by Alton Gansky
No one bothered to tell McGinnes that David no longer had stitches.
“But there wasn’t enough blood to indicate . . .” Adam paused and searched for the right words.
“Murder? Oh, no. The blood we found could be accounted for by a good-sized scrape or cut.”
“That’s a relief,” Larry said.
“They’re not out of danger yet,” McGinnes said. “Has anyone called about them? Asked for ransom or anything like that?”
“No,” Larry said, shaking his head, “but then neither David nor I have much money. I live off my Navy retirement and David’s retired from General Dynamics. We have enough to get us by, but not much more.”
“If anyone calls, then let me know. We’ll set up a phone tap and trace the calls.”
“I have a question,” Rachel said. “Larry tells us that a car pulled in front of the Loraynes and stopped them, and then the Loraynes followed the car. Why would they do that?”
“Who knows?” McGinnes replied. “They either tricked them or threatened them. Whatever the case, the Loraynes felt compelled to go along.”
Adam had another question. “You say you talked to one of the nurses. Why didn’t you talk to Dr. Tremaine while you were at the hospital?”
“We tried, but she wasn’t there.”
Adam looked at Rachel for a moment. She had told him that she wasn’t free until 8 that night and he assumed that she would be working at the hospital.
“I was doing research on spontaneous healing at the UCSD library,” Rachel said. “Not that there was much to find.”
“Well,” McGinnes said, standing and placing the notebook he had been using into the side pocket of his suit coat, “I should be going.” Larry stood and show him to the door.
As McGinnes was leaving, he handed Adam and Rachel business cards and said, “I would appreciate any help I can get on this.”
After McGinnes left, Adam did his best to encourage Larry and Eva. He wanted to tell them that everything would be fine, and that their loved ones would soon be home safe and sound. But he couldn’t. They understood they might never see David, Ann, and Michael alive again.
“I know this is hard on you,” Adam said. “The unknown is always frightening. What’s important now is that we remain at our best and not jump to conclusions.”
“And that we keep praying,” Eva said, as a tear ran down her cheek. “And keep praying,” Adam agreed. “It’s also important for you two to draw strength from one another. You can weather this together. God will help you, I will help you, and the church will help you.”
“I appreciate that,” Larry said, “but we’re not part of your church. Truth is, we don’t go to church much. We can’t expect any help.”
Adam smiled. “I know, but that doesn’t matter. I’m adopting you. If you need anything, then don’t hesitate to call.” Then, remembering the flashing red light on his answering machine, Adam’s smile was replaced with chagrin. “I’ll even pick up my messages more frequently.”
“Look,” Larry said. “I’m sorry if I came on a little strong about that. It’s just that I was concerned, and I tend to be a little quick on the trigger.”
“No need to apologize,” Adam said. “Considering all that’s going on, you have a right to be on edge.”
Larry looked at Eva and then took her hand. “Thanks for coming over, Pastor. David said you were the best, and now I know what he means. You’ve been a big help.”
“I wish there was more that I could do,” Adam said quietly. “I really do.”
“We know, Pastor,” Eva said. “But we do appreciate what you’ve done.”
Adam stood and hugged Eva and then Larry.
“Please, keep me posted,” Adam said as he stood on the front stoop. “I’ll check with you tomorrow.”
Adam and Rachel drove in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Rachel was mystified. Why hadn’t she made the connection about the break-ins like Adam did? Perhaps she didn’t care enough to ask the right questions. One thing was certain—she didn’t possess the caring attitude that Adam did. She had watched him closely tonight. His love and concern, coupled with his self-possession, intrigued her. There was more to this man than she had first realized.
Pulling into the hospital parking lot, Adam drove behind to an area secured with a card-operated gate. They sat in silence for a moment, then Adam spoke. “I appreciate the time you’ve given me tonight.”
“I’ll admit,” she replied, “that I’ve never had an evening like it.” Before she closed her door, she paused thoughtfully, and then asked, “We can assume that the Langfords and the Haileys have met the same fate as the Loraynes. Do you agree?”
Adam reluctantly nodded his head and said, “Yes, I do.”
“Why would anyone want to abduct recently healed people?”
“I don’t know,” Adam admitted. “There’s a lot I don’t know about this, but I intend to find out.”
“This could be dangerous, you know.”
“Yes, I know. And not just for us, but for the next person healed.” Rachel thought about that for a second. “What makes you think there’ll be another healing?”
“I’m not certain, but I think this is just the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?”
“I wish I knew. At least, I think I wish I knew.”
Rachel nodded her agreement and then shut the car door, turned, and walked across the parking lot.
SEVENTEEN
Monday, March 23, 1992; 8:45 P.M.
“ARE YOU SURE YOU feel up to this?” Reedly asked as he seated Priscilla Simms.
“Yes, thank you.”
“It’s not that I’m not pleased. But considering all that you’ve been through lately, I thought you might like to be left alone. I mean, with the death of Irwin and all.”
“Sitting around solves nothing. I’d rather be out than hanging around the house all alone.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Reedly opened his menu. “May I order for you?”
Priscilla was amazed at the irony that was Thomas Reedly. The brusque-looking man was compact, not standing more than five-foot-eight. His short stature coupled with a ruddy complexion made him look like a commercial fisherman. Yet, despite his rough exterior, he was a gentle and surprisingly cultured man.
“Sure,” she replied. “But nothing too spicy.”
Reedly gave his order in Spanish to the Hispanic waiter.
“Well,” Priscilla said, “I’m suitably impressed.”
“The Spanish? It helps in my work.”
“How long have you been a police officer?” she asked.
“Seventeen years.”
“Long years?” She blue smoke toward the ceiling. “No. For the most part I enjoy my work. There’s a certain satisfaction in it.”
“Not to mention the occasional thrill.”
Reedly smiled at her insight. “Not to mention the occasional thrill.”
PERCEPTIVE AS PRISCILLA WAS, there was much about Thomas Reedly she didn’t know. In many ways he seemed an anomaly. Those who saw his stocky and rugged appearance might assume him to be ponderously slow. Those who knew him understood otherwise. In some ways Reedly was what he appeared: strong, forceful, and determined. But he had a smooth side that had been cultivated over the years. His was a keen mind that hungered for both knowledge and pleasure. He was as much at home watching science programs like “Nova” on the local Public Broadcasting station as he was watching the Chargers play football. He read widely, preferring novels of depth and current nonfiction to shallow mystery paperbacks, although he would admit to a fondness for Stephen King and Dean Koontz.
Like all men, Reedly was the product of his home and education. Both his father and mother taught in the local middle school and instilled a love of learning in him from his earliest years. He had gone off to college where he majored in English, graduated and, to satiate a patriotic hunger, had entered the military. As an Army officer he served two tours of duty in Vi
etnam as a medic and was decorated twice for heroism. Reedly found no pleasure or comfort in the medals. What others called heroism, he considered duty.
When the Army released him, Reedly returned to school to pursue a master’s degree. With the help of GI benefits, he continued his studies in English and set his mind on teaching. It was while in graduate school at San Diego State that he encountered his first significant disillusionment. Vietnam had divided the U.S., with those who favored a stand against communism in Indonesia squaring off against those who rallied for peace at any price. The disparity of opinion didn’t bother him, but the way the disparity was handled did. Students shouted obscenities and threw stones at the police. This violence against those sworn to protect the lives of those abusing them touched something in the heart of Reedly. He looked at the men in uniform as soldiers who fought a battle against a different enemy, a criminal enemy that often had more rights than the police themselves. He had fought on a foreign land for people he did not know; they fought on their own soil for people they did know.
He felt a kindred connection with the men in the police uniforms he saw at that protest. He felt that they were contributing something rather that just taking from society. And like him, they received no thanks for it. Reedly understood what the police must have felt when some of the citizens they were sworn to protect turned and assailed them with vile verbal abuse. He admired their courage and strength. Six months after his discharge, he was patrolling the streets of San Diego.
Now he was forty-seven years old and still patrolling the streets. Many of those in his academy class had been promoted to detective or higher and were administrating different departments. Reedly turned down those promotions. He liked street work. He liked uniform work. When he retired, he would retire a uniformed officer.
THE WAITER BROUGHT A BOTTLE of red wine to the table. After opening the bottle, the waiter offered the cork to Reedly who gave it a perfunctory sniff and nodded his approval.
After the waiter left, Priscilla asked, “Has he been identified?”
Reedly knew that the “he” she referred to was the assailant who killed Irwin Baker a few weeks before and would have killed Priscilla, had he not been shot by a bullet from Reedly’s service revolver. Priscilla stared at the glass of wine in her hand. It was a painful question for her to ask.
“Yes. He was a small-time crook who did mostly first-story burglaries. Private residences and small businesses mostly. Nothing very complicated.”
“Does anyone know why he was at the Haileys’?”
“Simple burglary, I suppose. Several other houses had been hit recently. There’s been a rash of break-ins throughout the county.”
Priscilla shook her head. “Too big a coincidence. Remember, the Langfords’ home was robbed too.”
“So?”
“So?” Priscilla sounded shocked. “Both the Haileys and the Langfords had a family member healed at Kingston Memorial. Something is going on, and I want to know what it is.”
“All right, suppose you’re correct. What devious plan is afoot?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? I don’t know, but something is up.”
“Well, I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you. Every room in the house was ransacked. Your assailant wasn’t very tidy.”
“When he came out of the house, his hands were empty. Wasn’t there anything in the house worth taking?”
“Plenty. But maybe you surprised him before he could lift anything of value.”
“Not likely. If so, then he would have left behind a carrying bag. Or, if he was stealing televisions and stereos, then those appliances would have been unplugged and moved away from the wall.”
“How do you know they weren’t?”
“Because if they had been, you’d have told me.” She peered seductively over her glass. “Wouldn’t you?”
Reedly laughed. “You are clever, I’ll give you that. All right, it’s true. It appears that he was looking for something specific. Just what, no one knows.”
The waiter brought their deep-fried beef flautas smothered in sour cream and guacamole.
“Boy, this is going to be hard on the diet,” Priscilla said.
“With your level of activity, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” With that, Reedly lifted his glass and toasted, “To health.”
“To truth.” Priscilla countered.
Monday, March 23, 1992; 9:30 P.M.
“IT’S ALL SET,” R.G. said, handing a handwritten note across the desk.
Isaiah quickly read the note. “You don’t think this is too soon?”
“You gotta make hay while the sun shines, my daddy used to say.”
“But this happens Wednesday night.” Isaiah shifted uneasily in his chair.
“That is the beauty of it. You’ll be in San Diego for a crusade anyway. After that just hold on to your hat.”
“You think they’ll buy it?”
“Hook, line, and sinker. Before the end of the week, you’ll be the most sought-after man in the nation.”
“For a price,” Isaiah said.
“For a big price,” R.G. corrected.
Monday, March 23, 1992; 10:45 P.M.
IN LOS ANGELES the Milt Phillips after-show party was underway with its usual imported wines, select cheeses, and exotic hors d’oeuvres. The parties had such a reputation that few guests ever left early. Tonight everyone who had appeared on the show had stayed—including Dr. Charles Cruden, astrophysicist, novelist, lecturer, and popularizer of science.
“Well, Dr. Cruden,” said Milt Phillips, “I see you have again added more admiring souls to your fan club.”
“Stars and starlets still seem such strange company for a scientist. But, I must admit I completely enjoy it.”
Phillips studied Cruden. His physical appearance would have served him well in show business. He had just the right amount of gray at the temples, and just the right build, the right height and weight to be the leading man in most movies. He also had one of the finest minds in the nation. As a Nobel prize winner in astronomy, he was cast into stardom by his best-selling novel, Orion and Me, which was loosely based on his life. Since then he had been a frequent guest on “The Milt Phillips Show,” a late evening talk program that featured the hottest stars and newest comedians. Cruden’s smooth voice and quick wit carried well over the air waves.
“Apparently they enjoy you,” Phillips said. Then, changing his tone, he continued seriously, “You said some pretty harsh things tonight.”
“You mean about the reported hospital healings in San Diego?”
“Yep. I bet you have made a lot of people mad.”
“I was only responding to your questions. Besides, no one can stay popular forever. It’s that kind of hysteria and mumbo jumbo that will catapult our society back to the Dark Ages.”
“You don’t believe that it’s even remotely possible?”
“What? That people with terminal illness are being miraculously healed? Not a chance. I don’t know exactly what’s going on down there, but I do know this—it’s no miracle.”
“Well, I’m not the one to defend the plausibility of miracles, but I do have an idea. How about a special program with you and a couple of people from San Diego—people who are close to the situation—going head to head on the issue? If your schedule will permit.”
“I’ll see that it does,” Cruden said.
EIGHTEEN
Tuesday, March 24, 1992; 8:45 A.M.
“YOU LOOK LIKE DEATH warmed over,” Fannie Meyers said.
“It’s nice to see you too.” Adam picked up his mail from Fannie’s desk. “Any calls?”
“Nothing for you. It’s been pretty quiet actually.”
“Good. I’ve got a busy day.”
Fannie stared at Adam for a moment. “Are you feeling all right? You look beat.”
“I’m fine, thanks. I just didn’t sleep well.” In truth, the dream had returned—the crooked boy pleading for help, and Adam una
ble to even offer words of comfort.
“How about some coffee?”
“That would be nice.” Adam walked through the door that joined his office with Fannie’s. Inside he opened his briefcase and brought out a notepad. He stared at the blank sheet of paper on which he would begin the outline of his sermon. Pulling a Greek New Testament from the bookshelves that lined two of his walls, he immersed himself in the process he had honed over the years: exegesis from the ancient Koine Greek text, formation of an outline, review of commentaries, and finally the sermon’s composition. The process took the better part of two days. Deep in concentration, Adam almost failed to notice Fannie as she brought the coffee he had requested.
Later Fannie entered the office again. “There’s a Dr. Tremaine on the line. She insisted on talking to you now.”
Adam smiled. Insistent was a good word for Rachel. “Thank you, Fannie.” After she left, Adam picked up the phone.
“I hope nothing’s wrong,” Adam said.
“It’s happened again.” Her voice was tense. “I thought you would want to know.”
“You mean another healing?” Adam’s pulse quickened.
“Exactly.”
“What happened?”
“Not over the phone. If you can make it to the hospital tonight, I’ll explain everything.”
“I’ll be there. What time?”
“Eight.”
Adam wondered at her economy of conversation; she was almost monosyllabic.
“Eight it is.”
The line went dead. Adam listened to the dial tone for a moment and then placed the receiver back in its cradle.
“VERY WELL DONE, Dr. Tremaine,” Dr. Morgan said, rising from his chair. “Very well done, indeed. Now all that remains is to see if the Reverend Bridger is our man.”
“I don’t feel good about this,” Rachel said tersely.
“What is there not to feel good about? You are simply trying to help the hospital solve a problem.”
