Tunnel Vision

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 attaché 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. Capice?”

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?”

The Lord. “I want to know about him. I want to see the files and videos of him in suspension.”

“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 eyes.”

Stern stared at the hole between his feet. “Okay, okay. But please, I’ve got children and grandchildren.”

“A deal. You show me the stuff, and I’ll let you live.”

“Swear on your life.”

“I swear.”

Stern stared at Roman for a long moment. “They’re in my laptop.” He got up and led Roman into the kitchen and to a narrow set of stairs leading to the second floor. In a small corner office with a window was a desk with a computer monitor and stacks of papers.

“Play it.”

Stern clicked the mouse and ran the first video of Zachary Kashian in a soundproof chamber wearing a motorcycle helmet with wires. Stern explained how they had stimulated parts of his brain and how he had emerged claiming he sensed his dead father. The next video showed Zack in suspension, shots of the various monitors, computer images of his brain. Then his awaking and requesting root beer, which proved the kid had an out-of-the-body experience. Then clips of him coming out of near-death experiences, claiming he’d killed people. Stern explained that the other scientists believed that Kashian’s spirit had merged with that of his dead father.

“Is that something you believe?”

“I think it’s some kind of paranormal thing like ESP. But I’m not convinced.”

“So you’re not buying that his spirit merged with his dead father’s.”

“No.”

“Even though the others claim he’s got this hot God lobe.”

Stern nodded.

After reviewing more videos, Roman packed Stern’s laptop and slung it over his shoulder.

“What are you going to do?”

“You’re coming with me.”

“Where?”

“Your cellar.”

“My cellar? What for?”

“To keep you from jumping on 911 soon as I walk out of here.” He jabbed the pistol into Stern’s back. “Downstairs.”

Stern led them to a door that led into the basement, a small dim place with one wall of granite boulders that formed one flank of the foundations. The other walls had been finished off. The ceiling was maybe seven feet high, consisting of beams and wallboard. Some beams looked original, with hooks for drying meat in the olden times.

From his briefcase Roman pulled out a length of rope. “Turn around.” He wrapped the rope loosely around his hands. Then he removed a sleep mask. “And where exactly is the lab?”

Stern rattled off directions as Roman jotted them down. “Who else works there?”

He named names, beginning with Sarah Wyman.

“Do she and Kashian have a thing going on?”

“Not that I know of.”

“And Elizabeth Luria’s in charge.”

“Yes.”

“Back to Zachary Kashian. Is he special?”

“How do you mean special?”

“Is he divine?”

“Divine?” Stern gave him a perplexed look. “No. He’s a neurological anomaly, at best maybe psychic. But he’s as mortal as you and I.”

“Then how do you explain his channeling Jesus?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was a paranormal experience. Maybe he memorized it as a child.”

“Any reason to believe he was lying about his experiences?”

“No.”

The man had settled into the charade as his body relaxed. And that was good. “Would you say that he’s evil?”

“Evil? No, he’s not evil.”

Roman slipped the mask across Stern’s eyes. “Two more questions, and then we’re done. Do you believe in God?”

There was a moment’s hesitation as his body appeared to stiffen. “No. I don’t.”

“Well, you’re wrong. God exists.”

Stern said nothing.

“What about the devil? Do you believe in Satan?”

“No.”

And in a flash Roman slipped a length of clothesline over a beam hook and a noosed end around Stern’s neck. With all his body weight, Roman pulled the rope, causing Stern’s body nearly to lift off the ground. The man kicked and twisted as the rope dug into his neck, cutting off blood to his brain. In less than a minute, he stopped twitching as his body went limp. With a few quick twists of the loose end around the hook, Stern’s body weight did the rest.

“Well, you’re wrong there, too,” Roman said, and left.