Waking Lazarus Read online

  She smiled, as if they were old pals reunited after years of being apart. In her hands she held a book. Even before she held it up for him to see, he knew what it was. A tome entitled Into the Light, written by one Jude Allman.

  ‘‘Yeah, it’s you,’’ she said. ‘‘I can tell from the photo.’’ She spun the book around. The man in the photo was younger, thinner. Less scraggly. But also recognizable. The photo penetrated deep recesses in his mind, bounced around for a few seconds, and dislodged white-hot memory flashes. The blanket, despite his best efforts, was lifting. He looked from the photo back to the woman.

  ‘‘I’m Kristina,’’ the woman at the door offered. ‘‘I need to talk to you about your book. About—’’ She paused. ‘‘About everything.’’

  ‘‘Everything,’’ he said. ‘‘Not my strong subject.’’

  She blinked, smiled again.

  ‘‘How did you find me?’’ he demanded.

  ‘‘Let me in and I’ll tell you,’’ she answered.

  Jude (Ron. It’s Ron!) considered for a moment, then looked beyond her, up and down the length of the street. Quiet. No one had followed her, and he was getting uncomfortable standing here with the door wide open. He was sure, at some point, they had sprayed the exterior of his home with unknown pathogens. The longer he held the door open, the more pathogens would leak in. Just what they wanted. He backed up and waited for her to enter.

  Kristina stepped through the doorway, stopped, and backed out again. She studied his windows. Or rather, where his windows used to be. The previous year, he had gone to Renton’s Hardware and Home Center for a special sale on Sheetrock. In one weekend he’d been able to seal off the windows with fresh dry wall. It was little protection from the infrared scanning technology they could use to scan his home, and probably even less protection from the pathogens. But it was something.

  Kristina looked at the glass windows outside the home, then poked her head back in again to see the smooth surface of Sheetrock. ‘‘Love your window treatments.’’

  He shrugged, waited for her to enter. She glanced around the room, then stepped in and made her way to the lonely easy chair in the center. He re-engaged the dead bolts and locks before turning around. She was already sitting.

  It felt uncomfortable having someone inside his home, like having an itch in a place he couldn’t reach.

  ‘‘So I’ll ask again,’’ he finally said as he pulled his dining room chair into the living room, ‘‘how you found me.’’

  ‘‘How did I find the elusive Jude Allman? The greatest disappearing act since D. B. Cooper?’’

  She was toying with him. Cat and mouse. He didn’t like being the mouse, never did like anything about mice in general. He shivered. Any moment, he expected, she would launch into some self-congratulatory soliloquy detailing how she, the most brilliant among journalists, had picked up his trail.

  ‘‘I looked in Montana,’’ she finally continued. ‘‘You know, the place everyone goes when they want to hide.’’

  Jude knew it was a joke. He was supposed to smile, maybe even offer a polite chuckle. He didn’t. A rusty headache was forming directly behind his eyes and slowly oozing its way throughout his brain.

  A long sigh escaped from his lips. ‘‘My dad moved into a nursing home near here. That’s when I came.’’ And it was true. His father, William Allman, was only fifty miles away at a nursing home in Billings. ‘‘Retirement community’’ was the politically correct euphemism so popular these days, but Jude wasn’t fooled by the high-minded name. To him, it was still a nursing home. And he imagined that was exactly what his father would call it, as well. Maybe he’d ask William, if he ever went to see him.

  Kristina shifted in the chair a bit and nodded. ‘‘What about your mother?’’

  His mom. His dear mom. ‘‘She died. Long time ago.’’

  Kristina nodded again. No sense trying to stall her. She’d already pulled the nice, comfortable blanket off his memories, and now those memories were shining before him like bright shards of glass, ready to cut him open. Jude’s headache deepened, but he knew he’d have to stumble through this somehow. Maybe he could convince her to hold on to this story. Maybe she’d feel sorry for a paranoid janitor.

  ‘‘Look,’’ he began. ‘‘Before . . . before I changed my name and got away from all the nonsense—’’

  ‘‘Ron Gress.’’

  ‘‘Huh?’’

  ‘‘Ron Gress. You changed your name to Ron Gress.’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Before I was Ron Gress, I was . . . I don’t know.’’ He stopped and tried again. ‘‘Do you have any idea what it was like to be Jude Allman?’’

  Kristina shook her head slightly.

  ‘‘Like being a piece of steak. Everyone wanted to cut off a piece. All the weirdos.’’

  ‘‘What kind of weirdos?’’

  ‘‘You name ’em, I had ’em. Lots like you.’’

  ‘‘Like me how?’’

  ‘‘Newspeople. Journalists.’’

  ‘‘I’m not a journalist.’’

  His eyes narrowed. He was pretty sure she wasn’t one of them, and he’d been almost positive she was a writer or some such thing. Once, he had been so good at seeing these things. He was out of practice. Still, maybe she was lying, just trying to get him to trust her.

  Her smile returned. ‘‘Nope, I’m not a journalist. So what kind of weirdo am I?’’

  Jude felt as if Rumpelstiltskin was sitting in his room. No, that’s not my name. ‘‘Well, other than reporters,’’ he said, ‘‘there were UFO junkies, conspiracy freaks, New Agers.’’

  ‘‘None of the above.’’

  ‘‘Paranormal researcher, something like that?’’

  ‘‘Nope.’’

  He continued to look at Kristina, and suddenly everything dropped into place. The answer appeared on the markerboard of his mind, drawn in large red letters. ‘‘You’re dying,’’ he said.

  Kristina returned his gaze, looked to be deep in thought for a few moments. She scratched her forearm as she spoke. ‘‘Well, let’s just say I won’t be around very long,’’ she answered.

  ‘‘How long?’’ he asked, finding himself caring. A bit.

  ‘‘Long enough to get a few things done.’’

  His cynicism slid back into place, fueled by the buzz-saw headache. ‘‘Looking for your higher purpose, huh? Let me break it to you: there isn’t one.’’

  ‘‘Oh, there certainly is, Jude,’’ she said with a continued hint of familiarity that made him flinch. ‘‘Yours, for instance. Some people receive special gifts from God, and—’’

  He laughed. So that’s what this was. ‘‘You spent all this time tracking me down just so you could convert me, huh? I got some news for you: I ain’t buying.’’ If only this woman knew what her so-called God had done. To his mother. To him.

  She continued to stare at him, seemingly undaunted by his words. So he went on. ‘‘I know how this goes,’’ he said. ‘‘First, you’ll want to know what happens. Then, you’ll want to know why it happens. Then, you’ll end up mad at me because I don’t have any of the answers you want.’’

  ‘‘I saw you once on Sally Jesse or something,’’ she said, ignoring his comments.

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of him. ‘‘Maybe. Yeah, I suppose. I was on a lot of those shows.’’

  ‘‘You were talking about the second time.’’

  The second time. Yes.

  4

  LIGHTNING 16

  Years Ago

  The second time Jude Allman died, he took a friend with him.

  As a teen, when the thoughts of most young men in Nebraska turned to girls and Cornhusker football, Jude’s thoughts turned to the forest. On weekends, he followed his feet down tree-lined paths, absorbing the crisp scent of pine on the whispered forest breezes.

  Jude made most of these excursions alone. But on this particular late summer day, when the next school year was closer than the
last, he brought along Kevin Burkhart.

  Kevin, Jude thought, looked a lot like Barney Rubble. He was short and squat, with a thatch of blond hair growing from his head. Even Kevin’s eyes fit the part: wide and vacant, as if they couldn’t really focus on anything around him. But Kevin was one of Jude’s few close friends, and he also felt the siren call of the woods. In the wilderness they could hike for hours without speaking, losing themselves in the journey.

  The day started out bright and blue, pregnant with promise. Jude’s father dropped him off at Kevin’s house in town. The two of them shouldered packs (even though they were only going out for the day, they preferred taking along packs ‘‘just in case,’’ and a day hike could always be seen as conditioning for longer, multi-day excursions) and made their way to nearby Soldier Ridge Forest.

  Years later, after Jude had moved away from Bingham, Nebraska, he found people were always surprised to hear him talk about Soldier Ridge Forest near his hometown. People, it seemed, felt Nebraska had no trees—especially no pine trees. But for Jude, it had heaven: a patch of evergreen that stretched from the northern edge of Bingham to parts of Wyoming and South Dakota.

  About fifteen minutes from Kevin’s house, they reached the trail-head; after another fifteen minutes, they were in heavy timber. They hiked at a steady pace, unhurried by a specific destination or timetable, but driven by a simple need to explore. They passed through thick stands of ponderosa, then open meadows as they pushed deeper and deeper into their journey. Scents of sweet wild flowers and musky underbrush mingled and meandered around them as they walked.

  After about five miles, they stopped for a break. They sat on a large boulder, ate a bit of gorp, and exchanged ideas about which girl was the prize beauty of Bingham—Kevin voted for Carol Blades, while Jude was more partial to Kim Oakley.

  That was the only day Kevin ever asked him about dying.

  ‘‘What was it like?’’ Kevin ventured after he put his head back and shook the last bit of trail mix into his mouth. He munched steadily as he eyed Jude.

  ‘‘What was what like?’’ Jude asked, even though he knew Kevin was talking about the drowning. The Drowning. Jude had been a minor celebrity in their small Nebraska town since The Drowning. The local media gave it plenty of coverage. A few regional papers and television stations had even picked up the story.

  Jude had returned to life after being clinically dead more than an hour—all with no apparent ill effects—but he was uncomfortable with the local celebrity status it brought. He knew it didn’t make him a celebrity in the same sense James Dean had been a celebrity. More like Typhoid Mary.

  Even though he came back to life, a certain part of him, perhaps the most normal part, had died when he drowned. People were wary of him, and a few kids were actually afraid to touch him. Thoughts of junior high gym class made him wince even years later. One of the boys, Bobby Evans, had said he wouldn’t shower with a freak. Soon, other boys followed Bobby’s suggestion like the lemmings they were, and Jude found himself showering alone three times a week, always after the other boys were done. Mr. Johnson, the bald-headed gym teacher who was more interested in sitting on his can than actually educating anyone, acted oblivious. But in his heart, Jude knew that wasn’t true. He was sure Mr. Johnson knew, and enjoyed the torture as much as Bobby Evans and the rest of the idiots. The memories of gym class, along with a thousand other memories of people avoiding him, were still fresh, wet, and painful.

  If he hadn’t drowned, none of that humiliation would have happened. He would be anonymous. Normal.

  The Drowning had always been a taboo subject between Jude and Kevin. Without ever speaking about it, both of them understood this. And both of them had always abided by that unspoken rule.

  Until now. Amid the safety of the forest, Kevin obviously felt sure enough to wonder aloud. Jude, in turn, was also relaxed by their surroundings, and Kevin was his best friend. ‘‘I don’t remember a lot of it,’’ Jude offered.

  ‘‘Did you see anything?’’

  ‘‘Yeah.’’ He looked up, gauging the reaction; Kevin’s face was rapt, so he continued. ‘‘A bright light—like a huge spotlight, you know?— but it didn’t hurt to look at. Not at all. It was hard not to look at. I wanted to go into the light.’’

  ‘‘So did you? Go into the light, I mean?’’

  Jude nodded. ‘‘I started. I mean, I knew this was where I was supposed to be. And then I saw someone standing in front of me. Other people who have had, um—’’

  ‘‘Life-after-death experiences?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Life-after-death experiences, I guess. Other people say they see someone they know. A grandfather or a friend or something. But not me. I think, maybe because I didn’t really know anyone who had died. So it was just this person, standing there in the light. And I couldn’t get a good look at him anyway. He was just a dark shadow, with light all around him. But he knew my name.’’

  ‘‘You’re kidding.’’

  ‘‘No. He said: ‘Jude, it’s not your time. You have to go back.’ And I didn’t want to, you know? It was like I was really tired, and he was telling me I couldn’t sleep. I asked him why, and he said, ‘Your purpose.’ So I asked him about my purpose.’’

  Kevin leaned in closer. ‘‘Yeah? What was it?’’

  ‘‘He said, ‘You have to let Kevin Burkhart know he doesn’t stand a chance with Carol Blades.’ ’’

  Kevin blinked, then reached across the gulf between them and punched Jude’s shoulder. ‘‘That wasn’t funny.’’

  Jude was doubled over, partly because he was laughing, partly because Kevin’s punch was harder than he expected. He looked up again, and he could see genuine disappointment in his friend’s eyes.

  At that moment his perspective on dying slipped into perfect balance, and he understood it would always haunt him. He realized he could never outrun it. Or the questions it elicited. He saw how he would always have to handle these questions, whether from strangers, family, or friends. He would have to be reverent. And he would have to avoid the truth. He would never tell anyone what really happened on the other side (make that Other Side), because people didn’t want the truth. They just wanted the hope. That was why it could never be a joking matter, not even with his closest friend.

  Jude had hurt Kevin, and he felt like an idiot for not having understood all this sooner.

  ‘‘Look. I’m sorry. Really, I was just dinkin’ around with you.’’

  ‘‘Forget about it,’’ Kevin answered as he started picking up his backpack.

  ‘‘No, really.’’ Jude put his hand on Kevin’s shoulder, the kind of physical contact normally uncomfortable between sixteen-year-old boys. It had its desired effect: Kevin stopped and looked at him.

  Jude took away his hand quickly. ‘‘I wasn’t kidding you about the rest of it. The light, the man, all that. He told me I had a purpose. Everyone has a purpose. And look, I’m gonna tell you something I’ve never told anyone before. Not even my mother.’’

  Kevin was listening again.

  ‘‘He said it’s much better than this life.’’

  ‘‘Really? He said that?’’

  ‘‘He said it.’’

  That was when the first peal of thunder rolled toward them.

  They hadn’t noticed the clouds moving in, the kind of bruise-colored clouds that throw bolts of lightning in long, hot, jagged flashes. The thunder caught them by surprise, and they both looked heavenward at nearly the same moment. Instantly they knew they were somewhere they shouldn’t be.

  They shouldered their packs again and started back down the trail, just shy of running. But the thunder ran faster, rolling over them like giant ocean waves. Then they didn’t just hear the storm. They saw it. Flashes illuminated the forest floor as lightning stepped across valleys, striding ever closer.

  The forest trail opened into a small meadow, and they stopped to look at each other. They panted as they studied the meadow and considered their unspoken thoughts. S
taying near trees was a bad idea. The giant pines reached toward the sky and begged for lightning strikes. At the same time, neither of them wanted to be the highest point in a flat meadow when the lightning decided to stomp.

  ‘‘Maybe we should try to crawl,’’ Kevin finally offered. Jude swallowed hard, feeling as though he could taste the hot, dry lightning in his mouth. He nodded.

  Because it was Kevin’s idea, he went first, moving on all fours but keeping his body off the ground; if lightning hit them, they knew it would cook the parts of their bodies touching the ground. Hands and legs could sear and the body might survive. Internal organs were another matter.

  Kevin moved quickly, despite the mud and roots beneath him and the heavy external frame pack perched on his back. As soon as he’d gone a few yards into the clearing, a finger of lightning sliced deep into the patch of forest ahead of them, almost as if uttering a warning. They heard the crackling of the electricity sucking the air around them, and they both froze. A smell like burning rubber floated in their nostrils.

  Jude saw Kevin look back over his shoulder at him. Jude hadn’t yet gone into the clearing, wanting to keep some distance between them. He nodded, and Kevin began moving again.

  After a few more moments, Jude dropped to his hands and knees, then started into the clearing. He traveled about twenty yards before everything went to white static: the whiteness swam in his eyes, and the static buzzed in his ears.

  And then, nothing.

  Jude hated hospitals. True, he hadn’t been in a hospital many times in his life—couldn’t think of any trips there after drowning at age eight, in fact—but he hated hospitals all the same. Everything was drab, gray, lifeless. No, not just passively lifeless, but dead. Hospitals even smelled like death.

  When Jude awoke, he knew he was in a hospital. That much was certain from the sounds and smells. He didn’t want to open his eyes yet. Even eight years later, memories of the morgue hounded him, forcing him to keep them shut. To put off the inevitable a bit longer.