by Alton Gansky
A YOUNG WOMAN WAS ushered into Greene’s office and hasty introductions were made.
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Lolly,” Greene said, shaking her hand. “I know that it was short notice.”
“I hope I can be of some help,” she replied nervously. “I’m afraid I’m a little uneasy.”
“That’s to be expected, but I assure you there’s nothing to worry about. All we need is someone to interpret for us.” Motioning with his head toward the man seated across from his desk, Greene continued, “This gentleman is your client.”
Turning, she made a few quick gestures with her hands. The man responded with similar motions.
“Would you please ask him his name?” Greene sat in his chair.
“Actually,” she replied, “it would be better if you asked the questions and I will sign your words. Just pretend I’m not here and speak directly to him.”
Greene began slowly, “Thank you for coming. Would you mind telling me your name?”
The quiet, bald man instantly signed with his hands.
“My name,” Lolly said, giving voice to the silent man, “is not important. I have come to help you find the man pretending to be me—pretending to be the Healer.”
“Are you saying that you are the one responsible for the healings in Kingston Memorial Hospital?”
“Yes,” was his short reply.
“Nonetheless,” Greene insisted, “your name would be most help . . .”
“The man pretending to be me is in very great danger,” Lolly’s voice interrupted Greene. “We have very little time to waste. I can take you to him, but we must hurry.”
The sharp hand motions revealed the Healer’s anxiety.
“But, how do I know what you say is true?” Greene asked, wondering if his suspicion would be translated as well.
“Because I have told you it is so.”
“I still need more information before I can do anything.”
The man’s face clearly revealed his frustration. Greene had no doubt that the man believed what he was saying.
“What information do you need?” the man asked.
“Your name for starters,” Greene said firmly.
“If I give you my name, will you let me show you where to find the missing people?”
“It will speed things along.”
Reaching into his back pocket, the man removed a worn wallet and, extracting his driver’s license, handed it to Greene. Greene took it and cast an expert eye over it. It appeared to be valid. An address was listed in Riverside, California. The name listed was Charles Gregory. Greene quickly memorized the information.
“Thank you, Mr. Gregory,” Greene handed the license back. “Now, how is it that you know what we in the FBI don’t know?”
“The same way I knew you were the agent I needed to speak to. The same way I know who needs to be healed. The same way I know your man needs help.”
“And what way is that?”
Gregory paused before answering, then signed, “God tells me.”
“God tells you?” Greene was uncertain whether to feel incredulous or to believe Gregory. Although not a man given to belief in the supernatural, he did have to acknowledge that many unexplained things were happening.
Gregory continued signing, “I must remind you again that time is short. If you do not act now, many will die.”
Greene leaned back in his chair and glanced at Morris who was standing silently near the door. Morris shrugged. Greene had to make a decision. If Gregory was the Healer, then he just might know where Adam and the others were; if he was a crazed impostor, then precious time could be wasted on a wild-goose chase.
“Where is he?” Greene asked.
“On a boat. I can lead you there.”
Greene fell silent again. A boat could be anywhere: out to sea, or in one of the many marinas. Without a specific location and description, it could take days to find the right craft.
“How can you lead us there?” Greene asked.
“I can’t explain; I just know. Please, let’s not waste any more time.” Gregory’s signs were augmented by a pleading expression on his face. Greene quickly calculated his options, then decided to believe the slim, bald man.
“Morris, get a car and call the Coast Guard,” Greene said, jumping to his feet. Turning to Lolly, he asked, “Would you come along? It would save us a lot of time.”
“Of course,” Lolly said.
“Then let’s go.”
Thirty-Three
Thursday, April 2, 1992; 8:50 A.M.
“I’VE BEEN MORE THAN PATIENT,” R.G. said. He, Haman, and Sanchez had entered the room, Sanchez with an Uzi machine gun in his crooked arm. “You have had thirty minutes to think over my proposition and now it is time for an answer. Do we have a bargain, or do I start dropping your friends into the ocean?”
“How do I know you won’t do that anyway?” Adam asked with feigned bravado.
“Frankly, you don’t,” R.G. replied. “But I offer you my word.”
Rachel laughed in spite of herself. Haman started toward her, but R.G. once again waved him off.
“I have warned you, Dr. Tremaine,” R.G. said tersely, “not to presume on Mr. Haman’s or my patience. One more act of rudeness and I may leave you to Mr. Haman’s devices.”
Something in Haman’s eyes struck terror in Adam’s heart. His eyes were coal black and seemed never to blink. He was a man who enjoyed his anger and hatred. He was a man to stay far away from—very far away.
“I’m the one you’re interested in,” Adam said, redirecting attention to himself. “What makes you think I can do what you ask? It must be obvious that the healings have been selective. After all, I didn’t heal everyone in the hospital.”
“Yes, I noticed that, and I must admit that the reason for that intrigues me. Perhaps when we have more time and a better working relationship, you can tell me the logic behind your actions. For now, the only thing I’m concerned with is what you can do for me. Will you heal me or not?”
Heavy silence hung in the room. Adam could hear the ocean lapping at the sides of the boat, and feel the rhythmic rocking as the craft rolled in the easy swells on the surface. There was no response to give. If he attempted to heal R.G., he would surely fail; and if he refused, then they would all have the breath and life crushed out of them in the deep and cold Pacific. Their bodies would never be found. The thought of twelve bodies anchored with concrete, floating upright from the dark ocean floor like stalks of wheat, made him shudder.
“Am I to take your silence as a no?”
Adam shrugged, “I don’t know what to tell you.”
R.G.’s face slowly turned a fierce red. Barely under control, he said in a voice just above a whisper, “Then I’ll have to motivate you.”
He nodded to Haman who stepped from the room only to return a few seconds later. He carried a roll of three-inch silver duct tape in his hand. Motioning to Sanchez, the two walked to Bill Langford who stood next to his wife at the far corner of the room. Haman grabbed Langford by his hair and, in one swift, savage motion, pulled him face down onto the deck.
“Bill!” Lois charged forward to help her husband, but stopped short when she saw Sanchez place the barrel of the small Uzi machine gun in Bill’s ear. The message was clean any attempt to interfere would mean certain death. Haman adroitly taped Bill’s wrists together behind his back with the duct tape. Even the strongest man would have been helpless to release himself.
“Tell them,” Lois shouted, hot tears streaming down her face, “tell them the truth.” Stepping toward Adam, she pleaded, heartbroken and terrified; her anguish multiplied by her helplessness. “You must tell them the truth. It’s the only way.”
“And what truth is that?” R.G. asked coldly.
Adam realized he had nothing else to do. If he remained silent, then they all would die. If he told the truth, they still all would die. The truth couldn’t hurt.
“I’m not the Healer,” Adam said softly, as
he gazed at the helpless Bill Langford.
“I beg your pardon?” R.G. said.
Turning to face his abductor, he uttered the words again, “I’m not who you think I am. I am not the Healer. It was only a ruse to flush you out, a ruse that didn’t work.”
R.G.’s laughter caught Adam off guard.
“What’s so funny?”
“Why, you, my dear Reverend,” R.G. replied between spasms of laughter. “You are the source of my laughter.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Surely you must. Oh, I think it is very noble that you should sacrifice your morals enough to lie on the odd chance that it might save your friends. Very noble, indeed. Unfortunately, you are not a very convincing liar.”
“But it’s true,” Lois Langford shouted.
The laughter continued. “Is this the best you could do? I have overestimated you.”
Anger welled up in Adam: anger of desperation and frustration. R.G. did not believe him. It was clear that nothing would convince this man that he was not the Healer.
“I hope you rot in the deepest, darkest corner of hell,” Adam said, spilling his helpless frustration.
The laughter stopped. “Hell? Hell, you say?” R.G.’s expression turned cold. “I don’t believe in your hell or your heaven. For that matter, I don’t believe in your God. Don’t try to manipulate me with your ancient myths. I’m not one of your mental midgets who dutifully come to church each Sunday to see what God wants them to do. I’ve played that game, and I’ve played it productively and profitably, so don’t try your guilt and fear tactics on me.”
Adam stewed in a silent rage. For the first time in his life, he wanted to harm another person. He wanted to reach his fingers around the arrogant captor’s throat and squeeze and squeeze until he could squeeze no more.
R.G. continued coldly and analytically, “I may not know the source of your power, but I certainly don’t attribute it to your God.”
“The day will come when you will know just how wrong you are.”
“Unless you do as I say, that day will come a lot sooner for you than for me.”
“Perhaps, but our deaths will be relatively quick, while yours will slowly sap your life away until you’re an invalid at the mercy of others.”
Adam’s words hit a chord; R.G. leaped forward and brought a crashing backhand to Adam’s face. Adam recoiled in pain. Instinctively, he ran his tongue along his right cheek: two teeth were loose.
“Bind them all!” R.G. screamed. “Bind them and bring them topside.”
The bright sunlight assaulted Adam’s eyes, and the salt air invaded his lungs. One by one they had been brought from the lower cabin and made to kneel near the stern of the boat. In the distance, he could see the small wooden pier owned by the Scripps Institute of Oceanography. A light fog was moving in from the ocean toward the shore.
“You amaze me, Reverend Bridger,” R.G. said. “After going through so many pains to heal these people here, you are now willing to let them drown? Just what kind of man are you?”
“And just what kind of man are you?” Adam replied.
“I am the kind of man who knows what he wants and doesn’t mind pursuing it. Unlike you, I am not encumbered by artificial sentimentality. I simply want life and the best of what life has to offer.” R.G. laughed again. “You, of course, think I’m Beelzebub in the flesh. Or, perhaps you think the devil owns me. Is that it, dear Pastor? Do you think I’m possessed?”
“I think you’re sick,” Adam spat his words out.
Lois Langford, her hands taped behind her back, wept.
“Don’t give them the satisfaction, honey,” her husband said soothingly. “If we’re going to die, then let’s do so with dignity.” Lois bit her quivering lip. Then, looking in her eyes and communicating what only a couple of long years can communicate, he said, “At least we’re together.”
“How noble,” R.G. said. Then to Adam he said, “What shall it be? Do as I say and we all will live and prosper.”
“Do you really expect me to believe that you’ll let the others go?’
“Forget the others,” R.G. replied. “I can make you rich. I can make you more famous than the Pope or the president. Just say the word.”
“There is nothing I can do for you.”
“You’re stoic now, but we will see.” Turning to Haman, he said, “Bring the good doctor to the railing.”
Without hesitation, Haman approached Rachel, grabbed her arm, and yanked her to her feet.
“It’s me you want,” Adam shouted. “Leave her alone.”
“You know what you must do,” R.G. replied coldly.
“Don’t you understand? I can’t do what you ask. It is not within my power.”
“I see.” R.G. nodded at Haman who carried one of the large concrete-filled plastic buckets and set it at Rachel’s feet. The crude anchor had one end of a six-foot length of chain embedded in it.
“So I am to die?” Rachel asked calmly.
“Apparently,” R.G. sighed. Haman bent to one knee and prepared to wrap the chain around her feet.
“Then I have nothing to lose,” she said evenly. In a quick motion and with a force that belied her size, she kicked with all her might. Her heavily soled athletic shoe caught Haman square on the nose. Blood splattered the deck. She had hoped to drive the bridge of his nose into her executioner’s brain, killing him, but all she succeeded in doing was breaking his nose and enraging him.
Wordlessly, Haman stood upright and wiped the blood from his face. Without warning, he punched her in the abdomen, doubling her over. Then, grabbing her by the hair, he straightened her up and brought another fist to the side of her jaw. Rachel fell to the deck in a heap, blood trickling from her mouth.
“NO!” Deep inside Adam’s soul an explosion occurred: an explosion fueled by fear, frustration, and unbridled rage. Bolting to his feet, hands still taped behind his back, Adam screamed and charged Haman in an adrenaline-powered rush. Haman spun on his heels but was too late. Head down like an enraged bull, Adam slammed into Haman’s stomach, propelling both of them over the boat’s railing.
Haman broke the surface of the water with his back, Adam’s head still pressed into his stomach. The force of the fall pushed both men below the surface. His reason and logic gone, Adam began kicking with all his strength. He knew only one thing: he had to keep the animal Haman away from Rachel and the others. So, he kicked, pushing deeper and deeper into the ocean. If Adam had it in his power, he’d push the madman to the bottom of the dark sea where he could never again torture the innocent.
The cold water quickly revived the stunned Haman. Realizing what had happened, he reached for Adam’s throat, but could grab only with his unbandaged hand. In one quick move, he yanked Adam’s head up and began to squeeze his throat.
Adam jerked his head back in an attempt to free himself, but Haman was too strong. Without the use of his hands, Adam resorted to the only weapon he had left. Although not a muscular man, Adam, filled with rage and strengthened by the adrenaline that coursed through his veins, wrapped his legs around Haman and interlocked his feet, squeezing with all the power his muscles would provide. He felt one of Haman’s ribs break, but Haman refused to let go. Adam could feel his trachea being pinched shut and knew the carotid arteries that carried blood to his brain were closed in the vise grip of Haman’s hand. Adam squeezed his legs together again. Through the murky green water Adam could see the white teeth of Haman grimacing; air bubbles streamed from his mouth and nose.
The moments seemed like ages as the two struggled desperately, Adam driven by desperation and Haman by rage. Even though the salt water blurred Adam’s vision, he could still see the anger in Haman’s face. Haman tightened his grip with a monumental effort. Adam’s oxygen-starved brain struggled to remain conscious, but the soft blur of the ocean’s green faded into black. Adam’s body went limp. The struggle was over.
“WHAT WAS THAT?” R.G. asked, redirecting his attention from the spot
where Adam and Haman had plunged into the ocean.
“What was what?” Sanchez asked puzzled.
“That sound.”
Sanchez listened to a low hum reverberating across the surface of the water. “Sounds like a boat motor.”
Both men turned simultaneously to see the white and orange painted hull of a Coast Guard clipper bearing down on their port side. Another sound caught their attention, a low, rhythmic chopping sound that came from overhead.
“Helicopter,” Sanchez shouted.
“Get us underway,” R.G. ordered and snatched the Uzi machine gun from Sanchez’s hand.
“We can’t outrun a helicopter.”
“I’ll take care of the helicopter, you start the engines.”
Sanchez sprang forward toward the bridge of the ship as the orange and white helicopter descended.
“This is the U.S. Coast Guard. Drop your weapons and prepare to be boarded,” a voice commanded from above.
R.G. swung the Uzi in the direction of the helicopter and fired a burst of bullets, the rounds piercing the metal hull. A crewman immediately returned fire with his M-16 and R.G. fell to the deck, two bullets piercing his chest.
“Cut your engines and prepare to be boarded,” the voice commanded. Sanchez stared at the limp body in an expanding circle of blood, then switched off the engines and, placing his hands on his head, walked out of the cabin onto the deck.
A few moments later the Coast Guard clipper pulled alongside and bobbed on the ocean swells. The seasoned crew of the cutter deftly lowered a twenty-two-foot RHI Zodiac into the water. Greene and several armed crewmen boarded the small boat and quickly made their way to the drifting cruiser. Minutes later they were on deck.
“Are there others aboard?” Greene asked, his regulation .38 in hand.
“No,” Rachel said groggily, struggling to her feet. “But Adam went over the side with one of them.” Each word sent pain through her jaw.
“Where?” Greene asked.
