Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  And there was John Barrett’s face. Big, bold, honest. The real thing. You couldn’t help but be impressed.

  John stood transfixed for the few seconds his face remained on the screen. He could sense it so clearly: that little box was laughing at him, mocking him! He could hear it cackling! It was slapping him in the face with . . . himself. First he listened and watched; he received the whole message; he let it hit him full force. Then, stunned and heartsick, he silenced that little machine. He switched off its life.

  It went blank and stared at him without expression. He backed away from it, staring back at it, hating it, hating himself.

  A sight in the rafters made him jump—an apparition, a face lurking overhead!

  It was cold. Lifeless. Mechanical. It was perfect. Honest. Impeccable. Professional. His face. Ready to bring you the news reliably and accurately, up-to-the-minute. Number one. Premier.

  Carl’s painting. An image without blemish. It was everything John Barrett, anchorman, was.

  And it was up high. Lofty, out of reach, untouchable. I can’t find it, Carl had said. Nobody can.

  The little box had mocked him. Now this painting, this image, shamed him.

  That’s me? he wondered. “O God,” he whispered, “who am I? Who am I really?”

  God heard his question.

  And John knew it. No, no, I shouldn’t have asked that. I don’t want to know. At least let me figure it out myself . . . Don’t tell me . . . Please don’t tell me.

  But God heard the question.

  John knew he’d gotten God’s attention; he’d disturbed God. He didn’t mean to, but he could sense what he’d done. Somewhere in the big wide universe, maybe everywhere, God had heard John’s voice. He’d heard the question, stopped, and turned.

  God . . . don’t look at me. It isn’t that important, really. I didn’t mean—

  An answer was on the way. From God? From Almighty God? The little building was dead quiet. Not a sound. The little box sat lifeless on the workbench. John could hear the wind outside, the barking of a dog, a tiny creak in the rafters . . . the beating of his own heart.

  He could hear any sound that might come. Any voice. An answer was on the way. God was going to answer. John looked up into the rafters again. What were they, two-by-fours? He could imagine them snapping like toothpicks. They could never hide him from God. He looked around at the old, single-paned windows. Some were cracked even now. He’d broken one when he was a boy. They could never shield him from God.

  This whole building was only a tiny shell made of sticks. A hurricane could blow it away, a mighty earthquake could topple it, lightning could consume it. It could never hide him from God.

  God was on His way. God would be here soon. Oh brother. What if God sees that painting? What if He sees this awful mess? What if He talks to Carl?

  John looked up at his image in the rafters. The news anchor just gazed back at him, same as usual, cool, collected, in charge . . . paper-thin.

  A lie? O God, don’t let that be me. I’m not that guy up there . . . I’m not.

  But please . . . don’t tell me who I really am. Not yet. I couldn’t stand it.

  John took some deep breaths and tried to clear his head. He had to calm down.

  He decided to pray. Sure. Why not? He’d grown up in church. He believed in God, and he’d always said so. He was a good man . . . At least he tried to be.

  “God . . .” Oh man, don’t pray, you’ll give away your position! He’ll home in on you! You want Him to see you like this?

  This is nuts, he thought. I’ve got to get out of here. He went to the door. Carl’s paint was still on the knob when he grabbed it. When he got outside he noticed the slickness of his fingers against his palm. He dropped to one knee and frantically rubbed his hand in the grass. He had to get rid of this paint. No, God, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know Carl was going to do this. I don’t know why he did. His mess isn’t on my hands!

  He got to his feet and walked briskly out to the sidewalk. A change of scene, that’s what he needed. Fresh air. A different environment. He hurried through the quiet neighborhood, past all the quaint old homes that had been here for at least half a century. He kept waiting for the fear, the holy dread, to ebb away, but nothing changed. As a matter of fact, being outside under the open sky felt even worse. He felt naked out here, a sitting duck with a big target on top of his head.

  O Lord, where can I flee from Thy presence? The Scripture echoed in John’s mind.

  He started running. Nowhere, he thought. God’s everywhere. No matter which way you turn, you’re looking Him in the face.

  If I flee down this alley, You’re there. If I get in my car and get out of town, You’ll be right in the car with me. If I duck into the subway, You’ll be right there in the tunnel. I could turn on the television and maybe drown You out, but that won’t make You go away. I could buy things to push You from my mind, but You’d still be there when I tired of them.

  He kept running, trying to shake the terror. Either he was crazy or God was really after him, but either reason was reason enough to run wildly down the sidewalk, duck around a massive maple tree, and flee down another street past warmly lit windows and friendly porch lights, then up a narrow alley where two dogs barked and chased him along a Cyclone fence until he was past them. What was the matter with them—couldn’t they see he was in trouble, that God was after him? He could see the strangeness of this. God was chasing a man down the street while the poor guy ran for his life, but no one in the neighborhood even noticed. Perhaps they had nothing to fear.

  God was getting closer, and He wasn’t a bit tired. John knew God would run him down eventually, but he kept running. He couldn’t stop.

  He came to Snyder Park, the local play area for generations of kids. It was night, so the place was empty; the swings were motionless, the baseball diamond vacant. He stumbled across the expanse of grass, found a picnic table, and collapsed on the bench, unable to run any further and seeing no use in it anyway.

  He couldn’t get away from God, couldn’t outrun or outfox Him. There was nothing left to do but surrender.

  “All right,” he gasped. “All right. You’ve got me. I can’t run anymore. I can’t run. Here I am. Do what You want with me.”

  That sounded strangely familiar, like words he’d prayed thirty-two years ago.

  Who are you really, John Barrett?

  “Aw!” He couldn’t hold that cry inside. He looked around, his eyes darting here and there. He saw nothing but the park.

  I have laid bare the secrets of men’s hearts and you have seen it.

  No, no, John thought. He’s going to rip my heart out, I know He is!

  Now I will show you the secrets of your heart.

  John began to realize what he was. He could not turn away from it. The Truth poured over his spirit, mind, and soul like a wave and he had to face it, confess it, know it.

  He could not deny it any longer. His soul was naked before God.

  “Son,” Dad had said, “the Truth is coming after you, and it’s going to sink its claws into you and not let go until you start paying attention.”

  The claws of the Truth were painful. The lies tore away like scabs, and John bled there for hours, stifling his cries of pain in the sleeve of his overcoat—the overcoat he’d received from his father.

  CARL FINALLY RETURNED to Mom Barrett’s at just a little before midnight, carefully opening the screen door to the back porch, painstakingly dragging his feet several times over the doormat, turning the back-door knob delicately and slowly until the latch finally released, easing the door open in hope of minimizing its characteristic squeak—and finding himself face-to-face with Mom, sitting at the kitchen table reading her Bible and waiting up for him.

  He looked pathetic, cold, shivering, his eyes red from weeping, his face smeared with paint and tears.

  “So how are you?” she asked.

  He knew no more appropriate answer than, “I feel l
ike Hell.”

  “Have you seen your father?”

  The question irked him. “I have never seen my father.”

  She raised an eyebrow and directed a finger at his nose. “Oh, you’ve come close, now be honest.”

  “I have never seen him, and I don’t care if I ever do. There’s nothing there to see.”

  She rose from the table and beckoned with her finger.

  He resisted. “Naw, c’mon . . .”

  “You come on.”

  “Grandma, I am not going to talk to him!”

  “I don’t care if you do or don’t, but I do care about the mess you made. Now come on.”

  He followed her. He had anything but a right attitude about it, but he followed her out the back door and down the path to his grandfather’s shop, getting a quick update on how she felt about this whole thing.

  “The Word of God says not to let the sun go down on your wrath. Well, the sun’s down, but I’m still up, I’m getting tired and cranky, and I’d really like to sleep tonight knowing you two are working this thing out instead of wandering around the neighborhood like a couple of nutty vagrants in war paint.”

  “Grandma, he’s just going to give me the same old routine!”

  She stopped right outside the shop door and turned to fire her reply straight into his eyes. “Not tonight he won’t.”

  She opened the door, swinging it quietly aside as if unveiling something.

  Carl stopped in the doorway. He had no response. He could only stare.

  There was his father, John Barrett, on his hands and knees in the corner of the shop, hand-scrubbing paint off the floor, working slowly, deliberately, rubbing the floor with a rag, wetting the rag from a can of turpentine, then rubbing some more. He had to have heard them open the door—he had to know they were now watching him—and yet he didn’t turn, he didn’t look up.

  Mom said softly, “It took both of you to make this mess, so it’s going to take both of you to clean it up.” Carl was about to offer a reason why it could never work, but she held up her hand and wagged her head. “No, no, now I’ve got you where I want you. You’ve defaced my property, so I’m calling the shots. Get started.”

  Carl surveyed the extent of his artistic expression. “It’ll take all night!”

  “Oh, longer than that. But tonight you start.” And then she stood there, her feet firmly planted, her face providing no option.

  Carl turned toward the room, took a moment to accept the idea, and then worked his way past the table saw and drill press, along the workbench and past the hanging tools, until he was just behind his father. He looked one more time at Mom Barrett, but all she did was point to the workbench. “You’ll find more rags in that third drawer.”

  “What about . . . paint thinner or something?”

  “Your father has a can of turpentine. I’m sure he’ll be happy to share it with you.”

  And then she closed the door on them.

  Carl looked down at his father’s back. John Barrett had changed into some old clothes, probably Grandpa’s ragged jeans, an old blue shirt already stained with house paint, and a scuffed pair of work boots. He didn’t look one bit like a news anchor. And he still kept working, not saying a word.

  Carl found another rag and got to his knees on the floor, not too close to his father. He started scrubbing out a long streak of yellow paint he’d thrown across the floor, but finally realized he’d need some solvent.

  He looked toward his father. John Barrett’s eyes were watery, and his face was pink. He’d been crying. Maybe he still was.

  “Can I have some of your turpentine?”

  His father handed him the can, and their eyes met for a moment.

  John Barrett’s eyes were looking at him, really looking at him. There was no machine, no camera, between those eyes and Carl; no script, no cue cards, no teleprompter. Carl’s eyes were locked on his father’s, and he couldn’t break his gaze until his father looked back at the floor.

  Then Carl realized he was staring and tried to break his stare into quick glances as he poured some turpentine on his rag. There was something different about his father’s face. It was hard to pin down what it was, but . . . it looked softer. Vulnerable. Warm. Human. It was even sweating a bit. Maybe he’d seen this face before, that night in his father’s apartment, that time when he heard his father say, “I’m just like Dad.” I wonder what the voice would sound like?

  “You know,” Carl ventured, “you don’t have to help me. I’m the one who made the mess.”

  “I owe it to you, Carl.” The voice was soft, broken. John Barrett borrowed back the can of turpentine, wetted his rag, and continued scrubbing. “I made the mess too. This is our mess. We’ve been working up to this for years.”

  Carl couldn’t argue with that, so he just kept scrubbing. The yellow paint came up easily enough. Maybe this wouldn’t be an insurmountable task after all.

  He saw a small circle of water on the floor directly under his father’s face. Then another.

  “Hey . . . you okay?” His father set down his rag, sat on the floor, and pulled out another rag, this one for his eyes and nose. “Oh . . . I guess I’m okay.”

  “You been hearing from God again?”

  That brought a new flood of tears to John’s eyes. He couldn’t speak; he could only nod yes.

  Carl digested that for a moment, then said, “Then pass the turpentine.” John passed it to him and he set to work again, this time on a streak of blue. “We’ll get the oil-based stuff up first. The watercolors will come off with soap and water, so they can wait ’til morning.”

  John put his nose rag back in his pocket and returned to work. “Is this one oil-based?”

  “Yeah. All the yellows are oil, all the blues, and all the blacks. Don’t worry about the reds—we can mop those up.”

  They scrubbed for a while without saying a word, and then John said, “Like eating an elephant, right?”

  “Yeah,” said Carl, familiar with that little saying, “one bite at a time.”

  They finished the job at about 1 in the morning and then tiptoed into the house to take showers and turn in for the night. Carl went to bed in John’s old room, while John got some blankets and slept on the couch. He’d be going back to his apartment soon enough, but for now, maybe for a few days, he wanted to be right here, in this house, close to his family.

  SATURDAY MORNING LESLIE Albright woke up almost unemployed. Ben wouldn’t accept her resignation yesterday, but told her to take the weekend to think about it. He must have noticed that she was angry, indignant, beside herself, ready to spit, and probably unable to make a cool and rational decision she would not later regret.

  Well, as Leslie sat in her little studio apartment sipping her morning coffee and facing a brand-new day, she was able to conclude that Ben had done the wise thing. A good night’s sleep and a new day could bring a fresh perspective on things. Maybe this job was worth another chance, another try. This was, after all, her chosen profession, the field she’d schooled and prepared for, and it was a worthy profession, all things considered. Besides that, if she quit now, she would never be able to find Dr. Denning, get a bona fide copy of that autopsy report, and shove it up Tina Lewis’s nose. That alone was going to make staying at NewsSix worth any amount of pain.

  So, having settled at least that much, she pressed on to the next item on the day’s agenda: sliding her half-eaten toast aside, pushing her coffee cup forward, and making space for the phone book. Okay, the Request for Medical Records idea didn’t work, thanks to good ol’ Tina, and if the hospital wasn’t going to give out Denning’s number, fine. But if Dr. Denning still lived anywhere in the area she was going to find him. Her first course of action was the most obvious: find his home number and just call him. She flipped through the phone book until she found some Dennings. Albert Denning, David Denning . . . all right, here he was, Mark Denning, M.D.

  She set the phone right next to the table and dialed the number.


  The phone rang a few times, and then an answering machine cut in: “Hello, you’ve reached the Denning residence. We’re unable to come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number and your message, we’ll get back to you as soon as we can . . .”

  After the beep she left a message: “Hello, this is Leslie Albright. I’m a friend of Max and Deanne Brewer and also of John Barrett Jr. At any rate, this is regarding the autopsy you performed on Annie Brewer back in May of this year . . .”

  She left her number, at home and at work. Okay. Done. Now, what else? Well, if she could check a crisscross directory she might find his address and perhaps leave a note on his front door. She began to seriously consider that. She was playing hardball now.

  JOHN CAREFULLY LIFTED the canvas cover aside, exposing a pile of planks, ribs, and parts he could no longer identify for certain. “Hoo boy, it has been a while.”

  As they stood in Dad’s shop, eyeing that forgotten project, Carl found himself just watching, detached, not saying a word, not diving into the idea with any premature enthusiasm. Before yesterday he would have been thrilled at the thought of finishing this rowboat with his father, but that was before yesterday’s tumble from hope. The fall had been long and hard—and the crash at the bottom more than painful. He could still feel the bruises deep in his soul, and healing was going to take time if it happened at all. Sure, he’d seen tears last night, and he even thought he saw his father, his real father, working alongside him. But what was this now? His father’s idea of “quality time”? A kiss to make it better? Carl couldn’t help feeling a bit testy. His father was doing the right thing years too late.

  “Grandma says you and Grandpa quit working on it when you left for college.”

  “That’s right.” John began picking through the pile, trying to sort it out and remember what was what. “This was our project, the one we were going to do together. I guess that’s why Dad never finished it by himself. He was waiting for me to come back.”

  “Guess you came back too late.”

  Carl was right—John knew that. But the kid was being a little blunt, and John didn’t exactly welcome the pain. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right, Carl. That’s how it is. But I’m here now, and so are you, and we’ve got some choices to make.”