By My Hands

by Alton Gansky

  “They won’t let him walk out.” Michael said. “Afraid he’ll fall down or something.”

  “I’ll check in on you later, David.” Adam patted him on the shoulder. Michael began pushing his father toward the elevator, followed by Ann and the nurse.

  “Would you follow me, Reverend?” Rachel turned and made her way down the corridor. Adam obediently followed.

  Rachel led Adam to the staff elevators and punched the button. In the elevator Adam took a moment to examine his guide. She had changed little from the last time he had seen her a few weeks ago. Her diminutive size seemed incongruous with her disposition. Although he would not call her beautiful, she was attractive. Her cream complexion was handsomely augmented by her short, coal black hair. She wore no makeup. Her clothing was plain—simple tan slacks and white blouse.

  The elevator doors opened at the second floor and Rachel led Adam down another hall and through a door to the doctors’ lounge.

  “Please sit down,” Rachel said, motioning to one of the easy chairs. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Rachel poured herself a cup, took a sip, and set it on the table. “I would like to ask you some questions.”

  “I have some questions, also. So perhaps we can help each other.”

  “Agreed. My first question, Reverend, is this: How long have you known . . .”

  “Just a minute please.” Adam raised his hands halting her mid-sentence. “First things first. If we are to continue, you must agree to call me Adam, or if you must insist on a formal title, then call me Pastor, but Reverend has to go.”

  “I prefer to keep this on a professional level.” Her words had a coolness about them.

  “I do too. I’m simply saying that I would be more comfortable without the adjectival title.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Reverend is more a description than a title. It is a social contrivance meant to identify a person as a religious leader. Although, like you, I have an earned doctorate, neither Doctor nor Reverend describes what I do and, therefore, I prefer not to use them. The term pastor, which means ‘shepherd,’ does describe what I do. Formal titles are usually unnecessary and sometimes get in the way.”

  “I wasn’t aware that your profession required doctoral-level work.”

  “It doesn’t. In fact, some pastors have little or no college. In the early days of our country that was necessary, especially in pioneer areas. It was difficult to get trained clergy in the frontier. So the churches selected men from within their ranks who showed unusual biblical insight to be their pastors. Today, however, most ministers attend college and seminary. In fact, in terms of hours of education, I have spent more hours in school than many medical doctors.”

  Rachel seemed to take offense. “You are aware that our education extends three years beyond college and then there’s specialized training.”

  “I am aware of that. And I do not mean to diminish that work. But many doctors think of ministers as ignorant shamans. In reality, the average minister has the traditional four years of college, followed by three years of graduate-level work in seminary. But whereas your three years of medical school led to a doctoral degree, the three years of seminary leads to a master’s degree—a Master of Divinity, to be exact. The Ph.D., or for some schools a Th.D.—that is, Doctor of Theology— is about three years of graduate work beyond that.”

  “But what of the level of work?”

  “Having never been to medical school, I couldn’t compare the two. I personally have great respect for those of your profession. Only a small percentage could endure the grueling schedule of a medical education. But by the same token, a theological education is not a cakewalk. Most ministers with doctorates have a working knowledge of Hebrew, the language of the Old Testament, Koine Greek, the language of the New Testament, and at least one modern language, such as German.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I want you to call me Adam.”

  “Okay. Now may I ask my questions?”

  “Shoot.”

  “First, how long have you known the Loraynes?”

  “Let’s see. I became pastor of Maple Street Community Church nine years ago and they were members then, so I’d have to say nine years.”

  “What happened last night?”

  “Not much to tell. I got a call at home from Ann. She said David was dying and asked me to come over. I found her in ICU. She mentioned that she was struggling with the decision about heroic efforts. She didn’t know whether to sign the release or not, so we went down to the cafeteria and met with the rest of the family. After some discussion I left them alone to talk it over and went back up to ICU. When I went into David’s cubicle, he was sitting up in bed.”

  “How long were you in the cafeteria?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe forty minutes or so.”

  “When you went to ICU, did you ask permission to enter from the nurses?”

  Adam flushed for a moment. She must have talked to the ICU staff. They would have given her this information. “No.”

  “You are aware that no one, not even clergy, is allowed into ICU without permission from the nursing staff?”

  Feeling like a scolded child, Adam replied, “I know that. You see, I had just been to see David a short time before, and being in hospitals as much as I am, I just took it upon myself to enter. The family was in the cafeteria, and if the nurses were working with David, the I’d just slip back out again.”

  “Did Mr. Lorayne say anything to you?”

  “Yes, he asked for his wife.”

  “Why did you go back to ICU?”

  “To pray.”

  Rachel grimaced slightly. “After he asked for his wife, what happened?”

  “Well, as you can imagine, I was astounded. I didn’t know what to say, so I hugged him. Then the nurse came in.”

  “What did she do?”

  “You’d probably get a better answer from her.”

  “I’d like to hear it from your perspective,” she said. “Well, when I entered ICU, I didn’t see anyone. The nursing station was empty, so I assumed they were tending patients. A few moments after I entered David’s room the nurse came in—”

  “What did she do when she entered Mr. Lorayne’s cubicle and saw him sitting up?”

  “She gasped.”

  “Gasped?”

  “Loudly.” Adam allowed himself to grin slightly. “So loudly the other nurses heard it and rushed over. They gasped too.”

  “One last question. How do you explain all of this?”

  “All of what?”

  “Mr. Lorayne’s sudden awaking from his coma and the disappearance of his surgical scar.”

  “Surgical scar?” Adam was nonplussed.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No. I only thought he had come out of the coma. Do you mean to tell me that his incision is gone?”

  “That’s right. Just as if it had never been there.”

  “Dr. Tremaine, two-two.” Rachel was being paged over the hospital intercom system. “Dr. Tremaine, two-two.”

  Rachel left Adam to his thoughts and went to a phone. “I’m on my way,” she said into the receiver. Turning to Adam she said, “I’ve got to go now.”

  “Wait a minute,” Adam protested. “We had a deal. I answer your questions, and you answer mine.”

  “Can’t be helped. I’m expected in a meeting.” Rachel made her way to the door.

  “Is this the action of a professional?” Adam tried to look hurt. His comment stopped Rachel as she opened the door.

  Somehow he knew the one thing that would make her reconsider; her professionalism.

  “What do you want me to do? I can’t very well tell the hospital administrator to reschedule the meeting.”

  “Then meet me later to finish this. All right?”

  “Okay. How about the coffee shop across from the hospital at 8 this evening?”

  “I’ll be there.”r />
  Thirteen

  Monday, March 23, 1992; 2:00 P.M.

  “I DON’T THINK I’VE ever seen the sky so blue,” Ann Lorayne looked out the car window. David Lorayne smiled, placed his arm around her, and pulled her close. They gazed at each other for a moment and then kissed.

  “All right, you two,” Michael said from the driver’s seat. He glanced back through the rearview mirror again.

  “You just keep your eyes on the road,” David said. “You don’t want us all back at the hospital, do you?”

  “No. Visiting was bad enough. Just stop steaming up my windows.” They were ten minutes from Kingston Memorial Hospital and traveling north on Interstate 805. In ten more minutes they would be home.

  “Larry and Eva are at their place fixing things up for you,” Ann laid her head on her husband’s shoulder. “Since the doctor said you could eat anything you want, Larry decided to barbecue some ribs.”

  “Sounds great.” David kissed Ann on top of the head. “This whole thing is unbelievable. Was I really in a coma for twenty days?”

  “Twenty days. Twenty eternally long days.” Tears formed in Ann’s eyes. “I really thought I was going to lose you.”

  “Hey, don’t go getting all weepy on me. I’m fine; couldn’t feel better.”

  “I know. It’s just that I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Ann wiped a tear away with the back of her hand.

  “Well, now, thanks to God, you won’t have to find out.”

  “Hey,” Mike said, “did anyone think to invite Pastor Bridger to the celebration?”

  Ann looked puzzled. “I thought you were going to do that.”

  “If I was, then I forgot in all the excitement.”

  “He must think us horrible ingrates,” Ann said somberly.

  “No sweat,” David said. “This is his day off. We’ll call him at home and insist he join us. I’ve never known him to turn down a good meal.”

  Michael directed the car up the ramp that led to their University City home. The red Volvo station wagon weaved its way over the surface streets, its occupants happily looking forward to a time of family fellowship. Michael, his mind euphoric with joy, noticed too late the dark blue sedan that suddenly backed into the street in front of them. Instinctively, he plunged the brake pedal as far as it would go. The squeal of tires echoed down the residential street. The Loraynes’ car stopped inches from the sedan. A man, tall with a ruddy complexion and a black goatee, exited the driver’s seat. Another man sat in the front.

  “Are you nuts?” Michael exclaimed through his now open window. “I almost hit you.”

  The driver stooped over and peered at Michael and smiled. “Aren’t you the Lorayne family?”

  “Yes.” David leaned forward. “And just who are you?”

  “I would like you to follow me, please.” The man was still smiling—an unnatural smile that revealed crooked yellow teeth.

  “Follow you? Why should we?” Michael was still looking to vent his anger.

  From his coat pocket the man removed a small gray lump with a black box the size of a transistor radio attached to it and placed it on the hood of the car less than an inch from the windshield. The package made a distinct magnetic click when it touched the car’s metal body.

  “Hey, what’s that?” Michael asked. “You’ll scratch the paint.”

  “It’s a gift,” the man said. His insincere smile increased in intensity. “It’s a very special gift. Do you recognize it?”

  “No.” Michael was suddenly apprehensive. The man frightened him, but he didn’t know why. “It looks like modeling clay.”

  “It’s similar to modeling clay, except that this clay explodes. You see, this tidy little bundle contains a plastic explosive and a radio receiver. My partner in the car over there has his finger on a transmitter. If you don’t follow us, he will touch a button and you will all die. The rest of your family will get to bury whatever remains of your charred bodies. You wouldn’t want that, now would you?”

  The blood drained from Michael’s face. They were being kidnapped in broad daylight, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He turned to see his parents in the backseat. They were sitting quietly, his father’s arm wrapped around his mother. Turning back to his kidnapper he said, “If it’s me you want, then I’ll go, but leave my parents alone. My dad’s been ill, and . . .”

  “I want you all. You will now follow me.” Turning, he quickly walked back to his car and pulled away. Michael obediently followed.

  Monday, March 23, 1992; 2:30 P.M.

  “I WANT TO KNOW what’s going on and I want to know now.” Dr. Evan Morgan was livid. He paced back and forth in front of the large teak conference table that dominated the room. His face was red and he gestured as he spoke. “At last count I have over 150 sick people sleeping in my lobby asking every Tom, Dick, and Harry if they’re the Healer. My staff tells me that I can expect another 150 by this time tomorrow. What am I going to do with them?”

  Those around the table nervously looked at one another. They had never seen the hospital administrator so out of control.

  Morgan continued his diatribe, “I can’t admit them. The hospital is full. I can’t evict them because the news media would have a field day.”

  Pulling a pipe from his pocket, Morgan went through a pipe smoker’s routine: placing tobacco in the bowl, tamping it down with a silver tamp, then slowly lighting it. Blue smoke formed a cloud around his head. The act calmed him. At the moment, he didn’t care that the hospital was a no smoking environment.

  He silently looked at those in the meeting. Carl Fuller, the hospital’s public relations officer, didn’t look up from the papers before him. His job had become overpowering in the last few weeks. Formerly, he worked an eight-hour day and then went home. The only previous excitement that his office dealt with was when a local movie star had been admitted for injuries sustained in a drunk-driving accident. Now his days were extended to fourteen hours, and his office was logging nearly 100 calls a day from all over the country.

  Next to him was the head of security, Bill Sanchez, a retired San Diego police detective who had left the force after being injured while arresting a violent drug dealer. The dealer resisted by firing at the police officers who came to his door. One round struck Bill in the left elbow, shattering the bone. The elbow had been knit together with various metal pins that left his arm with little mobility.

  Rachel sat opposite the two men, rereading the notes she had taken in her discussion with Adam Bridger.

  Morgan walked to a window that overlooked the east parking lot and puffed furiously on his pipe. “All right, let’s hear what you’ve got,” he said, without turning from the window. “Let’s start with you, Sanchez.”

  Sanchez cleared his throat. “We have interviewed everyone who could have possibly seen someone entering or leaving ICU. Unfortunately no one knows much. We quizzed Aretha Miller, the head nurse of ICU for swing shift. She didn’t see anyone enter or leave. I’ve got to admit that I find that a little difficult to believe.” He reached into his suit coat and pulled out a silver cigarette case with an unusual emblem engraved on its face. Rachel strained to see the image. It was an etching of a police badge. She grimaced as he lit the cigarette and carelessly blew smoke in her direction. The very thought of breathing something that had only moments before been in someone else’s lungs repulsed her.

  “What do you find difficult to believe, Mr. Sanchez?” Rachel fanned the smoke from her face.

  “That Aretha Miller didn’t see anything. I mean, there is only one way into ICU, right? And the nursing station is smack-dab in the middle of everything. Anyone walking through the door would have to be seen by her or one of the other girls.”

  “How often have you been in the ICU ward?” Rachel made no effort to conceal her irritation.

  “A couple of times. Why?”

  “The I in ICU stands for Intensive. Isn’t it possible that she and her girls were busy with patients in th
e other rooms? Do you know how many cubicles there are in the ICU?”

  “Not exactly, but . . .”

  “Fifteen, Mr. Sanchez, fifteen, and every one filled. How many nurses were on duty that night?”

  “That one I know: five. They said they were one short.”

  “So then, there are five nurses caring for fifteen patients who require around-the-clock supervision. Simple math would indicate that each nurse would be caring for three critical patients.” Rachel paused for effect. “It seems a simple step of logic to assume that all five nurses could be tied up tending patients, which, by the way, is their job.” Morgan thought it best to break up the polemics. “Did anyone else see anything?”

  “No, nothing. And who would with all those people camping in the lobby and parking lots?” Sanchez said.

  “In other words,” Morgan stated coldly, “you really have nothing for us.”

  “No, sir.”

  Rachel noticed the admission both embarrassed and angered Sanchez. Morgan turned from the window. “How are things going with you, Carl?”

  “It’s a madhouse, sir.” Carl’s appearance bore out the statement. His white shirt was rumpled, and his tie hung limply from his unbuttoned collar. He had the appearance of a man who had worked all night. “The switchboards are tied up with calls from the news media. To make things worse, the story’s gone national. I’ve received calls from every major television network, both AP and UPI, and six of the nation’s largest newspapers. I even got a call from the BBC in London.”

  “What are you telling them?” Morgan asked.

  Rachel detected a sympathetic tone in Morgan’s voice.

  “Not much. Just that the reports of unexplained events are being researched, but as yet there is nothing to report.”

  “Sounds general enough,” Morgan said.

  “The real problem is Priscilla Simms. She’s becoming a real pain. Apparently she’s made this her journalistic crusade.”

  “So how do we deal with her?” Morgan puffed faster on his pipe, sending a chain of small clouds rising toward the ceiling.

  “I don’t know, but I think she has an inside source—someone who is informing her of every occurrence. That source needs to be stopped.”