The Prophet of Queens

by Glenn Kleier

  Scotty had trouble keeping his focus, eyes wandering to that redhead with the pigtails. Until a grip on his ear yanked him from his seat to the front of the class, shoving his face into a pull-down map of modern-day New York City.

  “There,” barked his teacher, her gnarled finger tapping a point on the map. Scotty saw a strip of land tailing from the Bronx out into the waters of Long Island Sound. “What’s that say?”

  “Th-Th-Throggs Neck,” Scotty managed over the snickering.

  “And what name did General Washington know it by when the redcoats landed there in October 1776?”

  “I-I-I dunno.”

  “I just told the class,” she snapped, giving his head a whack. “Frog’s Neck!”

  Scotty bolted upright on the couch in a sweat, rubbing the back of his head. It was dark outside, a storm raging. Inside on TV, presidential candidate Roger Filby was bloviating in an ad. “Jobs, jobs, jobs,” the man cried—when abruptly the station broke to live news.

  A scene of bedlam. Tangled scaffolding and trusses.

  A breaking-news headline read:

  Construction crane falls from building in Throggs Neck

  Chapter 20

  Saturday, October 18, 9:42 am, Queens

  The sun was well up when Scotty awoke on the couch, TV on. He looked to see news of the mangled crane, and groaned. Not a bad dream, after all. At least, no reported casualties this time.

  He sat up wincing, his back the worse for this sorry bed. Unlike the news was reporting, Scotty knew it was no accident. Herald was a terrorist. There could be no other explanation. Scotty felt panic. What was Herald’s purpose in sending him warnings disguised as riddles? Riddles he hadn’t the ability to solve. He felt trapped inside an episode of Black Mirror.

  He’d no choice, he had to notify the authorities. What complications would that bring him? The clock read 9:45. Fifteen minutes till a new message of looming catastrophe, no doubt.

  Homer leaped to the arm of the couch and cocked his head. Dude, I’m starving!

  Scotty rubbed his neck and back and rose on unsteady legs. Despite his worries, he had to be at work by noon. God, he hated his job. At least he had time to wait for the next message of doom and call it in to the cops. But he had to be careful what he told them, or he could implicate himself in whatever new plot Herald was hatching.

  He fed Homer, dressed, grabbed a pop-tart, and headed for his computer to see if he’d gotten any responses to his apartment inquiries. Not a one.

  The clock ticked to 10:00, and Scotty girded himself as the thunder and whine arrived. Then silence, and once more the window with the Face of God and flashing alert popped on screen.

  An epistle from the Paraclete. Scotty clicked it:

  in the legend of a diamond

  today at the strike of two

  a foul deed shall claim a life

  which you are empowered to spare

  behold, and obey

  Same message as before, but with two new lines added:

  “which you are empowered to spare; behold, and obey.”

  The email bore an attachment, and Scotty opened it warily. Step-by-step instructions how to prevent another tragedy. Unless he followed Herald’s orders to the letter, someone would die.

  Another dire prediction, yet different than those previous. This time, Herald warned of a misfortune surely impossible for any human to plan and execute. No act of terrorism, an act of God.

  Scotty trembled, in turmoil. If Herald were, in fact, a messenger of God, why communicate over the Internet, of all methods? To Scotty, of all people? And yet, how could Herald foresee the future without the aid of an all-knowing deity? Scotty had no choice but to skip work again today. Were he to call this in to the cops, they’d no doubt think him insane.

  Afraid to speak with Margo, he emailed her an apology, blaming his injuries from the bus accident, swearing he’d be in first thing tomorrow. Whatever the outcome of this prediction, he was done. God’s Will or not, Herald would have to find another chosen one.

  Grabbing his black hoody, Scotty sucked up his fear, and hobbled out the door, leaving his shepherd’s staff cane behind. If he’d any hope of saving the poor life at stake today, he couldn’t afford to attract undue attention.

  He stopped at an ATM to withdraw the last of his petty cash, and caught a bus to 161st and River, arriving by 12:30 PM. In front of him stood massive Yankee Stadium. Game three of the American League Championship Series was underway, fans streaming in, vendors hawking. It was Scotty’s first time here. He’d always wanted to attend a game as a kid, but Pop thought it frivolous when you could watch free on TV. Pop was right about the expense; a standing-room-only ticket nearly drained Scotty’s wallet.

  He passed through Gate 2 into the crowd, slowing to check his phone. Multiple messages from Margo. He ignored them to review Herald’s orders. Never had he felt more fear or pressure. He’d scant minutes to pull off this absurd feat—assuming he wasn’t stopped and arrested first.

  He pressed on. The instructions took him to the field-level food court, where he worked through the bustle toward the home-plate-end of the stadium. His objective was a ramp leading to the seats above the Yankee dugout. The Legends section. Locating it, he held back, anxiously studying the security guards at the entrance. Big, brawny. His phone shook in his hands as the clock ticked down. And when at last it read 12:52, Scotty inhaled and made his move.

  Adjacent to the ramp was a first-aid station. He headed for it. The door was open, as promised, and he burst inside calling out, “Help, come quick! Heart attack.”

  A man and woman in EMS uniforms sat at monitors. They jumped to their feet, snatched medical bags, plucked a defibrillator unit from a recharger, and asked in unison, “Where?”

  “This way,” Scotty cried, waving them on, and he hurried back out the door.

  As he and the medics approached the ramp, two guards cut him off. But the EMS lady stepped up to declare, “Medical emergency,” and the guards let them pass. So far, so good.

  Scotty led the way up an incline, through a tunnel. As he burst out into the open air of the stadium, however, he skidded to a halt, ankle howling. Suddenly exposed to the vastness of the arena, he felt lightheaded, disoriented.

  The medics pressed him, precious seconds wasting, and finally, he spotted the Yankee dugout. Pointing to the section above, he yelled, “024B. Hurry,” and took off again. The medics chased after down a flight of steps, where Scotty pulled up puffing. The seats were packed with raucous fans, bottom of the third, Yankees up, one strike, three balls. But no sign of trouble.

  The medics looked around, then turned questioning eyes to Scotty. He rechecked his phone, frantic.

  “Legends Section, 024B. Row 8!”

  They zeroed in. All appeared normal. Until, down on the field, the batter swung at a fastball, clipped it, and sent it careening straight toward them. Scotty gasped, but the ball came so fast, there was hardly a chance to react. It swerved away toward a young man in Row 7, who ducked, and a gray-haired gentleman behind caught it square in the chest with a sickening thud. He slumped, face white, ball resting in his lap.

  The Jumbotron caught it all, and the crowd uttered a collective gasp followed by eerie silence. Play on the field stopped. The medics gawked at Scotty, then leaped into action, people making way, Jumbotron zeroing in. The female medic ripped open the victim’s shirt, searching with a stethoscope.

  “No pulse,” she told her partner, motioning for the defibrillator.

  The stadium was quiet as death while she positioned the electrodes, and Scotty cringed when the woman called, “Clear.” She pulled the trigger, the stricken man convulsed, and the crowd groaned and held its breath. Scotty, too.

  Still, the man sat limp. Scotty’s heart beat for the both of them.

  The medics tried again. This time the man bolted upright, his eyes popped open, and he gawked around in confusion, color returning. The stands erupted in cheers. Players doffed their caps and waved.
And Scotty felt faint.

  Using the celebration as cover, he limped up the stairs, down the ramp, and made his way outside to catch his breath, and a bus home.

  Chapter 21

  Saturday, October 18, 2:31 pm, Queens

  Scotty limped into his building, ankle and back raging, upstairs into his apartment, leaning against the door to close it, closing his eyes. He felt a tap on his leg.

  You didn’t stick around for the game?

  All Scotty wanted was for this to be over. Over before he lost his job, if not his mind. He was now broke, broken, and surely in trouble with Margo. Dragging to his computer to read her replies to his email, he found instead a black screen with a blinking epistle. He opened it:

  you are ordained for a special mission

  await word from the lord tomorrow morning

  No “Job well done.” Not even a thank you. Lord or no, Scotty wasn’t waiting around tomorrow for another epistle, he absolutely had to be at work. Afraid to read Margo’s messages, he went to the couch and collapsed, exhausted to his soul…

  When he opened his eyes again, it was dark, and Homer was sitting on his chest staring down at him like a buzzard.

  “All right, all right,” Scotty grunted, pushing to his feet, lumbering for the kitchen, Homer on his heels. But something told him to check his computer first, and he detoured.

  No epistle this time, but dozens of emails. Never had he gotten so many in one day. Mail from nearly everyone he knew, including Reggie and Zing—and a new message from Margo.

  He opened Reggie’s email first:

  Carnac the Magnificent! How’d you do that?

  Confused, he opened the email from Zing:

  what the hell u doing at game? ur all over the news, bro! margo’s pissed.

  Crap. The Jumbotron. Scotty swallowed, bracing for Margo:

  Hope you enjoyed the game, Butterfield. Miraculous recovery.

  Just in time to pound the pavement next week. You’re fired.

  A wail filled the room, and Scotty jumped—only to realize, it was him. He wailed again. What now? He’d no hope for a new job with this blotch on his record. His plans for Ivy’s college, what would he tell her? Thanks to the Lord, he’d lost all of what little he had.

  He slumped to the kitchen and spooned out the last of the Fancy Feast, telling Homer, “Enjoy, buddy, it’ll be dry cat chow for the both of us from here on.”

  Back in the living room again, he collapsed on the couch and snatched up the remote.

  Zing was right, the stadium story was all over the news. Scotty watched crestfallen as the video played in slomo like a bad dream. Batter at the plate, pitcher delivering, ball slicing off the bat, streaking for the stands in a laggard blur. The camera zoomed in as the one fan ducked and the second took the hit. Then the image froze, and the focus shifted to the medics—and Scotty, standing beside them. The picture moved closer, and Scotty grimaced to see his face highlighted in a circle. He turned up the volume.

  “…an as-yet unidentified young man who called paramedics to the scene before the accident even happened. Whoever the psychic is, he saved the life of longtime Yankee fan, Jimmy Salem…”

  The Jumbotron cut back to the batter, who struck out.

  Chapter 22

  Sunday, October 19, 9:59 am, Queens

  Scotty was at the library with Mom. The one on East Kingsbridge where she took him on the bus every Sunday after Mass. A place more spiritual than church.

  They walked the aisles hand-in-hand, choosing books for the week, browsing adventure and excitement and knowledge. Mom had always read to him, introducing him to worlds of wonder far removed from their humdrum life. But as she lifted him to a high shelf for a special book, his fingers closing on Through the Looking Glass, he heard the Jabberwocky snarl and Mom cry. He felt her snatched from under him, her hands let go, and he plummeted to the floor.

  …coming to rest on his back in front of the couch.

  He shook himself awake as the dragon’s snarl continued, and the Cheshire cat fishtailed past him, headed for the bedroom. The snarl gave over to whine, and Scotty pulled himself up, limping to his computer to see an alert flashing beneath the icon of God’s flinty glare.

  Absolutely not. Scotty was done. Not that he didn’t want to see victims of Fate spared, but it could no longer be at his expense. This had to end. Now. He clicked on the epistle:

  make sunset before midday

  or the city will lose its head

  No idea what that meant, Scotty shot back:

  find someone else, i’m out.

  A long pause, and:

  you and no other are chosen to carry forth the lords will

  Reply:

  carrying forth cost me my job. i’m broke. i quit. leave me alone.

  No response. Scotty sat staring, hoping for another pink slip. The ten-minute window was about to close when at last there popped on the screen:

  have faith

  the lord will provide

  hearken to his call and you shall be blessed one-thousandfold

  It came with an attachment, but Scotty wasn’t biting. He folded his arms tight on his chest till the whine and thunder returned and ended, and the link died. Telling himself his ordeal was over, he went to fetch himself and Homer breakfast.

  Scotty dawdled over a bowl of Alpha-Bits at the kitchen table. Make sunset before midday or the city shall lose its head. How the hell did you make the sun set before noon? And regardless, didn’t the city lose its head all the time? New York!

  Damn these insipid riddles. Why didn’t the Lord speak clearly? How much better off humanity would be without bible babble.

  Behind him, Homer paused his munching. For chrissakes, open the damned attachment.

  Scotty stared into his bowl. Cereal letters had arranged themselves in the milk to read DO NOT. Or was that DONUT? Swearing, he pushed back his chair.

  Herald’s attachment was brief. Instructions to solve the riddle. Scotty was being ordered to Brooklyn, immediately, to a church in Sunset Park. This morning at 11:54, the mayor of New York would be assaulted by a madman as he entered his house of worship.

  Scotty jumped up, freaking. The instructions identified the “madman” by his clothing, but there was little more to go on. What was Scotty to do? He’d no experience in matters like this, dealing with a crazed attacker. He needed time to think, but had none. It was already 10:40. To make the deadline, he had to leave now.

  Homer padded over to ask, What would the guru say?

  Scotty knew.

  Step #33. Be guided by your aspirations, not your fears.

  Scotty certainly had no aspirations to be a hero. Not in the real world, anyway. When overloaded by reality, his fallback was Sci-fi and computer games. He’d no capacity to confront a real madman. Yet once more a life hung in the balance, all the weight on him.

  He was about to despair when, like an epiphany, the solution came to him.

  Chapter 23

  Sunday, October 19, 11:03 am, a restaurant, Brooklyn

  “Isaid,” René repeated in French accent, “try the brioche. Superb.”

  Kassandra Kraft took a bite and washed it down with a sip of mimosa. Another bland Sunday brunch at René’s favorite bistro. He raised a tattooed arm to toast her.

  She shouldn’t be here. Tomorrow, she and the two remaining interns were to present honed strategies for blunting the Far-Right ground assault. The clock was ticking, and still, Kassandra had nothing. Nor was René helpful. No head for business or politics. An empty head of hair.

  Over his broad shoulders, a TV above the bar aired a sports clip from Yankee Stadium. Kassandra stared vapidly, then squinted to see a fan in the stands struck by a baseball—only to watch him swarmed immediately by EMS. As if the medics had been standing by on alert.

  But how was that possible?

  The picture zoomed in on the face of a bystander highlighted in a circle. Good Lord, was he that dork in the apartment down the hall from her? She couldn’t
be sure.

  René tossed his hair, turning to see, asking, “What is it?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  Chapter 24

  Sunday, October 19, 12:07 pm, Queens

  Scotty lay on his battered couch in old exercise sweats he’d never worn for that purpose, surfing news channels, Homer curled on his belly. The Yankee Stadium story continued to air. To Scotty’s relief, he hadn’t been identified publicly so far, still clinging to his privacy.

  Homer yawned. You’ve finally done something interesting to put in your journal.

  Indeed. Scotty couldn’t deny that it felt good having helped that poor spectator. Never in his life had he accomplished anything he was especially proud of—R U God notwithstanding. But now, it weighed on him that the hour Herald predicted for the attack on the mayor had come and gone, and he’d seen no word on the news yet. If harm came to anyone because he’d ducked his orders, how could he forgive himself?

  His doorbell sounded, and he jumped, causing Homer to bolt.

  Rubbing scratches on his stomach, Scotty went to the intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you accepting visitors, or do I go through your agent?”

  Crap. Ivy was onto him. He buzzed her in and waited in the hall as she bounded upstairs, her face aglow. Hopping into his arms, she wrapped her legs around him.

  “My hero!”

  Grunting, he trucked her inside. She shucked her jacket to reveal an Honest Ellen for President T-shirt.

  “The media’s calling you Guardian Angel,” she said. “That baseball video’s got millions of hits on YouTube. No one’s ID’d you yet?”

  He shrugged. It wasn’t like he was a known commodity outside the old neighborhood. Not that he was much noticed inside, either.

  “The beard,” he replied.

  She touched her cheek where he’d kissed her. “Even Pop didn’t recognize you.”

  Scotty shifted his weight to his good leg. “You didn’t rat on me?”

  “And have Pop guess where I was really going today?”

  He hung up her jacket, and motioned her to the couch. She hesitated, eyeing its shredded condition, looking around. He’d forgotten how things had changed since her last visit.