Free Tunnel Vision by Gary Braver

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