By My Hands

by Alton Gansky

  “Look at me,” the infantile voice commanded. “Why didn’t you help me? Why did you leave me?”

  The illuminated figure grew larger as it approached until a misshapen child stood before him. “Why did you forget me?”

  “I . . . I didn’t,” Adam cried. “There was nothing I could do. I wanted to help but I couldn’t. It’s not my fault.”

  “But you forgot me.”

  “No, I didn’t. I’m helpless. I’m not who you think I am.”

  “You forgot me,” the crooked boy repeated. “Forgot. Forgot. Forgot.” The boy chanted in a taunting rhythm. Soon thousands of others chanted in a cacophony of voices, “Forgot, forgot . . .”

  “It’s not my fault,” Adam screamed. “It’s not my fault.”

  Adam bolted upright, eyes wide in terror, his dream still vivid and echoing in his mind. A second later he noticed the searing pain in his side and the pounding of his head.

  “Easy, Adam,” a familiar voice said. “You’re not in any shape to be doing sit-ups. I think you were dreaming.”

  Turning to face the voice, he saw Rachel. They were sitting on the floor. Blood stained her Yale sweatshirt and jeans—his blood. It occurred to Adam that Rachel had been cradling his head while he was unconscious. She must have been stroking his hair. “Thank God you’re alive.”

  “You’d better lie down again,” she said tenderly. “I’m afraid they messed you up badly. You have at least two broken ribs and a broken nose. I don’t think there are internal injuries, but I can’t be sure. For a while, I was afraid you were going to slip into a coma.”

  Rather than lying down, Adam struggled to his feet. His side and head protested. He was having trouble seeing. Touching his face, he discovered his left eye was swollen shut and his right eye was filled with tears. He blinked away the bleariness in his good eye and looked around.

  There were other people in the room. Willing himself to concentrate, his vision cleared, and he saw the concerned faces of David and Ann Lorayne. Adam smiled weakly and, in a false show of bravado, said, “I’ve come to see why you haven’t been in church lately.” Continuing to scan the room, he saw another elderly couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Langford, I presume.” They nodded.

  A man stood and approached Adam. “My name’s Hailey, John Hailey. This is my wife, Judy, and my daughter, Lisa. I take it you’re not with the police?”

  Adam shook his head slowly. In a corner of the room, Adam recognized the Gowan family. Seeing them brought back the ghastly scene in their home.

  “Where are we?” he asked quietly.

  Rachel got up from her place on the floor. “We’re on a boat headed out to sea.”

  Adam paused as he digested the information. He was still groggy from his beating. Adam had noticed the swaying of the floor and the low droning sound from beneath them, but had attributed it to his injuries.

  “A boat?”

  “They put us on it after they brought you here. They had been keeping us in one of the old tuna canneries on the wharf.”

  The room was especially large for a boat, but the rocking of the floor gave undeniable credence to the statement. There was a window on one wall but the glass had been painted black. “How long was I out?”

  “About an hour,” Rachel said. “You really scared me.” She threw her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry for what I did. And I’m sorry that you’re trapped here with us.”

  Adam winced in pain as he embraced her.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she cried and immediately released him. “I guess I’m not much of a doctor.”

  “You’re wonderful,” he said reassuringly. As Adam struggled to clear his foggy mind, he remembered the crowd outside his door, his emotional turmoil that resulted in his fleeing his home and, most of all, the beating.

  Suddenly, Adam remembered the tiny transmitter taped to his back. Reaching behind him, he found, to his horror, that it was gone. “I’m afraid I’ve made things worse,” Adam said.

  “What do you mean?” Rachel asked.

  “I was carrying a small transmitter. It was supposed to lead the authorities here, but it appears that our captors found it.”

  “You mean you purposely allowed yourself to be captured?” David Lorayne said.

  “That was the idea,” Adam replied. “Unfortunately, it didn’t quite work out the way I planned.” Adam felt an overwhelming sense of embarrassment. If he hadn’t lost his emotional control, then things might be different now. He hadn’t planned on an onslaught of ill and dying people.

  “What do we do now?” Rachel asked. “I think they plan to kill us.”

  “That we do,” said a voice behind them.

  Turning to face the door, Adam saw a man he had seen before. “So you’re the Healer? I have waited a long time to meet you. I have big plans for you. Very big plans, indeed.”

  Thirty-Two

  Thursday, April 2, 1992; 7:00 A.M.

  ADAM FACED THE THREE men who had entered the room. The one in the center, a tall, curly-haired man with deep green eyes, slowly surveyed the occupants of the room and then grinned sardonically.

  “Do you know me?” the man asked in a deep Southern drawl.

  Adam said nothing.

  “No? Well then, introductions are due. You’ve already met Mr. Bill Sanchez, formerly head of security at Kingston Memorial Hospital.”

  “Sanchez!” Rachel exclaimed as she turned toward him. “So Martin was right.”

  “Who’s Martin?” Sanchez asked gruffly.

  “I think a better question is why you are mixed up in this.” Rachel said.

  “The money’s good, and people like my new boss here need protection too.”

  “But you had a good position at the hospital,” Rachel said.

  “I had a barely adequate position. The money I received from the police department for my injury combined with my hospital paycheck just wasn’t enough. Besides, I’ve developed a rather expensive habit.”

  “Habit?” Rachel was perplexed.

  Sanchez didn’t respond, but R.G. did. “A drug habit, Doctor. Something that began with a need to ease the pain of his injured arm.”

  “I’m not proud of it,” Sanchez said, “but being in a hospital and surrounded by so many drugs, well, I just couldn’t help myself. It was only a matter of time before someone caught me stealing narcotics.”

  “Enough about Mr. Sanchez,” R.G. said. “I also want you to meet Mr. T.J. Haman. He does odd jobs for me. You may recall, Reverend Bridger, you two met last night.”

  “I recall,” Adam said, as he stared at the goateed man with a bandaged right hand. “I’m also familiar with his work.”

  “I do owe you an apology,” R.G. said with mock courtesy. “Mr. Haman does have a tendency to be a little overzealous about his work, but it really is your own fault; if you hadn’t moved, Mr. Haman wouldn’t have hurt his hand and wouldn’t have felt compelled to express himself with further action.”

  “You still haven’t told me your name.”

  “Oh, of course. Most just call me R.G.”

  “Why do you look so familiar?”

  “My employer is a rather public person, not unlike yourself. Perhaps you’ve heard of him—Reverend Paul Isaiah? Although I try to stay out of the limelight, I occasionally appear on television with him.”

  “You mean he’s behind all of this?” Adam said.

  R.G. guffawed. “Absolutely not. Paul Isaiah is spineless and neurotic. To be sure, he is not scrupulously honest, but he lacks the imagination and courage to be really great. For those things, he turns to me. All he is good for is to bring in the crowds with his promises of healing and riches.”

  “You mentioned plans,” Adam said. “What plans?”

  “Living rich,” R.G. said cryptically.

  “Living rich?”

  “Yes. First, you are going to help me live. Second, you are going to make me, I mean us, rich.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”


  “I’m not surprised. Let me explain. First, you need to know that I’m dying. That may come as good news to you, but I find it distressing. You see, I have a form of lymphatic cancer. It’s under control now, but I know that it will shorten my life appreciably. But, if you are who you say you are, then you know this already. So the first step in our plan is for you to heal me of my disease; then you’ll heal Mr. Sanchez of his painful arm and drug addiction. After that, I’ll manage your public appearances. We’ll have huge crusades and tens of thousands will come and be healed and gratefully pay for it.”

  “And if I refuse?” Adam said defiantly.

  “Refuse? Oh, you won’t do that. But just in case you feel compelled to resist, we may have to motivate you.” Walking to Lisa Hailey, R.G. gently stroked her hair. “You see, Reverend Bridger, men like you have this noble habit of caring for those around you. I’d be willing to bet that you would rather die than see any harm come to these innocent people.”

  Lisa closed her eyes as he leaned over and kissed her forehead.

  John Hailey sprang to his feet with volcanic rage, hands reaching for the throat of the man who dared touch his daughter. With catlike speed Haman leaped forward and brought his leg up in a swift and brutal kick; the toe of his shoe struck Hailey solidly in the stomach, doubling him over. Haman delivered another kick to his face and Hailey fell backward, unconscious, his head making a sickening thud as it struck the deck.

  “Dad!” Lisa tore away from R.G.

  “Such heroics are useless,” R.G. said coldly. “In fact, any further attempts to defy me will be answered swiftly and painfully.”

  Rachel left Adam’s side and knelt near the fallen man. Quickly, she checked his breathing and then ran her fingers down the back of his neck. Each vertebrae was in place; his neck was not broken.

  “I trust he’ll live.” R.G. said.

  “He’ll live,” Rachel replied curtly. “No thanks to your monkey there.”

  Haman moved forward, but R.G. waved him off.

  “It wouldn’t do to antagonize him, Doctor,” R.G. said. “He’s fiercely loyal, but there is a limit to his patience. I would so hate to see him destroy you before I have made full use of you.”

  “What use do you have for them, now that you have me?” Adam hoped to redirect their captor’s attention to himself.

  “Insurance, my dear Reverend, insurance.” R.G. gazed silently at the sobbing Lisa as she held her unconscious father’s head. “Since I brought you here against your will, and since I have entertained your friends against their will, I felt you might be . . . well, resistant to helping me. So, I keep them as motivational help.”

  Adam was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  “Why, you surprise me. It’s really quite simple. If you don’t help me, I’ll kill them.”

  Adam had seen the death this man had left behind; but hearing it spoken so coldly chilled him.

  “In fact,” R.G. continued, “while we waited for you, we constructed a little something to help us.” He snapped his fingers, and Sanchez left the room only to return a few seconds later struggling with a concrete-filled plastic pail that hung from a length of chain. “This, my dear Adam—you don’t mind me calling you Adam, do you?—this simple little device is an anchor. We have one for each of you.”

  Adam’s mind filled with the awful thought of the Langfords, Haileys, Loraynes, and Rachel rapidly descending through the cold Pacific, struggling for breath that would never come. A chill ran down his spine.

  “Oh, don’t look so despondent,” R.G. said laughing. “I hear that drowning is a rather pleasant way to die. We are presently cruising a mile out from the Scripps Institute of Oceanography. Some of the ocean’s deepest waters lie beneath our hull. In all probability, you would be crushed by the water pressure before you actually drown.”

  “Some comfort,” Rachel said sarcastically.

  R.G. ignored her and kept his attention riveted to Adam. “You will do as I ask, or I will begin dropping your friends overboard one at a time.” Adam said nothing, his mind frozen with fear. “But for now, I will leave you. I’m sure you and your friends have much to talk about. So, gather your strength, because when I return, you will do exactly what I ask.”

  SPECIAL AGENT GREENE SAT in the small corner room of the San Diego FBI office and watched as the blanket of high clouds of a Pacific marine layer slowly surrendered to the morning sun.

  Sunrise came as it always had. People filled the freeways with their cars as they always had, but this day was different for Greene. Somewhere out there, in this city or the next, was Adam Bridger, abducted, and Greene felt responsible.

  It was a stupid move, he reminded himself again. The whole plan was ill advised and against policy. While it was true that he had not originated the idea, and was, for all practical purposes, helpless to prevent Adam from following through with his intentions, Greene’s supervisor was going to be indignant.

  The door to his office opened. Greene looked up expectantly at the young agent who entered.

  “Sorry,” Patrick Morris said, interpreting the expression on Greene’s face. “No word yet. The police have an APB out and our forensics people are going over the apartment and the street where we found the blood and transmitter.”

  The image of the transmitter filled Greene’s mind. It had been crushed; ground into the asphalt road. “Anything else?”

  “No, but I hear that Clark is on his way down.”

  Greene grimaced. The thought of his supervisor driving in from L.A. unsettled him. An otherwise perfect career was about to receive a huge black mark.

  “Anything I can do for you?” Morris asked. “How about a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve had at least a dozen cups since sunrise.”

  “I know what you mean.” Morris turned to leave, then paused and said, “We’ll find him. I know it and you know it. We’ll find Adam Bridger and all the rest.”

  Greene was staring out the window again. “The question is, will we find them in time?”

  Greene passed the next two hours with paperwork and phone calls. There was little more he could do but wait for lab and field reports. Rapport can be a horrible thing, he thought to himself. He had handled dozens of kidnappings before, but they were always strangers to him. Unfortunately, a rapport, an instantaneous rapport, had sprung up between he and Adam. It was not an unknown man mysteriously snatched from his home; it was someone he knew and even admired.

  Morris entered the room again. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  “Is it important?”

  “I think you better see him.”

  “Why?” Greene said, trying to interpret Morris’ tone.

  “He won’t speak, but he gave me this note.”

  Greene took the folded piece of paper and opened it. The words were written with precision block letters: I KNOW WHO THE HEALER IS. I KNOW HOW TO FIND HIM. WILL YOU HELP?

  “Show him in,” Greene said.

  Greene stood as Morris escorted the man into the office. Stepping around his desk, Greene extended his hand. “I’m Special Agent Norman Greene.” The man shook hands. “Please sit down.” The man did so.

  Returning to his place behind his desk, Greene quickly looked his guest over. He was five-foot-eight or so and slender in build. His head was bald on top; what hair he had was light brown and formed a semicircular band from ear to ear. His eyes were a radiant blue that demanded trust and his face plain—neither handsome nor homely. The thing that distinguished him most to Greene was his confident air. Most civilians who came into his office appeared overwhelmed, but this man sat quietly and comfortably as though he were in his own living room.

  “I’m sorry,” Greene said cordially, “I didn’t catch your name.”

  The man reached slowly into the breast pocket of his white sport shirt and pulled out a card. What he read caused Greene to stare at the man for a few long, disbelieving moments. After a minutes reflection Greene handed the card to Mor
ris and said, “See what you can do about this.”

  JOHN HAILEY GROANED AS he slowly regained consciousness. Rachel wanted to do more for him, but without medical supplies there was little she could do.

  “What now?” Pat Gowan asked gruffly. “Are you going to do what he asks?” The question was clearly pointed at Adam.

  “I wish I could,” Adam replied soberly.

  “What do you mean you ‘wish’ you could?’ ” Gowan asked tersely. “You can’t let them kill us.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Gowan was shouting. “I’m not gonna let my wife and daughter be tossed overboard because of you. Do what he asks. I have seen what kind of people these are. You should see what they did in my house.”

  Turning slowly, Adam faced the distraught man. Gowan had been through a great deal in recent weeks: his daughter’s cerebral palsy and the accident that led to her hospitalization, her miraculous healing, and the massacre in his home.

  “I have seen it,” Adam spoke softly. “I was there with the police.”

  “Then you know that you must do what he asks.” Gowan’s face had turned red with rage; his clenched fist hung stiffly at his side.

  “Honey,” Katherine Gowan pleaded, “please don’t. It will only make things worse. I need you now. I need you beside me, not fighting, but beside me.”

  He looked at his wife. In her tender and pleading eyes he found the sedative to calm him. “You’re right, dear. But he needs to do what they ask.”

  “I can’t,” Adam remarked to no one in particular. “I’m not who they think I am.”

  “What do you mean?” Bill Langford asked.

  “I’m an FBI plant. I’m not the Healer. It was all a ruse to flush out the abductors. I was wired with a transmitter. The FBI was to follow the signal after I was abducted.”

  “Then the FBI is on its way?”

  Adam couldn’t help but notice the hopefulness in Langford’s voice. “No. I think these guys discovered the transmitter too soon.” Adam looked at the faces in the room. For a very brief moment, they had held a glimmer of hope. “I’m afraid we’re on our own.”