By My Hands (30 page)

The service went well. The singing was spirited and
the message well received. During the invitation time, when the
congregation was given an opportunity to “walk the aisle” to ask
for prayer, request church membership, or make other spiritual
commitments, several came forward.

Following the service, Adam stood in the foyer to
greet those who had worshiped there that day. People filed by,
shaking his hand and reiterating their joy at having him back in
the pulpit. The last person in line was Fannie Meyers.

“Did you go through the mail, Pastor?” she
asked.

“Ever the faithful secretary, aren’t you? No, I
haven’t looked at the mail since Friday. Why?”

“There’s a registered letter for you from a
television station in Los Angeles. They let me sign for you. I
thought it might be important.”

“And you’re just a wee bit curious,” Adam said
smiling. “Well, all right, let’s go see what it says.”

In the office, Fannie rifled through the stack of
unread mail. “Here it is,” she said, handing Adam the envelope. The
return address was printed in blue ink and read: KLLA-TV.

Adam sat in his desk chair and read silently.

“Well?” Fannie asked.

“They want me to appear on the “
Milt Phillips
Show
,” he replied. “That’s great!”

“I’m not so sure. They want me to be on a show about
modern-day miracles. Although they don’t say it, I’d wager it’s the
Healer they have on their mind. To make matters worse, one of their
guests is going to be Dr. Charles Cruden.”

“The astronomer?” The excitement faded from her
voice. “As I recall, he doesn’t think too highly of religious
people.”

“That’s putting it mildly. Actually, he’s downright
hostile.” Adam leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Why
me? There are hundreds of ministers between here and L.A. I wonder
how they got my name?”

“Perhaps from the news reports or possibly from
someone at the hospital. Are you going to do it?”

“I don’t know. It means a trip to Los Angeles, and I
don’t know that I have the time. Besides, they’re taping this
Wednesday; I wouldn’t have much time to prepare, and I doubt I
could get back in time for prayer meeting.”

“It might be good for the church,” Fannie prodded.
“Dick Slay can handle the prayer meeting.”

“Although Dick would do a fine job, I doubt my
appearing on the
Milt Phillips Show
would help our church or
anyone in it.” Adam abruptly sat up. “Wait a minute. Maybe I can
use it to help someone.”

“Who?”

“The Loraynes and the other missing families.” Adam
pulled a yellow notepad from his desk. “Here’s what I want you to
do first thing tomorrow.” He wrote quickly on the paper and then
handed it to Fannie.

“Do you think they’ll let you do it?” Fannie asked
looking up from the paper.

“Insist on it.”

Monday, March 30, 1992; 10:00
A.M.

THE CROWD IN MICHELE GOWAN’S small hospital room
made it seem all the more cramped. Michele reclined on top of the
covers of her bed, wearing a pink robe with tiny roses embroidered
on it. She was nearly unrecognizable to those who had known her
before. Her thin, gaunt appearance had been replaced by a full and
robust body. She had curled her brown hair and put on makeup,
something she had never been able to do before.

Standing near the head of her bed were her mother
and father. Pat and Katherine Gowan had recovered quickly from
their initial shock. After the hospital had called and asked them
to come down, they had expected the worst. Instead, they were
greeted with a daughter they had never known—a daughter without
cerebral palsy. Katherine’s scream had echoed in the halls,
bringing doctors and nurses scrambling. When she regained her
composure, she wept with tears of joy and unbelief at the miracle
that was her daughter.

Pat Gowan responded somewhat stoically, at least
outwardly, but his mind raced and his heart pounded. He had stood
silently watching his wife and daughter weep in each other’s arms.
Then, slowly, he raised a trembling hand and brushed back the hair
from Michele’s forehead, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Also in the room and standing at the foot of the bed
was Dr. Patton, with a stack of reports from the medical tests he
had run. Standing next to him was Detective Art McGinnes of the San
Diego Police Department. Rachel was near the door. A black man in a
dark pinstriped suit and dark tie was speaking:

“I believe you folks know everyone here but me.” His
voice was deep and resonant. “I’m Special Agent Norman Greene of
the FBI. You are already aware of the other missing people who have
had experiences like yours. Technically, only the Lorayne family
disappearance can be officially described as a kidnapping. The
others are still classified as missing persons, and Detective
McGinnes is handling those as well as helping us on the Lorayne
case.”

“So you’re here to offer us protection,” Pat Gowan
said.

“Actually, no.” Greene shifted uncomfortably on his
feet “Manpower consideration prohibits us from doing that. McGinnes
tells me that the best the SDPD can offer is to increase patrols in
the area.”

“That’s the
best
you can do?” Gowan was
angry. “At least the hospital provided guards outside the
door.”

“Mr. Gowan,” the agent said, “we are aware of the
problem. It is extremely unlikely that the kidnappers would attempt
to abduct your family. So far, they have acted very discreetly. I
doubt that they would be so unwise as to make another attempt.”

“That’s not much comfort,” Katherine said. “I want
some protection for my family.”

“Is there someplace outside the city you could go?”
Greene asked. “Perhaps stay with some family members, or rent a
home out of town? Maybe even take a trip?”

“I have a business to run,” Pat said bitterly. “I
have employees and clients who depend on me. I’ll not run
away.”

“I thought you might say that.” Greene handed them a
card. “Here is my card. I’ve written my home phone number on the
front. Also, on the back I’ve written the number of On Guard
Security. It’s a private security firm that we’ve worked with
before. They’re the best in the city. If you want, they’ll send out
a couple of guards to watch the house.”

Pat Gowan took the card without comment.

“If I can be of any help,” McGinnes said, speaking
for the first time, “feel free to call me. I work out of the
downtown station. If I’m not there, they’ll know how to find
me.”

“Anything else we should know?” Mr. Gowan asked
gruffly.

“Just be on the lookout for anything unusual,”
Greene said. McGinnes and Greene excused themselves and left the
room.

“Well, Doc,” Pat said, “any reason my baby can’t
come home?”

“No medical reason,” Dr. Patton said. “I’ve run
every appropriate test I can think of, and there is no reason for
Michele to be kept here. I’ve got to tell you, I’m still having
trouble believing all of this.”

Michele smiled. “Me too.”

“Well then,” Dr. Patton said, “I have other patients
to see—although the rest of the day is sure to be boring after
this. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Any last words, Dr. Tremaine?” Pat’s voice softened
as it usually did when he spoke to women.

“Just that if you think of anything that might help
me figure out what’s going on, please let me know.” Rachel handed
her card to him. “My pager number is on there. Call if you remember
anything, anything at all.”

“We’ll do that,” Pat said. Then turning to his
daughter, “You ready to go home, Honey?”

Michele leapt from the bed. “I’ve been ready for a
long time. Say,” she said with a wide grin, “how about letting me
drive the van home?”

“Not until you have had some lessons,” Katherine
said with maternal authority.

As Rachel entered the corridor outside Michele’s
room, she heard her name called. A Filipino nurse was walking
toward her.

“Yes, what is it?” Rachel replied.

“We just got a call at the nursing station from Dr.
Morgan’s office. He’d like to see you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Nurse. Will you please call his office
and tell them that I am on my way up?”

“Sure.” The nurse left the way she came.

In the staff elevator Rachel wondered what awaited
her. She had grown to dislike Dr. Morgan more and more. In fact,
she resented him—resented his taking her off surgery to play
detective, his often condescending attitude, his self-centeredness,
and his treatment of Adam.

Rachel paused at the last thought. She really did
resent Dr. Morgan’s treatment of Adam. Rachel wondered at her
attraction to a man with whom she had so little in common.

The elevator stopped at the eighth floor and Rachel
stepped into the large reception area and then to the opulent
office of Mary Rivers, Dr. Morgan’s administrative assistant.

Mary Rivers rose from behind her desk. “It’s good to
see you again, Dr. Tremaine. Dr. Morgan is waiting for you.” Mary
stepped to the door that joined her office with her boss’ and
opened it. “Dr. Tremaine is here to see you, Dr. Morgan.” Mary
stated.

Morgan was standing with his hands clasped behind
his back staring out the window at the ever-present mass of ill
camped at the hospital. “Thank you, Mary. That will be all,” he
said without turning around.

Rachel walked to a chair opposite the desk but did
not sit.

“They keep coming,” he said quietly. “They come in a
steady stream from who knows where. They fill our lobbies,
restrooms, and our corridors. Many are sleeping outside. Some
refuse to leave or even to eat. The Salvation Army is feeding and
clothing some of them. There’s no place for them here, and still
they come.

“Some are terribly ill,” he continued. “We’ve
already treated nearly two dozen people in our emergency
room—diabetics without insulin, people with unrelenting fevers, and
worse. Thankfully, none have died—yet. There’s no way to get them
to leave. No way at all.”

Morgan sighed and rubbed his temples. Without seeing
his face, Rachel could tell he was very weary. “If I force them to
leave, the media will flay me alive. If I let them stay and one of
them dies on our doorstep, then the media will have me again. It’s
a lose-lose situation.”

Turning, he faced Rachel; she could see anger in his
eyes. “And it’s all because of this Healer, whoever or whatever he
is. They sit out there on the slim hope that this miracle worker
will show up; and when he does show, he walks right by them, heals
one person in a hospital room, and then leaves.”

Morgan paced around his office. “I’ve got questions,
mind-boggling questions, and I’m not getting any answers. I’m not
getting answers from you; I’m not getting answers from security;
all I’m getting is pressure from the hospital’s board of directors,
and a hundred calls a day from the media. What’s going on?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir,” Rachel said.

“You don’t know. You don’t know.” Rachel could see
the fury in Morgan’s face. “Well, I appointed you to find out. This
could have been good for you. This was your chance to separate
yourself from the other doctors and rise to the top. I trusted you
with a very sensitive project—one that may have dire effects on
this hospital—and I get nothing from you. You have been dragging
your feet on this, Rachel, and I don’t like it.”

“I’ve done what I can, Dr. Morgan.” Rachel could
feel her own anger rise. “If you will recall, I didn’t ask for this
project.”

“I don’t care what you asked for,” Morgan’s words
were fierce and loud. Rachel wondered if they could be heard in the
reception area. “I gave you a job to do. You may be a surgeon, but
you’re a surgeon at
this
hospital. If you ever want to step
into one of our surgical rooms, or any surgical room in Southern
California, you had better straighten up your attitude!”

Rachel clenched her teeth. She felt like a teenager
being scolded by a parent. How dare he speak to her in this way.
She felt the urge to unleash her pent-up emotions but kept them in
check. She would show him her superiority by not playing his
game.

“Doctors.” Mary Rivers had entered the room.

Dr. Morgan ignored her and continued, “If you’re not
careful, Doctor Tremaine, I’ll have your job.”

“Doctors,” Mary repeated.

Rachel exploded. “If an egocentric Neanderthal like
you can have my job, then I don’t want it!”

“Doctors!” Mary yelled, stepping between them.
Silence flooded the room. Tears streamed down Rachel’s cheeks,
Morgan’s face was beet red. Both had fists clenched as though ready
to come to blows.

“Excuse me,” Mary said calmly, “but Dr. Morgan has a
call on line one.”

“I don’t want to take any calls,” he said
bitterly.

“It’s the chairman of the board,” Mary stated.

Morgan took several deep breaths. “All right, thank
you, Mary, you can go now.” Then, looking at Rachel he said, “Get
out!”

“Gladly.” Rachel spun on her heels and quickly left
the office. As she walked, she kept her eyes straight ahead. She
wanted to avoid any eye contact with Mary or others in the
reception area. Marching to the elevator, she fiercely punched the
down button. Fortunately, the elevator arrived quickly.

Monday, March 30, 1992; 1:15
P.M.

PHAM HO SAT ON the edge of the desk and listened to
the one-sided conversation:

“We didn’t mean to cause you any trouble, and we’ll
take special precautions this time.” Priscilla held the phone to
her ear with her left hand and massaged her temples with her right.
“But this is an important story and you’re a key . . . Of course, I
understand your position . . . Yes, I know that you have a family
to support, but . . . if you’d just let me stop by and . . . well,
I’m sure that security has put pressure on you, but we can . . .
no, if you would just let me finish . . . no, don’t hang up . . .
Hello? Hello?” Priscilla sighed and gently set the receiver back on
the phone.