By My Hands (4 page)

After an evening of planning that was lubricated by
a steady flow of Scotch, Irwin decided to undertake his mission to
fame. His target was the newly elected U.S. Senator from
California, Bob Hollingsworth. Irwin’s plan called for a simple
implication of duplicity. He would accuse Senator Hollingsworth of
selling secrets to the Chinese government on a recent junket there.
He would cite his unnamed source as one who traveled on the trip
and had personal knowledge of the illegal transaction of
information. The nonexistent informant would remain secret and
therefore unimpeachable. Since there were still five years until
the Senator ran for reelection, the whole issue would blow over,
and no one would get hurt.

It all made sense to Irwin, but then he had been
living in an alcohol-induced fog for months. Irwin broke the story
on a Tuesday evening broadcast; by Friday the scam had been
uncovered. Irwin had overlooked the details necessary for a
believable lie. He had also underestimated the Senator. By noon
Wednesday Hollingsworth knew all there was to know about Irwin and
his story. By Thursday morning, with the help of his staff and the
most expensive private detective in the Bay area, he had been able
to prove Irwin’s report a lie. By Friday morning a phalanx of
attorneys descended on Irwin and the station. Within two weeks,
both the station and Irwin were being sued. Once convinced that
Irwin was the duplicitous one, the station was compelled to fire
him.

Friendship is what saved him. George Jenkins,
Irwin’s roommate in college and fellow journalist, was a partner in
the Prime Television Group, owners of radio and television stations
around the country. Two months after “Irwingate,” Jenkins phoned
Irwin. He offered him a job; not a great job—those days were
gone—but a chance to start over as Jenkins’ assistant. The position
was a low-level executive role, but it was the only job he could
get.

Irwin quickly accepted the position even though it
meant moving to Phoenix. A new city might be just what he needed.
The job came with a price: Jenkins insisted that Irwin get
professional help for his alcohol problem. It was a tough
commitment, but with the help of Jenkins, an expensive
psychiatrist, and a determination to make amends for his moral
failings, Irwin overcame his addiction, proved to be as outstanding
an administrator as a journalist, and quickly rose through the
ranks until the board of Prime Television Group gave him the reins
of struggling KGOT-TV in San Diego.

Leaning back in his chair, Irwin pulled open the
large file drawer of his desk. Reaching into the drawer, he removed
the lone item and stared at it as he did each day. It was a gift
from Jenkins when he came to work in Phoenix. He remembered
Jenkins’ words; “Irwin, you’ve come a long way. You’re a valuable
member of the team and, most of all, you’re my best friend. I’m
giving this to you so that you will never go back to the hell you
came from. I wouldn’t blame you if you hopped up and hit me with
your chair, but I’m hoping that you’ll understand why I’m doing
this.” Jenkins then set a shoe box on the desk.

It had taken a moment for Irwin to gather the
courage to open the unwrapped box. When he did, he found the bottle
that he now held—a bottle filled with a golden-brown fluid that
looked like Scotch.

Floating in the liquid was a photograph of Irwin,
his wife, and daughter at an awards banquet. Taped to the bottle
was a piece of paper with the hand-lettered words, “That was then;
this is now.”

Monday, March 2, 1992; 7:00
P.M.

RACHEL LEISURELY STROLLED ALONG the shoreline. She
was alone, very alone and very happy. She paused to take in the
deep azure sea with its wisps of lacy foam and the pure, white
sand. The water was warm as it lapped at her feet. Above her, a
lone sea gull cried and rode effortlessly upon the air currents.
Terns dove headlong into the ocean in their search for food. The
wind, full of the smell of the sea, caressed her face and ran its
invisible fingers through her short black hair. There was peace
here. No phones, no operating rooms, no life and death decisions,
just peace. She wanted to stay here forever. Everything was at her
command. If she wanted to turn the sea red, she could. If she
wanted an eagle overhead instead of the sea gull, it would be so.
This was her private world.

“Dr. Tremaine, two-two,” a voice filtered its way
into her mind. “Dr. Tremaine, two-two.”

Rachel was suddenly back in the surgeon’s lounge.
She looked at her watch; reality had allowed her only ten minutes
of solitude. Uninterrupted sleep was a rare commodity for her. Even
after surgeries and rounds were over, her mind would be reeling
from the pressures of her occupation. To relieve the stress, Rachel
had developed several mental exercises—fantasies actually. Closing
her eyes, she would slow her breathing, counting every inhalation.
After a few moments, she would imagine herself in any number of
different places. Her favorite was an imaginary deserted beach. No
hospitals, no phones, no people—just the silky white sands, the
lukewarm, azure water lapping at her bare feet. She loved her
fantasies. They were truly hers. No one could deprive her of them.
She could travel anywhere, do anything, be anyone.

“Dr. Tremaine, two-two. Dr. Tremaine, two-two.”

Rachel stared for a moment at the audio speaker
recessed in the ceiling, then went to the yellow phone on the wall
and dialed extension twenty-two. She glanced at her pager. There
was a message to call extension 22. She hadn’t heard it.

“Second floor west, Ann Jacobs speaking.” Rachel
knew Ann, she was a capable nurse, always doing her work without
complaint. If there was any fault to be found in her, it was that
she was chronically chipper.

“This is Dr. Tremaine.” Rachel’s voice betrayed her
irritation.

“Oh, good. We have a situation with one of your
patients.”

A situation. That meant a problem, something
serious. “Go on.”

“It’s Mr. Lorayne; he’s comatose, and we have been
unable to revive him.” Ann continued with his vital signs and other
pertinent data.

“I’m on my way.” Rachel hung up. Numb with fatigue
and longing for solitude, she made her way to second floor
west.

Monday, March 2, 1992; 7:10
P.M.

EVEN TO A TRAINED EYE David Lorayne appeared to be
sleeping. His chest rose rhythmically with each breath as it had
for forty-six years. His color was normal, as was his pulse and
blood pressure. If it were not for the monitors, IV bags, and
nurses, someone might simply have thought that David was
napping.

Rachel studied the patient’s chart intently,
searching for the elusive clue that would explain why an otherwise
healthy male would slip into a coma shortly after routine surgery.
She looked up from the chart and glanced at Ann Jacobs who awaited
direction.

Rachel was confused. She had been taught in medical
school that every doctor would eventually encounter an event that
defies explanation. Knowing this did not make the situation any
easier. Lorayne’s surgery had been routine; he had been admitted
with bleeding ulcers and Rachel had removed a small portion of his
stomach. A serious condition, but one that Rachel had dealt with
many times. The coma simply did not fit.

“I want a full workup—blood gases, EEG,” Rachel said
curtly. “Tell the lab I will be waiting for the results.” She
turned and exited the room before her face betrayed her confusion
and anxiety.

Tuesday, March 3, 1992; 10:00
A.M.

PRISCILLA SIMMS MADE HER way from the kitchen to the
balcony of her fourth-story condominium in Mission Valley. She sat
in a high-backed rattan chair and opened the morning paper. Since
she anchored the 6 o’clock and 11 o’clock news, she was not
required to be in the newsroom until after lunch. She spent her
mornings drinking coffee and reading several newspapers. On San
Diego’s frequent sunny mornings she would sit on her balcony
overlooking the heavily traveled Friars Road and watch the morning
rush-hour traffic or retirees playing golf on the nearby golf
course.

This morning she was frustrated. The last few days
had been slow. If only something newsworthy would happen. She felt
a twinge of guilt at that thought. She had never been able to
reconcile the conflicting emotions with which many news people
struggled. A good news day was filled with the shocking: murders,
wars, and political problems. To hope for a spectacular news day
was to hope for someone’s personal disaster. Since she was unable
to reconcile the irony, she had been content merely to ignore
it.

The papers were filled with the usual fare.
Priscilla drained the last of the coffee from her cup and decided
to go to the kitchen and pour another. She knew she drank too much
coffee. Someday she would cut back, but not today.

Coming from the kitchen, she glanced around at the
place she called home. She had lived here for five years. Her
decorative skills had given the 1,200-square-foot condominium an
air of elegance.

There was no doubt that she had expensive tastes.
But so what? She worked hard for everything she had. Since she
earned it, she felt free to spend it. Priscilla tended toward the
extravagant, buying without compunction items that were beyond most
people’s budget, including the white leather sofa and love seat she
had had custom-made, the Persian rug, and the engraved glass coffee
table. Most of all she loved the art. She had an eye for
well-crafted paintings and sculptures. There was not a room in her
home that didn’t have several pieces of art. At one time she
thought that she would like to be an artist, but the lack of
patience and talent ended that little dream.

Priscilla was jarred from her thoughts by the
phone.

“Yes.” Her voice was curt.

“Is that any way to treat your admiring news
director?”

Irwin Baker’s voice. She glanced at her watch—10.
She was not due at the station until 1:00. “You’re not going to ask
me to do the noon news are you? If you are, then I have a
headache.”

“Have I ever asked you to do the 12 o’clock?”

“Yes. Twice.”

“Well, I’m not going to today. In fact, if you’re
not nice to me, I may be inclined to give this story to someone a
little more respectful. Say, Judy Moore.”

“She’s an opportunist who reads like a
third-grader.”

“That’s not what the ratings show.”

“It’s not her journalistic skills they’re
watching.”

“Now, let’s not be nasty.” She could almost see him
grinning over the phone.

“Is there a point to this call?”

“Indeed there is. The last time we talked, you had
said that you might like to do a little investigative reporting;
remember?”

“Just get to the point, Irwin.”

“If you don’t mind starting to work earlier today,
you may want to stroll to Kingston Memorial Hospital. Word has it
that some unusual things are happening over there.”

“Like what?”

“People are being healed.”

“Cute, Irwin.” Priscilla’s mood grew worse.

“You don’t understand. People are getting healed
without the doctors.”

“Go on, I’m listening.”

“I got the call this morning. A woman—she wouldn’t
leave her name—said that a young girl had been healed in the burn
ward. The girl, Lisa Hailey, had been in a car accident and burned
over most of her body. They thought she was going to die, but she
hung on. Sometime before 4 this morning the girl was well.”

“What do you mean, well?” Priscilla asked
suspiciously.

“Just that. Her burns are all gone and she looks
absolutely normal.”

“Irwin, have you ever been in a burn ward?”

“No, but I’ve seen plenty of people burned, and I
know it’s not a pretty sight.”

“Then you know that burns don’t just go away. They
scar the person for life. Someone is pulling your chain.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why? You said she wouldn’t give her name.”

“True enough, but I know she made the call from the
hospital. I heard the paging system in the background, and I heard
a man address someone as ‘nurse.’ ”

“Okay. Maybe she made the call from the hospital,
but that doesn’t mean that charred skin can be healed.”

“Come on, Priscilla, give me some journalistic
credit, will you? I called the hospital back and asked if they had
a patient by the name of Lisa Hailey. They did. I asked if I could
speak to her and they said no, but they would connect me with the
nursing station in the burn ward. The nurse who answered the phone
was the same person who called me.”

Priscilla said nothing as she weighed what she had
just heard. “You said you wanted a story to investigate,” Irwin
said. “Here’s your chance.”

“I’ll take it,” she said and hung up. Twenty-two
minutes later Priscilla Simms was in her red BMW 320i weaving her
way through traffic.

Tuesday, March 3, 1992; 1:15
P.M.

“YOU SURE YOU DON’T want some of this?” Adam
offered, pointing to the plate of bland food in front of him.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Dick Slay replied,
holding his hands up in mock resistance. “I thought I was your
friend.”

Adam considered the food on his plate, the first
solid food he’d had since Sunday’s breakfast: a small fillet of
fish in a watery, brown sauce, dry mashed potatoes, and creamed
corn.

“They say that stuff is good for you,” Slay said.
“It’ll make you big and strong.” He laughed loudly as Adam twisted
his face in disgust. “Maybe tomorrow it’ll look better.”

“If it doesn’t, I’m going to order a pizza.”

“Better not tell your doctor.” Slay pulled up a
chair. “Who is your doctor, anyway?”

“The surgeon was Dr. Rachel Tremaine.”

“A woman?” Dick asked incredulously.