by Alton Gansky
“Well, I may be embarrassed if I don’t get some sleep. I have to preach tomorrow. It’s one thing when the congregation falls asleep in the middle of the sermon; it’s quite another thing for the preacher. It detracts from my credibility.”
The idea of Adam bent over and sleeping in the pulpit caused Rachel to laugh aloud.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before, Rachel; it becomes you.”
Again, Rachel looked away.
“How about coming to church tomorrow?” Adam asked.
Rachel shook her head. “Sorry, I’m not ready for that.”
There was a decisiveness in her tone that made Adam drop the subject. They had pulled into his driveway, and he wished her a good rest before getting out of the car.
Sunday, March 29, 1992; 7:00 A.M.
THE ALARM WENT OFF at 7 A.M., and Adam began his Sunday morning routine. Since he had arrived home late last night or, more accurately, early that morning, he had not been able to review his sermon notes, and this added to his always present anxiety.
He was tired; his sleep had been frequently disrupted by the reoccurring vision of the crooked little boy; his mind was besieged by competing thoughts of the Loraynes, the Healer, and Rachel. Struggling to free his mind of its weariness, he began to prepare for the day with a hot shower and a strong cup of coffee. Fifty minutes later he was on his way to church.
The church was packed with regular attenders as well as those who came only sporadically. Adam circulated among the crowd prior to the service as he always did. When he first entered the ministry, he would enter the sanctuary with the choir at the front of the church and then take his place in the padded oak chair just to the left of the pulpit. This, however, felt too formal. Adam felt separated from the people, like an actor in a play. It wasn’t long before Adam made it a habit to be in the sanctuary when the congregation arrived and spend time talking with as many as he could before the start of the service.
Each person he talked to today questioned him about the Loraynes or asked him his opinion on all the strange goings-on at the hospital—no one had to mention which hospital. Although those who asked about the Loraynes were truly interested, each time it was mentioned, Adam felt pierced.
When the organ began to play, Adam made his way down the aisle and took his usual place in the pastor’s chair. From here he could see the faces of the congregation. Unconsciously, he estimated the attendance, something he did every service. Today it was easy—standing-room only. Adam felt good about what he saw, especially since last Sunday had been so abysmal. People were smiling, and there were many faces he had not seen in a long time. Despite the anxiety that he felt every Sunday morning, Adam had missed worshiping with these people during his illness.
The service went well. The singing was spirited and the message well received. During the invitation time, when the congregation was given an opportunity to “walk the aisle” to ask for prayer, request church membership, or make other spiritual commitments, several came forward.
Following the service, Adam stood in the foyer to greet those who had worshiped there that day. People filed by, shaking his hand and reiterating their joy at having him back in the pulpit. The last person in line was Fannie Meyers.
“Did you go through the mail, Pastor?” she asked.
“Ever the faithful secretary, aren’t you? No, I haven’t looked at the mail since Friday. Why?”
“There’s a registered letter for you from a television station in Los Angeles. They let me sign for you. I thought it might be important.”
“And you’re just a wee bit curious,” Adam said smiling. “Well, all right, let’s go see what it says.”
In the office, Fannie rifled through the stack of unread mail. “Here it is,” she said, handing Adam the envelope. The return address was printed in blue ink and read: KLLA-TV.
Adam sat in his desk chair and read silently.
“Well?” Fannie asked.
“They want me to appear on the “Milt Phillips Show,” he replied. “That’s great!”
“I’m not so sure. They want me to be on a show about modern-day miracles. Although they don’t say it, I’d wager it’s the Healer they have on their mind. To make matters worse, one of their guests is going to be Dr. Charles Cruden.”
“The astronomer?” The excitement faded from her voice. “As I recall, he doesn’t think too highly of religious people.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Actually, he’s downright hostile.” Adam leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Why me? There are hundreds of ministers between here and L.A. I wonder how they got my name?”
“Perhaps from the news reports or possibly from someone at the hospital. Are you going to do it?”
“I don’t know. It means a trip to Los Angeles, and I don’t know that I have the time. Besides, they’re taping this Wednesday; I wouldn’t have much time to prepare, and I doubt I could get back in time for prayer meeting.”
“It might be good for the church,” Fannie prodded. “Dick Slay can handle the prayer meeting.”
“Although Dick would do a fine job, I doubt my appearing on the Milt Phillips Show would help our church or anyone in it.” Adam abruptly sat up. “Wait a minute. Maybe I can use it to help someone.”
“Who?”
“The Loraynes and the other missing families.” Adam pulled a yellow notepad from his desk. “Here’s what I want you to do first thing tomorrow.” He wrote quickly on the paper and then handed it to Fannie.
“Do you think they’ll let you do it?” Fannie asked looking up from the paper.
“Insist on it.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Monday, March 30, 1992; 10:00 A.M.
THE CROWD IN MICHELE GOWAN’S small hospital room made it seem all the more cramped. Michele reclined on top of the covers of her bed, wearing a pink robe with tiny roses embroidered on it. She was nearly unrecognizable to those who had known her before. Her thin, gaunt appearance had been replaced by a full and robust body. She had curled her brown hair and put on makeup, something she had never been able to do before.
Standing near the head of her bed were her mother and father. Pat and Katherine Gowan had recovered quickly from their initial shock. After the hospital had called and asked them to come down, they had expected the worst. Instead, they were greeted with a daughter they had never known—a daughter without cerebral palsy. Katherine’s scream had echoed in the halls, bringing doctors and nurses scrambling. When she regained her composure, she wept with tears of joy and unbelief at the miracle that was her daughter.
Pat Gowan responded somewhat stoically, at least outwardly, but his mind raced and his heart pounded. He had stood silently watching his wife and daughter weep in each other’s arms. Then, slowly, he raised a trembling hand and brushed back the hair from Michele’s forehead, tears rolling down his cheeks.
Also in the room and standing at the foot of the bed was Dr. Patton, with a stack of reports from the medical tests he had run. Standing next to him was Detective Art McGinnes of the San Diego Police Department. Rachel was near the door. A black man in a dark pinstriped suit and dark tie was speaking:
“I believe you folks know everyone here but me.” His voice was deep and resonant. “I’m Special Agent Norman Greene of the FBI. You are already aware of the other missing people who have had experiences like yours. Technically, only the Lorayne family disappearance can be officially described as a kidnapping. The others are still classified as missing persons, and Detective McGinnes is handling those as well as helping us on the Lorayne case.”
“So you’re here to offer us protection,” Pat Gowan said.
“Actually, no.” Greene shifted uncomfortably on his feet “Manpower consideration prohibits us from doing that. McGinnes tells me that the best the SDPD can offer is to increase patrols in the area.”
“That’s the best you can do?” Gowan was angry. “At least the hospital provided guards outside the door.”
“Mr
. Gowan,” the agent said, “we are aware of the problem. It is extremely unlikely that the kidnappers would attempt to abduct your family. So far, they have acted very discreetly. I doubt that they would be so unwise as to make another attempt.”
“That’s not much comfort,” Katherine said. “I want some protection for my family.”
“Is there someplace outside the city you could go?” Greene asked. “Perhaps stay with some family members, or rent a home out of town? Maybe even take a trip?”
“I have a business to run,” Pat said bitterly. “I have employees and clients who depend on me. I’ll not run away.”
“I thought you might say that.” Greene handed them a card. “Here is my card. I’ve written my home phone number on the front. Also, on the back I’ve written the number of On Guard Security. It’s a private security firm that we’ve worked with before. They’re the best in the city. If you want, they’ll send out a couple of guards to watch the house.”
Pat Gowan took the card without comment.
“If I can be of any help,” McGinnes said, speaking for the first time, “feel free to call me. I work out of the downtown station. If I’m not there, they’ll know how to find me.”
“Anything else we should know?” Mr. Gowan asked gruffly.
“Just be on the lookout for anything unusual,” Greene said. McGinnes and Greene excused themselves and left the room.
“Well, Doc,” Pat said, “any reason my baby can’t come home?”
“No medical reason,” Dr. Patton said. “I’ve run every appropriate test I can think of, and there is no reason for Michele to be kept here. I’ve got to tell you, I’m still having trouble believing all of this.”
Michele smiled. “Me too.”
“Well then,” Dr. Patton said, “I have other patients to see—although the rest of the day is sure to be boring after this. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Any last words, Dr. Tremaine?” Pat’s voice softened as it usually did when he spoke to women.
“Just that if you think of anything that might help me figure out what’s going on, please let me know.” Rachel handed her card to him. “My pager number is on there. Call if you remember anything, anything at all.”
“We’ll do that,” Pat said. Then turning to his daughter, “You ready to go home, Honey?”
Michele leapt from the bed. “I’ve been ready for a long time. Say,” she said with a wide grin, “how about letting me drive the van home?”
“Not until you have had some lessons,” Katherine said with maternal authority.
As Rachel entered the corridor outside Michele’s room, she heard her name called. A Filipino nurse was walking toward her.
“Yes, what is it?” Rachel replied.
“We just got a call at the nursing station from Dr. Morgan’s office. He’d like to see you as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Nurse. Will you please call his office and tell them that I am on my way up?”
“Sure.” The nurse left the way she came.
In the staff elevator Rachel wondered what awaited her. She had grown to dislike Dr. Morgan more and more. In fact, she resented him—resented his taking her off surgery to play detective, his often condescending attitude, his self-centeredness, and his treatment of Adam.
Rachel paused at the last thought. She really did resent Dr. Morgan’s treatment of Adam. Rachel wondered at her attraction to a man with whom she had so little in common.
The elevator stopped at the eighth floor and Rachel stepped into the large reception area and then to the opulent office of Mary Rivers, Dr. Morgan’s administrative assistant.
Mary Rivers rose from behind her desk. “It’s good to see you again, Dr. Tremaine. Dr. Morgan is waiting for you.” Mary stepped to the door that joined her office with her boss’ and opened it. “Dr. Tremaine is here to see you, Dr. Morgan.” Mary stated.
Morgan was standing with his hands clasped behind his back staring out the window at the ever-present mass of ill camped at the hospital. “Thank you, Mary. That will be all,” he said without turning around.
Rachel walked to a chair opposite the desk but did not sit.
“They keep coming,” he said quietly. “They come in a steady stream from who knows where. They fill our lobbies, restrooms, and our corridors. Many are sleeping outside. Some refuse to leave or even to eat. The Salvation Army is feeding and clothing some of them. There’s no place for them here, and still they come.
“Some are terribly ill,” he continued. “We’ve already treated nearly two dozen people in our emergency room—diabetics without insulin, people with unrelenting fevers, and worse. Thankfully, none have died—yet. There’s no way to get them to leave. No way at all.”
Morgan sighed and rubbed his temples. Without seeing his face, Rachel could tell he was very weary. “If I force them to leave, the media will flay me alive. If I let them stay and one of them dies on our doorstep, then the media will have me again. It’s a lose-lose situation.”
Turning, he faced Rachel; she could see anger in his eyes. “And it’s all because of this Healer, whoever or whatever he is. They sit out there on the slim hope that this miracle worker will show up; and when he does show, he walks right by them, heals one person in a hospital room, and then leaves.”
Morgan paced around his office. “I’ve got questions, mind-boggling questions, and I’m not getting any answers. I’m not getting answers from you; I’m not getting answers from security; all I’m getting is pressure from the hospital’s board of directors, and a hundred calls a day from the media. What’s going on?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir,” Rachel said.
“You don’t know. You don’t know.” Rachel could see the fury in Morgan’s face. “Well, I appointed you to find out. This could have been good for you. This was your chance to separate yourself from the other doctors and rise to the top. I trusted you with a very sensitive project—one that may have dire effects on this hospital—and I get nothing from you. You have been dragging your feet on this, Rachel, and I don’t like it.”
“I’ve done what I can, Dr. Morgan.” Rachel could feel her own anger rise. “If you will recall, I didn’t ask for this project.”
“I don’t care what you asked for,” Morgan’s words were fierce and loud. Rachel wondered if they could be heard in the reception area. “I gave you a job to do. You may be a surgeon, but you’re a surgeon at this hospital. If you ever want to step into one of our surgical rooms, or any surgical room in Southern California, you had better straighten up your attitude!”
Rachel clenched her teeth. She felt like a teenager being scolded by a parent. How dare he speak to her in this way. She felt the urge to unleash her pent-up emotions but kept them in check. She would show him her superiority by not playing his game.
“Doctors.” Mary Rivers had entered the room.
Dr. Morgan ignored her and continued, “If you’re not careful, Doctor Tremaine, I’ll have your job.”
“Doctors,” Mary repeated.
Rachel exploded. “If an egocentric Neanderthal like you can have my job, then I don’t want it!”
“Doctors!” Mary yelled, stepping between them. Silence flooded the room. Tears streamed down Rachel’s cheeks, Morgan’s face was beet red. Both had fists clenched as though ready to come to blows.
“Excuse me,” Mary said calmly, “but Dr. Morgan has a call on line one.”
“I don’t want to take any calls,” he said bitterly.
“It’s the chairman of the board,” Mary stated.
Morgan took several deep breaths. “All right, thank you, Mary, you can go now.” Then, looking at Rachel he said, “Get out!”
“Gladly.” Rachel spun on her heels and quickly left the office. As she walked, she kept her eyes straight ahead. She wanted to avoid any eye contact with Mary or others in the reception area. Marching to the elevator, she fiercely punched the down button. Fortunately, the elevator arrived quickly.
Monday, March 30,
1992; 1:15 P.M.
PHAM HO SAT ON the edge of the desk and listened to the one-sided conversation:
“We didn’t mean to cause you any trouble, and we’ll take special precautions this time.” Priscilla held the phone to her ear with her left hand and massaged her temples with her right. “But this is an important story and you’re a key . . . Of course, I understand your position . . . Yes, I know that you have a family to support, but . . . if you’d just let me stop by and . . . well, I’m sure that security has put pressure on you, but we can . . . no, if you would just let me finish . . . no, don’t hang up . . . Hello? Hello?” Priscilla sighed and gently set the receiver back on the phone.
“That sounded like fun,” Pham said.
“Like a root canal.” Priscilla leaned back in her chair and resumed massaging her head. “I’ve got such a headache.” Pham reached into his pocket and pulled out a small yellow tin of aspirin.
“Still trying to get information out of the hospital?”
“Yeah, but I’m definitely a persona non grata. They must have really brought the hammer down over there. I can’t get anyone to talk to me. No one in administration is returning my calls.”
“Not even Carl Fuller, their PR guy?”
“Especially Carl Fuller. And our sources have dried up. I’ve called Dr. Robert Ailes and Nurse Karen Hobbs—they were the ones that clued us in on Lisa Hailey—and they’re not there. At least, I’ve been told they’re not there. I finally tracked Karen Hobbs down, and she not only won’t talk to me, but blames me for nearly costing her job. I even tried popping in on them but was met by a gorilla in a guard uniform who ushered me to their head of security, a guy named Sanchez.”
“What happened?”
“He read me the riot act,” Priscilla pulled a cigarette from her purse. “He accused me of causing the problem at the hospital, encouraging patients to leave other hospitals with false hopes, and endangering the lives of patients.”
“Don’t light that,” Pham said grimacing. “It’s a state law, remember? No smoking in enclosed areas. What did you say to him?”