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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 was clear of strollers, Roman backed up and asked Gladstone to open the bag himself and tilt it toward him to see the contents.

Gladstone cocked his head at him. “You think I’ve got a bomb in here?”

“If you refuse to open it, I will.”

Gladstone snapped open the bag and tilted it toward him. It was full of bound hundred-dollar bills. Roman walked over and reached randomly into the bag to check the packs. All Franklins in packs of ten thousand. He didn’t have to count them. He closed the bag.

“When will I hear from you?” Gladstone said.

“Within the next twenty-four hours.”

Roman then watched Gladstone walk the same flower-lined path to Arlington Street. To be sure Gladstone left, he cut across the grass to where the Lincoln Town Car waited at the curb. While Roman watched through some bushes, he saw the driver get out and open the rear door for Gladstone. With a shock, Roman took in the face of the chauffeur. It was the same guy who had ridden to the Fraternity of Jesus with Babcock.

Son of a bitch! Roman thought. Bruce was burning his candle at both ends, too.

80

About two hours after stopping, Zack came upon the Biddeford/Route 5 exit. Nothing looked familiar, but he turned off.

“Is this it?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

There was a new motel complex just off the exit ramp that still had scaffolding on one wall and construction machinery in front.

“But that’s all new, and you haven’t been here in twenty years.”

“Believe me, this is the right way.”

“I’m trying to.”

There was a clutch of fast-food restaurants on the access road.

“Maybe we should stop for directions and get something to eat.”

“We’ll find a place when we get closer.”

“Closer to what?”

He didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to startle her. But the sensation was now electric. She wouldn’t understand, and he couldn’t put it into words that made sense.

But he really should thank Sarah for helping to lead him out of the tunnel and into the light. If it hadn’t been for the suspension tests, he’d still be stuck in the gray materialist world. Although he had long denied it, something had gotten into his head that first day with the stimulation helmet, then burned like a pilot light throughout all the nasty flatlining; and now it was a discernible beacon.

Ironically, the only one in that lab who had insight was the same person who tried to kill him. Funny how he was now coming around to respecting that woman. She had had her eye on the prize. And the prize was just ahead.