Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  The man cursed. “Yeah, that figures!”

  It was night—the best time to meet with people you don’t want to be seen meeting with, and Martin Devin had an appointment.

  He ducked into Clancy’s, a boisterous nightspot with a lounge, dance floor, and pool hall, located a few blocks up from the waterfront in a district you wouldn’t want to be seen visiting, which was okay—none of your friends would ever go near the place to find you there.

  The heavy brass door swung open with a substantial tug, and the warm, beer-scented air washed over his face as he stepped inside. The street outside was noisy; in here it was noisier. The jukebox demanded you listen to fifties oldie-goldies whether you wanted to or not. The neon beer logos hanging on the walls persuaded you to drink. The menu on the wall persuaded you to eat the greasy food. The blue haze in the air persuaded you to smoke. The girls draping their frames here and there over furniture, bar stools, and booths persuaded you they were fun to get to know.

  Well, they would never know Martin Devin, at least not as Martin Devin, not tonight. He wore an old jacket, a ragged pair of work jeans, a baseball cap with a beer logo on the front, and a pair of dark glasses, trying to look the part of a blue-collar, beer-drinking, good old boy. He even walked tall and tough, using the same gait that used to intimidate the underclassmen in high school. Despite his appearance, though, he still tried not to look anyone in the eye. This was a world he wanted nothing to do with, at least not directly. The kinds of things that happened in this world could be distasteful to someone of his stature. They were things he never wanted to touch and did not want touching him and certainly did not want to be associated with.

  But sometimes . . . like now . . . such things were necessary, even unavoidable.

  The same was true for Willy, the man who could provide such . . . things. He was the kind of man it was best to avoid; distasteful described him well. Devin had never met him face-to-face. He’d heard of Willy through a mutual friend, a politically active fellow of substantial means and influence who could do favors for those in power—in exchange for favors, of course. All contact Devin ever had with Willy had been by telephone up to this point, and all paychecks to Willy were mailed to a post office box with no questions asked. The jobs got done; that was all Devin cared to know.

  But now Devin considered the situation to be somewhat desperate, calling for a less casual approach. He had to meet this Willy face-to-face. He had to be sure they really understood each other. Maybe this would be the only meeting of this kind. Perhaps the business would be finished quickly and their relationship could immediately dissolve. Devin hoped so.

  He turned and walked down the aisle between the bar and booths, then wound his way through the tables in the lounge toward a dark corner in the back. On a small stage across the room, under multicolored spotlights, a trio of musicians maintained a flow of not-quite-right pop tunes while couples meandered around the hardwood dance floor. This was a good place to meet—dark, noisy, distracting.

  He saw a hand wave to him from the corner booth, just wiggling above the surface of a table, not in the air. The face above the hand wasn’t much of a surprise. It looked old, held a grim expression, and, as Devin could see as he drew nearer, had been in more than a few fights over the years.

  “Are you Willy?” Devin asked.

  The thin lips pulled back into a smile that revealed some teeth missing and one tooth filled with silver. “Have a seat, Mr. Jones or Smith or whoever you want to be.”

  Devin didn’t think that was funny and let his expression say so as he slid into the booth.

  “Will you have a drink?” Willy asked.

  “I won’t be staying long.”

  “Long enough for a beer maybe?”

  Devin didn’t want to antagonize the man. “Okay.”

  A miniskirted waitress took the order and hurried away.

  “So,” Willy began, “what brings you into my neck of the woods?”

  Devin took another look around to make sure they would be speaking in private. “Things are getting out of control. John Barrett has the tape, and he’s going after a news story.”

  Willy smiled a so-what smile and nodded lazily. “Well, now we finally know where it is. I knew that tape would turn up sooner or later.”

  Devin was not about to make a scene, but he did touch Willy’s arm quite firmly for emphasis. “Listen, you—if your guys would’ve done their job correctly, we wouldn’t be in this mess. I hired you to get that tape back, not kill somebody, and now I hope you’ve figured out that neither of us can afford for anyone to find out what happened.”

  Willy looked him in the eye for a moment and saw the steel in Devin’s gaze. He finally nodded in agreement.

  “What makes you so sure Barrett has the tape?”

  “He’s—” The waitress came with Devin’s beer. When she left, he continued, “He’s the son of the man you killed, and now he’s tracking down Shannon DuPliese. What more do you want?”

  Willy nodded slowly. “That’s enough.”

  Devin was seething. “The way your boys got such perfect results at the kickoff rally, I was sure they could handle this situation without turning it into a major scandal! A simple mugging would have been enough. We could have survived that, we could have stayed clean—”

  “We didn’t plan to kill him.”

  “Well, that doesn’t make much difference now, does it?”

  “The cops aren’t on our trail, are they?”

  Devin had no immediate answer.

  “Looks like Ted and Howie covered their tracks pretty well if we haven’t heard anything by now.”

  “Suppose Barrett takes that tape to the police. You don’t think that will stir things up?”

  Willy nodded. “That will stir things up.”

  Devin locked eyes with him. “So let’s talk completion. I want the job completed to my satisfaction.”

  “You want John Barrett roughed up?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! He’s a public figure, right out in the open!” Devin drew closer so he could talk more quietly. “I’m talking about Ed Lake, for one. He had that tape in the first place, and he knows what’s on it. We have to keep him quiet about this.”

  “Well, he’s a weak little man. When Ted and Howie got him down on the ground, he blabbed everything, told ’em exactly who he gave the tape to, where to find the guy. He didn’t have a lot of fortitude, you know? And I hear he’s skipped town. He’s scared. But if you want us to, we can scare him again.”

  Devin thought for a moment. “We absolutely cannot afford for anyone to find out what happened. Keep Lake quiet. Do what you have to.”

  “All right. We’ll do that. And you can send the check to the same mailbox—”

  “You’re not through yet.”

  Willy wheezed a beer-stenched chuckle. “Oh, yeah, the girl, the girl. Yeah, I suppose you’re concerned about her. I would be. Barrett has the tape, but what does it prove? That Hillary Slater had an abortion—maybe. Big deal. Who doesn’t these days? But now Barrett’s father is killed for a tape with Shannon’s voice on it—a tough break, I admit it—and Shannon knows how certain people would benefit from that . . . which could make old man Barrett’s death look like more than an accident, which should get the cops interested.”

  Devin knew this thug was tormenting him. He grabbed for authority, something impressive. “The governor wants this whole mess cleaned up neatly and quietly. We’re prepared to pay you—”

  Another wheezy chuckle. “Hey, don’t give me this governor business! I never got any call from the governor; I only got a call from you.” Willy’s eyes took on a tormenting twinkle. “And I’d be willing to wager the governor doesn’t know a thing about this. You got yourself into this mess, right up to your little beady eyeballs—”

  Devin placed his hand around Willy’s throat. He didn’t squeeze. He just put it there to make a point. “I didn’t get myself into this. You and your thugs got us both into it through shee
r incompetence. Agreed?”

  Willy gave in quietly. “Hey, I don’t deny it. Such are the hazards of the business.”

  Devin removed his hand. “And you are going to do whatever is necessary to get us both out. Neither one of us wants to hang, but if I hang, I’ll see to it that you hang with me. I’m sure you understand.”

  Willy nodded. “I’d do the same for you.”

  Devin relaxed just a little. “Then we do understand each other. That’s good.”

  “So okay, then . . . No more mistakes. Let’s get to the girl. She’s your biggest problem. Aren’t you the one who handled the scholarship money?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you were telling me the other day how you were trying to ride herd on her to keep her quiet.”

  Devin nodded.

  Willy allowed himself a little chuckle, but not too much of one. “Well, considering all that, if she ever does talk, she’ll probably talk about you first.”

  “Correct. So obviously I need something quick and decisive, if your boys can do it.”

  “Ted’s available.”

  “Ted! He was supposed to intimidate the old man and ended up killing him!”

  Willy shrugged and gave a little smile. “Well, it’s what you’re going to want in this case, and it’s what he does best. And he’s better with women.”

  “Well, can he keep it from looking like a crime?”

  Willy snorted and waved away that comment. “Ehhh, college coeds get raped and killed all the time. It’ll make the news for a while, then get blamed on some serial rapist or something, and then the whole thing will fade, especially since Ted will be back here, far away.”

  Devin was hearing too much. He held up his hand. “I don’t want to know how you do it. I just want it done.”

  Willy was pleased enough with that. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Devin finished his beer quickly and got out of there.

  THE FRONT DOOR to the big house at 19202 N.E. Barlow opened, and a handsome, dark-haired man looked out at Leslie and Deanne. He was expecting them. “Well . . . Hello . . . Come on in.”

  Leslie made the introductions as they stepped inside. “Dr. Denning, this is Deanne Brewer.”

  Deanne shook his hand, feeling nervous, trying to appear calm and sociable even as hope and despair battled within her. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  He returned the greeting. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  She just had to ask, even before Barbara Denning took her coat. “Doctor, can you help us? If you can’t, then I won’t take any more of your time.”

  He nodded as he understood her feelings. “I think I can. Why don’t you come in and sit down?”

  They settled into the soft couch in the Dennings’ living room while the doctor and his wife sat in another couch opposite them. They talked about how nice the house was, and how distinctive the china cabinet and dinette looked, and how long Barbara Denning had been collecting Hummel figurines, and then they discussed the TV news business and how reporting worked, which finally brought them around to the subject for the evening.

  “I understand one story got away from you,” said Denning.

  Both Leslie and Deanne made an unpleasant face at the recollection.

  “At Deanne’s expense, most certainly,” said Leslie.

  “Did you see it?” asked Deanne.

  “Barbara told me about it.”

  Leslie said, “It was a terrible setback. It almost came between us.”

  “Max is still upset. He doesn’t want to trust anybody,” said Deanne.

  Denning leaned forward, concern filling his eyes. “Then . . . if I may ask, what’s to keep the information I have from being misused as well?”

  They were all looking at Leslie, even Deanne, needing an answer to a valid question. Leslie had determined she would be forthright. “Um . . . to be perfectly honest . . . present circumstances in the newsroom being what they are, I don’t think this information has much chance of a fair treatment or of even being noticed at all.” She quickly added, “And Deanne and I have talked about the newsworthiness of this and whether or not that mattered, and we’ve agreed that it really doesn’t. I mean . . . at one time I thought it would be a news story. Then after it became one, I was sorry it did. Maybe if the picture becomes clear enough and the climate in the media is right, we could do something on it, but we’re not concerned with that right now. My real concern is with Deanne and Max. We started something with them, and I want to finish it.” She looked at Deanne, yielding the floor.

  Deanne spoke her part. “Dr. Denning, my husband and I have our own life to live and our own children to raise and our own affairs to manage, and that’s always going to be the same whether it’s ever seen on television or not. We’ve lost our daughter, and we want to know why. Even if nobody else ever hears what happened to her, at least we’ll know. That’s what we want, at the very least.”

  Dr. Denning seemed pleased with that, though still troubled. “It’s hard to get people to view things through clear, untainted glasses, don’t you agree?”

  Leslie nodded. “Certainly. We’re all up against that. Even an unbiased news story won’t please a biased viewer, and sometimes you can’t win no matter what you do.”

  Denning laughed. “Well, the medical profession is no exception, let me tell you. We’re supposed to be the empirical, objective professionals, but we have our biases too. There are some things we want to know and some we don’t. There are findings our peers will accept and findings our peers will not find acceptable. Part of surviving in the medical profession is to learn how to handle certain information. There are rules.”

  Leslie ventured, “Such as . . . ?”

  “Botched abortions, you don’t talk about. Your peers moonlighting at abortion clinics, you don’t talk about. Nonphysicians performing abortions in place of the physician who’s late, you don’t talk about. Prescriptions being written by nonphysicians on forms signed in advance by the physician who isn’t even there, you don’t talk about. Unsanitary conditions, rushed procedures, little fudges here and there for the sake of saving time and making money, you don’t talk about.” Denning was showing some frustration now. “Because if you do talk about it, that makes you anti-abortion. You’re branded. You’re not politically correct. You’re not one of the recognized professionals anymore.” He looked at Leslie with a glint in his eye. “And you know, even as I sit here, talking to a news reporter—a news reporter!—I feel perfectly safe. I know I can tell you all kinds of hair raisers, story after story, but you won’t talk about it either, and even if you tried to . . . well, we’ve already seen what happens.”

  Leslie said nothing for a moment, having no reply. Finally she offered, very quietly, “At the present time I can’t disagree.”

  “So,” Denning said with a sigh, “we all climb aboard and let the profession carry us where it will, and we obey the rules, don’t we, because we don’t want to be kicked off.”

  “As you were?”

  Denning nodded. “Mm-hm. Do you know how many abortion-related cases come through Westland Memorial Hospital each month?”

  “How many?”

  Denning shrugged. “I don’t know. No one does. Ask the Records Department and you get a blank stare. Dig through the files and you get vague entries on the charts. There’s an entrenched mentality in that place, and you fall in line or you don’t last long.” He paused for an emotional breather and then told Deanne, “As far as my personal knowledge is concerned, as far as what I saw in pathology, your daughter Annie was only one among many over the last few years.”

  Deanne nodded grimly. She was not surprised.

  “But who ever hears about it?” Denning reiterated.

  “We did,” Deanne said gratefully, “and we owe you a debt of thanks.”

  Denning smiled resignedly. “Well, I think your husband and his friend, that older fellow . . .”

  “John Barrett Sr.,” said Leslie. “He was the father
of John Barrett, the news anchor at Channel 6.”

  Denning found that strangely amusing. “I wonder how that old man and his son get along?”

  “They . . . didn’t . . . get along too well, obviously.”

  Denning caught Leslie’s emphasized past tense. “Oh? Is the elder Barrett deceased?”

  Leslie nodded. “Killed a few weeks ago in a warehouse accident.”

  Denning slowed his pace a little to show respect. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He reflected on his experience with John Barrett Sr. and smiled. “That man didn’t blend in much, not around that hospital. It was startling—well, refreshing, really—to encounter someone so opposite in his thinking from the people I worked with day in and day out. I think that might be why I took the risk I did. As I was going to say, Mr. Brewer and Mr. Barrett caught me at a good time. I was just frustrated enough with being pulled around by the prevailing winds at that hospital that I was glad for the opportunity to do something, just one thing, for conscience’s sake. I never lied on an autopsy report; what I found, I recorded. But I knew the rules—plus the written policy about anything abortion-related being inaccessible to parents—so I went along with that. And if someone chanced to pirate some information from a patient chart while my back was turned, well . . .”

  “I understand it still got you fired,” said Leslie.

  “I believe so. There’s no record of that, and no one will admit it, but . . .” He looked at Deanne. “Please don’t blame your husband. I think he was right to cause the fuss he did and make the demands he did, but . . .”

  “He got you in trouble,” said Deanne.

  Denning nodded. “It all got traced back to me in short order, and that was that. I didn’t think I was snitching on my peers, but they saw it differently.”

  “And what about Dr. Lawrence, the ob-gyn on Annie’s case?” asked Leslie. “I suppose he had a voice in your demise.”

  “He did. And you’ll be interested to know that Dr. Lawrence and Dr. Huronac are good friends.”

  Deanne asked, “Who’s Dr. Huronac?”

  Denning chuckled at himself. “Well, see how little anyone knows? Dr. Michael Huronac does most of the abortions at the Women’s Medical Center. It’s basically all he does, six days a week. You see the connections here? Birds of a feather look out for each other, and the odd birds have to watch out.”