By My Hands (41 page)

Adam was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“Why, you surprise me. It’s really quite simple. If
you don’t help me, I’ll kill them.”

Adam had seen the death this man had left behind;
but hearing it spoken so coldly chilled him.

“In fact,” R.G. continued, “while we waited for you,
we constructed a little something to help us.” He snapped his
fingers, and Sanchez left the room only to return a few seconds
later struggling with a concrete-filled plastic pail that hung from
a length of chain. “This, my dear Adam—you don’t mind me calling
you Adam, do you?—this simple little device is an anchor. We have
one for each of you.”

Adam’s mind filled with the awful thought of the
Langfords, Haileys, Loraynes, and Rachel rapidly descending through
the cold Pacific, struggling for breath that would never come. A
chill ran down his spine.

“Oh, don’t look so despondent,” R.G. said laughing.
“I hear that drowning is a rather pleasant way to die. We are
presently cruising a mile out from the Scripps Institute of
Oceanography. Some of the ocean’s deepest waters lie beneath our
hull. In all probability, you would be crushed by the water
pressure before you actually drown.”

“Some comfort,” Rachel said sarcastically.

R.G. ignored her and kept his attention riveted to
Adam. “You will do as I ask, or I will begin dropping your friends
overboard one at a time.” Adam said nothing, his mind frozen with
fear. “But for now, I will leave you. I’m sure you and your friends
have much to talk about. So, gather your strength, because when I
return, you will do exactly what I ask.”

SPECIAL AGENT GREENE SAT in the small corner room of
the San Diego FBI office and watched as the blanket of high clouds
of a Pacific marine layer slowly surrendered to the morning
sun.

Sunrise came as it always had. People filled the
freeways with their cars as they always had, but this day was
different for Greene. Somewhere out there, in this city or the
next, was Adam Bridger, abducted, and Greene felt responsible.

It was a stupid move,
he reminded himself
again.
The whole plan was ill advised and against policy.
While it was true that he had not originated the idea, and was, for
all practical purposes, helpless to prevent Adam from following
through with his intentions, Greene’s supervisor was going to be
indignant.

The door to his office opened. Greene looked up
expectantly at the young agent who entered.

“Sorry,” Patrick Morris said, interpreting the
expression on Greene’s face. “No word yet. The police have an APB
out and our forensics people are going over the apartment and the
street where we found the blood and transmitter.”

The image of the transmitter filled Greene’s mind.
It had been crushed; ground into the asphalt road. “Anything
else?”

“No, but I hear that Clark is on his way down.”

Greene grimaced. The thought of his supervisor
driving in from L.A. unsettled him. An otherwise perfect career was
about to receive a huge black mark.

“Anything I can do for you?” Morris asked. “How
about a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had at least a dozen cups since
sunrise.”

“I know what you mean.” Morris turned to leave, then
paused and said, “We’ll find him. I know it and you know it. We’ll
find Adam Bridger and all the rest.”

Greene was staring out the window again. “The
question is, will we find them in time?”

Greene passed the next two hours with paperwork and
phone calls. There was little more he could do but wait for lab and
field reports.
Rapport can be a horrible thing,
he thought
to himself. He had handled dozens of kidnappings before, but they
were always strangers to him. Unfortunately, a rapport, an
instantaneous rapport, had sprung up between he and Adam. It was
not an unknown man mysteriously snatched from his home; it was
someone he knew and even admired.

Morris entered the room again. “There’s someone here
to see you.”

“Is it important?”

“I think you better see him.”

“Why?” Greene said, trying to interpret Morris’
tone.

“He won’t speak, but he gave me this note.”

Greene took the folded piece of paper and opened it.
The words were written with precision block letters: I
KNOW WHO THE HEALER IS. I KNOW HOW TO FIND HIM. WILL YOU
HELP?

“Show him in,” Greene said.

Greene stood as Morris escorted the man into the
office. Stepping around his desk, Greene extended his hand. “I’m
Special Agent Norman Greene.” The man shook hands. “Please sit
down.” The man did so.

Returning to his place behind his desk, Greene
quickly looked his guest over. He was five-foot-eight or so and
slender in build. His head was bald on top; what hair he had was
light brown and formed a semicircular band from ear to ear. His
eyes were a radiant blue that demanded trust and his face
plain—neither handsome nor homely. The thing that distinguished him
most to Greene was his confident air. Most civilians who came into
his office appeared overwhelmed, but this man sat quietly and
comfortably as though he were in his own living room.

“I’m sorry,” Greene said cordially, “I didn’t catch
your name.”

The man reached slowly into the breast pocket of his
white sport shirt and pulled out a card. What he read caused Greene
to stare at the man for a few long, disbelieving moments. After a
minutes reflection Greene handed the card to Morris and said, “See
what you can do about this.”

JOHN HAILEY GROANED AS he slowly regained
consciousness. Rachel wanted to do more for him, but without
medical supplies there was little she could do.

“What now?” Pat Gowan asked gruffly. “Are you going
to do what he asks?” The question was clearly pointed at Adam.

“I wish I could,” Adam replied soberly.

“What do you mean you ‘wish’ you could?’ ” Gowan
asked tersely. “You can’t let them kill us.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No,
you
don’t understand,” Gowan was
shouting. “I’m not gonna let my wife and daughter be tossed
overboard because of you. Do what he asks. I have seen what kind of
people these are. You should see what they did in my house.”

Turning slowly, Adam faced the distraught man. Gowan
had been through a great deal in recent weeks: his daughter’s
cerebral palsy and the accident that led to her hospitalization,
her miraculous healing, and the massacre in his home.

“I have seen it,” Adam spoke softly. “I was there
with the police.”

“Then you know that you must do what he asks.”
Gowan’s face had turned red with rage; his clenched fist hung
stiffly at his side.

“Honey,” Katherine Gowan pleaded, “please don’t. It
will only make things worse. I need you now. I need you beside me,
not fighting, but beside me.”

He looked at his wife. In her tender and pleading
eyes he found the sedative to calm him. “You’re right, dear. But he
needs to do what they ask.”

“I can’t,” Adam remarked to no one in particular.
“I’m not who they think I am.”

“What do you mean?” Bill Langford asked.

“I’m an FBI plant. I’m not the Healer. It was all a
ruse to flush out the abductors. I was wired with a transmitter.
The FBI was to follow the signal after I was abducted.”

“Then the FBI is on its way?”

Adam couldn’t help but notice the hopefulness in
Langford’s voice. “No. I think these guys discovered the
transmitter too soon.” Adam looked at the faces in the room. For a
very brief moment, they had held a glimmer of hope. “I’m afraid
we’re on our own.”

A YOUNG WOMAN WAS ushered into Greene’s office and
hasty introductions were made.

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Lolly,” Greene said,
shaking her hand. “I know that it was short notice.”

“I hope I can be of some help,” she replied
nervously. “I’m afraid I’m a little uneasy.”

“That’s to be expected, but I assure you there’s
nothing to worry about. All we need is someone to interpret for
us.” Motioning with his head toward the man seated across from his
desk, Greene continued, “This gentleman is your client.”

Turning, she made a few quick gestures with her
hands. The man responded with similar motions.

“Would you please ask him his name?” Greene sat in
his chair.

“Actually,” she replied, “it would be better if you
asked the questions and I will sign your words. Just pretend I’m
not here and speak directly to him.”

Greene began slowly, “Thank you for coming. Would
you mind telling me your name?”

The quiet, bald man instantly signed with his
hands.

“My name,” Lolly said, giving voice to the silent
man, “is not important. I have come to help you find the man
pretending to be me—pretending to be the Healer.”

“Are you saying that you are the one responsible for
the healings in Kingston Memorial Hospital?”

“Yes,” was his short reply.

“Nonetheless,” Greene insisted, “your name would be
most help . . .”

“The man pretending to be me is in very great
danger,” Lolly’s voice interrupted Greene. “We have very little
time to waste. I can take you to him, but we must hurry.”

The sharp hand motions revealed the Healer’s
anxiety.

“But, how do I know what you say is true?” Greene
asked, wondering if his suspicion would be translated as well.

“Because I have told you it is so.”

“I still need more information before I can do
anything.”

The man’s face clearly revealed his frustration.
Greene had no doubt that the man believed what he was saying.

“What information do you need?” the man asked.

“Your name for starters,” Greene said firmly.

“If I give you my name, will you let me show you
where to find the missing people?”

“It will speed things along.”

Reaching into his back pocket, the man removed a
worn wallet and, extracting his driver’s license, handed it to
Greene. Greene took it and cast an expert eye over it. It appeared
to be valid. An address was listed in Riverside, California. The
name listed was Charles Gregory. Greene quickly memorized the
information.

“Thank you, Mr. Gregory,” Greene handed the license
back. “Now, how is it that you know what we in the FBI don’t
know?”

“The same way I knew you were the agent I needed to
speak to. The same way I know who needs to be healed. The same way
I know your man needs help.”

“And what way is that?”

Gregory paused before answering, then signed, “God
tells me.”

“God tells you?” Greene was uncertain whether to
feel incredulous or to believe Gregory. Although not a man given to
belief in the supernatural, he did have to acknowledge that many
unexplained things were happening.

Gregory continued signing, “I must remind you again
that time is short. If you do not act now, many will die.”

Greene leaned back in his chair and glanced at
Morris who was standing silently near the door. Morris shrugged.
Greene had to make a decision. If Gregory was the Healer, then he
just might know where Adam and the others were; if he was a crazed
impostor, then precious time could be wasted on a wild-goose
chase.

“Where is he?” Greene asked.

“On a boat. I can lead you there.”

Greene fell silent again. A boat could be anywhere:
out to sea, or in one of the many marinas. Without a specific
location and description, it could take days to find the right
craft.

“How can you lead us there?” Greene asked.

“I can’t explain; I just know. Please, let’s not
waste any more time.” Gregory’s signs were augmented by a pleading
expression on his face. Greene quickly calculated his options, then
decided to believe the slim, bald man.

“Morris, get a car and call the Coast Guard,” Greene
said, jumping to his feet. Turning to Lolly, he asked, “Would you
come along? It would save us a lot of time.”

“Of course,” Lolly said.

“Then let’s go.”

Thursday, April 2, 1992; 8:50
A.M.

“I’VE BEEN MORE THAN PATIENT,” R.G. said. He, Haman,
and Sanchez had entered the room, Sanchez with an Uzi machine gun
in his crooked arm. “You have had thirty minutes to think over my
proposition and now it is time for an answer. Do we have a bargain,
or do I start dropping your friends into the ocean?”

“How do I know you won’t do that anyway?” Adam asked
with feigned bravado.

“Frankly, you don’t,” R.G. replied. “But I offer you
my word.”

Rachel laughed in spite of herself. Haman started
toward her, but R.G. once again waved him off.

“I have warned you, Dr. Tremaine,” R.G. said
tersely, “not to presume on Mr. Haman’s or my patience. One more
act of rudeness and I may leave you to Mr. Haman’s devices.”

Something in Haman’s eyes struck terror in Adam’s
heart. His eyes were coal black and seemed never to blink. He was a
man who enjoyed his anger and hatred. He was a man to stay far away
from—very far away.

“I’m the one you’re interested in,” Adam said,
redirecting attention to himself. “What makes you think I can do
what you ask? It must be obvious that the healings have been
selective. After all, I didn’t heal everyone in the hospital.”

“Yes, I noticed that, and I must admit that the
reason for that intrigues me. Perhaps when we have more time and a
better working relationship, you can tell me the logic behind your
actions. For now, the only thing I’m concerned with is what you can
do for me. Will you heal me or not?”

Heavy silence hung in the room. Adam could hear the
ocean lapping at the sides of the boat, and feel the rhythmic
rocking as the craft rolled in the easy swells on the surface.
There was no response to give. If he attempted to heal R.G., he
would surely fail; and if he refused, then they would all have the
breath and life crushed out of them in the deep and cold Pacific.
Their bodies would never be found. The thought of twelve bodies
anchored with concrete, floating upright from the dark ocean floor
like stalks of wheat, made him shudder.