by Alton Gansky
“That’s what I keep telling you.”
Irwin looked at the news schedule on his desk, but his mind was far away. Priscilla had left his office forty-five minutes ago, but he was still thinking about her. He considered her brash, arrogant, and the loveliest woman he had ever known. She could simultaneously enrage him with a self-centered comment and dissolve him into a stammering suitor with a smile.
He couldn’t blame her for wanting to get out of the studio and on the streets. In fact, he felt the same way. A day didn’t pass that Irwin didn’t wish he could leave his office and pursue just one more story. Just one story of substance. Those days, however, were past. It wasn’t his age or his appearance that prevented his journalistic enterprises. At forty-six, Irwin still looked professional enough to be on camera. Granted, he didn’t match the image of the handsome news anchor, but he was pleasant enough not to frighten children or alarm little old ladies. No, it wasn’t his appearance that kept him off the streets and off the screen—it was his past.
Irwin gazed around his office: it was Spartan in size and content. He sat in a cheap swivel chair behind a cheap metal desk. The walls were adorned with inexpensive art purchased at an office furniture outlet. The wall behind him was dressed in the only thing that revealed Irwin’s past and character: awards, certificates, and letters of appreciation hung in silent testimony of a previous life when he was San Francisco’s star journalist, admired by viewers and peers alike. But that was more than a decade ago.
Irwin did his best to never look at the plaques and certificates. Their presence pierced him, but he could not take them down. Those papers in frames and those brass plaques on wood were him, Irwin Baker: notable journalist, investigative reporter, and prominent social figure. Now he was Irwin Baker: the middle-management-paper-shuffling baby-sitter of egomaniacal personalities.
He sighed. He was being unfair. The people he worked with were highly experienced professionals who were every bit as good as he. Bitterness brewed a vile and vindictive attitude that threatened to poison his personality just as alcohol had poisoned his judgment. Envy was the real problem. He wanted to be out there like they were out there. He wanted to be before the camera like they were before the camera. He wanted that more than anything else in the world; that and to have his daughter close by and to have Priscilla as his wife—none of which would come true. He had made his purgatory; now he had to live in it.
Irwin wanted one other thing, a drink, but that’s how it all began: A drink here, a drink there, a string of drinks together; each day a new string of drinks. His wife complained; he ignored her. She complained again, and then again, and he ignored her again and again. One day she stopped complaining; she simply left, and took the only thing he loved more than his work—their twelve-year-old daughter.
Loneliness is a compelling emotion, and it compelled Irwin to drink even more. Three months after his wife left, his news director asked—actually demanded—that Irwin seek help or get another job. At the time Irwin thought it was nothing more than professional jealousy that had prompted the reprimand. All he needed was an exciting news story, something with which he could scoop the competition, something to put him back in the good graces of his employers and his public. Unfortunately for Irwin, important news stories came and went at their own whim. So, in a Chivas Regal haze he decided to cheat fate and create his own story.
The story brought him notoriety and fame, but not the kind he wanted. The plan seemed so simple to Irwin. How could he get caught? After all, he was an experienced journalist with a history of groundbreaking stories.
All he needed was a reliable source who insisted on remaining anonymous; he could create that person. He also needed a public official to serve as the accused. Since the informant could not be questioned by others (and Irwin would appear the pillar of journalistic ethics for refusing to reveal his source), any charges brought against the politician would soon pass and everything would be back to normal, except that Irwin would have made national news. Sure, the politician would suffer some inconvenience, but that’s why politicians existed. If you couldn’t attack your local representative, then who could you attack?
After an evening of planning that was lubricated by a steady flow of Scotch, Irwin decided to undertake his mission to fame. His target was the newly elected U.S. Senator from California, Bob Hollingsworth. Irwin’s plan called for a simple implication of duplicity. He would accuse Senator Hollingsworth of selling secrets to the Chinese government on a recent junket there. He would cite his unnamed source as one who traveled on the trip and had personal knowledge of the illegal transaction of information. The nonexistent informant would remain secret and therefore unimpeachable. Since there were still five years until the Senator ran for reelection, the whole issue would blow over, and no one would get hurt.
It all made sense to Irwin, but then he had been living in an alcohol-induced fog for months. Irwin broke the story on a Tuesday evening broadcast; by Friday the scam had been uncovered. Irwin had overlooked the details necessary for a believable lie. He had also underestimated the Senator. By noon Wednesday Hollingsworth knew all there was to know about Irwin and his story. By Thursday morning, with the help of his staff and the most expensive private detective in the Bay area, he had been able to prove Irwin’s report a lie. By Friday morning a phalanx of attorneys descended on Irwin and the station. Within two weeks, both the station and Irwin were being sued. Once convinced that Irwin was the duplicitous one, the station was compelled to fire him.
Friendship is what saved him. George Jenkins, Irwin’s roommate in college and fellow journalist, was a partner in the Prime Television Group, owners of radio and television stations around the country. Two months after “Irwingate,” Jenkins phoned Irwin. He offered him a job; not a great job—those days were gone—but a chance to start over as Jenkins’ assistant. The position was a low-level executive role, but it was the only job he could get.
Irwin quickly accepted the position even though it meant moving to Phoenix. A new city might be just what he needed. The job came with a price: Jenkins insisted that Irwin get professional help for his alcohol problem. It was a tough commitment, but with the help of Jenkins, an expensive psychiatrist, and a determination to make amends for his moral failings, Irwin overcame his addiction, proved to be as outstanding an administrator as a journalist, and quickly rose through the ranks until the board of Prime Television Group gave him the reins of struggling KGOT-TV in San Diego.
Leaning back in his chair, Irwin pulled open the large file drawer of his desk. Reaching into the drawer, he removed the lone item and stared at it as he did each day. It was a gift from Jenkins when he came to work in Phoenix. He remembered Jenkins’ words; “Irwin, you’ve come a long way. You’re a valuable member of the team and, most of all, you’re my best friend. I’m giving this to you so that you will never go back to the hell you came from. I wouldn’t blame you if you hopped up and hit me with your chair, but I’m hoping that you’ll understand why I’m doing this.” Jenkins then set a shoe box on the desk.
It had taken a moment for Irwin to gather the courage to open the unwrapped box. When he did, he found the bottle that he now held—a bottle filled with a golden-brown fluid that looked like Scotch.
Floating in the liquid was a photograph of Irwin, his wife, and daughter at an awards banquet. Taped to the bottle was a piece of paper with the hand-lettered words, “That was then; this is now.”
Three
Monday, March 2, 1992; 7:00 P.M.
RACHEL LEISURELY STROLLED ALONG the shoreline. She was alone, very alone and very happy. She paused to take in the deep azure sea with its wisps of lacy foam and the pure, white sand. The water was warm as it lapped at her feet. Above her, a lone sea gull cried and rode effortlessly upon the air currents. Terns dove headlong into the ocean in their search for food. The wind, full of the smell of the sea, caressed her face and ran its invisible fingers through her short black hair. There was peace here. No phones, no oper
ating rooms, no life and death decisions, just peace. She wanted to stay here forever. Everything was at her command. If she wanted to turn the sea red, she could. If she wanted an eagle overhead instead of the sea gull, it would be so. This was her private world.
“Dr. Tremaine, two-two,” a voice filtered its way into her mind. “Dr. Tremaine, two-two.”
Rachel was suddenly back in the surgeon’s lounge. She looked at her watch; reality had allowed her only ten minutes of solitude. Uninterrupted sleep was a rare commodity for her. Even after surgeries and rounds were over, her mind would be reeling from the pressures of her occupation. To relieve the stress, Rachel had developed several mental exercises—fantasies actually. Closing her eyes, she would slow her breathing, counting every inhalation. After a few moments, she would imagine herself in any number of different places. Her favorite was an imaginary deserted beach. No hospitals, no phones, no people—just the silky white sands, the lukewarm, azure water lapping at her bare feet. She loved her fantasies. They were truly hers. No one could deprive her of them. She could travel anywhere, do anything, be anyone.
“Dr. Tremaine, two-two. Dr. Tremaine, two-two.”
Rachel stared for a moment at the audio speaker recessed in the ceiling, then went to the yellow phone on the wall and dialed extension twenty-two. She glanced at her pager. There was a message to call extension 22. She hadn’t heard it.
“Second floor west, Ann Jacobs speaking.” Rachel knew Ann, she was a capable nurse, always doing her work without complaint. If there was any fault to be found in her, it was that she was chronically chipper.
“This is Dr. Tremaine.” Rachel’s voice betrayed her irritation.
“Oh, good. We have a situation with one of your patients.”
A situation. That meant a problem, something serious. “Go on.”
“It’s Mr. Lorayne; he’s comatose, and we have been unable to revive him.” Ann continued with his vital signs and other pertinent data.
“I’m on my way.” Rachel hung up. Numb with fatigue and longing for solitude, she made her way to second floor west.
Monday, March 2, 1992; 7:10 P.M.
EVEN TO A TRAINED EYE David Lorayne appeared to be sleeping. His chest rose rhythmically with each breath as it had for forty-six years. His color was normal, as was his pulse and blood pressure. If it were not for the monitors, IV bags, and nurses, someone might simply have thought that David was napping.
Rachel studied the patient’s chart intently, searching for the elusive clue that would explain why an otherwise healthy male would slip into a coma shortly after routine surgery. She looked up from the chart and glanced at Ann Jacobs who awaited direction.
Rachel was confused. She had been taught in medical school that every doctor would eventually encounter an event that defies explanation. Knowing this did not make the situation any easier. Lorayne’s surgery had been routine; he had been admitted with bleeding ulcers and Rachel had removed a small portion of his stomach. A serious condition, but one that Rachel had dealt with many times. The coma simply did not fit.
“I want a full workup—blood gases, EEG,” Rachel said curtly. “Tell the lab I will be waiting for the results.” She turned and exited the room before her face betrayed her confusion and anxiety.
Tuesday, March 3, 1992; 10:00 A.M.
PRISCILLA SIMMS MADE HER way from the kitchen to the balcony of her fourth-story condominium in Mission Valley. She sat in a high-backed rattan chair and opened the morning paper. Since she anchored the 6 o’clock and 11 o’clock news, she was not required to be in the newsroom until after lunch. She spent her mornings drinking coffee and reading several newspapers. On San Diego’s frequent sunny mornings she would sit on her balcony overlooking the heavily traveled Friars Road and watch the morning rush-hour traffic or retirees playing golf on the nearby golf course.
This morning she was frustrated. The last few days had been slow. If only something newsworthy would happen. She felt a twinge of guilt at that thought. She had never been able to reconcile the conflicting emotions with which many news people struggled. A good news day was filled with the shocking: murders, wars, and political problems. To hope for a spectacular news day was to hope for someone’s personal disaster. Since she was unable to reconcile the irony, she had been content merely to ignore it.
The papers were filled with the usual fare. Priscilla drained the last of the coffee from her cup and decided to go to the kitchen and pour another. She knew she drank too much coffee. Someday she would cut back, but not today.
Coming from the kitchen, she glanced around at the place she called home. She had lived here for five years. Her decorative skills had given the 1,200-square-foot condominium an air of elegance.
There was no doubt that she had expensive tastes. But so what? She worked hard for everything she had. Since she earned it, she felt free to spend it. Priscilla tended toward the extravagant, buying without compunction items that were beyond most people’s budget, including the white leather sofa and love seat she had had custom-made, the Persian rug, and the engraved glass coffee table. Most of all she loved the art. She had an eye for well-crafted paintings and sculptures. There was not a room in her home that didn’t have several pieces of art. At one time she thought that she would like to be an artist, but the lack of patience and talent ended that little dream.
Priscilla was jarred from her thoughts by the phone.
“Yes.” Her voice was curt.
“Is that any way to treat your admiring news director?”
Irwin Baker’s voice. She glanced at her watch—10. She was not due at the station until 1:00. “You’re not going to ask me to do the noon news are you? If you are, then I have a headache.”
“Have I ever asked you to do the 12 o’clock?”
“Yes. Twice.”
“Well, I’m not going to today. In fact, if you’re not nice to me, I may be inclined to give this story to someone a little more respectful. Say, Judy Moore.”
“She’s an opportunist who reads like a third-grader.”
“That’s not what the ratings show.”
“It’s not her journalistic skills they’re watching.”
“Now, let’s not be nasty.” She could almost see him grinning over the phone.
“Is there a point to this call?”
“Indeed there is. The last time we talked, you had said that you might like to do a little investigative reporting; remember?”
“Just get to the point, Irwin.”
“If you don’t mind starting to work earlier today, you may want to stroll to Kingston Memorial Hospital. Word has it that some unusual things are happening over there.”
“Like what?”
“People are being healed.”
“Cute, Irwin.” Priscilla’s mood grew worse.
“You don’t understand. People are getting healed without the doctors.”
“Go on, I’m listening.”
“I got the call this morning. A woman—she wouldn’t leave her name—said that a young girl had been healed in the burn ward. The girl, Lisa Hailey, had been in a car accident and burned over most of her body. They thought she was going to die, but she hung on. Sometime before 4 this morning the girl was well.”
“What do you mean, well?” Priscilla asked suspiciously.
“Just that. Her burns are all gone and she looks absolutely normal.”
“Irwin, have you ever been in a burn ward?”
“No, but I’ve seen plenty of people burned, and I know it’s not a pretty sight.”
“Then you know that burns don’t just go away. They scar the person for life. Someone is pulling your chain.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why? You said she wouldn’t give her name.”
“True enough, but I know she made the call from the hospital. I heard the paging system in the background, and I heard a man address someone as ‘nurse.’ ”
“Okay. Maybe she made the call from the hospital, but that doesn’
t mean that charred skin can be healed.”
“Come on, Priscilla, give me some journalistic credit, will you? I called the hospital back and asked if they had a patient by the name of Lisa Hailey. They did. I asked if I could speak to her and they said no, but they would connect me with the nursing station in the burn ward. The nurse who answered the phone was the same person who called me.”
Priscilla said nothing as she weighed what she had just heard. “You said you wanted a story to investigate,” Irwin said. “Here’s your chance.”
“I’ll take it,” she said and hung up. Twenty-two minutes later Priscilla Simms was in her red BMW 320i weaving her way through traffic.
Tuesday, March 3, 1992; 1:15 P.M.
“YOU SURE YOU DON’T want some of this?” Adam offered, pointing to the plate of bland food in front of him.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Dick Slay replied, holding his hands up in mock resistance. “I thought I was your friend.”
Adam considered the food on his plate, the first solid food he’d had since Sunday’s breakfast: a small fillet of fish in a watery, brown sauce, dry mashed potatoes, and creamed corn.
“They say that stuff is good for you,” Slay said. “It’ll make you big and strong.” He laughed loudly as Adam twisted his face in disgust. “Maybe tomorrow it’ll look better.”
“If it doesn’t, I’m going to order a pizza.”
“Better not tell your doctor.” Slay pulled up a chair. “Who is your doctor, anyway?”
“The surgeon was Dr. Rachel Tremaine.”
“A woman?” Dick asked incredulously.
“They can do more than clean house, you know.”
“Yeah, but cut you open with a knife and . . .” Slay stopped mid-sentence realizing his indiscretion. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right. She’s really a live wire. Came in late Sunday night and grilled me about my illness. I felt guilty for being sick. Then when she found out I was a minister, she acted like I was some kind of witch doctor.” Adam pushed the control button that lowered the head of his bed. He was still sore and weak. “I don’t think she holds the clergy in high regard.”
