The Prophet of Queens

by Glenn Kleier

  Tia groaned, and Ariel asked, “Assuming Butterfield could set up a meeting with Thornton, how does he get the video?”

  Max said, “We could always threaten Thornton with the Wrath of God, but I doubt it’ll be necessary. If you recall, four years ago, the world didn’t know the video existed. There was only one copy, apparently, and as the Congressional investigation revealed before it was shut down, Thornton had shown the tape to no one. The very fact Butterfield has knowledge of the tape will blow Thornton’s mind. Add to that Butterfield’s prophecies, it should erase any doubts about his legitimacy, and set Thornton up for an offer he can’t refuse: in exchange for turning over the tape, God promises the election to Filby.”

  “I don’t get it,” Ariel said. “Without the video, Filby will lose.”

  Max grinned. “Yes. God will welsh on His deal. By then, it won’t matter.”

  “It won’t matter,” Tia snapped, “because the life we live now will be swept away in a torrent of butterflies.”

  Max countered, “And what is it about this life of ours you care to preserve? We’ve no jobs, TPC is closing, science is dead, and the nation’s run by Creationists. We’ve everything to gain, little to lose.”

  “We could lose our damned lives!”

  “And if we do nothing, we lose the country. You wouldn’t risk your life to stop that?”

  Stan added, “We’re only talking four years. A mere blip in Time.”

  Blinking, fuming, Tia said, “Too many loose ends. Your Plan hinges on controlling Butterfield. How can you guarantee that? Bribe him?”

  “No. Butterfield isn’t stupid, but he doesn’t have the acting chops to fool Thornton. In order to convince a shrewd man like that, Butterfield has to believe to his core he’s obeying God. I about had him persuaded, too, till he threw me a curve.”

  He stopped pacing. “When I contacted Butterfield this morning, he was frantic. The ballpark thing happened on a Saturday. I’d made the mistake of assuming he’d be off work. He wasn’t, he called in sick, his stunt was caught on Jumbotron, and it made the news. His boss saw it and fired him, and suddenly he was without a job, and broke. He wanted no more to do with me.”

  Tia formed a butterfly out of her hands and flapped its wings.

  Max continued. “I had to get him some money, get him back on track. But I drew a blank.” He placed a hand on Stan’s shoulder. “Stan came up with the answer. The lottery.”

  Tia’s butterfly turned to fists. “Are you out of your goddamned minds? Altering the results of a lottery will do major damage to the timeline—before the election.”

  Stan said, “The interesting thing is, Tia, we’ve seen no serious disruptions. Not that we’re entirely sure what to look for, but Time appears more resilient than anyone would’ve thought.”

  Tia cried, “Oh my God, you already did it, you rigged the lottery.”

  She collapsed in her chair, and Ariel confronted Max. “You’ve no way to know whether the Timeline changed. If altering the past alters your memory, too, you wouldn’t be aware. You wouldn’t remember what’s different, or missing.”

  “This much we know,” Stan said. “We’re all still here. Our meddling doesn’t seem to have made our lives any the worse. In the course of Time, after all, four years is but an instant.”

  Max added, “There is a way to check for changes to the past. A litmus test, of sorts. Before contacting Butterfield the first time, I downloaded the entire Times archives for the last four years. Stored it on my hard drive. Each time I email him, I compare my stored files against the live files online, looking for inconsistencies.”

  Ariel said, “But how do you know butterflies don’t change the archives in your stored files?”

  “Because I spotted some differences. The ballpark thing. My stored archives show nothing, but the live archives mention it. There are changes to history, but nothing big, so far. Nothing that’s rippled down for us to notice.”

  Stan said, “If we encountered a Time rift, we would have aborted. We both want to be damned sure before we take the big step.”

  The big step of altering the election. A step off the ledge, Ariel feared. She no longer trusted Stan, either. She asked, “What about the lottery? That’s where you hit the snag?”

  “Stan found a winning number with dual ticket holders,” Max said, “and I passed it on to Butterfield for a three-way split. Not too much money, enough to keep him going. We didn’t want him bailing for the Bahamas. But seems it wasn’t sufficient, he got cold feet again today. He refuses to cooperate further unless I prove I’m who I say I am. He wants a face-to-face this afternoon, online.”

  Tia crowed, “He’s got you now, smart ass. Game over.”

  Max did not look beaten. He replied, “You leave us two choices. Come clean to TPC and start a Timewar, or destroy the collider and face prison. Well, I’m giving us a third option. I say we go back in time and correct a mistake that should never have happened to begin with. Turn the country around, turn our lives around—”

  Stan interjected, “And save science.”

  “—But I can’t do it without your help.”

  “Enough,” Tia declared, standing. “I call a vote.” Turning to Max, she raised a finger in his face. “And mark my words, if you lose, you so much as go near that tent again, I’ll brain you.”

  The room fell silent, and Tia asked Stan, “You?”

  He said without hesitation, “I’m with Max.”

  Everyone looked to Ariel, and she felt herself flush. She was pulled both ways, yearning to change the course of deplorable events, fearful of annihilation.

  She swallowed and said, “I-I’m sorry Max, it’s too much to ask.”

  Tia’s triumphant eyes met Max’s.

  But he held up a hand.

  “Before you vote, Tia,” he said, “one last thing. If you do side with me and we flip the election, we’ve no reason not to make other changes, too. We can warn Butterfield about the fire.” He raised a brow. “And we can warn your family about your mom.”

  Part Three

  Chapter 61

  October 20, 2:13 pm

  Talawanda

  Ariel marched from the tent to the house, into her room, collapsing on her bed in a funk.

  Minutes ago, against her better judgment, she’d given in to Tia and the men. She’d presented herself falsely to Scott Butterfield as a Paraclete of the Lord. Live, online, in “angel mode,” as Max now called it. No makeup or contacts, the pale ghost that he used to make fun of, in a white, strapless tunic, hair up in elaborate curls, thanks to Tia. Stan had set up klieg lights in the tent to recreate the sun’s burnishing effects on her skin, and voila, Angel Ariel.

  But no more. Fearing they’d made a dreadful mistake, this angel was hanging up her wings. Her premiere was her finale.

  A soft rap came at her door, and Ariel opened on a tentative-looking Tia.

  “Still upset?” Tia asked.

  “Uncomfortable is the word,” Ariel replied, waving her in.

  Ariel bent toward her, and Tia began undoing her hair.

  Tia said, “I wanted to thank you again for what you did. I know Max’s Plan is a longshot, but if there’s any chance to save my…”

  She broke into tears, and Ariel raised up, shook out her hair, and hugged her.

  “Assuming Butterfield’s back on board,” Ariel said, “it was worth it. But after meeting him, I’m convinced it was a mistake.”

  The man all but screamed eccentric introvert. Still, he appeared rational and reasonable.

  Tia wiped her eyes. “I don’t like the deception any better than you. Max should have been straight with Butterfield to begin with, maybe we could have earned his help outright. But if we come clean now, we’ll lose all credibility. Just another Internet scam.”

  Ariel sighed. “If he bought my act, hopefully you won’t need me anymore. You can get the job done with epistles.”

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

  Chapter 62


  Monday, October 20, 2:30 pm, Manhattan

  Hawk News reporter Kyle Heath was on assignment with his crew, inside a posh apartment on the Upper East Side to document a purported “demonic possession.” But so far, all they’d managed to record were the screams of a ten-year-old girl behind her locked bedroom door.

  With Heath were several of the girl’s relatives, a “spirit guide” to lead the girl into the light, and her mother, an overly coifed and Botoxed woman. The mother jiggled the doorknob and pleaded, “Now, Kimberly. We’re all waiting. You want to be on TV, don’t you?”

  Heath hated these time-filler projects. The child wasn’t possessed, she was spoiled.

  His phone buzzed, and he checked it, startled and excited to recognize the name. Stepping away, he answered, “Ms. Butterfield, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “We need your help,” the anxious voice replied. “Scotty just got a new prophecy.”

  Heath couldn’t believe his luck. “Of course, whatever you need. What’s the prophecy?”

  “A tornado’s coming. It’s gonna strike a town in Georgia, tonight. You gotta warn them.”

  He nearly dropped his phone. “Where are you now?”

  “Scotty’s apartment in Queens.”

  “Scotty’s with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you told anyone else about this?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good. Speak to no one, I know your address, I’m on my way.”

  “No need for that, just get your station to issue an alert. The town is Jasper, Georgia, not far from Atlanta. The tornado will strike tonight at eight-thirty.”

  “It’s not that simple. Hawk won’t air an unsubstantiated claim. We’ve got to meet.”

  “Then hurry. The angel said to get it on the air for the six o’clock news.”

  Angel?

  “Stay put and wait for me, I’ll take care of everything.”

  He hung up doing a fist pump. This could be the break of his career, if he handled it right. Turning to his crew he ordered, “Pack up gang, we’re done here.”

  The mother gasped, “What? What about my daughter? We have to save her!”

  Heath looked to the relatives, and gesturing toward the mother and spirit guide, he said, “If you really want to save that kid, get her away from these wackos.”

  And he and his crew headed out the door.

  An hour later, the Hawk News Eye van entered the alley behind Butterfield’s apartment building. Few groupies back here, as Ivy promised when Heath called to report they were close.

  The driver parked, and Heath told his crew, “Sit tight till you hear from me.”

  He was hoping to get some footage of Butterfield at home, then talk him into coming down to the studio. Having him live at Hawk would not only allow for a more dramatic reveal of the new prophecy, it would also give Heath time to get to know the man, having yet to meet him. A familiarity that could pay dividends if the Prophet phenomenon proved to have legs.

  Slipping out of the van, he ran to the door of the building and rapped out the secret knock Ivy had given him. She was there inside to admit him, needing help with the rusty hinges.

  “What took you so long?” she cried, leading him up a dark, narrow stairway into a dingy hall.

  “Traffic. No worries, we’ve plenty time.”

  The last door on the right was ajar, and Ivy led him inside. A large living room, sparsely furnished, and what there was of it was old and bedraggled. Butterfield stood near a shabby sofa at the front of the room, arms folded on his chest, eyes chary. Even less impressive in person than on Jumbotron. Average height and build. Bad hair, scruffy beard.

  Heath approached to extend a hand. “Kyle Heath, Hawk News.”

  Butterfield took it. Soft grip. The man offered Heath a seat on the sofa next to a big, orange cat. The cat had the only cushion, and Heath sat gingerly on hard frame, looking around to see what appeared to be a shepherd’s crook hanging on a rack by the door. Butterfield sat on the other side of the cat, and Ivy took a seat on the floor at their feet.

  “Thrilled to get your call,” Heath said, petting the cat. “I’m a big fan.” He pulled out his phone. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to bring my video crew up for some shots.”

  Butterfield shook his head. “This isn’t an interview, it’s a warning. Tonight, at exactly eight-thirty-three, a tornado will level the town of Jasper, Georgia. Hawk needs to broadcast an alert.”

  Heath turned his phone into a notepad. “How’d you come by this information?”

  Butterfield seemed hesitant, and Ivy replied, “From God. He talks to God through an Angel.”

  Wincing, Butterfield blurted, “The message speaks for itself. It has to be on the air by six.”

  Heath stopped thumbing. “As I told Ivy, Hawk won’t air an unsubstantiated claim like this.”

  “That’s never stopped it before.”

  “We can’t go telling people a disaster’s about to strike with nothing to back it up. The station won’t be held liable for that.”

  “You have to believe me, lives are at stake.”

  “It’s irrelevant what I believe, Hawk isn’t going to run a second-hand story. You have to take responsibility and deliver the prophecy in person.”

  Seeing panic in the man’s eyes, Heath added, “We’ll make it fast and easy. I’ve got a van downstairs, I can get you to the studio, have you on air by six, home by seven.”

  Ivy said, “But you’ve got a camera crew here.”

  “This is way bigger than a taped statement.”

  He turned to Butterfield. “I was at Yankee Stadium that day. I’ve been following you ever since. If you’re sure about a tornado, you need to come with me.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Ivy insisted, standing.

  Butterfield grumbled, rose, and trudged to the coat rack like a man condemned to the gallows. Ivy followed and he helped her into a jacket, grabbing a black hoody for himself.

  Heath pointed to the shepherd’s staff.

  “It’s TV,” he said. “You want people to believe your prophecy, look the part.”

  Chapter 63

  October 20, 5:40 pm, Talawanda

  It appeared Scott Butterfield had bought Ariel’s angelic performance. About an hour ago, as the team Googled old TV and print news, Stan spotted a historic change. Hawk News was suddenly plugging a special announcement scheduled for 6:00 tonight, four years in the past. “A Frightening New Revelation from the Prophet of Queens.”

  The update in the media archives was further proof Butterfield existed in their universe.

  Ariel’s friends cheered and congratulated her, and she was relieved. The tornado was one of several disasters they’d considered for this latest prophecy, chosen for its seeming low risk of butterflies. The fewer butterflies in advance of the election, the less likely one might disrupt their Plan to reverse it. The storm had claimed no lives in flattening the little town, and a prediction would in no way prevent the tragedy, or alter its outcome to any appreciable degree. Also, Jasper, Georgia was in Reverend Thornton’s backyard. Better to attract his notice.

  As the top of the hour approached, Tia and Ariel joined the men on the couch. They were watching archival Hawk News footage from a laptop they’d plugged into the TV.

  Ariel asked them, “When we cause a major change to the past like this, will we feel it as it ripples down?”

  “‘Ripple’ is a good word for it,” Stan said. “Physicists who theorize about such things refer to temporal shifts as ‘Timequakes,’ and their effects on subsequent events as ‘Timewaves.’”

  Max said, “Changing the past creates a quake in the Timeline that releases a wave of energy. The wave flows forward in Time to the present, altering history in its path.”

  “To answer your question,” Stan said, “I suspect the only way we’ll feel anything is if a change impacts us personally. Say Butterfield found out who I am, looked me up four years ago, and knocked my teeth out. Flash-forward, th
e Timewave hits, and suddenly I’ve got dentures.”

  Max nodded. “We felt no effects from my messing with the Yankees game, or my other tampering. So long as Butterfield’s actions don’t accrue to us directly, the only way we’re apt to spot butterflies is by combing the archives.”

  Tia replied, “Maybe the tampering you did before wasn’t substantial enough, historically. Reverse a presidential election, we’re damn-well gonna feel that.”

  Though the men had softened her fears about their Plan, Tia still had reservations.

  Stan said, “Each step we take from here on gets more problematic. At any point, a butterfly could derail us. Or alter our memories so we forget our Plan altogether. Yes, there are risks. But if we’ve any hope to fix this country, we have to take them.”

  Six o’clock arrived, and an old-but-updated Hawk News Special played on TV, fed through the laptop. Ariel watched in awe as history changed right before their eyes. On screen appeared a man at a news desk in Hawk’s New York studios. Splashed across the picture, a banner read: Hawk Exclusive: Breaking News/Special Announcement.

  The view widened to show Scott Butterfield seated at the desk across from the host. He wore a loose-fitting black hoody, floppy cowl raised, head bowed, face shaded to reveal little more than bearded chin. In one hand he held a shepherd’s crook—the one Max had lost to the vortex.

  “I’ll be damned,” Max said.

  The hood and staff gave Butterfield a monkish air. Like he’d just emerged from some mountaintop cave. In the background, a digital date and time displayed four years ago to the day, hour and minute. The picture zoomed in tighter, and Butterfield appeared edgy, fidgeting. Stan upped the volume as the host addressed the camera.

  “Tonight, we welcome to Hawk News, Mr. Scott Butterfield of Queens, New York. Viewers will remember Mr. Butterfield for the stir he caused last weekend with his uncanny psychic abilities. He foresaw not only a freak accident at Yankee Stadium, but an attack on Mayor Andy Beard, helping to avert both potential tragedies.”