by Alton Gansky
“You see, we thought Martin was a slow learner—you know, educationally handicapped.” Anna laughed. “He was always in trouble at school for refusing to pay attention or do his work. We just didn’t think he was capable of schoolwork. Martin had always stayed to himself. He didn’t speak until he was nearly six years old, and then it was another three months before he made a complete sentence. He never played with other kids, but would just sit in a chair and stare out the window. Now we know that his mind was thinking great things. Back then, however, we just thought he was slow.”
“Didn’t your parents have him tested by the school psychologist?” Rachel asked.
“Yes, but the results were confusing. His teachers would promote him each year, probably so that they wouldn’t have him back again. Anyway, Pastor Adam was sitting on our couch talking to Martin and me just like you’re sitting there now. Only Adam saw something in Martin, something no one else had seen. And I think that Martin saw something in the pastor. The pastor looked Martin right in the eye and said, ‘You play chess, don’t you?’
“I declare, Doctor, to this day I don’t know how Pastor Adam knew that. You see, Martin had been playing chess since he was five. Our daddy taught him. Within two weeks, Martin could beat my dad. They used to play every day until Dad died—Martin was only six then.”
Anna walked to the mantle over the fireplace and picked up a black and white photo in a plain wood frame and brought it to Rachel. “This is a picture of my father and Martin, taken while they were playing chess. No one could beat Martin. Not that he had many people to play with. But when he did play at school, or when Mom and Dad had friends over, Martin would always win.”
“What did Martin do when Adam asked about the chess?”
“Oh, it was something. Adam said, ‘You play chess, don’t you?’ And Martin said back, ‘Yup.’ That’s all, just, ‘Yup.’ ” Anna grinned and then continued. “Then Adam leaned back in the chair, scratched his chin, and said, ‘I can beat you.’ Then . . .” Anna laughed again and Rachel couldn’t help offering a sympathetic smile. “Then Martin laughed. Doctor, I had never seen Martin laugh before. When he was done laughing, Martin said, ‘No one ever beats me.’ Then the pastor leaned forward and said, ‘I can beat you. In fact, I can beat you almost every time we play. I’ll even put a bet on it.’
“Well, that got Martin’s goat.”
Martin asked, “What kind of bet? Then the pastor leaned back, scratched his chin some more, and then said, ‘If you win, then I have to do whatever you ask. But if I win, then you have to do whatever I ask.’ ”
“What did Martin do with that?”
Anna smiled again. “Martin may lack many things in life, but pride isn’t one of them; since he was just sixteen years old at the time, he was full of teenager pride. He couldn’t turn Adam down. So they played. And do you know what? Adam beat him in thirty minutes. It infuriated Martin, but Adam held him to the bet.”
“What did Adam ask Martin to do?”
“I can answer that.” Anna and Rachel turned to see Adam enter the room. “You shouldn’t be telling this story, Anna.”
“Oh, why not?” Anna said. “You’re just too humble.”
“Still, it makes me sound like too much of a hero. I was just doing what I could.”
“Excuse me,” Rachel broke in. “Will someone tell me what the bet was?”
Anna looked at Adam who just shrugged. Anna spoke first, “He made Martin promise to give his best effort at school for the next thirty days.”
“Martin was a man of his word,” Adam said. “He went back to school, gave it his best, and amazed his teachers. They had assumed what everyone else had assumed—that Martin was learning disabled. I called the school and spoke to the principal and Martin’s teachers. I asked them to give him something really hard to do. When they did, he felt challenged. The rest is history.”
“There’s more than that,” Anna said. “Martin’s ability to learn accelerated. He graduated high school one year later, and college two years after that. But as smart as Martin is, he doesn’t fit well in society. He would never be able to hold down a nine-to-five job. So Pastor made some calls and people started calling Martin for help— and paying too.”
Rachel looked at Adam with a puzzled expression.
“At the time we had an engineering consultant in the church,” Adam said, in response to Rachel’s unspoken question. “He consulted with various aerospace companies. He complained that he was having trouble solving a problem for one of his clients. I asked how much the problem was costing and he told me thousands of dollars a day in delayed production. I suggested he contact Martin. He was leery at first, so I suggested that he retain him based on Martin’s ability to solve the problem. If he couldn’t solve it, then Martin would get nothing. If he did come up with a solution, then Martin would be paid 10 percent of the money saved during the first month. Martin solved the problem in fifteen hours and a business was born. Two. years later he made his first million.”
“Incredible,” Rachel said. “So that’s why he’s willing to help you.”
“I like to think it’s because we’re friends,” Adam said.
“And that’s what it is,” Anna said. “That’s exactly the reason.” Then to Adam she asked, “Will you stay for lunch?”
“Actually, no. There’s a little restaurant I want Dr. Tremaine to see. But thank you.” Adam stood to leave.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Tremaine.” Anna escorted them to the front door. “I hope you will come and visit us again. Good-bye, Pastor.”
TWENTY
Thursday, March 26, 1992; 11:15 A.M.
“THIS WAS THE PLACE you wanted me to see?” Rachel asked, as she looked at the hot dog covered with chili that Adam had handed her.
“No finer food around.” Adam took a large bite.
“Where I come from, a restaurant is far more than a hot dog stand at the beach.”
“My dear Dr. Tremaine,” Adam said feigning shock, “look around you. Here we stand at La Jolla Cove, the prettiest spot in all of San Diego. We have an azure sky for our ceiling, the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean for atmosphere, and the cry of gulls for our music. No dark and dismal restaurant interior for us. Besides, you can get extra onions here.”
“Oh, you do wax poetic.” Rachel took a bite of her hot dog. She found it surprisingly good, although she wouldn’t admit it. She also wouldn’t admit that Adam was right; it was a beautiful day. The blue waves, topped with a fringe of white, rhythmically crashed on shore. The gulls overhead reminded her of the fantasy she often used to relax after a difficult day’s work. Mentally, she walked on the beach often, but physically almost never. “If I ate that many onions, then birds would fall from the sky every time I exhaled.”
“Hmm. There’s a mental picture.”
They left the hot dog stand and strolled along the concrete walkway that paralleled the shore. “So,” she said between bites.
“So, what?”
“So, why are we here? I assume you brought me here for some reason.”
“This is where I come to think. It’s my place to ponder.”
“This thing is really eating you, isn’t it?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so. I can’t get it off my mind. I want the Loraynes back. Somehow, I feel responsible.”
“Responsible? Why would you feel responsible? You didn’t kidnap them.”
“I know. Unfortunately, reason and emotion don’t always mix.” Adam tossed the hot dog wrapper in one of the waste receptacles that populated the meandering walk and clasped his hands behind his back. “Logically, I know that I’m not responsible, yet the feeling is there. It’s a psychological phenomenon that affects many ministers. They see their church members as extended family. They feel responsible to God for the people given to their care.”
“Sounds to me like you’re feeling guilty over something you can’t control. Guilt makes a lousy motivation.”
“It’s not really
guilt that bothers me, it’s the sense of powerlessness. There is so little that I can do. Oh, I can pray, and that’s good. But my heart wants to do more.”
Rachel looked at him. He was a confusing man to her. Physically he wasn’t much to look at, with his thick glasses, square jaw, and receding black hair. Hardly every girl’s dream. Yet, there was something about him. He was self-possessed. He emitted a confidence without being arrogant. He was kind, gentlemanly, intelligent, caring and, as she saw last night in the hospital conference room, he could be quite forceful. His concern was genuine, honest, almost childlike. He would, have made an excellent doctor.
“Look, Adam,” Rachel said quietly. “I’m not much good at comforting, and I’m even worse at counseling. But I think you’re being too hard on yourself. You’ve done more than most people would in your place, even more than other ministers. You’ve worked with the police. You’ve comforted the family. You have even helped me with my work, and I certainly haven’t helped you. You’ve asked your genius friend, odd as he is, to do what he can. What else can you do?”
Rachel deposited her hot dog wrapper in a nearby waste bin and then they walked on in silence. A few moments later Adam stopped and turned toward Rachel.
“I have brought you out here for a reason. There’s something I want to say.” He stared unblinkingly at her face. “It is very important for you to believe that I am not the Healer. I need to find the Healer as much as you. He is the key to the Loraynes. I know that if we can find him, we will have the information we need to find my people.”
“How can you be so sure?” Rachel said stiffly. “You make it sound like a statement of fact.”
“Not fact; faith.” Adam said grinning. “And I need your help.”
Rachel wasn’t sure how to answer. How could she be of help? Actually, it was Adam who had made all the headway. But somehow, she couldn’t turn him down.
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Great,” Adam said jubilantly. They continued their walk. Without comment, Adam took Rachel by the hand. Her first impulse was to pull away, but she didn’t. His hand was warm and firm, and it made her feel wanted. She felt like a schoolgirl who was walking hand-in-hand for the first time.
“IT WOULD BE HELPFUL if you would tell me who you are.” Priscilla cradled the telephone’s handset between her ear and shoulder and looked under the piles of papers on her desk for a note pad.
“I can’t,” the anonymous woman caller said. “I don’t want to lose my job.”
“It is against station policy to respond to anonymous calls.” That was a lie, but Priscilla found an artfully used lie very helpful at times.
“Fine. I’ll call another station,” the caller replied tersely.
“No, wait. All right, you win. Let’s hear it.” Priscilla would have to find out more about her caller in other ways.
“Well, you know that Reverend Paul Isaiah will be in town this weekend and that he is holding a press conference this afternoon at 2:30.”
“Paul Isaiah,” Priscilla said thoughtfully. “You mean the name-it-and-claim-it preacher. Isn’t he the one they call ‘the Reverend of Riches?’ ”
“Reverend Isaiah is a wonderful man,” the voice snapped. “I’ll not listen to him being spoken of disrespectfully.”
“I didn’t mean to offend.” So, my mystery caller is a friend of Paul Isaiah. “Please, go on.”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this, and the only reason that I am is because Reverend Isaiah is too modest to tell you himself.”
“What shouldn’t you be telling me?”
There was a short pause. “He’s the one.”
“The one what?”
“The one you’re looking for. He’s the Healer. He’s the one who’s been healing people in Kingston Memorial Hospital.”
Priscilla felt her pulse quicken. “How do you know that?”
“That’s not important. What is important is how you can know.”
“And how is that?”
“Come to the press conference and ask him. He won’t offer the information but, if confronted, he can’t deny it.”
Priscilla looked across the crowded newsroom, cluttered with desks and office equipment, at a white dry marker board. The board was used for field assignments and listed the event to be covered and the reporter assigned the task. Squinting, she was able to see that the event had been delegated, but she couldn’t make out-the reporter’s name.
“Someone will be there,” she said.
“It would be better if you were there,” the voice said, and then the line went dead.
Friday, March 27, 1992; 2:30 P.M.
IT WAS A SMALL GATHERING; two reporters from local newspapers, three from radio stations, and Priscilla who also brought along a station cameraman. Priscilla was not surprised by the low turnout. It was a heavy news day; an eighty-acre brush fire burned out of control near the Wild Animal Park in Escondido, an F-14 Tomcat fighter jet crashed on a runway at Miramar Naval Air Station, and the San Diego Police SWAT team was negotiating for the lives of hostages being held by a disgruntled employee of an electronics firm in Kearny Mesa.
“This had better be good,” she said to her cameraman, as she sat on a metal folding chair in the back row. She had had to pull a lot of strings with Pham Ho to get him to change the field assignment and allow her to attend this meeting. Pham was going to make a great news director. He was already giving her a bad time about her role at the station. Give Pham time to settle into Irwin’s old job and she might never get her way again.
The press conference was being held in one of the large rooms of the Radisson Hotel in Mission Valley. A small dark wood podium with the hotel’s logo was in front of the room. Priscilla counted fifty chairs. A little optimistic.
A young woman with long straight blond hair and carrying a stack of manila envelopes entered the room. She looked at the six reporters and scowled. She seemed clearly disappointed at the turnout. The woman stepped behind the podium.
“Good afternoon,” the blond said with mock cheerfulness. “We will be starting soon. I have been asked to apologize for our late start, but Reverend Isaiah had an emergency counseling call.” Priscilla looked at her watch; the conference should have started ten minutes earlier.
“In the meantime,” the woman continued, “I will hand out these packets of information. They contain some things you may find helpful.”
When Priscilla opened her packet, she found the usual press kit information: a one-page biography, various sizes of black and white photos of Paul Isaiah, and a brief article about the upcoming “Feel Good about Yourself” campaign in San Diego.
A moment later a short, stout man with piercing gray eyes entered the room. Priscilla recognized him from the publicity photos. He wore a dark blue suit with a yellow silk tie and matching yellow handkerchief in his breast pocket.
“You are certainly gracious people to take time from your busy schedules to attend this conference.”
His voice was clear and pleasant. Each word was enunciated in a way that captivated Priscilla’s attention. If it weren’t for his deep Southern drawl, he would have made a great anchorman on any news program.
“I know professionals like you are pressed for time, so first allow me to apologize for my tardiness, but a man said he would kill himself if I didn’t talk to him—and we couldn’t have that, could we? Oh, before you ask, I am happy to inform you that he is doing fine.”
Priscilla stood and spoke; as she did the cameraman turned on his camera light and intense white light filled the room: “Reverend Isaiah, may I ask a question before we begin?”
“Certainly, Ms. Simms.”
“Are you the one who is responsible for the unusual healings taking place at the Kingston Memorial Hospital?”
Isaiah’s bright and ready smile dissolved from his face. His gray eyes turned cold and hard. “I would really prefer to talk about our upcoming crusade.”
“I have a tip that you may be the Healer,” she
persisted. “Is that true?”
The other reporters shifted nervously, but remained in stunned silence.
“There have been those who have come to our meetings who report physical healings,” Isaiah said coolly.
“Excuse me, Reverend Isaiah. My question deals specifically with the Kingston Memorial Hospital.”
Isaiah fidgeted behind the podium. “I really don’t want to confirm that kind of rumor.”
“Very well, sir.” Priscilla decided to press the point. “If you will not confirm the suspicion, then will you deny it?”
“I think it best that I neither confirm nor deny suspicions.”
“Perhaps you could tell us why you are being so evasive?”
“Discretion is the better part of valor,” Isaiah replied, smiling weakly.
“It could also be misunderstood as deceit.”
Isaiah looked deep into Priscilla’s eyes with near hypnotic effectiveness, then asked in a quiet tone, “Do you think I am deceitful, Ms. Simms?”
Priscilla had been a journalist too long to fall into the trap of public slander. If she answered yes, Isaiah might have grounds to sue her and her station.
“I’m not a judge, only a reporter.”
“Perhaps then we can let the matter drop.”
Not wanting to let the matter drop, Priscilla asked, “So then you deny being the Healer?”
Isaiah stood statue-still behind the rostrum, his face stem, his mouth a tight slit. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he asked, “Does anyone else have a question?”
A young man in a pullover sweater stood. “I do. I’m Ralph Lews from the San Diego Union.”
