Authors: Jack Quinn
Andrea’s hand jerked up to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”
“Marsha, this confounding and so far senseless abduction,” intoned the reporter, “was
executed by two masked men in dark skin and cheap suits, who spoke with pronounced accents, according to VA staff witnesses.
“At approximately twelve-thirty this morning, after the minimal night shift came on, the kidnappers forced the security guard to open the front door at gunpoint. They disabled the main telephone console and confiscated cell phones before the tallest of the intruders forced a nurse to accompany him into the hospital proper, while the other held several staff people hostage in the lobby. Minutes later the tall man returned with a patient whom they threatened to kill if the police were called in less than an hour.”
The KAL-TV reporter was interviewing the Albuquerque chief of police. “We have roadblocks up around the city, but they had an hour head start. The security guard saw them drive off in a blue Chevy sedan but he didn’t get the plate number. It was rental we found abandoned in a Wal-Mart parking lot where we presume they had stashed another vehicle or stole one. We do have leads working, but this a kidnapping from a federal facility and the FBI will take over as soon as they show.”
“From what I’ve heard so far,” the reporter added, “this doesn’t seem like a random snatch, does it, Chief?”
“The kidnappers seemed to know exactly who they wanted. But due to patient confidentiality imposed by the head shrink, uh, psychiatrist, we don’t even know who that is yet.”
mentally challenged veteran of our armed forces. Back to you, Marsha. This is Bill Franklin, KAL-TV, Albuquerque.”
“They want the treasure,” Andy said. “When they realize he’s spaced-out on religion without a clue to the artifact, there’d be no point in harming him.”
Sammy grimaced. “Keep good thoughts.”
Andrea wheeled across the room to the kitchen where she poured vodka into her glass, taking a deep slug of the clear liquid neat before returning to the living room. She stopped at the escritoire and punched a button on the phone to retrieve her messages.
A couple of sympathetic calls from NNC employees, Frank Morrissey surprisingly among
them; one from T.P. requesting a callback at home; and an unexpected summons to Dr. Lawton’s office at ten o’clock the following morning to discuss her test results from the Leahy Clinic.
couch you have the nerve to call a daybed.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nashville, TN
October 2004
Alvarez stood at the window of The Maxwell House looking down at the milling crowd in the street below. He spoke without turning. “Maybe it was a mistake coming here.”
“I want to visit highly religious areas,” Hannah said from the chair at the small desk at which she’d been making notes for her evening sermon. “Talking to complacent urbanites who don’t feel strongly about their religion won’t stir the pot.”
Palagi was seated on the low credenza just inside the entryway. “Well, you certainly got it boiling here.”
Alvarez continued to monitor the scene in front of the hotel. “Cops have their work cut out keeping those agitated hillbillies in line.”
Hannah looked up from her notes to address Alvarez’s back. “Don’t criticize people for expressing their beliefs, Al. We’re trying to get them to feel just as strongly about my philosophy for practicing their religion as they do about following self-appointed clerical structures now.”
During the past few months, particularly since NNC had aired Andrea’s interview with Hannah, the notoriety of the Preacher Lady had increased dramatically. The Sirius radio network assigned an audio team to record her every oration which they beamed around the world from their proprietary satellite Sunday mornings. Long-range video cameras and still photographers snapped her incessantly, adding provocative sound bites for continuous coverage by television news and print media. Sixty Minutes had sent a producer to line up an interview, to no avail. And major TV networks were attempting to negotiate a pilot broadcast of an entire Hannah sermon from their studios.
At first somewhat passive, then vociferous crowds took to the streets around the world in protest of her controversial admonition to banish all religious organizations. A growing groundswell of Hannah supporters began to oppose her detractors in mostly peaceful encounters. In the United States, the ACLU joined the latter, advocating freedom of speech and religious expression. Scattered reports of civilian abuse by metropolitan and local law enforcement officers were being reported by local media across the country. Police and militia in predominantly Catholic South American and European nations were engaging Hannah sympathizers with harsh riot control tactics.
Since owners of huge sports facilities capable of accommodating the thousands of curious and convinced throngs had denied her access to those arenas, Hannah had been speaking in large outdoor parks, vacant fields, retail parking lots, farmlands, beaches and roadside plains, with reluctant state troopers or deputy sheriffs added to her coterie of five assistants/protectors.
Bogosian was admitted to the room by Conté, who helped him unpack the large white bag with the golden arches logo onto the round breakfast table. “You’re gonna kill us with all that grease,” Palagi said, moving to the sandwiches, fries and Cokes laid out on table.
Hannah continued making notes for her evening sermon at the campus of Strayer College. Although city officials had tried to prevent her appearance in this avidly religious community, the students at Strayer had narrowly endorsed her lecture after she had been refused venue at The Grand Old Opry and Dominican run Aquinas University. She had not anticipated that her simple message would create the kind of opposition, much less animosity that she had encountered lately.
Although confident that her inspiration for her message was God-sent and righteous, she had been examining her conscience recently to determine if something in her presentation or rationale could be altered to make her message more palatable. Rack her brain as hard as she might, there seemed to be no course other than the candid, forthright approach she had taken. Curtailing her preaching was out of the question. She was fairly confident where it would lead, but powerless to stop it. The scenario had been ordained by God and she was obliged to fulfill it. Perhaps she would have a fish sandwich after all.
Seated side by side at the conference table in a small meeting room in Georgetown Hospital, they wondered why this venue was several doors down from Dr. Lawton’s windowless office in which Andrea had always met with her chief neurologist for her previous appointments. Before they could speculate on the meaning of this change of venue, Lawton entered the room followed by three other people in white lab coats. He introduced his resident, Dr. Virginia Ng, a young Asian woman with shiny black hair pleated in a long chignon. Dr. Gerald Clausen, a tall, thin man in his sixties, head of the department concerned with neural motor disorders, whose attempt to hide a pained expression was a complete failure. And Dr. Thomas Rizzo, a middle-aged man of fatalistic demeanor. The latter two physicians represented the team of specialists at the Leahy Clinic where Andy’s most extensive battery of tests had been administered.
The four medical specialists arranged themselves in chairs on the opposite side of the table, all uncomfortable, their expressions dour. With the exception of Lawton, his three associates concentrated their attention on placing their thick manila file folders squarely on the surface of the table before them.
“This does not seem like an auspicious event,” Andrea said.
Dr. Lawton removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, the skin around his eyes pink from the aggressive massage or possibly emotion.. “The absolute worst part of my job.” He replaced the glasses, his gaze holding Andy’s as though they were the only two people in the room. “Twenty-three years and I still don’t know how to do it.”
“I’m going to die, right Doc?”
Sammy reached out to rest his fingers on the white knuckles of her hand gripping the arm of her wheelchair.
“My colleagues and I have run every conceivable test. We have shared the results with other experts in several major hospitals around the country.”
“I would suggest you secure other opinions,” Lawton said, “but I’m afraid we’ve already consulted most of the top people in the field.”
Andrea squeezed the lids tight over her eyes. “How long?”
Dr. Ng’s voice was soft, filled with sadness, the expression of the young resident sympathetic, on the verge of tears. “The average is two to five years from onset of invasive symptoms, but could be considerably longer. British Physicist Stephen Hawking has survived almost twenty rears with the disease.”
“Yeah,” Andrea replied, “hunched over in a wheelchair, speechless, and can barely use his fingers to type on a keyboard.”
“I heard that a newspaper columnist up in Rhode Island continued to work for almost ten years after diagnosis,” Dr. Claussen said.
“Two in a zillion!” Andrea said. “How long for
me
. I want to know!” Andrea’s expression flared at the medical people across the table. “I’m an on-camera news reporter, dammit!”
Lawton refused to acknowledge her outburst. “Only time will tell how long you’ll be able to continue working. At some point you will have to modify your lifestyle.”
Her eyes brimmed at the news and their attempts at reassurance. They were all silent as she fished a tissue from her purse and dabbed at the tears. Finally, she squared her shoulders, emitting a deep sigh, more in control. “Please do not try to protect me from the truth. I’ve been dealing with other people’s tragedies all my life. Do me the courtesy of allowing me to handle my own with knowledge and forethought.”
Lawton shook his head in resignation. “You first consulted me in February, last, claiming you began to notice the initial symptoms, numb toes, the leg tremors the previous spring.”
“I thought it was just some physical reaction to the stress I’d been going through since my tour in Afghanistan that would go away by itself. When it didn’t, I told my internist, Paul Fellows, who referred me to you.”
Dr. Rizzo stopped fingering his watch and looked at her. “ALS is a degenerative neurological disorder that usually attacks the extremities first, like your legs, arms, then the internal muscles and organs, the capacity for speech, and finally the diaphragm.”
“Which means I can’t breathe.”
No one spoke until Sammy said, “Maybe that’s enough for today.”
Andrea pulled her arm from his grip. “I want the whole, rotten story now, so I know what to expect. First, this is terminal, correct? No cure, drugs on the horizon? Chemo treatments? Anything?”
Lawton gave her a reluctant shake of his head. “I’m afraid not, Andrea.”
“We can prescribe drugs that could slow the process,” Clausen said, “but like most medications, there are side effects you might find unacceptable.”
Dr. Rizzo looked up from the ballpoint pen he had been holding in both hands, scrutinizing. “The best route for assistance, information and counsel on how to live with this is the ALS Association.”
Lawton shifted in his chair. “Your legs are pretty weak now. They’ll get weaker. I understand you have ordered a motorized wheelchair, but be prepared for the need for a succession of different chairs to accommodate the advanced symptoms. Your motor nerves will cease to communicate with the muscles in your fingers, hands and arms. For all intent and purpose, you’ll be paralyzed. At that point, you’ll be confined to bed. When your ability to speak begins to go, there are computer generated systems that....”