The Warning

by Davis Bunn

  The car was just beyond the drive when a man wrestled his way through the cordon and threw himself on Buddy’s window. Buddy backed into Molly as the man clawed at the glass and screamed, “You did this! You! You cost me everything!”

  Two policemen pried the man loose, but not before he shrilled, “It’s all your fault, Korda! I hope you hang!”

  “Hold on tight, folks,” came the laconic order from the front seat. The patrolman began steadily accelerating away.

  “Don’t pay him any mind, sir.” The patrolman in the passenger seat turned around. “I heard you speak on a video my church played last week.”

  “We heard the Spirit is what we did,” his partner corrected.

  “Yeah, well, anyway, we went out and did just what you said, stuck it all in those put options.”

  Buddy tried to still his nerves. The man’s contorted features felt branded into his mind. “Get out first thing tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir, we’ve already got the message through to our broker. He says he’s gonna do it for everybody who did like you said.”

  “He said we’re gonna be millionaires by this time tomorrow,” the driver added. The flashing lights turned his solid features into multicolored stone. “Can’t hardly believe it. But we’re gonna take half of whatever we get and put it in the church fund. Don’t know what we’ll do with the rest. Bury it in the backyard, I suppose.”

  “That’s good.” Buddy felt himself steadied by the policemen’s solid assurance. “That’s very good indeed.”

  There was yet another crowd waiting outside the television station. As soon as the patrol car slowed, press and television camera lights flashed on full. The second patrolman said, “Looks like somebody tipped them off we were coming.”

  “There’s an underground garage around back,” the driver said, flipping on his siren and plowing steadily around the building.

  Through the back window Buddy watched a horde race behind them, shouting and jostling and trying to keep up.

  Even before the motor was cut, a nervous figure appeared in the garage’s elevator and frantically waved them over. The driver said, “Better head on out, Mr. Korda. We’ll hold the fort down here.”

  “I’ll just sit right here,” Molly said, leaning over to give his cheek a kiss. “I think this will be a much nicer place to pray.”

  “The Lord go with you,” the driver’s partner said, as Buddy slipped out. “We’ll be saying the words with your wife.”

  Buddy rushed over, spurred to speed by the noise pushing in through the garage doors. The young woman greeted him with, “Mr. Korda, great. We hoped that’d be you. New York has been calling every five minutes, asking if we could move this up.”

  “Let’s go,” Buddy agreed, watching the doors shut just as the first figures raced into view.

  The woman raised the walkie-talkie she was carrying and said, “Have security get down to the garage. We’ve got a riot in the making. And don’t let any of those people inside the offices.”

  Upstairs, Buddy’s reception could not have been any more different from the last time he visited a television studio. This time, the station president was there to shake his hand, thank him for coming, usher him personally into the makeup room. He was asked if he cared for coffee, and was then informed that Lonnie Stone himself was on the telephone, wanting to discuss the program.

  “There’s no need,” Buddy said, waving the receiver away. “Just tell him I’m ready whenever he is.”

  His progress to the studio was followed by silence and stares. Everyone stopped to watch, study, and observe, knowing without saying that they were witnessing something they would tell their grandchildren about—the passing of a real live prophet.

  The hookup was completed while Buddy was still being placed into the seat normally occupied by the local news anchor. As soon as the monitor came on, he saw and heard the world famous interviewer say, “I see we’re finally hooked into Buddy Korda at the local Aiden, Delaware, station. Thank you for coming, Mr. Korda. I have seen the second part of your message, as has almost anyone in this country who has a television. Would you care to repeat it here?”

  “I would,” Buddy agreed, and again focused with all the force he could muster upon the camera. “All those who have acted upon my message, for your own sakes, do not let greed rule you now. Do not wait for the market to bottom out, hoping that you might profit even more.

  “Others must be able to cover these obligations in order for you to gain from your investment. Tomorrow afternoon the people holding your paper will begin to fold. Therefore I tell you, get out now. First thing tomorrow morning, sell every put option you are holding. Convert it into cash and gold. And give thanks to God.”

  There was a moment’s pause, a breathless hush that extended far beyond the monitor and the camera and all the shadow figures gathered just beyond the lights’ reach. Finally the interviewer asked, “Are you saying that the market is actually going to crash, Mr. Korda?”

  “I am making no more predictions. It is too late for that. I am simply telling these people to get out now.”

  “Too late?” Lonnie Stone adjusted his glasses, leaned across the desk, and said, “The president has announced a press conference for a half hour from now. He is expected to place the entire weight of the Federal Reserve and the United States Treasury behind keeping our markets open and stable. Would you like to change your position?”

  “Not at all. Everyone who has taken heed of my message and purchased put options is urged to sell everything as soon as the market opens, and convert all their holdings to cash and gold.”

  “What about those who did not do as you said, Mr. Korda? Do you have any advice for them?”

  “Yes, I do.” Again Buddy forced all the power at his command upon the camera lens. “The kingdom of God is at hand. Repent. He who believes in the Son has everlasting life.”

  He stopped, half expecting to be cut off, but the production staff were all locked in the same breathless silence. So Buddy kept his gaze steady on the camera and went on, “Those who focus upon the world see these happenings as all that matter. But those who follow the Lord Jesus know that these events too will pass. They are not the end, not even the beginning. For the Scriptures tell us that all this will pass away, and in its place will come that which is more glorious than anything we can imagine. The twenty-fourth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel tells us, ‘And He will send His angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they will gather together His elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other.’”

  Buddy paused again, this time simply to give thanks for the chance to serve, for the chance to have seen all that he had, for the opportunity to have grown as he did, and for it now to be drawing to a close. Then he finished with, “The door is open, the Lord is waiting to receive you. Come and join the living.”

  –|| FORTY–SEVEN ||–

  Meltdown

  The next morning, chaos struck like a physical blow as soon as Thad Dorsett entered the trading room. Through the night, U.S. stocks had continued to trade around the globe, falling in every market worldwide. When the New York Stock Exchange began trading, the Dow Jones opened 917 points below the previous day’s close. Trading was suspended for almost an hour. When the market reopened, it continued to fall steadily.

  That afternoon, the market went through a brief rally. Then came the bad news. The Chicago Merchant Bank, the nation’s eleventh largest, was closing its doors. Traders raced through the book, checking their positions on anything that might have been tied to Merchant and for which payment was now frozen. The result was grim despondency. Merchant’s tentacles spread through the entire market structure, from options to currencies to every stock market to Fannie Maes to gold futures. The Chicago exchanges had bundled a huge amount of their trading work through them.

  When the red light began flashing at the center of his phone console, Thad wanted to stand and flee. He picked up the receiver as he would a snake. He could only t
hink that Fleiss would accuse him of lying, of not taking care of Korda as he had claimed. “Yeah?”

  But clearly Fleiss had decided there was no time to waste on the past. “Take a look at our position. I’m putting it up on your screen now. Second channel. See it?”

  “Yes.” Thad stared at the screen, unable to believe his eyes. The numbers Valenti Bank were sustaining on the debit side were too big. These current positions were impossible to sustain. “What happened?”

  “We hit the iceberg, is what happened.” Fleiss’s customary hoarseness was worn down to a leathery whisper. “We’re gonna make the sinking of the Titanic look like a toy boat going down in a bathtub.”

  Leveraged positions that yesterday had made perfect sense now threatened to push the bank over the brink and into insolvency. And not just his own bank. “This can’t be happening.”

  “It’s happening, all right. Unless something major takes place and we find a way to hide the dirty linen until it does.” A moment of heavy breathing, and then, “It’s not just us, for what it’s worth. I’ve been checking around. The whole market’s sliding toward the falls.”

  The fingers holding the receiver felt numb to the elbow. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Do what that Korda character’s been saying. Go short. Buy every put option you can get your hands on.”

  Thad kept staring at the screen. “But we don’t have the collateral.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” The hoarse tone rose to a shrill whine and then subsided. “We’re so far in the hole it doesn’t matter any more. Buy everything you can. Bet the load on the market heading farther south. Pledge anything you can think of. I’m giving you everybody on the floor. No limits. Buy as fast as you can.”

  Thad sat staring at the silent phone until he spotted the floor manager hustling over. He stood, loosened the knot on his tie, and prepared for battle.

  Finally at two-thirty the SEC chairman stepped in and closed the exchange. Trading was suspended on all the nation’s markets. A breathing space was declared.

  But none of the traders moved.

  A half hour later, London and Paris opened. They promptly responded to the growing crisis by closing down all markets for twenty-four hours. Tokyo was deluged by so many conflicting orders that it had no choice but to follow suit.

  Traders finally departed for the night with shattered nerves and shell-shocked expressions.

  When Thad walked out on the street, his limo driver was nowhere to be found. He found himself too overwhelmed to care. He walked the length of Wall Street, seeing his own dread mirrored on every face he passed.

  –|| FORTY–EIGHT ||–

  Buddy spent most of Tuesday in the back garden playing with his grandchildren, visiting with his family, and making idle chatter with Alex and Agatha and Clarke Owen and a few others that Molly permitted through the front door. The police kept the cordon in place, although by now most people had other, more critical things to fill their days. Even the number of journalists dropped to fewer than a dozen.

  From time to time they returned to the living room, where they watched the drama unfold on CNN. The reports grew steadily grimmer. Even when the news flashed of a sharp rise in the market, not even the announcer seemed to believe that it would continue. Business reports from the balcony overlooking the New York Stock Exchange showed unbridled bedlam on the floor below. When news broke of the Chicago Merchant Bank closing its doors, the normally unflappable business reporter looked ready to cry.

  “Buddy,” Clarke called from the door. “You’re still coming to the worship service tonight?”

  The church had decided late the previous afternoon to hold a meeting that evening. Before Buddy could decline, Molly appeared in the kitchen doorway and replied for him, “He’ll be there. We all will.”

  “Good.” Clarke gave him a single nod. “See you around seven.”

  When the door had closed behind him, Buddy turned to his wife. “Molly . . .”

  “Don’t you even start.” She planted her hands firmly on her hips. “This is the church that raised you and stood by you through it all. You need to go, Buddy. It’s time.”

  “Daddy!” Paul, his older son, called from the living room. “Get in here quick!”

  He and Molly raced across the hall and stopped where his two sons and their wives stood before the television. He heard the business reporter announce, “Unconfirmed reports claim that it is not just Chicago Merchant facing dire straits this afternoon. According to sources close to the management, if the Valenti Bank were forced to cover all its trading liabilities today, it would be short almost seven billion dollars. A spokesman for the bank has called this ludicrous scaremongering. However, the bank had no comment regarding the accusations that it had lost heavily in tradings over the previous three months.

  “On a related development, word is just coming in of a catastrophe at sea. Billionaire Nathan Jones Turner, owner of Valenti Bank, has reportedly fallen overboard and disappeared. While no one at the bank or at Turner’s Connecticut office will either confirm or deny the reports, the Coast Guard did receive a frantic Mayday call from the Turner yacht, reporting a man lost at sea. We will have more on that as it comes in. We return now to our coverage of the Valenti Bank.”

  The camera panned out over the looming edifice of the Turner Building. The announcer continued, “Like many U.S. financial institutions, the Valenti Bank has poured massive amounts of its own and its investors’ capital into the futures markets. During this recent era of rapid expansion, Valenti’s worth has skyrocketed. However, sources claim tonight that this increased valuation was used as a basis for further highly leveraged tradings in what are known as derivatives.”

  The camera’s perspective switched back to the reporter’s face. “If what our sources claim is true, apparently this bubble is on the verge of bursting. What is certain is that given the current state of the market, Valenti’s stock and bond assets are plummeting in value. This has undermined the bank’s deposits, which in turn hold up its outstanding loan balance.”

  Molly said, “I don’t think I understood any of that.”

  Buddy did not take his eyes from the television screen. “The bank is in trouble. That’s really all you need to understand.”

  The announcer concluded, “Such a shortfall would only be aggravated by the rumored losses in the international currency and futures exchanges. Whether or not this institution can survive, if the rumors are indeed correct, is anyone’s guess. This is Alicia Newstone for CNN News, reporting from Wall Street.”

  Molly’s gaze followed Buddy as he backed slowly away from the television. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

  Buddy could only nod. The weight of sorrow for all those he had not managed to touch threatened to crush him.

  –|| FORTY–NINE ||–

  Such was Buddy’s distress that he kept his face lowered the entire trip to the church. He had not wanted to come at all, but Molly had insisted. The rest of the family tried to hide their unease with small talk. Buddy scarcely heard them.

  Then Molly turned a corner and exclaimed, “Who are all these people?”

  From the backseat Trish asked fearfully, “Is it a riot?”

  “They look too well dressed for that,” his son Jack pointed out. “And too calm.”

  Buddy raised his head and saw strangers milling about, surrounded by a darkness as complete as that which shrouded his heart.

  “Look, Mom, the guy with the flashlight. He’s waving you to the curb.”

  “We can’t be expected to park here,” Molly cried. “We’re six blocks from the church.”

  Buddy squinted and focused on the man. He was indeed pointing them into a parking space. He heard his son say, “We’ve never had to park this far away.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “Right behind us, Mom. I see them.”

  Molly cut off the motor. “Stay together, everybody. I don’t like the looks of this.”

  Bu
ddy opened his door and sighed as he got to his feet. The crowd was noisy but in a disjointed, comfortable way. Buddy sensed no threat. “Come on, everybody.”

  Then he jerked his head back as a light flashed into his eyes. “Buddy?”

  “Point that thing in another direction, will you?”

  “Sure.” The flashlight dropped away, but the voice raised to a shout. “It’s him!”

  “Where?” A hundred voices eagerly picked up the chorus, demanding to know where he was. Then a hundred more. Buddy felt the first inkling of real fear. Then Molly was moving up beside him, taking his hand, and calling back, “He’s right here.”

  Alex stepped up on Buddy’s other side. “Make way, everybody! We’ve got a date with God!”

  The man with the flashlight moved up in front of them. Buddy recognized him as Lionel Peters, the fellow church elder. “We’ve been waiting for you folks to get here. Come on, Buddy, I’ll make a way for us.”

  The crowd did not press against them. Instead, they opened up a path toward the church and simply stood and watched as Buddy and his family walked through. At least at first.

  Buddy turned a corner and spotted the distant shining steeple when the first woman crossed the invisible line. In the flashlight’s glare her face was streaked and shimmering with tears. She grabbed his arm and cried, “Bless you, Brother Korda.”

  That was enough to burst the dam. People began flowing forward, reaching across, patting his back, his arms, trying to grab his hands. A thousand voices shouted thanks, cried in glory, yelled messages that were lost to the night.

  Buddy allowed Molly and Alex to keep moving him forward, numb with shock.

  Then they turned the corner, and Buddy realized what he had seen up to that point was only the tip of the iceberg.

  The six-lane intersection in front of the church was packed solid with people. As was the lawn surrounding the building, the church steps, and the parking lot. Shouting and crying and waving, the noise was a commotion that followed them across the street and pushed them up the stairs.