Prophet

by Frank Peretti

“Boy,” said Devin, “they’re going to think they’re electing God.”

  “Well,” said Rowen, the smaller of the duo, the one with the horn-rimmed glasses and crooked tie, “the ultimate benefactor at least. We’re showing the people that Governor Slater is good for the state and good for them.”

  “Image is everything,” said Slater.

  “Image is everything,” echoed Hartly, the taller of the two, and the better dressed. “Uh . . . you may have noticed we emphasized the bass on your voice a bit. In those . . . uh . . . outdoor scenes, you know, the higher tones tend to carry.”

  “Good move,” said Devin.

  “Yeah, fine,” said Slater. “Well? Questions? Comments for these gentlemen?”

  Benthoff referred to her notes. “Now . . . you just showed us six commercial spots. How many do you have planned overall?”

  Hartly replied, “These six will open up the campaign starting next week if you’re all agreeable. Then, after they’ve reached saturation, we’ll start rotating our celebs through to recapture the public’s attention.”

  “That’s a great lineup, too,” said Devin.

  “I think it’s outstanding,” said Rowen. “We have Rosalind Kline, the star of Who’s Got Problems?”

  “Ever seen the show?” Devin asked the governor.

  “I don’t watch that slop,” he said under his breath.

  Rowen continued, “She’ll be doing a spot emphasizing the women’s rights issues. And then there’s Eddie Kingland, who’s really into environmental issues, so he’ll do a plug from the environmental angle.”

  “Help me out,” said the governor.

  Benthoff rolled her eyes. “Oh brother, you guys! Haven’t you ever watched Love Thy Neighbor? He plays the hunk next door.”

  “These are household names,” said Rowen, “faces the public will instantly recognize and identify with.”

  “Uh,” Devin prompted, “you do have Theodore Packard doing an ad, right?”

  “Oh?” said the governor, his eyebrows going up.

  “Got him,” said Hartly. “He’ll be doing an ad on pluralism, freedom of artistic expression, cultural diversity. We picked him for the classy folks.”

  “Thank you,” said Slater, and they all laughed. “Well, that’s what we want. Whatever will get their attention where they are.”

  “And what about the posters, the billboards?” Devin asked.

  “Those should be ready for posting next week,” said Rowen. “I think . . . uh, Mason, do we have photocopies of the revisions?”

  Hartly dug into his valise. “Right. I think you’ll like these.” He gave a small pile of papers a shove and let them slide across the conference table to the three. “You’ll notice we took the same style from the TV spots and translated it into provocative stills that evoke the same image. The public will see the TV ads, so they’ll immediately recognize the billboards. Their eyes will be drawn to the familiar.”

  Slater, Devin, and Benthoff perused the sketches and nodded approvingly.

  “And did we ever get any mention of the Hillary Slater Memorial Fund?” the governor asked.

  “Oh!” said Rowen. “I believe we had Anita Diamond lined up to do a TV spot. You’ll recall she’s very active in animal rights—”

  “Animal rights!” The governor cursed. “I want people to see how I care about young women needing an education and you give me someone identified with animal rights?”

  Rowen and Hartly looked at each other for a suitable reply. Hartly took the question. “Oh, beg your pardon, Governor, I’m afraid we may have misunderstood—”

  “If image is everything I don’t like the image!”

  Devin tried to intercede. “Guys, the Hillary Slater Memorial Fund provides grants for girls going to college. It doesn’t have anything to do with animals.”

  Rowen and Hartly stopped cold, then chuckled, then laughed a very socially soothing laugh. Hartly addressed the problem. “Hey, I think we’re still okay. Eugene said we had Anita Diamond lined up. Uh . . . that means we’ve talked to her, but it’s nothing firm. But using her might work anyway. She’s a successful young black singer who overcame poverty and hardship and racial prejudice, that sort of thing . . .”

  The governor was not appeased. “We’ve got enough black footage in the TV ads. We’ve established that I like blacks. What I need now is a young woman with some brains.”

  The two media consultants looked blankly at each other. “Who do we have who’s known?” Hartly wondered.

  “How about a lesbian?” Devin suggested.

  The governor cursed again.

  “Hey, they vote!” said Devin.

  “I know that!”

  Devin turned to Rowen and Hartly. “What about Packard? Isn’t he gay?”

  Hartly shrugged. “He isn’t telling, sir.”

  Slater mulled it over. “Well, Martin’s got a point. Get me a gay. Somebody famous, with some credibility. And I don’t want any lisping limpwrist. Have him say something nice about me. I’ve been nice enough to them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And then maybe we can get an actress to plug how I’ve formed the Hillary Slater Fund. I don’t know who.”

  Rowen brightened. “Why not a local girl, someone right from the area, who benefited from the Fund?”

  The governor was silent. Devin quickly answered, “We’ve only funded one girl so far, and . . .” He wiggled his hand, palm down.

  “How about a woman athlete?” suggested Benthoff.

  “Yeah, right,” said Slater. “What’s wrong with that? A tennis champ or something, talking about me helping girls reach their full potential and all that crap.”

  “Better get on it,” Devin goaded.

  Rowen was taking notes. “Yes, sir. You’ve got it, sir.”

  “Now have we covered everybody?” the governor asked.

  “What about the homeless?” Benthoff asked.

  “Not this election.”

  “They don’t vote,” Devin quipped.

  “Well, next election.”

  They had to laugh at that. It broke the tension.

  Benthoff perused the list in front of her. “So we’re talking about TV ads, with adaptations for radio . . . billboards, bus posters . . .”

  “We’ve purchased space on twenty Metro buses.”

  “Okay. Bumper stickers, yard signs, balloons . . .” Devin flipped to the next page. “Not to mention public appearances. You’re going to be busy, Mr. Governor.”

  “How public?” the governor asked.

  Rowen read down his list. “Oh, many different venues. The University, the Kiwanis, the Teachers’ Union . . .”

  The governor asked Devin, “Any places where that prophet might show up?”

  Rowen’s eyes went blank. “Sir?”

  Devin glossed it over. “Oh, an old friend. One of the governor’s most faithful followers.”

  CHAPTER 5

  JOHN SLAMMED THE receiver down. He was fully awake and out of bed without a thought, scrambling for his clothes. It was 8:32 A.M., Wednesday. There’d been an accident at the warehouse. Dad was hurt. Buddy wouldn’t say how badly, but he emphasized, “You’d better get down here right away.”

  Rush hour. The northbound interstate was jammed and sluggish, but southbound was moving. John made it to the Industrial Street exit without delay and worked his way through the industrial grid, through alleys and over railroad tracks, to the warehouse. He could see the flashing lights blocks before he got there.

  He pulled around the back, drove through the big yard gate, and jerked to a stop beside two police squad cars. Near the loading dock, a large fire truck and an aid car stood ready. A fireman was just going up the stairs to the loading dock with some cable in his hand.

  John spotted Buddy Clemens on the dock waiting for him, waving frantically. John was there in an instant.

  “What happened?”

  Buddy stood in his way. “Johnny, let’s go in the office.”

  J
ohn pushed Buddy aside and ran into the building, past the office, past Aisles 8, 9, and 10, then into the open area where the galvanized stock was kept.

  The images that confronted him would haunt him for days afterward, every time he closed his eyes.

  Firefighters scrambling, lifting, shoving heavy pipe aside. Chains, hooks, pulleys. Shouting.

  A toppled pipe rack now lying on the concrete floor, twisted and bent.

  Heavy, twenty-foot lengths of galvanized pipe strewn on the floor like jackstraws.

  Paramedics working, moving . . . but not hurrying. No urgency in their manner.

  Police officers watching, muttering into their portable radios, looking grim.

  Some guy with a camera snapping pictures.

  A white cloth on the concrete floor, covering . . .

  Jimmie Lopez saw John and walked toward him, heading him off, blocking his way. “Johnny, hang on, man. Just hang on.”

  John tried to get around him, but Jimmie outweighed and outsized him. “Jimmie, what’s happened?”

  Jimmie held him back, then somehow turned him around. He spoke gently. “Johnny, your father’s dead. He’s gone.”

  It didn’t sink in. John kept trying to look. “What happened?”

  “Your father’s been killed in an accident. Just work on that.”

  The realization, like a spear, reached John’s heart. He grabbed hold of a shelf. Jimmie held him, braced him from falling.

  “Let’s get into the office where you can sit down,” said Jimmie, guiding him with a strong arm.

  John’s vision went blurry. He felt like he would smother. His breaths were short, shuddering. He was trembling all over.

  Jimmie got him through the office door and into a chair. Jill was at her desk, completely beside herself, whimpering into her clenched fists, stealing horrified glances through the office window and then turning away with anguished cries.

  “Is your husband on the way?” Jimmie asked her. She couldn’t answer. He asked her again, gently, “Did you get ahold of Kevin?”

  She nodded.

  “Is he coming to get you?”

  She nodded again.

  “Okay. Just sit tight.”

  In came Buddy Clemens, helping Chuck Keitzman along. Chuck, shaggy-haired, mustached, and built like a tank, was cradling his right arm and cursing over and over. His right hand was wrapped in paper towels; blood was soaking through them. Chuck flopped into a chair, threw back his head, and cursed in violent anger. Then he wilted in the chair and wept. Buddy raced into the washroom and returned with more paper towels.

  “The medics will be here,” said Buddy, his voice high and rushed. “Just sit and be quiet. Just take it easy.”

  “I couldn’t get the pipes off him,” Chuck wept. “I couldn’t get ’em to move.”

  “It’s okay. You gotta calm down.”

  “What happened?” John demanded.

  “Johnny,” Chuck cried, “Johnny, I’m sorry. I couldn’t get the pipes off him.”

  John cursed and shouted, “Chuck, what happened?”

  “The rack of pipes fell over on him.”

  Nothing would sink in. John just couldn’t fathom anything. “What do you mean, it fell over?”

  Chuck let his head fall backward against the wall and cried some more.

  “Chuck, what rack of pipes?”

  Chuck controlled himself. “The big galvanized. Two-inch, one-inch, one and a half. I just don’t get it. I don’t know how it happened. The thing weighed a ton. We’ve never had anything fall over like that.”

  “Did you see it fall?”

  “No. I got here at 8 and saw it dumped over and the pipe lying all over the floor, and then . . .” He choked back his emotion, drew a deep breath. “And then I saw John underneath. I tried to get the pipes off him, but there were just too many, so I tried using the forklift, but I couldn’t get under ’em, they were all crooked. I tried to get ’em off by hand and they kept rolling back and then I busted my fingers and I cut myself up. I couldn’t do it.”

  John was disoriented. He could only sit there, let things happen around him, and try to take it all in.

  The police and a medical investigator had questions for everyone, and John sat in numb shock, listening to all the answers. “No, no one saw the rack fall. John was here before anyone else; he always got to work an hour early. John was the boss . . . Chuck got here first, a little after 8, and then the rest of us, at 8:30 . . . No, we’ve never had a rack fall like that before. Maybe the pipe wasn’t stacked evenly, maybe Dad was climbing on the rack and that could have tipped it over, but we can’t say for sure . . . No, his wife doesn’t know yet. His oldest son is sitting right here . . . The company is privately insured, not state insured . . .”

  “Did he have enemies?” asked a cop.

  “No.”

  “Maybe he did,” John answered.

  “Who?”

  John shook his head, sorry he’d said anything. “I don’t know.”

  Two paramedics worked on Chuck’s arm while the police asked their questions. He’d broken two fingers and lacerated his knuckles. They bound the wounds, applied a temporary splint, and arranged for Jimmie to drive him to the hospital. Jimmie and Chuck left immediately.

  Kevin, Jill’s husband, came and picked her up. He stayed just long enough to find out from Buddy what had happened, then away they went. Jill had to get home. Kevin would get the details later.

  The police and medical investigator completed their work. Don’t disturb the site, they said—they might have to come back after the autopsy.

  Then, quickly, quietly, and unobtrusively, they conveyed the shrouded form into a transport and drove away.

  Only Buddy and John remained in the warehouse, sitting alone in the office, the clamor suddenly chopped off as with a knife, the shock ebbing, giving way to grief.

  “Guess I’d better close up the place,” Buddy murmured just to break the silence. “We won’t be doing business today.”

  “I’ve got to tell Mom,” John said.

  “How’re you doing?”

  John was staring at Dad’s office door, still ajar, the one marked “THE BOSS.” “That’s the last time I ever saw him alive, Buddy . . . right in there.”

  The last time. And perhaps the worst time. Just one more conversation, John thought. Just one and things could have been better. He and Dad could have ironed things out. They could have had time to make changes, adjustments, meet on some kind of middle ground.

  But they never did, and now they never would. “We never finished the boat either,” John muttered.

  “Hm?” said Buddy.

  “Oh . . . funny . . . I just thought of the boat Dad and I worked on and couldn’t finish before I left for college, and after that we never did finish it, never got back to it. Good grief, that was years ago. It’s funny the things you remember.”

  The boat. The little rowboat. They were going to build it in Dad’s shop and then take it out fishing. “I think it was the last thing we really did together.”

  The last thing . . .

  “STEADY NOW, NOT too fast. Light pressure. That’s it.” They were in Dad’s shop, pushing a plane along the edge of a board, Dad’s hand on his, his body wrapped around John’s like a cloak, guiding John’s every movement.

  “You start at one end, pick up the chip . . . Yeah, just pick it up, no deeper than that, and away you go, on down to the end . . . Keep her flat, keep her flat. You’re Mr. Level, the board’s counting on you . . .”

  The chip curled like a blonde tress out of the planer, one clean strip, and Dad chuckled with delight. “That’s it, that’s it, all the way down. Hmm, boy, ain’t it lovely!”

  John was eighteen. He knew how to use a plane, he didn’t need Dad showing him for the umpteenth time . . . but Dad sure had the touch, and he was having so much fun showing John how to do it—again—that John didn’t want to complain about it. Okay, I’ll humor him, he thought.

  It was summer. John
would be leaving for college in the fall. He had other things to do, and yet . . . when would he get the chance to do this again? It was right to be with Dad, working on something together. If only this silly project didn’t take so long!

  “Well, just think, son. Jesus used a plane and a saw and a hammer, and they didn’t have power tools back then, so it was even slower than this. Guess that’s one way He learned such patience. Good thing, too, ’cause He’s working on us every day, just like we’re working on this boat, and we take a long time too . . .”

  That boat took so long . . . so long. And they never finished it.

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON. Brother Moore, deacon, with tears in his eyes, stood amidst the congregation to give a brief tribute. “I will always remember John as a lover of life. For him, every good thing really was a gift from God, and he never neglected to give God the glory . . .”

  When Brother Moore had finished, Sister Larson, now in her eighties, rose to her feet and spoke. “I guess I knew John longer than anybody, and I can remember when he was a little fellow in my Sunday school class. He was a cut-up, like kids are, but you know, there was never any doubt about his commitment to the Lord . . .”

  Betty Pierson, a young single mother, rose to her feet and spoke through great emotion. “He was Jesus to me. The kids and I were living in that old place on 32nd, behind the apple orchard . . .” There were some hmmm’s and nods from some who were familiar with the place. “. . . and the plumbing was just shot, and John found out about it, and I think it was that very week, he was there with a sink and a toilet and all new things, and he put it all in for nothing, and it wasn’t even my house . . .”

  The Rainier Gospel Tabernacle was a different place now. It had a new sanctuary with a high, arched ceiling and large windows to let in light and fresh air, and it had a new name, the Rainier Christian Center. For Dad’s memorial service, every pew, every folding chair, every seat in the choir loft was filled, and John recognized many faces, some a lot older, some pretty much the same. They’d sung some of Dad’s favorite hymns—“It Is Well with My Soul,” “And Can It Be That I Should Gain?,” and “Amazing Grace.” Young, bearded Pastor Phillips—this was his fourth year at the church—gave a well-worded eulogy, full of hope and assurance, just the way Dad would have wanted it.