by Alton Gansky
When Adam finally returned home, his feet hurt, and his body was weary, but his mind was now clear. He now knew what he must do, and it would begin tomorrow with a phone call to Dr. Rachel Tremaine.
RACHEL WAS FURIOUS: furious with Dr. Morgan for suggesting such a juvenile ploy to trap a man who was so clearly innocent, and furious with herself for acquiescing to the scheme. She had participated in an unethical activity. Adam Bridger would be well within his rights to file a complaint with the hospital board of directors and license review board.
After Adam had left the conference room, the three conspirators sat in stunned silence. None had anticipated his reaction. They had expected him to either confess to being the Healer or, at best, make a meager attempt to explain his actions. Instead, he had dominated the meeting, refusing to be manipulated or verbally abused. Instead of catching Adam in a compromising situation, he had caught them in one. As they sat staring at the door through which Adam had just exited, Rachel gathered her things and walked toward the door.
“Wait a minute,” Dr. Morgan said. “I think we had better talk about this.”
Rachel ignored him and exited the room. It took less than four minutes for her to walk to the elevators, descend to the first floor, leave the building, and get in her car. Two minutes later she was on the freeway headed home. Except she didn’t go home.
As Rachel pulled onto her street, she thought of her home. Inside it she would be warm, cozy, and absolutely alone. Except she didn’t want to be alone—not now. But she didn’t want to talk to anyone either. What she needed was a crowded place where she could get lost. She realized the oxymoronic nature of her thoughts: it was ridiculous to want to be alone in a crowd. From her medical training she knew the root of the compulsion: she wanted a relationship with people, but didn’t want the responsibility or the risk such relationships could bring. That’s why she had no close friends and was cordially estranged from family. While she enjoyed living alone, she had moments when she desired, even hungered for, the warmth of other people. Now was such a time.
The impersonal crowd Rachel was looking for was found in a Mission Valley movie theater. At the ticket window she asked when the next show started but not the name of the movie. She purchased a ticket to Bully, a new comedy starring Michael Keaton as a self-serving, womanizing vice-president who suddenly becomes president of the United States, and becomes a better person through the advice and intervention of the ghost of Teddy Roosevelt, played by a horribly miscast Mel Gibson.
The movie was of no consequence to Rachel; she just wanted to be some place other than home or the hospital. At the snack bar she bought a large popcorn, two boxes of bon-bons, and a diet cola. In the darkened theater she sat in the back row and munched the popcorn furiously in a subconscious effort to release pent-up anxiety. The scene at the hospital replayed itself repeatedly in her mind, and every time it did, she filled her mouth with popcorn. Halfway through the movie and the second box of bon-bons, Rachel felt more composed and watched the movie with growing interest. It didn’t take long for her to understand the writer’s point: people can change. In the movie, the ghost of Teddy Roosevelt was encouraging the reluctant new president to seize control of his life and his destiny, and in the process find out that there was more to life than he had ever experienced.
That’s what I need, someone to keep me from making a fool of myself. By the end of the show, Rachel was still angry, but her ire was controlled. The movie had given her time to distance herself from the day’s events. It had also given her a new perspective. Maybe she could make changes in her life. It’s a shame there’s not a friendly ghost to guide me.
Twenty minutes later, Rachel was home—with a stomachache.
Wednesday, March 25, 1992; 8:00 A.M.
SHE HAD ATTEMPTED TO apologize, when he had called at 8 the next morning, but Adam wouldn’t allow it. It was clear that she was sincere when she said, “I’m sorry.” After some coaxing he had been able to convince her to meet him.
“Just trust me,” he had said. “There’s someone I want you to meet. He may help us both solve our problems.”
“Who is he and what can he do about finding our mysterious Healer?” Her voice revealed her weariness.
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. Just show up at the address I gave you. I promise, you won’t be disappointed.”
“When?”
“Ten o’clock this morning.”
“What if I have rounds this morning?”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Good. I’ll see you there.” Adam hung up and smiled.
Wednesday, March 25, 1992; 10:00 A.M.
“INCREDIBLE,” RACHEL SAID, her eyes wide in amazement. Before her was the largest house she had ever seen. From the La Jolla address Adam had given, she had guessed that they would be meeting at an expensive home, but this was more than she could have imagined. The house, its copper roof weathered to an emerald green, was an architect’s dream. Thin, fixed windows, tinted against the sun, provided a panoramic view on the manicured landscape and the blue Pacific ocean. Cedar siding graced the walls, and sculptured Egyptian dogs lined the long driveway and walkway.
“It takes your breath away, doesn’t it?” Adam took Rachel by the arm and ushered her up the winding sidewalk. He pushed the doorbell next to two massive oak doors. The doorbell chimed several bars of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, causing Rachel to look at Adam and roll her eyes. A moment later one of the doors swung open.
“Martin,” Adam said jovially, “it’s good to see that you still open your own doors.”
“Come in, Adam. I’ve been expecting you.”
When they entered the foyer, Adam said, “Martin, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Dr. Rachel Tremaine. Rachel, this is Martin St. James, our host.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. Tremaine. May I fix you anything to drink?”
Rachel studied the man for a moment. He had a thin, blond beard; his face was narrow and drawn, punctuated with bright blue eyes. He reminded Rachel of the stereotypical nerd.
“Coffee would be nice,” she responded.
“Anna,” he called, “will get you some coffee. How about you, Adam?”
“No thanks. I had a late breakfast.”
Martin nodded. “Please, let’s go into the living room.”
Martin led them from the foyer into a massive room dominated by a circular fireplace and a spectacular view of the ocean and shoreline known as Black’s Beach. The room could only be described as opulent. French impressionist art hung on any wall that was not windowed. One wall was a tinted window from the floor to the ceiling which towered twenty feet above them. Several Persian rugs were strategically placed on the floor. Martin led them to a white leather divan that was situated to allow the best view of the ocean.
“Your home is,” Rachel paused for the right word, “remarkable.”
“Thank you,” Martin responded with a slight grin. “It’s all Anna’s doing. She really has a knack for decorating. I don’t have a head for such things. Speaking of Anna, I think I’ll go see if I can find her.” Turning to Adam he asked, “Sure I can’t get you anything?”
“Positive, but thanks anyway.”
Martin nodded and exited the room.
“If you don’t mind me saying so,” Adam said, “you look positively shell-shocked.”
“This place is incredible.” Rather than sitting down, Rachel wandered from painting to painting. “I don’t believe it.”
“What don’t you believe?”
“This painting. It’s . . . it’s a Monet.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about art.”
“You’d have to be an idiot not to know Monet.”
“If the shoe fits.”
“I’m sorry,” Rachel said softly, joining Adam on the couch. “That’s twice I’ve apologized today.”
“That’s okay, pastors develop thick skins early in their ministries.”
“It’s j
ust that that painting must be worth thousands, maybe even millions.”
“I don’t doubt it. I’m sure he could afford several more.”
“Several more?”
“When a man makes $150 million in one year, he can afford many things.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “What does he do to make that much money? He can’t be more than thirty years old.”
“Twenty-eight actually; and the best way to describe what he does to make all that money is to say that he’s a problem-solver.”
A quizzical look shadowed Rachel’s face. “He solves other people’s problems? What kind of problems?”
“Many kinds. He has solved problems for computer designers, electrical engineers, and even medical researchers. You see, he is a bona fide genius in certain fields. He has this magnificent capacity to take complicated problems and reduce them to simple terms—simple for him, anyway—and find solutions. When a research organization or technical business comes across a problem their people can’t handle, they call on Martin.”
“And he can solve any kind of problem?”
“No. He’d be the first to admit that he’s not omniscient. He is, however, very good with electrical/mechanical problems. He has a true photographic memory. If he sees, hears, or reads something, then it is forever locked away in his brain.”
“He must be an incredible scientist,” Rachel said.
“Actually, I’m not a scientist at all.” Adam and Rachel turned to see Martin enter the room accompanied by a heavyset woman with a thin mouth, puffy eyes, and dark, tightly curled hair. She was carrying a serving tray with a crystal pot and several china cups. “I’m really an artist of sorts. Or, a technician if you prefer. You see, a scientist is one who adds to the body of humankind’s knowledge. Artists and technicians use the available knowledge to achieve some end. Just like doctors. Most medical doctors are not scientists.”
“I don’t wish to be rude,” Rachel commented coolly, “but I’m not sure I can agree with that.”
“All right,” Martin’s blue eyes sparkled. “Adam tells me that you are a surgeon. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you think you are a scientist?” Martin continued.
“Yes, again.”
“Do you agree with me that the purpose of science is to increase humankind’s knowledge about the world around it?”
Rachel nodded.
“Does your daily professional work add to medicine’s body of knowledge?”
“Well,” Rachel said tentatively, “I spend a great deal of time reviewing medical journals and papers. I also attend conferences to increase my knowledge of surgical procedures. In addition I . . .”
“Excuse me,” Martin interrupted. “But how is that science?”
“It’s science because I’ve increased the body of knowledge,” Rachel responded pointedly.
“You’ve increased your personal knowledge, but you’ve added nothing to knowledge as a whole. Actually, all you’ve done is master what others have discovered.”
Rachel desperately tried to think of something to bolster her argument, but came up empty-handed.
“You see, most medical doctors are technicians—highly skilled and highly trained, of course—but technicians, nonetheless. I don’t say this to demean your profession; on the contrary, I owe a great deal to your vocation.”
Rachel looked at Adam who sat silently smiling.
“If you’re done torturing our guest with your logic,” Anna St. James said, speaking for the first time, “I would like to introduce myself.” Turning to Rachel she extended her hand. “I’m Anna, Martin’s sister. Please don’t mind Martin; all of this is a game to him.”
“Perhaps your brother should consider a career in law,” Rachel said.
“Actually, several lawyers have utilized Martin’s gift,” Anna said, handing a cup of coffee to Rachel. “Cream and sugar?” Rachel shook her head no.
“Anna runs the house,” Martin said. “As I’ve said, I have no head for such things.”
“God created your head for loftier things, Martin,” Anna said as she poured three cups of coffee.
“Perhaps,” Martin replied. “But Adam and Rachel did not come here to talk about me.” Turning to Adam he said, “On the phone you said that you needed my help with a problem. I will do whatever I can to aid you.”
“Thank you,” Adam’s tone turned serious. He related all that he knew about the unknown Healer of Kingston Memorial Hospital, David Lorayne’s healing and kidnapping, and Rachel’s involvement with the hospital. He also told Martin of the other hospitals that had had similar occurrences. He read from the paper on which he had compiled the information from the newspaper reports. With eyes closed, Martin listened intently.
When Adam had finished, no one spoke. Martin, eyes still closed, sat motionless. Rachel watched him carefully, wondering if he were asleep. After several minutes Martin broke the silence. “Dr. Tremaine, do you have anything to offer?”
Rachel felt ill at ease. At first she had convinced herself that she would not offer any information, but being confronted with a direct question, she realized that she had nothing to render. In many ways Adam knew more than she. She had the medical charts, but they revealed nothing of substance—only that very sick people were now very well.
“No,” she replied simply.
“Does that mean you have nothing of worth to offer,” Martin asked pointedly, “or that you have information you wish to harbor?”
Rachel wanted to hate him. Not only was he forcing her to realize her ignorance, but to admit it publicly as well. “I have nothing additional to offer.” It was the best answer she could give.
“I don’t wish to be a rude host,” Martin said suddenly as he jumped from the couch. “But this situation presents some interesting challenges, and I wish to give it my full attention". Anna will take care of you. It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Tremaine. I’ll let you know when I have something for you. Stop by again, Adam, and we’ll play chess; maybe I can win one for a change.”
Without another word, Martin exited the room. “Would you like to stay for lunch?” Anna asked. “I can fix some salads.”
“Do you think you can actually get Martin to eat?” Adam asked, laughing. “You’re always complaining that when he has his mind on something he doesn’t eat properly.”
“He doesn’t.” Anna scowled. “It’s horrible. I’ve seen him go three days without touching a morsel of food.” A smile came to Anna’s face. “But I’ve finally found a way to make him eat.”
“This I’ve got to hear.” Adam leaned forward on the couch.
“Well, it’s really quite simple. I’m surprised that I hadn’t thought of it before. All I do is turn on every television and radio in the house. The noise drives him crazy. He figures it’s worth sacrificing a little time to eat rather than have to put up with all that ruckus.”
“What are you going to do when he finds a way of turning all those things off from his think tank?”
“Think tank?” Rachel asked.
“It’s where Martin goes to work on a project,” Adam responded. “I’ve been in there only once. It’s a small room with only a desk and an easy chair. In there he can shut out the world and give full attention to the problem he’s trying to solve.”
“I would have thought it would be filled with computers,” Rachel commented.
“Martin has computers, but he doesn’t use them often,” Anna said. “He says they’re terribly slow.”
They drank their coffee and made small talk until Adam arose. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I need to find the little preacher’s room.”
“Do you remember where it is?” Anna asked.
“Sure.”
After Adam had left the room, Rachel and Anna chatted about Rachel’s work, and about the lovely view out the window. The conversation died for a few moments as they watched a man float by suspended from his brightly colored delta-wing hang glider.
/> “They fly by all the time,” Anna said. “The Torrey Pines glider port isn’t far from here.”
“Do you ever tire of looking at the ocean?” Rachel asked.
“No, never. We’re not from a rich family. Actually things had been pretty tight for us until Pastor Bridger came along. He’s responsible for all this.”
“Adam?” Rachel was bewildered. “I don’t understand.”
“Oh, he hasn’t told you about what he did for us? Of course not. He’s too humble.” Anna poured more coffee into Rachel’s cup. “We’re indebted to the pastor. If it weren’t for him, things would be a lot different for us.”
“How so?” Rachel asked.
“I’m twenty years older than Martin and I’ve taken care of him since our mother died. The funeral home asked us who our minister was and we were at a loss. Ours was not a religious family. I had been to church only a few times with friends; Martin had never been. In fact, Martin has still never been to church.” Anna smiled, then said, “You can keep him in your prayers.”
Although Rachel felt like saying that she kept no prayers, she held her tongue and asked instead, “You’re not members of Adam’s church?”
“Oh, I am now, but not Martin. He doesn’t see much use for church. He’s a pure pragmatist, but we haven’t given up hope.”
This struck Rachel as odd. She had assumed that Adam would be interested only in those who shared his religious views. Yet here he was a friend to someone who was antagonistic to those beliefs.
“Anyway,” Anna said, “the funeral director recommended Adam. We said fine. Adam called on the phone that night. I was still pretty upset. I mean, I had to take care of Martin, and the only income I had came from waiting on tables at a local Denny’s. He listened as I told him all my woes. I told him about Martin who had just decided he was quitting school. He said he only went to school to make Mom happy and now she was gone. The next day, Adam came by to visit and ask us some questions. You know, questions about what we wanted in the funeral service. He also wanted to see how we were doing. We were living in North Park back then, in an apartment. Adam took a liking to Martin right away, and that wasn’t easy to do. You may have noticed how blunt Martin is. Back then he refused to talk to most people, and when he did talk, he often said cruel things.
