Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  Leslie answered honestly. “I really don’t know, Cindy. It might get on TV, and maybe it never will. What matters is that it’s on record. You’ve told your story, and someday it will hopefully make a difference.”

  Rachel was matter-of-fact. “It might not be news.”

  Leslie encouraged them, “But it’s still the Truth, and someday . . . someday people are going to know.”

  “That’s why we’re doing any of this,” said Mrs. Westfall. “That’s why Shannon talked on-camera back east—and why Mr. and Mrs. Brewer did an interview. Someday the story’s going to be heard, but first we have to tell it.”

  Leslie reached through her carry bag. “That reminds me . . . I got a copy of Shannon’s interview today, and she said to be sure you got a copy.” She pulled out a VHS cassette and gave it to Cindy.

  Cindy received it but looked troubled. “Um . . . we don’t have a VCR.”

  Mrs. Westfall offered, “You can use ours.”

  Rachel asked, “I’d like to see that myself.”

  “Well, you can all watch it,” said Leslie. “Shannon wants you to see it. And by the way, she’ll be coming back in a few days. She’s withdrawing from Midwestern. She wants to go to school here like she originally planned. So you’ll all have a chance to meet each other.”

  Mrs. Westfall asked, “Do you think there’s any possibility of legal action? There just seems to be so much information coming out now.”

  Deanne shrugged. “We just aren’t sure yet. We’re thinking of getting everyone together to talk to Aaron Hart, the lawyer. If getting on TV doesn’t work, maybe going to court will.”

  “Oh!” Leslie was reminded of something else. “Cindy, I was supposed to ask you about those Post-operative Instructions the clinic gives out . . .”

  Cindy remembered it too. “Oh yeah. Just a minute.”

  She went back into Mrs. Westfall’s office, rummaged through her schoolbooks, and came back with a wrinkled, slightly torn, original green copy of the Post-operative Instructions from the Women’s Medical Center. “I always kept it in case something went wrong later on. I didn’t know what was gonna happen.”

  Leslie reached into her carrying bag and took out the copy she’d gotten from Shannon DuPliese. The two were identical, with the clinic’s name, address, and telephone number clearly printed at the top.

  “Bingo.”

  IT COULD BE a music video. Amid stage smoke, pulsating, hot-colored lights, and bare-chested male dancers slick with sweat, Anita Diamond, rock music legend and poser for porn, high-kicks, jerks, and swivels her way through a bombastic song-and-dance routine, wailing something about not touching her body unless she asks you to, and if you make her happy, you’ll see what she can do . . . to you . . . yeahhhh!

  The speaking voice of Anita Diamond rises as the music sound track falls. “This is Anita Diamond, coming to you free and easy. I know what I want out of life, and so do you . . .”

  Lap dissolve. Now Anita walks down the long aisle of an empty concert hall, dressed in her trademark black leather, a cocky tilt to her head as if one earring weighs several pounds. “I’m free to sing and make you happy because I was free to choose. Sure, I had an abortion. I wasn’t afraid of it then, and I don’t regret it now. Someday I’ll have a family, but right now I’m making music and making love with you, and that’s me, you know?”

  She spins in a hot dance step, then prances up the aisle, the huge stage behind her, the camera dollying back in pace with her. “That’s what I like about Hiram Slater, your governor. He wants people like me to be free to be all we can be, and he’s one governor who won’t slow you down! So keep Hiram working for you, and we’ll all take life in our own hands, call our own shots, and do it!”

  Lap dissolve back to the thunderous, hot, song-and-dance number on the smoke-filled, brightly lit stage. Anita Diamond spins, leaps, and ends the song with one long, soulful wail as . . .

  Freeze frame.

  Title above Anita’s grimacing face: “Hiram Slater cares about women.”

  Small title across bottom of screen: “Paid for by the Committee to Reelect Governor Slater, Wilma Benthoff, Chairperson.”

  BEN OLIVER DROPPED the pile of notes, news copy, and several videotapes onto his desk with a definite whap, and then backed away just a little to stare at it, at a loss for words—for just a moment. Then the words came, few of them repeatable, ending with, “What the *&%@@# is going on here?”

  It was Monday, October 14th, just a little after 1 in the afternoon. People were returning from lunch, but Ben had remained in his office going through all this stuff, and now he was agitated, to put it mildly.

  John stood in the doorway of Ben’s office, waiting to hear Ben’s reaction to the materials he and Leslie had gathered, including the interviews with Shannon DuPliese, Cindy “Mary” Danforth, pathologist Dr. Harlan Matthews, pathologist Dr. Mark Denning, Marilyn Westfall, and last but not least Max and Deanne Brewer. From where John stood, Ben’s reaction seemed pretty strong. He was pacing back and forth like a steel ball in a pinball machine, sort of bouncing from his desk to the opposite wall, then to the bookshelf by the door, and then back to the desk.

  “Looks like you’ve seen it all,” John prompted.

  “Just finished watching the Brewer interview,” Ben replied and then took the Lord’s name in vain.

  “He has been helpful in putting this together, yes,” said John.

  “Sorry. I know you’re religious.”

  “Okay.”

  Ben pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and stuck it in his mouth, a mannerism that showed he was nervous and missed the pipe he had given up some time ago. He even fumbled absentmindedly in his pocket for matches until he caught himself. “When was that big speech by the governor? Last week . . . uh . . .”

  “Last Wednesday, to be exact,” John assisted.

  “Yeah, last Wednesday . . . Just last Wednesday the governor makes his big confession, says he didn’t know about the abortion and he’s proud of it, didn’t want to know, still doesn’t want to know . . .” Ben swore again. “Do you know how much his committee’s paid for ads on this station? It’s frightening! He is working hard to smooth this thing over, and we are doing the best we can to oblige him, are you aware of that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We broadcast those . . . what the *&%#$ are they? . . . ‘Hiram Slater cares about women’ ads . . . every few minutes, every commercial break, it seems. He cares about women, he cares about women, he cares about women! I’m ready to kick the tube in, and it’s my own station! That goofball’s using us, that’s what! We have become, in one high-priced week, the city’s premier purveyors of political horse crap!”

  Ben flopped into his chair and glared at the videotapes in front of him. “And it’s all your fault, isn’t it? Huh?” He had just a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “Slater’s running, isn’t he? He’s trying to beat you to the punch and say it all first!”

  “I believe that’s exactly what he’s doing.”

  Ben looked past John into the newsroom. “And I don’t hear anybody complaining. Nobody’s asking questions. Nobody’s wondering, ‘What’s the matter with those doctors—are they stupid?’ Worse yet, I don’t hear anybody saying, ‘Well, what’s he telling us this for? Who asked him?’” Ben chuckled and shook his head. “No, he’s running—with his pants down—and he’s gonna trip if he isn’t careful.”

  John asked, “I take it you’re buying the story?”

  Ben’s smile weakened in slow, steady increments until it had vanished from his face. He looked out the glass again into the newsroom. “John, I’d love for life to be simple. I’d love to go out there and tell everybody, ‘It happened, so let’s report it,’ but you can bet your little heinie the rules are gonna change while the words are still in my mouth.”

  John expected this. “Well . . . it’s going to come out somehow. I just figured you’d like to see it.”

  Ben built up to another burst of
anger and then exploded with a curse. “This is maddening! This is a hot, hot scoop—it’s almost scandalous, and . . . and I know nobody’s gonna want it!”

  “It’s the Truth.”

  “But is it news?”

  “Ben, you know it is!”

  Ben was not frustrated and angry with John, but he couldn’t help raising his voice anyway and making John the brunt of it. “Does our Accounting Department know it? Does Loren Harris know it? He and the governor are friends, remember? What about Tina Lewis and all those people on the news staff applauding the governor when he gave his speech, huh? Do they know it?”

  John leaned over Ben’s desk. “Ben, a young, poor, black girl is dead because—”

  Ben bolted from his chair in a burst of anger. “I am not stupid, mister! I’ve got eyes, I’ve got ears, and I hope I still have brains!” He pointed over John’s shoulder. “Close that door, I don’t need all those big ears out there listening in on us . . .”

  John closed the door.

  “John, you and I are sitting in the middle of a big threshing machine that . . . that gobbles up Truth and then packages and sells it and is very concerned about the quality and salability of its product.” He calmed a little, his anger displaced with a depressing regret. “We’re talking . . . NewsSix . . . Channel 6 . . . the Business, the Entity, the outfit we all work for, with bosses and paychecks and policies, and . . .” Ben threw up his hands. “And why am I telling you all this? You’ve already been through it once with the Brewers—I’m sure you remember that.”

  “That’s why I think you owe me, Ben, if I may be so bold. And not just me. You owe the Brewers. Those people trusted us once, and we let them down. We owe it to them. We owe the people out there the Truth.”

  Ben faced the wall just to get away from John’s gaze so he could sort out the situation. It didn’t take long. He turned, looked once more at the pile on his desk, and said quietly, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  John nodded. He understood Ben’s limitations. “That’s good enough for me, Ben.”

  Ben held up his finger. “On one condition . . .”

  “What?”

  Ben sighed as he fell back on the old axiom of news reporting. “We still need to get the governor’s side of all this.”

  John expected to hear that, but he didn’t especially like it. “As if we haven’t already heard his side.”

  “Mm . . . there are a few specifics he’ll have to address, such as the suggestion that he’s indirectly responsible for a young girl’s death—maybe several deaths, if Denning’s right—that he’s put politics ahead of his own kid—that maybe he doesn’t care about women as much as his slick ads say he does—that he’s a clever but bald-faced liar. John, there are all kinds of nasty inferences to be drawn from this story. The governor should have his chance to reply to any and all of them . . . if we’re going to play fair.”

  John acquiesced. “If we’re going to play it fair, by the book, I suppose you’re right.”

  “But I’ll call him. Cuss me out if you want, but I’m gonna have some control of this thing. I want to hear from the man myself before I stick my neck out, and definitely before I let you bring the station heads down on us.”

  John took a moment to accept that and then closed the conversation. “Then I’ll get to work on the Five O’clock. Thanks for your time and involvement, Ben.”

  “You’re welcome. Just don’t let it happen too often.”

  AT THAT MOMENT Leslie Albright and Detective Bob Henderson were sitting in the station’s Client Viewing Room, a small conference room where clients who bought advertising could view their commercials, approve or disapprove, haggle, and swing deals. Leslie managed to find a time when the room would be free and chose to use it instead of the glass cubicles down in the Editing Department where the editing staff—and anyone else who wanted to—would see what they were watching.

  They were seated on comfortable, padded chairs, their eyes directed to the large television monitor built into the dark cabinetwork against the wall. As Leslie operated the tape player, fast forwarding, pausing, rewinding, and searching through the footage of the governor’s kickoff rally, Henderson kept eyeing the crowd, looking for a familiar face.

  “I want to tell you, this was an awful experience!” she said as they viewed Leslie herself standing before the camera trying to do her stand-up and looking extremely nervous, her hair tousled, holding her ground as a sea of enraged humanity boiled and bubbled behind her and one lone man stood above the crowd, shouting words no one could hear.

  Then the Leslie on the screen started talking. “John, this is where it all begins for Governor Hiram Slater. Even though the polls show Bob Wilson gaining support, the governor has proven he has supporters too, as you can see by the vast crowd behind me.”

  Henderson laughed. “Supporters! They’re about to riot!”

  Leslie fast forwarded a little. “I think the fight started right after I did my outcue for John. Let’s see . . . right about here . . .”

  The Leslie on the tape almost shouted her cue line over the hubbub of the crowd. “So, John and Ali, this campaign could be an exciting roller coaster ride for both candidates, and the whole thing—” Someone screamed. “The whole thing begins in just a few minutes!”

  “Okay,” said Leslie. “There! You see them?”

  Henderson jumped from his chair and got close to the screen as the two new bodies appeared in the crowd, swinging at people and starting the fighting. “Yeah. There’s Canan right there.” He pointed to Ted Canan, recognizable by his greasy black hair and tattooed arms. “And now . . . who’s this other guy? Roll it forward.”

  Leslie inched the tape player as the crowd and the two thugs moved in jerky stop-motion. It looked like an instant replay of a free-for-all.

  Then the two thugs moved behind the big, on-screen Leslie for a moment.

  “Aw, come on . . .” said Henderson.

  Leslie moved the tape forward a little more quickly. “I think they do come out on the other side.”

  They did eventually, helped on their way by a gigantic black man.

  “Well!” said Henderson. “Max in action!”

  More jerky stop-motion. Ted Canan grabbed a woman by her hair and flung her sideways. Right behind him his associate jerked backward, Max Brewer’s hand grabbing his shoulder and turning him around for a haymaker to the jaw.

  “Hold it!” said Henderson.

  Leslie stopped the tape. Thug number two was in full view now, his face held high and visible thanks to Max’s grip on him.

  Henderson snapped his fingers. “Hmph! Okay . . . I know who that is. Howie Metzger. I had a hunch it would be him. Ted and Howie are like salt and pepper shakers. You hardly see one without the other. I’m going to put out a bulletin on him right away.”

  Leslie ran the tape a little further, and Howie’s face was visible for only another second before Max decked him.

  Henderson laughed. “I’ll tell them to look for a hood with a broken jaw.”

  Leslie stopped the tape player. “And what do you think you’ll find anyway?”

  Henderson gave a slight shrug. “Oh, more info on Howie’s buddy Ted, and who knows? Maybe I’ll find John Barrett’s killer.”

  CHAPTER 30

  BEN OLIVER HAD the door closed to his office when he placed the call to the governor. Of course, his call did not go directly through. He had to talk to a switchboard operator and then the receptionist/secretary in the Executive Offices who gave him a bit of a runaround before he told her the nature of his business. She then connected him with Miss Rhodes, the governor’s personal secretary.

  “This is Ben Oliver, news director at Channel 6. We’re preparing to do a story on the governor, and I need to present the story to him for his comment.”

  Miss Rhodes was polite, but Ben knew she would be unbending. “Any inquiries from the press are handled either by his campaign manager, Wilma Benthoff, or by his chief of staff, Martin Devin. I believe
Mr. Devin is in. Shall I ring his office?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  Another secretary answered. “Mr. Devin’s office.”

  “Hi, this is Ben Oliver, news director at Channel 6. We’re preparing to do a story on the governor, and I need to present the story to him for his comment.”

  “One moment.”

  Devin’s voice came on the line. “Martin Devin.”

  Ben said the whole thing again. “Hi, this is Ben Oliver, news director at Channel 6. We’re preparing to do a story on the governor, and I need to present the story to him for his comment.”

  “Channel 6?” Devin didn’t sound too happy.

  “That’s right. NewsSix. We’re putting a story together on the governor and—”

  “What kind of story?”

  Ben noted Devin’s sharp tone. Yeah, Barrett and Albright had exposed some nerves over there, all right. “Well . . . you be the judge, but some of it gets kind of personal, and perhaps the governor would like to hear it for himself.”

  Devin paused, apparently thinking it over. “Just a minute.”

  He put Ben on hold for several minutes. Ben used the time to rehearse what he would ask. Whomever he talked to, he expected the experience to be somewhat unpleasant.

  Devin came back on the line. “Mr. Oliver, the governor will talk to you. Please hold.”

  Well, what do you know! Ben got his pen ready, not to chew on, but to scribble notes.

  “Yes, this is Governor Slater.” He didn’t sound too happy either.

  “Governor Slater, this is Ben Oliver, news director at Channel 6. We’re working on a possible news story regarding the true cause of your daughter Hillary’s death and your knowledge of that true cause, and . . . Well, considering the delicate nature of the story, we’d like to discuss it with you and give you an opportunity to comment.”

  The governor’s tone was sharp. “Mr. Oliver, I’ve said all I’m going to say about that. I know you covered my address to the Women’s Citizen League, and in that address I shared as much personal information as I thought necessary. If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer you just be content with that.”