By My Hands (23 page)

But the problems weren’t insignificant. The Loraynes
were still missing, kidnapped by people with unknown but probably
violent motives. He wondered if the Loraynes could see the stars
tonight from wherever they were.

Adam’s adrenaline-laced anger soon gave way as he
walked. At first his mind churned with the events of the last few
days, but with each step he gained more perspective and grew
calmer. Forcing back the emotion-induced haze, Adam began to think
as he had taught himself to think: systematically.

He asked himself what he really felt. He discovered
not a simple answer, but one that was layered like a cake. He felt
fear for the Loraynes, and he felt frustration at not being able to
help. He also felt something else, something powerful and nagging.
He knew it had to do with what had just happened at the hospital.
They had treated him improperly, attempting to trap him. They had
also been condescending. At his very core, Adam was a humble man,
but he had a professional pride in his education and his vocation.
Yet, because of that vocation, others had made the mistake of
assuming he was a superstitious fanatic. Those outside church life
often thought that a spiritual mind could not be a reasoning one.
They did not realize that some of the finest minds of the ages were
filled with belief and faith. Isaac Newton wrote more about
religious matters than scientific. Pasteur, Pascal, and others
revered as intellectuals possessed an abiding Christian belief.

Adam walked without direction or destination until
he found himself at the back gate to the play yard of the
elementary school. The gate was chained in such a fashion that it
could be opened part way.

Slipping through the opening, Adam made his way into
the play yard. He could hear the breeze rustle through the leaves
of a nearby fruitless mulberry tree. In the distance he heard a car
horn honk, and the sound of a television program drifted through
the air from one of the nearby homes.

Walking to the large swing set, Adam sat on one of
the plastic seats and looked over the empty schoolyard. It had a
lonely, haunted feeling, a sensation with which Adam could relate.
He too felt lonely and haunted. Just as the schoolyard was missing
children, he was missing something. As a minister, he had held many
counseling sessions with those who sought his advice. Often,
married couples would come to him for help. Invariably, one or the
other would ask if marriage was worth the trouble it took to stay
together. Adam gazed at the dust on his sneakers and knew inside
that, compared to the loneliness of a solitary life, companionship
was worth it.

Adam counseled himself that night as he had
counseled scores of others who came into his office. He asked what
the real source of the problem was. In what were the negative
emotions rooted? The answer came quickly. The problem was not only
the way he had been set up—he had a right to be angry about
that—but the one who helped set him up—Rachel. He had no right to
expect anything of her. As a doctor her first loyalty was to a
hospital embroiled in an impossible situation. And yet, he felt
deeply disappointed that she would have gone along with Morgan and
Sanchez in such a ridiculous scheme. He was hurt, and that’s what
was eating him. That and the ever-present sense of helplessness.
The question remained: What could be done?

“Okay, enough of this pity party.” With that, he
rose from the swing and paced around the play yard. He walked in a
large circle that took him from the swing set past the monkey bars,
onto the paved basketball courts, along the chain-link fence and
back to the swing set. He had no idea how many times he made the
circuit; he just walked and talked with himself. Interspersed in
his self-dialogue he prayed. The prayers were short like Post-it
Notes stuck to the door of heaven in which he asked God questions
about himself, about the future, and about what to do.

When Adam finally returned home, his feet hurt, and
his body was weary, but his mind was now clear. He now knew what he
must do, and it would begin tomorrow with a phone call to Dr.
Rachel Tremaine.

RACHEL WAS FURIOUS: furious with Dr. Morgan for
suggesting such a juvenile ploy to trap a man who was so clearly
innocent, and furious with herself for acquiescing to the scheme.
She had participated in an unethical activity. Adam Bridger would
be well within his rights to file a complaint with the hospital
board of directors and license review board.

After Adam had left the conference room, the three
conspirators sat in stunned silence. None had anticipated his
reaction. They had expected him to either confess to being the
Healer or, at best, make a meager attempt to explain his actions.
Instead, he had dominated the meeting, refusing to be manipulated
or verbally abused. Instead of catching Adam in a compromising
situation, he had caught them in one. As they sat staring at the
door through which Adam had just exited, Rachel gathered her things
and walked toward the door.

“Wait a minute,” Dr. Morgan said. “I think we had
better talk about this.”

Rachel ignored him and exited the room. It took less
than four minutes for her to walk to the elevators, descend to the
first floor, leave the building, and get in her car. Two minutes
later she was on the freeway headed home. Except she didn’t go
home.

As Rachel pulled onto her street, she thought of her
home. Inside it she would be warm, cozy, and absolutely alone.
Except she didn’t want to be alone—not now. But she didn’t want to
talk to anyone either. What she needed was a crowded place where
she could get lost. She realized the oxymoronic nature of her
thoughts: it was ridiculous to want to be alone in a crowd. From
her medical training she knew the root of the compulsion: she
wanted a relationship with people, but didn’t want the
responsibility or the risk such relationships could bring. That’s
why she had no close friends and was cordially estranged from
family. While she enjoyed living alone, she had moments when she
desired, even hungered for, the warmth of other people. Now was
such a time.

The impersonal crowd Rachel was looking for was
found in a Mission Valley movie theater. At the ticket window she
asked when the next show started but not the name of the movie. She
purchased a ticket to
Bully,
a new comedy starring Michael
Keaton as a self-serving, womanizing vice-president who suddenly
becomes president of the United States, and becomes a better person
through the advice and intervention of the ghost of Teddy
Roosevelt, played by a horribly miscast Mel Gibson.

The movie was of no consequence to Rachel; she just
wanted to be some place other than home or the hospital. At the
snack bar she bought a large popcorn, two boxes of bon-bons, and a
diet cola. In the darkened theater she sat in the back row and
munched the popcorn furiously in a subconscious effort to release
pent-up anxiety. The scene at the hospital replayed itself
repeatedly in her mind, and every time it did, she filled her mouth
with popcorn. Halfway through the movie and the second box of
bon-bons, Rachel felt more composed and watched the movie with
growing interest. It didn’t take long for her to understand the
writer’s point: people can change. In the movie, the ghost of Teddy
Roosevelt was encouraging the reluctant new president to seize
control of his life and his destiny, and in the process find out
that there was more to life than he had ever experienced.

That’s what I need,
someone to keep me
from making a fool of myself.
By the end of the show, Rachel
was still angry, but her ire was controlled. The movie had given
her time to distance herself from the day’s events. It had also
given her a new perspective. Maybe she could make changes in her
life.
It’s a shame there’s not a friendly ghost to guide
me
.

Twenty minutes later, Rachel was home—with a
stomachache.

Wednesday, March 25, 1992; 8:00
A.M.

SHE HAD ATTEMPTED TO apologize, when he had called
at 8 the next morning, but Adam wouldn’t allow it. It was clear
that she was sincere when she said, “I’m sorry.” After some coaxing
he had been able to convince her to meet him.

“Just trust me,” he had said. “There’s someone I
want you to meet. He may help us both solve our problems.”

“Who is he and what can he do about finding our
mysterious Healer?” Her voice revealed her weariness.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. Just show
up at the address I gave you. I promise, you won’t be
disappointed.”

“When?”

“Ten o’clock this morning.”

“What if I have rounds this morning?”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ll see you there.” Adam hung up and
smiled.

Wednesday, March 25, 1992; 10:00
A.M.

“INCREDIBLE,” RACHEL SAID, her eyes wide in
amazement. Before her was the largest house she had ever seen. From
the La Jolla address Adam had given, she had guessed that they
would be meeting at an expensive home, but this was more than she
could have imagined. The house, its copper roof weathered to an
emerald green, was an architect’s dream. Thin, fixed windows,
tinted against the sun, provided a panoramic view on the manicured
landscape and the blue Pacific ocean. Cedar siding graced the
walls, and sculptured Egyptian dogs lined the long driveway and
walkway.

“It takes your breath away, doesn’t it?” Adam took
Rachel by the arm and ushered her up the winding sidewalk. He
pushed the doorbell next to two massive oak doors. The doorbell
chimed several bars of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons,
causing
Rachel to look at Adam and roll her eyes. A moment later one of the
doors swung open.

“Martin,” Adam said jovially, “it’s good to see that
you still open your own doors.”

“Come in, Adam. I’ve been expecting you.”

When they entered the foyer, Adam said, “Martin, I
want you to meet a friend of mine, Dr. Rachel Tremaine. Rachel,
this is Martin St. James, our host.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. Tremaine. May I fix
you anything to drink?”

Rachel studied the man for a moment. He had a thin,
blond beard; his face was narrow and drawn, punctuated with bright
blue eyes. He reminded Rachel of the stereotypical nerd.

“Coffee would be nice,” she responded.

“Anna,” he called, “will get you some coffee. How
about you, Adam?”

“No thanks. I had a late breakfast.”

Martin nodded. “Please, let’s go into the living
room.”

Martin led them from the foyer into a massive room
dominated by a circular fireplace and a spectacular view of the
ocean and shoreline known as Black’s Beach. The room could only be
described as opulent. French impressionist art hung on any wall
that was not windowed. One wall was a tinted window from the floor
to the ceiling which towered twenty feet above them. Several
Persian rugs were strategically placed on the floor. Martin led
them to a white leather divan that was situated to allow the best
view of the ocean.

“Your home is,” Rachel paused for the right word,
“remarkable.”

“Thank you,” Martin responded with a slight grin.
“It’s all Anna’s doing. She really has a knack for decorating. I
don’t have a head for such things. Speaking of Anna, I think I’ll
go see if I can find her.” Turning to Adam he asked, “Sure I can’t
get you anything?”

“Positive, but thanks anyway.”

Martin nodded and exited the room.

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” Adam said, “you
look positively shell-shocked.”

“This place is incredible.” Rather than sitting
down, Rachel wandered from painting to painting. “I don’t believe
it.”

“What don’t you believe?”

“This painting. It’s . . . it’s a Monet.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about art.”

“You’d have to be an idiot not to know Monet.”

“If the shoe fits.”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel said softly, joining Adam on the
couch. “That’s twice I’ve apologized today.”

“That’s okay, pastors develop thick skins early in
their ministries.”

“It’s just that that painting must be worth
thousands, maybe even millions.”

“I don’t doubt it. I’m sure he could afford several
more.”

“Several more?”

“When a man makes $150 million in one year, he can
afford many things.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “What does he do to make that
much money? He can’t be more than thirty years old.”

“Twenty-eight actually; and the best way to describe
what he does to make all that money is to say that he’s a
problem-solver.”

A quizzical look shadowed Rachel’s face. “He solves
other people’s problems? What kind of problems?”

“Many kinds. He has solved problems for computer
designers, electrical engineers, and even medical researchers. You
see, he is a bona fide genius in certain fields. He has this
magnificent capacity to take complicated problems and reduce them
to simple terms—simple for him, anyway—and find solutions. When a
research organization or technical business comes across a problem
their people can’t handle, they call on Martin.”

“And he can solve any kind of problem?”

“No. He’d be the first to admit that he’s not
omniscient. He is, however, very good with electrical/mechanical
problems. He has a true photographic memory. If he sees, hears, or
reads something, then it is forever locked away in his brain.”

“He must be an incredible scientist,” Rachel
said.

“Actually, I’m not a scientist at all.” Adam and
Rachel turned to see Martin enter the room accompanied by a
heavyset woman with a thin mouth, puffy eyes, and dark, tightly
curled hair. She was carrying a serving tray with a crystal pot and
several china cups. “I’m really an artist of sorts. Or, a
technician if you prefer. You see, a scientist is one who adds to
the body of humankind’s knowledge. Artists and technicians use the
available knowledge to achieve some end. Just like doctors. Most
medical doctors are not scientists.”