by Glenn Kleier
Her brow furrowed. “Holy moly,” she cried, “you let a mountain lion crash here?”
“Long story.”
She bunched up a blanket on the couch and flopped on it. He offered coffee, she declined, and he sat beside her on the hard frame.
“So,” she said, looking down at him with an arched brow, “How’d you pull it off?”
“What?”
She gave him a slow, annoyed blink, and he replied, “It’s complicated.”
“I’ll try to keep up.”
Breaking news on TV saved him, and he raised the volume.
“Just in—an attempted attack on New York mayor Andy M. Beard a short time ago as he attended church in Brooklyn.”
Attempted. Thank God. The story showed video from a bystander’s phone: well-dressed people entering a stone church with red doors. Commotion, confusion, plainclothesmen swarming, people shouting, shaky and blurred. But knowing what to look for, Scotty made sense of it. A man in a pea-green jacket had surged for the mayor, immediately overwhelmed and subdued.
“No word so far from Mayor Beard, who was unharmed. His assailant has yet to be identified, but a source tells Eyewitness News the mayor’s security detail was tipped off just in time, apprehending the suspect when he made his move. Stay tuned.”
Scotty leaped to his feet and pumped his fist, shouting, “Woo-hoo!” But feeling Ivy’s eyes, he sank back to the couch.
After an uncomfortable pause, she demanded, “What the heck’s going on?”
He lay his head against the backrest and stared at the ceiling. To bring anyone else in on this insanity had to be a mistake, especially his kid sister. But how could he put her off now? Ivy was a bull terrier once she set her teeth. And Scotty so needed to get this off his chest. To confide in someone. To know, once and for all, he wasn’t nuts.
“I warn you,” he said, “you’re not gonna believe me.”
She folded her arms, and he told her everything. The strange noises in his apartment that came out of nowhere, and no one else heard. The ever-more-bizarre incidents that followed, including the objects left on his floor—bible, angel statue, shepherd’s staff and assorted debris. His qualms about an evil spirit, and his frustrated efforts to exorcise it.
Ivy scoffed. But her eyes grew concerned when he told her of the cryptic emails sent him by the Paraclete, explaining what a Paraclete was. How Herald would contact Scotty each day at 10:00 and 2:00, predicting events that unfolded with chilling accuracy. The deadly restaurant explosion. Bus accident. Toppled crane. Yankee Stadium.
Frowning, she said, “Most of that stuff sure sounds like terrorism. But I gotta admit, I’ve no rational way to explain the baseball thing.”
Scotty wrapped up with the latest warning, the attack on the mayor today—and how Scotty handled it with a call to 9-1-1.
“No way the cops would ignore a threat like that,” he said. “I passed along the details and hung up before they could trace the call.” He’d seen CSI: New York.
Ivy gaped, searching his face. “Who else knows?”
“No one. Not even Mrs. Steiner.” He dropped his gaze. “I was supposed to work yesterday but called in sick to make it to the stadium. Margo saw me on the news…and canned me.”
“You lost your job? Oh my God, what will you do?”
He sighed. “Herald said to have faith, and I’d be rewarded a thousandfold. Unfortunately, I think he meant in the next life.”
She shook her head. “I’m not buying Herald the Paraclete.”
Ivy was nowhere as steeped in superstitions as Scotty had been at Mom’s knee. And while Pop forced Ivy to attend parochial school and church, that’s as far as he went with it.
She continued, “If Herald’s so supernatural and all, why’s he use a chat line? What about talking snakes and burning bushes? For crying out loud, why not appear to you in person?”
Scotty cringed to recall the burnt ring of leaves on the back of Mom’s plant. Nor was he keen on snakes. “I couldn’t believe it, either,” he said. “But the fan at Yankee stadium hit by a baseball? How the hell do you fake that? That was the clincher for me. Who but God knows the future? Fortunetellers? Astrologers? Herald is five-for-five, for chrissakes.”
“So why use you as a middleman? God could stop these things with a snap of His fingers.”
“Damned if I know. Why use a nobody like me at all? Not that it matters anymore, I quit.”
Ivy’s phone rang, and she plucked it from her jeans. “Crap. Pop. He’s been on me like chewing gum.”
“You better go.”
“Not on your life.” She stuck out her chin the way Mom used to. “I’m hanging around for the two o’clock show.” Standing, she rubbed her palms together. “Whaddya got for lunch?”
As the hour of 2:00 neared, Scotty hoped to put Ivy’s skepticism to rest. But he had to prepare her for possible disappointment. Closing Homer in the bedroom, he grabbed Ivy a chair at the computer next to his, and told her, “You realize, if Herald accepted my resignation, there may be no show.”
“In which case,” she snapped, “I’ll believe you made it all up.”
He sighed. It was the top of the hour. He warned her about the noises, and for once, he welcomed them when they came.
“Jesus,” Ivy cried, grimacing as the thunder rolled. “Nobody else in the building hears?”
“No.” Importantly, Ivy heard. He wasn’t crazy after all. Maybe.
The whine took over, then quiet.
Scotty directed Ivy’s wide eyes to the monitor where the fish were chased away by a black screen and lone, flashing epistle alert.
He hesitated. “I don’t want Herald thinking I’m still party to this.”
Ivy elbowed him. “I want to know the future. Open the fortune cookie.”
She didn’t yet realize the burden of such knowledge. A weight Scotty preferred not to bear again. Although he’d no other way to prove Herald’s miraculous foresight.
Moving his curser to the icon, he clicked, and up popped:
you have angered the lord
“Uh-oh,” Ivy said.
Scotty wet his lips and pecked out:
how?
Reply:
you alone are the chosen one
you alone must fulfill the lords will
i am for no other eyes but yours
As if Herald might hear, Scotty whispered nervously to Ivy, “Is he upset because I sloughed off the last assignment to others? Or because I brought you into this?”
“Or both?”
Hurriedly he typed:
i’m broke. i can’t do this anymore. anoint someone else
Herald:
accept the will of the lord and tomorrow at noon
you shall be compensated one-thousandfold
Ivy grinned. “Not the next life. You get your reward now.”
Herald sent a follow up:
2–7–4–9–6
Scotty and Ivy exchanged puzzled glances, and Scotty typed:
explain
Herald:
new jersey pick5
“Holy crap!” Ivy gasped. “It’s a lotto number.”
Scotty felt faint. He’d never played the numbers, but was well aware jackpots could range in the millions. New Jersey held drawings every day at noon. If Herald was shooting him straight—and so far he had—tomorrow at this time, Scotty and Ivy’s money worries might be over.
“Manna from heaven,” he whispered, raising trembling fingers to the keys.
Ivy grabbed his arm, screwing up her face. “What God bribes people to do His bidding?”
“All Gods. Isn’t that the point of heaven?”
“I’m sorry, but Herald smells more like a Nigerian Prince.”
“But he knows the future. Who but God knows the future?”
“Let’s see some ID, first.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, make him show himself.”
“Here? In the apartment? Live?”
A fr
ightening thought, and Scotty saw apprehension in Ivy, too.
“On screen will do,” she said. “This is a chat line, does it have video and sound, too?”
It did. Scotty mulled her suggestion. Giving the Paraclete an ultimatum didn’t strike him as wise. “And if he refuses?”
“What have you got to lose?”
A damn loaded question.
At the risk of angering Herald and the Lord further, Scotty inhaled and typed:
time we talk face to face. show yourself on screen.
He angled the monitor so Ivy could no longer see. She objected, and Scotty said, “If Herald doesn’t already know you’re here, let’s keep it that way. No worry, I can video him on screen for you.”
She didn’t like it, but Scotty wasn’t arguing.
They waited. And waited, trading frowns. Still no response. At length, the harsh noises returned, and soon all was as before.
Scotty squared the monitor, displaying a school of fish again.
Ivy looked worried. “What if I cost us the jackpot?”
“We’ve still got the lotto number.”
“If the Lord doesn’t change it. Assuming you do win, and cash in, does that say you accept Herald’s terms? He owns you?”
Scotty wasn’t sure.
Ivy checked her phone and jumped up. “Gotta go, Pop’s really pissed now. I’ll call from school tomorrow after you buy the ticket. Don’t forget the numbers, 2–7–4–9–6.”
No way he would.
They went to the coat rack. As Scotty helped her into her jacket, suddenly there came a banging on the door. Scotty stiffened. Ivy, too.
Herald…
From out in the hall came a thundering voice, “NYPD—open up.”
Scotty saw his fear reflected in Ivy, pulling her aside to fumble at the bolt as the command repeated, louder, fist pounding.
Scotty opened, and heavily armed men in SWAT gear burst in. They hurled him against the wall, frisking, cuffing, sweeping him out into the hall. Neighbors gawked through cracked doors, and Scotty saw Ivy led out un-cuffed, arm in the grip of a steely eyed cop.
“Let her go!” he cried. “She’s got nothing to do with anything.”
The cops paid no heed, marching them downstairs past Mrs. Steiner, her frail voice protesting, outside past Kassandra on the sidewalk, into separate squad cars, and off.
Chapter 25
Sunday, October 19, 2:40 pm, Queens
Ivy was never so terrified in her life. The police confiscated her phone and thrust her into the cage of a squad car, hurtling along, siren blaring. She begged an explanation, but the two officers in front ignored her, one reading her her rights.
If this was divine retribution for their insolence to the Lord, Ivy blamed herself. She’d put Scotty up to it.
The car raced across Queensboro Bridge to Manhattan, past City Hall, down Park Row to 1 Police Plaza, pulling into an underground parking garage. Ivy was taken to an elevator, up two floors into a small, windowless room. The room had a lone table and chairs in the center, a full-length wall mirror on one side, video cameras in the ceiling corners peering down like vultures.
The cops sat Ivy on the side facing the mirror, where she waited anxiously for what seemed forever as the men stood guard. Finally, a middle-aged man and woman arrived with a younger, sober-eyed woman in tow. All wore suits and carried briefcases.
The younger woman leaned into a cop, and whispered, “Minor?”
He whispered back, “Her only ID is a library card. Says she’s sixteen, from the Bronx, a senior at Mt. St. Ursula.”
The cops left, closing the door, and the others took seats opposite Ivy, studying her.
“Dr. Susan Grayson,” The younger woman introduced herself. “Office of Children and Family Services.” She gestured to her associates. “Detectives Greer and Reese, NYPD Emergency Services. You’re Ivy Butterfield, yes? Joseph Butterfield Jr.’s younger sister?”
“Scotty,” Ivy snapped. “We didn’t do anything. Let us go.”
Grayson pursed her lips. “I won’t sugarcoat it, Ivy. Scotty’s in serious trouble. If you want to help him, you’ll help us get to the bottom of this.”
The three opened their cases, took out pads and tape recorders, and turned on the devices.
Grayson said, “Tell us what you know about Scotty’s involvement in the attack today.”
“That thing with Mayor Beard? That’s what this is about?”
The three scribbled in their pads, and the woman replied, “That thing with the mayor, yes.”
Ivy felt her face heat. “But Scotty wasn’t involved. He called to warn you. For God’s sake, he saved the mayor’s life!”
“We have a record of the call, made from your brother’s phone. It doesn’t explain how he knew of the attack. What’s his connection to the suspect?”
“He doesn’t know the suspect, there is no connection.”
Ivy’s heart raced. The truth of how Scotty came by his information was a sure ticket to Bellevue. But in the absence of an excuse, Scotty was implicated. She opted for half-truth.
“He had a-a-a premonition. That’s how he knew. He’s got, you know, second sight. He sees the future. Sometimes.”
The three stared at her. Grayson said, “You’re saying Scotty’s clairvoyant? A psychic?”
“More or less.”
The woman traded exasperated glances with her colleagues, and Ivy hurried to add, “This morning wasn’t his first time, either. Yesterday at Yankee Stadium, that video all over the news? That guy whacked by the baseball? Scotty saw it coming—he saved him, too. Check it out. The ‘Guardian Angel’ is Scotty. Let’s see you make a conspiracy outta that.” She stood, snapping, “I’ve told you all there is, I’m done. I demand to see my brother.”
Grayson rose, too, telling her associates, “If you’ve no more questions, I’m releasing her.”
Ivy couldn’t believe it. “And Scotty?”
“He’s in other hands. I’ll have a car take you home.”
“I’m not leaving till I see him. I insist, or I’m calling our attorney.” They had no attorney.
Grayson stared at her, then nodded. “Wait here.”
She and the man left Ivy in the custody of the older female detective, and shortly Grayson reappeared, crooking her finger. Ivy followed her to an elevator, up several floors to another holding room with a windowed door. Inside sat Scotty, downcast, hands manacled to the table. Three plainclothesmen sat opposite with notebooks and recorders. Ivy fought back tears.
Grayson rapped on the glass, and the three men picked up their things and exited. Grayson motioned Ivy inside. “Five minutes,” she told her, closing the door, standing watch outside.
Scotty perked, and Ivy rushed to throw her arms around him, tears spilling.
“I’m so sorry, Ivy,” he moaned. “Why did I ever get you involved!”
“It’s okay, they’re letting me go. What about you?”
He looked relieved, then darkened again. “I got fingerprinted and mug-shot. I got a record now. They think I had something to do with the attack on the mayor.”
She drew up a chair, whispering, “I know. What did ya tell ‘em?”
He whispered back, “What can I say without sounding insane?”
“You gotta give them something, or you’ll never get out. I told them you can see the future.”
He looked at her as though she were insane, and she explained, “I figured if they lie-detectored us, we’d pass.”
He hung his head. “Pop will kill me—and ground you for life.”
“So what are you gonna say?”
“Not the truth. Son of Sam took orders from a dog, I get mine from a Paraclete?”
“Herald’s emails will back you up.”
He raised frantic eyes. “Hell no, they’ll confiscate my computer.”
Ivy sighed. Losing his computer could be the best thing for him. When he lived at home, sometimes when he went out—which wasn’t often—Ivy would snoop on
his computer. He spent his life on that thing. A sad, lost little life. Links to science sites; clumsy attempts at social networking. A superhero sci-fi novel he’d never finish. A videogame he obsessed over. And a single, pitiful porn video.
A rap came at the door, Grayson at its window.
Ivy told Scotty, “I’ll make Pop bail you out.”
He snorted. “I’ll rot before that happens. Look, I’ve done nothing wrong, they can’t hold me without cause. I’ll text you when I’m free.”
“Got any cash on you?”
“Not a cent.”
She reached in her jeans and handed him some bills and change. “Here, you’ll need to buy the lottery ticket. I can’t, I’m underage.”
“How will you get home?”
“Cab. Pop will pay.”
Scotty accepted it grudgingly. She gave him a squeeze, and left.
Grayson walked her to the elevator, returned her phone and said, “I’ll drive you.”
Ivy declined, not about to be dropped off in her Bronx neighborhood by social services.
The elevator opened and Ivy stepped inside telling Grayson, “Scotty really does see the future. You want proof, watch that video from Yankee stadium.”
“I have,” the woman replied, frowning. “Beats hell out of me what’s going on. I’d help your brother if I could. Unfortunately, he’s not a minor.”
The doors closed and the elevator descended, Ivy alone in the company of a young black man. Scotty’s age, she guessed, mid-twenties. Tall, handsome. Not that she cared.
He turned to her. “You’re his sister, aren’t you?”
She squinted at him, and he clarified, “The Guardian Angel.”
“You a cop?”
“Reporter.”
“How do you know about us?”
“I’m working the stadium story, a contact here tipped me off. Seems the mystery deepens.” He handed her a business card. “Kyle Heath, Hawk News.”
Ivy almost gagged. Hawk was a right-wing propaganda pipe of industrial-strength discharge.
She stuck the card in a pocket and exited into a busy lobby. Lots of shifty-looking, ambulance-chaser types in cheap suits. As she threaded through, she ran face-to-face into a scowling man with a grizzled beard and unkempt hair. He could have passed for a street person.