By My Hands (40 page)

“What’s what?”

“This.” The fat man patted Adam’s chest, feeling the
microphone. Then with a jerk he ripped open Adam’s shirt and gazed
at the electronics taped to Adam’s undershirt. “He’s wired for
sound.”

“Get rid of it quick, and let’s get out of
here.”

The fat man grabbed the tape and yanked. The tape
held, the shirt ripped. A moment later the car sped off.

“UNBELIEVABLE.” Greene uttered under his breath.

Special Agent Norman Greene walked through the
rubble that had been Adam Bridger’s furniture and personal
belongings. The room had been ransacked, not by thieves but by a
mass of people intent on finding one man. Police were milling in
and around the apartment. They had been called to break up the
crowds and now they stood around in bewilderment, trying to make
sense of the situation.

“They really did a number on the place, didn’t
they?”

Greene looked coldly at the young agent who spoke.
“Where were you when all this was going on?”

The question caught him off guard. This had been his
first real assignment since coming to the FBI. Now he felt
responsible for losing the one he had been assigned to protect.
“Agent Baker and I were monitoring his transmissions. We didn’t
realize that he had left until we heard him gasping for air and
then the struggle.” Patrick Morris had already given Greene the
pertinent facts . . . the gathering crowds, Adam’s weeping, and
finally his desperate attempt to flee the pitiful people outside
his door who would give him no peace.

For Adam, a man trained to care for and hurt with
others, it must have been sheer torment to listen to the constant
cries for help.

“We were ordered not to interfere until Reverend
Bridger was abducted,” Morris continued. “We were only doing as we
were told.”

“I know,” Greene said solemnly. “I was a fool to let
myself get talked into this. The question now is: Where is Adam
Bridger?”

“We lost the signal soon after he left his home. One
of our people found the transmitter in the middle of a nearby
street.”

There was an uneasy silence. Then Morris voiced what
was already common knowledge, “They’ve got him, and we don’t know
where he is.”

A GENTLE HAND STROKED Adam’s hair, slowly and
tenderly moving from forehead to ear. The hand was joined by
another hand, and then another. The tender strokes changed, moving
from caressing to tugging, pulling, vicious hands. Soon there were
ten hands, then a hundred, then a thousand disembodied hands
pulling, grabbing, reaching through the darkness.

Adam attempted to run into the duskiness that
engulfed him, but the hands were everywhere pulling at his clothes
and limbs. The hands scratched his face and clutch his throat.
Several clawed at the skin of his chest and back.

“You forgot me,” said a childish voice. “You forgot
all about me, didn’t you? You’re supposed to help people, but you
forgot me—left me.”

“Who are you?” Adam shouted, covering his eyes from
the probing hands.

“The forgotten,” the voice said sadly. “One of the
forgotten who needed you. You should have cared. Isn’t that what
you teach your people . . . to care?”

Suddenly, a figure appeared in the black distance, a
tiny figure surrounded by a small light, but too distant for Adam
to identify. Adam tried to cover his eyes again, but the other
hands viciously pulled them away.

“Look at me,” the infantile voice commanded. “Why
didn’t you help me? Why did you leave me?”

The illuminated figure grew larger as it approached
until a misshapen child stood before him. “Why did you forget
me?”

“I . . . I didn’t,” Adam cried. “There was nothing I
could do. I wanted to help but I couldn’t. It’s not my fault.”

“But you forgot me.”

“No, I didn’t. I’m helpless. I’m not who you think I
am.”

“You forgot me,” the crooked boy repeated. “Forgot.
Forgot. Forgot.” The boy chanted in a taunting rhythm. Soon
thousands of others chanted in a cacophony of voices, “Forgot,
forgot . . .”

“It’s not my fault,” Adam screamed. “It’s not my
fault.”

Adam bolted upright, eyes wide in terror, his dream
still vivid and echoing in his mind. A second later he noticed the
searing pain in his side and the pounding of his head.

“Easy, Adam,” a familiar voice said. “You’re not in
any shape to be doing sit-ups. I think you were dreaming.”

Turning to face the voice, he saw Rachel. They were
sitting on the floor. Blood stained her Yale sweatshirt and
jeans—his blood. It occurred to Adam that Rachel had been cradling
his head while he was unconscious. She must have been stroking his
hair. “Thank God you’re alive.”

“You’d better lie down again,” she said tenderly.
“I’m afraid they messed you up badly. You have at least two broken
ribs and a broken nose. I don’t think there are internal injuries,
but I can’t be sure. For a while, I was afraid you were going to
slip into a coma.”

Rather than lying down, Adam struggled to his feet.
His side and head protested. He was having trouble seeing. Touching
his face, he discovered his left eye was swollen shut and his right
eye was filled with tears. He blinked away the bleariness in his
good eye and looked around.

There were other people in the room. Willing himself
to concentrate, his vision cleared, and he saw the concerned faces
of David and Ann Lorayne. Adam smiled weakly and, in a false show
of bravado, said, “I’ve come to see why you haven’t been in church
lately.” Continuing to scan the room, he saw another elderly
couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Langford, I presume.” They nodded.

A man stood and approached Adam. “My name’s Hailey,
John Hailey. This is my wife, Judy, and my daughter, Lisa. I take
it you’re not with the police?”

Adam shook his head slowly. In a corner of the room,
Adam recognized the Gowan family. Seeing them brought back the
ghastly scene in their home.

“Where are we?” he asked quietly.

Rachel got up from her place on the floor. “We’re on
a boat headed out to sea.”

Adam paused as he digested the information. He was
still groggy from his beating. Adam had noticed the swaying of the
floor and the low droning sound from beneath them, but had
attributed it to his injuries.

“A boat?”

“They put us on it after they brought you here. They
had been keeping us in one of the old tuna canneries on the
wharf.”

The room was especially large for a boat, but the
rocking of the floor gave undeniable credence to the statement.
There was a window on one wall but the glass had been painted
black. “How long was I out?”

“About an hour,” Rachel said. “You really scared
me.” She threw her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry for what I
said. I’m sorry for what I did. And I’m sorry that you’re trapped
here with us.”

Adam winced in pain as he embraced her.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she cried and immediately released
him. “I guess I’m not much of a doctor.”

“You’re wonderful,” he said reassuringly. As Adam
struggled to clear his foggy mind, he remembered the crowd outside
his door, his emotional turmoil that resulted in his fleeing his
home and, most of all, the beating.

Suddenly, Adam remembered the tiny transmitter taped
to his back. Reaching behind him, he found, to his horror, that it
was gone. “I’m afraid I’ve made things worse,” Adam said.

“What do you mean?” Rachel asked.

“I was carrying a small transmitter. It was supposed
to lead the authorities here, but it appears that our captors found
it.”

“You mean you purposely allowed yourself to be
captured?” David Lorayne said.

“That was the idea,” Adam replied. “Unfortunately,
it didn’t quite work out the way I planned.” Adam felt an
overwhelming sense of embarrassment. If he hadn’t lost his
emotional control, then things might be different now. He hadn’t
planned on an onslaught of ill and dying people.

“What do we do now?” Rachel asked. “I think they
plan to kill us.”

“That we do,” said a voice behind them.

Turning to face the door, Adam saw a man he had seen
before. “So you’re the Healer? I have waited a long time to meet
you. I have big plans for you. Very big plans, indeed.”

Thursday, April 2, 1992; 7:00
A.M.

ADAM FACED THE THREE men who had entered the room.
The one in the center, a tall, curly-haired man with deep green
eyes, slowly surveyed the occupants of the room and then grinned
sardonically.

“Do you know me?” the man asked in a deep Southern
drawl.

Adam said nothing.

“No? Well then, introductions are due. You’ve
already met Mr. Bill Sanchez, formerly head of security at Kingston
Memorial Hospital.”

“Sanchez!” Rachel exclaimed as she turned toward
him. “So Martin was right.”

“Who’s Martin?” Sanchez asked gruffly.

“I think a better question is why you are mixed up
in this.” Rachel said.

“The money’s good, and people like my new boss here
need protection too.”

“But you had a good position at the hospital,”
Rachel said.

“I had a barely adequate position. The money I
received from the police department for my injury combined with my
hospital paycheck just wasn’t enough. Besides, I’ve developed a
rather expensive habit.”

“Habit?” Rachel was perplexed.

Sanchez didn’t respond, but R.G. did. “A drug habit,
Doctor. Something that began with a need to ease the pain of his
injured arm.”

“I’m not proud of it,” Sanchez said, “but being in a
hospital and surrounded by so many drugs, well, I just couldn’t
help myself. It was only a matter of time before someone caught me
stealing narcotics.”

“Enough about Mr. Sanchez,” R.G. said. “I also want
you to meet Mr. T.J. Haman. He does odd jobs for me. You may
recall, Reverend Bridger, you two met last night.”

“I recall,” Adam said, as he stared at the goateed
man with a bandaged right hand. “I’m also familiar with his
work.”

“I do owe you an apology,” R.G. said with mock
courtesy. “Mr. Haman does have a tendency to be a little
overzealous about his work, but it really is your own fault; if you
hadn’t moved, Mr. Haman wouldn’t have hurt his hand and wouldn’t
have felt compelled to express himself with further action.”

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“Oh, of course. Most just call me R.G.”

“Why do you look so familiar?”

“My employer is a rather public person, not unlike
yourself. Perhaps you’ve heard of him—Reverend Paul Isaiah?
Although I try to stay out of the limelight, I occasionally appear
on television with him.”

“You mean he’s behind all of this?” Adam said.

R.G. guffawed. “Absolutely not. Paul Isaiah is
spineless and neurotic. To be sure, he is not scrupulously honest,
but he lacks the imagination and courage to be really great. For
those things, he turns to me. All he is good for is to bring in the
crowds with his promises of healing and riches.”

“You mentioned plans,” Adam said. “What plans?”

“Living rich,” R.G. said cryptically.

“Living rich?”

“Yes. First, you are going to help me live. Second,
you are going to make me, I mean us, rich.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I’m not surprised. Let me explain. First, you need
to know that I’m dying. That may come as good news to you, but I
find it distressing. You see, I have a form of lymphatic cancer.
It’s under control now, but I know that it will shorten my life
appreciably. But, if you are who you say you are, then you know
this already. So the first step in our plan is for you to heal me
of my disease; then you’ll heal Mr. Sanchez of his painful arm and
drug addiction. After that, I’ll manage your public appearances.
We’ll have huge crusades and tens of thousands will come and be
healed and gratefully pay for it.”

“And if I refuse?” Adam said defiantly.

“Refuse? Oh, you won’t do that. But just in case you
feel compelled to resist, we may have to motivate you.” Walking to
Lisa Hailey, R.G. gently stroked her hair. “You see, Reverend
Bridger, men like you have this noble habit of caring for those
around you. I’d be willing to bet that you would rather die than
see any harm come to these innocent people.”

Lisa closed her eyes as he leaned over and kissed
her forehead.

John Hailey sprang to his feet with volcanic rage,
hands reaching for the throat of the man who dared touch his
daughter. With catlike speed Haman leaped forward and brought his
leg up in a swift and brutal kick; the toe of his shoe struck
Hailey solidly in the stomach, doubling him over. Haman delivered
another kick to his face and Hailey fell backward, unconscious, his
head making a sickening thud as it struck the deck.

“Dad!” Lisa tore away from R.G.

“Such heroics are useless,” R.G. said coldly. “In
fact, any further attempts to defy me will be answered swiftly and
painfully.”

Rachel left Adam’s side and knelt near the fallen
man. Quickly, she checked his breathing and then ran her fingers
down the back of his neck. Each vertebrae was in place; his neck
was not broken.

“I trust he’ll live.” R.G. said.

“He’ll live,” Rachel replied curtly. “No thanks to
your monkey there.”

Haman moved forward, but R.G. waved him off.

“It wouldn’t do to antagonize him, Doctor,” R.G.
said. “He’s fiercely loyal, but there is a limit to his patience. I
would so hate to see him destroy you before I have made full use of
you.”

“What use do you have for them, now that you have
me?” Adam hoped to redirect their captor’s attention to
himself.

“Insurance, my dear Reverend, insurance.” R.G. gazed
silently at the sobbing Lisa as she held her unconscious father’s
head. “Since I brought you here against your will, and since I have
entertained your friends against their will, I felt you might be .
. . well, resistant to helping me. So, I keep them as motivational
help.”