By My Hands (17 page)

“But what of the level of work?”

“Having never been to medical school, I couldn’t
compare the two. I personally have great respect for those of your
profession. Only a small percentage could endure the grueling
schedule of a medical education. But by the same token, a
theological education is not a cakewalk. Most ministers with
doctorates have a working knowledge of Hebrew, the language of the
Old Testament, Koine Greek, the language of the New Testament, and
at least one modern language, such as German.”

“What’s your point?”

“I want you to call me Adam.”

“Okay. Now may I ask my questions?”

“Shoot.”

“First, how long have you known the Loraynes?”

“Let’s see. I became pastor of Maple Street
Community Church nine years ago and they were members then, so I’d
have to say nine years.”

“What happened last night?”

“Not much to tell. I got a call at home from Ann.
She said David was dying and asked me to come over. I found her in
ICU. She mentioned that she was struggling with the decision about
heroic efforts. She didn’t know whether to sign the release or not,
so we went down to the cafeteria and met with the rest of the
family. After some discussion I left them alone to talk it over and
went back up to ICU. When I went into David’s cubicle, he was
sitting up in bed.”

“How long were you in the cafeteria?”

“I don’t know. Maybe forty minutes or so.”

“When you went to ICU, did you ask permission to
enter from the nurses?”

Adam flushed for a moment. She must have talked to
the ICU staff. They would have given her this information.
“No.”

“You are aware that no one, not even clergy, is
allowed into ICU without permission from the nursing staff?”

Feeling like a scolded child, Adam replied, “I know
that. You see, I had just been to see David a short time before,
and being in hospitals as much as I am, I just took it upon myself
to enter. The family was in the cafeteria, and if the nurses were
working with David, the I’d just slip back out again.”

“Did Mr. Lorayne say anything to you?”

“Yes, he asked for his wife.”

“Why did you go back to ICU?”

“To pray.”

Rachel grimaced slightly. “After he asked for his
wife, what happened?”

“Well, as you can imagine, I was astounded. I didn’t
know what to say, so I hugged him. Then the nurse came in.”

“What did she do?”

“You’d probably get a better answer from her.”

“I’d like to hear it from your perspective,” she
said. “Well, when I entered ICU, I didn’t see anyone. The nursing
station was empty, so I assumed they were tending patients. A few
moments after I entered David’s room the nurse came in—”

“What did she do when she entered Mr. Lorayne’s
cubicle and saw him sitting up?”

“She gasped.”

“Gasped?”

“Loudly.” Adam allowed himself to grin slightly. “So
loudly the other nurses heard it and rushed over. They gasped
too.”

“One last question. How do you explain all of
this?”

“All of what?”

“Mr. Lorayne’s sudden awaking from his coma and the
disappearance of his surgical scar.”

“Surgical scar?” Adam was nonplussed.

“You didn’t know?”

“No. I only thought he had come out of the coma. Do
you mean to tell me that his incision is gone?”

“That’s right. Just as if it had never been
there.”

“Dr. Tremaine, two-two.” Rachel was being paged over
the hospital intercom system. “Dr. Tremaine, two-two.”

Rachel left Adam to his thoughts and went to a
phone. “I’m on my way,” she said into the receiver. Turning to Adam
she said, “I’ve got to go now.”

“Wait a minute,” Adam protested. “We had a deal. I
answer your questions, and you answer mine.”

“Can’t be helped. I’m expected in a meeting.” Rachel
made her way to the door.

“Is this the action of a professional?” Adam tried
to look hurt. His comment stopped Rachel as she opened the
door.

Somehow he knew the one thing that would make her
reconsider; her professionalism.

“What do you want me to do? I can’t very well tell
the hospital administrator to reschedule the meeting.”

“Then meet me later to finish this. All right?”

“Okay. How about the coffee shop across from the
hospital at 8 this evening?”

“I’ll be there.”

Monday, March 23, 1992; 2:00
P.M.

“I DON’T THINK I’VE ever seen the sky so blue,” Ann
Lorayne looked out the car window. David Lorayne smiled, placed his
arm around her, and pulled her close. They gazed at each other for
a moment and then kissed.

“All right, you two,” Michael said from the driver’s
seat. He glanced back through the rearview mirror again.

“You just keep your eyes on the road,” David said.
“You don’t want us all back at the hospital, do you?”

“No. Visiting was bad enough. Just stop steaming up
my windows.” They were ten minutes from Kingston Memorial Hospital
and traveling north on Interstate 805. In ten more minutes they
would be home.

“Larry and Eva are at their place fixing things up
for you,” Ann laid her head on her husband’s shoulder. “Since the
doctor said you could eat anything you want, Larry decided to
barbecue some ribs.”

“Sounds great.” David kissed Ann on top of the head.
“This whole thing is unbelievable. Was I really in a coma for
twenty days?”

“Twenty days. Twenty eternally long days.” Tears
formed in Ann’s eyes. “I really thought I was going to lose
you.”

“Hey, don’t go getting all weepy on me. I’m fine;
couldn’t feel better.”

“I know. It’s just that I don’t know what I’d do
without you.” Ann wiped a tear away with the back of her hand.

“Well, now, thanks to God, you won’t have to find
out.”

“Hey,” Mike said, “did anyone think to invite Pastor
Bridger to the celebration?”

Ann looked puzzled. “I thought
you
were going
to do that.”

“If I was, then I forgot in all the excitement.”

“He must think us horrible ingrates,” Ann said
somberly.

“No sweat,” David said. “This is his day off. We’ll
call him at home and insist he join us. I’ve never known him to
turn down a good meal.”

Michael directed the car up the ramp that led to
their University City home. The red Volvo station wagon weaved its
way over the surface streets, its occupants happily looking forward
to a time of family fellowship. Michael, his mind euphoric with
joy, noticed too late the dark blue sedan that suddenly backed into
the street in front of them. Instinctively, he plunged the brake
pedal as far as it would go. The squeal of tires echoed down the
residential street. The Loraynes’ car stopped inches from the
sedan. A man, tall with a ruddy complexion and a black goatee,
exited the driver’s seat. Another man sat in the front.

“Are you nuts?” Michael exclaimed through his now
open window. “I almost hit you.”

The driver stooped over and peered at Michael and
smiled. “Aren’t you the Lorayne family?”

“Yes.” David leaned forward. “And just who are
you?”

“I would like you to follow me, please.” The man was
still smiling—an unnatural smile that revealed crooked yellow
teeth.

“Follow you? Why should we?” Michael was still
looking to vent his anger.

From his coat pocket the man removed a small gray
lump with a black box the size of a transistor radio attached to it
and placed it on the hood of the car less than an inch from the
windshield. The package made a distinct magnetic click when it
touched the car’s metal body.

“Hey, what’s that?” Michael asked. “You’ll scratch
the paint.”

“It’s a gift,” the man said. His insincere smile
increased in intensity. “It’s a very special gift. Do you recognize
it?”

“No.” Michael was suddenly apprehensive. The man
frightened him, but he didn’t know why. “It looks like modeling
clay.”

“It’s similar to modeling clay, except that this
clay explodes. You see, this tidy little bundle contains a plastic
explosive and a radio receiver. My partner in the car over there
has his finger on a transmitter. If you don’t follow us, he will
touch a button and you will all die. The rest of your family will
get to bury whatever remains of your charred bodies. You wouldn’t
want that, now would you?”

The blood drained from Michael’s face. They were
being kidnapped in broad daylight, and there wasn’t a thing he
could do about it. He turned to see his parents in the backseat.
They were sitting quietly, his father’s arm wrapped around his
mother. Turning back to his kidnapper he said, “If it’s me you
want, then I’ll go, but leave my parents alone. My dad’s been ill,
and . . .”

“I want you all. You will now follow me.” Turning,
he quickly walked back to his car and pulled away. Michael
obediently followed.

Monday, March 23, 1992; 2:30
P.M.

“I WANT TO KNOW what’s going on and I want to know
now.” Dr. Evan Morgan was livid. He paced back and forth in front
of the large teak conference table that dominated the room. His
face was red and he gestured as he spoke. “At last count I have
over 150 sick people sleeping in my lobby asking every Tom, Dick,
and Harry if they’re the Healer. My staff tells me that I can
expect another 150 by this time tomorrow. What am I going to do
with them?”

Those around the table nervously looked at one
another. They had never seen the hospital administrator so out of
control.

Morgan continued his diatribe, “I can’t admit them.
The hospital is full. I can’t evict them because the news media
would have a field day.”

Pulling a pipe from his pocket, Morgan went through
a pipe smoker’s routine: placing tobacco in the bowl, tamping it
down with a silver tamp, then slowly lighting it. Blue smoke formed
a cloud around his head. The act calmed him. At the moment, he
didn’t care that the hospital was a no smoking environment.

He silently looked at those in the meeting. Carl
Fuller, the hospital’s public relations officer, didn’t look up
from the papers before him. His job had become overpowering in the
last few weeks. Formerly, he worked an eight-hour day and then went
home. The only previous excitement that his office dealt with was
when a local movie star had been admitted for injuries sustained in
a drunk-driving accident. Now his days were extended to fourteen
hours, and his office was logging nearly 100 calls a day from all
over the country.

Next to him was the head of security, Bill Sanchez,
a retired San Diego police detective who had left the force after
being injured while arresting a violent drug dealer. The dealer
resisted by firing at the police officers who came to his door. One
round struck Bill in the left elbow, shattering the bone. The elbow
had been knit together with various metal pins that left his arm
with little mobility.

Rachel sat opposite the two men, rereading the notes
she had taken in her discussion with Adam Bridger.

Morgan walked to a window that overlooked the east
parking lot and puffed furiously on his pipe. “All right, let’s
hear what you’ve got,” he said, without turning from the window.
“Let’s start with you, Sanchez.”

Sanchez cleared his throat. “We have interviewed
everyone who could have possibly seen someone entering or leaving
ICU. Unfortunately no one knows much. We quizzed Aretha Miller, the
head nurse of ICU for swing shift. She didn’t see anyone enter or
leave. I’ve got to admit that I find that a little difficult to
believe.” He reached into his suit coat and pulled out a silver
cigarette case with an unusual emblem engraved on its face. Rachel
strained to see the image. It was an etching of a police badge. She
grimaced as he lit the cigarette and carelessly blew smoke in her
direction. The very thought of breathing something that had only
moments before been in someone else’s lungs repulsed her.

“What do you find difficult to believe, Mr.
Sanchez?” Rachel fanned the smoke from her face.

“That Aretha Miller didn’t see anything. I mean,
there is only one way into ICU, right? And the nursing station is
smack-dab in the middle of everything. Anyone walking through the
door would have to be seen by her or one of the other girls.”

“How often have you been in the ICU ward?” Rachel
made no effort to conceal her irritation.

“A couple of times. Why?”

“The I in ICU stands for Intensive. Isn’t it
possible that she and her
girls
were busy with patients in
the other rooms? Do you know how many cubicles there are in the
ICU?”

“Not exactly, but . . .”

“Fifteen, Mr. Sanchez, fifteen, and every one
filled. How many nurses were on duty that night?”

“That one I know: five. They said they were one
short.”

“So then, there are five nurses caring for fifteen
patients who require around-the-clock supervision. Simple math
would indicate that each nurse would be caring for three critical
patients.” Rachel paused for effect. “It seems a simple step of
logic to assume that all five nurses could be tied up tending
patients, which, by the way, is their job.” Morgan thought it best
to break up the polemics. “Did anyone else see anything?”

“No, nothing. And who would with all those people
camping in the lobby and parking lots?” Sanchez said.

“In other words,” Morgan stated coldly, “you really
have nothing for us.”

“No, sir.”

Rachel noticed the admission both embarrassed and
angered Sanchez. Morgan turned from the window. “How are things
going with you, Carl?”

“It’s a madhouse, sir.” Carl’s appearance bore out
the statement. His white shirt was rumpled, and his tie hung limply
from his unbuttoned collar. He had the appearance of a man who had
worked all night. “The switchboards are tied up with calls from the
news media. To make things worse, the story’s gone national. I’ve
received calls from every major television network, both AP and
UPI, and six of the nation’s largest newspapers. I even got a call
from the BBC in London.”