Tunnel Vision (9 page)

The other possibility was Nick. During his decline, he had become fanatically religious, maybe to the point of reading the Bible in Aramaic. Possibly without her knowledge, he had taught it to Zack as a child.

Whatever the explanation, Zack was now in an undisclosed room with a staff sworn to secrecy and an around-the-clock guard—an arrangement made by the hospital, which was terrified that Maggie might sue for violation of her son’s right to privacy. Stephanie, the nurse’s aide, had been fired for posting the video.

Although the major media had by now dropped the story, online religious groups complained about people being barred from divine healing. Photographs of Zack still circulated on the Internet, as did the video. There was also a fuzzy shot of a water stain on the wall above his bed that was reported to be the face of Jesus.

To Maggie it looked like a water stain. A dead dull water stain.

15

The death notice of Thomas Pomeroy was on the obituary pages in the form of a lengthy article about the man and his life. And Roman read it with interest.

Pomeroy had been found dead on his living room couch by a housekeeper. The autopsy report claimed that he had died from “cardiac arrest”—words that filled Roman with pride.

According to the paper, Pomeroy had been lauded for his role in the “development of high resolution of magnetic resonance imaging, or MRI. Although MRI instruments have been available since the early 1980s, Dr. Pomeroy’s contribution greatly enhanced the imaging capabilities for viewing individual clusters of brain cells, which aided the monitoring of the progress of brain tumors.…”

Colleagues and family members went on to say that his contribution to medical physics and the practice of radiological diagnostics was invaluable. All his fancy schools and awards were listed among his accomplishments and how he left a daughter and three grandchildren in Phoenix, blah, blah, blah.

Roman took a sip of Red Bull, thinking how good he was at his trade and how he hadn’t lost the touch after all these years. He could still dispatch a subject without qualms or mercy, made all the more resolute now that he was working for a higher cause. The highest, in fact. Like St. Michael himself.

In the past, Roman maintained professional respect for client privacy. He rarely knew those he was working for. Likewise, he never inquired into the lives of those he dispatched. Not only was he disinterested, he understood that it was not a good idea to know his targets. Curiosity might weaken his resolve about putting a bullet through the brain of some guy who was a Little League coach and had a bunch of kids. Likewise, asking about a target’s background could endanger his own life. So he had plied his trade with total anonymity.

But the Pomeroy assignment began to eat at him. Why would someone want to assassinate a famous medical physicist?

And why someone in the service of God?

16

Emma Roderick did not personally know Stephanie Glass, the nurse’s aide she had replaced, but she had heard about the firing. Until the other day, Emma had been on a gerontology ward, where most of her patients were suffering dementia and a laundry list of physical ailments associated with advanced age. The patients here were under fifty and in various stages of rehabilitation from an assortment of neurological afflictions—strokes, aneurysms, head injuries, drug overdoses.

What she knew was that on orders of upper administration, Zack Kashian had been moved here to hide him from the press and public, because religious fanatics had crashed his room last week, claiming that God was talking through him and dispensing miracles. She had seen the cell phone video and believed none of the claims. Like her dementia patients, the poor guy mumbled nonsense syllables and people overreacted, claiming it was God and the face of Jesus on the wall and a statue of the Virgin Mary crying tears of blood, the air thick with the scent of roses.

Unfortunately, people will believe what they want to believe,
Emma told herself. But the hard fact was that Zachary Kashian’s Glasgow coma rating was level two, meaning he would probably remain in a profound sleep for a long time, if not until death. Already caseworkers were talking with his family about moving him to a private rehab facility.

Because Emma was new, she worked the eleven-to-seven graveyard shift and on holidays such as today, Easter Sunday.

It was midafternoon, and she would celebrate the holiday in the evening this year. Her parents were completely understanding, especially her mother, who would appreciate not having to get up at the crack of dawn to prepare the meal—the traditional leg of lamb and homemade mint jelly. Her sister and sister-in-law would bring the baked beans, potatoes au gratin, asparagus, and carrots, plus a rhubarb-strawberry pie, her father’s favorite.

“Dad.”

For a moment, Emma thought she had uttered the syllable without awareness.

She turned her head toward the bed, and a bolt of electricity shot through her chest. Zack Kashian’s eyes were open and staring at her.

“Dad,” he whispered.

“Oh, my God!” she gasped, as if the guy had emerged from the grave. “Wait. Wait,” she said, and bolted from the room to get Heather, the duty nurse, and Seth Andrew, the resident physician.

When they returned, Zack was still staring ahead.

Heather had been on the ward for years and had seen patients wake from comas before, so she instantly took over. “Hi, Zack. My name is Heather and I’m your nurse. And this is Seth, he’s your doctor, and this is Emma. Can you hear me?”

Zack looked straight up at her but gave no response.

“Zack, I want you to listen to me, okay?” She moved from side to side to determine if he was tracking her. He was. “Good, Zack. I know this is confusing to you, but I want you to tell me your name.”

Incredibly, Zack looked directly at Heather and said in a voice rough from disuse, “Zack.”

“That’s great. Now tell me your full name, last name, too.”

“Zachary Kashian.” Then he rolled his eyes toward Emma. “Where’s my dad?”

Emma tried to repress the tremors passing through her. “Your dad?” she squealed.

“He was just here.”

“There was nobody else here,” Heather said.

“I think you were dreaming,” Dr. Andrew said.

“No. He was here.” Zack closed his eyes again and turned his head away.

“Zack!” Heather cried. “Open your eyes. Please open your eyes again.”

Zack didn’t respond.

“Zack,” said Dr. Andrew, “don’t be alarmed, but you’re in a hospital. You had an accident that left you unconscious for a while. But you’re a lot better, and the great news is that you woke up.”

Zack slit open his eyes again. And Dr. Andrew was quick to catch them. “Zack, look at me, okay? Move your feet.”

His feet, still in new sneakers, stuck out from the bottom of the bedding. Zack rocked them back and forth, knocking the shoes together.

“Good job. That’s terrific. Now I want you to tell me where you live.”

“Magog Woods.”

“Where?”

Emma knew from his chart that he lived in Boston near the Northeastern University campus.

“Magog Woods.”

“Where’s that?” Heather asked.

Zack closed his eyes again.

In a sharp voice, Heather said, “Zack, open your eyes. Come on, keep them open and talk to me. Tell me where you go to school.”

No response.

“Zack,” the doctor said, “you had an accident on your bike and were brought to the hospital. Remember that?”

“Sand.”

“Sand? What about sand? Did you skid on sand? Tell me about it. Zack, please open your eyes. You can’t go back to sleep again. Please. You’re doing great.”

“Hit my head.” He opened his eyes.

“You hit your head? Tell me what you remember, Zack. Tell me how you hit your head.”

He closed his eyes again and rolled his head away.

“Come on, Zack, open your eyes. You can’t fall asleep again. Tell me how you hit your head. Did you fall off your bike?”

But Zack kept his eyes closed, and Heather and the doctor continued coaxing him to open them again, fearing that he would slip back.

But after several seconds, his eyes opened again. He looked at his arms with the IV connections and the monitors attached to his chest and tubes running from his body to bags and feed tubes. “How long?”

“Well, it’s been a few weeks.”

Zack stared at her, his eyes blank but his mind working on what she had just said. He winced and closed his eyes again.

Heather moved closer. “Zack, keep your eyes open.”

“He’s here,” he whispered.

“What’s that? Who’s here?”

But Zack had slipped back into sleep.

17

At eight the next morning, Nurse Heather came into Zack’s room. “Hey, Zack, how you doing?”

“Okay.”

“You ready for company?” Heather was beaming. “Your mother’s here to see you.”

Several hours had passed since Zack had woken up. He felt more centered and less fatigued. They had kept him awake by plying him with questions to assess his cognitive functions. It took a while to sink in that he had been in a coma for twelve weeks—that he had missed spring break and March madness, not to mention nearly three months’ work on his thesis, which had been due April 1. (He’d have to get an extension.) What amazed him was how in so short a time he had lost nearly twenty pounds. More startling was how weak he was. Lifting his arms took effort. But the nurses said that was expected, and because he was young he’d be back to normal after a few weeks of physical therapy.

Nurse Heather rolled up the bed slightly and gave him a few sips of orange juice. In a day or so they would remove the G-tube so he could eat normally, beginning with soft foods and milkshakes.

“We’ll keep it short so you won’t be too taxed. Ready?”

He nodded. “Send her in,” he said, a little anxious at seeing his mother because she was an emotional woman.

Heather left, and a few moments later she returned with Zack’s mother. As she entered, his first thought was that she had lost weight. She was dressed in pale green slacks and a white sweater and a necklace he had given her last Christmas. She rarely wore makeup, but today she did. “Hi,” he said through a raw windpipe.

For a moment she stood at the doorway, frozen. Although she had probably kept steadfast vigil at his bedside, he imagined how she saw him—gaunt, ashen, hair roughly chopped, scabs, scars, his arms like broomsticks. He smiled as best he could and raised his hand toward her. She burst into tears and came to him, taking his hand. He was weak but did his best to give her fingers a squeeze.

Sobbing and trying to smile, she said, “Thank goodness. I love you,” she whispered.

“Love you, too.” His voice was hoarse.

The nurse helped her settle into a chair by his side. She clutched his hand as she tried to compose herself, wiping her face with tissues.

He knew that she felt some degree of guilt—and not just the residue of her Roman Catholic upbringing, something she carried like a low-grade fever. Or a maternal thing for not protecting him better. It was deeper layered. For some ineffable reason, she believed that Zack had blamed her for Nick’s abandonment. It was totally irrational. Jake’s death had caused that, not Maggie.

She took Zack’s hand, now crying for joy.

“Menino’s revenge.”

“What?”

“The mayor. They tell me I hit a pothole.”

When she regained control, she said, “You shouldn’t have been riding your bike so late. And without a helmet.”

“Mom, I live only a few blocks away. I just didn’t see the hole.”

She kissed his forehead. “Thank goodness you’re okay.”

“But I got a great sleep.”

“Yeah, for eighty-six days.”

“But who counts?” She leaned over and kissed his cheek and forehead. And he could feel the press of tears behind his own eyes.

When she settled in the chair again, she said, “Good news. Your thesis adviser gave you a six-month extension. So the pressure is off. Isn’t that great?”

“That means I get my degree in January. No June graduation.”

“We can live with that.” She smiled and kissed him again.

“I think I heard you talking to me while I was asleep.”

“You did?”

“You kept telling me to open my eyes. But every time I did, I got sand in them. I think you also asked me to clean up my room and take the trash out.”

She laughed and squeezed his hand.

He could feel the warmth of her grip. It felt good. It was a relief to see her laugh again. She must have been gnarled with fear and grief these past three months. As he lay there, he resolved that once he got out he’d spend more time with her, get closer, do more to make her life better. She had suffered too much in the last ten years.

“I also had dreams of Dad.” As he’d feared, the mere mention of him caused her smile to sag.

“Dreams? What kind of dreams?”