Valley of the Shadow by Tom Pawlik Page A

the moment he turned a corner or walked into a room. People would gain a sudden interest in whatever folder or notepad they happened to be holding at the moment. Most would make furtive but hasty exits.
        At first Conner thought he was just being paranoid, but lately he could sense genuine discomfort around him, as if no one knew quite how to treat him anymore. No one seemed to want to talk about the fact that he had nearly died. Maybe he’d been a little too forward about the whole thing. Or maybe he was just an unwelcome reminder of their mortality.
        Conner had managed to share his story with nearly everyone at the firm over the last three weeks, though he hadn’t given them all the details. Only what he had already shared with Marta. And while he didn’t want to come across as macabre, it seemed to be the perfect opportunity to share his newfound faith as well. After all, wasn’t that what he was supposed to be doing? At least he assumed that was one of the reasons he’d been spared.
        It was serious business after all. Eternity. Conner was surprised—and saddened—at how little thought most people seemed to give the topic. Death was the one thing they could be certain of, yet they acted as though ignorance would make them live forever.
        And he had been the same way. But no longer. He had witnessed the darkness firsthand. He had stood on the brink of eternity and gazed deep into the abyss. His pride and self-sufficiency were gone, and he desperately wanted his friends to know how his stoic agnosticism had finally melted away to faith.
        Though not a blind faith. To his surprise, Conner had discovered plenty of evidence for this carpenter who had risen from the dead. It was there for anyone willing to examine it with an open mind. Yet for all his efforts, no one ever seemed very interested. No one responded with anything more than a polite smile and nod. And then an excuse to make a quick getaway.
        It seemed the harder he tried, the more they avoided him.
        It was just after ten o’clock when Henry Brandt called Conner into his office. Henry was the senior partner at the firm and a longtime mentor since college. He was semiretired, in the office three days a week. Though in his seventies, Henry still carried a lean, athletic build. He had just returned from a trip to Maui, and against his tanned skin, his neatly cropped white hair looked positively angelic.
        Conner had always admired the man. Henry’s agnosticism had been deeply influential during Conner’s college years. Because of this, Henry Brandt was the one person with whom Conner had been too intimidated to discuss his faith. Not that he regretted his decision, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow he had let the man down.
        Henry leaned back from his wide mahogany desk as Conner flopped into the leather armchair with a snort of exasperation. “How are you doing, Connie?”
        “Fine.” Conner took a breath and held it a moment, not sure how to proceed. Then he puffed out his cheeks in a sigh. “Actually, I’ve never felt better.”
        Henry nodded. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. But I didn’t ask how you were feeling; I asked how you were doing.”
        This was typical Henry Brandt sophistry. Feeling. Doing. What was the difference? At length, Conner shrugged. “In that case, maybe not so good.”
        Henry only smiled. “Having trouble getting back into the swing of things?”
        “In a manner of speaking. Nancy’s turned into a Stepford secretary—not that I’m complaining, mind you. But I can’t help feeling that some people here are avoiding me.”
        Henry gazed into the distance for a moment. Then he drew a breath. “Look, I’ll be frank with you.”
        “Please.”
        “I think you’re making some folks here a little . . . uncomfortable.”
        “Uncomfortable? What do you mean?”
        “Well