Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  “Barrett,” another voice demanded, “is there something you need?”

  It was Tina Lewis’s voice. It came right through that anguished face.

  No. Now it was that angry face. That impatient, condescending face.

  John blinked. He looked at the floor. He looked at Tina Lewis again.

  She was wringing her hands, wagging her head in torment. “Barrett?” The voice didn’t match the face again. It sounded alarmed, curious.

  Now he saw her rise, not weeping or screaming, but a little concerned, bewildered, looking at him as if he were . . . as if he were . . .

  “Are you all there?” Now she was weeping again, moaning in pain.

  John mentally broke in on himself. He purposely aborted the program going on in his head, forcing himself to muster all the acting ability he had, look straight at the weeping, desk-pounding image, and say, “Boy, that computer printer! We’ve got to oil that thing or something. It sounded just like a woman screaming. I thought it was you!”

  “Get out of my life!” she cried, cowering, her arms covering her head. “I don’t want your pain! Just leave me alone!”

  “You need to get your ears checked,” said the other Tina. The real Tina? One of the Tinas? “Go on, get out of here.” She picked up the script again and sat down with her back to them.

  “Come on,” said Hal. “The lady’s got work to do.”

  They went back to the weather desk, Hal leading John by the arm, steadying him a little. John wiggled his finger in his ear. He could still hear the terrible cries coming from Tina’s office.

  “Man oh man.”

  “Here, sit down,” Hal said, pulling a wheeled chair closer.

  John sat.

  “You still hear something?”

  John listened. “Not now.” He forced a little laugh, tried to gloss it over. “I’m too close to the printer, I guess. Or maybe it’s my telephone.”

  Hal set his elbow on the desk and studied John for a moment. “You’re sure you heard Tina screaming?”

  John shrugged. He tried as best he could to look like a normal, sane, responsible human being. “Isn’t that the wildest thing you ever saw? Boy, I sure thought . . . Boy, what a deal.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah . . . Sure.”

  Hal didn’t seem satisfied. “You know . . . you just went through a real tragedy, John. Maybe you’re not ready to be back here yet, back under the pressure and everything.”

  John was ready to get away from this discussion. He rose, looking at his watch. “Well, you know, my son’s coming to visit the station today, and if you think I’m hearing things, just wait ’til he gets here—you’ll think you’re seeing things. Gotta call the front desk.”

  “Well, take care.”

  John got back to his desk and rescued the telephone receiver, which he’d left dangling by its cord.

  Rush Torrance was standing at his desk, only a few feet away, gawking at him. “What happened?”

  “Oh, nothing. I thought I heard someone hollering for me. False alarm.”

  Rush accepted that and went back to work at his console. John tried to look as normal as possible, realizing that others in the room were also gawking at him. He put the receiver to his ear and punched in the number of the front desk. As he talked to the receptionist and made sure Carl was expected, he could feel their curious gazes gradually turning away.

  Then he slumped in his chair and stared at the computer screen. The computer kept prompting him, Make a correction, escape, do something. But it would have to wait for a moment. John was scared.

  It had happened again, but this time more directly, more personally. Instead of vague, faraway, unidentifiable voices, he’d heard Tina Lewis. He knew he’d heard her, and he’d seen her so clearly, so vividly that he mistook it for . . . reality? But was it?

  He cursed under his breath. LSD flashbacks. That had to be it. The sixties pseudo-intellectual, acid-dropping, college radical was now paying the price. Back then Dad always warned him there’d be a price to pay someday. He used to think of Dad every time he popped that little sugar cube into his mouth: “This one’s for you, Dad.” Now all the recent strain, first with Dad’s behavior, then with his death, must have jarred something loose somewhere in his head, and he was back there, back in the old rebellion. How poetic. Every time he took a drug trip he thought of Dad; now thinking of Dad too much brought on drug trips without the drugs.

  And, oh yes, wasn’t it Dad who helped aggravate this thing with his mutterings about the “cries of lost souls”? That had to be a part of it too. Dad’s last words, the tragedy that followed, John’s own deep regrets coupled with the emotional upheaval . . .

  He just had to be careful; he had to take it easy. This kind of thing probably passed with time and rest. He was an otherwise healthy man who took good care of himself, jogged five miles a day, watched his diet, got plenty of rest . . . it should fade, it should go away . . .

  Aw, so forget it, John. Let it go. It’ll pass. You’re forty-two, all that stuff’s behind you, and you have a career to think about.

  He leaned forward and got back to work on the Five Thirty script. What was that he was saying earlier? Something about getting back to normal?

  CHAPTER 7

  AT CLOSE TO 5, Carl drove Dad and Mom Barrett’s gray Chevrolet down under the Channel 6 building and found one visitor’s slot still available. Following his father’s directions, he found his way around to the front entrance.

  The reception area was big enough to . . . well, to hold a reception. It was a vast, high-ceilinged room with lots of glass, a deep, sound-deadening carpet, and a wide-screen television in the center of an inviting sitting area. The television was carrying Channel 6, of course, and at the moment a syndicated, prerecorded, controversial talk show host was interviewing what appeared to be prostitutes.

  In the center of the room was the reception desk with an attractive young lady wearing a headset and taking calls.

  “Oh,” she said, “you must be Carl Barrett.”

  He smiled. The meaning was clear. With his weird hair, clothes, and jewelry he was easy to identify, hard to miss. “That’s right.”

  “I’ll let your dad know you’re here.” She made a quick call, then had Carl sign in, identifying himself and the car he had parked down below.

  Then he was free to wait, to stroll about the reception area and take it all in. All around the room Channel 6 was putting its best foot forward. There was, of course, the huge television providing a nonstop sampling of the station’s wares, but there were also several glass display cases filled with impressive memorabilia: a football jersey and an autographed football from the The City’s football team; a baseball bat and autographed baseball from the baseball team; several trophies awarded to Channel 6 for excellence in broadcasting, broadcast journalism, and sportscasting; photographs of Channel 6 bosses meeting with dignitaries and celebrities.

  But it was that wall behind the receptionist’s desk that really caught the eye. Here, in brightly lit, full-color, three-foot-high photographs, were the talent, the stars, of Channel 6: Hal Rosen, weatherman; Bing Dingham, purveyor of a stick-it-to-’em sportscast; Ali Downs, news anchor; Valerie Hunter, special assignments; Dave Nicholson, consumer specialist; Barry Gauge, editorial commentary.

  And, of course, John Barrett, news anchor. Carl paused. So this was his father. He’d never seen his father stand still like this. There he was, clean and polished, in a dark blue suit, color-balanced burgundy tie, and a white shirt. His left hand rested on the news desk in front of him; the right rested on the left and held a fountain pen. The pose looked like he’d just finished doing the news, giving vital information to the public, and had now turned aside to pay special attention to just Carl. He sat tall and straight, though relaxed. His face was without blemish, his eyes keen and insightful. Hmm . . . The eyes were brown. Carl had never noticed their color before. He stood before that picture for the longest time, just gazing into those
eyes, trying to read them. The only problem was, those eyes were not looking at him, but at a camera.

  A door opened at the end of the room. “Hey, Carl!”

  It was him. The guy in the picture. No suit jacket at the moment, but he was wearing a white shirt and a tie. A dark blue tie. The smile looked the same. He looked smaller than in the picture. And . . . whoa! He had makeup all over his face! Carl looked at the picture again, at that perfect, unblemished face. Well, maybe it was the makeup that made it seem so perfect. He couldn’t tell.

  John extended his hand. “Any trouble finding the place?”

  Carl shook the man’s hand. “Uh, no . . . Came right to it.”

  “Did you sign in?”

  “Yeah. I think I’m okay.”

  “Great. Well, come on.” With that, TV anchorman John Barrett headed back toward the door he’d just come through, and Carl followed. The receptionist was watching, and when she got a glance from John, she released the lock on the door. They went down a few hallways, turned a few corners, and went into the newsroom.

  “George, this is my son Carl.” They shook hands.

  “Erica, this is my son Carl. I’m showing him where his old man works.” They shook hands.

  “Hi, Rush. I’d like you to meet my son Carl. He’ll be watching us do the show today.” They shook hands.

  Rush said, “John, the cassette on the curfew story’s no good. We’re going to have you read it instead.”

  As Carl watched, they conferred—reading, pointing, nodding their heads.

  “Right . . . got it,” said John. Then to Carl, “Okay, come on and I’ll get you situated.”

  They went past all the desks, past the young Asian gal talking on the phone and the grim-faced guy with the horn-rimmed glasses typing at his computer and the black man tapping his pen on his writing pad, waiting for inspiration. They reached a crude-looking plywood wall braced with two-by-fours, painted to match the rest of the room but looking very much like plywood and two-by-fours anyway. A long computer-printed streamer proclaiming “WE’RE NUMBER ONE” covered up some of it, and various tack-ups decorated the rest, at least as far off the floor as human arms could reach—complete game schedules for football, basketball, and baseball, and adjacent to that, a sign-up sheet for the football pool, almost filled. Some news clippings about the station had been there a while, and the tape was getting yellow, but some of the news-related gag cartoons were new, such as the picture of the two men in an office setting, one with his hindquarters chewed off and the other asking, “Well, what did (“the boss” was scratched out, and “Mr. Oliver” was penciled above it) have to say?”

  They turned right and went down to the end of the plywood wall, where a small camera perched on a stand looked down at them like a curious, one-eyed crow.

  “This is the flashcam,” said John. “You’ll see how we go to reporters in the newsroom for their stories and how they use this camera.”

  John kept going, around the plywood wall, and Carl followed.

  Now they entered another world, and Carl felt he’d just plunged into a big, brightly lit aquarium, full of human fish but no water. Lights bore down on them from above and from the walls, washing out the shadows, putting every detail of their clothing, their faces, their movements, on display. The back wall, the one made of the plywood and two-by-fours, looked impressive, even intimidating, from this side. On the left was the city skyline, painted on a mural behind a false window. In the center was an array of false TV screens showing photographs of events, news frozen in time. On the left was a waving, blue-green-gray-purple pattern.

  In the center of the room, decked out in mahogany, chrome-edge trim, and black Formica, was the news desk, a podium for four, with swiveling leather upholstered chairs at four stations, the one on the left for the sportscaster, the one on the right for the weatherman, and the two in the middle for the anchors, each with its own television monitor tucked into the surface of the desk, hidden from the cameras’ view.

  The cameras. Yes, if this was an aquarium, the three cameras were the fish watchers. They stood there looking like just-landed alien probes, all staring one-eyed at the news desk, each bearing its own name like some kind of livestock ear tag: One, Two, and Three.

  Across the top of the backdrop were television monitors, even now flashing forth images. The one on the left showed the controversial talk show still in progress, the sound off, the mouths flapping without meaning. Then came three monitors showing the world as seen through the eyes of Cameras One, Two, and Three. Camera One was looking at a black leather chair with no one in it, Camera Two was looking at a crisscross test pattern on a stand right in front of it, and Camera Three was looking . . . well, at them, just behind the news desk, looking up at the monitor.

  John showed Carl to a chair situated to the right of the news desk, back behind Camera One. “Have a seat right here. You can watch part of the show from here, and when we have a commercial break somebody will take you upstairs so you can see the control room.”

  With that, John ducked out of the room for a moment. Carl, fascinated and bewildered by it all, took his seat in the chair and just watched without a word.

  The floor director, a pretty black woman, came onto the set, headset in place, script in hand. Two men and one woman took their places behind the cameras. It was almost 5:30.

  In came an attractive, dark-complexioned lady in a gray suit jacket and black skirt, a black scarf perfectly arranged over a white blouse, her hair a complex, ebony sculpture. This was, of course, Ali Downs, his father’s co-anchor, looking just like her big picture out in the lobby. She took her place in the second of the center chairs, picked up an earpiece from the news desk, and carefully installed it in her ear, then clipped a tiny microphone to her jacket. It virtually disappeared against the black scarf. Then she reached into a slot in the news desk and picked up a round mirror, checking her appearance, arranging her hair just so.

  Anchorman John Barrett returned, a little rushed. His face looked different; perhaps he’d touched it up a bit. His hair was perfect, though. He probably used hair spray. He took the first of the center chairs and then went through the same quick preparations, installing his earpiece and lapel mike and taking a quick look in a mirror of his own.

  “Thirty seconds,” said the floor director. The news team of Barrett and Downs was ready. In the monitor atop the backdrop the controversial talk show was over, and now commercials were racing one after the other across the screen.

  “Ten seconds.” Then the floor director’s hand went up with five fingers extended. Four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .

  Point.

  JOHN BARRETT LOOKED at Camera Two and spoke in a resonant voice. “Tonight on NewsSix at Five Thirty, Candidate-for-governor Bob Wilson has his say at his own campaign kickoff rally.”

  Ali picked up where John left off. “And Governor Slater says he’s ready for Wilson’s challenge anytime, anywhere.”

  “There’s a lot of finger-pointing going on over what caused the crash of that airliner in Manila. Is the airline to blame, or is Benson Dynamics covering up?”

  “And this weekend’s tragic fire at the Summerville Speedway has raised some hot questions on who will eventually pay to have the grandstand rebuilt.”

  “Next, on NewsSix at Five Thirty.”

  Music.

  Carl watched the monitor right next to him. The pictures galloped out of the screen and right into his lap.

  Moving aerial shot of The City. Traffic rushing back and forth, ferries pulling out from the dock.

  Voice: “This is Channel 6, The City’s Premier News and Information Station, your number one source for up-to-the-minute news.”

  Pictures, fast pictures: a cameraman aims his camera toward the screen, a female reporter runs up some stairs, a chopper with a big 6 on the side lands with a bump, a team of reporters sets up an interview, some guy in a white shirt hands papers off screen . . .

  Voice still going: “And now, fr
om the NewsSix newsroom, NewsSix at Five Thirty, with John Barrett . . .”

  John Barrett, in a portrait that moves, flashes a knowing smile at the camera.

  “. . . and Ali Downs . . .” She grins pleasantly, as if meeting a friend.

  “Bing Dingham with sports . . .” He looks at the camera and cracks up.

  “And Hal Rosen, weather . . .” He looks at the camera and winks.

  “The NewsSix News team. NewsSix at Five Thirty!”

  Music resolves.

  Carl saw a wide shot of his father and Ali Downs seated behind the news desk. He watched his father’s lips move but heard his father’s voice from within the room.

  “Candidate-for-governor Bob Wilson began his campaign today and wasted no time in addressing the assault launched against him by Governor Hiram Slater last week.”

  Close-up of Ali Downs. “Wilson was ready with an assault of his own as he addressed his own kickoff rally at the Memorial Stadium this afternoon.”

  Video: The Memorial Stadium. Crowds, balloons, WE BACK BOB posters. Ali’s voice over the pictures: “Wilson says he’s ready and willing to take on the issues and considers Hiram Slater’s opening salvo nothing more than a cheap shot.”

  Video and sound: Bob Wilson, a nice-looking guy, dark hair, Kirk Douglas chin, stern expression, addressing the crowd. “The governor has set the tone for his campaign, and it looks muddy brown. (Cheers) But this campaign is going to be built on the issues, and I’m not afraid to say the words: Abortion. Back-to-basics education. Balanced budget. Family. Tax cuts.” Cheers start.

  Cut. Close-up of Ali Downs. “More rallies are planned for the coming month.”

  Close-up of John Barrett. “There are allegations tonight . . .”

  The camera panned a little to the right and a small picture appeared over Barrett’s left shoulder: an airliner broken in two and burning.

  “. . . that the Philippine government is interfering with the investigation of the crash that killed more than two hundred people. Meanwhile, the owner of the airline thinks he knows what caused it all: faulty thrust reversers. Wendell Southcott, our aviation specialist, has more on that.”