By My Hands

by Alton Gansky

  “I wish I could do more,” she said.

  “You can pray for me.”

  Priscilla laughed lightly. “I haven’t prayed since I was a child. I may need to be reintroduced to God.”

  “I’m sure He remembers you.”

  For a long moment, Priscilla gazed at this unusual man before her. His confidence was genuine, not the false bravado of a man trying to impress those around him. He possessed a quiet assurance that spoke of inner strength and certainty. He was not the hero type; his thick glasses reflected the studio lights and the deep lines around his eyes revealed years of intense reading and study. He certainly didn’t seem like a man about to place himself in the midst of a lethal unknown.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Milt Phillips said, stepping onto the set. “You know you really upset Dr. Cruden. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man so angry.”

  “That wasn’t my intention,” Adam said, rising and shaking Phillip’s hand.

  “I know, but it makes great television.” Phillip, laughed. “Mr. Phillips,” Adam said, “I’d like you to meet Priscilla Simms. She’s the news anchor for the station.”

  “Yes, I recognize her. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “I watch your show all the time,” Priscilla lied. “You have a lot of fans in San Diego.”

  “Well, if they’re all as good-looking as you, I may just move my show down here permanently.” Then to Adam he said, “I thought you might like to know that we have arranged a direct feed to L.A. We’ll record here and electronically send it back to our own station. What we tape this afternoon will be broadcast this evening in place of what we taped earlier today.”

  “So everyone will think that it’s a normal program?”

  “Well, since you’re the only guest, it will seem a little unusual, but I’ll state at the beginning of the show that this is a special interview. Sorta like a news scoop. In addition to that, we’ve notified all the key news stations as well as the papers. If our kidnappers don’t watch my show, then they’re sure to catch it on the news.”

  Adam nodded. “When do we begin?”

  “In about five minutes. Think you’ll be ready by then?”

  “Yes, but I need a few minutes to myself.”

  “Certainly.” Phillips stepped from the set.

  Priscilla hesitated a moment and then said, “Good luck and Godspeed.”

  Adam leaned back in the studio chair and, closing his eyes, silently prayed.

  FROM A DARKENED CORNER of the studio, Agent Greene watched Adam’s still figure and wondered if he too shouldn’t pray.

  Thirty-One

  Wednesday, April 1, 1992; 6:15 P.M.

  THE NINETY-MINUTE TAPING PASSED quickly with a minimum of retakes. Adam played his part well, acting reserved and cautious when needed. Milt Phillips proved to be a consummate actor, prying deeply into each comment Adam made and appearing both amazed and skeptical.

  The premise of the program was simple: Adam Bridger, pastor and counselor, was the Healer, revealing himself now to stop the kidnappings. Without rehearsal, Adam was able to answer every question Phillips presented to him. Each answer was convincing and captivating. When the show ended, tens of thousands of viewers believed that Adam Bridger was indeed the mystery Healer of Kingston Memorial Hospital.

  “I must admit,” Phillips said, rising from his chair, “that you almost had me persuaded. And if you can do that, then the people out there will believe it.”

  “I just hope the right people believe it,” Adam said somberly.

  “Why shouldn’t they?”

  Adam didn’t answer. His thoughts were shrouded in fear.

  Priscilla made her way from behind the cameras to the set. “If you ever give up preaching, you can make a career in television.” Adam responded with a smile. “I hope everything works out for you,” she continued. “You’re a very brave man, Adam.”

  “Not brave, Ms. Simms, just desperate.”

  “If you’re ready,” Agent Greene said, stepping onto the lighted set, “I have several things to discuss with you.”

  “Certainly,” Adam said. “If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Simms.”

  “Priscilla. Please call me Priscilla.” Stepping toward Adam, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Take care, Reverend. Remember, you promised me a story.”

  Adam blushed. “Thank you.”

  Turning, he followed Greene through a crowded newsroom filled with people preparing for the 5 o’clock news.

  “We’ve allowed this station to ‘leak’ the story during their news broadcasts,” Greene said somberly. “The other stations will run it after the Milt Phillips Show.”

  Once inside the dressing room, Greene turned and locked the door. Reaching inside his suit coat pocket, he pulled out a small, gray box and two small, tightly rolled coils of wire.

  “This is your wire,” Greene said. “You’re to wear it at all times. And I mean all times. I want to be able to hear you snore, eat corn flakes, and burp. There will be two cars with agents at your place twenty-four hours a day until this thing is over. When you go for a drive, those cars will follow you.”

  “Discreetly, I hope,” Adam said, removing his shirt and tie. “You won’t even know they’re there.”

  “How will I be able to tell the good guys from the bad?”

  “You won’t.” Greene taped the small transmitter to Adam’s undershirt. Then, running one wire under Adam’s arm, he taped a small microphone to his chest. “This last wire that I’m taping to your back is the antenna.”

  Greene finished affixing the microphone and transmitter and handed Adam his shirt.

  “Now what?” Adam asked.

  “Now we wait,” Greene said stoically. “You go about your usual business as best you can, and we will be close by. When and if they nab you, we follow the signal of your transmitter, and we bag ’em.”

  “Best I can?” Adam was puzzled. “What do you mean, ‘Go about my business as best I can?’”

  “You don’t think the only people watching the show are the kidnappers, do you?” Greene shook his head in disbelief. “When that program airs in a few hours, thousands of people will believe that you can heal every disease known to man. Do you really think your life will ever be the same?”

  Adam’s mind filled with images of the hospital lobby. Hundreds of people waiting for an unknown Healer. What would they do now that they had a name? He had been too absorbed in his plan to think of that. In an attempt to help a few, did he coldly and falsely build up the hopes of the many? Hopes that could never be realized?

  A face filled Adam’s mind: the small, haunting face of a crooked little boy.

  Wednesday, April 1, 1992; 11:45 P.M.

  NO MORE THAN TEN MINUTES had passed after the program aired when it happened. The flood-gates of anxious, hurting people burst forth into Adam’s life. Telephone call after telephone call came; calls which Adam could never answer. The phone would ring eight, nine, ten times and then stop only to start ringing again. The sound of the ringing echoed off the walls and through his tender soul, and with each ringing, Adam’s stomach tightened.

  “What have I done?” he asked the empty room. “I can’t talk to these people. I can’t help them. Dear God, I’ve built them up only to dash their hopes again. They’ll think I’m a sadistic fiend.”

  The phone rang again. Adam turned the ringer off, so that he at least didn’t have to hear it. For the first time ever, he wished he had an unlisted number.

  In the new silence Adam stood—alone, his sensitive emotions bleeding within him. His stomach, encouraged by unbridled feelings, rebelled, sending searing pains through his abdomen and back. Stepping into his bathroom, he pulled a small, brown plastic medicine bottle down and removed one yellow and pink capsule. Throwing the capsule to the back of his throat, he swallowed hard. The doctor had prescribed Axid once for an ulcer; now he was glad that he kept a supply on hand.

  I’m committed now, he thought. All I can
do is follow through with the plan. Adam felt exhausted. “Sleep,” he said aloud. “I need sleep.”

  The days and nights of the last few weeks had taken their toll. Adam’s mind was sluggish and his emotions raw. He desired nothing more than to close his eyes in long, quiet slumber that would take away his troubles. Perhaps when he awoke, he would find his world normal once again . . . a world with no kidnappings and murders; no mysterious Healers and crooked little boys. Adam leaned against the bathroom wall and slowly slid down until he sat on the tile floor. A moment later he dozed.

  A banging on the door startled Adam. Had he imagined the sound? The banging continued, followed by a muffled voice. Could this be it? Could it be the kidnappers outside his door? He reminded himself that these kidnappers were also killers; he had to be careful. Slowly he approached the door and listened. He could hear a woman’s voice, “Please, Healer; you’ve got to help me!”

  Adam wondered how a stranger could find him at home. Then he remembered—in the new phone book he had included his home address as well as the churches. If one person had found him, then others would also. The thought shook him to the bone.

  Another voice filtered through the door. “I was here first; go away!” the first voice shrieked. It was the woman’s voice.

  “No, you don’t understand,” said the second voice in raspy tones. “I simply must see the Healer.” Adam guessed the second one was an elderly man.

  “I don’t care. I was here first.”

  “Please, it’s a matter of life and death. My death.”

  “My daughter needs him more than you do.”

  Adam listened as the two argued. All he had wanted to do was help, to have Rachel and the others returned safely. Now, he questioned his actions. Outside his door stood the pitiful and the pained, those for whom hope was a word used by those who could not understand their anguish.

  “Is this the Healer’s placer A new voice sifted through the door.

  “I’ve got to see him. Is he in?”

  “Wait your turn,” the elderly voice shouted bitterly. “We were here first.”

  The pounding and yelling continued. For Adam, the minutes passed like epochs full of guilt, fear, and pain. New voices arrived, some heavy with accent, others young and pitiful.

  Adam’s imagination, vivid from weariness and raw emotion, ran wild. Slowly he raised himself up and peered out the peephole. There the lame and infirm were pushing, shouting, trying to reach a man who had lied to them—a man who could give them nothing more than despair. Adam watched as a woman raised one red and dilated eye to the peephole and tried to peer into the apartment. Adam pulled back quickly, his heart thundering.

  Being a good minister required a sensitive spirit, a tender heart that allowed for true empathy. That tender heart and sensitive spirit now betrayed Adam. It squeezed and crushed him. Every cry, every knock on the door, every overheard argument echoed in his brain and reverberated in his heart. Every plea pierced his brain like a fiery arrow, and burned through his soul. He tried to ease his flood of guilt, to quiet his searing conviction, but to no avail. Slowly, Adam crouched on the floor alone and wept, deep and bitter sobs. Hot tears came unbidden to his eyes. Then Adam wished the unforgivable: he wished for his own death.

  A minute later, or an hour, Adam didn’t know, the cacophony ended. Had they gone? Once again, Adam placed his ear to the door and heard a voice outside. It was the small, innocent voice of a child sounding like a lone trumpet in the darkness.

  “Will the Healer make me well, Mommy? Will he make the pain stop? Will I be able to run with the other children? Will I be able to play ball? I want to be able to run in the park.”

  Adam did not hear the answer. Stifling the scream that welled up in him with volcanic force, he ran to the back of the apartment and out the back door. In the darkness Adam did not see the man who slept on his back landing. His foot caught the man’s reclined body, and Adam fell hard to the ground. He felt the air leave his lungs and the stony ground scrape away the flesh from his palms. Stunned, Adam stood, shook his head, and gasped for air.

  “It’s him!” someone shouted. “It must be him!”

  Adam sprinted for the back fence and scaled it quickly, his raw hands injured all the more by the rough wood wall.

  “He’s running away. Wait, please come back. Don’t go. I need you.”

  Tears raced down Adam’s face as he ran blindly through his neighbor’s backyard, past the house and into the street. Behind him, he could hear voices calling to him, pleading with him to return. But Adam continued to run, not knowing where he was going. He just had to get away.

  Lost in his torment, Adam didn’t notice the dark sedan following behind. A mile later he collapsed in the street, lost in the tumultuous sea of guilt. He lay quietly on the still warm asphalt.

  The car behind him stopped. Two men, one with a black goatee, the other short and fat, got out and walked to the prone figure in the street.

  “Turn him over so I can see his face.”

  The other man rolled Adam onto his back.

  “Please,” Adam said deliriously, “I can’t help you. I want to, but I can’t. Don’t you understand? I just can’t.”

  “Recognize him?”

  “Yeah,” the short man said. “It’s him, all right.”

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “Dunno. Nuts I guess.”

  “Well, at least he saved us the trouble of breaking into his house. That woulda been hard, with all those people.”

  “Yeah. Mohammed came to the mountain this time.”

  “Well, we better make sure he stays quiet for awhile.” Crouching over Adam, the bearded man raised a fist high above his head and let it hover for a moment. Adam opened his eyes just in time to see the plummeting fist. Instinctively, he moved his head to the side. His assailant’s fist slammed into the asphalt street with bone-cracking force.

  Screaming in pain, the man bolted upright, gazed at his bleeding hand, then in uncontrolled rage began kicking Adam. With each kick Adam recoiled in pain. One kick landed just under the ribs, paralyzing his diaphragm and leaving him desperately gasping for air. Another kick landed just under his left temple and darkness filled Adam’s mind.

  THE KICKING LASTED ANOTHER minute; then the goateed man, holding his broken and bloody hand, stopped and gazed at the unmoving form on the ground. Slowly, he reached down and touched Adam’s neck, feeling for a sign of life. “He still has a pulse,” he said. “Get him into the car.”

  The fat man hoisted Adam over his shoulder and threw him in the backseat of the sedan. Then the man paused and looked puzzled.

  “Hurry it up, will you?” The other man said. “My hand’s killing me.”

  “What’s this?”

  “What’s what?”

  “This.” The fat man patted Adam’s chest, feeling the microphone. Then with a jerk he ripped open Adam’s shirt and gazed at the electronics taped to Adam’s undershirt. “He’s wired for sound.”

  “Get rid of it quick, and let’s get out of here.”

  The fat man grabbed the tape and yanked. The tape held, the shirt ripped. A moment later the car sped off.

  “UNBELIEVABLE.” Greene uttered under his breath.

  Special Agent Norman Greene walked through the rubble that had been Adam Bridger’s furniture and personal belongings. The room had been ransacked, not by thieves but by a mass of people intent on finding one man. Police were milling in and around the apartment. They had been called to break up the crowds and now they stood around in bewilderment, trying to make sense of the situation.

  “They really did a number on the place, didn’t they?”

  Greene looked coldly at the young agent who spoke. “Where were you when all this was going on?”

  The question caught him off guard. This had been his first real assignment since coming to the FBI. Now he felt responsible for losing the one he had been assigned to protect. “Agent Baker and I were monitoring his transmissions.
We didn’t realize that he had left until we heard him gasping for air and then the struggle.” Patrick Morris had already given Greene the pertinent facts . . . the gathering crowds, Adam’s weeping, and finally his desperate attempt to flee the pitiful people outside his door who would give him no peace.

  For Adam, a man trained to care for and hurt with others, it must have been sheer torment to listen to the constant cries for help.

  “We were ordered not to interfere until Reverend Bridger was abducted,” Morris continued. “We were only doing as we were told.”

  “I know,” Greene said solemnly. “I was a fool to let myself get talked into this. The question now is: Where is Adam Bridger?”

  “We lost the signal soon after he left his home. One of our people found the transmitter in the middle of a nearby street.”

  There was an uneasy silence. Then Morris voiced what was already common knowledge, “They’ve got him, and we don’t know where he is.”

  A GENTLE HAND STROKED Adam’s hair, slowly and tenderly moving from forehead to ear. The hand was joined by another hand, and then another. The tender strokes changed, moving from caressing to tugging, pulling, vicious hands. Soon there were ten hands, then a hundred, then a thousand disembodied hands pulling, grabbing, reaching through the darkness.

  Adam attempted to run into the duskiness that engulfed him, but the hands were everywhere pulling at his clothes and limbs. The hands scratched his face and clutch his throat. Several clawed at the skin of his chest and back.

  “You forgot me,” said a childish voice. “You forgot all about me, didn’t you? You’re supposed to help people, but you forgot me—left me.”

  “Who are you?” Adam shouted, covering his eyes from the probing hands.

  “The forgotten,” the voice said sadly. “One of the forgotten who needed you. You should have cared. Isn’t that what you teach your people . . . to care?”

  Suddenly, a figure appeared in the black distance, a tiny figure surrounded by a small light, but too distant for Adam to identify. Adam tried to cover his eyes again, but the other hands viciously pulled them away.