The Prophet of Queens

by Glenn Kleier

  Rand leaned forward. “Make it ten. Ten percent. If your Crusade can raise Filby’s numbers in the swing states to fifty-four, you’ll earn my faith.”

  Heads began to bob, and Thornton felt his jaw tighten. In this hotly contested election, Rand’s terms were ridiculous, and Rand knew it. Nowhere was Filby leading by ten points, not even in his home state of Oklahoma.

  Thornton replied, “Ten points is impossible.”

  “Where is your faith now?” Rand asked. Seizing the moment, he called for a vote. Durban seconded in his tinny voice, and the “ayes” prevailed, nine to three.

  Durban added a final nail. “The last debate is Saturday before the election. I say we make our decision after the overnight polls. Either Filby’s up ten points in all three states by Sunday morning, or Brooks releases the tape.”

  Thornton clenched. The last debate was a townhall. Not Filby’s strong suit.

  The Baptist said, “But that leaves us just two days till the election. Too close.”

  “Actually,” Rand said, “It’s perfect. Release the tape Sunday at noon, it makes all the evening newscasts and 60 Minutes. It will dominate Monday’s headlines and talk shows, and Shackleton will have no time to recover.”

  There was overwhelming agreement, and Rand slid his bible down the table to Thornton.

  “Your oath,” he demanded, knowing Thornton would never break a pledge sworn on the Good Book. “If Filby fails to meet our numbers by Sunday a week, you release the tape.”

  Putting his trust in God, Thornton placed his hand on the book and swore.

  Thornton and Melcher were quiet in the cab as they headed back to their hotel. Finally Melcher said, “Fifty-four percent. Might as well be the moon. The only thing that can get us those numbers is the Shackleton tape.”

  Thornton quoted Matthew 19:26: “‘With men many things are impossible, but with God, all things are possible.’ Have faith, my friend, God is with us.”

  “Just for once,” Melcher said, “I wish God would give us a sign.”

  Thornton switched on his phone, surprised to see it light up with alerts. Multiple texts from Ms. Willoughby. It wasn’t like her to pester, and Thornton read with concern:

  Reverend, Kyle Heath is desperate to reach you. He says he has very important news he’ll share only with you. I informed him you’re in New York, and included his text and phone below.

  Alice

  Puzzled, Thornton scrolled down to read:

  rev thornton—urgent message from prophet of queens, 2 deliver in person 2nite. can u be at hawk news studios by 5:45?

  Thornton’s heart skipped. Alerting Melcher and the driver, he texted back to Kyle Heath:

  Yes!

  Chapter 74

  Wednesday, October 22, 5:09 pm, Queens

  Leaving their apartment building, Ivy and Scotty stepped out the door into a frightening scene. The crowd, still pumped from the “Teddy miracle,” erupted at the sight of their Prophet. It took a full detail of NYPD to convey the two into the waiting limo as people strained to get a glimpse or touch. Ivy knew Scotty hated the ruckus, but she also knew he was as gratified as she to have helped the little boy. And now, as they headed for Hawk News studios, she trusted they’d soon be helping someone else.

  Ivy checked her makeup in the mirror of the minibar, grinning. What would the kids at school think now? Despite an avalanche of calls and texts from friends begging her for details, she’d managed to keep her vow to Ariel, revealing little of what was going on. But she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold her tongue. This was just too exciting!

  Scotty’s phone rang, and he took the call mouthing to Ivy, “Kyle Heath.”

  For once Scotty looked presentable, thanks to Ivy. Hair washed and combed, though he wouldn’t let her cut it, and refused to shave. He wore his floppy black hoody again, and Heath had insisted he bring his shepherd’s staff.

  Earlier, after Scotty spoke to Heath about meeting Thornton in the City of God, Heath had contacted Thornton’s Church to learn the reverend was in New York. He’d called Scotty back to suggest they meet at Hawk instead, and given Scotty’s desire to be done with the Lord’s work, and considering the gravity of the message he carried for Thornton, he’d agreed. And Heath, trusting Thornton would accept the urgent meeting, had sent a car for Scotty and Ivy, calling now to confirm that Thornton was indeed on board.

  As Scotty hung up, Ivy reminded him, “You know, Ariel told us to set up a meeting only. We’re not supposed to actually meet with Thornton till she gets back to us.”

  Scotty shrugged. “She also said the lady’s illness is serious, and time is of the essence.”

  In which case, they couldn’t have moved any faster. Their limo soon pulled to the curb in front of Hawk studios, and to Ivy’s surprise, a crowd was on hand to greet them. Word of the Prophet’s coming must have gotten out.

  An attendant opened their door, and Scotty raised his hood and exited into a buffer of security guards. He left his shepherd’s staff behind, but Ivy snatched it and followed.

  At the sight of Scotty, the crowd cheered, and Ivy raised the staff, pumping it like a majorette, sparking applause and laughter. The guards were not amused, sweeping her and Scotty inside the building, through the lobby into an elevator, upstairs and down a hall to a green room where they were met by Kyle Heath and a woman in an apron.

  “Hello,” Heath welcomed them, shaking hands. “The reverend’s on his way.” He motioned Scotty to a table facing a large mirror rimmed with lights. “We’re short on time, if you’ll have a seat, we’ll get you ready.”

  Scotty puzzled. “Get me ready?”

  “You’re on air with Reverend Thornton in fifteen minutes.”

  Scotty took a step back. “On air? But this is a private meeting.”

  Now Heath looked puzzled. “You never said anything about ‘private.’ You must know we’ve moved heaven and earth to make these arrangements.”

  On the wall, a TV monitor aired a promo promising, Latest Prediction from the Prophet of Queens, Live at Six.

  Scotty frowned. “But this is a personal matter. Someone close to the reverend is very ill.”

  “Yes. I made that clear to him. Sorry for the confusion, but if there’s going to be a meeting, it’s got to be on air.”

  Of course, ratings trumped decorum.

  Ivy leaned into Scotty. “Postpone, and meet Thornton in the City of God, like Ariel said.”

  A trip out of town sounded fun to her.

  Scotty grumbled to Heath, “Let’s get this over with. And no makeup.”

  The Reverends Thornton and Melcher exited the cab in front of Hawk studios, guards hustling them through a swell of onlookers.

  A big screen TV on the marquee juxtaposed stock video of Thornton and the Prophet with a banner reading, Life or Death Prophecy, Live at Six. Thornton felt both worry and bewilderment. If indeed this Prophet were genuine, why the theatrics? Was God adapting to the media age?

  He and Melcher were rushed inside, met in the lobby by Kyle Heath and a lady in an apron.

  “Welcome,” Heath greeted them looking relieved, giving their hands a quick shake. He directed them ahead. “Sorry to hurry you, we’re on air in eight minutes.”

  He ushered them into an elevator, and the lady pancaked Thornton’s face on the way up. Between powders, Thornton asked Heath, “Any more details?”

  “I’m afraid the Prophet is rather tight-lipped.”

  Thornton had concerns about the broadcast, and not simply for its pending bad news. He did not wish to be party to some sideshow. While drawn to publicity, he was careful to manage it. Unlike the Pentecostals and Charismatics, Thornton spurned sensationalism, careful to maintain his dignity as a man of God.

  Melcher asked Heath, “You’ve met the Prophet, is he truly on the up-and-up?”

  Heath paid him a sober look. “I’ve been on this story from the start, and I have to admit, it defies all reason. But if Butterfield isn’t the real deal, I don’t know
how to explain him.”

  They exited into a hall, a man in headphones urging them into a backstage holding area filled with TV monitors. Thornton knew the drill, a frequent guest on Hawk News. Another handler miked him, then Heath whisked him out a door into the bright lights of a soundstage. Pointing to a news desk in the center, Heath wished him good luck, and held back with Melcher.

  Thornton took his place across a triangle desk from the Hawk host and the uncomfortable-looking cause célèbre. As Thornton had anticipated, the boy was hardly the image of a biblical prophet. Downcast, slumped in a black, hooded sweatshirt, hood thrown back, longish dark hair neatly parted, but mussed. On the desk nearby rested a stout shepherd’s crook.

  The newsman welcomed Thornton and nodded to a crewman who gave a countdown. Then taking a breath, he spoke into a camera through a teleprompter.

  “Welcome to a special edition of Hawk News Live at Six. Tonight, another Hawk exclusive. We’re pleased to have back on our program two well-known guests who need no introduction.”

  He turned to his left. “Longtime friend of the show, Reverend Penbrook Thornton of the Church of the Divine Message.” He gestured to his right, “And Mr. Scott Butterfield, better known to viewers as the Prophet of Queens, considered by many to be the world’s foremost oracle since Edgar Cayce. Mr. Butterfield has made quite a splash recently with his prophecies.”

  Butterfield interjected, “Not my prophecies, I’m simply a messenger.”

  The newsman corrected, “Uh, ‘messages,’ which Mr. Butterfield says he receives from an angel emissary of God. So far, the predictions have all proven accurate, and the Prophet has a new one for us tonight.” He nodded to his guests. “Thanks for joining us on such short notice.”

  Thornton nodded. The young man simply sat with head bowed.

  “Reverend Thornton,” the host continued, “I understand this is the first time you and Mr. Butterfield have met.”

  “Correct,” Thornton said, smiling to the Prophet. “An honor to meet you, sir.”

  Butterfield raised his head and paid a quick “Hello.”

  Thornton added, “I’m familiar with your pronouncements, Mr. Butterfield. In fact, I weathered one personally Monday night, flying through that storm you forecast. I confess, I’m concerned about the message you bring tonight.”

  The newsman turned to Butterfield, and the young man compressed his lips to respond, “I don’t know why I was picked for this job, Reverend, I hate bearing bad news. What I have to say concerns someone you know, and I hope it’s in time.”

  The studio fell quiet as a church. Thornton’s hand went to the gold cross on his lapel, and Butterfield inhaled and stood. Thornton watched in puzzlement as the boy rounded the desk and approached. Thornton shifted to face him, taken aback. Butterfield came close, stopped, and leaned down to whisper, “I’m sorry to tell you, an associate of yours is very ill. Your secretary, Alice Willoughby. Cancer. Breast cancer. An aggressive form.”

  Thornton felt his heart seize. “My God,” he gasped.

  The host demanded, “What? What?”

  Thornton recovered to ask, “Will she—will she be okay?”

  Butterfield raised up and replied soberly, “The angel didn’t say.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I’m certain what the angel said. I’m sorry. I hope this message is in time.”

  Stunned, Thornton gaped at him. The host begged Butterfield to enlighten viewers, but the young man grabbed his staff, bid Thornton good luck, and strode off set.

  There was an awkward pause, and the host managed, “Well, Hawk viewers, we’re all hoping to learn what troubling news the Prophet delivered. Please stay tuned.”

  The station took a break, and Thornton drooped in his chair.

  Scotty and Ivy were quiet as they left the station in the limo. By the time they arrived at Scotty’s building, it was dark. No deterrent to the waiting throngs, however. Scotty despaired to see even greater numbers than before. Fortunately, the police detail was on hand.

  He and Ivy dashed from the car into bedlam, cops running interference. People shouted to Scotty, pleading for miracles, and someone seized his sleeve. He turned to see a grubby face he recognized—the homeless man he’d encountered in the alley the first day of this ordeal.

  Scotty reached for his wallet, but the man pulled him close to implore, “Prophet, save us! Winter’s coming. We got no homes, no food, no hope!”

  “I’m no prophet,” Scotty insisted. “I have no powers.”

  Before the cops could peel the man off, he poked a grimy finger in the middle of Scotty’s forehead to declare, “Foresight is power.”

  Scotty drew back confused, and the cops removed the man to expose Ivy behind, smiling and waving to the crowd. Scotty extended his crook to haul her in by the waist, whisking her ahead of him to the front steps, hustling her inside the building past a flood of mail.

  Once safely upstairs in the apartment, he slammed the door and leaned against it, panting.

  “Woohoo,” Ivy cheered, heading for the bathroom. “We’re like rock stars now!”

  He glared after her. “We’re damn-near mauled to death, and it’s a game to you?”

  “Chillax, bro, nothing will happen to us, we’re doing God’s Will.”

  In fact, Scotty felt like a tool. He replied, “God’s Will is fleeting. Now that Thornton has his message, my Mission’s over. It’s back into the woodwork for me, but there’s still hope for you—if we don’t let this wreck our plans.”

  Ivy disappeared into the bath, and Scotty looked down to see Homer frowning at him. Swearing under his breath, he shed his hoody and staff to the coatrack, and headed to the kitchen. Homer followed his every move. Snatching a can of cat food from the pantry, Scotty promised, “No more late meals, Homey, Ariel said I’d get my life back.”

  The cat paid him a doubtful glance. You’re forgetting what the guru says. Step 39.

  Scotty remembered. Those who live in the past have no future.

  He could take no more. Collapsing to a chair at the table, he let out a wail.

  Ivy responded from the bath, “Have faith. The Lord owes you big time for all He’s put you through. I bet He’s got another Lotto number in His pocket. Regardless, you’re big as Jesus now. Imagine the doors that’ll open!”

  There came a knock at theirs, and Scotty exhaled. Composing himself, he went to the peephole to see Kassandra in the hallway looking sultry in an off-the-shoulder knit top.

  He opened, and her eyes went to the can of cat food in his hand.

  She smiled and cooed, “I hope you haven’t eaten yet.”

  Chapter 75

  October 22, 7:22 pm, Talawanda

  “Oh no,” Ariel moaned.

  She was in the living room with her friends, on her laptop checking current archives against those retrieved from her rabbit’s foot last session. No problems, until now. The others looked up from their chairs, and she rotated her computer for them.

  “An update from four years ago…”

  They gathered around to see a Hawk News special. Life or Death Prophecy. As it played, Ariel watched her friend’s faces go from curious to horrified. Max broke the silence, his eyes flashing at Ariel.

  “Goddammit, Thornton was in New York when you spoke with Butterfield today. You spilled too much, we’ve lost our leverage.”

  She felt terrible.

  “Lay off,” Tia told him. “It was your brilliant idea to push for a meeting. Why didn’t you check on Thornton’s whereabouts, first?”

  Stan hastened to say, “Now-now, all’s not lost. Assuming they catch the secretary’s cancer in time, Thornton may be willing to give up the tape out of gratitude.”

  That gave Max pause. After a moment’s reflection, he decided, “Better for us, then, if the prognosis is bad. Butterfield can promise Thornton a cure in exchange for the tape.”

  A cure they couldn’t deliver. Ariel was appalled, and she saw the same in Tia.

  Tia asked
, “How long will a diagnosis take? The tape goes public in ten days.”

  Historically, the tape was released the Sunday before the election.

  Ariel said, “With Thornton’s connections, not long, I’m sure. He’ll pull every string he’s got.”

  “Meanwhile,” Max said, “we’re back to stalling Butterfield.”

  Ariel apologized again, Max stalked off, and she headed for her room, smarting.

  Tia caught up with her at the door. “Got a second?”

  “If it’s about Max, I’m okay.”

  “No, a different asshole.”

  She drew Ariel inside and closed the door. “Did you check the files I sent on your stepdad?”

  Ariel confessed, “I haven’t had the nerve.”

  “Well I hate to tell you, but there’s more. I dug deeper, and it’s worse than I thought.” Her eyes showed pain. “Let me ask—and don’t answer if you don’t want—did he ever take photos of you as a kid? You know, compromising photos?”

  Ariel stiffened. “Oh my God. Not to my knowledge.”

  Phil had never approached her about such a thing, thankfully. Though now that she thought about it, she recalled uncomfortable occasions where he lurked with his phone. Had he sneaked shots of her in the shower?

  She grabbed Tia’s arm. “Please tell me you didn’t find pictures.”

  “Not of you, so far. Other girls. Lots. I quit, I couldn’t bear it.”

  Ariel felt sick.

  Tia lowered her voice. “Did he ever…put his hands on you?”

  The knot in Ariel’s stomach rose to her throat. She felt such humiliation, she shook her head “No.”

  Tia gave her a long, fierce hug before pulling back, eyes watery. “You were lucky,” she said. “First off, he’s no doctor. No medical or psychiatric doctor, anyway. Theology degrees from a divinity school. No qualifications whatsoever to run a mental institution. All the same, Thornton brought him in to deal with the suicides and other problems. An epidemic back then, and from what I gather, it still is. Most kids he ‘treated’ he labeled ‘sexually dysfunctional.’ Meaning, they didn’t meet Church standards for ‘normal.’”