By My Hands (10 page)

“Did it occur to you that if you can see him, he can
see you?” Irwin was furious.

“What makes you think that the intruder is a
he?”

“Can we carry on this conversation in the car?”

“No.”

Priscilla slowly raised herself up enough to look
through the window. A nearby streetlight dimly illumined the room.
The once clean and orderly house was now a shambles. Cushions were
strewn around the floor. The sofa had been turned over and its
stuffing was scattered throughout the room. In a corner a dark
figure with a flashlight was looking in a drawer.

“What do you see?” Irwin asked apprehensively.

Priscilla shook her head. Suddenly the intruder
turned, his flashlight beam sweeping the room. The beam moved
quickly across the walls and came to rest on the window, fully
illuminating Priscilla’s face. Startled by the sudden exposure, she
remained motionless.

Irwin, seeing the light strike Priscilla’s face,
reacted. “That’s it.” He grabbed Priscilla by the arm. “We’re out
of here.” Before they could run, the front door opened explosively.
Irwin turned at the sound of the door slamming against the wall.
Standing before him was a man garbed completely in black, his face
covered by a ski mask. The intruder brought up his right hand and
crouched in the typical police shooting position. Instinctively,
Irwin stepped between Priscilla and the assailant. Then he heard an
unrecognizable noise and felt something impact his chest. The
impact was followed by a burning that raged through his body. He
had been shot.

Stumbling back he felt two arms grab his shoulders.
His legs felt rubbery under his weight. He wanted to do something,
anything run, scream, strike back—but he could do nothing. Blue and
red lights filled the neighborhood. Irwin felt himself slowly
losing consciousness. He fell backward landing on something soft.
Darkness flooded his eyes. He heard a noise—no, a voice, a distant,
beckoning voice.

PRISCILLA LANDED HARD ON THE DAMP GRASS; pain raced
up her leg. Everything seemed to move in slow motion; the yellow
streetlights cast a surrealistic amber glow. Irwin had let out a
gasp and clutched at his chest. A moment later he had fallen
backward, landing on top of her. Although she heard no retort, she
knew that Irwin had been shot. All that remained now was for the
black-clad assailant to shoot her.

She watched as the attacker slowly positioned
himself for a clear shot at her. She struggled to get out from
under Irwin’s limp body, but his dead weight was too much. Then an
unexpected calm descended on her.
If I am to die, then
I
am going to do it with dignity.
She stopped struggling and
looked directly into the dark eyes of the masked assassin.

Suddenly the neighborhood was flooded with blue and
red lights. A police patrol car pulled up in front of the house,
its front wheels jumping the curb. The doors of the car swung open
and two officers crouched behind them, police revolvers drawn.

“Police! Don’t move!” The voice was familiar.

The gunman lowered his weapon and appeared to resign
himself to capture. Then, bolting toward the street, he raised his
weapon and fired a round. The patrol car’s windshield shattered.
Priscilla screamed and covered her head with her arms. The two
policemen returned fire, each firing twice. All four bullets found
their mark. The gunman reeled and dropped to the ground.

Mustering all her strength, Priscilla rolled Irwin
off her body and knelt beside him. In the glow of streetlights made
brighter by the headlights from the police car, Priscilla could see
a crimson circle emanating from Irwin’s chest.

“Oh, Irwin, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Priscilla
sobbed uncontrollably. “What have I done? What have I done?”

Looking up from Irwin’s limp body she watched as the
policemen, one with his revolver pressed against the burglar’s
head, checked for other weapons and then for a pulse. She saw one
officer shake his head. The black mask was dead.

“Help!” Priscilla cried. “Help me, he’s been shot.”
Turning her attention to Irwin, she saw him slowly open his eyes.
He smiled and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry,” he said in a voice barely audible. “Sorry
about the drinks.”

“Hang on, Irwin,” she said, tears streaming down her
face. “We’ll get you well, and then we’ll have lots of drinks.”

“Make mine coff—” Irwin convulsed, closed his eyes,
and let out his last breath.

Priscilla heard the deep rattle in his lungs that
only the dying make. “No, Irwin, don’t leave me! I’m sorry. I’ll
make it all up to you, just don’t leave me.”

Irwin did not respond.

A strong hand touched her on the shoulder. She
looked up into the face of Sergeant Reedly.

Sunday, March 8, 1992; 10:00
A.M.

“I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I want,” Adam said forcefully.
“I want out of this place.”

Dick Slay simulated shock. “Why? You have lovely
women waiting on you hand and foot, meals brought to your bedside,
cable television for entertainment, and lovable people like me to
engage you in meaningful conversation.”

“I don’t deserve such fortune,” Adam replied, with a
barely perceptible grin. “I should be forced to return to work
immediately, instead of lying in bed and walking hallways I’ve
walked a dozen times. I want my bed, my home, and the inalienable
right to fix my own meals.” The two men sat in silence for a
moment, then Adam continued, “Besides, the nurses on the night
shift aren’t all that cute.”

“Lechery is not a pretty sight in a pastor,” Dick
chuckled.

“It’s not lechery, it’s frustration. I want to go
home.”

“Just one more night, Pastor. You can endure
that.”

“Of course I can, but why should I? I feel
great.”

“Great?”

“Okay, maybe not great, but I feel well enough to
take care of myself.”

“The nurse said that the doctor will release you
tomorrow if your fever doesn’t come back. Besides, there’s no one
at the house to take care of you.”

“I’m smart enough to come back if my fever returns,
and I can take care of myself. They should release me now.”

“Adam, if you were sitting in this chair talking to
me lying in that bed, and I said I wanted to go home before the
doctors released me, what would you say?” Dick leaned back in his
chair and waited.

At first Adam said nothing. He was remembering the
times when he had conversations just like this one and had insisted
that the person do as the doctor instructed. A few times he even
pulled rank: “I’m your pastor, and I’m telling you that you need to
stay.” Now he realized that it was easier to give advice than take
it.

“Well?” Dick’s eyebrows shot up.

“All right, you win. I make a lousy patient.”

“That’s what the nurses say.”

“Okay, so I tend to be a little testy.”

“Did you really kick a nurse out of your room?” Dick
was wearing a Cheshire grin.

“Well, she wanted to weigh me.”

“So?”

“It was 5 in the morning. I told her to come back at
7 and assured her that I would weigh the same.”

Both men laughed, but Adam’s laughter was cut short
by a stabbing pain. “It only hurts when I laugh.”

“I thought that was just an old saying.”

Adam shook his head, “I wish it were.”

“You know, Pastor,” Dick said, “I’m really glad
you’re all right.”

Adam nodded, “Thanks, Dick. You’ve been a big
help.”

The two fell into an awkward silence that men
experience when expressing emotions to one another. It was silly,
but he was as much a product of his upbringing and environment as
any male. Dick Slay was the closest thing to a best friend he had.
Despite his profession, Adam spent a great deal of time alone,
partly by choice and partly by the circumstance of his personality.
As a child, Adam had been a loner. He had no brothers or sisters
and spent many hours alone while both parents worked hard to keep
their home and put food on the table. Both his mother and father
worked for General Dynamics near Lindberg Field in downtown San
Diego, his father as a machinist and his mother as a secretary.
Coming home to an empty house didn’t bother Adam; in fact, he
learned to enjoy it. He would watch cartoons, play with his toys,
or play fetch with their collie, Sparky.

The loner habits Adam developed as a child carried
into adult life. He relished times at home by himself, although he
occasionally missed Sparky. Yet, he had not allowed his love of
being alone to interfere with his normal social development. He was
an entertaining host, a fine pastor and, according to his few close
friends, a great confidant.

Most of the friends Adam had made came from college
and seminary. Unfortunately, all had moved to churches outside the
area. He occasionally saw them at conventions, but most contact was
reduced to the occasional phone call.

Adam’s limited number of friends was also by design.
If asked, he would say that every one of his congregation was his
friend; but deep and abiding friendship required the ability to
confide in others. As a pastor, he felt comfortable being confided
in, but uncomfortable confiding in others. So Adam had surrounded
himself with an invisible shield through which he could reach out,
but no one else could reach in—no one except Dick Slay.

No two men could have been more different than Dick
Slay and Adam Bridger. Adam was tall with dark hair and thick
glasses, a highly educated scholar, and (except when confined to a
hospital) had the patience of Job. Dick was short, squat, and
blunt. While he had developed a better than average vocabulary
which grew from his love of mystery novels, he lacked the refined
knowledge that came from a fine college education. Yet, no one ever
thought of Dick as slow. His mind was quick, and his ability to
comprehend new facts was amazing.

Despite his abruptness, Dick was filled with an
abundance of love. He liked people, liked laughter, and loved his
pastor. The two had become fast friends. In many ways, Dick became
the brother that Adam never had.

“You the one giving me a ride home?” Adam asked,
breaking the hush.

“I’m your chauffeur. I’ve been thinking about
bringing one of my big rigs. It’d do you good to be bounced around
in the cab of an eighteen-wheeler.”

The thought made Adam wince. “You’re not serious,
are you?”

“Nah. My wife said I could bring the minivan.”

“That’s a relief.”

“When should I be here?”

“They’ll probably spring me around noon.”

“I’ll be here with bells on.”

“Could I ask one other favor?” Adam said. “Would you
please make sure the church doesn’t make a big fuss over me. All I
need is a couple days of quiet.”

“Are you kidding? They haven’t even noticed you’re
gone.”

“How’s the church doing?”

“We burned it down, didn’t you hear?” Dick shook his
head. “Stop worrying, Adam. Everything and everyone is fine.”

“What about David?”

Dick frowned. “No change, but then you know that.
You’ve been making the nurses give you reports.”

“I can’t believe they wouldn’t let me visit
him.”

“It’s their job to make sure you take care of
yourself. You can visit him tomorrow.”

“I wish there was more we could do besides
wait.”

Silence once again shrouded the two men. Dick chose
to change the subject. “You sure you won’t stay with Chloe and
me?”

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

THE CONDO SEEMED COLDER than normal as Priscilla
entered and locked the door behind her. The gunman was dead, the
police had told her that; yet, she was apprehensive. Perhaps this
was normal for one who had narrowly escaped being shot. Perhaps
this was how one felt when one watched a friend die. Except the one
was Priscilla, a hard-as-nails journalist who couldn’t stop sobbing
or shaking.

Shedding her coat on the floor she slowly made her
way to the bathroom. As she went, she kicked off her shoes and
dropped her purse. She was in emotional shock. Scenes from the
night’s violence randomly popped into her head like images of
slides being flashed on the screen of her mind.

In the bathroom she looked in the mirror and saw
that the carefully styled red hair, her trademark, was mussed with
several pieces of grass clinging to her curls. Her eyes were dark
and her cheeks streaked black with mascara; her nose was red and
irritated from repeated blowing. Priscilla took in the sight that
was her image. She had seen others with this look, others who had
watched family die or a house burn, others she had interviewed for
broadcast. Now she understood the look. Now she could comprehend
the storm of personal anguish that raged inside. She would have to
be more sensitive.

“All right, lady,” she said to the face in the
mirror, “it’s time to pull yourself together. After all, you have
an image to protect. You’re strong and you can deal with this.” She
gazed at the reflection for a moment and then watched as it burst
into tears, sobs erupting from a wounded soul.

Time no longer had meaning. She wasn’t sure if she
had cried for a moment or an hour. She just slowly became aware
that she was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, knees pulled to
her chest in a fetal position; rocking back and forth.

“I’ve got to get a grip on myself,” she said aloud.
“Maybe a drink would help.” She thought about the Scotch she kept
in the kitchen. She thought about pouring a large glass and
drinking it as fast as she could. Perhaps the alcohol would numb
her mind and blur the images of the night. Shaking her head, she
dismissed the idea. “That’s all I need right now—mass consumption
of a depressant. No, I’ve got to stay clearheaded.”

Pulling herself up from the floor she opened the
shower door, leaned in, and turned on the water. She finished
undressing and stepped into the steaming compartment. She let the
hot water run over her head and down her body. In an odd way she
envied the water: it was mindless, without feeling, and simply
following nature’s course. She wished she could melt and flow down
the drain into nonexistence, but the images came back, clear,
crisp. Each scene was reenacted in slow motion and with the
greatest detail. She could see the flashlight beam as it shone
through the window and onto her face; she could hear the door of
the house smash against the wall, she could hear Irwin groan as the
bullet pierced his chest, she could feel the fiery pain from her
twisted knee; she could feel the damp grass where she landed with
Irwin on top of her; and most of all she could see the hateful eyes
of her assailant.