Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  “But like I was saying, it’s a human business, and we all see things through different eyes. But if we’re going to do our job and gather the news in any kind of thorough, objective manner, we have to let others tell us when they see things we may have overlooked. Sometimes that leads to some fierce differences of opinion, but that’s what the information business is all about.”

  “I take it they didn’t like the question you asked.”

  John chuckled. “Well, right, see, that’s what I’m saying. You have a lot of cooks in the kitchen, and sometimes they butt heads.”

  “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what? Butt heads?” A little joke. A dumb joke.

  “Ask a question.”

  John had to think a little on that one. “Well . . . I guess it helps to blend things a bit, sort of bring the anchor into the story . . . uh, it helps make the anchor look more involved in the gathering of the news, more a part of the process. And I guess it adds a human touch to the show.”

  Carl seemed perplexed. “But don’t you get that question off the script?”

  “Yeah, it’s a scripted question.”

  “So who writes it?”

  “Usually the reporter who filed the story. The reporter gives us a question, we ask it, and then they have an answer prepared, and we end the package with that.”

  Carl thought about that some more. “So you’re not really asking them a question, you’re acting like you’re asking them a question.”

  John was getting uncomfortable. Was the whole evening going to be like this? “Well, sometimes the anchor can ask a question of his own, but it’s wise to let the reporter and the producer know in advance. The problem tonight was that we got the wrong question into the script somehow and the reporter wasn’t ready for it. We try to avoid surprises like that. It doesn’t look good on TV, let me tell you.”

  Carl actually smiled. John guessed he was amused. “I liked your question,” Carl said. “It was yours.”

  “Well, I appreciate that.” He really did. Then he reflected for a moment, just a short moment. Hm . . . the content of that question was true. How did I know that?

  But now back to Carl. Eye contact. Look into the camera. Maintain the flow. “But anyway, it’s all part of the TV news game. The technology is complex, so the policies, the whole presentation of the news can get complex. There are just so many different tools at our disposal for informing the public, and doing it in an interesting, entertaining way . . .”

  “Is that why you were talking to the wall?”

  This conversation wasn’t flowing, not the way John wanted it to. Too many rocks in the stream. He paused to gather himself. Very small pause, not much dead air. All right. Now we’ll work on this one.

  “Well, did you see the monitors, and how we were making it look like we were talking to Leslie?”

  “But she was sitting right there behind the background. Why didn’t you just bring her in and talk to her?”

  “Well, we do that sometimes.”

  Carl just made a face. “I don’t get it.”

  John just rested his face against his hand and stared at the table trying to think of his next line. “Well, we were—” He had to laugh. He was stuck, and it felt kind of funny. “Carl, I don’t know why we do it that way. I guess we want people to see the newsroom, or get a view of somebody working back there, somebody still digging out the story.”

  “So you end up talking to the wall and pretending you’re talking to somebody who’s actually sitting behind the plywood?”

  John’s voice was getting a little tense, but he couldn’t help it. “Well, what’s wrong with that? I mean, you’re an artist, you deal in a form of expression, you embody truth through how you create a painting . . . We do the same thing using technology. TV news is an art form, I think. We use technology to paint reality.”

  Carl looked away and said abruptly, “I’m sure going to miss Grandpa.”

  Hey, come back here, kid, we haven’t settled this yet. John adjusted. New subject. And now this.

  “Yeah,” said John, “I’m going to miss him too.”

  “I wish I could’ve known him better. It was like he knew what he believed. He knew where he was going.”

  “Yeah, he did have a strong belief system, no question about that.”

  “What kind of belief system do you have?”

  Suddenly John knew how Leslie Albright must have felt after his “scripted” question. “Well . . . I respected Dad’s beliefs. I always knew where he stood, and that’s good. We all have to stand by our convictions, and I think Dad was a good example of that.”

  Carl was still waiting for an answer.

  “Excuse me,” said a lady passing by the table. “Are you John Barrett?”

  Oh, good. An interruption. “Yes, hello.”

  “I watch you on the news every night. Love the show.”

  “Well, thank you very much.”

  The lady fumbled in her purse for a small scratch pad and then sheepishly held it toward him. “Could I . . . trouble you for your autograph?”

  “Sure you can.” John took his pen, scratched out his autograph, and pleased another fan.

  Carl watched the whole thing, just like he watched everything. He was absorbing it all, John could tell.

  “What’s it like, being a celebrity?” Carl asked.

  Good, a comfortable question. “Well, it’s . . . it’s fun, sure. It’s part of the job, of course. Television makes you a public figure, and then, looking at it the other way, you have to be a celebrity, a well-known face that people want to tune in and watch every evening. So the news program feeds the celebrity, but the celebrity also feeds the news program.”

  “So there’s a lot of show biz involved.”

  “Oh, sure. It’s part of the business, part of the machine.”

  Oh, here came dinner, carried in the steady hands of Rachel the waitress. She placed a plate in front of John—“Careful, the plate’s hot”—and the big glass bowl of salad in front of Carl.

  She’s hurt, John thought.

  “Okay, now can I get you anything else?”

  “Umm . . .” John couldn’t think of anything. He looked at Carl, but Carl was leaving it up to him. “I don’t think so . . .” She’s hurting. “How about you? You doing okay?”

  “No. I’m bummed out. I want to cry.” Watch it, John, watch it. Did she really say that? He looked at her carefully. She was smiling and sociable. No, she didn’t really say it.

  But John could see a deep sadness in her eyes. “I’m doing all right,” she said. “Now, the salad bar is included with your meal, so you can help yourself anytime.”

  “Great. Thank you.” She hurried away. John felt clearly that she was escaping. He stole as long a look at her as he could without staring. But enough of that. “Well, dig in,” he said to Carl, picking up his fork.

  They started eating. “So, uh . . . tell me about yourself. Tell me about your painting.”

  Carl furrowed his brow and formulated a reply. “Just finished a magazine layout before I came up here. It paid pretty well. Maybe I’ll be able to survive until I get the next thing done.”

  “Which is?”

  “Oh . . . a friend of mine runs an underground theater. He wants me to do the set design.”

  “Mm . . . sounds interesting.”

  “Don’t know if I’ll take him up on it. I’m . . . I’m searching for style right now, I think. The last couple of years I’ve been themeless, painting in circles. The same old stuff keeps coming out and I can’t seem to find direction.”

  “Think you’ll go back to school?”

  “What for?”

  “Well, if you’ve lost direction, that might help.”

  Carl considered that a moment, then shook his head. “No. School won’t help.”

  John got fatherly even as he felt he shouldn’t. “Well, you know, it would be a smart idea to hone your craft, get a good skill developed.”

  “Why?”<
br />
  John leaned back, raised his hands, and gave the answer that to him seemed very obvious. “So you can make a living.”

  Carl stayed serious and implored, “Why?”

  So you won’t be a bum, John thought. He didn’t want to get into some big exchange, so he tried, “Well, I guess I still have that old-fashioned idea that the way to make it in this world is to set a goal, work hard, and make something of yourself.”

  Carl just looked at his salad. “But . . . I can’t paint that. It just keeps coming out wrong, it isn’t . . . it isn’t about anything. It isn’t enough.”

  “Well, it’s enough to start. Think about that first and then you’ll survive to think about the rest.” It was getting tense. Time for a break. “Hey. I forgot about my salad. Be right back.”

  He got up and headed for the salad bar. Nuts. This just wasn’t going very well. Carl didn’t seem capable of plain, simple, comfortable conversation, which would have made for a more pleasant evening. The kid was troubled, mixed up, unsettled, insecure . . . a natural product of a lousy, blown-apart marriage. John literally patted himself on the back. Way to go, John, you should be proud. Well, maybe he’d go ahead and let Carl ask some ridiculously hard question. Maybe they could pick a tough topic and go for it, just really chew it up—just so long as they didn’t chew on each other.

  Okay, John, so talk about your belief system. Oh please . . . He got to the salad bar, grabbed a cold plate, and started stirring around in the lettuce.

  I wonder if Dad ever felt this way about me? Then he laughed to himself. Brother. Am I kidding? Move over, Dad.

  “Annie . . .”

  John knew, even as he heard that voice, heard that name, that he wasn’t really hearing it with his physical ears. After a few times through this ridiculous hallucination stuff he was finally getting wise. He put some lettuce on his plate and stole a glance toward the kitchen.

  There was Rachel, standing alone near the serving window, absentmindedly sorting through some checks. He could hear her crying, though outwardly she was not crying.

  He picked out some broccoli and cucumbers in a very normal fashion.

  “Annie . . .” He stole a quick glance. Maybe this time he did see some sorrow in her face. She wiped her eye. Perhaps there was a real tear involved.

  He picked out some sprouts and onion slices. Hm . . . three hundred sexual encounters and never uses a condom . . . and I was right. Somehow I knew it was true.

  He looked at Rachel again. She was putting the checks back in her pocket and picking up another dinner for someone. If he wasn’t imagining it, she did seem like she was taking a deep breath, trying to control herself. Behind her an unnatural darkness filled the room—deep shadows that gave John an eerie, gloomy feeling.

  But . . . no. This just wasn’t what it seemed. He plopped several cherry tomatoes on his plate, then added some croutons, some bacon bits, and a good ladle’s worth of low-calorie Italian dressing, and headed back toward his table.

  Again he saw Rachel, now serving a table across the room.

  Sorrow. Uninvited. Unexpected. He stopped to look her way, and as if they were of one heart, he could feel her pain. She was hurting. He just knew it, and now he was hurting too.

  All right, now hold on here, enough is enough. I don’t feel a thing. I didn’t really hear anything. It’s over, it’s done, I’m through with it.

  He looked away, setting his eyes straight toward his own table where Carl was still working on his chef’s salad and looking dismal.

  I’m going to whip this thing. I’m going to ignore it and keep right on being a sober, levelheaded professional.

  But the sorrow lingered in his heart, heavy and troubling, and by the time he reached the table and sat down, he thought he would burst into tears.

  Come on, Barrett, snap out of it. Control, man, control. Pretend you’re on-camera.

  Carl must have noticed the troubled look on his father’s face. He was paying close attention.

  John wiped his eyes but made an excuse. “Too much pepper.”

  “Are you crying?” Carl was being so true to form John couldn’t believe it.

  “No, I’m not crying.” He forced a laugh. “Hey, look out for those hot peppers.”

  Enough of this. John got out his handkerchief, cleared his nose, wiped his eyes, and regained control. He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and stabbed after the first piece of lettuce. A cherry tomato popped out sideways and went bouncing across the floor. Carl was watching the whole thing. John could feel him watching the whole thing. John was winding up as tight as a spring.

  Finally he hit the table with his fist. “What are you looking at?”

  Carl’s eyes were a little red now. “What were you crying about?”

  “I was not crying! I ate a hot pepper and it made my nose run and my eyes run and . . .” John rested his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand and just looked at his son. Then he rubbed his neck and stared at his salad. Then he looked across the floor trying to locate the cherry tomato. Then he sighed and faced his son again.

  “Just what is it you want from me? What do you want to know?”

  “I’d sure like to know what would make you cry.”

  “You’re making me cry,” John said in frustration, shaking his finger at his son. Then he got a bad case of motor mouth, and he realized it but too late. “Carl, since you’re so intent on asking questions . . . blunt, difficult questions, I might add . . . Perhaps you’d like to ask one more blunt, difficult, tactless question so we could find out what I’m crying about—if I’m crying at all!”

  Carl’s eyes locked on his. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do it.”

  John just shook his head. His attempt at cutting sarcasm didn’t work, and he’d said too much. “Oh, forget it, forget it.”

  Suddenly Carl grabbed his hand. “Dad, you haven’t said a word to me all night. Now talk to me!”

  John really felt that hand gripping his. He couldn’t ignore it. He could hardly think of anything else. He looked at his son for a long, awkward moment, and Carl just looked right back at him. No escape. The director couldn’t switch to another camera. John couldn’t even break for a commercial.

  “Let me think,” he said finally, letting his eyes drop. He played with his fork a moment, then looked across the room. Rachel was gone now. He asked himself, What if? . . . What if Carl did ask her?

  “You know the waitress . . . Rachel?”

  “Yeah.”

  John turned it over in his mind one more time before speaking. “Why don’t you go find her and take her aside . . . casually . . . and ask her if the name Annie means anything to her?”

  Carl didn’t make a face or seem perplexed. Rather, he seemed fascinated. “Annie?”

  “Yeah . . . Annie.”

  “Just ask her if the name Annie . . .”

  “. . . if the name Annie means anything to her.”

  Carl rose from the table and walked casually across the room, looking for Rachel. He got back near the salad bar, still looking, and then disappeared around a corner.

  John stared at his prime rib, getting cold by now. He found it hard to have interest in his salad. He picked up his fork and forced down a few bites of dinner, feeling like he’d just made a colossal mistake, a fitting topper for a terrible week. Now Carl would come back embarrassed, with nothing but a negative report, and John would have to settle for the fact that he was really, undeniably losing a screw. Ah well. At least he’d know.

  He felt someone approaching and turned. Carl and Rachel. Carl was excited, the most excited John had ever seen him, and Rachel was wide-eyed and just staring at John in awe.

  “You’re . . . you’re John Barrett, the guy on the news?” she asked.

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “How do you know about Annie Brewer?”

  John wasn’t sure he’d heard her—really heard her. He looked at Carl.

  “She had a friend named Annie Brewer who died,” Carl
said.

  “You have to hear about it,” said Rachel. “This ought to be on the news!”

  John looked at Carl, then at Rachel, then at his watch, and fumbled, “Uh, well, when do you . . . how do you—”

  “I get off at 9. We could talk then. That’s only in twenty-five minutes.”

  Yeah. Follow it, John. Follow it through. “Well, okay . . . sure.”

  Rachel went back to work with new strength in her step. Carl slipped back into his seat, somewhat more animated.

  “What do you know about her anyway?” Carl asked.

  “Who? Rachel?”

  “Yeah.”

  John probed his mind just to be sure. “Nothing.”

  “So what do you know about this Annie Brewer?”

  There was no other answer available except, “Nothing.”

  A FEW MINUTES AFTER 9, it was a simple matter to pay for their meal, find a booth near the back of the restaurant, and order some decaffeinated coffee.

  Rachel Franklin, eighteen, a recent graduate from Jefferson High School, was tense and troubled but glad to be talking to someone, especially someone connected with the news media.

  “I went to school with Annie last year,” she said, nervously crinkling a napkin on the table in front of her. “We were good friends.”

  John had an appointment calendar from his pocket open in front of him. He’d found some empty dates already past and was using their space for notes. “You were both seniors?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And when did she die?”

  “It was about two weeks before school was out. It was in May.”

  “Late May.”

  “Uh-huh. She got sick on a Friday and died on Sunday, and we never saw her alive again. We all thought she died from some weird infection, ‘toxic shock’ or something. That’s what we were told. We never did understand it, how it could happen so suddenly.”

  “Who told you?”

  She thought about it, then shrugged. “I don’t know. It was just the word that got around.”

  “So none of you ever heard this from Annie’s parents themselves?”

  She shook her head widely. “Uh-uh, no way. You don’t go near Annie’s father. He’s mean.”

  “I see. So . . .” John figured it out. “Annie died a little over three months ago.”