By My Hands (38 page)

Entering his home, he was greeted with a flashing
light on his answering machine. He sighed and punched the
button.

“Pastor, this is Fannie,” the recorded voice said.
“Call me as soon as you get in. It’s urgent. I’ll be leaving the
office at 3, so call me at home.”

For a moment, Adam considered ignoring the request,
but decided that weariness was easier to endure than guilt. Fannie
wouldn’t have said it was urgent unless it was a matter of
importance. He dialed her home number.

“Oh, I’m so glad you called, Pastor,” Fannie said.
“A man from the police station has called several times today. I
told him I didn’t know what time you’d be back. He was very
insistent.”

“Do you remember his name?” Adam asked.

“Yes. Detective Art McGinnes.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, only that you should call him as soon as you
got back.”

“All right. Give me the number.”

Fannie recited the number and then said, “I hope
nothing’s wrong. Maybe they’ve found the Loraynes.”

“We’ll soon know,” Adam said. “I’ll see you in the
office tomorrow.”

Adam dialed the number he had been given. A man
answered the phone.

“Homicide. Detective Alan speaking.”

“This is Adam Bridger. May I speak to Detective
McGinnes, please?”

“He’s not here. Can I take a mess— Wait a minute.
What did you say your name was?”

“Adam Bridger.”

“Reverend Bridger?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on, I’ve got a message for you.”

Over the phone, Adam could hear papers rustling.

“Here it is. Are you in San Diego now?”

“Yes. I just arrived.”

“Detective McGinnes wants to see you right away. Do
you know where Grossmont Hill is?”

“I’ve been there a couple of times.”

“Good. McGinnes wants you to meet him there. You got
a piece of paper?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

The detective recited an address. Adam recognized it
as being in a well-to-do neighborhood of the Grossmont district
that overlooked much of San Diego.

“You leaving right now?” the detective asked.

“Yes, in a few minutes.”

“Good. I’ll radio McGinnes that you are on your
way.”

“Do you know what all this is about?”

“All I know, Reverend, is that someone has been
killed. I don’t know who.”

Adam slowly hung up. His stomach twisted into a
knot. Had they found the Loraynes—dead? Or had someone else been
killed? There was only one way of finding out.

It took twenty-five minutes for Adam to work his way
through traffic to the address he had been given. Once there, he
saw several police cars parked by the curb and uniformed officers
standing nearby. A yellow plastic ribbon was stretched on stands
across the front yard. Words in large black letters, CRIME SCENE—DO
NOT CROSS—SDPD, were repeated for the entire length of the band. A
crowd milled next to the barricade under the scrutiny of several
uniformed officers. Adam noticed several television vans parked
nearby.

Walking up to one of the uniformed officers, Adam
asked to be led to Detective McGinnes.

“Are you with the press?” the officer asked.

“No. McGinnes asked to see me.”

Satisfied, the officer walked under the barricade
and into the house. From the opulent exterior Adam could tell the
house was expensive. The white stucco, two-story home had a Spanish
design.

A moment later, McGinnes stepped through the door
and motioned for Adam to come in.

“I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon,”
McGinnes said.

“I’ve been in the Los Angeles area taping a
television show.”

“You gonna become one of those TV evangelists?”

“Hardly. I was asked to be a guest on the “Milt
Phillips Show.” He’s doing a special on the healings and miracles
in general.”

“I wish I could have seen it,” McGinnes said.

“You still can,” Adam replied. “It doesn’t air until
this evening.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to be busy most of the night.”
Motioning with his head, McGinnes said, “I want you to see
something.”

Stepping through the foyer and into an expansive
living room, Adam suddenly retched with nausea. On the white walls
were sprays of blood. On the floor was the tape outline of a body;
near the head, a large, dark, moist spot stained the powder-blue
carpet. Another taped figure portrayed a man on the floor leaning
against the wall. The wall behind the figure was bathed in brownish
red. Police technicians milled around gathering evidence and taking
photos.

“Do you know whose house this is, Reverend?”

Adam shook his head, afraid that if he spoke he
would lose control of his stomach.

“It’s the Gowans. You remember them, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” Adam said quietly. “I met them at
the hospital. Who are the . . . the . . .” Adam pointed at the
outline figures.

“Victims? Two security guards that the Gowans had
hired. It’s not exactly clear what happened, but it looks like the
one on the floor was shot in the back of the head, and the one next
to the wall was shot while trying to stop the abduction. We found
his gun in the corner where he must have thrown it when he was hit.
Poor guy, he took two shots in the throat and three in the abdomen
before he died. We won’t know for sure until the reports are in,
but it looks like they used automatic weapons, AK-47’s or maybe an
Uzi, no doubt illegally modified to fire as a full automatic. Sure
made a mess.”

“Can we go outside?” Adam’s nausea was growing.

“Oh, sure. Sorry, Reverend, I didn’t realize. I get
kinda’ used to these things. I remember my first murder scene; I
turned the same shade of white as you.”

Adam wiped the beads of perspiration from his
forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “Any word on the
Gowans?”

“Nothing. The good news is that their bodies are not
in the house; they must still be alive.”

“Abducted like the others?”

“Most likely I wanted you to see this for a reason.
You and your doctor friend have been playing detective with this
Healer thing, and you need to know that this is big league.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re in over your head here, Reverend. People are
getting killed as well as kidnapped. I want you to stay out of it.
You may be in danger.”

“I’m not what they’re looking for,” Adam said. “I
don’t see how I can be threatened.”

“Just keep alert and out of the way. Go on vacation
or something.” Vacation sounded good to Adam. He was emotionally
and physically exhausted. His work at the church was suffering. But
somehow, he just couldn’t let go, couldn’t release the Loraynes, or
the mystery.

“I’ll be careful,” Adam said.

A uniformed officer walked over and said to
McGinnes, “The station wants you to call. They have some
information for you.”

McGinnes went back into the house. A few moments
later he returned, his face hard and somber.

“What is it?” Adam asked softly. “Word about the
Gowans?”

The detective slowly shook his head and said
solemnly, “It’s Dr. Tremaine. She was abducted at La Jolla Cove. An
elderly couple saw the abduction and several others witnessed the
event, but didn’t see enough to be of much help. There was one good
eyewitness though: a man operating a hot dog stand. She was buying
a hot dog when a man approached her and led her away.”

“How can they be sure it’s Rachel?” Adam asked.

“The hot dog vendor heard one of the men call her by
name.” Adam said nothing. His stomach churned, his pulse raced, and
his knees were shaky. He felt like weeping and screaming in anger
all at once. Instead, he walked slowly to his car and drove
away.

PREOCCUPIED AS HE WAS with his thoughts, Adam didn’t
see the man in the crowd, the only one in the crowd who watched him
instead of the police; a man with eyes filled with concern and
sorrow; a man who arrived too late to help or to heal.

ADAM SAT ALONE IN his office. He had kept the
mini-blinds shut, blocking out the outside world. The silence of
his office was a balm to his active mind and overwrought emotions.
The whole thing was inconceivable to him. Most of his life had gone
along smoothly with only the occasional bump in the road. To be
sure, those bumps had been significant at the time—two broken
engagements, the death of his parents; but compared to what he had
been exposed to the last few weeks, they all appeared minor.

Abductions, miraculous healings, murders, crowds of
hurting people searching for a mystery man, deformed children
asking for the Healer—it was beyond comprehension.

Images of the Gowans’ blood-splattered home
overlapped with mental pictures of Rachel. Tears welled up in
Adam’s eyes.

“There must be something that can be done, God,”
Adam prayed aloud. “There must be something, but what? How can we
find these people?”

Leaping from his chair with nervous energy, Adam
paced his office floor, alternately praying and thinking.

“I’ve got to calm down and think,” he said to
himself. “Organize my thoughts. Reason. Concentrate. Analyze.”
Walking to the stereo on one of his bookshelves, he placed a tape
in the player.

A chorus of male voices sang Gregorian chants in
rhythmic Latin. Although he was teased by a few people for
listening to “monk music,” it was Adam’s favorite. He had found the
slow, rhythmic tempo conducive to thinking and often played the
tape when he had a difficult problem to face.

Still pacing, Adam had listened to the Easter litany
and Christmas litany three times when he stopped mid-step.

Smiling, he turned his face heavenward and mouthed
the words, “Thank You.” A moment later he paged Detective
McGinnes.

“McGinnes? I would like to see you right away and
also your friend from the FBI.”

“Not possible. I am kinda’ busy, you know.”

“It’s imperative you be here. I don’t want to do
what I have to do alone.”

“What are you planning?” McGinnes asked
suspiciously.

Adam never heard the question. He hung up, flipped
the cassette over and began pacing again.

“YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR MIND!” McGinnes said. “There is
no way I can sanction this. I don’t know what Greene thinks, but
it’s clear to me that you’ve slipped a cog.”

“It’s the only way,” Adam said with quiet assurance.
“Besides, the mechanism is already started. I’ve placed a call to
Milt Phillips and his group. They’ve agreed to help me.”

“You’re nuts,” McGinnes continued, leaping from his
chair. “You could disappear like the others, or worse yet, get
killed. You’ve seen what these crazies can do, and there’s nothing
to say that they won’t do it to you too.”

Special Agent Greene sat in silence listening to the
exchange between the two men.

“You just gonna sit there, Greene?” McGinnes asked
bitterly. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna help this crazy
preacher.”

Greene slowly rubbed his eyes, revealing his
weariness. “Frankly, I don’t see how we can stop him.”

McGinnes stood silently staring at Greene and then
exploded, “I’ll have nothing to do with it—nothing!” Spinning on
his heels, he turned and exited Adam’s office. Greene and Adam
stared silently at each other.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Greene
said.

“Sometimes, we must walk by faith and not by sight.”
Adam was stoic.

“I find sight more comfortable,” Greene said.

“And I find faith more dependable,” Adam
countered.

“I APPRECIATE YOUR HELP,” Adam said, sitting in the
studio chair. “Without your cooperation this wouldn’t work.”

“Are you kidding?” Priscilla Simms said. “When this
breaks, it’s going to be one of the year’s biggest stories. When
Milt Phillips called and asked to use the news studio, Pham Ho was
glad to oblige, providing that a reporter be present. I’m the
reporter.”

“So, you’re here for the story, even though you
don’t know when you can broadcast it?”

“Well, not just for the story,” Priscilla answered
quietly. “I have a more pressing reason.”

“Care to tell me about it?”

“Not much to tell, really.” Priscilla straightened
the lapel microphone on Adam’s sport coat. It was a needless
gesture, but it gave her something to do with her hands while her
mind recalled the event that haunted her nights. “These people
you’re after killed a friend of mine. I promised him I’d find out
who did it.”

An uneasy silence filled the next few moments.

Priscilla smiled slightly and said, “So much for
detached journalism.”

“I think I can understand,” Adam said, taking her
hand and looking into her soft blue eyes. “These people have hurt
those I care for, and I want them stopped.”

“I wish I could do more,” she said.

“You can pray for me.”

Priscilla laughed lightly. “I haven’t prayed since I
was a child. I may need to be reintroduced to God.”

“I’m sure He remembers you.”

For a long moment, Priscilla gazed at this unusual
man before her. His confidence was genuine, not the false bravado
of a man trying to impress those around him. He possessed a quiet
assurance that spoke of inner strength and certainty. He was not
the hero type; his thick glasses reflected the studio lights and
the deep lines around his eyes revealed years of intense reading
and study. He certainly didn’t seem like a man about to place
himself in the midst of a lethal unknown.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Milt
Phillips said, stepping onto the set. “You know you really upset
Dr. Cruden. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man so angry.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” Adam said, rising and
shaking Phillip’s hand.

“I know, but it makes great television.” Phillip,
laughed. “Mr. Phillips,” Adam said, “I’d like you to meet Priscilla
Simms. She’s the news anchor for the station.”