“Am I to take your silence as a no?”
Adam shrugged, “I don’t know what to tell you.”
R.G.’s face slowly turned a fierce red. Barely under
control, he said in a voice just above a whisper, “Then I’ll have
to motivate you.”
He nodded to Haman who stepped from the room only to
return a few seconds later. He carried a roll of three-inch silver
duct tape in his hand. Motioning to Sanchez, the two walked to Bill
Langford who stood next to his wife at the far corner of the room.
Haman grabbed Langford by his hair and, in one swift, savage
motion, pulled him face down onto the deck.
“Bill!” Lois charged forward to help her husband,
but stopped short when she saw Sanchez place the barrel of the
small Uzi machine gun in Bill’s ear. The message was clean any
attempt to interfere would mean certain death. Haman adroitly taped
Bill’s wrists together behind his back with the duct tape. Even the
strongest man would have been helpless to release himself.
“Tell them,” Lois shouted, hot tears streaming down
her face, “tell them the truth.” Stepping toward Adam, she pleaded,
heartbroken and terrified; her anguish multiplied by her
helplessness. “You must tell them the truth. It’s the only
way.”
“And what truth is that?” R.G. asked coldly.
Adam realized he had nothing else to do. If he
remained silent, then they all would die. If he told the truth,
they still all would die. The truth couldn’t hurt.
“I’m not the Healer,” Adam said softly, as he gazed
at the helpless Bill Langford.
“I beg your pardon?” R.G. said.
Turning to face his abductor, he uttered the words
again, “I’m not who you think I am. I am not the Healer. It was
only a ruse to flush you out, a ruse that didn’t work.”
R.G.’s laughter caught Adam off guard.
“What’s so funny?”
“Why, you, my dear Reverend,” R.G. replied between
spasms of laughter. “You are the source of my laughter.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Surely you must. Oh, I think it is very noble that
you should sacrifice your morals enough to lie on the odd chance
that it might save your friends. Very noble, indeed. Unfortunately,
you are not a very convincing liar.”
“But it’s true,” Lois Langford shouted.
The laughter continued. “Is this the best you could
do? I have overestimated you.”
Anger welled up in Adam: anger of desperation and
frustration. R.G. did not believe him. It was clear that nothing
would convince this man that he was not the Healer.
“I hope you rot in the deepest, darkest corner of
hell,” Adam said, spilling his helpless frustration.
The laughter stopped. “Hell? Hell, you say?” R.G.’s
expression turned cold. “I don’t believe in your hell or your
heaven. For that matter, I don’t believe in your God. Don’t try to
manipulate me with your ancient myths. I’m not one of your mental
midgets who dutifully come to church each Sunday to see what God
wants them to do. I’ve played that game, and I’ve played it
productively and profitably, so don’t try your guilt and fear
tactics on me.”
Adam stewed in a silent rage. For the first time in
his life, he wanted to harm another person. He wanted to reach his
fingers around the arrogant captor’s throat and squeeze and squeeze
until he could squeeze no more.
R.G. continued coldly and analytically, “I may not
know the source of your power, but I certainly don’t attribute it
to your God.”
“The day will come when you will know just how wrong
you are.”
“Unless you do as I say, that day will come a lot
sooner for you than for me.”
“Perhaps, but our deaths will be relatively quick,
while yours will slowly sap your life away until you’re an invalid
at the mercy of others.”
Adam’s words hit a chord; R.G. leaped forward and
brought a crashing backhand to Adam’s face. Adam recoiled in pain.
Instinctively, he ran his tongue along his right cheek: two teeth
were loose.
“Bind them all!” R.G. screamed. “Bind them and bring
them topside.”
The bright sunlight assaulted Adam’s eyes, and the
salt air invaded his lungs. One by one they had been brought from
the lower cabin and made to kneel near the stern of the boat. In
the distance, he could see the small wooden pier owned by the
Scripps Institute of Oceanography. A light fog was moving in from
the ocean toward the shore.
“You amaze me, Reverend Bridger,” R.G. said. “After
going through so many pains to heal these people here, you are now
willing to let them drown? Just what kind of man are you?”
“And just what kind of man are you?” Adam
replied.
“I am the kind of man who knows what he wants and
doesn’t mind pursuing it. Unlike you, I am not encumbered by
artificial sentimentality. I simply want life and the best of what
life has to offer.” R.G. laughed again. “You, of course, think I’m
Beelzebub in the flesh. Or, perhaps you think the devil owns me. Is
that it, dear Pastor? Do you think I’m possessed?”
“I think you’re sick,” Adam spat his words out.
Lois Langford, her hands taped behind her back,
wept.
“Don’t give them the satisfaction, honey,” her
husband said soothingly. “If we’re going to die, then let’s do so
with dignity.” Lois bit her quivering lip. Then, looking in her
eyes and communicating what only a couple of long years can
communicate, he said, “At least we’re together.”
“How noble,” R.G. said. Then to Adam he said, “What
shall it be? Do as I say and we all will live and prosper.”
“Do you really expect me to believe that you’ll let
the others go?’
“Forget the others,” R.G. replied. “I can make you
rich. I can make you more famous than the Pope or the president.
Just say the word.”
“There is nothing I can do for you.”
“You’re stoic now, but we will see.” Turning to
Haman, he said, “Bring the good doctor to the railing.”
Without hesitation, Haman approached Rachel, grabbed
her arm, and yanked her to her feet.
“It’s me you want,” Adam shouted. “Leave her
alone.”
“You know what you must do,” R.G. replied
coldly.
“Don’t you understand? I
can’t
do what you
ask. It is not within my power.”
“I see.” R.G. nodded at Haman who carried one of the
large concrete-filled plastic buckets and set it at Rachel’s feet.
The crude anchor had one end of a six-foot length of chain embedded
in it.
“So I am to die?” Rachel asked calmly.
“Apparently,” R.G. sighed. Haman bent to one knee
and prepared to wrap the chain around her feet.
“Then I have nothing to lose,” she said evenly. In a
quick motion and with a force that belied her size, she kicked with
all her might. Her heavily soled athletic shoe caught Haman square
on the nose. Blood splattered the deck. She had hoped to drive the
bridge of his nose into her executioner’s brain, killing him, but
all she succeeded in doing was breaking his nose and enraging
him.
Wordlessly, Haman stood upright and wiped the blood
from his face. Without warning, he punched her in the abdomen,
doubling her over. Then, grabbing her by the hair, he straightened
her up and brought another fist to the side of her jaw. Rachel fell
to the deck in a heap, blood trickling from her mouth.
“NO!” Deep inside Adam’s soul an explosion occurred:
an explosion fueled by fear, frustration, and unbridled rage.
Bolting to his feet, hands still taped behind his back, Adam
screamed and charged Haman in an adrenaline-powered rush. Haman
spun on his heels but was too late. Head down like an enraged bull,
Adam slammed into Haman’s stomach, propelling both of them over the
boat’s railing.
Haman broke the surface of the water with his back,
Adam’s head still pressed into his stomach. The force of the fall
pushed both men below the surface. His reason and logic gone, Adam
began kicking with all his strength. He knew only one thing: he had
to keep the animal Haman away from Rachel and the others. So, he
kicked, pushing deeper and deeper into the ocean. If Adam had it in
his power, he’d push the madman to the bottom of the dark sea where
he could never again torture the innocent.
The cold water quickly revived the stunned Haman.
Realizing what had happened, he reached for Adam’s throat, but
could grab only with his unbandaged hand. In one quick move, he
yanked Adam’s head up and began to squeeze his throat.
Adam jerked his head back in an attempt to free
himself, but Haman was too strong. Without the use of his hands,
Adam resorted to the only weapon he had left. Although not a
muscular man, Adam, filled with rage and strengthened by the
adrenaline that coursed through his veins, wrapped his legs around
Haman and interlocked his feet, squeezing with all the power his
muscles would provide. He felt one of Haman’s ribs break, but Haman
refused to let go. Adam could feel his trachea being pinched shut
and knew the carotid arteries that carried blood to his brain were
closed in the vise grip of Haman’s hand. Adam squeezed his legs
together again. Through the murky green water Adam could see the
white teeth of Haman grimacing; air bubbles streamed from his mouth
and nose.
The moments seemed like ages as the two struggled
desperately, Adam driven by desperation and Haman by rage. Even
though the salt water blurred Adam’s vision, he could still see the
anger in Haman’s face. Haman tightened his grip with a monumental
effort. Adam’s oxygen-starved brain struggled to remain conscious,
but the soft blur of the ocean’s green faded into black. Adam’s
body went limp. The struggle was over.
“WHAT WAS THAT?” R.G. asked, redirecting his
attention from the spot where Adam and Haman had plunged into the
ocean.
“What was what?” Sanchez asked puzzled.
“That sound.”
Sanchez listened to a low hum reverberating across
the surface of the water. “Sounds like a boat motor.”
Both men turned simultaneously to see the white and
orange painted hull of a Coast Guard clipper bearing down on their
port side. Another sound caught their attention, a low, rhythmic
chopping sound that came from overhead.
“Helicopter,” Sanchez shouted.
“Get us underway,” R.G. ordered and snatched the Uzi
machine gun from Sanchez’s hand.
“We can’t outrun a helicopter.”
“I’ll take care of the helicopter, you start the
engines.”
Sanchez sprang forward toward the bridge of the ship
as the orange and white helicopter descended.
“This is the U.S. Coast Guard. Drop your weapons and
prepare to be boarded,” a voice commanded from above.
R.G. swung the Uzi in the direction of the
helicopter and fired a burst of bullets, the rounds piercing the
metal hull. A crewman immediately returned fire with his M-16 and
R.G. fell to the deck, two bullets piercing his chest.
“Cut your engines and prepare to be boarded,” the
voice commanded. Sanchez stared at the limp body in an expanding
circle of blood, then switched off the engines and, placing his
hands on his head, walked out of the cabin onto the deck.
A few moments later the Coast Guard clipper pulled
alongside and bobbed on the ocean swells. The seasoned crew of the
cutter deftly lowered a twenty-two-foot RHI Zodiac into the water.
Greene and several armed crewmen boarded the small boat and quickly
made their way to the drifting cruiser. Minutes later they were on
deck.
“Are there others aboard?” Greene asked, his
regulation .38 in hand.
“No,” Rachel said groggily, struggling to her feet.
“But Adam went over the side with one of them.” Each word sent pain
through her jaw.
“Where?” Greene asked.
Rachel, her hands still bound behind her, nodded
over the side where Haman and Adam fell, then screamed, “Adam!”
A short distance away the limp body of Adam was
floating facedown, rising and falling with the ocean swells. Greene
stripped himself of his jacket and shoes, and handing his pistol to
one of the crewmen, leaped into the ocean; two Coast Guard crewmen
followed him into the water.
A few moments later, with the help of the others,
the body of Adam Bridger lay on the deck of the boat. His face was
blue and deep purple marks circled his neck.
Even to the untrained eye, it was obvious that Adam
was not breathing.
“Cut me free!” she shouted. “Hurry!”
A crewman produced a knife and cut the duct tape
binding Rachel’s hands. Oblivious to the pain, she ripped the tape
from her wrists and threw it to the deck. Racing to Adam’s side she
quickly checked for a pulse but found none. Her instincts as a
doctor took over as she administered CPR. Another Coast Guard
crewman joined her, tilting Adam’s head back and blowing air into
his lungs.
“Come on, Adam,” she said, as she compressed his
chest with her hands. “Don’t leave me.” Tears rolled off her cheeks
and fell on the still form beneath her. After a minute of
compression, she felt for a pulse. She resumed the procedure
knowing that she was attempting the impossible. He had been gone
too long, but she had to try and bring life back to the only man
she had ever loved.
“It’s over,” Greene said quietly. “There’s nothing
more you can do.”
Rachel continued compressing Adam’s chest.
“Dr. Tremaine, it’s hopeless. I know it hurts, but
you’ve got to face it—Adam is dead.”
She stared down at the lifeless eyes that gazed at
the blue sky above. The life of Adam Bridger was gone. Unashamedly
she began sobbing. David and Ann Lorayne wept in silence as they
stared at the lifeless form that had been their pastor.
Quietly, almost imperceptibly, a man in a white
sport shirt stepped through the crowd and gazed at Adam’s body
through tear-filled eyes. Then, kneeling on the deck, the man
extended a hand and gently laid it on Adam’s unmoving chest. At
first, Rachel felt compelled to tell him not to touch Adam. She
said nothing.