by Alton Gansky
Priscilla looked at the cigarette with longing and then tossed it on the table. “Nothing. He was furious. He threatened half a dozen law suits. Then before I could say anything, he had me ushered out.”
“Well, that explains it,” Pham said casually.
“Explains what?”
“Our attorneys just received a restraining order on your behalf. The court orders you to stay away from the hospital. The attorneys say the hospital is trying to get the court to ban everyone on our staff, but could only get you—at least so far.”
“Oh, great.” Priscilla was exasperated. “So how do I do my job?”
“From a distance, I suppose. “Besides, you have another problem.”
Priscilla looked at the man sitting on the edge of her desk, “Like what?”
“The Reverend Paul Isaiah is suing you, me, and the station for last Saturday’s broadcast. You were pretty rough on him.”
“Not half as rough as I wanted to be. He deserved worse than I gave him.”
“Perhaps, but his lawyers don’t think so.”
“Well, that’s what lawyers do—sue people. That’s why this station retains several good barristers.”
“You’re right, of course. Stations like ours get sued occasionally, and usually win. We’ll probably win this one too. Nonetheless, you’re to stay away from the hospital and Paul Isaiah.”
“It’s not right!” Priscilla hopped out of her chair. “It’s just not right.”
“Agreed, but that’s the way it is.”
Priscilla retrieved her purse and the cigarette from her desk. “I need some fresh air.” Quickly she turned and left her office. A moment later she returned. “I’ll find a way to get to the bottom of this. I’ll be a player in this mystery; maybe only a small player, but I’ll definitely do something!”
Twenty-Six
Monday, March 30, 1992; 3:00 P.M.
“YOU UNDERSTAND WHY WE must ask,” Greene said, as he sat in one of the chairs near Isaiah’s desk.
“Of course,” Isaiah said cheerfully. “I want to help in any way I can. I’m only sorry that a Special Agent of the FBI had to drive from San Diego to Los Angeles. Couldn’t we have done this over the phone?”
“These things are best handled in person, Reverend.” Greene pulled a notebook from his pocket and simultaneously turned on a small pocket recorder. He used the recorder as an electronic memory to supplement his poor note-taking ability. He had found that leaving the recorder in his pocket made the one being interviewed less nervous.
“We attempted to contact you after your service Saturday night,” Greene continued, “but you got away too fast.”
“I’m sorry about that. So many people want to talk to me after a service that I have to plan a . . .” Isaiah searched for the right word “. . . well, an escape route. It’s not that I don’t care for the people, you understand, but when they press on me and . . . well . . . someone could get hurt.”
Greene didn’t comment, but looked into the deep, gray eyes of Isaiah. The captivating charisma that was so dominant at last Saturday night’s service was now absent. One-on-one, Isaiah was quiet and reserved, almost embarrassingly shy.
What kind of man am I dealing with? Is Isaiah a charlatan, preying on the hurts of others? Or, is he really a man of God—a prophet with mystical powers? Or, is he just crazy—perhaps a psychotic with a messiah complex? After eighteen years in the FBI, Greene felt he had seen it all. Isaiah, however, baffled him. Greene had run the usual wants and warrants check on Isaiah, but found nothing. Isaiah was squeaky-clean.
Greene’s thoughts were interrupted by the opening of Isaiah’s office door. A tall, thin man with curly hair entered the room.
“Come in, R.G., come in,” Isaiah said, springing to his feet. “There’s someone I want you to meet. R.G., this is Special Agent Norman Greene of the FBI. Agent Greene, this is R.G., the real brains around this place.”
Greene stood and shook R.G.’s hand. His hand was moist, an indication to Greene of anxiety. Both sat and faced Isaiah.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” R.G. said timidly. “Is there something wrong?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.” Greene’s voice took on a serious, professional tone. “Are you aware of the recent events at Kingston Memorial Hospital?”
“We are,” Isaiah said flatly. “At my press conference a woman reporter asked some confusing questions. I thought she might be a troublemaker—we get them from time to time—so I thought it best not to give her a direct answer.”
“Your answer implied that you were responsible for the healings.” Greene watched Isaiah’s eyes closely. He watched for unusually frequent blinking, or a telltale breaking of eye contact that would indicate Isaiah was lying.
“Actually, my answers were meant to reveal nothing.”
“Why be so evasive?” Greene asked, hoping to apply a little pressure.
“Mr. Greene,” Isaiah said slowly, “I have been in this ministry a good number of years. I have learned over those years that the news media can, and frequently does, report inaccurately or edit a story to have greater appeal. For example, when the Pope came to the United States, a reporter, trying to make a name for himself, decided to trick him. When the Pope stepped from the plane in New York, the reporter asked, ‘Are you going to see the go-go girls here in New York?’ Well, the Pope was stuck. If he said yes, it would imply that he was immoral; but if he said no, it would imply that he had no compassion for lost souls. So the Pope answered the best he could. He answered with a question. He asked, ‘Are there go-go girls in New York? You know, he was acting naive. Pretty smart really, but the reporter got him. Front page headlines the next day read: Pope’s First Question, ‘Are There Go-Go Girls in New York?’ ”
Greene laughed in spite of himself.
“Do you see what I mean?” Isaiah continued. “With some news people even the truth can get you into trouble.”
“So then,” Greene said, “you deny being the Healer?”
“I deny nothing. I’ve simply explained to you why I didn’t answer that reporter’s question. I felt she was leading me.”
“Are you the Healer of Kingston Memorial Hospital?” Greene decided to turn up the heat by asking pointed questions.
Isaiah smiled. “Has this Healer committed a crime?”
“Actually, no. But there have been some crimes that may be related to the Healer’s activities.”
“But the Healer is not wanted—legally, I mean?”
“Only for questioning.” Greene realized that Isaiah had turned the tables on him. He cursed silently.
“Since the Healer is not wanted for any crime and I assume you are not here with a warrant, then all I can say at this time is that I know of nothing that will help you with any crime you may be investigating. R.G., do you know of anything?”
R.G. shook his head silently.
“Well then,” Isaiah said, “if there’s nothing more, I’ll ask my secretary, Miss Harper, to show you out.” Isaiah pressed a button on his intercom as he and R.G. stood; Greene remained seated.
“Perhaps you don’t understand, Reverend Isaiah,” Greene said tersely. “So far, two men are dead, one a killer, the other a TV news executive who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. In addition to that, three families are missing, one of them certainly by kidnapping. We believe the others may have been abducted also. If you are the Healer, then take care; whoever is doing this may come after you.”
Christine Harper stepped through the door in response to the electronic summons. “You called for me, sir?”
Greene rose. “If you think of anything that might help me, please call. The last thing we want is to see anyone else get killed— especially an entire family.”
R.G. cringed. Taking Greene by the arm, he quickly led him to the door.
“Take care, Reverend Isaiah,” Greene said from the door, “and thank you for your time. We may be seeing one another again.”
; ISAIAH DIDN’T REPLY. He had heard the last few sentences, and his mind now filled with other thoughts—images of three coffins, three ever-present coffins.
SHEDDING HER CLOTHES and throwing them on the bed, Rachel stepped into the shower and turned the water on, letting it run hot and hard. Facing the multiple streams of water, she allowed the steam to circle her head; then, leaning back against the shower stall, she slid down the wall until she was seated on the floor. The water pounded on her face and streamed down her body.
Angrily, she rehearsed the events of the last few weeks. What was going on? Not long ago she was an up-and-coming surgeon, one of the best in the hospital; now she wasn’t even sure she was employed. She could see Evan Morgan’s red face and hear his venomous words. The scene kept replaying itself in her mind.
Tears came and she covered her face with her hands and sobbed. She hated it when she cried, but she couldn’t help herself. All the pent-up emotion of the last few weeks—the healings, the frustrating investigation, her uncertain feelings for Adam, and now her confrontation with Morgan—welled up with volcanic proportions. She was glad that there was no one to see her cry.
After a few moments the warm water did its therapeutic work, and she began to unwind. After a few minutes more she was able to block out any meaningful conscious thought and listen to the sound of water spraying against her body. Reality intruded on her world when she realized she had used all the hot water. She stepped from the shower and quickly dried herself then put on a terry cloth robe.
As she continued to dry her hair, she thought about Adam. What do we have in common? I am a woman of science; he is a man of faith. I am in the community of medical professionals; he is part of the clergy. I look to no one but myself for strength; he looks to God. There is no hope for any kind of relationship.
What is there about him? Most women would, not consider him handsome, but I am not like most women. I enjoy his quick wit, his sense of caring, his gentle intelligence.
Placing the towel on the rack, she picked up her hair dryer and turned it on high. A few moments later, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Could Adam ever be interested in me? She paused as she took a long look at the woman in the mirror.
“In all honesty, Dr. Tremaine,” she said aloud. “Adam may not be every girl’s dream, but then again you are not every man’s fantasy. Mirrors are great for removing self-deception.”
With Adam’s face still clearly etched in her mind she thought, Maybe, just maybe, something worthwhile may come of all this Healer nonsense.
Tuesday, March 31, 1992; 6:00 A.M.
MORNING CAME EARLY FOR Rachel. She had spent a restless night dreaming various scenarios of her confrontation with Dr. Morgan. Arising at 6 o’clock, she prepared a light breakfast. Still uncertain about her position at the hospital, she struggled with her next course of action. If she was about to be fired, then she had some decisions to make.
After breakfast she took several three-by-five cards and began to write all her possible options. Option 1: Go into private practice. Under that she began two columns. Column one she titled “positives,” column two “negatives.” Beneath each she began listing all the pluses and minuses of private practice: initial cost of office equipment, greater malpractice insurance, and years of building a patient base.
On another card she wrote, Option 2: Join an established medical firm. Again, she listed positive and negative considerations.
Rachel took note of her now detached attitude. Emotion would not solve her problem, but cold rational logic would. She would simply do as she had always done: analytically consider all the available options. This was the way she chose both the college and medical school she had attended. She even chose to accept residency at Kingston Memorial Hospital by this same method.
She continued this exercise for another hour. Stacking the cards, she wrapped a rubber band around them and left them on the kitchen table. The kitchen clock read 7:45—time to leave for the hospital.
The engine of the ’56 T-Bird came to life as Rachel pulled out of her drive and made her way over the surface streets to Interstate 805. The heavy freeway traffic moved smoothly but slowly. Rachel didn’t care—she wasn’t looking forward to seeing Morgan again.
Through her rearview mirror Rachel noticed a dark sedan weaving across the lanes of traffic. The car was noticeable, not only because of its erratic course, but because a large dent that creased the right front fender. The right front headlight was also missing. Rachel wondered how it felt to have a brand-new car damaged knowing that you still had five years to pay on it. “I guess that’s what insurance is for.”
Taking the Genesee Street turnoff she pulled from the freeway, the mystery car followed. Rachel drove slowly over the side street as she tried to push her anxiety about Morgan from her mind. She had decided that a direct, yet non-confrontational, approach would be the best course of action. If he didn’t want her around, she would leave without another word.
A movement in the rearview mirror caught her eye. It was the dark sedan. The driver was tailgating dangerously close to Rachel’s car.
“Idiot! What’s the matter, the dent you’ve got isn’t big enough?” Rachel accelerated and watched as the car fell behind. Immediately the sedan sped up.
“I don’t need this.” At the first opportunity she turned right. “If you want the road that bad, then you can have it.”
The car followed. Rachel’s heart beat faster. “What is this? I’m in no mood for games.”
Again she accelerated, and again the car did the same. Rachel took the next possible right and the car followed. Her pulse raced and her mind filled with frightening thoughts: A drive-by shooting? An abduction? Suddenly, Rachel remembered the Loraynes, Haileys, and Langfords. Was someone after her now?
“All right, think this through. First, let’s see if he really is following me.” Rachel took a sharp left turn, the car followed. Then she took another turn, but this time the sedan drove past the intersection.
Rachel slowly drove through several more intersections to see if the pursuer would double back and begin the chase again. After each intersection she expected to see the damaged sedan, but it never returned.
“Rachel, much more of this paranoia and you’ll need professional help.” After a moment she laughed nervously. “You’re even talking to yourself.”
Rachel parked in the far end of the doctor’s lot and walked to the rear entrance of the hospital. Once inside, she went directly to her office and, suppressing her anxiety, called Morgan’s extension. She was connected with Mary Rivers.
“Good morning, Dr. Tremaine.” Mary sounded cheerful.
“Good morning. Is Dr. Morgan in, please?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Tremaine, but he hasn’t arrived yet. May I take a message?”
“I’m in the hospital and need to speak to him for a moment When he has time, would you page me?”
“Certainly. Anything else?”
“No.” Rachel hung up and looked around her tiny office. There was little for her to do now but wait. Her anxiety over seeing Dr. Morgan again filled her with nervous energy; the last thing she wanted to do was sit around the office. But, what to do?
After a moment’s thought Rachel decided to wait in the surgical theater. The observation area had recently been renovated. It looked very much like it had before, with its three rows of padded movie theater seats and its glass wall overlooking the operating room. However, a new video system had been installed that allowed the observers to see in far more detail than previously possible.
Rachel was lucky—a surgery was in progress. Two other doctors were in the room watching the video monitors suspended from the ceiling. It took only a moment for Rachel to realize what was going on. In the operating room several people stood around the chest of the patient, each with his head bowed, intent on what he was doing. Rachel took a seat in the last row and watched the monitor as the lead surgeon slowly removed the patient’s heart from his chest cavity and
set it in a stainless steel bowl. Rachel had never seen a heart transplant before; all transplant surgeries were sent to hospitals that specialized in the field, usually in the San Francisco area. She wished for a moment that she had chosen cardiology as her specialty. Rachel watched in awe at the surgeon’s easy and fluid movements. He seemed nonchalant at having just removed a person’s heart.
Once again Rachel was filled with the thrill of surgery: the precision, the technology, the very thought of repairing the biological machine called the body. She realized how much she had missed surgery over the last few weeks.
Twenty-Seven
Tuesday, March 31, 1992; 11:00 A.M.
THE BUZZING OF THE INTERCOM startled Adam. He was trying to prepare himself for the Milt Phillips Show. He wasn’t sure what they expected of him, so meaningful study was difficult; the show could go in many directions. The topic of modern-day miracles was just a starting point; the show would probably deviate from there. Milt Phillips prided himself in playing the instigator—a role he played very well.
“Yes, Fannie?”
“A Mr. Martin St. James is on the phone for you.”
“Thanks.” Picking up the receiver, Adam said, “Martin, I was hoping I’d hear from you soon.”
“Well, I’ve been busy, but I’ve got something you might be interested in.”
“Great. What is it?” Adam was enthusiastic.
“Can’t say over the phone.” Martin’s tone was serious. “When can you stop by?”
“Is today okay? I’ve got to be in the L.A. area tomorrow.”
“The sooner the better. Bring Dr. Tremaine too.”
Adam looked at his Day-Timer notebook. “My calendar is free all afternoon. How about 2:00?”
“I’ll be here.”
Adam had an uneasy feeling as he hung up. What had Martin found? Looking at his watch, he saw that it was 11 o’clock. Maybe he could catch Rachel at the hospital, take her to lunch, and then to Martin’s. Dialing the hospital, he asked for Rachel.