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,
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.”
Gladstone did not flinch. “And you’ll bring him in alive and well.”
“Alive and well,” Roman said, wishing he had asked for more.
“How long do I have to think this over?”
Roman checked his watch. “Two hours, cash in hand.”
“That’s not much time, Mr. Farley.”
“There are banks all around here where you can get money transfers. And while you are, these people are scrambling to find that kid and put a stake through his heart. If they do, we both lose—you more than me.”
“And how do I know you won’t take the money and run?”
Roman laid his hand on the folder. “First, I’m the only one who knows what this kid is worth. Second, I want that other half million.”
Gladstone nodded, then pulled his iPhone out of his pocket and said to the party who answered, “Bruce, bring the car.”
“I’ll meet you across the street in two hours under the statue of George Washington. Two forty-five sharp.”
“Make that three. I have to buy a suitcase.”
* * *
At three o’clock, Gladstone walked up the flowered path from Arlington Street with a leather carry-on bag in his hand. He was alone.
He gave the bag to Roman, who laid it on a bench near the statue to inspect the contents. When the area
