by Alton Gansky
“Welcome, Mr. Lews,” Isaiah said, and a new smile graced his face. “What is your question?”
“Are you the Healer?” Lews asked, and then sat.
Isaiah’s new smile evaporated. “This press conference was called to talk about the upcoming ‘Feel Good about Yourself’ campaign, not idle rumor. Does anyone have any questions about the campaign?” No one said anything.
“I see,” Isaiah said. Priscilla noticed that he looked like a scolded puppy. “The information you’ve been handed has the pertinent details on the upcoming crusade. Many lives will be changed during that time. You could’ve had a great part in that, but you let distraction get the best of you.” Isaiah quickly turned and marched from the room.
“Got it?” Priscilla asked the cameraman.
“Every drop of sweat,” he replied. “You really put it to him.”
“It’s simple,” she said smugly. “If he weren’t our man, then all he would have to do is simply deny it. But, if he is the Healer and he didn’t want us to know about it, then he has a problem. His Christian ethic won’t let him lie and say that he’s not the Healer, so the only thing left is to neither confirm nor deny his involvement.” The other reporters had gathered around Priscilla, pummeling her with questions to which she would reply, “Sorry, you’ll have to get your own story.”
Friday, March 27, 1992; 3:00 P.M.
“WELL?” ISAIAH SAT in the overstuffed chair of the hotel room.
“You were magnificent, as usual,” R.G. said exuberantly, as he poured Chivas Regal into two glasses. “Worthy of an academy award.”
“Did I look nervous enough?”
“Positively petrified.”
“So you think they bought it?” Isaiah took the glass of Scotch from his friend.
“I guarantee that tomorrow night the Sports Arena will be packed to the rafters, to see not only Paul Isaiah but also the Healer.” Then, raising his own glass, he said, “Till tomorrow night.”
“Till tomorrow night.” They drained their glasses.
TWENTY-ONE
Friday, March 27, 1992; 11:20 P.M.
“DID YOU SEE IT?” Even over the phone Rachel’s voice carried a restrained excitement.
“You mean Priscilla Simms’ report on the 11 o’clock news?” Adam used the remote to turn down the volume of his television.
“Yes. I know it’s late, but I wanted to know what you thought.” The hour was no problem for Adam who seldom went to bed before midnight. “Truthfully, I’m not sure what to think. It’s all well and good for a news report to imply that Paul Isaiah is the Healer; after all, it makes good news. But it’s quite another thing to prove it.”
“You don’t believe he’s our Healer then?” Rachel seemed disappointed.
“Well, I can’t say that he’s not, any more than I can say that he is. But something just doesn’t sit well with me.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the way Isaiah handled the press conference. If he is the Healer, then why not admit it? He has never turned down publicity before, so why now?”
“I don’t know how you preachers think. You tell me.” Adam could tell that Rachel was exasperated.
“Look,” Adam said soothingly, “I know you want to have this whole thing over with. So do I, but we can’t assume that the first guy to stand up and say ‘I’m the Healer’ will be the one we’re looking for. We must be careful. We’re dealing with more than a mysterious Healer who walks pell-mell through a hospital and heals folks of diseases. Members of my church are missing as a result of this, and two other families have disappeared.”
“Are you saying this guy isn’t worth investigating?”
“Not at all. I think he should be investigated.”
“Good,” Rachel said. “I am planning to attend Reverend Isaiah’s show tomorrow.”
“Service,” Adam said matter-of-factly.
“What?”
“It’s called a service or meeting, not a show. The more I think about it, though, maybe show is the better term.”
“Why?”
“Isaiah doesn’t have a very good reputation with most ministers and churches. You see, he’s not orthodox.”
“I don’t get it. Do you mean that he’s not orthodox because he doesn’t belong to the same church as you?”
“Not at all. Let me see if I can explain. As you know there are a lot of different Christian denominations, and these denominations differ from one another in areas of worship technique, government, and some areas of doctrine. For example, if you could visit several different denominations on any given Sunday, you might see the different modes of baptism. The Roman Catholics sprinkle babies, the Greek Orthodox Church immerses infants three times, Baptists immerse only those who are able to understand and tell of a conversion experience. So where Roman Catholics insist on infant baptism, Baptists refuse it. In that way, they are very different. But, in many ways they are the same, that is, they hold to the same basic beliefs. Again, for example, you might visit a Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Catholic, and Baptist church and find in each worship service the minister preaching on the death, burial, and resurrection of Christ. Or, you might hear them preach a message about man’s sinful nature.”
“What you’re saying then is that there are certain basic beliefs common to all orthodox churches. Right?”
“Exactly. Churches that base their belief and authority in the Bible will hold certain truths as dogma. These beliefs would include Christ’s deity; the Trinity—that God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit are one God with three distinct personalities; Christ’s death on the cross and His bodily resurrection. There are more of these cardinal beliefs, but you get the idea.”
“And Paul Isaiah doesn’t hold these beliefs?”
“If he does, he sure keeps them quiet. Some he flatly denounces. He preaches a message of wealth. It is his belief that God has intended everyone to be rich. If they’re not rich, then it’s because they choose not to be. He never preaches about personal responsibility to man or God. He never mentions sin and seldom mentions Christ. His services are more pep rallies than worship experiences.”
“Sounds like sour grapes to me,” Rachel said coolly. “From where I sit, his message is as good as anyone’s, and these other preachers are just envious of his fame.”
Adam was silent for a moment. He couldn’t help wondering about her antagonism toward ministers. He wanted to ask her about it, but decided that was not the kind of discussion to be held over the phone, especially at nearly 11:30 in the evening. “I can assure you,” he said breaking the silence, “that is not the case. Perhaps when we have more time, I can explain it a little more clearly.”
“Why don’t you come with me tomorrow and you can explain it then. It starts at 7, so maybe we can have an early dinner together.” Adam was taken aback. He was having trouble understanding Rachel. At times she was hostile to him and his profession. At other times she seemed to be genuinely friendly.
“That will be fine,” he said somewhat meekly. “I’ll be in my office all day tomorrow, in case you need to get hold of me.”
“You work on Saturdays?”
“That’s the best time to finish my sermon in peace and quiet Besides, I’ve missed a lot of office work because of my surgery and all the running around I’ve been doing. Shall I pick you up?”
“Nope,” Rachel said forcefully. “This one’s on me. I’ll pick you up at your office at 4:30.”
“Let me tell you how to get there from the hospital.” Adam gave detailed instructions. “Do you think you can find it?”
“I’ll find it.”
“That will be fine.” Adam hung up.
Saturday, March 28, 1992; 4:40 P.M.
ADAM CLENCHED HIS HANDS in his lap until his knuckles turned white. The small and agile ’56 Thunderbird in which he rode darted in and out of traffic along Friars Road in Mission Valley.
“You’re not nervous, are you?” Rachel asked. “Y
ou know there have actually been those who think that I lack a certain amount of driving etiquette. Can you believe that?” Rachel brought her car up tightly behind a car in the left lane and then sharply veered into the right-hand lane. A car behind her honked its horn; Adam closed his eyes.
“They may have a point, you know.” Adam slowly opened his eyes.
“I feel at my best behind the wheel of this car. My dad gave it to me when I graduated medical school. It gives me a sense of purpose and self-determination, a feeling of self-control.” Rachel leaned back in the bucket seat and accelerated. “A psychiatrist friend of mine says it’s because I have so little power in my personal life. You’re a man of wise counsel; what do you think?”
“I think dropping to within twenty miles of the speed limit would be a good a idea.” Adam said tensely.
“Why, I believe you’re scared, Reverend Bridger.” Rachel laughed.
“I prefer to think of it as cautious and expedient.”
“Expedient? How so?”
“There’s a Highway Patrol car just a few cars ahead of you.”
Rachel decelerated quickly until the car’s speed matched the flow of traffic.
“Thanks,” she said. “The last thing I need is another ticket. My insurance would cancel me.”
“I must admit,” Adam said, thankful for the police car ahead of them, “this is a side of you I never imagined.”
“We all have our quirks, Adam. This is one way I release stress. When I’m in my car, I am the absolute ruler of my life. There are no phones in here, no hospital administrators, no uncooperative patients; just me and my thoughts.”
“I imagine life is stressful dealing with disease on a daily basis.”
“It’s not disease that bothers me. Disease is never malevolent. It doesn’t choose its victims; it simply follows nature’s plan. A virus doesn’t say, ‘Aha, here comes a likely host for me to live in.’ It infects and grows because that’s what it’s designed to do; that’s how it lives. People are another matter entirely.”
“How so?”
“Unlike disease, people can be vicious.” Rachel spit the words out. “They can be dishonest and unscrupulous—plotting and planning the demise of others. Odd as it sounds, Adam, I don’t much like people.”
“Why not?”
Rachel didn’t respond but gazed steadily in front of her, her hands squeezing then relaxing on the steering wheel.
“Something you want to talk about?” Adam asked quietly.
“Please don’t play psychologist with me; leave that to the professionals,” Rachel said curtly. For the next few minutes they rode in silence. Rachel broke the stillness, “That was uncalled for. I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t a professional. I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, it’s just that . . . that I’m a very private person.”
“I understand,” Adam said calmly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Well, enough about me,” Rachel said with mock cheerfulness. “What about you? How do you deal with your stress? Or, are ministers exempt from stress?”
Adam laughed loudly. “That is one of the two great myths people believe about ministers. The first is that ministers work only on Sunday, and second, that we are free from the normal stresses of life. The truth of the matter is that many ministers work far more than forty hours a week, and face more stress than many believe. Some researchers have placed the ministerial profession in the top five stress-causing occupations.”
“What could be so stressful about a minister’s life?”
Adam paused and gathered his thoughts. “It’s not an easy thing to explain. First, you have to understand what a minister believes about himself. The typical clergyman believes that God has called him to be a minister. That is, God, for whatever reason, has specifically picked him to serve Christ’s church. That alone is enough to cause stress. To think that God has chosen you for a task is . . . well, for lack of a better term, frightening. Of course, the young minister enters his first church after four years of college and three years of seminary, believing that he is going to change the world for Jesus. Two years later, after struggling with personalities and finances, he realizes how tough a job it is.”
Adam gazed out the side window. “The ministry has changed over the last few decades. Twenty or thirty years ago ministers were considered pillars in the community. Their presence was valued and their counsel sought. Today, many view the minister as a perpetrator of superstition, and an interloper in the private lives of people. Actually, all a minister wants to do is improve the lives of those around him and to serve God; to bring faith into the lives of the faithless, not for personal gain, but because he knows it makes a difference.”
As Adam spoke, Rachel directed the car onto a freeway off-ramp, down a frontage street, and then adroitly parked the car near the entrance to the Great Wall, a popular Chinese restaurant. The parking lot was nearly empty; the general Saturday night crowd wouldn’t arrive for another hour.
“I didn’t mean to sound bitter,” Adam continued. “Actually, the ministry has great challenge. I wouldn’t change careers.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Rachel asked. “Come on, let’s eat.”
The restaurant was decorated in the typical Chinese-American style with an abundance of red and gold on the walls. Large plastic dragons hung everywhere. A large gold relief of the Great Wall of China dominated the entrance foyer. An uncommonly tall Chinese waiter led them to a corner table. Only four other people were in the room.
“Allow me to order,” Rachel said taking the menu. “If I mention anything you don’t like, just say so.” Without looking at the menu, she ordered several dishes—cashew chicken, Mongolian beef, sweet and sour pork—and a large bowl of won-ton soup. She also requested two pairs of chopsticks. “You do know how to use chopsticks, don’t you?” she asked.
“I think I can manage,” Adam replied.
“Good. Somehow Chinese food just doesn’t seem like Chinese food without chopsticks.”
“I have some news you might be interested in,” Rachel continued. “You remember that list you gave me of hospitals that had similar experiences with healings?” Adam nodded. “Well, I must admit that at first I was embarrassed that you found out about them before I did.”
“I was lucky.”
“No, you weren’t. Don’t play humble with me—you were just plain smart. Anyway, I’ve been doing some calling, and have found out a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Well,” Rachel said, pulling a small packet of papers from her purse, “the first thing I discovered is that no one wants to talk about this. I had to really bend some arms. Most gave in when they found out that I was from Kingston Memorial Hospital. I guess they’re glad it’s our hospital with this problem and not theirs. Anyway, here it is.” She handed Adam the folded papers.
“As you can see the only pattern is the cities in which the healings occur: San Francisco, Fresno, Los Angeles and now here. Of course, all that means is that our Healer is moving south.”
“What about the people healed?” Adam asked.
“No pattern. Only one healing in each city. In San Francisco, a woman was healed of severe psoriasis, a skin disease; in Fresno, a child with leukemia was suddenly well; and in Los Angeles, the most dramatic case occurred: a young man who had been in a motorcycle accident was found sitting up in his ICU bed, which is a remarkable feat considering his pelvis was fractured and his spinal cord severed at the neck.”
“Did anyone see him? The Healer I mean.”
“No. The patients were either asleep or unconscious. None of the hospital staff saw anything either.”
So the only sighting we have is from Lois Langford and what little information David Lorayne had to offer.”
“Correct. And as you know, she’s missing along with her husband, the Haileys and the Loraynes.” Rachel saw Adam grimace at being reminded about his missing members. “Any word from the police?”
The conversation stopped as the waiter brought the soup. They watched as he dished the soup into their bowls. The soup had a wonderful aroma and looked like a Chinese stew with shrimp, vegetables, beef, and pork floating in a clear broth.
“What about these other people?” Adam continued. “Are any of them missing?”
“I asked that, and the answer was always no. It appears that the disappearances are exclusively our problem. I suppose we could drive up and talk to some of them.”
“I don’t think it would do any good. As you’ve said, none of them saw anything. For some reason things seemed to have changed in the Healer’s usual method of operation.”
“How so?”
“Well, so far we have had three healings; the other cities each had one—or at least one reported. Here there has been more publicity.”
“That may not have been intentional,” Rachel remarked. “It could be that the other hospitals were able to keep it quiet.”
“You’re probably right. That’s another reason I don’t think Paul Isaiah is the Healer; he’s far too public. I’ve got a feeling that the real Healer is still out there, and if he is, we’ll find him.”
“Assuming, of course, that whoever is kidnapping those who have been healed and their families don’t find him first.”
TWENTY-TWO
Saturday, March 28, 1992; 6:45 P.M.
IT TOOK LESS THAN twenty minutes for Rachel and Adam to navigate the busy roads from the restaurant west on Interstate 8 and take the Midway Drive turnoff to Sports Arena Boulevard. The parking lot was filling rapidly with a stream of cars. Rachel and Adam had to wait in a line of cars while a police officer directed traffic.
“I hope you don’t mind walking,” Rachel said. “I like to park away from the rest of the cars. Keeps the Bozos from dinging my doors.”
“I think I can handle it.”