By My Hands (21 page)

“I’m not certain, but I think this is just the
beginning.”

“The beginning of what?”

“I wish I knew. At least, I think I wish I
knew.”

Rachel nodded her agreement and then shut the car
door, turned, and walked across the parking lot.

Monday, March 23, 1992; 8:45
P.M.

“ARE YOU SURE YOU feel up to this?” Reedly asked as
he seated Priscilla Simms.

“Yes, thank you.”

“It’s not that I’m not pleased. But considering all
that you’ve been through lately, I thought you might like to be
left alone. I mean, with the death of Irwin and all.”

“Sitting around solves nothing. I’d rather be out
than hanging around the house all alone.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Reedly opened his menu. “May
I order for you?”

Priscilla was amazed at the irony that was Thomas
Reedly. The brusque-looking man was compact, not standing more than
five-foot-eight. His short stature coupled with a ruddy complexion
made him look like a commercial fisherman. Yet, despite his rough
exterior, he was a gentle and surprisingly cultured man.

“Sure,” she replied. “But nothing too spicy.”

Reedly gave his order in Spanish to the Hispanic
waiter.

“Well,” Priscilla said, “I’m suitably
impressed.”

“The Spanish? It helps in my work.”

“How long have you been a police officer?” she
asked.

“Seventeen years.”

“Long years?” She blue smoke toward the ceiling.
“No. For the most part I enjoy my work. There’s a certain
satisfaction in it.”

“Not to mention the occasional thrill.”

Reedly smiled at her insight. “Not to mention the
occasional thrill.”

PERCEPTIVE AS PRISCILLA WAS, there was much about
Thomas Reedly she didn’t know. In many ways he seemed an anomaly.
Those who saw his stocky and rugged appearance might assume him to
be ponderously slow. Those who knew him understood otherwise. In
some ways Reedly was what he appeared: strong, forceful, and
determined. But he had a smooth side that had been cultivated over
the years. His was a keen mind that hungered for both knowledge and
pleasure. He was as much at home watching science programs like
“Nova” on the local Public Broadcasting station as he was watching
the Chargers play football. He read widely, preferring novels of
depth and current nonfiction to shallow mystery paperbacks,
although he would admit to a fondness for Stephen King and Dean
Koontz.

Like all men, Reedly was the product of his home and
education. Both his father and mother taught in the local middle
school and instilled a love of learning in him from his earliest
years. He had gone off to college where he majored in English,
graduated and, to satiate a patriotic hunger, had entered the
military. As an Army officer he served two tours of duty in Vietnam
as a medic and was decorated twice for heroism. Reedly found no
pleasure or comfort in the medals. What others called heroism, he
considered duty.

When the Army released him, Reedly returned to
school to pursue a master’s degree. With the help of GI benefits,
he continued his studies in English and set his mind on teaching.
It was while in graduate school at San Diego State that he
encountered his first significant disillusionment. Vietnam had
divided the U.S., with those who favored a stand against communism
in Indonesia squaring off against those who rallied for peace at
any price. The disparity of opinion didn’t bother him, but the way
the disparity was handled did. Students shouted obscenities and
threw stones at the police. This violence against those sworn to
protect the lives of those abusing them touched something in the
heart of Reedly. He looked at the men in uniform as soldiers who
fought a battle against a different enemy, a criminal enemy that
often had more rights than the police themselves. He had fought on
a foreign land for people he did not know; they fought on their own
soil for people they did know.

He felt a kindred connection with the men in the
police uniforms he saw at that protest. He felt that they were
contributing something rather that just taking from society. And
like him, they received no thanks for it. Reedly understood what
the police must have felt when some of the citizens they were sworn
to protect turned and assailed them with vile verbal abuse. He
admired their courage and strength. Six months after his discharge,
he was patrolling the streets of San Diego.

Now he was forty-seven years old and still
patrolling the streets. Many of those in his academy class had been
promoted to detective or higher and were administrating different
departments. Reedly turned down those promotions. He liked street
work. He liked uniform work. When he retired, he would retire a
uniformed officer.

THE WAITER BROUGHT A BOTTLE of red wine to the
table. After opening the bottle, the waiter offered the cork to
Reedly who gave it a perfunctory sniff and nodded his approval.

After the waiter left, Priscilla asked, “Has he been
identified?”

Reedly knew that the “he” she referred to was the
assailant who killed Irwin Baker a few weeks before and would have
killed Priscilla, had he not been shot by a bullet from Reedly’s
service revolver. Priscilla stared at the glass of wine in her
hand. It was a painful question for her to ask.

“Yes. He was a small-time crook who did mostly
first-story burglaries. Private residences and small businesses
mostly. Nothing very complicated.”

“Does anyone know why he was at the Haileys’?”

“Simple burglary, I suppose. Several other houses
had been hit recently. There’s been a rash of break-ins throughout
the county.”

Priscilla shook her head. “Too big a coincidence.
Remember, the Langfords’ home was robbed too.”

“So?”

“So?” Priscilla sounded shocked. “Both the Haileys
and the Langfords had a family member healed at Kingston Memorial.
Something is going on, and I want to know what it is.”

“All right, suppose you’re correct. What devious
plan is afoot?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? I don’t know, but
something is up.”

“Well, I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you.
Every room in the house was ransacked. Your assailant wasn’t very
tidy.”

“When he came out of the house, his hands were
empty. Wasn’t there anything in the house worth taking?”

“Plenty. But maybe you surprised him before he could
lift anything of value.”

“Not likely. If so, then he would have left behind a
carrying bag. Or, if he was stealing televisions and stereos, then
those appliances would have been unplugged and moved away from the
wall.”

“How do you know they weren’t?”

“Because if they had been, you’d have told me.” She
peered seductively over her glass. “Wouldn’t you?”

Reedly laughed. “You are clever, I’ll give you that.
All right, it’s true. It appears that he was looking for something
specific. Just what, no one knows.”

The waiter brought their deep-fried beef flautas
smothered in sour cream and guacamole.

“Boy, this is going to be hard on the diet,”
Priscilla said.

“With your level of activity, I don’t think you have
anything to worry about.” With that, Reedly lifted his glass and
toasted, “To health.”

“To truth.” Priscilla countered.

Monday, March 23, 1992; 9:30
P.M.

“IT’S ALL SET,” R.G. said, handing a handwritten
note across the desk.

Isaiah quickly read the note. “You don’t think this
is too soon?”

“You gotta make hay while the sun shines, my daddy
used to say.”

“But this happens Wednesday night.” Isaiah shifted
uneasily in his chair.

“That is the beauty of it. You’ll be in San Diego
for a crusade anyway. After that just hold on to your hat.”

“You think they’ll buy it?”

“Hook, line, and sinker. Before the end of the week,
you’ll be the most sought-after man in the nation.”

“For a price,” Isaiah said.

“For a big price,” R.G. corrected.

Monday, March 23, 1992; 10:45
P.M.

IN LOS ANGELES the Milt Phillips after-show party
was underway with its usual imported wines, select cheeses, and
exotic hors d’oeuvres. The parties had such a reputation that few
guests ever left early. Tonight everyone who had appeared on the
show had stayed—including Dr. Charles Cruden, astrophysicist,
novelist, lecturer, and popularizer of science.

“Well, Dr. Cruden,” said Milt Phillips, “I see you
have again added more admiring souls to your fan club.”

“Stars and starlets still seem such strange company
for a scientist. But, I must admit I completely enjoy it.”

Phillips studied Cruden. His physical appearance
would have served him well in show business. He had just the right
amount of gray at the temples, and just the right build, the right
height and weight to be the leading man in most movies. He also had
one of the finest minds in the nation. As a Nobel prize winner in
astronomy, he was cast into stardom by his best-selling novel,
Orion and
Me
, which was loosely based on his life.
Since then he had been a frequent guest on “The Milt Phillips
Show,” a late evening talk program that featured the hottest stars
and newest comedians. Cruden’s smooth voice and quick wit carried
well over the air waves.

“Apparently they enjoy you,” Phillips said. Then,
changing his tone, he continued seriously, “You said some pretty
harsh things tonight.”

“You mean about the reported hospital healings in
San Diego?”

“Yep. I bet you have made a lot of people mad.”

“I was only responding to your questions. Besides,
no one can stay popular forever. It’s that kind of hysteria and
mumbo jumbo that will catapult our society back to the Dark
Ages.”

“You don’t believe that it’s even remotely
possible?”

“What? That people with terminal illness are being
miraculously healed? Not a chance. I don’t know exactly what’s
going on down there, but I do know this—it’s no miracle.”

“Well, I’m not the one to defend the plausibility of
miracles, but I do have an idea. How about a special program with
you and a couple of people from San Diego—people who are close to
the situation—going head to head on the issue? If your schedule
will permit.”

“I’ll see that it does,” Cruden said.

Tuesday, March 24, 1992; 8:45
A.M.

“YOU LOOK LIKE DEATH warmed over,” Fannie Meyers
said.

“It’s nice to see you too.” Adam picked up his mail
from Fannie’s desk. “Any calls?”

“Nothing for you. It’s been pretty quiet
actually.”

“Good. I’ve got a busy day.”

Fannie stared at Adam for a moment. “Are you feeling
all right? You look beat.”

“I’m fine, thanks. I just didn’t sleep well.” In
truth, the dream had returned—the crooked boy pleading for help,
and Adam unable to even offer words of comfort.

“How about some coffee?”

“That would be nice.” Adam walked through the door
that joined his office with Fannie’s. Inside he opened his
briefcase and brought out a notepad. He stared at the blank sheet
of paper on which he would begin the outline of his sermon. Pulling
a Greek New Testament from the bookshelves that lined two of his
walls, he immersed himself in the process he had honed over the
years: exegesis from the ancient Koine Greek text, formation of an
outline, review of commentaries, and finally the sermon’s
composition. The process took the better part of two days. Deep in
concentration, Adam almost failed to notice Fannie as she brought
the coffee he had requested.

Later Fannie entered the office again. “There’s a
Dr. Tremaine on the line. She insisted on talking to you now.”

Adam smiled.
Insistent
was a good word for
Rachel. “Thank you, Fannie.” After she left, Adam picked up the
phone.

“I hope nothing’s wrong,” Adam said.

“It’s happened again.” Her voice was tense. “I
thought you would want to know.”

“You mean another healing?” Adam’s pulse
quickened.

“Exactly.”

“What happened?”

“Not over the phone. If you can make it to the
hospital tonight, I’ll explain everything.”

“I’ll be there. What time?”

“Eight.”

Adam wondered at her economy of conversation; she
was almost monosyllabic.

“Eight it is.”

The line went dead. Adam listened to the dial tone
for a moment and then placed the receiver back in its cradle.

“VERY WELL DONE, Dr. Tremaine,” Dr. Morgan said,
rising from his chair. “Very well done, indeed. Now all that
remains is to see if the Reverend Bridger is our man.”

“I don’t feel good about this,” Rachel said
tersely.

“What is there not to feel good about? You are
simply trying to help the hospital solve a problem.”

“It’s the lying that bothers me.”

“Why, Dr. Tremaine, how quaint! Please remember that
we have 600 patients here, and it’s our responsibility to protect
them.”

Protect them from what? Rachel wondered.

Tuesday, March 24, 1992; 4:00
P.M.

PAUL ISAIAH GLANCED AROUND the dimly lit interior of
the San Diego Sports Arena. In the center of the court area that
had served many sporting events was a prefabricated stage, its
support structure hidden behind a valance of deep-blue fabric. An
acrylic pulpit dominated the center of the stage. Around him was
row upon row of vinyl-covered seats in which thousands of people
would tomorrow sit and listen to him preach his customized version
of the Gospel.

“Up here, Reverend.” Isaiah turned to find the
source of the distant voice. In the weak light he saw a figure
waving. “Wait there; I’m coming down.” The figure made its way down
the concrete steps.