Tunnel Vision

52

“I killed a man.”

“What?”

“In suspension, I ended up in some guy’s workout room and choked him to death with a barbell.”

It was sometime after eleven, and Sarah was driving in the northbound lane of Route 128.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because Luria would have pumped me the rest of the night.”

“But that’s the point—to learn what you experienced.”

“Except I’m not doing any more.”

“Was it that bad?”

“Yeah, and as real as riding in this car. What scares me is how I felt. Volcanic rage. I wanted to press the life out of him. I can still feel it. And I haven’t got a clue who the guy is.”

“How awful.”

“It’s also the second time. I didn’t know that woman either, not a clue. But I wanted to kill her, too.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s the other thing. These weren’t some eye-in-the-sky OBEs. My hands were on the friggin’ barbell, the guy’s face staring at me upside down because I was behind him. I saw him die up close and from my point of view—the killer’s point of view. Same with the woman. I looked her in the eye, then turned the car on her. What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know, but now I’m getting scared.”

“Yeah, and I’ve had enough tunnel visions for the rest of my life,” Zack said. “I don’t need the money this badly.”

Sarah put her hand on his leg. “I understand. I’ll tell Elizabeth.”

“I’ll call and explain myself. Sorry if this screws up your research, but I’m not going around wondering if I’m a killer.”

Or worse.

Zack didn’t believe in the supernatural. He didn’t believe in the afterlife. He didn’t believe in spirits, ghosts, ESP, or other paranormal phenomena. Miracles were just good luck, like his waking from a coma. All else was fantasy, driven by ignorance, including good poker hunches, root beer logos, and reciting Jesus. But he was beginning to wonder if maybe he did cross over and tap into the psyche of some homicidal maniac.

Please let there be a more rational explanation.

“Maybe it’s just a bad reaction to the anesthetic,” he said. “That’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s possible.”

Sarah kept her eyes on the road, but in the flickering light of the traffic Zack could see that she wasn’t convinced. After a few moments, he said, “Sarah, what’s turning over in your head? And please, no more bullshit.”

She continued driving without response. Then she said, “I don’t understand it, but given the neurological activity and your running blood chart, whatever you experienced took place in real time.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t a flash dream just before you woke up.”

“You mean an OBE.”

She nodded. “That’s one of the things we’ll be looking for—the possibility you encountered another awareness.”

Another awareness. Zack felt a frigid ripple pass through him. “Jesus!”

“I know how you don’t want to go through another suspension. I really do.”

“No.”

She looked at him. “Might be the only way to figure out what’s going on.”

“You mean you don’t want me to blow your chances for an article.”

Sarah flared instantly. “That’s not my motive, Zack. I’m not doing this to get published. This is virgin territory, and that’s why I’m here, dammit.”

They rode in silence for a few moments. “Sorry.”

“Accepted.”

It was a little after midnight when he entered his apartment. He was exhausted and anxious and dreading going to bed for fear of being assaulted by more homicidal flashes. But Luria was right. This had none of the feel of a dream, even more so than the beach visions. It was disturbingly real and raw, and he feared it would all rise up as soon as he fell asleep. So he forced himself to stay awake.

His brain was too weary to allow him to work on his thesis or read. So he turned on the television and tried to lose himself in David Letterman. But every time the camera focused on someone’s face, his brain tripped on flashes of that guy’s eyes popping out of a bloody, ruined face. He could also still feel his fingers clawed around the bar and pushing against Volker’s windpipe. It was awful—as if his brain had been infected by some psychic miasma.

Worse was the alien rage that had surged through him as the guy flailed and kicked. He had murdered the man with hot satisfaction. And while he had no idea who he was, just beneath the threshold of awareness he sensed a disturbing familiarity. But nothing he could grasp.

He shuffled around the apartment, walking from room to room. His bedroom was a mess, so he put away clothes and straightened out the bed, fussing to make hospital corners and flatten the covers. When he finished, he cleaned up the kitchen and then moved to the bathroom, where he washed the tub and folded towels. When he felt himself grow sleepy, he took a Haldol and a double dose of Lunesta. It was probably dumb to combine the two, but he wanted a night of oblivion.

He began to wash his face, but as he looked into the mirror, another face stared back at him. A whimper rose in his throat, but in a blink the stranger’s face was gone and staring back at him was his own, looking gaunt and tight with fright. “What the hell’s happening to me?” he said aloud.

What did they put in that drug?

What did they do to my brain?

He wiped his face and returned to the living room and sat at his laptop to read e-mails. Notes from Damian, Anthony, other friends, one from his mother. University notices and spam. He opened the latest from Damian, who wanted to know where he had been, how the sleep study was going. One from Sarah apologizing for tonight’s run. He appreciated that. Luria was obsessed, intent on proving her theories and telling the world.

But he’d be her guinea pig no more.