Near Death (23 page)

“I had kind of a rough childhood myself,” she admitted soberly. “I empathize with kids in crisis. I don’t only see cancer patients. I do all sorts of trauma work. If I go home at night feeling I’ve helped a child, then I’ve had a pretty good day.”

He left some money on the table and at once had a thought that pleased him.

“Can I see you again?” he asked.

“Another coffee would be great,” she replied.

“Actually, I had another idea.”

“I’m still your daughter’s doctor,” she gently reminded.

“No, a professional idea.” He laughed. He told her what he had in mind and asked if she’d join him day after tomorrow.

“I’d love to,” she said, checking her calendar. “I’d really love to.”

Jessie took off Alex’s shirt and began to knead his shoulder muscles. He was tense and a back rub usually helped. He hadn’t been sleeping well, he’d become withdrawn, spending hours alone in a darkened room. In retrospect, his life had been so simple. His quest to understand his childhood NDE had driven the choices he’d made in a singular way. It drove him to study brain sciences; it drove him to study philosophy and religion. Yet, now that he’d made his breakthrough, complexities flooded in as if a dam had been breached. He felt as though he were holding onto a sapling that was bending in
torrential floodwaters, in mortal danger of being swept away by the powerful forces he’d unleashed.

For a man who always strived to be in control, the sudden lack of control was eating at him. He couldn’t control Cyrus O’Malley, who was pursuing him with a bulldog’s tenacity. He couldn’t control the Uroboros compound anymore. Even its name had been taken away from him. Bliss. On the street it was becoming some kind of vast uncontrolled experiment that would eventually lead back to his door. And when that happened, O’Malley would be there, smugly wielding handcuffs, taking him away to prison for life. He’d rather die.

Death had become an overwhelmingly appealing option. He knew with the certainty of a replicated scientific experiment what awaited him and it was so much more alluring than life, particularly the anxiety-filled existence he now was experiencing. With the stroke of a blade or ten minutes in a running car in his closed garage he’d be with his father forever. He’d learn, once and for all, what lay on the other side of that river.

I should do it
, he thought.
With Jessie. It’s not a matter of if but when
.

At first he’d shunned the media coverage of Bliss because it conjured up images of O’Malley knocking on his
door; but the scientist in him eventually was drawn to it. It was
his
discovery,
his
creation, and people were eagerly reporting their experiences everywhere. Videos, blogs, postings, and tweets were popping up all over the net and TV and newspaper coverage was becoming ubiquitous.

One particular piece haunted him. A pretty girl posted a YouTube video of her coming out of a Bliss trip. She was crying and laughing at the same time, saying, “I can’t understand why everyone isn’t taking this. Everyone needs to know. Everyone needs to understand. Fuck everything else. This is the only thing that matters. Come on people, join me.”

Come on people, join me
.

He watched the video over and over until it came to him. He knew what he needed to do.

“Feel better?” Jessie asked, her hands moving down his spine.

“Yes. How about you?”

She was simple, innocent. When something bothered her she didn’t bottle it up, she came out with it. “I’m still worried about the FBI agent who came to see me about Thomas and Frank.”

He couldn’t shield her from the FBI’s harassment. O’Malley had shown up at his house while he was at the lab
and had grilled Jessie for an hour. She was bewildered by the visit. Why did he want to know where Alex was the night Frank was murdered? Why was he interested in the Uroboros salon? Why did he want to talk about Thomas Quinn’s death? She was careful, of course; Alex had prepped her never to talk about drug use at the salon or Bliss. Even so, she’d been rattled by the encounter.

“Don’t worry about it,” was all he could say. “You did well.”

“I still don’t know why he asked all those questions. It’s almost like he thought you had something to do with Thomas and Frank’s deaths.”

“He’s misguided. He’s got a warped idea of the truth.”

“I miss Thomas,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about him.”

“I miss Thomas too but I don’t miss Frank. He stole from me. He wasn’t a good person. He got what he deserved.”

She tenderly kissed his thick burn scars. “Frank’s in a better place. They’re both in a better place.”

Alex turned around and pulled her into his chest. “You’re a wise soul,” he said. “But don’t go joining him, okay? I need you here with me. We’ve got work to do.”

“What kind of work?”

“Jessie, this is something I’ve been thinking about.
Actually, it’s
all
I’ve been thinking about. Frank let the cat out of the bag prematurely, but look what’s happening: hundreds of people, maybe thousands, have taken Bliss. It’s triggered a new kind of joy and understanding. Why stop here? Isn’t it our responsibility to do more for more people?”

“Our responsibility to do what?”

“Bliss is mine. I’m its father. A father has a responsibility for what he creates. I’ve got some ideas, Jessie—important ones. But I can’t do it alone. I’ll need help. I want to talk to a few of the Uroboros people, the ones we can really trust. Erica, Davis, maybe Sam, the new bloke, a couple of others. We may need to go somewhere else, someplace where we can work quietly, without O’Malley or anyone else interfering. You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

She didn’t ask questions. “Of course I will. I’ll go wherever you go.”

He kissed her passionately and nuzzled her. “I have two more doses of the liquid—the last two.”
Paulo Couto’s precious last drops
. “Shall we take them now?”

She nodded happily.

“You first,” he said.

After he pipetted the drops onto her tongue, she lay
on the bed and asked, “Alex, why are the drops better than the powder?”

The question caught him off guard. He answered cautiously. “The crystals are synthetic. The liquid contains the natural chemical. There are small differences between the two but critical ones. I’m working to get a better understanding.”

“Where does the liquid come from?” she asked, closing her eyes, waiting for its effects.

“Animals,” he said quickly. “I don’t want to be grisly, but it comes from animals and it isn’t easy to prepare. Don’t worry about these things. Just relax and have a beautiful time. I’ll be right here when you come back.”

The next day, Alex found a FedEx box waiting for him at the lab. It was from Mexico. He hurried into his office, closed the door and ripped the box open. Inside were two large plastic bottles. The only markings on the labels were the weight of the contents: one read 35 GRAMS; the other, 46 GRAMS. He pumped his fist in triumph. Eighty-one grams! Almost 200,000 doses! “I love you!” he said out loud and immediately hit his speed dial.

In seconds, Cifuentes was on the line.

“Alex! I’m guessing you got my package!”

“Oh, man. You’re the best. Eighty-one grams! You’re too much!”

“That’s what my wife was telling me last night.” Cifuentes chortled. “I’m glad to help my old friend.”

“Tell me how much I owe you. I may not be able to pay you all at once, but give me a target.”

“Actually, Alex, I don’t think I want money from you. With respect, I’d like something else.”

“Tell me. Anything I can do for you.”

“I want to know if this peptide is the drug that’s being called Bliss in America.”

Alex breathed hard into the handset. “I’ll be honest with you, Miguel. One of my lab techs stole your original supply and started selling it. I was horrified.”

“I read in the papers that it’s going for a hundred bucks for half a milligram.”

“That’s what I’ve heard too.”

“Okay,” Cifuentes said. “That’s all I needed to know. We’re square, my friend.”

Alex tried to read between the lines but decided to keep his conclusions to himself. “Miguel, look, there’s one more thing. I’ve got reasons to believe that other isomer combinations might be even more interesting. Is there any
chance you could do some more explorational chemistry for me?”

There was a long pause on the line. “That’s kind of you to think of me for that, Alex, but frankly, I think I’m going to be extremely busy in the near future. So, stay warm up there and take care of yourself. Okay?”

Thirty-one

Frieda Meyer’s house was a lovely old colonial shoehorned into a small tree-filled lot in Chestnut Hill, a five-minute walk from the heart of the Boston College campus. Cyrus had rarely returned to the college: after all, he wasn’t an alumnus, he was a dropout. So there was no small pleasure revisiting the campus in a semiofficial capacity.

He’d rehearsed what he would say when he placed the call. A secretary told him to hold the line and a minute later, a familiar voice with an authoritative German accent cut in.

“Hello, this is Professor Meyer.”

Cyrus cleared his throat. “Professor, my name is Cyrus O’Malley. I’m sure you don’t remember me but I was one of your students twenty years ago.”

“It’s an interesting name, Mister O’Malley, but you’re right, I don’t recall you. Undergraduate or graduate student?”

“Undergrad.”

“How may I help you?”

“Have you heard about the drug known as Bliss?”

“Bliss? Is that the one that’s said to produce divine hallucinations?”

“That’s right. I’m with the FBI now, in the Boston office. Bliss is something of a problem, as you’ve probably seen.”

“What’s this to do with me, Mister O’Malley?”

“When I was a sophomore I took one of your courses, Two Thousand Years of Faith.”

“I still teach it. It’s very popular because it’s a gut. You have to work hard to get below a B minus.”

“That’s why I took it. I recall the
Underground Course Guide
said, ‘God forgives and so does Prof. Meyer.’”

She laughed heartily. “Well, I’m glad something stuck with you.”

“I was wondering if I could come over to talk about it with you. I’m trying to understand the phenomenon better, on a religious and mass psychology level.”

“I must say, what I’ve heard about this drug intrigues me. There are interesting implications of induced collective spiritual visions. I’d be pleased to visit with you. It might be fun. I rarely get involved in anything topical.”

“I appreciate it. When’s a good time?”

“How about my house on Wednesday? Four o’clock. Proper teatime.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“Do you mind if I invite a couple of my colleagues?” she asked. “It might make the discussion livelier.”

“Are you sure it’s okay, my being here?” Emily asked as he stopped at the curb.

“Absolutely. She’s bringing some people too. You know more about this stuff than I do anyway. I need an interpreter.”

“Hardly! But I’ve been looking forward to this.”

While Cyrus rang the doorbell, Emily admired the canary yellow clapboard house with black shutters and black door. “Such a pretty place,” she whispered.

When Frieda Meyer opened the door Cyrus was momentarily taken aback. In his mind’s eye she was an attractive middle-aged woman whose long hair flowed as she strode around campus at an athletic pace. The woman at the doorway had left middle age behind and was borderline frail in appearance, her hair piled into a silver bun, albeit her voice had lost none of its vigor and youth.

“Hello there!” she called out. “Come inside. You found
us all right?”

“Yes, thank you. No problems. Professor, this is a friend of mine, Doctor Emily Frost. She’s a psychiatrist who’s also interested in the drug.”

“Welcome to the both of you.” She studied his face. “Now I’ve seen you I’m quite sure I don’t remember you,” she said bluntly. “But never mind. There’ve been so many.”

They hung their coats and followed her into the sitting room, a space miniaturized by a concert grand squeezed into the corner. The rest of the furniture was forcibly arranged to accommodate the piano, pressing the sofa and chairs into a small conversation area around a rug.

Three men rose and Meyer took Cyrus and Emily by the arms like children to introduce them in turn. They were fellow faculty members in the Theology Department: Rabbi Paul Levin, roughly Cyrus’s age, a smooth-shaven man with a small yarmulke held in place with a bobby pin; Prof. Walid Sharif, a plump olive-skinned Egyptian in his fifties with a perpetual smile; and Father Andrew Clegg, a tall Jesuit in his sixties with a shock of white hair, who radiated an aura of good health.

They sat and exchanged small talk until Meyer poured the tea. Then she sat lightly in one of the chairs and
pointed at Cyrus with a cookie. “You know, your namesake, Cyrus, King of Persia, was an interesting fellow. He was one of history’s most tolerant and visionary rulers. When he conquered the Babylonian empire in 539
B
.
C
. he didn’t impose the Persian gods on his new subjects. He encouraged the restoration of ancient temples. He even invited the Jews back to Judah to rebuild their own temple. Maybe you were destined to spread religious tolerance yourself.”

“I don’t know about that,” Cyrus replied shyly.

“Why don’t you tell us about this Bliss drug so we’re all singing off the same hymnal?”

He told them what he knew. It was a circular peptide, he said, recently discovered by a Harvard neuroscientist from the brains of animals at the brink of death. It targeted receptors in the limbic part of the brain.

“I’m a little fuzzy on anatomy,” Meyer said. “What is that?”

Emily helped out. “It’s a group of structures deep in the brain controlling emotion, behavior, long-term memory. It’s very ancient from an evolutionary sense. The earliest mammals had limbic brains. Sometimes you hear it called the seat of the soul.”

Father Clegg eagerly jumped in. “If I recall an old
Scientific American
article, drugs work on receptors like
keys in a lock. I can fancifully imagine this circular drug fitting precisely into a circular keyhole in the seat of the soul. I’m reminded of the God-shaped hole.”