Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  Leslie had one more card to play, “What about the schedule sheet from May 24th?”

  Ms. Spurr only sighed impatiently and pulled open a file drawer and thumbed through the tabs. She found the folder for May and withdrew it, then went through the schedule sheets arranged inside. “May 24th. This year, right?”

  “Right,” said Deanne.

  She found the schedule. It was several pages long. She scanned it, saying, “I could simply tell you that we show no Annie Brewer or Judy Medford here, but I suppose you’ll want to violate all policy and privacy laws and see it yourselves?”

  “I want to see it.” said Deanne.

  Ms. Spurr held the pages so they could see them. “Please, quickly scan the names for your daughter’s names, and try to forget the rest.”

  They scanned one page, and then the next. The schedule reflected about twenty to twenty-five patient names per doctor for that day.

  Madonna. Leslie saw it but said nothing. The girl Mary, who told her story from behind a screen, had been here on the 24th of May, just like she said.

  But there was no record of Annie Brewer or Judy Medford receiving any kind of treatment that day.

  They prevailed upon Ms. Spurr to show them the schedules from the two days previous and the two days afterward, but found nothing.

  “That’s it,” said Ms. Spurr. “That’s all I have. I hope I’ve satisfied you.”

  Deanne didn’t raise her voice, but did firmly inquire, “Did you destroy Annie’s records?”

  Ms. Spurr took the question as an insult. “Mrs. Brewer . . . this is a medical clinic. We do not destroy patient records!”

  Deanne pressed ahead. “My husband, Max, was in here, and he gave you so much trouble he got arrested. You knew who he was, and you knew the name of his daughter. You could’ve cleaned Annie’s records out of your files to protect yourselves.”

  Ms. Spurr’s face turned to stone, and her eyes burned at Deanne. “Mrs. Brewer, first of all I deeply resent what you’re suggesting. But if I must argue with you, let me tell you this, and I’ll tell you only once: I could have cleaned out Annie Brewer’s files only if her files bore her real name, which they didn’t—you said so yourself. And you can ask your husband—he didn’t say anything to us about anyone named Judy Medford. I imagine neither he nor you knew anything about that false name at the time. If you didn’t know Annie used a false name, how would I have known it?”

  Deanne was speechless—incredulous. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

  Leslie knew it was over. “C’mon, Deanne. Thank you for your time, Ms. Spurr. Sorry for the trouble.”

  “I’ll see you to the door,” Ms. Spurr replied.

  As they walked out of the clinic, Mel got them on videotape.

  “How’d it go?” he asked when they reached the sidewalk.

  “You can put the camera away,” Leslie answered. “We came up dry. Nothing. All bets are off.”

  MEL STOWED THE camera gear in the back of the NewsSix car and then watched from behind the steering wheel while Leslie saw Mrs. Brewer back to her car. It would have made a good shot if this were a news story: the clinic in the background, the pro-lifers still out there with their signs, and Mrs. Brewer weeping with her hands to her face, walking slowly up the sidewalk with the reporter holding her arm, trying to cheer her up.

  What a mess, he thought. Leslie got into this one too deep, getting that lady’s hopes up like that, and now we have all this footage we’ll never use and a lot of the day gone. Oh well. You win some, you lose some. This wasn’t the first story to ever come up dry, no sir.

  When Leslie got back in the car, she was not too conversational.

  “Well . . .” was all Mel said, not sure what he’d say after that.

  Leslie cussed the whole thing off and grabbed the cellular phone. “Hey, George, we’ve just finished at the Women’s Medical Center. Scratch it. The whole thing came up dry. Yeah. We’re heading for the next stop, Avalon Elementary, the self-esteem program. Are they ready for us? Okay. We’ll grab that one and see you this afternoon. Car Twelve is clear.” She slapped the phone back in its rack and went limp with pain and frustration. “Let’s go.”

  Mel hit the pedal, and they sped away from the Women’s Medical Center, passing a brown van carrying some high school girls. Leslie had immersed herself in her notes for the next story and didn’t even see it.

  CHAPTER 17

  LESLIE GOT BACK to the station at just about noon, ready to sum up the day in one fabulously fluffy soft feature about Carol James, the second grade teacher at Avalon Elementary School who dressed up as Mr. Gullywump to teach kids that even though we sometimes feel we’re nothing but a Gullywump, there’s a Beautiful Prince or Princess hiding inside every one of us if we’re only willing to see him or her. Charming. Heartwarming. Great video. Mr. Gullywump put his big nose right up to the camera lens for a terrific comic shot.

  Quite a switch from the story that could have been. She dropped her carrying case and purse on the floor under her desk and slumped into her chair. Please, she thought, nobody talk to me, nobody ask me how my day went.

  She flicked on her computer terminal, trying to formulate a clever opening for the Gullywump story.

  Halfheartedly tapping the keys, she came up with: “For children who feel rotten about themselves . . .” No. How about: “A second grade teacher has come up with a novel approach to teaching self-esteem . . .” Maybe, but she couldn’t get excited about it. Then: “Of all the stories we could have covered today, we chose this one . . .” Followed by “. . . d;gl;a;oiwejt;lkahsd;gh . . .”

  Leslie sighed and rested her brow on her fingers, her eyes closed, shutting out the world for a moment. All she could think about, the only thing she could see in her mind’s eye, was Deanne Brewer, crushed and disappointed, walking that long, tearful walk back to her car, wondering what she would ever tell Max. In retrospect, Leslie knew she should have stayed with Deanne longer. They should have taken time to talk it out, depressurize, regroup. She never should have left Deanne in such a state.

  But they didn’t talk it out, they didn’t regroup, and Leslie did not stay. She had the Gullywump story to do, the ever-so-important Gullywump assignment. Time was tight, deadlines were approaching, she had her assignment to do.

  She had to call Deanne. That was all there was to it. They had to talk it out. It wasn’t over yet. What about Mary, that anonymous girl hiding behind the screen? She’d been there at the clinic that day. Her false name, Madonna, was still in the records. Her story checked out. Everything else checked out.

  Annie’d been in the clinic that day. Leslie was sure of it.

  So why was there no record of it?

  And why was Alena Spurr willing to go out on such a long, shaky limb to show them the records against all established ethics and procedure, unless . . .

  The conclusion was as easy as it was disturbing. The clinic destroyed the records. Cleaned them out completely. They could have done it after Max first caused them trouble.

  Okay, so how did they know to clean out Judy Medford’s records?

  “Leslie!”

  Leslie looked up and saw . . . Tina Lewis, beckoning from her office door.

  Leslie stared, then glared as her mind began to race. She felt she’d been hit with a brick. Careful, Leslie. Don’t jump to conclusions. You don’t know for sure.

  Oh, don’t I now! Didn’t Tina see the name Judy Medford in my notes yesterday? Why that—

  Careful! Leslie wanted to curse silently, but Tina was familiar with the language and would read her lips. She took a deep breath, composed herself, got up from her desk, weaved through the rows of desks and computer terminals, and followed Tina into her office.

  “How’d it go this morning?” Tina asked, circling behind her desk.

  As if you didn’t know! “It didn’t. We shot footage of the clinic and Mrs. Brewer approaching the clinic, some pro-lifers, some cars parked outside—the whole nine yards. But when we got i
nside, the Request for Medical Records came up dry. We didn’t find a thing. It’s a non-story.”

  Tina sat down. “Well, things have changed. It’s a story now, and we have to run it.”

  That was like a punch in the stomach Leslie wasn’t braced for. “Excuse me?”

  “Abortion’s a big issue in the gubernatorial campaign, and the candidates were talking about it today. On top of that, Channel 12 and Channel 8 got wind of what happened at the Women’s Medical Center and sent crews down there. I hear they’ve interviewed the Brewers and the director of the clinic, and I suspect they’re both going to be running a piece on it tonight.”

  Leslie could not help the accusing tone of her question. “I would be fascinated to know how they found out about it.”

  Tina shrugged innocently. “I guess the clinic called them.”

  Leslie repeated the words, having a very hard time swallowing them. “The clinic called them . . .” Would Tina actually spill a story to the competition just to make sure the story would run? Could she do such a thing?

  Tina was still talking. “But, hey, who came up with the idea in the first place? We were right down there, right when it was happening. Mel tells me he got video of Mrs. Brewer walking up to the front door of the place. You’ve had a relationship with the Brewers for quite some time now. We could outshine the competition on this one.”

  “And I’m very curious to know the angle . . .”

  “The abortion issue. Use the material you’ve gathered and put something together along the lines of, ‘The abortion battle is still with us, and here’s another example of it, another skirmish.’ We’ll tie it in with the campaign story.”

  Leslie tried to keep her voice down, but the content of her words imparted her rising fury. “Don’t you mean something more like, ‘another failed attempt by anti-abortionists to skirt the privacy laws’?”

  “Well, if that’s what happened, we should report it.”

  Leslie was just now beginning to believe she was really hearing this, and her acting ability was giving out. She could not hide her anger. “Tina . . . I told you what the story was about . . . malpractice . . . an innocent girl killed . . . parents at a loss, unable to do anything about it. That’s the story I went after, and that story, as far as I’m concerned, is dead. It’s over.”

  Tina gave a little shrug and a tilt of her head. “You got something else instead, and we can use it. So your work paid off.”

  Leslie was trying to find a thought she could actually speak. “I can’t . . . Tina, the Brewers trusted me. They confided in me. I can’t turn this story around and make it say something it wasn’t meant to say.”

  Tina took on the expression of a perturbed schoolteacher and asked, “Leslie, I think the crusader in you is showing. We’re talking about news here, not causes.”

  A slap in the face. Leslie had had too many of those lately, especially from this . . . this . . . executive news producer. She tried to control herself, but knew her hands were shaking. Now her voice quivered as very quietly, very carefully she warned, “Please don’t try that one on me. I’ve been with this station for six years now, and you know me better than that.”

  Tina let the warning go right past her, as if expecting it. “Leslie, I gave you the story. It’s still yours. All you have to do is finish it for the Five O’clock. There’s still time to get an interview with Mrs. Brewer, and we’ve rushed a crew to the Women’s Medical Center to get their comments. It’s nearly in the can. All you have to do is write it, voice it, do the package.”

  Leslie knew, she just knew, that Tina already had another reporter lined up as she said, “Tina, I can’t do it. I can’t turn the story around like that. I couldn’t do that to the Brewers.”

  Tina cocked her head in a carefree way and said, “Well, Marian Gibbons is ready to take the story if you don’t want it. Just give her your material and the video from this morning and let her do it. That puts you in the clear, okay?”

  “Tina . . . that was my story!”

  “It’s still yours—unless . . .”

  “You know what Marian will do to it.”

  Tina demanded, “I don’t have all day. Now do you want the story or don’t you?”

  Leslie rose from her chair and backed toward the door, afraid she might get sick. “I can’t do it. I can’t have my name on it.”

  “Then bring me the video so Marian can get going on it. We’ve got deadlines here.” Tina picked up her telephone. Leslie hadn’t moved yet. Tina glared at her. “Well? Let’s get moving. You’ve got Gullywump to do, and I need to see that video!”

  Leslie got out of Tina’s office and hurried across the newsroom, weaving between the desks, bracing herself against a partition or a desk several times, afraid her legs would buckle under her. Then she dropped into her chair, sickened to the point of nausea. She had to think. What could she do? Did Ben Oliver know about this? Whose decision was it? She had to calm down before she talked to anyone else.

  The little mailbox icon was blinking in the corner of her computer screen. She hit the keys that called up her messages. Deanne Brewer had called and wanted her to call back.

  Leslie picked up the telephone and punched in the number. She had a pretty good guess what this would be about.

  “Hello?” came Deanne’s voice.

  “Deanne, this is Leslie. How are you doing?”

  Deanne sounded hesitant and troubled. “Well, I don’t know. I thought we weren’t going to have anything on the news, and now it looks like we will, and so I guess I just wanted to talk to you and find out what’s going on.”

  “I’m . . .” Leslie didn’t know how to sound or what to say. “Have you talked to any reporters yet?”

  “I had people from Channel 8 and Channel 12 come by as soon as I got home, and now I just got through talking to somebody from your station.”

  “Marian Gibbons?”

  “Yes. She said she was a friend of yours—”

  Leslie’s voice rose in volume despite her best efforts. “She’s already been there?”

  “Yes. She left about an hour ago.”

  Leslie needed a moment to let that sink in. “So you . . . you did an interview with her?”

  “Yes, I did. She worked for Channel 6, so I was glad enough to talk to her, but I was wondering why she came here instead of you. Is this going to be on the news tonight?”

  What else could Leslie say? “Well . . . I guess it is, Deanne. I guess . . . I guess things have changed.”

  “Well, I was surprised, but I guess it’s okay. Marian was very nice. I was glad to meet her.”

  “So what did she ask you? What did you talk about?”

  “Oh, just about everything. I told her about the Request for Medical Records and how we didn’t find anything, and she asked me how I knew Annie died at the Women’s Medical Center, and I told her about the autopsy report and what Mary said.”

  No, no, NO, Deanne! “You told her about Mary?”

  Deanne got defensive. “I didn’t tell her anything about Mary herself. I just said that we had a witness but I couldn’t say who, and that the witness saw Annie at the clinic.”

  “And how . . . I mean, did Marian seem . . . sympathetic? Did she believe you?”

  “Oh, I thought she was very nice.”

  As if that means diddly-squat, thought Leslie. “What about the other stations? Did they ask about the same things?”

  “Well . . . they said they’d heard we had some concerns about the Women’s Medical Center and they were doing a story on it, and they wanted to know what we’d been doing and what we knew.”

  “And you talked to them on-camera?”

  “Just standing on the porch. I didn’t let anybody inside—my house is such a mess right now, and I didn’t have a chance to clean.”

  “What about Max? Was he there?”

  “He’s still at work. I called him, but you know, he’s out in the shipyard and can’t come to the phone right away. He’ll call me when
he gets the chance.”

  “What did they ask you? Can you remember?”

  Deanne got flustered. “Aw, Leslie, this day’s just been so crazy, I don’t know which end is up . . . I don’t know what I said.”

  Leslie tried to calm her own voice for Deanne’s sake. “It’s okay, Deanne. It’s all right.”

  “So when’s this gonna be on TV?”

  Please, don’t watch it, Leslie thought as she answered, “Five o’clock—Channel 6. I don’t know about the other stations.”

  “Well, guess I’ll turn it on and see how I did.”

  “Deanne . . .” Leslie stopped.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m still here. I was just going to say . . .” Go ahead, Leslie. Tell her not to trust newspeople. Tell her not to trust Channel 6. “Well, we’ll see how it turns out. But don’t expect too much. I’m working on another story, so I couldn’t do anything on this one. I don’t know how it’s going to turn out.”

  “Well, at least people are going to hear about it.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, they’ll . . . they’ll hear about it.” Leslie hung up. So the story was well on its way, out of her hands before she even surrendered it, taking whatever form Marian Gibbons determined it should have. Tina Lewis was never one to waste any time with foot-dragging reporters. This shop seemed to be full of people like her.

  Tina would be coming after Leslie’s video any moment if Leslie didn’t get it to her. Leslie reached into her carrying case and withdrew the cassette Mel had shot that morning, the story that could have been. Shots of the clinic, of Deanne walking up the sidewalk and up to the front door, of the pro-lifers holding their signs. Now Deanne Brewer would see pictures of herself on the Five O’clock, but Marian Gibbons would be voicing a different story.

  Leslie held the cassette on her lap, feeling a strong sense of ownership. This was her work, her time, her effort. This was also a token of trust. It carried images of a dear lady only because that lady trusted Leslie.

  Leslie hesitated. Oh, if only she could—But . . . no. She was a professional, and this job demanded painful decisions at times.