As for Norman Babcock, he was arrested as an accessory to murder. The evidence was overwhelming since, as insurance against betrayal, his hired assassin, Roman Pace, had recorded their conversations in which they discussed the killing of project scientists. The large sums of money found in Pace’s rental car matched the cash withdrawals by Babcock.
Police were still investigating the Fraternity of Jesus to determine if any others were complicitous in supplying funds for Pace’s hire. That investigation was still ongoing. Authorities had questioned Timothy Callahan, pastor of St. Pius Church of Providence and nephew of Babcock. In an interview with the local media, Callahan denied knowing anything about Babcock’s criminal activities, claiming that his uncle was a misguided loner whose online diatribes against Warren Gladstone and the near-death experience research were private obsessions not to be taken seriously. According to the bishop of the Boston archdiocese, the Fraternity of Jesus was a “disturbingly reactionary” splinter group of sedevacantists who rejected the current Church policy of ecumenism and religious tolerance as well as the last eight popes and, thus, was not recognized by the archdiocese or the Vatican.
Maggie, of course, had been shocked to learn that Nick had been alive and living in Magog Woods. She was doubly shocked that he had killed four people in revenge for Jake’s death. A letter of apology was forwarded to her from his lawyer, explaining how Nick could not defeat the darkness and how he had entered the monastery in part to shield Maggie and Zack from his own corrosive despair. He asked for forgiveness and said that his consolation was to cherish his brief bond with Zack. Maggie did not understand that last statement, and Zack did not attempt an explanation.
The waitress and two male assistants arrived with their orders. Since the young woman had first taken them, Zack had sensed her attention. In fact, he’d picked up on it as soon as they put in for a table with the hostess. As they waited for their champagne, he felt lines of awareness converge on him from the wait staff and a few customers.
When she placed his dinner before him, she could not help but ask, “If you don’t mind my asking, is your name Zachary Kashian?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes lit up. “When I saw the name on the reservation, I thought it was you. I read about you in the newspaper.” She smiled nervously. “Nice to see you, and enjoy your dinner.”
“Thanks,” Zack said, noticing a gold crucifix around her neck. And before she left, she repositioned his plate of salmon, brushing her fingers against the back of his hand. It wasn’t an accident.
During the one interview he’d granted—to a reporter of the
In spite of the NDE tests, he still didn’t know if there was an afterlife. But he did think that it was probably better to believe than not to believe. When asked to explain, he said believing not only got you through the hard parts of life, but made it easier to face tragedies with more than mere resignation. If you saw life through a lens of hope, you were less afraid of crises, less afraid of death. It was what motivated Elizabeth Luria and that professional killer and a lot of people in between. We all sought eternity.
When asked if clinging to hope of the hereafter made people more effective in helping others, he said that depended on the person. His mother didn’t believe, yet she was a good and caring person who helped others out of the goodness of her heart, not from the hope of rewards in the afterlife.
As for Luria’s project, he reminded the reporter of the message of
Zack did not tell the press that sometimes while lying in bed he would send up thanks for his mother, Sarah, his friends, and his own life to whatever phantom deities might be listening. He could never say for sure if what happened in those woods was an accident or something higher, but he also thanked his father, just in case.
Perhaps believing made it so. Perhaps wanting to believe was the essence of faith.
And with that thought, Zack glanced across the table at Damian, who for a moment closed his eyes to say grace to himself. When he looked up, Zack caught his attention and nodded. “Me, too.” And Damian smiled.
“Okay,” Anthony said, downing the rest of his champagne. “The papers and TV are off your ass. So I gotta ask, what really happened up there?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean how did you get a jump on the guy? He was a professional hit man who went to a pistol range every week. According to the papers, the guy was Annie Oakley.”
“I don’t know what happened,” Zack said. “My guess is he just snapped.”
“The cops found cartridges everywhere. So what was he shooting at?”
“I haven’t got a clue. Maybe he was hallucinating.”
“Did he look like he was on drugs or something?” Anthony asked Sarah.
“No, he looked crazed.”
“So, you’re saying he got distracted by this hawk that flew down.”
“Something like that.”
Half-consciously, Zack fingered the silver chain around his neck. It wasn’t his father’s crucifix. That they had buried with him. The chain he had purchased at a local shop that did custom work; and hanging from it was a small red tail feather. Only Sarah knew that he wore it. If anyone asked, it was only a good-luck charm.
He and Sarah had been over the events of that morning, telescoping the moments and parsing each movement to understand what had really transpired. To this day, and in spite of his memory, Zack could not recite more than the first few syllables of that Aramaic prayer that had held the killer spellbound. Where those words came from, he couldn’t explain—though Sarah’s quick thinking had distracted the killer. Nor could he explain how that bird appeared to have died and come alive again. Nothing could settle him on a conclusion that made total rational sense.
“I don’t know, bro,” Anthony said, shaking his head. “Either you’re one lucky dude, or someone up there likes you.”
Everybody else nodded and returned to their dinners.
Everybody but Sarah. She raised her eyes to Zack’s. It was fleeting so as not to draw attention, but he knew in the depths of her eyes what she was saying.
“Maybe so,” he said, and felt her hand slip under the table and give his a squeeze. “Maybe so.”
OTHER NOVELS BY GARY BRAVER
WRITING AS GARY GOSHGARIAN
