Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  John kept laughing. “Man, Vicks was good for everything. Dad used to smear it on his chest and put it on his chapped lips and smear it up his nose . . . You always knew when he wasn’t feeling well—the whole house smelled like Vicks.”

  John got a whim, dashed over to a small cabinet in the corner, flung open the door, and . . . “Voilà!” He produced a large jar of the stuff with a flourish. And then he just held it a moment with a distant look in his eyes and a warm smile.

  Carl was enjoying this. “Grandpa was quite a guy, huh?”

  John put the Vicks back. “Yeah, quite a guy.”

  During another taped collection of old recordings, Carl finally asked, “Man, he really listened to this stuff?”

  “Yeah,” said John. “We both did. We’d be working out here and we’d listen to it.”

  The Smokin’ Gap Boys came on with their humorous rendition of “A Woman Ain’t an Idol, but She’s an Idle Thing,” and John knew all the words. He could even sing the tenor part. Carl didn’t try.

  As Pastor Reynold J. Brimley of the Church of the Full Gospel in Dallas, Texas, came on with his view of the seven bowls of judgment from the book of Revelation, John showed Carl how to plane the edge of one of the boat ribs. “Yeah, right, just hold it steady . . . What we’re after is a nice chamfer, about a quarter inch . . . Yeah, right, steady, steady, don’t let it get away from you. Beautiful!”

  As evening approached, the boat began to take shape. It had no skin yet, but the keel and ribs were impressive, to say the least. This was a marvelous consolation, a reward for a full day of enduring Dad’s favorite obscure tapes from years gone by. Now that was beginning to be a real test. Carl didn’t say anything, but his face was weary as John slapped in another tape and the vociferous “Give God Glory” songs of the Blue Mountain Quartet filled the room, followed by one more scratchy recording of Momma Tanner and the Gospel Belles singing about going home to Heaven where Momma’s teaching angels how to sing.

  “I’m goin’ hoooome over yonder, beyond the crystal sea . . . across the River Jordan, where Momma’s waitin’ for me . . .” John knew all the words to this one too.

  All it took was a look from Carl, and John ejected that one and slapped in another.

  “Wouldn’t you love to hear some good old Led Zeppelin right now?” Carl asked.

  John was startled. “I used to listen to Led Zeppelin! How old are you anyway?”

  Carl stole a look at the cassette player. “I’m getting old, Dad. I’m getting real old real fast.”

  In another hour the tapes were exhausted, and so were John and Carl. The boat’s framework was assembled, and now the glue needed time to dry. John took the last cassette out of the player and tossed it into the box with all the others that had had their say or their song. The tapes had provided some great memories, some great music if you liked that kind of music, and some new perspectives on the Scriptures, but not the kind of breakthrough John and Carl were looking for.

  “It was a good time anyway,” said Carl.

  John had to agree, still feeling a special warmth deep inside. “Sorry if I prolonged the experience with some of these tapes, but . . . It was just like I was spending the day with Dad again.”

  “Well, I got a better glimpse of him today too.” Carl stepped forward to check one joint on the boat. It was mostly just an excuse to touch it, admiring the work they’d done. “And I got a better glimpse of you.”

  John knew what Carl meant. “So did I. It’s been twenty years since Dad and I were that close. Well . . .” John had to be careful lest his emotions rise again. “We had those days back then at least. And that kid who worked with his dad . . . he’s still in me. He’s still there.”

  Now John did break into tears and just gave himself time to feel it through.

  Carl was enjoying the mystique of this old shop. The whole day had been a fascinating chain of little discoveries, and even the silly ones—the Vicks and the Atco tar, for example—were special in their own way. This building was full of Grandpa’s personality, his heritage.

  “You must have built a lot of stuff out here, huh?”

  John was wiping his eyes, just coming back together. “Yeah, we did, especially around Christmas. We tried to build something special every year.”

  “Yeah. I saw the rocking horse and the bookshelf.”

  “Did you notice that chandelier in my room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I made that when I was fourteen.”

  “No kidding!”

  “Yeah, and Dad made surprises too, things I never knew about. One Christmas he made a whole wooden chess set. Have you seen that?”

  Carl was amazed. “The one in the living room?”

  “Yep.”

  “He did that?”

  “It must have taken him months. He turned all those little pieces on the lathe over there.”

  Carl just shook his head in wonderment.

  “I knew he was up to something, but you know, when Christmas is coming you’re not supposed to ask questions. I’d find out on Christmas.” John chuckled with the memory. “And he always hid my present in the same place, and I always knew where to go to find it—”

  John stopped so abruptly that Carl thought he’d been shot or had had a heart attack or a stroke or . . . he didn’t know what.

  “Dad?”

  John was frozen there, his eyes first gaping and then darting across the room, locking on the lower wall near the workbench. Almost with a leap, he dashed across the room to that corner and began moving some tools aside.

  Carl raced up behind him. Oh brother, now what?

  John had uncovered a hinged panel in the wall, the kind that usually concealed plumbing or a furnace or ductwork. It was held shut by a small brass bolt that slid aside easily. In seconds John had the door open.

  There, in a small alcove where firewood had once been stored, lay a fat manila envelope. Scrawled across the face of the envelope in black marker pen were the words, “For John.”

  It was all Carl could do to keep from grabbing the envelope and ripping it open himself, so great was his curiosity.

  As for John, his movement was arrested by awe. He reached out slowly, timidly, as if approaching a sacred object. He picked it up with both hands, not wanting to upset it, rip it, bend it. There was no telling what it was.

  But it had been placed here recently. It was still clean; there were no spiderwebs on it, no dust or mildew.

  Carl couldn’t help himself. “C’mon, open it up!”

  John got to his feet and went to the workbench. A utility knife was in its place in the second drawer, ready for use. John carefully slit the envelope open and pulled out the contents, laying it all on the workbench. Carl was right there to see everything.

  Some photocopies of legal documents . . . another copy of the excerpts handcopied from Annie Brewer’s autopsy report . . . some names and addresses . . . pages of notes in Dad’s handwriting . . . copies of some letters . . .

  The last thing John pulled out of the envelope was a plain, unlabeled tape cassette.

  CHAPTER 21

  JOHN LAID THE papers out flat on the workbench while Carl moved a few cans and tools to make more room.

  John was shaking. “He knew . . .” He stared at the papers in front of them. “Do you see all this, Carl? You see what he wrote on the envelope? He knew I’d find it. He hid it there, knowing I’d find it.”

  Carl couldn’t think of a thing to say. He could only take it all in, gawking at the contents of the envelope, leafing through them, arranging them.

  Then he spotted something and pointed at it so hard he almost stabbed the paper, immediately drawing John’s attention to that spot.

  The name jumped out at them from a filled-in blank near the top of a State Death Certificate: Hillary Nicole Slater.

  “The governor’s daughter,” said John. “His oldest.” He found the date of death. “April 19th, 1991. Yeah, that’s her, no question.”

 
“I didn’t know the governor’s daughter died.”

  “It was a big news story. She died from taking some mislabeled medicine . . .” John scanned down to the cause of death. “ ‘Hypovolemic shock . . . ’”

  “What’s that?”

  “Uh . . . I’m not sure. But . . . let’s see, that was due to ‘exsanguination.’ She bled to death. And that was due to . . . Hang on . . .”

  Carl saw the long word and couldn’t pronounce it either. John gave it a try. “ ‘Hypo . . . pro . . . throm . . . binemia.’ Hypoprothrombinemia.”

  Carl was waiting for an explanation.

  “Um . . . as I understand it, she took some pills by mistake . . . they were mislabeled or something . . .” John scanned further down the page. “Sure. ‘Accidental overdose of warfarin.’ That’s a blood thinner. The governor was having trouble with blood clots in his leg . . . Remember Nixon having blood clots?” John considered his son’s age. “Oh, well, I don’t suppose you do. Anyway, the word was that Hillary thought she was taking medication for menstrual cramps, but took the governor’s blood thinning medication instead, and suffered a fatal hemorrhage. Yeah, we covered the death, the funeral, and we did some consumer spin-off stories on drug labeling and safe medicine cabinets at home, that sort of thing. It was a real hot topic for a week or so.”

  Carl scanned the materials. “Grandpa had everything he could collect on Annie Brewer. Some of the autopsy report . . .”

  “Yeah, and what’s this? Hey, Annie Brewer’s death certificate.”

  “All right. Yeah, look here. It’s just like the Brewers told us: ‘Primary cause of death: septic shock, due to . . . septicemia, due to . . . toxic shock syndrome.”

  John brought another page alongside. “But here’s the handcopied excerpt from the autopsy report. Let’s see . . . Yeah, right here: ‘The most attractive hypothesis that would explain the mechanism of death in this case would be that initially this person had an abortion complicated by staphylococcal infection resulting in peritonitis and septicemia leading to septic shock and inadequate oxygenation of the vital organs, leading to death.’”

  “Well . . . it wasn’t toxic shock syndrome anyway,” Carl said sarcastically.

  “Yeah, there’s a direct contradiction. But look at this—another copy of Hillary Slater’s death certificate.” John looked at the receipt paper-clipped to the certificate’s upper-right corner. “Eleven bucks, paid by check to the Bureau of Vital Statistics, May 2nd, 1991. So Dad went down to the Public Safety Building and got a copy.”

  “Why’d he buy two?”

  John shook his head. “I don’t think he did. The first one we looked at is different. It’s newer . . . printed at a different time, different paper stock. And the receipt’s for eleven bucks. That would be the price for one.”

  Carl was getting the picture. “Two girls, two death certificates . . . Annie’s death certificate is definitely phony . . .”

  John picked up the thought. “And it could be Dad thought Hillary Slater’s was phony too. That seems to be the direction he’s heading.”

  “Man, let’s hear that tape.”

  “I’m with you.” John took the cassette over to the cassette player, dropped it in, and paused just long enough to look at Carl before he hit the Play button.

  A period of silence seemed to go on forever. John and Carl were both leaning on the workbench, their weight on their elbows, their heads near the speakers.

  A sudden sound cut in, a male voice on the telephone: “District Twelve Fire Emergency.”

  A female voice. Young, frantic. “Hello, my girlfriend’s in trouble—she’s bleeding and it won’t stop!”

  “Your location please?”

  “Um . . . it’s in the governor’s house. You need the address?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Um . . . 1527 Roanoke West.”

  “And what is the phone number you’re calling from?”

  “Um . . . it’s . . . I can’t—”

  “Is the number written on the telephone you’re using?”

  “Oh. 555-9875.”

  “And your name?”

  “I’m . . . my name . . . it’s . . . uh . . . Hillary Slater.”

  “Is the patient conscious?”

  “She’s . . . I can’t see her from here.”

  “Is she breathing normally?”

  “She’s gasping real hard.”

  “You say she’s gasping?”

  “Yeah, like she can’t breathe.”

  “Is she choking?”

  “No, she’s . . . she’s breathing real hard.”

  “And did you say she’s bleeding?”

  “Yes, and it won’t stop!”

  “Where is the blood coming from?”

  The girl said something unintelligible.

  “Where is the blood coming from? Where is the wound?”

  “She had an abortion.”

  “Has she soaked more than two pads in the last hour?”

  “She’s . . . we’ve run out. We’ve used . . . about seven.”

  “Okay, stay on the line. I’ll send help.”

  A clunking sound. A receiver set down.

  The dispatcher’s voice: “Hello? Are you with me?” No response. “Are you there? Hello?” Tones. One high, one low, two more in between.

  Dispatcher’s voice: “District Twelve, Rescue 231, Medic 231, vaginal bleed, the governor’s residence, 1527 Roanoke West.” Then, back on the phone: “Hello? Are you there?” No reply.

  Dispatcher on radio: “Rescue 231, Medic 231, be advised, unknown age female experiencing breathing difficulty, unknown if conscious at this time, possible induced abortion. I have an open line into the residence at this time.”

  A radio voice with a siren in the background: “Medic 231, we copy.”

  Long pause. Some radio chatter.

  And then, background sounds. A woman screaming frantically, hurried footsteps.

  Then the clunking sound of the receiver being picked up again.

  The dispatcher’s voice: “Hello? Are you there?”

  A man’s voice, desperate, urgent: “Who is this? I need the phone—”

  “Sir, this is District Twelve Fire Emergency. We have dispatched Medic One and an aid unit to the governor’s residence. Who are you, sir?”

  “I’m Governor Slater! It’s my daughter!”

  “Is she conscious, sir?”

  “No, no, I don’t believe so.”

  “Is she breathing normally?”

  The governor called off the phone, “Is she breathing? Ashley! Is she breathing?” A woman screamed something in the background. The governor came back on the phone. “She’s breathing, but we don’t think she’s conscious.”

  “Does it sound like she’s breathing normally?”

  “No . . . No, she’s gasping . . . It’s very labored breathing.”

  “Would you like to do CPR? I can help you.”

  “Yes! I just need to—”

  The woman shouted something. There were thumping sounds, doors opening, footsteps, voices.

  “Oh, they’re here! Thank God!”

  “The aid crew is there, sir?”

  “Yes!”

  “Very good, sir, they’ll take it from here, all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Click.

  The tape went silent.

  John had to sit down and sank right to the floor. “O Lord . . . O Lord God . . . O Jesus . . .” he prayed, his eyes shut, his voice trembling.

  Carl hit the Rewind button. He had to hear it again. They listened to it three more times, straining to hear every word, to know it thoroughly. Then they went back to the papers Dad had gathered and hidden . . . for John.

  “Yeah,” said John, his hands shaking, his throat tight, “look at this letter here. Dad told me he’d written to Governor Slater, though he never did get a direct answer.”

  The photocopied letter read:

  Dear Mr. Governo
r:

  First of all, let me join with all the citizens of this state in conveying my condolences to you upon the untimely death of your daughter Hillary. My wife Lillian and I are remembering you and your family daily in our prayers.

  With sorrow and humility, I now come to the main purpose of this letter. I realize I’m in no place to judge any man, but nevertheless I must say what God has laid upon my heart and call attention to facts you are already aware of but have not dealt with, which could be much to your harm, as well as the serious harm of many others.

  Knowing the true cause of your daughter’s death, I am deeply dismayed that rather than bringing to light that true cause and dealing with those persons, practices, and policies that allowed it to happen, you have let politics choose your course for you, meaning nothing will change, all things will continue as they were, and a great danger will remain unaddressed.

  We are reminded by Scripture that “all things are open and laid bare to the eyes of Him with whom we have to do,” and that “nothing is hidden, except to be revealed; nor has anything been secret, but that it should come to light.” You have presented an image of yourself to the public, but it cannot endure. It must soon fall, and when it does, what then? Will an honorable man be found standing in its absence? What more can I say than to admonish you, even plead with you, to turn from deception and to walk truthfully? No political success is worth the eternal cost you will incur upon yourself and the unprevented pain that will be inflicted on others if you do not turn from your present course and choose to do right.

  To provide hope, let me remind you that “if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” The God who requires righteousness has also provided a way to attain it. May you turn to Him now.

  I remain sincerely yours,

  John W. Barrett Sr.

  “Hm. Yeah, that’s Dad all right,” John said. “I can see why he got on the governor’s nerves.” He noted the date at the top of the letter. “May 6, 1991. That was before Annie died.” He looked at Carl and saw the same incredulous expression that had to be on his own face. “He knew, Carl. He knew. Can you imagine . . . When Max Brewer met him in front of the Women’s Medical Center and told him about Annie, Dad already knew about Hillary Slater. So what he feared, the . . . the ‘great danger’ he talked about in this letter . . . really happened. Another girl died, just like Hillary.”