“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.
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 attache case. “And there’s some pretty solid evidence.” He extracted the silenced pistol and aimed it at Stern’s midsection.
“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.
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?”
“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
