The Prophet of Queens
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These odd religious elements. Was the bible displaying Exodus by chance, or to send a message? But what message? The bible was a Rorschach. No matter what passage you turned to, you could extrapolate some sort of personal meaning. Was Margo behind this, after all, punishing Scotty for giving up his faith? But she couldn’t have done this alone, she was at the office all day.
Homer wailed from the back room. Scotty hobbled over, using the shepherd’s staff for a cane, opened the door with a grunt, and staggered in.
The cat gaped at him from under the bed. What the hell happened to you?
“Our intruder dumped garbage on the floor and knocked over Mom’s plant. I slipped and nearly broke my neck.”
Finally, we get a break.
“Not funny.”
The spycam, I mean. It was switched on, right?
In all the turmoil, Scotty had forgotten. He about-faced and limped to his desk, excited to see the camera’s red light blinking. Homer joined him, and Scotty removed the USB with shaky hands, inserting it into his computer port. A few clicks of the mouse, and a black-and-white video of his living room door appeared on the monitor. No audio, Scotty couldn’t afford that option.
He fast-forwarded to the end, never seeing the front door open. No sign of anyone or any movement whatsoever, the plant wasn’t visible in the frame. He ran the video again.
Nothing.
“Makes no sense, Homer. There’s no other way in but the door.”
Maybe spirits don’t need doors.
Scotty felt his back spasm. Swearing, he reoriented the camera toward the plant this time.
“There’s got to be a rational explanation.”
The cat shrugged. Is madness rational?
Table of Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Part One Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part Two Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Part Three Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Part four Chapter 130
Chapter 131
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Chapter 6
Friday, October 10, 6:45 am, Queens
Scotty awoke with a stiff back and swollen ankle. In no shape for work, but he had no choice. Having lucked into his job last spring after Pop kicked him out, he’d yet to accrue any vacation or sick days. Nor could he afford to take off and have his pay docked. Or, God forbid, give Margo a reason to can him.
He rose in pain, showered, dressed, shut his unhappy cat in the bedroom, and snatching the bible his mysterious visitor had left, he hobbled downstairs using the shepherd’s staff for a cane.
As he boarded his bus, the driver stopped him. Seems passengers were spooked by the shepherd’s staff. But it passed inspection, and Scotty took a seat in the back, given wide berth. He spent the commute immersed in Moses. The story came back to him in a rush, in Mom’s sweet voice. A tale of trials, perseverance, and triumph:
Many years ago, God’s Chosen People, the Israelites, were held as slaves in Egypt by an evil Pharaoh. God raised up the Prophet Moses to lead them from captivity, but the Pharaoh’s army trapped them on the shores of a sea. All seemed lost until Moses raised his staff over the waters, God parted them, and the Israelites escaped. And when the army followed—
The bus braked at Scotty’s stop, and he made his painful way to Schlompsky’s, explaining his injuries to Margo as a fall in the shower, the shepherd’s staff as an antique he had lying around. He expected no sympathy, and got none. And doddering to his desk, checking to ensure Margo was occupied, he continued reading:
…From the Red Sea, Moses led the Israelites to Mt. Sinai, where God gave them Ten Commandments and a holy Covenant: obey the Commandments, and reap everlasting blessings in the Promised Land. Yet Moses never shared in those blessings. God, in a pique of anger over an infraction Scotty had always thought petty, condemned Moses to everlasting exile—
Abruptly the keyboards around Scotty went silent, and he froze. Reggie and Zing weren’t here to serve as lookouts today, still out on rounds. A husky voice behind Scotty barked, “What’s so important we let it interfere with our work?”
Scotty felt flesh against the nape of his neck, and his nose filled with the scent of Shalimar and gym locker. He cringed, girding for the Wrath of Hell. But Margo’s tone changed.
“A bible?”
He turned to see her frown over his shoulder and snap, “If you seek answers, the Good Book is where to find them. Just not on my clock.”
Face afire, Scotty slipped the bible in a drawer.
Margo started off, stopped, and tossed back with a raised brow, “I won’t write you up this time. But I expect to see you at Kingdom Hall services
Sunday.”
Jehovah’s Witnesses preferred the term “Kingdom Hall” to “church.”
She strode away, the keyboard crickets resumed, and Scotty shuddered. As a boy, he’d endured church twice a week for years, enough religion to last a lifetime. And though he’d abandoned his faith, he hadn’t quite rid himself of its grip. The idea of suffering one of Margo’s revivals made him ill. Fresh brains for her Jesus zombies.
Chapter 7
Saturday, October 11, 8:00 am
Endicott, Percy & Moore Communications,
Manhattan
With the election nearing, weekends and overtime were compulsory at EP&M. The pace was hectic, pressure palpable. Especially for the firm’s dwindling field of interns, for whom the screws of the job-selection process were tightening.
Four days ago, EP&M strategist Shonda Gonzalez had given her interns a final assignment. Each was to create a battle plan for the Shackleton campaign—a comprehensive response to the opposition’s pending swing-state ground assault. Concepts were due this morning, and those interns whose ideas passed muster would polish them to submit as written proposals Monday, determining who advanced to the final round.
Kassandra Kraft was first in the room, a small, windowless space with a table and five chairs. She took the seat immediately to the right of where Shonda always sat. If Shonda stuck to form, presentations would proceed clockwise, and Kassandra would go last.
She popped a Tums, watching her colleagues straggle in looking as nervous as she felt.
Finally, Shonda arrived, setting a Red Bull and iPad on the table to say, “Okay, people, let’s get to it. Nutshell pitches, five minutes each.” And clicking a stopwatch, she turned to her left.
Bobby Driscoll. Kassandra had sized him up early on as her likeliest threat. A Dartmouth frat-boy. Blond, good-looking in a toothy sort of way. Cheery, with a default smirk. He had a thing for her, and though not her type, she gave him just enough encouragement. An ally could be useful.
He began, “Our target demos in all three states are the same. White, thirty-five plus, high-school grad, mid-to-low income, conservative Christian. In short, Walmart shoppers. That gives Filby a big leg up. He draws his army from the same demos, and most swing-state voters will identify with them. The only way for us to fight that is head-on.”
“Let me stop you right there,” Shonda said. “We don’t have the human resources, much less the right credentials, to go toe-to-toe against Evangelicals. Filby’s got a lock on the God angle.”
Bobby was undeterred. “Our target voters have other gods we can exploit. Celebrities. Sports figures, movie actors, country-western singers. Shackleton draws support from big names that skew the right demos. Election week is dead time for celebs, like a national holiday. My idea is to line some up and send ‘em to the swing states, put ‘em in hospitality suites near the polls, use ‘em as bait to get the vote out. In return, they get VIP tables at the inaugural balls.”
The other male intern interjected anxiously, “You can’t do that, it would violate FEC rules. Undue voter influence.”
“It’s a gray area,” Shonda countered, adding to Bobby, “Regardless, it’s old hat. But you’re thinking straight. See if you can give it a new wrinkle.”
Bobby sat back with a smirk, and Shonda added notes to her iPad, moving on.
Kassandra took another Tums.
The second intern appeared rattled, slow off the mark. And with good reason. Her proposal was simply to run TV spots of Shackleton in church; meeting with religious leaders; making speeches to religious groups to shore up her spiritual credibility. It fell flat, she trailed off, and Shonda looked to the next apprentice.
“I like the TV approach, too,” he said with forced enthusiasm. “I propose we create vignettes of Shackleton talking to everyday Christians about their shared faith and principles. Hype her integrity and honesty—”
Shonda cut him short. “The far right is hammering Shackleton over her divorce and alleged affair, not forgetting those rumors of wild party days in college. We can’t win that battle.”
The man went red. It would be back to the drawing board for him.
Kassandra’s turn. She breathed a sigh. Bobby appeared her only threat. She ticked through her plan: a strategy to offset the Christian Right by marshaling a Christian Left counterforce. Before Shonda could raise the obvious objection, Kassandra addressed it.
“Yes, right-wing Christians outnumber the Left in all three states. But my idea isn’t to target all three. I propose we key on Pennsylvania. It’s a toss-up with the largest proportion of Christian Left. Assuming we hold onto the states already projected for Shackleton, Pennsylvania gives us the deciding electoral votes—”
Shonda broke in, “Again, not a new idea.”
Kassandra smiled. “Except for this twist: we send volunteers to every Left-leaning church in the state, every Sunday from now till the election. They stand outside touting Shackleton, signing up supporters, passing out literature, arranging rides to the polls.”
Shonda paused. “Not sure the DNC hasn’t already considered that and passed for legal reasons. Better run it by Mitch, first.”
Mitch, EP&M’s legal counsel and political adviser.
That wasn’t a “No,” and Kassandra felt encouraged—save for the fact that Mitch was a busy man, and the weekend was here. What were the chances a lowly intern could get through to him? He might not respond till Monday, when formal submissions were due, forcing Kassandra to cobble a contingency plan to be safe. If she could come up with one.
Everyone filed out of the room except Bobby, who stopped to offer, “I’m auditing a conference call with Mitch this afternoon. If you want, I’ll run your idea past him for you.”
Sometimes interns were invited to sit in on calls as part of the firm’s instructional program. But protocol required them to be flies on the wall. Bobby was sticking his neck out. And it wasn’t as if he could steal her idea, Kassandra had just made it a matter of record.
Yes, an ally could be useful.
Chapter 8
Saturday, October 11, 10:54 am
City of God, TN
Reverend Penbrook Thornton sat at his desk putting final touches on tomorrow’s sermon. He rechecked the clock as it ticked toward his appointment at the top of the hour—a critical meeting he was not looking forward to. His gaze turned reflexively out the glass wall to the adjacent park and hill, coming to rest on the little clapboard church that graced its summit. Chapel Mount. The church where he’d preached his first sermon thirty-four years ago, restored and on the National Register of Historic Places, complete with bronze plaque.
The chapel held profound significance for Thornton. Even now he’d retreat to its sanctuary when seeking the Lord’s guidance in crucial matters. It was there in the chapel that he’d found his calling. There he’d met and wed Doris, and baptized their children, Paul and Sarah. And it was there, in its little hillside cemetery, he’d laid them all to rest.
“Excuse me, sir,” a bubbly voice on the intercom interrupted, “Reverend Durban is here.”
Thornton sighed, smoothed his thick, silver hair, folded his hands on the desk, and settled into a repose he’d long-ago perfected. “Please show him in,” he replied. “And now go enjoy the rest of this gorgeous day, Alice. Bless you for coming in on a Saturday.”
“A labor of love in the service of the Lord, Reverend.”
What a treasure, Ms. Willoughby. He’d be lost without her. His longtime personal secretary, friend and confidante. At his side all these years, despite their shared tragedy.
Thornton and Durban also went way back. They’d begun their respective ministries about the same time, meeting when Thornton formed the Coalition of Christian Conservatives (CCC). Decades they’d worked together, yet despite Thornton’s good-faith efforts, they’d never forged a friendship. Perhaps because Durban’s church hadn’t enjoyed the blessings of Thornton’s.
These past several years had been especially testy. D
urban’s position as internal liaison for the CCC required him to ferry confidential information to and from members, and especially to Thornton, who chaired the CCC. It forced the men to meet frequently, aggravating the friction. At least today, Thornton had home-field advantage.
The door opened, and in stepped a tall, thin man in a gray suit. Hooked nose, glasses. Henry Durban, ThD, director of The Righteous Way Ministries, Andover, MD.
“Hello, Hank,” Thornton greeted him, rising, smiling, extending his hand.
The man came forward to accept the hand, not the smile. Placing his briefcase next to the chair, he sat, planted his elbows on the armrests, and tented his fingers.
Thornton sank back in his chair, letting the man own the moment. No point forcing civilities.
Durban glanced around, not that he hadn’t been here many times before. The office was a showcase of Thornton’s credentials. Bookcases thick with religious tomes, many bearing his name. Walls a scrapbook of diplomas, theological doctorates, civic and charitable awards; news and magazine articles, photos of Thornton golfing, dining, ribbon-cutting with the wealthy and powerful. How far he’d come. How close he was to achieving the vow he’d made so long ago.
Turning again to the little church atop Chapel Mount, he thought back to the night of the holy vision that launched his journey…
Thornton was a young man early in his ministry at the time, his congregation but a handful. Evening services had concluded, his flock gone home, and he left the chapel to stand alone on the hill under a full moon, gazing out upon what was then merely wilderness valley.
Like so many ministers in those days, he feared for his struggling church. A dark time in America, fundamentalism under relentless attack from the Left, religion in decline. God was barred from government, public squares, schools. Society had given over to secularism, gay marriage, feminism, hedonism. Many a conservative Christian leader had lost faith.
But in the stillness of that night, in the depths of his desolation, Thornton touched the gold cross of his lapel pin and whispered a prayer. And as God had done before in such moments of trial, He blessed Thornton with an epiphany. It sprang fully formed in his mind—a means to save not only his ministry, but America’s soul. A Great New Awakening.