By My Hands (39 page)

“Yes, I recognize her. I’m pleased to meet you.”

“I watch your show all the time,” Priscilla lied.
“You have a lot of fans in San Diego.”

“Well, if they’re all as good-looking as you, I may
just move my show down here permanently.” Then to Adam he said, “I
thought you might like to know that we have arranged a direct feed
to L.A. We’ll record here and electronically send it back to our
own station. What we tape this afternoon will be broadcast this
evening in place of what we taped earlier today.”

“So everyone will think that it’s a normal
program?”

“Well, since you’re the only guest, it will seem a
little unusual, but I’ll state at the beginning of the show that
this is a special interview. Sorta like a news scoop. In addition
to that, we’ve notified all the key news stations as well as the
papers. If our kidnappers don’t watch my show, then they’re sure to
catch it on the news.”

Adam nodded. “When do we begin?”

“In about five minutes. Think you’ll be ready by
then?”

“Yes, but I need a few minutes to myself.”

“Certainly.” Phillips stepped from the set.

Priscilla hesitated a moment and then said, “Good
luck and Godspeed.”

Adam leaned back in the studio chair and, closing
his eyes, silently prayed.

FROM A DARKENED CORNER of the studio, Agent Greene
watched Adam’s still figure and wondered if he too shouldn’t
pray.

Wednesday, April 1, 1992; 6:15
P.M.

THE NINETY-MINUTE TAPING PASSED quickly with a
minimum of retakes. Adam played his part well, acting reserved and
cautious when needed. Milt Phillips proved to be a consummate
actor, prying deeply into each comment Adam made and appearing both
amazed and skeptical.

The premise of the program was simple: Adam Bridger,
pastor and counselor, was the Healer, revealing himself now to stop
the kidnappings. Without rehearsal, Adam was able to answer every
question Phillips presented to him. Each answer was convincing and
captivating. When the show ended, tens of thousands of viewers
believed that Adam Bridger was indeed the mystery Healer of
Kingston Memorial Hospital.

“I must admit,” Phillips said, rising from his
chair, “that you almost had me persuaded. And if you can do that,
then the people out there will believe it.”

“I just hope the right people believe it,” Adam said
somberly.

“Why shouldn’t they?”

Adam didn’t answer. His thoughts were shrouded in
fear.

Priscilla made her way from behind the cameras to
the set. “If you ever give up preaching, you can make a career in
television.” Adam responded with a smile. “I hope everything works
out for you,” she continued. “You’re a very brave man, Adam.”

“Not brave, Ms. Simms, just desperate.”

“If you’re ready,” Agent Greene said, stepping onto
the lighted set, “I have several things to discuss with you.”

“Certainly,” Adam said. “If you’ll excuse me, Ms.
Simms.”

“Priscilla. Please call me Priscilla.” Stepping
toward Adam, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Take care,
Reverend. Remember, you promised me a story.”

Adam blushed. “Thank you.”

Turning, he followed Greene through a crowded
newsroom filled with people preparing for the 5 o’clock news.

“We’ve allowed this station to ‘leak’ the story
during their news broadcasts,” Greene said somberly. “The other
stations will run it after the
Milt Phillips Show.
”

Once inside the dressing room, Greene turned and
locked the door. Reaching inside his suit coat pocket, he pulled
out a small, gray box and two small, tightly rolled coils of
wire.

“This is your wire,” Greene said. “You’re to wear it
at all times. And I mean
all
times. I want to be able to
hear you snore, eat corn flakes, and burp. There will be two cars
with agents at your place twenty-four hours a day until this thing
is over. When you go for a drive, those cars will follow you.”

“Discreetly, I hope,” Adam said, removing his shirt
and tie. “You won’t even know they’re there.”

“How will I be able to tell the good guys from the
bad?”

“You won’t.” Greene taped the small transmitter to
Adam’s undershirt. Then, running one wire under Adam’s arm, he
taped a small microphone to his chest. “This last wire that I’m
taping to your back is the antenna.”

Greene finished affixing the microphone and
transmitter and handed Adam his shirt.

“Now what?” Adam asked.

“Now we wait,” Greene said stoically. “You go about
your usual business as best you can, and we will be close by. When
and if they nab you, we follow the signal of your transmitter, and
we bag ’em.”

“Best I can?” Adam was puzzled. “What do you mean,
‘Go about my business as best I can?’”

“You don’t think the only people watching the show
are the kidnappers, do you?” Greene shook his head in disbelief.
“When that program airs in a few hours, thousands of people will
believe that you can heal every disease known to man. Do you really
think your life will ever be the same?”

Adam’s mind filled with images of the hospital
lobby. Hundreds of people waiting for an unknown Healer. What would
they do now that they had a name? He had been too absorbed in his
plan to think of that. In an attempt to help a few, did he coldly
and falsely build up the hopes of the many? Hopes that could never
be realized?

A face filled Adam’s mind: the small, haunting face
of a crooked little boy.

Wednesday, April 1, 1992; 11:45
P.M.

NO MORE THAN TEN MINUTES had passed after the
program aired when it happened. The flood-gates of anxious, hurting
people burst forth into Adam’s life. Telephone call after telephone
call came; calls which Adam could never answer. The phone would
ring eight, nine, ten times and then stop only to start ringing
again. The sound of the ringing echoed off the walls and through
his tender soul, and with each ringing, Adam’s stomach
tightened.

“What have I done?” he asked the empty room. “I
can’t talk to these people. I can’t help them. Dear God, I’ve built
them up only to dash their hopes again. They’ll think I’m a
sadistic fiend.”

The phone rang again. Adam turned the ringer off, so
that he at least didn’t have to hear it. For the first time ever,
he wished he had an unlisted number.

In the new silence Adam stood—alone, his sensitive
emotions bleeding within him. His stomach, encouraged by unbridled
feelings, rebelled, sending searing pains through his abdomen and
back. Stepping into his bathroom, he pulled a small, brown plastic
medicine bottle down and removed one yellow and pink capsule.
Throwing the capsule to the back of his throat, he swallowed hard.
The doctor had prescribed Axid once for an ulcer; now he was glad
that he kept a supply on hand.

I’m
committed now,
he thought. All I
can
do is follow through with the plan.
Adam felt exhausted.
“Sleep,” he said aloud. “I need sleep.”

The days and nights of the last few weeks had taken
their toll. Adam’s mind was sluggish and his emotions raw. He
desired nothing more than to close his eyes in long, quiet slumber
that would take away his troubles. Perhaps when he awoke, he would
find his world normal once again . . . a world with no kidnappings
and murders; no mysterious Healers and crooked little boys. Adam
leaned against the bathroom wall and slowly slid down until he sat
on the tile floor. A moment later he dozed.

A banging on the door startled Adam. Had he imagined
the sound? The banging continued, followed by a muffled voice.
Could this be it? Could it be the kidnappers outside his door? He
reminded himself that these kidnappers were also killers; he had to
be careful. Slowly he approached the door and listened. He could
hear a woman’s voice, “Please, Healer; you’ve got to help me!”

Adam wondered how a stranger could find him at home.
Then he remembered—in the new phone book he had included his home
address as well as the churches. If one person had found him, then
others would also. The thought shook him to the bone.

Another voice filtered through the door. “I was here
first; go away!” the first voice shrieked. It was the woman’s
voice.

“No, you don’t understand,” said the second voice in
raspy tones. “I simply must see the Healer.” Adam guessed the
second one was an elderly man.

“I don’t care. I was here first.”

“Please, it’s a matter of life and death. My
death.”

“My daughter needs him more than you do.”

Adam listened as the two argued. All he had wanted
to do was help, to have Rachel and the others returned safely. Now,
he questioned his actions. Outside his door stood the pitiful and
the pained, those for whom hope was a word used by those who could
not understand their anguish.

“Is this the Healer’s placer A new voice sifted
through the door.

“I’ve got to see him. Is he in?”

“Wait your turn,” the elderly voice shouted
bitterly. “We were here first.”

The pounding and yelling continued. For Adam, the
minutes passed like epochs full of guilt, fear, and pain. New
voices arrived, some heavy with accent, others young and
pitiful.

Adam’s imagination, vivid from weariness and raw
emotion, ran wild. Slowly he raised himself up and peered out the
peephole. There the lame and infirm were pushing, shouting, trying
to reach a man who had lied to them—a man who could give them
nothing more than despair. Adam watched as a woman raised one red
and dilated eye to the peephole and tried to peer into the
apartment. Adam pulled back quickly, his heart thundering.

Being a good minister required a sensitive spirit, a
tender heart that allowed for true empathy. That tender heart and
sensitive spirit now betrayed Adam. It squeezed and crushed him.
Every cry, every knock on the door, every overheard argument echoed
in his brain and reverberated in his heart. Every plea pierced his
brain like a fiery arrow, and burned through his soul. He tried to
ease his flood of guilt, to quiet his searing conviction, but to no
avail. Slowly, Adam crouched on the floor alone and wept, deep and
bitter sobs. Hot tears came unbidden to his eyes. Then Adam wished
the unforgivable: he wished for his own death.

A minute later, or an hour, Adam didn’t know, the
cacophony ended. Had they gone? Once again, Adam placed his ear to
the door and heard a voice outside. It was the small, innocent
voice of a child sounding like a lone trumpet in the darkness.

“Will the Healer make me well, Mommy? Will he make
the pain stop? Will I be able to run with the other children? Will
I be able to play ball? I want to be able to run in the park.”

Adam did not hear the answer. Stifling the scream
that welled up in him with volcanic force, he ran to the back of
the apartment and out the back door. In the darkness Adam did not
see the man who slept on his back landing. His foot caught the
man’s reclined body, and Adam fell hard to the ground. He felt the
air leave his lungs and the stony ground scrape away the flesh from
his palms. Stunned, Adam stood, shook his head, and gasped for
air.

“It’s him!” someone shouted. “It must be him!”

Adam sprinted for the back fence and scaled it
quickly, his raw hands injured all the more by the rough wood
wall.

“He’s running away. Wait, please come back. Don’t
go. I need you.”

Tears raced down Adam’s face as he ran blindly
through his neighbor’s backyard, past the house and into the
street. Behind him, he could hear voices calling to him, pleading
with him to return. But Adam continued to run, not knowing where he
was going. He just had to get away.

Lost in his torment, Adam didn’t notice the dark
sedan following behind. A mile later he collapsed in the street,
lost in the tumultuous sea of guilt. He lay quietly on the still
warm asphalt.

The car behind him stopped. Two men, one with a
black goatee, the other short and fat, got out and walked to the
prone figure in the street.

“Turn him over so I can see his face.”

The other man rolled Adam onto his back.

“Please,” Adam said deliriously, “I can’t help you.
I want to, but I can’t. Don’t you understand? I just can’t.”

“Recognize him?”

“Yeah,” the short man said. “It’s him, all
right.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Dunno. Nuts I guess.”

“Well, at least he saved us the trouble of breaking
into his house. That woulda been hard, with all those people.”

“Yeah. Mohammed came to the mountain this time.”

“Well, we better make sure he stays quiet for
awhile.” Crouching over Adam, the bearded man raised a fist high
above his head and let it hover for a moment. Adam opened his eyes
just in time to see the plummeting fist. Instinctively, he moved
his head to the side. His assailant’s fist slammed into the asphalt
street with bone-cracking force.

Screaming in pain, the man bolted upright, gazed at
his bleeding hand, then in uncontrolled rage began kicking Adam.
With each kick Adam recoiled in pain. One kick landed just under
the ribs, paralyzing his diaphragm and leaving him desperately
gasping for air. Another kick landed just under his left temple and
darkness filled Adam’s mind.

THE KICKING LASTED ANOTHER minute; then the goateed
man, holding his broken and bloody hand, stopped and gazed at the
unmoving form on the ground. Slowly, he reached down and touched
Adam’s neck, feeling for a sign of life. “He still has a pulse,” he
said. “Get him into the car.”

The fat man hoisted Adam over his shoulder and threw
him in the backseat of the sedan. Then the man paused and looked
puzzled.

“Hurry it up, will you?” The other man said. “My
hand’s killing me.”

“What’s this?”