The Prophet of Queens

by Glenn Kleier

  Ariel used the same approach for Thornton. Rather than focusing on events leading up to the election four years ago, she jumped forward in time several months, and hit pay dirt.

  Excited, she rushed from her room to share her discovery with the others.

  She found them gathered around the coffee table, and Max was not happy. He glared up at her from the couch, rotating his laptop so she could see the screen. It showed a news clip of a cop standing on the stoop of Butterfield’s building, surrounded by fellow cops, a bevy of reporters, and a teeming crowd.

  “So much for trusting Butterfield’s sister!” Max snapped. “She blabbed about you, now the world knows of Angel Ariel. You better rain hell on that girl next session!”

  Ariel sighed, “On a happier note, I found our answer to bring Reverend Thornton around.”

  2:00 PM, and like clockwork, the vortex materialized. Ariel sat at her laptop in angel mode, videochat up and running, her friends at their stations. They were as enthused as she about her solution. While they still had critical details to work out, everyone felt confident enough to present Butterfield with initial marching orders.

  But first, Ariel had an issue to address.

  Once more Scott and Ivy appeared on screen, and by the looks of him, this next step was coming none too soon. He sat slouched with arms crossed. Ivy, nevertheless, appeared upbeat.

  They exchanged “hello’s” and Ariel began, “I’m afraid we have a problem.” She trained her eyes on the sister. “I’m disappointed in you, Ivy. And the Lord is very upset.”

  The girl’s face fell. “Wh-what? What’d I do?”

  Ariel exhaled. “You betrayed our confidence. You spoke of me to Teddy’s uncle.”

  Ivy looked bewildered, then horrified. “Oh my God, I did! I’m realllly sorry. I was so excited for him, it just slipped out. It’ll never happen again, trust me, I swear!”

  The girl looked sincerely contrite and embarrassed, and Ariel told her, “The Lord will forgive you this once. But you must never let Him down again.”

  “I won’t, I promise. You can count on me.” She crossed her heart.

  Ariel heard Max grunt and swear under his breath, and Ariel turned to Ivy’s brother. “Now, Scott, if you’re ready for your final Mission, the Lord is ready, too.”

  That seemed to perk his interest, and Ariel continued, “First, you must arrange a meeting with someone. Do you know of the religious leader, Reverend Penbrook Thornton?”

  “Yes,” Scott replied, looking puzzled.

  “The Lord wants you to deliver a personal prophecy to him. A forewarning. Someone he is close to has a serious illness.”

  “Who?” he asked.

  “The Reverend’s secretary, Alice Willoughby. Breast cancer.”

  Ariel caught Max wagging his head. He’d cautioned against divulging too much, too soon. She hastened to amend, “But you’re to say nothing to him about it yet. This prophecy must be presented in person.”

  The Butterfields traded confused looks, and Ivy asked, “Is it curable?”

  Ariel didn’t know, the poor woman died the following spring. “Hopefully. But time is of the essence, the disease is aggressive.”

  “So how do I get ahold of Thornton?” Scott asked. “Do you have a number for me?”

  The team had discussed the issue of how Butterfield, a virtual unknown, might get through to a celebrity of Thornton’s stature. Odds of Thornton accepting a direct call or text were vanishingly slim. Butterfield would need a go-between.

  “Contact the news network you’ve been working with,” she said. “Have them arrange a meeting right away in the City of God.”

  Assuming Thornton kept the tape in the City, the team wanted Butterfield in striking range. Of course, placing the two men in public together could imply that the Prophet favored the Dark Agers, and Filby. But as Max pointed out, circumstances left them little choice. And they could always correct the record later, if necessary, by having Butterfield publicly renounce Filby.

  “Set up the meeting,” Ariel said. “But do nothing further till we talk tomorrow.”

  Chapter 73

  Wednesday, October 22, 2:43 pm, Manhattan

  Penbrook Thornton and his associate, Tobias Melcher, sat in the back of a cab, somber. They were headed to a meeting with fellow Council members of the CCC, the Coalition of Christian Conservatives. The two had spent the night at an airport hotel under pseudonyms, taking their meals in their rooms in advance of their unlawful gathering. Instead of their customary clergy attire, they wore dark suits.

  It was impossible to anticipate what would come of today’s summit. Twelve powerful, prideful, anxious men, convening under such pressure. Should the looming election go badly, Thornton and colleagues stood to lose everything. Yet, with two weeks to go, there was no cause for panic or rash decisions. Thornton had to settle the Council down, make them see reason.

  Melcher was a thin-faced man with pale eyes and a shock of wild, white hair. He was Thornton’s staunchest supporter on the Council, and offered his encouragement. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Brooks,” he said, “your plan for the swing states is brilliant. Shackleton won’t know what hit her.”

  He was being kind. With tens of thousands of Christian volunteers preparing for battle, Ellen Shackleton was surely aware. And God-forbid their plan should fail. A President Shackleton would no doubt bring the full force of the IRS down on Thornton and the CCC.

  Thornton sighed, and Melcher changed the subject.

  “So what do you make of this ‘Prophet’ fellow all over the news?”

  A fascinating subject, indeed. Thornton replied, “Two millennia since John of Patmos and the Book of Revelation. I’d say we’re long due another prophet.”

  “All the same,” Melcher said, “St. Paul tells us, 1 Corinthians 13:8: ‘But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled.’”

  Thornton smiled. “Perhaps Paul can explain how the Prophet predicted the storm I flew through, and the exact time and place the tornado would hit, hours before. Now I see he diagnosed a dying boy when doctors couldn’t. How do you explain either without God?”

  Melcher seemed transfixed. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful? After all these centuries, divine intervention again.”

  The thought lifted Thornton’s spirits.

  Their cab continued through Manhattan, arriving at the corner of Madison and East 50th in front of a magnificent, 19th Century, neo-Gothic stone mansion. Fifteen-thousand square feet, Thornton had heard. Behind it loomed a far-larger structure, St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

  The Cathedral was known as “America’s St. Peters;” the mansion as “the Powerhouse.” Especially to the elite who dropped by in homage to its resident, “America’s pope,” Cardinal Bartholomew Rand, Archbishop of New York. Neither Thornton nor Melcher had ever set foot in the mansion. Rand hadn’t extended invitations to Council members before, fearing the media would detect the collaboration. But now, with so much on the line, it seemed he was willing to risk it as a show of pomp and power to influence members.

  Thornton and Melcher donned hats, pulled the brims low, grabbed briefcases, and exited onto the busy sidewalk, weaving toward the mansion. Ascending a short flight of steps, they reached a recessed stone archway and double doors of wrought iron and leaded glass. Melcher rang the bell, a squinty eye took their measure, the door opened, and an elderly priest in black cassock gestured them inside. They exchanged greetings, and the priest escorted them through a foyer into a spacious hall with tall windows, a grand staircase, and walls draped with oil paintings.

  “Have a seat,” the priest told them, showing them chairs, taking their hats and coats. “Please turn off all electronic devices. His Eminence will receive you soon. Would you care for coffee?”

  They declined, switched off their phones, and he left.

  Melcher wondered, “Are we first here?”

  Though only a few minutes early, they were alone in the room. Thorn
ton tried to take his mind off matters, noting the paintings in the gallery. A larger-than-life portrait of Archbishop Rand in slimmer days. Paintings of other Catholic dignitaries stretching back to the founding of the diocese, two centuries ago. Photos of Rand conferring with popes, presidents, and other heads of state.

  Voices drifted in, and Thornton saw the priest return with Council member Phineas Gage, President of the Church of the Latter-Day Saints. They exchanged greetings, and Gage took a chair, turned off his phone, and the priest left again.

  Gage was a serious chap. Stiff, staid. Wispy gray hair. Mormons were the outliers of the CCC, regarded by most of the Council as more cult than Christian. But no denying the Church’s power and wealth. Its membership had been added to the CCC begrudgingly, last of the Twelve. And fortunate for Thornton, as Gage tended to support him. Assuming the man’s support held today, it left Thornton just two votes shy of the five he would need to block a revolt.

  They made small talk, and at length the priest reentered to say, “His Excellency will see you now. This way, please.”

  He led them up the staircase to the third floor, down a hall to an anteroom ending in large, carved mahogany doors. The priest rapped softly and opened onto a conference room. The balance of the Council was gathered on the opposite side.

  An impressive space. Walls paneled in mahogany and bearing a Constantine cross and portraits of saints. In the middle was a mahogany conference table beneath a crystal chandelier. On the far end were Cathedral windows. And in a corner, a large video screen and media center.

  Thornton placed his briefcase at the head of the table next to a gavel and bible, his accustomed place as Chairman of these gatherings. In a corner sipping wine with other Council members was Archbishop Rand. An imposing figure in black cassock, crimson sash and cummerbund. He turned to greet Thornton, raising his glass along with his associates, and Thornton nodded back. Rand disengaged and went to a refreshment bar, scooped up a decanter and glasses in a big hand, and approached.

  “Brooks, Toby, Phineas,” he said warmly, pumping their arms one-by-one. Powerful grip. He poured for Melcher, Thornton and himself, Gage didn’t imbibe. Clinking glasses, he toasted them all, smiling, cheeks ruddy and dimpled.

  Thornton saw past the smile and wire spectacles to blue eyes hard as the mansion’s stone. Rand had been working fellow Council members for weeks, lining up votes, Thornton was well aware. No doubt the man had brought in the other Council members today ahead of Thornton to firm up softening spines. Thornton wondered if Rand had left him any allies beyond Melcher and Gage. He couldn’t count on his fellow Evangelicals. What should have been his strongest bloc had been undermined by his old nemesis, Henry Durban, who stood aloof across the room.

  The Baptist representative, whose Church had no president or hierarchy, as such, was the most guarded member on the Council, and not weathering the pressures well. Chewing his nails, eyes flitting. Thornton saw little hope for support there. He also questioned the Presbyterian and Episcopalian, who tended to side with Rand. That left only the Methodist and Lutheran. Good, open-minded men, but not risk-takers, and what Thornton had to ask today was a great leap of faith. All he could do was speak from the heart and pray he reached two others.

  Rand struck his glass with his Cardinal’s ring, bringing the room to attention, and everyone gravitated to the table. But as Thornton moved toward his chair, Rand slipped in ahead, moving Thornton’s briefcase aside. It was Rand’s house, after all. And now, it seemed, his show.

  Thornton quietly accepted another seat. Once they settled in, Rand bowed his head with the others to intone, “Oh heavenly Father, we thank you for the faith that gathers Your humble servants here today, and we ask Your blessings on our proceedings to Your honor and glory.”

  “Amen.”

  Raising up, he struck the gavel to ask, “And now if no one objects, I suggest we forego the minutes and reports. We’ve more pressing matters, yes?”

  No one objected, and he added, “God willing, we’ll get through this quickly, and you’ll be back in your hotel rooms in time for dinner and the debate.”

  The second presidential debate was tonight—another knot in Thornton’s gut.

  Rand turned to Melcher. “Speaking of the debate, Toby, I understand you and Brooks dropped by the rehearsal yesterday. Can you apprise us how Filby’s doing?”

  Thornton had intended to put his own spin on developments, but once again, Rand outmaneuvered him. All eyes went to Melcher, who cleared his throat to reply, “I, I must say, I feel Roger’s giving an admirable effort.” He looked to Thornton as if seeking approval. “I believe he’ll do better tonight. In fact, I’m confident he will.”

  Any attempt to un-damn the faint praise would have fallen flat. Thornton let it go, and Rand said dryly, “We’re looking forward to an improved performance.” He turned to Thornton, an edge creeping into his voice. “Now, to the matters at hand. Brooks, will you please confirm you brought the video, as promised.”

  The room grew still as Thornton opened his case. Atop books and papers sat an old, black-plastic VHS cassette, unlabeled. Everyone gawked as if it were a live snake.

  Rand gestured to the audio/visual center behind him. “We’ve the equipment to play it, if anyone wishes. I, for one, prefer not to burn that incident into my skull.”

  They all knew the gist, and Thornton sighed, “I can assure you, it is indelible.”

  There was no appetite, and Rand pushed on. “As everyone will recall, when Brooks came in possession of the tape and brought it to our attention, he committed to us that in the event of a close race, he’d release it. Well the polls couldn’t be tighter. The time has come.”

  Thornton regarded the uneasy expressions around him. Though he’d prepared his response long ago, a succinct one, he’d no sense how the Council would receive it. He began, “I welcome the opportunity to discuss this issue face-to-face. As you’re all aware, I’ve had to make many a difficult decision over the years in the pursuit of our goals. But I will tell you, none harder.”

  The tape gleamed under the chandelier.

  “I ask you to consider that the video is decades old. Ellen Shackleton was in college at the time. A foolish girl caught in a sordid stunt.” His eyes turned inward. “Who among us hasn’t made mistakes in our youth? Decisions we regret, choices that shame us to this day? Who among us is sinless that he’ll cast the first stone?”

  Looking around the table, he was encouraged that no one would meet his eyes. Until he arrived at Rand, who leveled a defiant glare. Thornton was surprised. If his line of reasoning resonated with anyone here, it should have been Rand. Years ago, as a bishop, Rand had endured allegations of a cover-up in the pedophilia scandal, avoiding prosecution only through legal maneuvers. No one knew better the tar of public humiliation, yet his gaze never wavered.

  Thornton finished, “After much soul-searching, I’ve no choice. I believe that to destroy another soul for a mistake harmful to no one but herself would be a grave moral injustice.” The room hummed like a tightening guitar string. “It puts me in great conflict. Never before have I felt my duties on the Council required me to offend God.”

  He sat back, and the Baptist leaned forward to blurt, “What of the position you’ve put us in, Brooks? The laws you’ve had us break to sit where we do today?”

  “Man’s laws, yes. Never God’s.”

  An Evangelical countered, “Due respect to God, it’s Man’s laws we must worry about. If Shackleton wins and we’re exposed, she’ll set the IRS on us with a vengeance. Bankrupt our Churches, crush us.”

  Another added, “And the Democrats will investigate every election we’ve ever influenced. Every politician, every judge. We’ll all face federal charges.”

  The air was heating, but then the Lutheran cleared his throat to ask calmly, “What would you have us do, Brooks?”

  Thornton took a long breath. “Do any of us truly believe God led us to the promised land only to abandon us at the gate? The
decades we’ve spent working and sacrificing on His behalf can’t be for nothing.” He pointed to his briefcase. “That tape is a test of faith. I say, put our faith in God and let the cup pass.”

  Rand went scarlet. “Have you lost your mind? In twelve days, everything we stand for will be at risk.” He appealed to the table. “Gentlemen, there are few absolutes in life, but we’ve been gifted one here today.” He aimed a thick finger at the briefcase. “That tape is a godsend. Release it, and Filby wins in a landslide. Why in God’s name would we gamble against a sure bet?”

  He reached for a bible in front of him and laid his hand on it. “As God is my witness, if we squander this blessing, it will be our ruin.”

  Stunned silence but for muffled traffic outside.

  At length, the Lutheran sighed and shook his head. “Believe me, Brooks, none of us feel good about this. If there were any other way.”

  Thornton’s eyes drifted to a stained-glass window. A famous scene of the Old Testament. Abraham, raising a knife to sacrifice his only son in obedience to God, hand stayed by an angel. The supreme test of faith. Thornton had one last hope.

  “I’d like to make a proposal,” he said. He waited till all eyes were on him. “As we anticipated, the polls are tight, and the race hinges on three states. The weekend before the election, we embark on a political crusade in those states the likes of which the country has never seen. If God blesses our efforts, as I believe with all my heart He will, the polls will shift decisively to Filby—in time to decide about the tape. A test of faith, gentlemen.”

  After a pause, someone asked, “What constitutes a decisive shift in the polls?”

  Thornton replied, “In all three states, Filby and Shackleton are in a dead heat. If we bump Filby four or five points, we’re safely above the margin of error.”

  Durban countered, “Currently, undecideds make up twelve percent of voters in the swing states. Even if Filby gains five, that still leaves seven for Shackleton.”