Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  Carl just looked at the wood pieces. That’s what they were—confused, scattered pieces.

  “Right?” John prompted.

  Carl was ready to walk out again, but he knew that would be cowardly. No, he was going to test this thing. Then he’d know for sure. “I know I don’t want to build any stupid boat.”

  “I was thinking we could finish what Dad and I started.” Then John was careful to add, “And I thought we could talk.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Anything you want.”

  Carl tried to lock onto John’s eyes, and John let him.

  This guy was really leaving himself wide open—if he meant it. “Anything, huh?”

  “Hey, it isn’t going to be fun, but what are the alternatives? The way I see it, we can either deal with things the way they are and start putting the pieces together from here, or just walk away from each other, get out of each other’s lives, and keep the mistakes the way they are.”

  Test him, Carl. Throw him a punch and see what he does.

  “Why did you and Mom split up?”

  John grimaced. “Oh boy . . .”

  Carl threw up his hands. “Yeah, right, we could talk about anything!” He started to walk out.

  “Well, give me a second to think, will you?”

  Carl stopped as his father got riled.

  “You start right out tearing into the big wounds, the really big ones, and you expect me to have some news and commentary all prepared for you or something? You think the reasons are simple?”

  Carl thought for only a moment and then nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Oh, give me a break!”

  “She was selfish and you were selfish; all you could think about was your career, and all she could think about was not letting you—or any man—walk on her.”

  John stopped short and stared at his son. “Then why’d you even ask?”

  “Are those the reasons?”

  “Yeah, those are the reasons.”

  “Okay.”

  “I take it you’ve had some long talks with your mother.”

  “Her name’s Ruth.”

  “Okay . . . Ruth.”

  “You must not feel too friendly toward her.”

  Now John was mad. He let a curse slip out.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said . . .” John wilted a bit. “I’m sorry . . .” But then he just got angry again. “And why am I apologizing to you? Have you heard your own mouth lately?”

  “Hey, I’m still a sinner! I haven’t been talking to God like you have!”

  John was about to throw a counter-remark, but got as far as drawing the breath when he held it, let it out as an amused sigh, and then just smiled, shaking his head, looking down, thinking for a moment. Then he looked up. “Okay, Carl. You want to communicate? You want to be honest? Tell me something: When you were throwing all that paint around last night, who were you thinking of?”

  Carl smiled. Touché. “Me.”

  “So you weren’t thinking of Grandma or Grandpa and their nice little shop here and the sanctity of their property and how a guest in someone’s home should conduct himself?”

  “No . . . I was mad.” Before John could comment, he added, “But like I said, I’m a sinner. I do things like that.”

  John looked around the room, sharing an incredulous expression with the shop tools. “So . . . hey, give another sinner a little slack, huh?” Carl didn’t have a comeback ready, so John kept going. “I’m a sinner. Sure . . . I’m a sinner, and I do sinful things. When you meet God, that’s the first thing you have to face up to or you aren’t being honest.” John looked toward the rafters. “You can’t be like that painting up there. Good job, by the way.”

  Carl looked up at the anchorman in the rafters, still cool, collected, immaculate, professional. “I hate that painting.”

  “Well, sure, and we both know why. So just try to get God to believe that image up there. Forget it! God sees right through it. He knows who you really are, so you may as well come out and be honest about yourself.”

  Carl looked at the painting and then at his father and then returned to unfinished business. “So . . . how do you feel about Ruth?”

  “I feel . . . Initially I feel like I don’t want to talk about her.”

  “Well . . . she doesn’t talk about you much either. But do you hate her?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Do you still love her?”

  John had to probe his thoughts, his feelings. “Back then I had no question that I loved her. But looking back from here I can say I loved myself more. And now . . . now I’m not sure how I should feel about her. If love is only a matter of feeling, that’s gone completely. If love means commitment, we never had that in the first place.”

  “Do you love me?”

  John worked on his answer for a moment before he shared it. “You may not like the answer, but I don’t think it’ll surprise you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve always loved you, Carl. In the wide sense, in the big picture, I love you and always have. It’s in the smaller, narrower sense that things start breaking apart. As far as love being a feeling, I’ve always loved you, no question. But as far as love being commitment . . . Hey, you know the answer. I loved myself more.” He wanted to make sure he was coming across. “Is that . . . Does that make sense to you?”

  Carl blinked away some tears. “Yeah.”

  John looked down at the wooden parts in disarray. “I don’t know. I guess—no, I don’t guess, I know—I’ve always regretted what Dad and I left undone, unsaid, unlived. We both lost something that would have been . . . just the most wonderful thing, you know? And now—” His emotions—his love—overcame him. “I just don’t want to lose it with you.” He wiped his eyes and took some deep breaths, trying to stabilize. He couldn’t. He kept going anyway. “Carl, you’ve just got to forgive me . . . please . . . forgive me, and let’s go on from here. Let’s . . .” Words failed him.

  Carl turned to the wooden parts for his answer. “Let’s build a boat.”

  CHAPTER 20

  LET’S SEE . . . 19202 N.E. Barlow. Ah yes. Leslie remembered this neighborhood with the high-priced homes and clean, paved streets. She’d been up here perhaps a year ago, right after a windstorm had toppled some of the trees and they’d fallen on power lines, cars, and homes. One of the big fir trees had almost cut an English Tudor in half when it fell—it did manage to flatten the Mercedes parked in the circular driveway. It was big dollar damage—great stuff for the evening news.

  Okay, Dr. Denning, if you won’t call me back, then I’ll track you down.

  Actually she’d only waited half a day for Dr. Mark Denning to return her call, but she was too primed and pumped to wait any longer without taking some action on her own. She had to talk to this guy, she had to learn something, anything substantial, and hopefully before Monday. One more smirk from Tina Lewis without something really devastating to throw back at her—like a bona fide autopsy report—and her decision to quit would be firm. On the other hand, if she could get something that would truly vindicate the Brewers and herself, then, oh boy, electronic news gathering just might be fun again.

  Now that she’d driven around the neighborhood a few times looking for 19202 N.E. Barlow, she began to recall how hard it was to find an address in this place. All the houses were built on rolling, forested hills, so the streets tended to weave and wind around like a plate of spaghetti instead of a neat, predictable grid, and the number sequences had an aggravating way of changing, skipping, even reversing unexpectedly.

  Whoa! She stopped the car. There was 192nd, and this time it looked like it really might go somewhere. She backed up and turned left, driving slowly up the hill.

  She craned her neck this way and that to read the numbers. 19190 . . . 19192 . . . Still one more block to go, if there was a block—but it looked promising. She crossed an intersection and wound down a quaint street with big houses on e
ither side, all tucked back among towering evergreens. Yep. Next windstorm we’ll be up here taking pictures again, she thought.

  There it was! 19202 N.E. Barlow. Nice place. Two stories, a steep, shaked roof, a few dormers, a two-car garage, a big yard with lots of beauty bark and rhododendrons. There was a Jeep Cherokee parked in the driveway, and lights were on inside. She parked out front, checked her appearance in the rearview mirror, and went up the front walk, passing a brightly colored playhouse and a child’s dirt bike.

  An attractive young woman with long, brown hair answered her knock. “Hello.”

  Leslie felt a little hesitant and acted like it. “Hi . . . uh, I’m Leslie Albright. I’m with . . . well, ordinarily I work for Channel 6 News, uh, NewsSix? But . . . um . . . that’s not really why I’m here—well, not directly anyway.” Great start, Leslie. “I’m not making much sense, am I?”

  The lady seemed tolerant enough. “I suppose you’d like to talk to my husband?”

  “Um . . . you are . . . Mrs. Denning? Dr. Mark Denning’s wife?”

  She nodded. “My husband isn’t here right now. He’s in Sacramento on a job interview.”

  Leslie hoped her disappointment didn’t show. “Oh . . .”

  “Would you like to come in?”

  Leslie relaxed. “Oh, yes . . . certainly. Thank you.” She stepped into the entryway, a nice, well-lit space with a high ceiling. “Beautiful home.”

  “Thank you. My name is Barbara.”

  “Nice to meet you.” They went into the living room, a pleasant, thick-carpeted place with soft furniture and dark-stained cabinetry. The large windows gave a perfect view of the backyard, where a little girl and boy were chasing a Frisbee.

  Barbara Denning took a seat on one end of the couch and offered Leslie the other end. “I got your message on our answering machine. Are you the one who did that story on the Brewers yesterday?”

  Leslie wagged her head emphatically. “No, no, I sure didn’t. That was Marian Gibbons. I was working with Deanne and Max Brewer on a story about what happened to their daughter, and . . . well, to put it simply, the bosses at the station yanked it out of my hands and turned it around to say something I never intended it to say. So . . . I take it you’re familiar with the Brewers’ situation?”

  “It’s why my husband is out looking for a job.”

  Leslie’s eyes widened as bells went off in her head. You’re onto something here. Pay attention.

  THE LITTLE ROWBOAT was seeing the light of day again for the first time in over twenty years. John and Carl had cleared the area near the windows and then used some sawhorses and planks to extend the worktable. Now all the pieces of the boat were laid out flat on the table, and Carl began to arrange them, piece by piece, one over here, one over there, moving this one, reversing that one, to somehow figure out how they all went together.

  And there was hope. As nearly as Carl could tell, all the pieces were there. Right now he was trying to make sense of the ribs. One was placed backward, so he turned it around, and then two had to be interposed because they were in the wrong order. The keel was easy to spot and was already marked for where the ribs were to go. The whole process was encouraging. To look at that pile as it was originally, one would have thought the project was a lost cause. But now, having a better view of it, having a better picture of what needed to be done, the task was not so overwhelming. It wouldn’t come together in a day, but given time, they just might have a boat.

  The door to the shop opened, and John came in, moving briskly, his face full of news. Carl could tell something was up; his father’s mind was grinding away so hard he could almost smell the smoke.

  “Whooo!” was the first thing John said.

  “What’s up?”

  “That was Leslie Albright on the phone. She found Denning.”

  They could read each other’s face and knew they both felt the same reaction—mixed feelings: joy with doubts, excitement with misgivings.

  Carl verified, “Denning? The Denning?”

  “Denning’s wife actually. Leslie says they had a really nice visit. Denning himself is away, down in Sacramento, interviewing for a new job. Get this: He was fired from his job at Westland Memorial Hospital over the Brewer affair.”

  Carl nodded. “Yeah, that’s kind of what we figured.”

  “The hospital let him go right after he let Dad and Max see Annie’s autopsy report. They’ve got some strong politics going on at that hospital, some unwritten rules.”

  “Like, ‘Don’t snitch’?”

  “‘—or you die.’”

  “So what’s the verdict? Were we right?”

  John felt vindicated. He couldn’t help smiling as he nodded yes. “Annie Brewer died from a septic abortion. But that’s from Mrs. Denning. When Denning gets back, we’ll get it straight from him.”

  Carl took a moment to lean against the workbench and process all this. John was too agitated to sit. Carl asked, “So . . . what about the autopsy report?”

  Now John shook his head. This was where the mixed feelings came in. “Denning’s wife says he has a copy of it in his own files, but—and this makes sense—she can’t release it. Only Denning can do that.” And then John added, “And only to the Brewers.”

  At that, Carl fell silent. He’d let John address that problem.

  John finally did. “So . . . hey, if we want to stay in this battle we’re just going to have to regroup, that’s all. I think it’s worth fighting, and I know Dad did. We’ll just have to get the hurts patched up and keep going.”

  “You remember what it was like meeting Max the first time.”

  “Yeah, and now he’s mad. But I’ve got to try calling him again. Maybe he’s cooled down by now, I don’t know . . . he’s got to be interested in this. Leslie’s going to call Deanne anyway.”

  Carl tried to sort it out, and it wasn’t easy. “If we had the autopsy report—if we had the Brewers working with us again so we could get it—we could prove Annie died from a bad abortion at the Women’s Medical Center. And if that girl—‘Mary’—was willing to come forward, if she hasn’t been turned off by what happened on the news . . . which brings up that woman who runs that . . . uh . . . Human Life Center, whatever it’s called . . .”

  “Marilyn Westfall,” John reminded him. “Human Life Services Center. Another person who trusted us and got stung.”

  “And then there’s Rachel Franklin.”

  John could only shake his head. “Hoo boy. She was mad at me in the first place.”

  “She’s probably mad at me now.” Thinking about Rachel brought a distasteful question to Carl’s mind. “So . . . even if we found out everything . . . do you suppose it would be news? After what’s happened, I can’t help feeling that nobody will ever hear about it anyway, that something will happen to . . . to the story, to the . . .”

  “To the Truth.”

  “Yeah. Things happen to the Truth. I mean, even if we could prove everything, how do we know somebody isn’t going to cut it all up and mash it and paste stuff on it and turn it around and ignore parts of it . . .”

  John chuckled. “Everybody does that with the Truth, Carl, not just the news media. It’s what we do as human beings with . . . well, with things we don’t want to face.”

  “Yeah . . .” Carl became glum. “But then, even if we did get the Truth out, who’d even give a rip? Who’d even want to know about it?”

  John held his hand up. “I don’t think that’s even the question here. Let’s go back to where we started: What happened to Annie Brewer was wrong, and that mattered to Dad, and we decided it mattered to us as well, and . . .” John took another look at the boat parts all laid out on the table. “It’s . . . I can’t explain it exactly, but it’s like another unfinished project, another goal that meant a lot to Dad but never got finished, you follow me?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “So even if nothing ever comes of this, nothing big and open and public . . . at least we’ll know that we did what we
were supposed to do—we didn’t sit on our rears and just mope about it. Dad never moped about anything he could do something about.”

  Carl felt it and was sure his father felt it too. “Do you think that’s why he was killed?”

  John had no trouble answering. “Absolutely.” Then he looked around the shop as he tried to understand the man who built it. “That’s what really bothers me. All of this must tie together somehow. Max may not be as paranoid as we think.” John just about laughed at a sudden recollection. “Remember what we said about Denning getting fired? That unwritten rule?”

  “‘Don’t snitch or you die’?”

  John gave Carl a look that said, What do you think?

  And Carl nodded in a way that said, I think you’re right.

  John summed it up. “Dad knew something.” And then, as if waiting for just the right trigger, just the right time, John’s mind fired off another thought. “And he said so! He told me he knew something and that he wanted to share it with me, but . . .” John recalled and understood. “He said I wasn’t ready for it, I wasn’t ready to receive it because . . . oh brother . . . because I wasn’t on good terms with the Truth.”

  Carl was thinking, Yeah, he was right, but he didn’t say anything. He just looked around the shop so he wouldn’t have to look at his father.

  “And he was right,” John said. “He was right.”

  “So . . .” Carl stopped. Maybe he shouldn’t ask.

  “I’m trying to be,” John answered. “I’m trying to be on good terms with the Truth. It’s going to take time, I’ve got a ways to go, but . . . I’m willing. God’s patient—I’ve discovered that. It’s like Jesus said to that one woman that . . . what was she? A tax collector or . . . no, a prostitute, I think. He forgave her and then said, ‘Go and sin no more.’ God has time and patience for us if we have time for Him.”

  Carl could accept that. He liked the sound of it. “Okay.”