Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  “Erica Tyler.”

  “Ms. Tyler, this is Martin Devin, chief of staff and special assistant to Governor Slater.”

  She knew who he was. “Oh, yes . . .”

  “We have a rather discreet matter to discuss. I won’t take long.”

  “Yes, Mr. Devin.”

  “As I recall the conversation we had back in early May, you really had no answers to give to any questions, and that was fine with us—we were happy enough not to ask any questions. Do you recall that?”

  She sounded just a little leery as she answered, “Yes, that’s how I recall it.”

  “And we were happy to let things remain as they were, correct?”

  “Yes, that was our understanding.”

  “Fine. Very good. Now the reason I’m calling and going over this once again is because we’ve just recently learned that some people in the press are beginning to ask questions, and though we don’t know this for sure, they may very well come to you with those questions.”

  “Oh really?”

  “As you can well understand, it would be the governor’s desire that the same policy apply in every case, to all persons—namely, that you simply have no answers, that everything must remain confidential. Do we understand each other?”

  “Oh, we certainly do, Mr. Devin. As I said to you before, this school desires no connection, no involvement whatsoever, with . . . uh . . . the Situation.”

  “Yes, and we agree with that. We both know, don’t we, that any revelations that leak out would be very harmful to us and to you.”

  “Yes, we’re aware of that. There will be no information available here, not for anyone.”

  “Excellent. We’re more than happy to have it that way. But you should be advised, and also advise others on your staff, whoever needs to be forewarned, that some people from Channel 6 might come around asking questions, and maybe even some other members of the press, who knows? You might want to remind your staff of the understandings now in place.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “And I should ask at this point, have there been any questions? Any visits by the press? I’m thinking of Channel 6 in particular.”

  “No, Mr. Devin, not yet, not that I’m aware of.”

  “Good enough. Then so far we’ve contained everything. We’ll have to be sure it stays that way.”

  “You have our fullest cooperation, Mr. Devin.”

  “Thank you. Good day to you.”

  “And you, sir.”

  LESLIE AND JOHN had had a productive day—with assigned work and with their own research. As soon as Leslie returned from the field—with her auto emissions story—they met at her desk, discussed some of the material being slotted for the Five O’clock, and then lowered their voices to discuss their investigation.

  John gave a quick report, leaning on the partition, the day’s Outlook in his hand. “I spoke with Charley Manning, my friend down at the capitol. I asked him if there’d been any recent firings or resignations or gripes in the governor’s office, and he said he’d heard there’d been some kind of stink, but he didn’t have any details. He’s checking into it.”

  Leslie opened a manila file and produced some photocopied news clippings and some notes. “Here’s a story from the News Journal on the governor’s presentation of the Hillary Slater scholarship. Shannon DuPliese was planning on going to Western, right here in this state, but since she received the scholarship, she’s enrolled at Midwestern University. It’s an upper-crust school, no question; quite an opportunity.”

  John scanned the article and took another look at Shannon DuPliese. This time she was smiling for the camera as she stood by the governor holding her award, but John could still remember how troubled she seemed when she’d actually received it. “The governor’s taking really good care of her, isn’t he?”

  “And . . . if I may take such a leap . . . he’s also making sure she’s far, far away.”

  John’s expression said, Good point.

  “Anyway,” Leslie continued, “I’ll give the university a call as soon as I can and see if Shannon’s really there and try to get her phone number, her address, whatever.” She lowered her voice even more. “I don’t want to use a line here at the station.”

  John nodded in agreement. The phone records would be a perfect trail for someone like Tina Lewis to follow.

  “I’m just not sure yet what I’ll say. I don’t think I want to identify myself with NewsSix. I just about lost Dr. Matthews because of that.”

  “Whatever you do, record the conversation. We’ve got to hear her voice.”

  “If I can get her talking about anything, we’ll have at least half a success.”

  “Right.”

  Then Leslie quickly and nonchalantly stowed her materials, her eyes following someone’s approach. John knew right away it had to be Tina.

  It was. She wore a pleasant expression as befitted a professional, but they could tell a brooding storm cloud lay just under the surface.

  “May I have a word with you two?”

  Well, there was nowhere to run and no place to hide.

  “What’s up?” asked Leslie, standing to meet Tina.

  Tina joined them by Leslie’s desk, and now all three of them were standing in the aisle, almost blocking any traffic that should happen along.

  “How’s that auto emission story?” Tina asked, and they could tell she was hoping it wasn’t finished.

  “I gave it to Rush,” said Leslie. “It’s all slotted and ready.”

  Tina turned to John, “And how’s the editing going?”

  John was honest. “Just fine. Same as usual, I suppose.”

  Tina looked at them just as a first-grade teacher would look at two class cutups who weren’t getting their work done.

  “Well, great. Leslie, might I have a word with you?”

  “Sure.”

  John took his cue and started for his desk.

  “John,” said Tina, “I may want to speak with you in a moment.”

  “Sure thing,” he said over his shoulder. Silently he was praying for Leslie.

  Tina pulled a chair over and sat down next to Leslie’s desk as she said, “Go ahead, sit down.”

  Leslie sat.

  Then Tina just sat there for a moment, eyeing Leslie in a way that used to make her nervous and timid, but now just made her angry.

  Leslie pretended to be busy, tapping away at the computer console but doing nothing in particular. “You can look all you want, but I hope you won’t mind if I try to get some work done.”

  “I’d like to know what you and John are working on.”

  Leslie looked directly at Tina, her anger and resentment fueling her courage. “Tina, first of all, we both understand that things are not too good between us.”

  Tina cut her off with, “And you do understand, don’t you, what my position is and what my responsibilities are and who you answer to?”

  Leslie considered herself interrupted and said no more.

  But she was determined to stand her ground, and if it had to get nasty, then so be it. “I understand, Tina.”

  “Then I’d like to know what you and John are working on. It’s my responsibility to know and your responsibility to tell me. I just paid a visit to the archives, and I noticed that you’d checked out the video of Hillary Slater’s funeral. What do you have going?”

  “We are pursuing a story, but so far we don’t have anything solid, just some ideas, and we’re not prepared to pitch it to you. It’ll need some more time.”

  “Were you at Bayview Memorial Hospital this morning?”

  The question was direct, and Leslie knew she couldn’t lie. “Tina, I was there during my lunchtime, representing only myself and not this station, and I said so.”

  “Said so to whom?”

  Leslie stopped, carefully rechecked her knowledge of newsroom policy, and then took a tough position. “Tina, I could sit here and evade your questions, but I don’t like it when somebody does t
hat to me, so I won’t do it to you. To be perfectly honest, I just plain don’t want to talk about it. The story hasn’t been sold to any editors or producers, and neither has it been officially assigned, and therefore the station has no direct interest and you have no direct authority. Hey, if you don’t like the idea once I pitch it to you, then the story’s dead right there anyway. But until we’re ready to pitch it and it’s time for you to approve it, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Tina’s spine straightened. It was her way of bracing for a fight. “Would you like to talk to Ben about this?”

  “Sure. Let’s go.” Leslie stood up, got into the aisle, and even got several steps toward Ben’s office before Tina finally broke and said, “Hold on.” Leslie turned slowly, noticing Tina’s icy glare, and returned to her desk. She sat down again, enjoying her first tinge of hope; she’d called Tina’s bluff and actually come out on top. Newsroom policy had saved her bacon.

  Most everyone in the newsroom understood how Ben encouraged the reporters to sniff around for scoops and exclusives, even on company time as long as their assignments were done and done well. And until the stories were actually bought by the producers or managing editor and officially assigned to the reporter, they were a reporter’s privilege and domain. It was an effective incentive, and one way to protect a scoop from being stolen by other media. Tina must have been hoping Leslie would not invoke that rule, but unfortunately for her Leslie did.

  “So . . .” said Tina, visibly stewing, “the story’s still yours.”

  “What there is of it, yes.”

  “How about John Barrett? Is he working on it too?”

  Leslie was cornered on that one. She could lie and say he wasn’t, but Tina would see right through that; if she refused to answer, that would be as good as answering. “We both are. But like I said, there isn’t much there right now. We might have something to show you after a while.”

  Tina slowly wagged her head and pronounced sentence. “I’ll never approve it. Better quit wasting your time.”

  Leslie objected, “Tina, you haven’t even seen the story yet. You don’t even know what it’s about.”

  “I know enough,” Tina replied, “and I promise, you’ll never get it past me.”

  Leslie studied Tina’s face, now hard, cold, and scowling about the eyes but showing the slightest hint of a devilish smile about the lips, and she recalled what John had said about Tina’s secret wounds. It all fit. She could almost sense it herself as Tina sat there as hard as stone but at the same time as brittle as glass. For the first time, she understood what forces drove this woman.

  Leslie spoke gently, her final word. “We’ll see.”

  Tina rose and took a moment to glare down at Leslie from a higher eye level before she turned and walked jaw first back to her office.

  Leslie looked across the newsroom. John was watching the whole thing. She hurried over to his desk to quickly fill him in.

  “It looks like Tina’s onto us and not at all happy about it,” she said.

  “So I observed,” John answered. “But how much does she know?”

  “We weren’t very open with each other.” John laughed, and Leslie continued, “She knows we checked out the video on Hillary Slater’s death and funeral, and somehow she heard I was at Bayview Memorial today. Maybe Matthews complained, I don’t know, but I think she picked up on the abortion angle. She promised me the story would never get past her.”

  “Well, it’s safe to say she knows a lot. And judging from past performance, we might just have a race on our hands—we’re trying to get the story and Tina’s trying to blow it open and bury it before we do.”

  “She’s good at that.”

  “We’ve got to call Shannon DuPliese tonight.”

  “We’ve got to do anything and everything yesterday.”

  “Carl’s working on rigging up a phone. I’ll call and see how he’s doing.”

  Only a little later, when other business, other subjects, and other people had put some time and distraction between herself and her frustrated conference with Leslie Albright, Tina called Martin Devin’s office.

  Devin was rather brusque. It was getting toward the end of the day. “What’ve you got?”

  “Leslie Albright and John Barrett are working on something.”

  “So John Barrett is involved?”

  “I’m quite sure he is.”

  “What do you mean you’re quite sure? Is he involved or isn’t he?”

  Tina held the receiver away from her ear, offended, then warned, “Martin, please watch your tone of voice.”

  Devin tried to tone down. “I’m sorry. This whole thing has me upset, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Well, are you going to let me in on what’s going on?”

  “Just tell me what they’re working on.”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  Devin cursed. “They work for you, don’t they? Don’t you know what your own people are doing?”

  “Martin, the story isn’t assigned, and they haven’t pitched it to the managing editor or to me or to anyone, so at this point it isn’t really the newsroom’s business. It’s their scoop until they sell it to us.”

  “What the *^!@$# are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Channel 6 policy, that’s what.”

  “Tina, now come on, give me a break. I need the story stopped. You’ve got to kill it before it gets out of hand.”

  This sounded big. Tina had to ask. “Martin, what’s the story about?”

  “I told you! It’s a slanderous piece of trash just to smear the governor, dredging up slime about his daughter. I can’t believe the audacity of some people!”

  “Did Hillary Slater have an abortion?”

  Devin seemed to drop out of existence for a moment. The silence on the other end spoke volumes. Finally he said, “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  Now it was Tina’s turn to curse, and she made sure Devin knew her opinion of his character. “Don’t you play your little games with me! You know where I stand on that issue, and I won’t be lied to! I’ve done plenty for you. I’ve checked around for you. I’ve confided in you. Now if you want friends in the media you can start with me. Otherwise, we’ll say good-bye right here and now!”

  Devin thought it over for a long time and then gave in.

  “Then I guess we’d better have lunch tomorrow.”

  “Dinner tonight.”

  “All right . . . dinner. How about Keaton’s, at 7?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  Devin fumed for another moment, then asked, “So . . . what do you think about the story they’re working on? I mean, can you stop it?”

  “It’s already dead, Martin. I told Leslie I’d never approve it. They can do what they want, but they won’t get anything on the air.”

  “Thank God.”

  “No, thank me. But, Martin . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “That doesn’t mean this won’t get out. Whatever it is, people are going to find out about it—other media are going to pick it up. You’d better be ready for it.”

  Devin sighed, cursed, and moaned, all at the same time.

  THAT EVENING, IMMEDIATELY after the 7 o’clock newscast, Leslie and John rushed over to Mom Barrett’s. Mom and Carl were there waiting, Mom with some snacks and coffee, Carl with a tampered-with-and-taped-together telephone, a vast tangle of wires, two pairs of headphones, and a reel-to-reel tape recorder.

  “Does it work?” John asked before he’d even taken off his coat.

  Carl gave him a thumbs-up. “We were picking up the radio station for a while, but hey, I’m a genius, what can I say?”

  John gave him an excited and grateful pat on the back.

  Leslie removed her coat as Mom went around the table to collect it and John’s. “I’m just glad the office at Midwestern University was still open. Thanks, Mom. There’s a two-hour difference as it is.”

  “Where’d you make the call?”


  “The pay phone across the street from the station.” She produced a notebook from her handbag. “But I got the number of Shannon’s dorm room. If she’s there tonight . . .”

  John looked at his watch. “It’s 8:10 . . .”

  “So it’s 10:10 over there. She might still be up.”

  “We’ll just have to be rude,” said Carl.

  “Well, we can always pray,” said Mom.

  Leslie sat in front of the telephone sitting on the table, a pair of wires protruding from the receiver. “So how does this work?”

  Carl explained, “No different from a regular phone. I tapped into the wires to the earpiece and ran them through the tape recorder here, so we’ll be able to record the call, everything you hear, and then we’ll be able to listen with the headphones.”

  Leslie was impressed. “Good work.”

  “How about a quick test run?” John suggested.

  “And I think we’d better pray,” said Mom again.

  “Fine,” said Leslie. “Who do we call?”

  “How about . . . your sister?” John suggested.

  “Sure . . . okay.”

  Carl sat in his chair, the tape recorder in front of him. John sat between Carl and Leslie and picked up one pair of headphones. Mom sat on the other side of Carl, and Carl turned one earpiece around on his headphones so Mom could press up against it and listen.

  “Ready?” Leslie asked, her hand on the receiver.

  “Go,” said Carl, starting the recorder.

  Leslie picked up the receiver as the reels started slowly winding and dialed her sister’s number. John, Carl, and Mom listened raptly. John was delighted; the sounds were coming through loud and clear.

  “Hello?” came a voice.

  “Hello . . . Angie?”

  “Oh, hi, Leslie. What’s up?”

  “Well, we’re running a little experiment here . . .” Leslie went on to explain Carl’s make-do invention without saying a whole lot about what it was really for. Angie wanted to go on talking, but Leslie asked to cut the conversation short, and Angie understood.

  “Okay,” said John, “good enough.”

  Carl wound the tape back to check the recording, and Angie’s voice came through fine. Mom handed Leslie a piece of paper she’d worked on that afternoon—a complete transcript of the 911 call.