"So let's say I do everything right. I stop calling my mother, I let go of all the selfish inclinations that make me so human, I do all the things I'm supposed to do. What happens next? How do I get from this level to the next?"
He looked away, hedging. "That's really getting way ahead of your program."
"But maybe it would help me be more disciplined if I knew. Those things you told me this morning about the echoes were ahead of schedule, and they really helped me."
"I really can't discuss the transformation with you."
"There must be something you can tell me. Is it like traditional Judeo-Christian beliefs, where they say you have to die before you can go to heaven?"
"No. It's not like that at all."
"So the transformation comes when you're alive?"
"Yes." He hesitated but then seemed compelled to explain. "But we're not like many of the ufologists who believe that you must be fully conscious." .
"I don't understand."
"You've heard of these groups who believe that a UFO will come down and take those who are ready to the next level. They believe you must be fully conscious to make that journey."
"Blechman has said all along he's not a ufologist. So what is he?"
"I can't explain everything to you, but trust me. It makes so much sense."
"It makes no sense. If he doesn't believe you have to die, but he doesn't believe you have to be conscious, what is he saying? You need to be in a coma?"
He became deadly serious, as if offended by her remark. "He's saying there is a window of opportunity between life and death. You've heard of people who were near death and who claim their whole life passed before their eyes?"
"Sure."
"These flashbacks are the echoes that Steven talks about. Your entire life echoes before you, and in this one lucid moment you understand where you have come from and where you are going. Now, you've also heard people say they have passed over to the other side and seen a white light or were embraced by the light?"
"Yes."
"Those people are going nowhere, Willow. If they don't see the echoes, they have no understanding. They don't reach the next level."
Things were starting to make sense to her--specifically, the hangings. "Is it the same window of opportunity no matter how you die? Or is it beneficial to linger for a time between life and death?"
"That's something I can't talk about."
She nodded, backing off. "I understand. This was helpful. Thank you."
"You're welcome. I need to get back to the house, check on Felicia."
As he started for the door, she gave him one more of those disarming smiles. "Hey, Tom?"
"Yeah?"
"Just out of curiosity, what kind of pickup truck did you used to have?"
"Ford. Hated to lose it, but--hell, it's not important." "Good night."
"Good night," he said, closing the door behind him.
She remained seated on the bed, thinking. Maybe the truck wasn't important to him, but it was to her. The physical resemblance was part of it, his brown eyes and graying hair. But it was the personal data that had triggered the recognition, the little things she had put together from conversations with him and others. He was divorced. Early fifties. He had even driven the same vehicle, a Ford pickup.
Tom was a match for the serial killer's two male victims.
Chapter Sixty-One.
Gus reached the Borge residence in under an hour. Dex followed separately and parked a short distance up the road, out of sight in the darkness. If Meredith was home, it was important that Gus appear to be alone. If something was amiss, alone was the last thing he actually wanted to be.
Her car was parked in the driveway, but the porch light was not burning. No lights were on inside either, as far as Gus could tell. The house was completely dark.
He walked up the front steps, rang the doorbell, and waited. No one answered. In fact, he didn't even hear the bell ring. He knocked, but still no one came. He cupped his hands to the oval window in the front door and peered inside. It was too dark to see past the foyer. He backed away from the door, thinking he had heard an approaching car. The gravel road was deserted. A door slammed, and he realized it had come from a neighbor's house on the next road over. Sounds traveled well in this rural area, just one or two houses on each long and curving unpaved street.
He signaled up the road to Dex, who was watching from a distance through night-vision binoculars. Gus climbed down the front steps and continued around to the back of the house. It was even darker in back than in front, farther from the streetlight. A rattling from the trash cans sent his heart leaping to his throat. A hungry raccoon scurried away. In the return to silence he gathered his wits. Once again all was quiet. Certainly quiet enough for his knocking to have been heard. If she was home. If she could still hear.
He sidestepped the spilled trash and checked the back door. He was about to knock, then stopped. One of the small rectangles of glass was shattered--the one right above the door lock. It looked as though someone had forced their way inside.