“Except they found hell instead of paradise.”
They met in an elegant suite on the tenth floor of the Taj Boston at the corner of Arlington and Newbury. Because of the commanding view, this was Warren’s favorite venue for their meetings where Elizabeth and Morris Stern would apprise him of their progress. For too long,
“So, tell me what I’m looking at.” Stern and Byron Cates had brought laptops.
“We’re looking at images from the functional MRI machine whose resolution power is unlike any other on the planet, thanks to your generosity, Reverend.”
Warren cringed whenever Morris Stern addressed him as Reverend, because all he heard was sarcasm. Stern was a hard-nosed scientist whose expertise alone qualified him for the project. He held no spiritual beliefs: He lived in a universe where nothing was sacred. He had been heard saying that religion was the enemy of free thinking and more about death than peace. He had once claimed that all religious conflict reduced to “My imaginary friend is better than your imaginary friend.” His antireligious stance was rooted in his secular Jewish upbringing. So, having him run the diagnostics was like hiring a blind man to invent a better light bulb. But he knew that Stern would soon prove himself dead wrong and end up singing “Amazing Grace.” Warren lived for that moment.
Stern brought up images on the two separate monitors. “The left shows interaxonal activity from Zack’s brain while in suspension. On the right are brain images of others during flatline. You can see the clear differences.” He scrolled through several different images. “Each of these subjects was flatlined. When we woke them, they claimed to have no NDEs.”
“You’re saying that none of the others had near-death experiences?”
“Correct,” Elizabeth said. “This one is special. Very. His brain electricity is extraordinary.” She nodded for Morris Stern to continue.
“The first time we put him under, he claimed to have no discrete NDE.” Stern moved the mouse, and a video image of the MRI of Zack Kashian’s brain appeared with moving blotches. “A few days later, we put him under again, and you can see the different patterns move from flatlined inactivity to a full OBE. Whatever was going on, his mind appeared to be functioning independently from his brain. Of course, we have to do more work with him before we can draw any conclusions.”
Warren nodded. The godless bastard wouldn’t give an inch. He looked to Elizabeth for a more enlightened interpretation.
“Warren, what we can tell you is all good news. Zack has had three different experiences while in suspension. And the last—his most coherent yet—appears to indicate the presence of another mind—one independent of his own. It’s only in scraps of exterior data, and we still need to run more analyses. But it’s the first time we’ve seen anything approaching something like an external sentience.”
“Hal-le-lu-jah!” Warren said, drawing out the syllables with glee.
“Yes, hallelujah,” Elizabeth said as if taking an oath. “At this stage, he still doesn’t have clear recollections of his NDEs, but the diagnostics indicate great intensity.”
“And we still have a lot of computations to do before drawing any conclusion.” It was Stern, muttering to nobody in particular.
Warren disregarded him like a gnat and glared at the colored mottlings imposed on the schematic of Zack Kashian’s brain. “This fellow may be a godsend … literally.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “He’s got the most active God lobe we’ve ever seen. Last week, he positively identified a root beer logo hidden from view. Then he had two more NDEs that he couldn’t recall but which showed high activity. What distinguished the last one was the emotional profile. His bloodwork showed secretions of chemicals associated with fear followed by serotonin tranquillity.”
“Dare I suggest that he crossed over to heaven?” Warren could see Stern rub his nose in disdain at the suggestion. The man was a godless fool, locked in his own steel-clad tunnel with the cold light of reason burning at one end, a sealed tomb at the other.
“A lovely thought,” Elizabeth said, “and maybe so. But he reported none of the classic experiences: no tunnel, bright lights, no sense of tranquillity. Just playing ball with his father.”
“And his father is dead, correct?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said.
“So maybe he was interacting with his father’s spirit.”
Before she could respond, Stern cut in. “Or maybe a flash dream just before he woke up.”
Warren nearly spat at Stern.
“We still have more tests to run before we can draw conclusions,” Elizabeth said.
“The point is,” Stern continued, “we haven’t got enough data to determine if sensing a dead loved one is a so-called spiritual experience or long-term memory rising from stimulation of the temporal lobe—the more likely case.”
“You don’t give an inch, do you?”
“I would if I saw the evidence.”
“It’s still very encouraging,” Elizabeth said, trying to end the scrapping.
Warren nodded. “Okay, so what do we know about him?”
“He needs the money.”
“That hardly distinguishes him,” Warren said.
“No, but his father abandoned him and his mother when he was about ten, and he claims to have sensed his presence in the booth test. He hasn’t said it in so many words, but I think he wants to make contact.”
“Don’t we all,” Warren said.
“She means he wants contact with his biological father,” said Stern.
“We would all do well to seek our Heavenly Father, you included,” Warren said. Then he turned to Elizabeth. “So, what’s the next step?”
“To suspend him again. We’ve scheduled him for this Friday.”
“I’d like to meet this young man.” Warren checked his watch. He had a meeting with his accountant in an hour. But there was something in Elizabeth’s face.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” she said, “but we lost another of our colleagues, Roger Devereux. He and his wife, Ruth, were found shot to death—a case of a murder-suicide, according to the police.”
“Good God. How horrible!”
“Yes. We didn’t know of any problems,” Elizabeth said.
“Roger was a good man,” Stern interjected. “He helped design the imaging software. His wife was also a neurologist who worked with him. It’s a terrible loss.”
“The police have no motive so far. We don’t know what went wrong,” Elizabeth said.
“That’s the third person associated with the project who’s died in the last month.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Although he financed the project and met regularly with the principals, Warren didn’t know others whose work on the project had been contracted for specific tasks. And only the principals and a couple of technicians knew the big picture. It was their way of maintaining security until they had conclusive evidence that he could broadcast to the world. “Could be an unfortunate coincidence,” Warren said. “But you can still carry on without him, right?”
“Yes, of course,” Stern said. “Sarah Wyman is very competent.”
“The other possibility is that these deaths are the result of foul play,” Warren said.
“Foul play? Tom Pomeroy died of a heart attack, and LeAnn Cola from a gas leak.”
“Yes, but those could have been cleverly staged, like this one.”
“But why?”
“Warnings for us to desist.”
“But who would do that?”
“I’m not sure,” Warren said. “But there are enough fundamentalist crazies out there who oppose what we’re doing.” Like every televangelist, he received an occasional nasty letter, telephone call, and e-mail mostly from
