The Prophet of Queens

by Glenn Kleier

  While the man spoke, the screen split into side-by-side videos of the Yankee Stadium incident and shaky phonecam footage of the attempted assault on the mayor.

  “Mr. Butterfield joins us this evening to warn of an even-bigger disaster.” The host turned to him. “Mr. Butterfield, would you care to share with viewers what you see in your crystal ball?”

  Butterfield looked miserable, shoulders drooping, fingers drumming the staff. He raised up to mutter, “Tonight at 8:33, Eastern Standard Time, a tornado will flatten the town of Jasper, Georgia.” He shrank again, adding without looking up, “People need to listen, this is no joke.”

  A color map popped up on a screen behind, highlighting a red dot in north-western Georgia, labeled “Jasper.” The host noted it to viewers, asking Butterfield, “Can you please tell us how you come to know these things?”

  Butterfield shook his head. The man pressed, “I’m told you speak to God through an angel.”

  Getting no reply, the host groped for a moment, and gave up.

  “Well, there you have it,” he told the camera. “Prophet Scott Butterfield—two-for-two in his predictions so far—now claims a tornado will strike the town of Jasper, Georgia in two-and-a-half hours. Stay tuned. And for those of you in the Jasper area, you may want to take cover.”

  Butterfield stood, and the video cut to a close-up, freezing on his wretched face.

  The team congratulated Ariel again, but she took no pride in it.

  Tia wasn’t happy either, pointing to the image of Butterfield frozen on the TV. “This is our Prophet? This wimp’s gonna persuade Thornton to give up that videotape? Great Plan, Max!”

  Max seemed unconcerned. “So far, so good. By the way, how’s everyone’s memory?”

  Ariel thought hers intact. The others did, too.

  Before Ariel could relax, Stan added, “We expect to notice it the instant we revise history, but it may not work like that. Some theories say only major changes to the past have an immediate impact. That small changes simply build up behind the temporal membrane until they reach critical mass, and erupt in a Timequake/Timewave. If so, a memory-altering event could occur at any time.”

  Anxious, Ariel asked, “Aren’t there precautions we can take to protect our memories? What if we left reminders on our phones, memos to our future selves?”

  Tia said, “What’s to say a Timewave won’t wipe away the reminders?”

  “Or wipe out the New York Times archives in Max’s files,” Stan said. “We need to shield them, too.”

  “How?” Ariel asked. “The hands of the clock touch everything.”

  Max had downloaded the last four years of the New York Times as a baseline to compare with ‘live’ Times archives. Any differences they detected between the two would alert the team to changes in history. But in the event a Timewave updated both new and old archives, their means to spot the changes would vanish.

  They mulled that, and then Max said, “Shield the files, that’s it. We can’t block a Timewave, but we can damn-well dodge it.”

  No one followed him.

  “The answer is to back up the old news archives I saved and put them on a memory stick. When the hole opens tomorrow, we hide the stick in the plant on the other side. That’ll protect the files from changes this side. Each time the hole opens, we retrieve the stick, copy its data for comparison, and put it back.”

  “A time capsule,” Stan said. “Brilliant.”

  “Only one catch,” Max said. “Will we remember to retrieve it?”

  Not if tonight’s tornado caused a Timewave to wipe the thought from their minds. Regardless, they decided to record memos to themselves and proceed with the time capsule.

  Stan asked, “Anyone got a flashdrive they can spare?”

  Paying Max a sideways look, Ariel stood and went to her room, returning with a furry, faux rabbit’s-foot keychain/memory drive. A gift Max had given her their first Christmas here—a jab at her “superstitious” upbringing. She tossed it to him, still in its wrapper, and he set about transferring the Times archives from his laptop.

  Tia said, “The archives may help us identify changes in world history, but we need to detect changes in our personal lives, too. The more we interact with Butterfield, the more likely we are to alter our own pasts. How will we know?”

  Stan said, “We all use daily planners. If we add them to the memory stick, we can compare them against our planners in real time.”

  Tia shook her head. “We need more than a schedule of past events, we need to know what went on during those events. The more details we have to compare, the better our chance to spot changes before they snowball.”

  Max finished transferring the archives to suggest, “How about Ariel’s diary? She’s detailed every day of our lives since we got here.”

  “Hey,” Ariel cried. “It’s not a diary, it’s a journal. And it’s not for public consumption.”

  More than an account of her experiences here, her journal chronicled her life in high school and college. Her most intimate thoughts and dreams, including the highs and lows of her tumultuous affair with Max. She’d die if that got out.

  Max assured, “No one else has to see. Each time we retrieve the stick, you get the only copy, and the stick goes right back in the hole. You check the copy against your journal and the archives, and alert us to changes. You’re in full control.”

  Everyone looked at her as if there were no alternative. She could think of none. Begrudgingly she gave in, and Max tossed back the rabbit’s foot.

  Stan said, “After the tornado, what’s our next move?”

  Max said, “If Butterfield’s prophecy grabs Thornton’s attention the way I expect, it shouldn’t be hard to reel him in. One more prediction ought to do it. Something aimed directly at Thornton this time. A personal crisis. Something Butterfield can warn him about in time to prevent. Make the stakes high enough, Thornton will be so god-smacked he’ll walk on coals if Butterfield asks.”

  Tia said, “Coming up with something personal will take digging.”

  “Already on it,” Max told her, turning his laptop toward them.

  Ariel saw links to websites from the City of God. Its daily newspaper, local TV and radio stations, church bulletins and newsletters, police and medical centers, municipal court, and more.

  “For instance,” Max said. “Obits. Given the City’s population, people die every day. Say we find someone close to Thornton who’ll suffer a fatal heart attack. Butterfield warns Thornton, Thornton intervenes, and Butterfield submits God’s bill: one videotape.”

  Ariel’s stomach soured. Playing with people’s lives. Playing God.

  Stan said, “Reversing a death could toss a big wrench in the Timeline and put our Plan at risk. I suggest saving that till after the election, for Tia’s mom.”

  Tia agreed. “A non-fatal heart attack serves the same purpose. I’ll take the medical websites, it shouldn’t be hard to hack the files.”

  “That’s super illegal, by the way,” Stan reminded.

  “No way we’ll get caught before the election,” Max replied. “And after that, the Timewave will wipe away any evidence.”

  Stan said, “Then I’ll take the police and court records.”

  Max obliged, and turned to Ariel. “How about you do the newspaper and church bulletins, I’ll take radio and TV.”

  Assignments divvied up, they ordered deli delivery and settled in to await the Jasper tornado, and perhaps, a Timewave.

  Chapter 64

  Monday, October 20, 8:11 pm

  The Skies of Northern Georgia

  Reverend Penbrook Thornton sat alone in the softly lit cabin of his Learjet, reading the bible on his iPad. He was headed to Atlanta for a visit tomorrow morning with protégé and presidential candidate, Republican Roger Filby.

  Joining him in Atlanta would be Reverend Tobias Melcher of Dallas. Melcher was a friend and fellow Council member of the Coalition of Christian Conservatives, the covert political action committee
Thornton founded and chaired. Afterward, the two would fly to New York for a meeting Wednesday with the full Council. A meeting Thornton had long been dreading.

  But Thornton hoped to bring some good news with him. Filby hadn’t fared well in the first debate and was busy prepping for the second, scheduled for this Wednesday night. Filby couldn’t afford another stumble, and was hard at work with the finest forensics coaches in the country. Thornton wanted to see for himself the man’s progress, with Melcher to bear witness.

  Thornton needed some positive news to present the Council. Ellen Shackleton’s lead in the polls was holding, and the Council was pressing hard for Thornton to drop his bombshell tape. They’d demanded he bring it to the meeting, and against his better judgment, he’d agreed. He’d no intentions of surrendering it, but having the tape on hand was a gamble that could well blow up in his face.

  Turning to the briefcase on the seat beside him, he stared through it to its troubling contents. He’d seen the video only once, right after he was presented with it. Shocking. Disgusting. No question it would destroy Shackleton. Yet, to release it would be the height of hypocrisy. How in good conscience could Thornton ruin this woman’s reputation when God had spared his? And for a far-worse sin? The tape was neither godsend nor curse. It was a test of faith.

  “Oh Lord,” Thornton prayed, “let this cup pass. Not my will, but Thine be done—”

  Hardly had he spoken than the plane took a nasty jolt, and he cried out.

  The pilot buzzed back on the intercom. “You okay, Reverend?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Sorry, we’re skirting a nasty storm. Stay buckled.”

  Lightning flashed outside the window, and Thornton mopped his brow and replied, “The Lord’s restless tonight.”

  “Yes. You catch that announcement on the early news?”

  “No.”

  “That guy up in New York who sees the future? Says a tornado’s gonna hit a town not far from here.”

  “He’s a weather forecaster?”

  “No, a prophet. Or so they say. Check it out before we lose wifi. Hawk News.”

  Puzzled, the reverend closed out his bible and called up the news site. There it was, leading the day’s top stories. Psychic Predicts Tornado Tonight in Georgia.

  He clicked a video to behold a quirky, timid young man delivering an ominous message.

  Chapter 65

  Monday, October 20, 8:22 pm, Queens

  Ivy went to the window, parting the blinds to peer out. There came an instant roar.

  “Don’t encourage them!” Scotty said, on the couch with Homer.

  “Double the size it was this morning,” Ivy reported.

  The situation was out of control. Returning from Hawk Studios an hour ago, Scotty and Ivy found the alley as crowded as the front street. They narrowly escaped inside the rear door, desperate souls pleading for predictions and miracles. Despite Scotty’s insistence otherwise, people attributed the prophecies to him. His own neighbors, stopping by to beg favors. It upset him to turn them away.

  Ivy joined him on the couch. “The crowd’s on their phones, watching the broadcast.”

  Same live broadcast they were watching on TV. Hawk had been heavily hyping Scotty’s prophecy. Rather than simply warning the residents of Jasper to take cover, the network turned the emergency into a spectacle. It sent storm-chasers from Atlanta to set up on a hill overlooking the town, and now as the appointed time arrived, the team was braving wind and lightning.

  Ivy curled close to Scotty as the TV went split-screen. Left, a live shot of the deserted town with a gust-whipped reporter in the foreground, nasty clouds roiling above. Right, Doppler radar showing a signature “hook” cloud. Suddenly the reporter ducked for cover, and the picture went full-screen on the town to show a corkscrew of thunderhead swirling to earth.

  “OMG,” Ivy cried. “It’s really happening!”

  The funnel bore down on Jasper like the wrath-of-God, and outside Scotty’s window, the crowd erupted.

  Chapter 66

  Tuesday, October 21, 8:41 am, Queens

  Awakening on the couch, Scotty heard Ivy in the shower. He sat up with a groan, Homer regarding him closely from the backrest.

  Scotty looked at the clock. “Ivy hasn’t gotten you breakfast yet?”

  Half a can. She thinks I’m getting fat. You gotta get a handle on that girl.

  There was no handling Ivy.

  “Hang on a minute, and I’ll feed you the rest.” Yawning, Scotty located his phone, surprised to see how late it was. He’d slept poorly out here, the throngs in the street restless all night.

  A scroll through the morning headlines showed last night’s tornado and Scotty’s prophetic warning among the top stories. He moved on to text and voice messages. Lots of them. His phone had rung nonstop after the broadcast till finally he’d shut it off. Calls from Kyle Heath and tons more media. Reggie, Zing, other former coworkers. Even Margo. And Samood—upset the crowd was blocking the building. And lots of other numbers Scotty didn’t recognize, no idea how they’d gotten his.

  Ivy had also been besieged by calls she ignored. Pop, friends, Kyle Heath. She’d switched her phone off, too, informing Scotty she was ducking school till the commotion blew over. Scotty was upset about that. Truancy wouldn’t look good on her transcripts. But Ivy was stubborn, and after the gauntlet they’d run returning from Hawk, Scotty understood. A big mistake letting her be seen with him in public.

  Homer batted Scotty’s head with a paw. Food.

  Laughing, Scotty rose and got them both breakfast, taking his back to the couch as Ivy exited the bathroom in jeans and a T-shirt.

  “Hey, sleepyhead,” she said, wrapping a towel around her hair, joining Scotty atop the blanket and pillows of his makeshift bed. He’d given her the bedroom. “I can’t wait to meet Ariel! And to think, I never even believed in God, and here we are doing His work!”

  Scotty didn’t respond, and she elbowed him, nearly spilling his Cocoa Puffs. “Come on,” she cried, “don’t be such a grump. You’re saving lives.”

  “You don’t find it a bit odd, this ‘Lord’ stuff?”

  “That’s why they call it ‘supernatural.’”

  “Talking over the Internet? On videochat, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Beats the heck outta stone tablets.”

  Scotty sighed. “And did you see the news? An earthquake in Chile last night. Thousands died. More than the entire population of Jasper. Why didn’t we get that prophecy?”

  Ivy frowned and shrugged. “You can’t second-guess the Lord. You gotta have faith.”

  Faith. Mom had faith. It’s what killed her. Scotty put his faith in science. Science could have saved Mom. And yet, given all he’d witnessed recently, what explanation did he have but faith?

  A knock at the door startled him. He set down his bowl and went to the peephole expecting more neighbors seeking miracles. Instead, he saw a stone-faced cop. Come to arrest them again?

  Setting the chain, he opened a crack.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir. We got a Joe Butterfield downstairs, claims to be your dad. Seems upset, should we send him away?”

  Frantic, Scotty looked to Ivy. She gave him a panicked head wag. But reflecting, Scotty told the cop, “No. No, it’s okay.”

  The cop left, and Ivy cried, “Are you nuts? Don’t let him in! Don’t tell him I’m here!”

  Scotty had to face this sooner or later, and wanted to get it over with. Stepping out into the hall, he closed the door. Moments later, he heard a creak below, then plodding, swearing, and snorting in the stairwell. Pop’s tall form lumbered into view and rounded the corner with a huff, eyes scowling to see Scotty.

  Not yet fifty, Pop had aged since Scotty last saw him. Gaunter, more grizzled. Unshaven, pants and jacket wrinkled. Ivy would never have let him out like this.

  He snarled, “First ya get her arrested, now she ditches school. Where is she?”

  Scotty folded
his arms tight on his chest to hide his trembling.

  Pop loomed large. “You can fool them TV people, you don’t fool me. I warned you ‘bout that damned videogame. You ain’t God, boy. And a shepherd’s cane don’t make you a prophet.”

  Scotty felt himself flush. “Ivy’s fine. She’s staying with me. Just till things die down.”

  “Hell she is. Whatever crap you’re up to, you ain’t draggin’ her into it. Not while I got a breath in my lungs.”

  Shoving Scotty aside, he tried the door. Locked.

  “Open it.”

  “She’s old enough to make her own decisions.”

  Pop wheeled on him. “She’s a minor, goddammit! My minor.”

  Trembling, Scotty held his ground, and Pop banged on the door, shouting for Ivy. Other doors on the floor opened, and closed, and from downstairs, the cop called out, “Everything okay up there?”

  Scotty replied, “Yes, he’s leaving now.”

  Pop stuck a long finger in Scotty’s chest. It hurt.

  “I’m comin’ back with a court order,” he barked. “An’ a sheriff.”

  And retreating, swearing, he stormed back down the stairs.

  Scotty waited in the hall till the front door screeched, then a soft voice called up from below.

  “Scott, Sweetie, you okay?”

  “Fine, Mrs. Steiner. Sorry to disturb you.”

  “I’m sorry for you. All these strange goings-on. Can I help?”

  “No-no. It’ll be over soon, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  A pause. “Well, I’m here if you need me. Don’t ever hesitate.”

  He thanked her, her door closed, and he called for Ivy to let him in. She opened with nervous eyes, clutching Homer to her chest, her yellow hair towel-dried and wild like a troll doll’s.

  Scotty warned, “He’ll be back. He’s got legal custody, you know.”

  Ivy moaned. “How long do I have?”

  “However long it takes for a court order.”

  “Well then, whatever the Lord has in store, let’s get to it.”