Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  John didn’t mean to stare at her, and he didn’t mean to go so long without replying, but it just seemed so different, so rare to have anyone in this newsroom taking this tone, apologizing like this. “I . . . I appreciate that, Leslie. Thank you.”

  “And, John, for whatever it’s worth, I didn’t know that was your father at the rally. It wasn’t even my idea to have him in the background.”

  He smiled to reassure her. “I know. Tina and Rush put you there. I’ve been able to piece that together.”

  “I’m sorry anyway. Maybe I should have just gone with my own better judgment. I should have just stayed up on the stairs. The view was better, I could’ve been heard better, I could have heard the director better . . .” She stopped and looked across the newsroom full of people doing the news. “But I couldn’t. I had to do what I was told.”

  “I understand.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’ve been there.”

  “Sure. You’re out in the field, right in the middle of what’s going on, being told what’s happening by a producer sitting in a windowless room with his own ideas about reality, saying ‘paint it my way, this is the way it really is, show me this, not that.’”

  She had to laugh. “Yeah, you’ve been there.” Then she asked, “So what would you have done?”

  “The right thing.”

  It was a joke. She knew it was a joke, but not the kind you laugh at.

  “Well, that’s what I thought I was doing at the time.”

  He tried to let it rest. “Well, don’t worry about it. It happens.”

  She was still troubled. “But it’s more than just that . . . I don’t know. I don’t mind being the grunt, the soldier out in the field . . . But it seems like something’s controlling all of us, even the generals.” She was struggling with thoughts and searching for words to embody them. Finally she wagged her head and said, “It’s hard to put my finger on it, but . . . it’s kind of like we’ve all walked into the belly of a big monster without knowing it, and now that we’re deep inside, we think we’re in control, but it’s swimming away with us, anywhere it wants.”

  John just shrugged. “Mm . . . I suppose all of life is like that to a certain extent.”

  “I suppose. Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for your time.”

  “Thank you.”

  She went back to her desk, back to work.

  John’s phone rang. “John Barrett.”

  “John, this is Ben. Come into my office for a minute.”

  Well . . . John was kind of expecting this. Ben Oliver, news director, John’s boss, was calling him in for a meeting. On his way to Ben’s office John passed that little cartoon taped to the back of the news set, the one with the employee minus his gluteus maximus. He began to ponder what it would be like to anchor the news standing up.

  Ben’s office was at the far end of the newsroom, just past the weather desk, adjacent to Tina Lewis’s office. It was not a big office, but Ben usually had it so cluttered with books, papers, videos, and memorabilia—the big, full-color photo of Chopper 6, the NewsSix helicopter, was a treasured prize—that it seemed quite small, more like a cave or a . . . a lion’s den? . . . than an office.

  Ben was waiting for him. “Close the door and have a seat.” His voice sounded like an old, tired, radio commentator, low and resonant, somber, with just a little bit of gravel.

  John closed the door. That meant this would not be any casual, shoot-the-breeze meeting.

  Ben was a levelheaded, roll-with-the-punches sort of guy, but his crusty demeanor gave him a reputation as a hothead. Hence the cartoon taped to the wall. He was thin, his face etched with worry, and he chewed gum a lot to replace the pipe he was trying to give up.

  As soon as the latch clicked into place, Ben started the meeting, sitting back in his chair, holding a pencil in his mouth as if it were that longed-for pipe, and not looking at John at all, but the opposite wall. “I got a call from this Cudzue, Harley Cudzue, president of the Gay Rights Action League. He wanted to talk to you, but I told him he’d come to the right place, the top, and that his concerns would carry a lot more weight with me, that I’d pass his concerns along in no uncertain terms to the parties responsible, that I would take care of the whole thing, that I would straighten you out and chew your everlovin’ butt off.”

  John was not one to cower. “What can I say, Ben? We made a mistake, and that’s all there is to it. Sorry.”

  Now Ben swiveled in his chair and looked at him. “I also got a call from the Catholics. They invited us to come out and get some pictures of the damage to their church before they clean it all up, since we didn’t seem to notice it the first time. They were rather pushy about the invitation.”

  John had no comment. He just nodded his head a little, so Ben would know he was listening.

  Ben kept going. “I asked Cudzue, if he didn’t have three hundred sexual encounters in the last year, then how many did he have, and he hung up on me.” He saw the questioning look on John’s face and responded, “Well, we said something about him; I was getting his response for the record.” Ben swiveled back toward his desk and chuckled quietly. “He’s had plenty, we know that much. One of his lovers works upstairs in Accounting right now. But let’s get to the agenda here. I talked to Rush about this . . .”

  “Oh boy . . .”

  Ben looked directly at him. “Hey, he doesn’t blame you. Yeah, he gets hot when you foul up on his show, and even if he thinks you’re right he won’t tell you to your face. But he knows what happened, what we didn’t say, and I told him what I’m going to tell you right now: that you were right in being upset. Your question was a dumb move. I took the flak this time, so you owe me one, but you were right. We didn’t handle the story well. We weren’t fair to either side.

  “But now that I’ve patted you on the back I’m going to whip you on the butt. We’ll keep it balanced that way. I’m going to tell you to watch yourself and be careful. ‘News’ is a term we all play with, and we all know it. We do have room, Barrett, slack. We can make choices about what we see and what we say about it, and none of us wants more trouble than our pockets can afford. Private sex lives we don’t talk about. That’s Cudzue’s business, that’s his sex partners’ business. Lawbreaking, vandalism, violence, destruction of property we do talk about, but with our eyes open to cover our behinds.”

  John asked, “So you’re not going to send a cameraman out there to video the damage to the church?”

  Ben shook his head. “That’s what we should have done, but now we’ll just have to let it cool off. Maybe next time. The train’s left—it isn’t news anymore. But I told Erica to be on the lookout for something nice to say about Catholics, and I think she’s already found something nice to cover about gays, something about the Gay Men’s Chorus doing an AIDS benefit. So we’ll do some good after we’ve done some bad and hopefully come out objective on this thing.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “All right then.”

  John stood to leave.

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Ben. “I don’t like talking to people like Harley Cudzue. So you foul up again and don’t clear a question first, you’re gonna to talk to ’em!”

  John smiled. This was Ben’s idea of a slap on the wrist. “It’s a deal.”

  “Otherwise you’re doing fine.”

  “Thanks.”

  CARL HAD HIS easel ready. He figured he’d start with pencil, just get the portrait sketched out. He knew the subject would be moving, changing rapidly, so a lot of the interpretation, the capturing of the face and the soul behind it, would be up to him.

  The clock hanging from the hook above the workbench indicated 5:30. He clicked on the television, and the cold, gray eye awoke, beginning to flicker and flash colors into the room.

  Then Carl heard music—quick, compelling rhythms. There was the aerial shot of The City: traffic rushing back and forth, ferries pulling out from the dock.

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

  Pictures, fast pictures. It was all the same as yesterday.

  The voice said, “And now, from the NewsSix newsroom, NewsSix at Five Thirty, with John Barrett . . .”

  Carl was ready. John Barrett appeared on the screen for one second.

  And then he was gone, chased away by images of Ali Downs, Bing Dingham, and Hal Rosen.

  Well, wait. He’ll be back.

  Voice: “The NewsSix News Team. NewsSix at Five Thirty!” And there was his father, sitting next to Ali Downs.

  Carl held his pencil to the canvas. This was that opening two-shot again. John Barrett’s face was pretty small on the screen right now.

  “A train derailment near Mendleston . . .” John Barrett was saying.

  Carl sketched a few lines. “Metro bus drivers are growing concerned over muggings and robberies on Metro buses . . .” said Ali Downs.

  Video: Metro buses pulling out of the garage.

  Carl sketched some more, at least from memory, from initial impression. He would capture John Barrett somehow, even if it was in tiny, fleeting pieces, moments, glimpses, hints. Somehow the puzzle would fall together.

  C’mon, John Barrett! Just stay on the screen a little longer. Just a little longer.

  OKAY, THE FIVE THIRTY went fine. No foul-ups, no glitches, just a smooth, professional, neat newscast, the way it ought to be, the way it used to be. No, maybe even better. John didn’t wiggle his thumbs this time, he made sure of that.

  Back to normal at last? Maybe, maybe not. He went across the newsroom to his desk and plopped into his chair. It was ten after 6. The CBS Evening News was on. Maybe Max Brewer was home by now. Maybe he was sitting down to dinner and wouldn’t want to be called.

  Maybe John didn’t want to call him anyway. But maybe Carl would ask John if he’d called, and then John would have to make up some excuse for why he hadn’t called, which Carl probably would not believe.

  Okay, John, dive off the deep end just one more time, and then life can get back to normal.

  He dug the slip of paper out of his wallet, set it on his computer keyboard, and dialed the number.

  “Hello?” Not a kind hello, and this guy didn’t sound very small either.

  “Hello . . . Max Brewer?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “This is John Barrett, from NewsSix—”

  The guy swore a blue streak at him!

  “Excuse me?”

  “You think you pretty funny, huh, like nobody gonna touch you, nobody gonna find you . . .”

  “Mr. Brewer, this is John Barrett from—”

  “No, you ain’t John Barrett! Listen, you kill him, that’s one for you, but I’m dead too, you got that? I’m dead, and you forget about me ’cause I forgot about you!”

  “Mr. Brewer, I don’t think you understand—”

  “You show up ’round here, you just try it, I’ll rip your head off! I’ll cut you into pieces so small the dogs won’t find ’em!”

  Clatter, fumble, click. Dial tone.

  John slowly hung up the phone. “Well, good evening to you too.” Rachel did say this guy was mean.

  No. This guy isn’t mean. He’s scared. And what did he say? Something about killing John Barrett?

  Dad. John Barrett Sr. A tape replayed through John’s mind. The black man at the governor’s rally, the big guy on the videotape, throwing bodies around, fighting, scrapping, right up there next to Dad.

  Max. Dad called him Max! He picked up the phone and dialed again. He had to explain the mix-up, explain who he was.

  But Max Brewer was not answering the phone now. John dialed Mom’s number. Okay, Carl, you want to pursue this, now’s your chance. I’m not going to this guy’s house alone.

  CHAPTER 10

  JOHN USED A crisscross directory to find Max Brewer’s address, and Carl was able to contact Rachel at Hudson’s Restaurant to verify the location. Everything matched.

  The Brewers lived toward the south end of The City in a predominantly black neighborhood, a low-income area where the houses and yards were small and clusters of kids played on concrete and asphalt more often than on grass; where both sides of the street were lined with aging, parallel-parked automobiles, and vandals cursed their enemies with spray paint. It was a rough neighborhood too, known for its unemployment, gangs, crack houses, and shootings.

  It was an especially uncomfortable area to be driving through in a nice car and white skin. John and Carl moved slowly up the block in the ebbing daylight, trying to find the right address.

  “There,” said Carl, peering out the window. “Is that it?”

  John looked out Carl’s window and could barely make out the house number, little black numerals tacked on the lap siding of a small, gable-roofed house. There was one large maple tree in the front yard with a tire swing hanging from it. No fence. The porch light was on, and the lights inside the house were on, so somebody had to be home.

  They found a place to park halfway up the block, got out, and locked the car. They stayed close together.

  “What did he say again?” Carl asked.

  John recited it in a near whisper. “He said if we ever showed up he’d tear our heads off and cut us up into pieces so small the dogs wouldn’t find them.”

  “Thanks. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “Be bold. We’re not here to hurt anyone, we’re not sneaking around. We’ll just walk right up to the door and knock.”

  “Okay.”

  “Incidentally, what happened to your earring and your chain?”

  Carl had left off all his facial jewelry. “Less for him to grab.”

  They turned up the front walk to the house. As they mounted the porch, they thought they saw some movement inside, some shadows against the drapes. No sneaking now. Stand up straight. We’re here on legitimate business.

  John couldn’t find the doorbell, so he knocked. The porch light went out. “Oh-oh,” said Carl.

  “Uh . . . hello?” John called through the door. “Mr. Brewer? It’s John Barrett and his son Carl. Uh . . . I talked to you on the phone today. We’d just like to talk to you—”

  They heard the heavy footsteps pounding up behind them, but not in time to do anything about it. John had no sooner turned to look when a ham-sized fist grabbed his tie and made a lasso out of it, yanking him off the porch and sending him sprawling into the yard, rolling in the autumn leaves and just about hanging himself on the tire swing.

  Carl tried to leap from the porch and get away, but the shadow in the white T-shirt grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him backward, pulling him off balance. He fell but didn’t make it to the porch floor. The huge hand was still gripping him by his coat and he was hanging there, limp with fear. He looked up and saw the shiny surface of a knife blade in the dim light.

  “Okay, sucker, you wanna live?” huffed a big voice above him.

  John shouted, “No! Don’t—”

  “Yes!” Carl insisted. “Yes, I do want to live!” Now Carl could see the man’s scowling eyes looking him over.

  “Kid, I don’t like the way you look.” The porch light came on, and the front door cracked open.

  A woman’s voice pleaded, “Max, don’t do anything!”

  “Get inside! Get in there!” the man shouted. In the light they could see Mr. Max Brewer, as big as a football lineman, raging and wild-eyed.

  John was on his feet but trying not to make any sudden moves. “That’s my son. That’s Carl Barrett. He’s . . . he’s a pacifist, you know? He’s never hurt anybody.”

  Max agreed. “He couldn’t if he tried.”

  The woman said through a crack in the door, “Max, don’t hurt him! You don’t know—”

  Max yelled at John, “Stay there, man, or I cut him!”

  “No!” Carl whimpered.

  “Max!” the woman cried. “Don’t! Please!”

  “Now who a
re you?” Max demanded of John.

  John tried to answer clearly, without yelling. “I’m John Barrett—”

  “Yeah, and I’m Ray Charles!” He waved the knife in small circles near Carl’s face. “And maybe this kid needs a better haircut.”

  “I’m John Barrett, Junior. John Barrett, Senior, was my father! You’re holding John Barrett, Senior’s grandson there.”

  Carl stammered, “You . . . I saw you at Grandpa’s memorial service! You were sitting on the right-hand side, toward the back, you and your wife, right?”

  That seemed to register. Max held the knife still, but didn’t let go of Carl as he took another look at John. “John Barrett, Junior?”

  “My dad must have told you about me.”

  “You on TV?”

  “Yes. Channel 6. The news guy.”

  The front door of the house across the street burst open, and a neighbor hollered, “Max, what you doin’ over there?”

  The knife dropped out of sight. Max lifted Carl gently to a standing position. “Ain’t doin’ nothing, Henny! These are friends.”

  “Well, keep it down, man. I was gonna call the cops.” The door slammed.

  Max released Carl. “Hey, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t have no idea who you were. Deanne!”

  The door came open, and an attractive, fortyish woman cautiously poked her head out.

  “We got company here.” He beckoned to John. “C’mon, c’mon, get inside before somebody sees you. Deanne, c’mon, open the door. Let’s go.”

  She opened the door, and John and Carl went inside. Max was right behind them, closing the door again.

  “Have a seat,” he said, still brandishing the knife.

  John looked at the knife. A man could dress out a deer with that thing. “Are you . . . through with that . . . uh . . .”

  Max noticed he was still holding it. “Oh . . . yeah.” He dropped it into the drawer of a small end table. “I don’t guess you guys want trouble.”

  Deanne Brewer, visibly shaken, was concerned with proper hospitality nevertheless. “Max, why don’t you introduce your two friends?”