Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  And then a thought, a fact, a bit of knowledge, hit John as clearly as if he’d always known it. “Carl, I’ll bet they both died in the same clinic. Dad knew that all along.” Another thought hit him. “And . . . I think God told me too, just the other day . . . All of a sudden I knew Annie wasn’t the only one. But that’s what Dad was hoping to prove.”

  “And somebody killed him.”

  “And somebody killed him.”

  Now both of them sat down, John on a stool, Carl on the floor. This sort of thing you didn’t just learn and then go on to the next thing. They had to think it through and process it, and before that they had to believe it.

  John reached over to the workbench and leafed through some more of the papers. “Yeah, look here: ‘Glen Murphy . . . Al Connors, paramedic,’ and here are the phone numbers. Dad may have contacted the paramedic who was on that Hillary Slater case. Here’s Max and Deanne Brewer’s number, and . . . good grief, here’s Dr. Mark Denning’s address and phone number. Wonder if Dad ever got through to him?”

  “Well, Leslie has anyway.”

  “And you can be sure we’ll talk to the others.” John set the papers back on the workbench. “We’ve got to think, Carl. We’ve got to brainstorm this thing. What do we know? Where’s all this going?”

  Carl started with the easiest conclusion. “Hillary Slater died from a botched abortion . . . and it sounds like it was really botched.”

  “And covered up—the whole warfarin overdose story released to the media, including NewsSix—and now it looks like even the death certificate was falsified. We’ll have to check into who filled it out. Something went a little strange at that point.”

  “So how did Grandpa find out? When did he find out?”

  “Maybe the Lord told him, I don’t know. But he got the death certificate on May 2nd, which is about two weeks after Hillary died—so he was checking it out, we know that. Then, only four days later, he wrote to the governor about it. From what he told me, he never got through, as if that’s any surprise.”

  Then John shook his head. “Hm . . . no wonder he was at the governor’s rally saying all those things. He was going to get the governor’s attention one way or another.” John smiled slightly at a recollection. “He’d been following the governor for quite a while, from May through September, just trying to get the governor’s attention. I think he really started getting under Slater’s skin.”

  “He got somebody’s attention—whoever gave him that tape.”

  “The visitor . . .” John mused. “It was the same day I went to have lunch with Dad. Jimmie and Chuck say a man came to see him around 10 o’clock. He didn’t stay long, so it doesn’t sound like he did much business. I think he was there just to drop off the tape . . . and probably that other copy of Hillary Slater’s death certificate.” John nodded as the pieces came together. “Sure . . . when I got there Dad had Chuck Keitzman’s Walkman on his desk, and he’d been crying, and he said he’d learned something he really wanted to share with me but couldn’t because . . .”

  Carl filled in, “Because you weren’t on good terms with the Truth yet.”

  Good old Carl, as blunt as ever. But John saw no sense in objecting. “Yeah . . . yeah, that’s right. But now at least I’m trying.”

  Carl accommodated that. “Okay. But I’ve got a question—Why Grandpa?”

  John could only entertain theories. “It could be that after Dad was at the rally . . . you know, he got himself on television that night . . . somebody must have thought this was a perfect enemy of the governor to leak the tape to.”

  “Do you suppose the leaker knew Grandpa’s son was a TV news anchor?”

  John’s face said, Good thought. “That could be. But that tape . . . The way I understand it, you don’t just drive down to your local fire station and pick up a copy. Those tapes are privileged, they’re confidential.”

  Carl was intrigued. “Oh . . . so now we’re talking about an insider.”

  “Yeah, probably someone close to the governor. It could have been someone who read Dad’s letters and maybe saw him at the rally . . . and maybe even knew about the Brewers and how Dad was helping them find out what happened . . .”

  “Right. Right.”

  “. . . and may have known that I was his son, somebody in the media.”

  “Well . . . we’re guessing, and that’s all.”

  “But here’s something that spooks me: If . . . and that’s if . . . Dad was killed because he had the tape, then what about that girl on the tape who called 911? She’s a witness. She could confirm that Hillary had an abortion; she said it was an abortion, right on the tape. And from the way it sounded, Hillary was in bad shape, so I wouldn’t be surprised if this girl . . . Well, yeah, she said Hillary was her girlfriend, right?”

  “Yeah. So they were friends. So . . .”

  “So I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Hillary’s girlfriend, probably a close friend, who drove her home from the clinic after the abortion. So she’d know which clinic it was.”

  “And it sounded to me like she ran, she got out of there, when she heard the governor and his wife coming.”

  “Sure. It was a secret abortion—the parents aren’t supposed to know. The girlfriend drives Hillary to and from the clinic, but something goes wrong; the friend calls 911, but then the parents come home right in the middle of it; the friend drops the phone and gets out of there.”

  Carl blurted out another thought. “Yeah! And remember? She didn’t want to give the dispatcher her name! She fumbled around and said her name was Hillary Slater.”

  “She was scared. She didn’t want to be discovered.”

  The next thought was grim. “So . . . would the governor know who it was?”

  “I . . . I think he’d want to. We’re looking at a cover-up here. That warfarin overdose story was a smoke screen. If I were the governor, I’d want to know who that girlfriend was. She’d know a lot, and she’d certainly know that the warfarin story was a lie.”

  “But would he even know she was there at all?”

  John thought for a moment. “He had to. Hillary was in no condition to make that phone call. She was semiconscious at best when the call was made—and in a different room from where the phone was by the sound of it. The phone was already off the hook and the emergency call made when the governor got there. If I were the governor, I’d think Hillary had a friend along.”

  “If he heard this tape, he might recognize the voice.”

  “But first he’d have to get a copy of the tape.” John looked at the cassette player. “Which he did. And now we have it.”

  Carl stared at the cassette player. “We’re holding on to dynamite, you know?”

  John was staring as well. “Yeah, we are. The governor’s up for reelection, abortion’s a hot issue in the campaign, his daughter died from a botched abortion, and he covered it up . . .” Then John’s head sank. “And . . . if it was the same clinic . . . that means Annie Brewer’s death could have been prevented.”

  Carl added, “It also means this girlfriend of Hillary’s could be in big trouble.”

  John went to the workbench. “Let’s gather this stuff up and get it put away. I’m going to call Leslie. We’ve got to get going on this.”

  ON MONDAY THE faces of John Barrett and Ali Downs began to appear in bold, splashy billboards all over town, holding their scripts, peering down at the passing traffic like ever-vigilant observers of the times, like godlike guardians of Truth, their expressions kind, their gazes incisive.

  Against a field of video-grid blue, the fiery letters proclaimed, “BARRETT AND DOWNS, YOUR PREMIER NEWS TEAM,” and then the next line read, “NEWSSIX AT FIVE, A FULL HOUR OF NEWS!”

  The Big Push was on, and the whole city was hearing about it.

  VIDEO: THE INTERIOR of a large church packed with people. The camera pans slowly over the crowd, catching the mournful faces, some people weeping. A sad occasion.

  Cut to a minister in a black robe speaking
from the pulpit.

  Audio: “All our children grow as flowers in a garden, and sometimes God decides to pick one for His own bouquet. In Hillary, God found the fairest flower of all. We will miss her. We will miss her smile, her laughter, her love of life . . .” Fast Forward. The minister’s mouth chatters rapidly, his head twitching from side to side and down at his notes.

  Another angle: The governor and his family seated in front.

  “Hold it there,” said John, and Leslie released the Fast Forward and put the tape on Pause. As the minister continued speaking, Governor Hiram Slater sat beside his wife and two remaining children.

  “Okay, what are the names again? Who’s who?”

  It was Monday night after the Seven O’clock newscast. John, Leslie, and Carl were seated in John’s living room, watching videotapes Leslie had checked out from the station archives—raw footage of Hillary Slater’s funeral.

  “That’s Ashley Slater, of course, Hiram Slater’s wife.”

  “She’s taking it pretty hard,” Carl commented.

  “She did. The night they found Hillary, she had to be hospitalized and sedated.” She looked at John to check. “We didn’t say anything about that on the air, did we?”

  John shook his head. “We kept this whole thing pretty low-key, which was only right.”

  Leslie hit the Pause button. “The girl is Hayley Slater. She’s fifteen, the second oldest, currently a sophomore at the Holy Names Academy. Both she and her brother are attending there now.”

  John noted that with interest. “Uhh . . . is this something new? I don’t remember them going to a Catholic school.”

  “They didn’t. Last year all three kids were going to the Adam Bryant School, a private K through 12. A lot of the state senators and representatives send their children there while the legislature’s in session. It’s a good school, not real posh, good academics. All that to say . . . the governor took Hayley and Hyatt out of the Bryant school right after Hillary died and put them in Holy Names, just that quick.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Anyway, that’s Hyatt. He’s twelve, I think. He’s a sharp kid. I interviewed him once.” Leslie hit the Pause button again, and the video continued. They noted the people in attendance—many VIPs, of course, and a sizable throng of unidentified friends and family members.

  “And,” said Leslie, “that’s about it for that one.”

  John prompted, “You said you had some video of reacts from Hillary’s friends?”

  “Coming up.” Leslie ejected the funeral cassette and reached into her carrying case for the next one. She pushed it into the machine and hit the Play button.

  Video: Exterior of the Adam Bryant School.

  Leslie explained, “I remember this one. Joyce Petrocelli did the package, and this is footage of the school. You can imagine the copy while this ran. Joyce read something like, ‘Students at the Adam Bryant School mourned the loss of a friend, and counselors were available to those who needed to talk about it . . . ’”

  “Right, I remember this,” said John. “What we’re looking for now is that friend who’s on the 911 tape, so watch and listen carefully.”

  “Oh-oh.”

  A pretty blonde girl appeared on-camera, looking forlorn, talking to the interviewer whose microphone was visible under the girl’s chin.

  “She was . . . she was really nice. I’m going to miss her.”

  Joyce Petrocelli asked off-camera, “Did you do a lot of things together?”

  “Well, kind of . . .”

  “That’s not her,” said Carl.

  “Nope,” said John.

  Leslie held the Fast Forward button until another face appeared, a young man. She went past him to the next face. A young black girl. “It’s just so sad . . . we were looking forward to graduation . . . I mean, she had her whole life ahead of her . . .” She began to weep.

  “I don’t think so,” said Leslie.

  John looked at Carl. Carl shook his head.

  Fast Forward. A round-faced girl with curly brown hair. “She was always the cheerful one. I mean, she wasn’t stuck up or anything even though she was the governor’s daughter—she just acted like the rest of us. She was great.”

  Nope. Fast Forward.

  Two more boys.

  Then another girl with short blonde hair, fidgeting and jiggling nervously. “Well . . . we sang in choir together, and she was a great singer . . .”

  Carl leaned closer, and so did John. Leslie looked doubtful.

  “It’s just scary, you know? One day she’s there, and the next day she’s gone. You just don’t know what to think, what to say . . .”

  “No,” said Leslie.

  “No,” John agreed.

  But those were all the reacts on the tape. They hadn’t found Friend 911.

  “What else?” John asked.

  “Three more,” said Leslie. “I’ve got that story we did on the Hillary Slater Memorial Fund, and a few of the spin-offs we did. Um . . . this one on product tampering and mislabeling, and this consumer story by Dave Nicholson on how to safeguard your medicine cabinet.”

  John waved the last two off. “No, not those spin-offs, unless they’ve got information about Hillary on them.”

  “No. But lastly, I have . . .” She asked for approval with her eyes. “. . . the footage at the governor’s rally, the shots of your father.”

  John braced himself and said, “Okay, run it. Maybe we’ll be able to make out what he said, you never know.”

  It was familiar stuff—painfully familiar. There was Leslie in front of the camera, and there was Dad, visible above the crowd behind her. She was apparently waiting for her cue to start her stand-up.

  “Weird, huh?” said Leslie. “I’m not even saying anything but they taped the whole feed back at the station. I think Tina Lewis wanted the footage—that’s all there is to it.”

  John felt like cursing right then and there, except that now he was trying to quit. Dad was talking, but they couldn’t quite hear what he was saying. “Uh . . . turn it up a little, could you?”

  Leslie cranked up the volume until John Barrett Sr.’s words became intelligible. “. . . Governor, I plead with you, search your heart and change your course, for if you do not, God will change it for you . . .”

  Carl was spellbound by the image and sound of the old man prophesying from the concrete planter and leaned toward the television, watching intensely.

  John watched with a whole new set of eyes. Suddenly he realized how much he identified with that one pitiful soul up on that planter, that one lone voice against a contrary multitude.

  “Like Nebuchadnezzar of old,” Dad said with tears in his eyes, “you have set up an image of yourself for all men to follow, a towering image, a mighty image, an image far greater than yourself. But please take heed: the Lord would remind you, you are not that image.”

  John could see the reaction of the crowd—the animosity, the hatred. But Dad kept going; he just kept preaching with a desperate fervor.

  And no wonder, John thought. During this moment, while the crowd mocked and jeered and his own son was ashamed of him, he knew about Hillary and he knew about Annie. He was crying out for them, and for how many others? And how much more did he know that John, Carl, and Leslie hadn’t discovered yet? How many times had he wished for someone, anyone, to listen to him, and no one would listen? The governor probably never saw his letter. His own son gave no credence to his message. No wonder Dad stood there alone, shouting to that crowd.

  This was not a kook or a religious fanatic. This was a heartbroken man pushed to desperate measures, just trying to do right, trying to be heard.

  “Why don’t you just shut up, big mouth!” came a voice from the crowd. John strained to see who’d yelled that, but couldn’t tell.

  “The Truth must be heard, though the lie be a tumult,” Dad replied.

  “Not him again,” came a woman’s voice.

  “Get off that planter!” yelle
d someone else. “You don’t belong up there.”

  Then the crowd started chanting into Dad’s face, “Hi-yo, Hiram! Hi-yo, Hiram!” and Dad’s words were buried under the clamor.

  John watched as Dad tried to reach them, tried to be heard, pain filling his face. But his voice had vanished under the noise. A forest of shaking fists sprouted up at his feet.

  “Hold it,” John said. “Stop.”

  Leslie hit the Pause button. The picture froze into a silent tableau. There was Dad, his arms outstretched toward the crowd—and there was the crowd, so much like an angry mob, shaking their fists, their faces twisted in anger and loathing. The caption could have read, “Let him be crucified!”

  John’s head sank, and he covered his face. He needed a moment to gather himself.

  Leslie considered whether to continue the tape. “I don’t know . . . Maybe that’s all there is of your father . . . Well, later on he gets grabbed and hauled off. I don’t know if you want to see that . . .”

  John took some deep breaths to pull himself together and then wiped the tears from his eyes. “Leslie . . . Carl . . . that was no kook . . .” When he raised his head, they were not looking at him.

  They may have been listening, but their attention was fixed on the still screen.

  “No,” said Leslie, her face troubled. “It wasn’t.”

  “No way,” said Carl.

  John looked again at the screen, at the lone prophet becoming the object of a mob’s hate. “He was right. Everything he said was true.”

  Carl gazed at the screen, at John Barrett Sr. standing his ground. “That was my grandpa. That was him! That was the man . . . the man with a creed!”

  John too gazed at that hurt old man, his heart filled with yearning. “The man with a creed,” he repeated, and then a phrase came to mind from his religious tradition. “His feet planted on the Rock.”

  Leslie fell silent, her eyes on the screen, her fingers over her mouth. John Barrett Sr. was speaking to her. John could see it in her face.