By My Hands (25 page)

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Tremaine.” Anna
escorted them to the front door. “I hope you will come and visit us
again. Good-bye, Pastor.”

Thursday, March 26, 1992; 11:15
A.M.

“THIS WAS THE PLACE you wanted me to see?” Rachel
asked, as she looked at the hot dog covered with chili that Adam
had handed her.

“No finer food around.” Adam took a large bite.

“Where I come from, a restaurant is far more than a
hot dog stand at the beach.”

“My dear Dr. Tremaine,” Adam said feigning shock,
“look around you. Here we stand at La Jolla Cove, the prettiest
spot in all of San Diego. We have an azure sky for our ceiling, the
deep blue of the Pacific Ocean for atmosphere, and the cry of gulls
for our music. No dark and dismal restaurant interior for us.
Besides, you can get extra onions here.”

“Oh, you do wax poetic.” Rachel took a bite of her
hot dog. She found it surprisingly good, although she wouldn’t
admit it. She also wouldn’t admit that Adam was right; it was a
beautiful day. The blue waves, topped with a fringe of white,
rhythmically crashed on shore. The gulls overhead reminded her of
the fantasy she often used to relax after a difficult day’s work.
Mentally, she walked on the beach often, but physically almost
never. “If I ate that many onions, then birds would fall from the
sky every time I exhaled.”

“Hmm. There’s a mental picture.”

They left the hot dog stand and strolled along the
concrete walkway that paralleled the shore. “So,” she said between
bites.

“So, what?”

“So, why are we here? I assume you brought me here
for some reason.”

“This is where I come to think. It’s my place to
ponder.”

“This thing is really eating you, isn’t it?” she
asked.

“I’m afraid so. I can’t get it off my mind. I want
the Loraynes back. Somehow, I feel responsible.”

“Responsible? Why would you feel responsible? You
didn’t kidnap them.”

“I know. Unfortunately, reason and emotion don’t
always mix.” Adam tossed the hot dog wrapper in one of the waste
receptacles that populated the meandering walk and clasped his
hands behind his back. “Logically, I know that I’m not responsible,
yet the feeling is there. It’s a psychological phenomenon that
affects many ministers. They see their church members as extended
family. They feel responsible to God for the people given to their
care.”

“Sounds to me like you’re feeling guilty over
something you can’t control. Guilt makes a lousy motivation.”

“It’s not really guilt that bothers me, it’s the
sense of powerlessness. There is so little that I can do. Oh, I can
pray, and that’s good. But my heart wants to do more.”

Rachel looked at him. He was a confusing man to her.
Physically he wasn’t much to look at, with his thick glasses,
square jaw, and receding black hair. Hardly every girl’s dream.
Yet, there was something about him. He was self-possessed. He
emitted a confidence without being arrogant. He was kind,
gentlemanly, intelligent, caring and, as she saw last night in the
hospital conference room, he could be quite forceful. His concern
was genuine, honest, almost childlike.
He would, have made an
excellent doctor
.

“Look, Adam,” Rachel said quietly. “I’m not much
good at comforting, and I’m even worse at counseling. But I think
you’re being too hard on yourself. You’ve done more than most
people would in your place, even more than other ministers. You’ve
worked with the police. You’ve comforted the family. You have even
helped me with my work, and I certainly haven’t helped you. You’ve
asked your genius friend, odd as he is, to do what he can. What
else can you do?”

Rachel deposited her hot dog wrapper in a nearby
waste bin and then they walked on in silence. A few moments later
Adam stopped and turned toward Rachel.

“I have brought you out here for a reason. There’s
something I want to say.” He stared unblinkingly at her face. “It
is very important for you to believe that I am not the Healer. I
need to find the Healer as much as you. He is the key to the
Loraynes. I know that if we can find him, we will have the
information we need to find my people.”

“How can you be so sure?” Rachel said stiffly. “You
make it sound like a statement of fact.”

“Not fact; faith.” Adam said grinning. “And I need
your help.”

Rachel wasn’t sure how to answer. How could she be
of help? Actually, it was Adam who had made all the headway. But
somehow, she couldn’t turn him down.

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Great,” Adam said jubilantly. They continued their
walk. Without comment, Adam took Rachel by the hand. Her first
impulse was to pull away, but she didn’t. His hand was warm and
firm, and it made her feel wanted. She felt like a schoolgirl who
was walking hand-in-hand for the first time.

“IT WOULD BE HELPFUL if you would tell me who you
are.” Priscilla cradled the telephone’s handset between her ear and
shoulder and looked under the piles of papers on her desk for a
note pad.

“I can’t,” the anonymous woman caller said. “I don’t
want to lose my job.”

“It is against station policy to respond to
anonymous calls.” That was a lie, but Priscilla found an artfully
used lie very helpful at times.

“Fine. I’ll call another station,” the caller
replied tersely.

“No, wait. All right, you win. Let’s hear it.”
Priscilla would have to find out more about her caller in other
ways.

“Well, you know that Reverend Paul Isaiah will be in
town this weekend and that he is holding a press conference this
afternoon at 2:30.”

“Paul Isaiah,” Priscilla said thoughtfully. “You
mean the name-it-and-claim-it preacher. Isn’t he the one they call
‘the Reverend of Riches?’ ”

“Reverend Isaiah is a wonderful man,” the voice
snapped. “I’ll not listen to him being spoken of
disrespectfully.”

“I didn’t mean to offend.”
So, my mystery
caller is a friend of Paul Isaiah.
“Please, go on.”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, and the only
reason that I am is because Reverend Isaiah is too modest to tell
you himself.”

“What shouldn’t you be telling me?”

There was a short pause. “He’s the one.”

“The one what?”

“The one you’re looking for. He’s the Healer. He’s
the one who’s been healing people in Kingston Memorial
Hospital.”

Priscilla felt her pulse quicken. “How do you know
that?”

“That’s not important. What is important is how
you
can know.”

“And how is that?”

“Come to the press conference and ask him. He won’t
offer the information but, if confronted, he can’t deny it.”

Priscilla looked across the crowded newsroom,
cluttered with desks and office equipment, at a white dry marker
board. The board was used for field assignments and listed the
event to be covered and the reporter assigned the task. Squinting,
she was able to see that the event had been delegated, but she
couldn’t make out-the reporter’s name.

“Someone will be there,” she said.

“It would be better if
you
were there,” the
voice said, and then the line went dead.

Friday, March 27, 1992; 2:30
P.M.

IT WAS A SMALL GATHERING; two reporters from local
newspapers, three from radio stations, and Priscilla who also
brought along a station cameraman. Priscilla was not surprised by
the low turnout. It was a heavy news day; an eighty-acre brush fire
burned out of control near the Wild Animal Park in Escondido, an
F-14 Tomcat fighter jet crashed on a runway at Miramar Naval Air
Station, and the San Diego Police SWAT team was negotiating for the
lives of hostages being held by a disgruntled employee of an
electronics firm in Kearny Mesa.

“This had better be good,” she said to her
cameraman, as she sat on a metal folding chair in the back row. She
had had to pull a lot of strings with Pham Ho to get him to change
the field assignment and allow her to attend this meeting. Pham was
going to make a great news director. He was already giving her a
bad time about her role at the station. Give Pham time to settle
into Irwin’s old job and she might never get her way again.

The press conference was being held in one of the
large rooms of the Radisson Hotel in Mission Valley. A small dark
wood podium with the hotel’s logo was in front of the room.
Priscilla counted fifty chairs. A
little optimistic
.

A young woman with long straight blond hair and
carrying a stack of manila envelopes entered the room. She looked
at the six reporters and scowled. She seemed clearly disappointed
at the turnout. The woman stepped behind the podium.

“Good afternoon,” the blond said with mock
cheerfulness. “We will be starting soon. I have been asked to
apologize for our late start, but Reverend Isaiah had an emergency
counseling call.” Priscilla looked at her watch; the conference
should have started ten minutes earlier.

“In the meantime,” the woman continued, “I will hand
out these packets of information. They contain some things you may
find helpful.”

When Priscilla opened her packet, she found the
usual press kit information: a one-page biography, various sizes of
black and white photos of Paul Isaiah, and a brief article about
the upcoming “Feel Good about Yourself” campaign in San Diego.

A moment later a short, stout man with piercing gray
eyes entered the room. Priscilla recognized him from the publicity
photos. He wore a dark blue suit with a yellow silk tie and
matching yellow handkerchief in his breast pocket.

“You are certainly gracious people to take time from
your busy schedules to attend this conference.”

His voice was clear and pleasant. Each word was
enunciated in a way that captivated Priscilla’s attention. If it
weren’t for his deep Southern drawl, he would have made a great
anchorman on any news program.

“I know professionals like you are pressed for time,
so first allow me to apologize for my tardiness, but a man said he
would kill himself if I didn’t talk to him—and we couldn’t have
that, could we? Oh, before you ask, I am happy to inform you that
he is doing fine.”

Priscilla stood and spoke; as she did the cameraman
turned on his camera light and intense white light filled the room:
“Reverend Isaiah, may I ask a question before we begin?”

“Certainly, Ms. Simms.”

“Are you the one who is responsible for the unusual
healings taking place at the Kingston Memorial Hospital?”

Isaiah’s bright and ready smile dissolved from his
face. His gray eyes turned cold and hard. “I would really prefer to
talk about our upcoming crusade.”

“I have a tip that you may be the Healer,” she
persisted. “Is that true?”

The other reporters shifted nervously, but remained
in stunned silence.

“There have been those who have come to our meetings
who report physical healings,” Isaiah said coolly.

“Excuse me, Reverend Isaiah. My question deals
specifically with the Kingston Memorial Hospital.”

Isaiah fidgeted behind the podium. “I really don’t
want to confirm that kind of rumor.”

“Very well, sir.” Priscilla decided to press the
point. “If you will not confirm the suspicion, then will you deny
it?”

“I think it best that I neither confirm nor deny
suspicions.”

“Perhaps you could tell us why you are being so
evasive?”

“Discretion is the better part of valor,” Isaiah
replied, smiling weakly.

“It could also be misunderstood as deceit.”

Isaiah looked deep into Priscilla’s eyes with near
hypnotic effectiveness, then asked in a quiet tone, “Do you think I
am deceitful, Ms. Simms?”

Priscilla had been a journalist too long to fall
into the trap of public slander. If she answered yes, Isaiah might
have grounds to sue her and her station.

“I’m not a judge, only a reporter.”

“Perhaps then we can let the matter drop.”

Not wanting to let the matter drop, Priscilla asked,
“So then you deny being the Healer?”

Isaiah stood statue-still behind the rostrum, his
face stem, his mouth a tight slit. After a moment of uncomfortable
silence, he asked, “Does anyone else have a question?”

A young man in a pullover sweater stood. “I do. I’m
Ralph Lews from the
San Diego Union
.”

“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.