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 Frankenstein: Don’t tamper with natural forces. Believing in the afterlife was fine, but trying to prove its existence may be venturing where we shouldn’t.
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
Skin Deep
Flashback
Gray Matter
Elixir
WRITING AS GARY GOSHGARIAN
The Stone Circle
Rough Beast
Atlantis Fire