she’d ever encountered in her often-grisly career. She’d met her fair share of psychopaths who sliced and diced their victims with no remorse. She even remembered a guy they nicknamed “Carl the Cannibal” who killed his wife, then sliced her open and dined on her organs before calling 9-1-1. But Carl and the other nutcases had no other agenda to their insanity except temporary malevolent depravity.

  But this case? This felt strategized and planned with an obvious nefarious intent. And then, as if this nightmare was coalescing in a bloody pool of terror, she recalled another passage from the article that referred to DMT and the moment of death. The theory held that if someone died during sustained trauma, their pineal gland swelled with DMT and then released it at the moment of death. It was just like the deer that’s shot by the hunter and keeps running, releasing its “fear” into its flesh until it drops dead. The only difference Jane could deduce was that the flood of DMT could be seen by some people as a powerfully “positive” phenomenon. However, exactly how they could exploit it was still unknown to her.

  She turned off her computer and let out a deep breath. Harlan was still snoring loudly in the back of the van. But she was able to tune it out as she took in the surrounding area. Jane noted a bronze plaque fastened to a nearby rock with an inscription that explained the section of road in front of her was a “memorial highway” dedicated to a fallen police officer. Every time she saw a memorial highway, she thought the same damn thing. It’s quite the honor but it’s got a Catch-22—you have to die for it to happen. It was just like people who were considered ahead of their time. Nobody really appreciated their contributions until after they were dead. She was still ruminating on these digressions when she turned to her left and saw a black sedan inch onto the shoulder of the highway, about five hundred feet from the parking area.

  Immediately, her antenna went up. They were sitting ducks at that moment, with one way in and one way out. While she couldn’t be sure if the driver of the black sedan had nefarious intentions, she wasn’t about to be caught unaware. Without making a scene, Jane casually got up and stretched, yawning to enhance the laid back appearance. If she was being watched with high-powered binoculars, she wanted to generate the sense that she was unaware. Crossing to the van, she sauntered to the open side door, which couldn’t be seen from the sedan’s point of view, and quickly slammed it shut. Circling back to the driver’s seat, she caught a glimpse of the sedan rolling off the shoulder and back onto the highway. She swung her ass into the driver’s seat and secured her seatbelt, alerting Harlan to wake up and buckle in.

  Her heart beat like a bongo as she backed out of the parking lot and started toward the exit. The sedan moved closer. That’s when she saw the blackened windows. It never attempted to pull into the lot, but rather, trolled closer staying in the right lane the entire time. The sedan moved well within eyesight of Jane in the driver’s seat.

  Without moving her lips, she spoke to Harlan. “Get…back…” Inch by inch, she reached into her satchel and removed the 9mm.

  Harlan’s breathing became rapid. “Damn, Jane. I sure don’t like this one bit.”

  “Really?” she said with a sarcastic tenor. “I love feeling as if I’m about to die.”

  The sedan slowed but never came to a halt. And then, as if the driver received an urgent call, the darkened vehicle spit gravel from its rear tires and charged up the highway. Jane kept the pistol close by and turned left, adjusting her driver’s side mirror and keeping her eyes peeled for any action coming up behind her. After twenty-five miles and no sign of the sedan anywhere, she calmed down enough to quit the shallow breathing and take in a deeper gulp of air.

  “You think that was them?” Harlan asked her, wiping sweat beads of fear from his forehead.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know whether my paranoia is getting the better of me or not.” She turned on the radio in an attempt to find a station that would take her mind off the gravity of her situation. It was the top of the hour and just in time for the local news program.

  “We have breaking news to report in Colorado. Sources tell us there was a three-alarm fire at an abandoned residence outside of Sheldon Springs. Authorities are reporting that alleged killer and fugitive, Harlan Kipple, was killed in the blaze.”


  Harlan lurched forward, grabbing the back of Jane’s seat. “What the hell? Jane, what’s goin’ on?!”

  The reporter continued. “Sources report to us that it appears he traveled to Sheldon Springs and barricaded himself in this vacant structure. For reasons we do not know yet, we are told he booby-trapped the shelter with explosives and apparently set those off this morning, creating a massive explosion that was felt several miles away. Mr. Kipple’s body was burned beyond recognition.”

  “Tell me I’m dreamin’, Jane. Please, tell me I’m dreamin’.”

  “It’s not a dream, Harlan. It’s a fucking nightmare.”

  CHAPTER 22

  She turned the channel and found another station reporting the same bogus story. That station featured an interview with a local police chief who wasn’t on the scene but was relaying information to reporters.

  “It’s always tragic when someone feels the need to self-destruct in such a violent manner. Our prayers go out to the family of Jaycee Cross and we hope this incident gives them some closure in the death of their loved one. Unfortunately, we’ll never know why Mr. Kipple chose to do what he did. I know we’ve spent nearly one week stretching our resources to locate and apprehend Mr. Kipple and we are sorry it had to end in this violent manner. However, I want to thank everyone for their dedication in working to stop Mr. Kipple from committing any more vicious crimes. I also want to add that while we will also never know Mr. Kipple’s motive for the Dora Weller shooting, we can confirm that based upon video tape and cell phone coverage given to us, he did, in fact, act alone.”