By My Hands (19 page)

The elevator took him to the third floor of the
downtown library. Down the hall was a room with a sign over the
door that read NEWSPAPERS. At the information desk he asked for
copies of the San
Diego Union
for the last three weeks. The
librarian brought a stack of papers on a cart and pushed them
toward Adam. Taking the stack to an empty table, Adam began a
systematic perusal, confining himself to the national and local
sections. The headlines reminded him of just how much he had missed
recently. There had been another near miss of a commercial airliner
and a private plane over Lindberg Field. A new glitch had developed
in U.S./China relations. Adam resisted the urge to read all the
articles and forced himself to concentrate on his search.

It hadn’t been long before Adam found what he was
looking for. There had been two other healings during the time Adam
was in for treatment. He made a copy of the article and returned
the papers. Then on a whim he asked, “Is there a way to find
articles that have been written on similar subjects, but in
different newspapers?”

“Yes,” replied the librarian. “You simply use the
Subject Index.” She pointed to a computer screen at the end of the
counter. “What’s your subject?” she asked as she walked to the
computer.

Adam felt a sense of embarrassment. “Well, I’m
trying to find more information on healings that have taken place
at Kingston Memorial Hospital. I was wondering if similar reports
had been made elsewhere.”

“You’re the second person to ask for that
information.”

“Second?”

“Yes. Another man came in earlier this afternoon,
worked for a couple of hours at the microfiche machine, and then
left. In fact, he left this piece of scratch paper with references
to articles.” Adam took the paper and looked at it. “May I have
this?”

“I don’t see any harm in it. The microfiche machines
are over there. Articles less than a month old won’t be in there.
You’ll have to look through our back issues. We have most of the
major papers.”

Adam spent the next hour and a half feeding the
microfiche film into the machine which projected the image onto a
screen to be read. With a punch of a button Adam could have
photostat copies of whatever appeared on the screen. What he found
amazed him and, to his surprise, frightened him too. Gathering his
notes and copies, he returned the boxes of film and walked quickly
from the room. His mind struggled with the newfound
information.

“It can’t be,” he said quietly to himself. “It
simply cannot be.”

Monday, March 23, 1992; 6:00
P.M.

ADAM’S PRIVATE SANCTUARY WAS a bedroom that he had
converted to a home office. It was an unusual blend of the old and
the contemporary. Books, their jackets worn from use and the
passage of time, lined the shelves that covered three of his walls.
In a corner an acrylic stand held a tattered edition of
Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary.

Spread before him on an old, scarred desk were the
copies he had made of the newspaper articles. He had read each of
them three times. Only one of them was of substantial length. The
rest were short, pithy articles sequestered in the back sections of
the papers. Short as the articles were, their substance bothered
him. He had considered calling Rachel Tremaine, but decided against
it Since they were meeting in a couple of hours, he could tell her
in person.

Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his tired eyes.
He wondered why he had pushed getting together. He could have asked
his questions over the phone. Was it the act of a single man on the
prowl? Adam was single, but he didn’t consider himself on the
prowl. In fact, he hadn’t had a date since his engagement broke up
three years before. Adam considered himself unlucky with women. He
had been engaged twice. The first engagement began and ended in
college. He thought he had found his true love. She was a bright
history major he met in class. They shared many of the same
interests: old movies, baseball, and education. They spent every
day together, studying, eating in the school cafeteria, and walking
around campus. They were the perfect couple—everyone said so and
Adam agreed. They became engaged at the beginning of their junior
year. Six months later, she transferred to a school in the East and
left behind her memories and her affection for Adam. He never heard
from her again.

The second engagement was to a woman in the church.
She was gregarious and captivating in manner and appearance. Her
long blond hair and fine features turned the heads of many men;
Adam had been no different. Much to the delight of the
congregation, they started dating; six months later they were
engaged; four months after that Adam discovered her infidelity. He
was broken and she unrepentant. Adam explained the breakup and her
absence by simply saying, “Things didn’t work out.” Twice rejected,
Adam focused on his work and doubted that he would ever marry.

His meeting with Rachel certainly wasn’t a date, and
yet he had to admit that she was attractive. True, she was caustic
and remote, with little in her personality to commend her to
anyone. She was unlike any woman Adam had ever known. And yet, he
found himself looking forward to their meeting.

Two hours. He wondered how to spend the time.
Glancing at his answering machine, he saw the light was flashing.
He chose to ignore it. He had turned the ringers of his telephone
off so he would not be disturbed. After all, it was his day off,
and any emergency could be handled by one of his deacons.

Adam rose and removed an old Bible from the shelf.
It was the one he had used in college and seminary. Its corners
were bent and worn, its pages soiled and covered with notes
scribbled by his own hand. This Bible had become a special friend
to him. Moving from the desk to an overstuffed easy chair, Adam
opened the Bible at random and began to read.

AT 8:10 P.M. ADAM PARKED his blue Volkswagen Rabbit
in front of the coffee shop and saw Rachel waiting near the
entrance. As he opened the restaurant door, she said curtly,
“You’re late.”

“I’m on church time.”

“What is church time?”

“It’s an old saying around the church—if you’re ten
minutes late, then you’re five minutes early.”

“Sounds like an excuse for irresponsibility.”

“You’re probably right.” Adam had purposed not to be
baited. The coffee shop was small but popular with medical people.
The hostess led them to a small booth in a corner. After perusing
the menus, Rachel ordered a pasta plate and Adam a hamburger from a
friendly waiter.

Although he knew he was being almost too direct,
Adam asked the question that had been on his mind for hours. “What
happened to David?”

“I’m not free to discuss that. The patient-doctor
relationship is confidential.”

“I’m his minister. I was there shortly after he was
healed. All I want from you is your medical opinion about what
happened to him and how it happened.”

“I wish I knew. The truth of the matter is that
nobody knows.”

“Is it your job to find out?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t seem pleased with the task.”

“You’re very observant.”

“I’m in the people business. So why don’t you like
it?”

“Because I’m a surgeon, not a private investigator.
I spend my life healing, not chasing mystery men around.”

“Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

“No. Just what has happened at the hospital.”

“What about the other healings?”

“What other healings?”

Adam reached into his pocket, pulled out several
sheets of paper, then handed them to Rachel. She looked at the
photocopied newspaper articles briefly and then handed them
back.

“So?” she asked.

“What can you tell me about these? What happened to
the Langfords? What happened to Lisa Hailey?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you think the answer may rest with them?”

“No more than the answer rests with the Loraynes,”
she said tersely.

Adam realized he had been pushing a little too hard.
“I’m sorry. I must be more frustrated by this than I realized.”

The conversation paused when the waiter appeared
with their food. “Why does this bother you so much?” Rachel
asked.

“I’m not sure. And I don’t know if the word
bothered
is the right term.
Concern
is more like
it.”

“I would think Mr. Lorayne’s sudden recovery would
please you.”

“It does. It’s just that things don’t fit. It’s not
the healing that concerns me; it’s the way it took place. A man
boldly enters and leaves the ICU unnoticed and David is healed—not
just from an anesthesia-induced coma, but even of his surgery.
Prior to that a severely burned girl wakes up with new skin. Again
no one knows how. Bill Langford was healed of inoperable cancer.
And then there are the occurrences at the other hospitals.”

Rachel stopped mid-bite. “What other hospitals?”

Adam reached into his coat pocket, this time
removing several more sheets of paper. “I wondered if you knew
about these. I did a little research at the library today, and
here’s what I came up with.” He handed her the paper. “As you can
see, there have been reports of similar events in San Francisco,
Fresno, and Los Angeles. It forms a pattern. Our mystery man has
been working his way south for the last two years.”

“Why haven’t we heard about it before?”

“Simple. Look at the press coverage. There aren’t
more than ten paragraphs for the whole time. It appears that no one
took the reports seriously.”

Rachel looked at the copies of the articles and then
ran her eyes down the handwritten list that Adam had prepared. The
paper was divided into columns, one each for date, place, the
newspaper that carried the article, hospital, name of patient and
ailment from which they recovered unexpectedly. She was puzzled.
Why would Adam pursue this information with such fervor? Could Dr.
Morgan be right? Was Adam Bridger the Healer? The thought made her
uncomfortable. “So, what do you think?” he asked, as if a child
searching for praise. “Well done. But what does it mean?”

“It means we have more avenues to pursue.”

“We?”

“Why not? We can help each other. You want to find
this guy because you have to. I have my own reason for wanting to
know what’s going on.”

“And just what are your reasons?” Rachel raised an
eyebrow. “What motivates you?”

“That’s hard to say. Making the pieces fit, I
suppose.”

“What pieces?”

“Nothing fits. Okay, suppose there is someone who is
endowed with a special ability, or maybe heretofore-unknown
treatment. Why keep it secret? Why not do as many have done in the
past— develop a following? A following that would provide support.
Why does this person slip in and out unnoticed? What’s his goal?
What’s his message?”

“Message? Who says he has to have a message?”

“History. Recent history and biblical history. In
every case of healing in the Bible, there was been an accompanying
message. In the Old Testament, it was to authenticate the
messenger, to distinguish him from the others who might pretend to
speak for God. Jesus healed out of love, but also to authenticate
His claim of Messiahship. The disciples worked miracles that
authenticated their message. So, why is it there is no
message?”

Rachel cocked her head to one side. “What makes you
think these occurrences have any spiritual connection? From my
perspective, our Healer could have walked off a flying saucer
somewhere to bring peace and health to mankind. Or, perhaps he’s
some medical genius who is too shy to accept credit. Or,
perhaps—”

“Okay, I get the idea,” Adam interrupted. “I’ll
admit my intellectual bias. But then again, you have some pretty
strong biases yourself.”

Rachel responded by taking another bite of
pasta.

They ate in silence for a few moments. Adam
struggled with Rachel’s comment. It was true that he was
approaching this mystery with a biblical bias, but was that
wrong?

The Bible was the sole authority for life. He had
found its teachings true and sound—indeed, life-changing. The
miraculous was a primary principle of biblical history and, as a
student of the Bible, he would naturally apply it to this situation
as he did with all others.

Adam broke the silence. “I assume you have
interviewed the other families who have had similar events.”

“You mean the Langfords and the Haileys?”

Adam nodded.

“Actually, I haven’t talked to them.”

“I would think that would be one of the first things
you’d do.”

“They’ve disappeared—all gone on vacation or
something.”

“Let me get this right. Both the Langfords and the
Haileys have left town?”

“Well, they’re never home. Their neighbors haven’t
seen them. Other family members don’t know where they are. Both
have had their houses broken into. That Priscilla Simms woman
almost got herself killed. In fact, her boss did get killed. Didn’t
you hear about it on the news?”

Adam felt the pit drop out of his stomach; his
anxiety registered on his face.

“What’s the matter,” Rachel asked. “You don’t look
unwell.” Then a moment later, “You’re not thinking that . . .”

“Excuse me,” Adam said, as he rose quickly from the
table. “I’ve got to find a phone.”

Within three minutes he had returned. “Come on,” he
said. “We re leaving.”

Monday, March 23, 1992; 8:30
P.M.

“WILL YOU PLEASE TELL me what’s going on?” It was a
command, not a request.

Adam eased the car into traffic and accelerated. The
VW Rabbit’s small engine responded quickly.

“After you told me that the Langford and Hailey
homes had been broken into, it occurred to me that it might not be
a coincidence. So, I called the Loraynes’. There was no answer.
Then I called Larry Lorayne—they were preparing a party for them—he
told me they never showed. They’ve been trying to reach me all
day.” Adam felt guilty about ignoring his answering machine. “The
police want to talk to me.”