By My Hands (27 page)

“Did anyone see him? The Healer I mean.”

“No. The patients were either asleep or unconscious.
None of the hospital staff saw anything either.”

So the only sighting we have is from Lois Langford
and what little information David Lorayne had to offer.”

“Correct. And as you know, she’s missing along with
her husband, the Haileys and the Loraynes.” Rachel saw Adam grimace
at being reminded about his missing members. “Any word from the
police?”

“None. I call them at least twice a day, but the
response is always the same—nothing new. There just isn’t much for
them to go on.”

The conversation stopped as the waiter brought the
soup. They watched as he dished the soup into their bowls. The soup
had a wonderful aroma and looked like a Chinese stew with shrimp,
vegetables, beef, and pork floating in a clear broth.

“What about these other people?” Adam continued.
“Are any of them missing?”

“I asked that, and the answer was always no. It
appears that the disappearances are exclusively our problem. I
suppose we could drive up and talk to some of them.”

“I don’t think it would do any good. As you’ve said,
none of them saw anything. For some reason things seemed to have
changed in the Healer’s usual method of operation.”

“How so?”

“Well, so far we have had three healings; the other
cities each had one—or at least one reported. Here there has been
more publicity.”

“That may not have been intentional,” Rachel
remarked. “It could be that the other hospitals were able to keep
it quiet.”

“You’re probably right. That’s another reason I
don’t think Paul Isaiah is the Healer; he’s far too public. I’ve
got a feeling that the real Healer is still out there, and if he
is, we’ll find him.”

“Assuming, of course, that whoever is kidnapping
those who have been healed and their families don’t find him
first.”

Saturday, March 28, 1992; 6:45
P.M.

IT TOOK LESS THAN twenty minutes for Rachel and Adam
to navigate the busy roads from the restaurant west on Interstate 8
and take the Midway Drive turnoff to Sports Arena Boulevard. The
parking lot was filling rapidly with a stream of cars. Rachel and
Adam had to wait in a line of cars while a police officer directed
traffic.

“I hope you don’t mind walking,” Rachel said. “I
like to park away from the rest of the cars. Keeps the Bozos from
dinging my doors.”

“I think I can handle it.”

Rachel parked the car at the far end of the west lot
and they began the long walk to the arena.

The Sports Arena was a large concrete structure that
served as home for sports events and concerts.

“Amazing,” Rachel said. “Simply amazing.”

“What’s amazing?” Adam asked.

“The crowds. There’s got to be thousands of people
here. And all to see this preacher.”

“There have been those who have drawn bigger crowds.
What’s astounding is that Isaiah usually doesn’t get crowds this
big. Oh, he gets six or seven thousand, but nothing like this. I
guess his press conference really did the job.”

As they were walking toward the arena, they were
passed by two white vans, each with a satellite dish mounted to the
top.

“The television news is here in force,” Rachel said.
“It looks like every station with a news program has shown up.”

Several vans and cars, each with the call letters of
their station painted on the side, were lined up near the entrance.
Two cameramen, apparently from competing stations, were situated at
the entrance doors taping the long line of people as they entered
the building.

Adam was amazed at the conglomeration of people;
there were young and old, children who held tightly to the hands of
parents or grandparents. But, the most poignant of all were the
ill. They had come in droves: wheelchair-bound paraplegics wheeled
themselves forward or were pushed along by hopeful family members;
the blind, led by friends, walked eagerly to the building that
housed their hope; and the bent, misshapen, crippled, and diseased
moved forward in unison, driven by a dream born of despair. Some
struggled alone, others had help, and all had the same goal: new
health. It was as if all the hospitals had been emptied of their
infirm. Fathers carried children too weak to walk, and husbands
held wives decimated by disease. Adam watched as one old woman,
hunched over and unable to stand erect, labored to make her way up
the stairs. Four men carried another man on a stretcher, each
looking very somber; the man on the stretcher moved his lips in
silent prayer.

Compassion welled up in Adam. Tears filled his eyes.
These people had come because this was their last hope. Here, they
thought, was a chance to be whole, to be normal. It infuriated
Adam. Isaiah could not deliver that hope. They would leave as they
came, crippled and ill, and they would blame God for it.

He looked at Rachel, her face was stoic as she
averted her eyes.
We each deal with the pain of others
differently
. Rachel simply blocked it out.

Adam started to say something, but his words died in
his mouth. In the line, just about to enter the building, was the
one who haunted the halls of his mind day and night—the crooked
little boy. He held the hand of a tall woman with long, blond hair.
It looked as though she had not eaten or bathed in days. She stared
unblinkingly forward through hollow eyes. The little boy, his spine
contorted, waddled as he walked. Just before the boy entered the
building, he turned and saw Adam. Seeing a face he knew, the boy
smiled weakly. All of Adam’s haunted dreams came back in
flash-flood fashion. The boy would pervade his dreams again—maybe
forever.

Inside the arena, seating was filling fast. Rachel
and Adam had to sit in the upper level. From there they could see
the whole staging area. A large pulpit dominated the raised
platform. Flowers were everywhere, with the brightest ones
surrounding the pulpit. A grand piano was on the stage as well as a
large organ, a harp, and several electronic keyboards. Overhead was
a large screen on which the enlarged image of the stage area was
projected so that those seated in the back rows could see
everything that happened in colorful detail.

A few moments after Adam and Rachel were seated, a
tall, stately man with dazzling white hair stepped up to the podium
and the musicians took their places.

“Welcome,” the man said in a loud and deeply
resonant voice. “Take your brochures that you received when you
came in and look on the back page.” The sound of thousands of
rustling papers filled the auditorium. “There you will find the
words to the songs we are about to sing.” The musicians played
softly in the background. “Let’s begin this time of glorious
worship by singing praises to God. Stand with me, and sing until
the rafters shake.”

Almost in unison 14,000 people stood and sang, each
joining his or her voice to the magnificent basso voice of the man
in the pulpit. Those who could not stand sang just as loudly. The
singing continued, song after song, for thirty minutes. Adam
noticed that the choice of songs were all old and familiar hymns
that dealt with the might and power of God: “Great Is Thy
Faithfulness,” “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” “Joyful, Joyful,”
and others. With each song the crowd became more involved and
intense. Many sang with eyes closed and hands lifted in the air;
some swayed back and forth as they sang; and others simply
wept.

After the singing, the audience was seated. A young
woman, tall, slender, with bright blond hair, stepped into the
pulpit and spoke. She told of her life before coming to a Paul
Isaiah meeting, her broken marriage and her addiction to drugs. She
also told of her life as an abused child and resulting
resentments.

“But now I’m free,” she shouted. “Now I’m free and
you can be free too. Reverend Isaiah has given me new life,
Hallelujah.” The crowd applauded thunderously. “Would you like to
have new life? Then let me introduce you to the man who can show
you the secrets of happiness, fullness, joy, and success—the
Reverend Paul Isaiah.”

The audience stood and applauded as the stage
musicians began playing an up-tempo song. A small, balding man
bounded quickly to the front of the platform but did not stand
behind the pulpit. He was clapping his hands together in time with
the music, encouraging the audience to join him. Soon everyone was
clapping to the music and continued to do so until the music
stopped nearly ten minutes later.

“Amen!” Isaiah shouted, in his high-pitched Southern
drawl. “Amen! Isn’t sheee wonderful? Isn’t sheee beautiful? What a
testimony! And you know what? You can have a testimony just like
hers, because God loves you and has all the best planned for you.
If you believe that, say, ‘Amen!’ ”

The crowd responded with a loud, “Amen.”

“If you believe God loves you, say ‘Amen!’ ”

The crowd responded loudly.

“If you believe God will help you, then say ‘Amen!’
” Isaiah was now shouting and the crowd was shouting back. “Glory,
glory, glory; lift your hands in praise to God.”

Immediately thousands of hands were lift and waved
back and forth.

Adam watched with an analytical detachment. In a
matter of moments Isaiah had, through a well-formulated procedure,
worked most of the crowd into a near frenzy. Adam also noticed that
Isaiah had fallen into a “folk preaching” cadence that was popular
in some areas of the deep South. He did this by adding an “uh”
sound at the end of every phrase.

Isaiah continued, “I know why you’ve come-uh. I know
why you’re here-uh. You’re hurting-uh, you’re discouraged-uh, your
life lacks meaning-uh, so you need help-uh. Well, you’ve found it
tonight-uh. Right now-uh. You can have peace-uh. You can have
joy-uh. Right now-uh. Do you believe-uh?”

“Yes,” the crowd shouted.

“It’s yours to claim-uh. Do you believe?”

“Yes!”

“God-uh wants you to be happy-uh. Do you
believe?”

“Yes!”

“Are you ready to be released-uh?”

“Yes!”

“Are you ready to be free-uh?”

“Yes!”

“Are you ready now-uh?”

“Yes!”

The noise hurt Adam’s ears. He looked at Rachel,
expecting to see her laughing at the little man on the stage;
instead, she looked transfixed.

Isaiah began his sermon, pacing continuously across
the stage. Although there was very little Bible quoted, and still
less any real application, Adam had to admit that Isaiah was an
exceptional speaker. Every eye was fixed on him as he pranced up
and down the stage, swinging his arms in near windmill fashion and
occasionally punching the air with his fist to make a point.

Isaiah talked of personal peace and prosperity. He
proclaimed with great enthusiasm that all could be wealthy and
healthy, and that God desired all of His children to thrive. Among
orthodox clergy this was often referred to as a
“blab-it-and-grab-it” gospel.

Isaiah proclaimed his message forcefully and with
great authority: “If it’s in your heart-uh, you can have it-uh. If
you believe it-uh, then it will be so. It all rests in your
faith-uh, your belief-uh, and your willingness to step out in
confidence.”

After the sermon, Isaiah began the healing portion
of the service, in the fashion so popular with some television
evangelists, describing in vague terms a disease or physical
affliction and then asking the person who fit the description to
come forward. Other times he would call people forward by
describing their physical ills in great detail.

An elderly man in a wheelchair was wheeled onto the
stage and positioned to the right of the pulpit. His frail image
appeared on the large monitors overhead. Isaiah approached and
crouched in front of him.

“What is your name, brother?” Isaiah asked in a kind
and hushed tone, holding a microphone near the man’s mouth.

“George Wilbur.” The man’s voice wavered.

“Have you come for healing today, Brother George?”
The camera that fed the overhead monitors zoomed in for a tight
shot of Isaiah and George.

“Yes.”

“The problem is in your back, isn’t it, George?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you had this problem?” Isaiah asked
kindly.

“Twelve years.”

Suddenly Isaiah popped up from his crouched
position. “Twelve years!” he shouted. “Did you hear that? Twelve
years! Twelve years of pain. Twelve years of frustration. Twelve
years of not being able to walk. And now he wants to be healed. If
you think he can be healed, then say, ‘Amen!’ ”

The crowd responded loudly.

“I said if you think God can heal Brother George,
then say, ‘Amen!’”

The response was almost painful and followed by
peals of applause. Immediately Isaiah held up his hand and quieted
the crowd, taking them from exuberance to stark quiet.

Then in hushed, reverent tones he said, “But I am
just a man; a human like you. There’s nothing special about
Reverend Isaiah. I am frail and powerless.” He paused and slowly
let his eyes scan the crowd. It was as though he was drinking in
the silence, appreciating his control of the crowd.

“I am frail and powerless,” he repeated and bowed
his head. The camera slowly tightened its shot until Isaiah’s head
filled the overhead monitors. Slowly, Isaiah raised his head,
revealing tears streaming down his cheeks. His lower lip quavered.
Another camera relayed the image of the wheelchair-bound man who
had now buried his face in his hands. Then slowly, almost
imperceptibly at first, Isaiah began to nod.

“I am not special,” he said, as a broad smile spread
across his face. His next words erupted explosively, “But God is!
God is powerful. God is true. God is here.”

On cue the band began playing, and Isaiah began
skipping across the stage clapping his hands in time to the music
and shouting, “God is here! God is here! God is here!”