Tunnel Vision (39 page)

“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 took 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?”

“Not harm him, kill him. The same people who think he’s the Antichrist who’s going to bring down the Catholic Church if you put him on your show.”

Gladstone swallowed more of his Scotch and ordered a second. He was silent for a few minutes as he processed Roman’s claim and thumbed through the folder material again. Finally he whispered, “Nothing can happen to him. He’s very special.”

Roman leaned back and sipped his bubbly water. Gladstone was beginning to see the light. “Let me ask you something, Reverend. You really think he made contact with his dead father?”

“All the evidence points to that.”

“Then would you say he’s divine?”

Gladstone’s brows arched like a church window. “Divine? No, he’s mortal, but I believe he was in contact with his father’s spirit and glimpsed the realm beyond. He’s living proof.”

“What about the scientists? Do they think he had a spiritual experience—you know, been to heaven and back?”

“Why are you so interested?”

“Just wondering.”

“Are you a religious man, Mr. Farley?”

“Yes.”

Gladstone smiled approval. “Well, some prefer calling it a ‘paranormal’ rather than spiritual experience.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is that paranormal avoids religious interpretation—no acknowledgment of God.”

“You mean like that New Age astral projection crap?”

“Yes. Maybe some kind of telepathy thing. Essentially heaven for agnostics and atheists.”

“And you don’t buy that.”

“No.”

“So you don’t believe that someone can have a soul without there being a God?”

“I’m saying that we all have a God-given soul, which is what makes us His children, and that if you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, you’ll have everlasting life in heaven.”

“Some of your enemies say near-death experience claims are blasphemy—that anyone can get into heaven, any sinner and nonbeliever. That they’re all tricks of Satan.”

“That’s ridiculous. Having a near-death experience doesn’t mean they automatically go to heaven when they die. God is still the final judge of that. Because you can see the moon doesn’t mean you can fly there at will.”

“But what about the claim you’re practicing sorcery?”

“That’s selective theology. You don’t hear these people calling the visions of Saint Teresa or the Lady of Fatima sorcery. No, they’re revered and the stuff of sainthood.” Gladstone took another sip of his Scotch. “In fact, Jesus himself was accused of performing his miracles by the power of Satan—miracles that bore visions of heavenly beings and feelings of peace and love. He himself warned against attributing to Satan works of the Holy Spirit. The very critics who claim that NDEs are works of Satan are themselves blaspheming the Holy Spirit—a sin that Jesus said is beyond forgiveness.”

Roman was all the more confused. No matter what you believed, you could find passages in the Bible to back yourself up.

“Okay, let’s get back on track,” Gladstone said. “You say you know where he is.”

“Yes, and I can bring him to you.”

“For a fee, I presume.”

“Tell me you work for free.”

Gladstone gave him a toothy grin. “Okay, the ugly stuff.”

Roman finished his seltzer and leaned forward so that his face was inches away from Gladstone’s. “One million dollars in cash, fifty percent up front.”