Tunnel Vision

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 deja vu. In fact, it seemed like deja 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 follower 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