By My Hands (31 page)

“That sounded like fun,” Pham said.

“Like a root canal.” Priscilla leaned back in her
chair and resumed massaging her head. “I’ve got such a headache.”
Pham reached into his pocket and pulled out a small yellow tin of
aspirin.

“Still trying to get information out of the
hospital?”

“Yeah, but I’m definitely a persona non grata. They
must have really brought the hammer down over there. I can’t get
anyone to talk to me. No one in administration is returning my
calls.”

“Not even Carl Fuller, their PR guy?”

“Especially Carl Fuller. And our sources have dried
up. I’ve called Dr. Robert Ailes and Nurse Karen Hobbs—they were
the ones that clued us in on Lisa Hailey—and they’re not there. At
least, I’ve been told they’re not there. I finally tracked Karen
Hobbs down, and she not only won’t talk to me, but blames me for
nearly costing her job. I even tried popping in on them but was met
by a gorilla in a guard uniform who ushered me to their head of
security, a guy named Sanchez.”

“What happened?”

“He read me the riot act,” Priscilla pulled a
cigarette from her purse. “He accused me of causing the problem at
the hospital, encouraging patients to leave other hospitals with
false hopes, and endangering the lives of patients.”

“Don’t light that,” Pham said grimacing. “It’s a
state law, remember? No smoking in enclosed areas. What did you say
to him?”

Priscilla looked at the cigarette with longing and
then tossed it on the table. “Nothing. He was furious. He
threatened half a dozen law suits. Then before I could say
anything, he had me ushered out.”

“Well, that explains it,” Pham said casually.

“Explains what?”

“Our attorneys just received a restraining order on
your behalf. The court orders you to stay away from the hospital.
The attorneys say the hospital is trying to get the court to ban
everyone on our staff, but could only get you—at least so far.”

“Oh, great.” Priscilla was exasperated. “So how do I
do my job?”

“From a distance, I suppose. “Besides, you have
another problem.”

Priscilla looked at the man sitting on the edge of
her desk, “Like what?”

“The Reverend Paul Isaiah is suing you, me, and the
station for last Saturday’s broadcast. You were pretty rough on
him.”

“Not half as rough as I wanted to be. He deserved
worse than I gave him.”

“Perhaps, but his lawyers don’t think so.”

“Well, that’s what lawyers do—sue people. That’s why
this station retains several good barristers.”

“You’re right, of course. Stations like ours get
sued occasionally, and usually win. We’ll probably win this one
too. Nonetheless, you’re to stay away from the hospital and Paul
Isaiah.”

“It’s not right!” Priscilla hopped out of her chair.
“It’s just not right.”

“Agreed, but that’s the way it is.”

Priscilla retrieved her purse and the cigarette from
her desk. “I need some fresh air.” Quickly she turned and left her
office. A moment later she returned. “I’ll find a way to get to the
bottom of this. I’ll be a player in this mystery; maybe only a
small player, but I’ll definitely do something!”

Monday, March 30, 1992; 3:00
P.M.

“YOU UNDERSTAND WHY WE must ask,” Greene said, as he
sat in one of the chairs near Isaiah’s desk.

“Of course,” Isaiah said cheerfully. “I want to help
in any way I can. I’m only sorry that a Special Agent of the FBI
had to drive from San Diego to Los Angeles. Couldn’t we have done
this over the phone?”

“These things are best handled in person, Reverend.”
Greene pulled a notebook from his pocket and simultaneously turned
on a small pocket recorder. He used the recorder as an electronic
memory to supplement his poor note-taking ability. He had found
that leaving the recorder in his pocket made the one being
interviewed less nervous.

“We attempted to contact you after your service
Saturday night,” Greene continued, “but you got away too fast.”

“I’m sorry about that. So many people want to talk
to me after a service that I have to plan a . . .” Isaiah searched
for the right word “. . . well, an escape route. It’s not that I
don’t care for the people, you understand, but when they press on
me and . . . well . . . someone could get hurt.”

Greene didn’t comment, but looked into the deep,
gray eyes of Isaiah. The captivating charisma that was so dominant
at last Saturday night’s service was now absent. One-on-one, Isaiah
was quiet and reserved, almost embarrassingly shy.

What kind of man am I dealing with?
Is
Isaiah a charlatan, preying on the hurts of others? Or, is he
really a man of God—a prophet with mystical powers? Or, is he just
crazy—perhaps a psychotic with a messiah complex?
After
eighteen years in the FBI, Greene felt he had seen it all. Isaiah,
however, baffled him. Greene had run the usual wants and warrants
check on Isaiah, but found nothing. Isaiah was squeaky-clean.

Greene’s thoughts were interrupted by the opening of
Isaiah’s office door. A tall, thin man with curly hair entered the
room.

“Come in, R.G., come in,” Isaiah said, springing to
his feet. “There’s someone I want you to meet. R.G., this is
Special Agent Norman Greene of the FBI. Agent Greene, this is R.G.,
the real brains around this place.”

Greene stood and shook R.G.’s hand. His hand was
moist, an indication to Greene of anxiety. Both sat and faced
Isaiah.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” R.G. said timidly.
“Is there something wrong?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.” Greene’s voice
took on a serious, professional tone. “Are you aware of the recent
events at Kingston Memorial Hospital?”

“We are,” Isaiah said flatly. “At my press
conference a woman reporter asked some confusing questions. I
thought she might be a troublemaker—we get them from time to
time—so I thought it best not to give her a direct answer.”

“Your answer implied that you were responsible for
the healings.” Greene watched Isaiah’s eyes closely. He watched for
unusually frequent blinking, or a telltale breaking of eye contact
that would indicate Isaiah was lying.

“Actually, my answers were meant to reveal
nothing.”

“Why be so evasive?” Greene asked, hoping to apply a
little pressure.

“Mr. Greene,” Isaiah said slowly, “I have been in
this ministry a good number of years. I have learned over those
years that the news media can, and frequently does, report
inaccurately or edit a story to have greater appeal. For example,
when the Pope came to the United States, a reporter, trying to make
a name for himself, decided to trick him. When the Pope stepped
from the plane in New York, the reporter asked, ‘Are you going to
see the go-go girls here in New York?’ Well, the Pope was stuck. If
he said yes, it would imply that he was immoral; but if he said no,
it would imply that he had no compassion for lost souls. So the
Pope answered the best he could. He answered with a question. He
asked, ‘Are there go-go girls in New York? You know, he was acting
naive. Pretty smart really, but the reporter got him. Front page
headlines the next day read: Pope’s First Question, ‘Are There
Go-Go Girls in New York?’ ”

Greene laughed in spite of himself.

“Do you see what I mean?” Isaiah continued. “With
some news people even the truth can get you into trouble.”

“So then,” Greene said, “you deny being the
Healer?”

“I deny nothing. I’ve simply explained to you why I
didn’t answer that reporter’s question. I felt she was leading
me.”

“Are you the Healer of Kingston Memorial Hospital?”
Greene decided to turn up the heat by asking pointed questions.

Isaiah smiled. “Has this Healer committed a
crime?”

“Actually, no. But there have been some crimes that
may be related to the Healer’s activities.”

“But the Healer is not wanted—legally, I mean?”

“Only for questioning.” Greene realized that Isaiah
had turned the tables on him. He cursed silently.

“Since the Healer is not wanted for any crime and I
assume you are not here with a warrant, then all I can say at this
time is that I know of nothing that will help you with any crime
you may be investigating. R.G., do you know of anything?”

R.G. shook his head silently.

“Well then,” Isaiah said, “if there’s nothing more,
I’ll ask my secretary, Miss Harper, to show you out.” Isaiah
pressed a button on his intercom as he and R.G. stood; Greene
remained seated.

“Perhaps you don’t understand, Reverend Isaiah,”
Greene said tersely. “So far, two men are dead, one a killer, the
other a TV news executive who happened to be in the wrong place at
the wrong time. In addition to that, three families are missing,
one of them certainly by kidnapping. We believe the others may have
been abducted also. If you are the Healer, then take care; whoever
is doing this may come after you.”

Christine Harper stepped through the door in
response to the electronic summons. “You called for me, sir?”

Greene rose. “If you think of anything that might
help me, please call. The last thing we want is to see anyone else
get killed— especially an entire family.”

R.G. cringed. Taking Greene by the arm, he quickly
led him to the door.

“Take care, Reverend Isaiah,” Greene said from the
door, “and thank you for your time. We may be seeing one another
again.”

ISAIAH DIDN’T REPLY. He had heard the last few
sentences, and his mind now filled with other thoughts—images of
three coffins, three ever-present coffins.

SHEDDING HER CLOTHES and throwing them on the bed,
Rachel stepped into the shower and turned the water on, letting it
run hot and hard. Facing the multiple streams of water, she allowed
the steam to circle her head; then, leaning back against the shower
stall, she slid down the wall until she was seated on the floor.
The water pounded on her face and streamed down her body.

Angrily, she rehearsed the events of the last few
weeks. What was going on? Not long ago she was an up-and-coming
surgeon, one of the best in the hospital; now she wasn’t even sure
she was employed. She could see Evan Morgan’s red face and hear his
venomous words. The scene kept replaying itself in her mind.

Tears came and she covered her face with her hands
and sobbed. She hated it when she cried, but she couldn’t help
herself. All the pent-up emotion of the last few weeks—the
healings, the frustrating investigation, her uncertain feelings for
Adam, and now her confrontation with Morgan—welled up with volcanic
proportions. She was glad that there was no one to see her cry.

After a few moments the warm water did its
therapeutic work, and she began to unwind. After a few minutes more
she was able to block out any meaningful conscious thought and
listen to the sound of water spraying against her body. Reality
intruded on her world when she realized she had used all the hot
water. She stepped from the shower and quickly dried herself then
put on a terry cloth robe.

As she continued to dry her hair, she thought about
Adam.
What do we have in common? I am a woman of science; he is
a man of faith. I am in the community of medical professionals; he
is part of the clergy. I look to no one but myself for strength; he
looks to God. There is no hope for any kind of
relationship.

What is there about him? Most women would, not
consider him handsome, but I am not like most women. I enjoy his
quick wit, his sense of caring, his gentle intelligence.

Placing the towel on the rack, she picked up her
hair dryer and turned it on high. A few moments later, she looked
at her reflection in the mirror.
Could Adam ever be interested
in me?
She paused as she took a long look at the woman in the
mirror.

“In all honesty, Dr. Tremaine,” she said aloud.
“Adam may not be every girl’s dream, but then again you are not
every man’s fantasy. Mirrors are great for removing
self-deception.”

With Adam’s face still clearly etched in her mind
she thought,
Maybe, just maybe, something worthwhile may come of
all this Healer nonsense.

Tuesday, March 31, 1992; 6:00
A.M.

MORNING CAME EARLY FOR Rachel. She had spent a
restless night dreaming various scenarios of her confrontation with
Dr. Morgan. Arising at 6 o’clock, she prepared a light breakfast.
Still uncertain about her position at the hospital, she struggled
with her next course of action. If she was about to be fired, then
she had some decisions to make.

After breakfast she took several three-by-five cards
and began to write all her possible options.
Option 1: Go into
private practice.
Under that she began two columns. Column one
she titled “positives,” column two “negatives.” Beneath each she
began listing all the pluses and minuses of private practice:
initial cost of office equipment, greater malpractice insurance,
and years of building a patient base.

On another card she wrote,
Option 2: Join an
established medical firm.
Again, she listed positive and
negative considerations.

Rachel took note of her now detached attitude.
Emotion would not solve her problem, but cold rational logic would.
She would simply do as she had always done: analytically consider
all the available options. This was the way she chose both the
college and medical school she had attended. She even chose to
accept residency at Kingston Memorial Hospital by this same
method.

She continued this exercise for another hour.
Stacking the cards, she wrapped a rubber band around them and left
them on the kitchen table. The kitchen clock read 7:45—time to
leave for the hospital.

The engine of the ’56 T-Bird came to life as Rachel
pulled out of her drive and made her way over the surface streets
to Interstate 805. The heavy freeway traffic moved smoothly but
slowly. Rachel didn’t care—she wasn’t looking forward to seeing
Morgan again.