by Alton Gansky
“Tell us, Ms. Larsons,” Phillips said, “just what is your take on all of this?”
Smiling, Amelia responded, “Well, I have to agree with Reverend Bridger: miracles can and do happen. You see, the universe is filled with energy, and each of us can tap into that energy. By learning some of the ancient principles taught to us by spiritual people of eons ago, plus what we learn new every day, we can harness the healing force of the universe. It hinges on getting in touch with ourselves and our past selves—I mean our former lives. The people in San Diego have learned to let the tides of the universe flow through them: ebb and flow and flow and ebb. Perhaps this is the dawning of a new and enlightened age.”
Her comment was greeted with silence. After a moment Phillips said to Adam, “So you and Amelia are in basic agreement?”
Adam looked at Amelia, then at Phillips. He then looked at Dr. Cruden who surrendered a small smile. Adam blinked several times trying to make sense of Amelia’s statements, then said, “I don’t think we are in agreement. We both believe in miracles, but my belief is in biblical miracles: God using His power to achieve a holy end. The source of the miracle is not an impersonal force to be tapped into like someone harvesting syrup from a maple tree. Besides, these people who have been healed were healed unexpectedly. Two were unconscious at the time and the other two were awakened from a sleep and saw a man standing over them. No, someone is the Healer.”
Cruden spoke up, “It all sounds like nonsense to me. It’s all basically the same mumbo jumbo.”
“We are all spiritual beings,” Amelia said. “Reverend Bridger’s views may be a little narrow and biased, but he is right when he says that miracles happen.”
Adam looked at Amelia for a moment. She gave him a quick smile and a knowing wink. He guessed she was trying to be helpful and to divide the panel into “those wooden-headed scientists” against “we enlightened spiritual leaders,” but he didn’t want his words and beliefs confused with hers. To some they must have seemed very much alike, when they couldn’t have been any further apart.
Phillips stepped into the audience for questions and comments. The crowd seemed evenly divided between rationalists and believers. One man accused Adam of propagating myth and preying on the weak-minded for pecuniary gain; he was booed into silence.
Several questions were directed to the other guests, but center stage clearly belonged to Adam and Dr. Cruden, with Cruden dominating the taping with rapid-fire questions and a fountain of facts. Fifty minutes and six commercial breaks later, Phillips turned to face the camera: “Reverend Bridger has asked for a few moments at the end of the program to deliver a very special message. We now allow him that time.”
Adam looked directly into the camera and spoke in even, somber tones.
“Regardless of the various views put forth here, one fact remains concerning the healings at Kingston Memorial Hospital: someone is abducting patients who have been healed. My statement today is short and very simple. If the abductor of these innocent people is listening, I plead with you; please release them.
“By now, I’m sure you are aware that they can tell you nothing of value. Their healings are as mysterious to them as they are to the rest of us. I don’t know what it is you want, but surely these people can be of no service to you. Please, I beg of you, release the hostages.
“If need be, you can contact me at Maple Street Community Church in San Diego. I will do whatever I can to obtain the release of those you hold. Call me. You can trust me.”
Adam sat back in his chair signaling the end of his speech. The set was quiet for a moment. Then Phillips spoke. “I think we all can say ‘Amen’ to that, Reverend.” Then, to the camera, “This has been the Milt Phillips Show. Thank you for joining us.”
The show’s theme played in the background. A moment later the red light on the camera blinked out.
“That’s it, folks,” Margo shouted to the workers. “Let’s wrap it up.”
Dr. Cruden walked to Adam and shook his hand. “Well, Reverend, you have made a worthy opponent. It is obvious that we have some serious disagreements, but those notwithstanding, I hope you get your people back.” Despite Cruden’s kind words, it was obvious that he was angry.
“Thank you,” Adam replied simply.
The others gathered around to offer support and best wishes. Then, one by one, they left to go back to their own worlds. Adam wondered if all of this had done any good. Alone, he left the stage and the studio and began the two-hour drive home.
Thirty
Wednesday, April 1, 1992; 4:00 P.M.
ADAM ARRIVED HOME SHORTLY after 4 that afternoon. The taping of the Milt Phillips Show was done earlier than usual, allowing Adam to start home while the other guests attended a post-show party. Adam had been in no mood to party. He had taken his time driving back, allowing his mind to mull over the events of recent days. Wearied from his trip to Los Angeles and still depressed over the exchange with Rachel the night before, Adam desired only a quiet evening and a good night’s sleep.
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 letter
s, 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 gonn
a 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.”
