Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  “I understand,” the governor responded. Then he looked sternly at Gretchen, Candice, and Fanny. “But before we go on, let me say this for the record: Don’t you people forget that I’m not just covering for myself and my policies—I’m also covering for you. I didn’t ask for any of this to happen, and I sure didn’t ask to have my daughter killed, and if there’s any blame to be found for our present circumstances it is not with this administration but with the industry that got sloppy enough to let it happen. So all three of you need to carefully appraise your demand that I not launch a real investigation into this because as far as I’m concerned, if I don’t do anything about this, then you and your friends in all those clinics had better do something! I’ve stood by you, I’ve pushed legislation that benefits you, I’ve protected your sacred privacy and stayed out of your way. But if you’re going to start killing people, it’s going to be bad for both of us—you follow me?”

  They paid attention to him and heard what he said, but their response was a chilling, stony silence. Gretchen’s jaw was quite prominent, Candice only scowled at him, and Fanny wouldn’t raise her eyes, but went back to doodling on her notes.

  “Now . . .” the governor continued, “as for Phase Three, considering that no amount of subtlety or craft will satisfy the anti-abortion camp, and anticipating that they’ll try to make a big deal out of Hillary’s death, we’re going to be working on shifting the public’s attention away from the fact of the death itself and toward this administration’s concern for women and their right to privacy—safe, sane, legal privacy. It’s going to be an image war, to put it quite simply.” The governor looked at Rowen and Hartly. This was their cue.

  Eugene Rowen, horn-rimmed glasses in place and tie still crooked, stood to speak. “We’ve contacted the agents of several celebrities who have already contracted with us for the campaign ads, and we’re now working on what you might call counter-information ads—special ads that will underline in the public mind the real motivation behind Governor Slater’s action, or inaction, as it were—that Governor Hiram Slater cares about women.”

  Mason Hartly spoke up without standing. “The whole point is, the opposition might try to stir up gossip and innuendo about what the governor should or shouldn’t have done about Hillary’s death, but we’ll just hit that head-on with a firm presentation of his motivations and reasons for doing—or not doing—what he . . . uh . . . did or didn’t do. Am I making sense?”

  “So far,” said Fanny.

  “How are you going to protect choice?” Candice asked.

  Rowen fumbled through the papers in front of him just a moment, then answered, “Well, look at it this way. The opposition says something like, ‘Hiram Slater doesn’t care if his own daughter dies in an abortion clinic,’ and so we just come right back and say, ‘Hiram Slater believes in the sanctity of privacy, even to his own hurt, so deep are his convictions.’”

  Gretchen was impressed. “Wow . . .”

  Fanny nodded, smiling. “Very smooth.”

  Candice kept scowling but nodded her approval.

  Rowen continued, “And . . . um . . . the opposition might say something like, ‘If the governor’s own daughter can die in an abortion clinic, then is anyone safe?’ and we can turn right around and say, ‘Governor Slater understands in the deepest, personal sense the need for safe, legal abortions and stands with all women in the fight to fulfill this need.’”

  Now even Candice smiled. “Mm-hmm.”

  Hartly added, excitement in his voice, “And get this—we’ve just talked with Anita Diamond’s agent—uh, she’s the black pop singer, right?—and she has agreed . . .” He took a moment to look them all in the eye, to bait them a little. “. . . to do an ad for us in which she admits to having an abortion and how it did wonders for her career and how people like Hiram Slater are the answer for up-and-coming down-and-outers like her, or something to that effect.”

  Springtime, sunshine, and heavenly sparkles floated into the room, at least where the three women activists were sitting. They liked what they were hearing.

  Rowen concluded, “We’ll work this new material in so that it meshes perfectly with the ad campaign already under way. That way the public will immediately identify with the graphics and the style and fall into line, just flowing with it, not being jarred by any abrupt change in direction.”

  Hartly concluded, “And this work is under way right now, as we speak, ready for airing within two or three days.”

  Devin took back the floor. “So this is the basic plan, and we’ll have more details for you as soon as they develop. Any questions?”

  Fanny asked, “What about Loren Harris, the general manager at Channel 6? Can he be persuaded to intervene on this—at least stall it a while?”

  Devin nodded, pleased with the question. “We are looking into speaking with him—not only regarding stalling the story that seems to be brewing there among some of the news staff, but also regarding the advertising we’ll be buying from the station. We’ve been worth a lot of money to them in the past and hope to be worth even more in the near future, as we’ve already discussed.” His eyes took on an additional devilish glint. “He knows we’re very close to several of his regular advertising clients—and that our influence could send those advertising dollars elsewhere. Considering all that, I think Loren Harris might be persuaded to see things as we see them.”

  The governor added, “Loren and I are friends, and I’m very careful about not abusing our friendship to slant the news coverage, but . . . I think he’d be open to changing some timing here and there, perhaps changing some emphasis. We can deal with him. I’m confident something can be worked out.”

  “Any more questions?” Devin asked.

  Not really—at least no question anyone felt like speaking. And besides, this was a quickly called meeting—they all had other places they needed to be. The meeting broke up, and they all headed down the hall toward the exits.

  Devin made sure Tina Lewis would have to pass close by him to get out the conference room door. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Thanks for having me.”

  He checked her over, enjoying the view. “We’ll need to stay in close contact during this whole process, I imagine.”

  She knew he was eyeing her, but catered to his interest. The hungrier he was, the more useful he would be. “We’ll do that.”

  He leaned close and spoke very softly. “Any further word on the death of John Barrett’s father? Are the cops looking into it?”

  “I haven’t heard a thing, Martin.” Then she gave him a curious look. “Just why are you so interested?”

  Devin chuckled. “Well . . . I guess because I have strong feelings about John Barrett and his kooky father.”

  She accepted that. “I’ll look into it.”

  “If you get the chance. Gotta go.” He ducked out and hurried toward his office, feeling much the conqueror.

  Fanny Wolfe and Candice Delano conversed quietly as they walked along.

  Candice asked, “So what do you think?”

  Fanny answered, “I think our people will get behind the governor on this. It’s really the best course of action, and this kind of thing has worked in the past. What about your people?”

  “They’ll back him, provided he doesn’t say much. The more he talks about this, the more trouble I’m going to have cooperating.”

  Murphy Bolen just happened to overtake them, being a faster walker.

  “What do you think of the plan?” Fanny asked him.

  Murphy just smiled and quipped, “He’s dead” as he stopped at the drinking fountain.

  Martin Devin, some distance behind them, heard the comment but pretended to ignore it. He didn’t need to hear that kind of talk or entertain those kinds of thoughts at a time like this. Winners kept their eye on the finish line, not on the obstacles. He would make it.

  It would be extremely comforting to get a progress report from Willy on the whole Shannon DuPliese thing. But still, he
would make it. He stepped into his office, feeling good about the meeting.

  Until he saw a man sitting there waiting for him.

  “Uh . . . yes, can I help you?”

  The man stood, smiling pleasantly. “Hi there. The secretary let me in—she said you’d be out of your meeting real soon.” He reached into his suitcoat pocket and produced a badge. “Detective Bob Henderson, homicide.”

  CHAPTER 28

  SURELY THERE COULD be no greater feeling of insecurity than trying to look innocent in front of a cop, especially a cop from homicide. Devin could feel an abrupt and intense reaction in his body—a painful twist in his stomach, a pronounced speeding of his heart rate, a trembling in his extremities. He tried to control it, drawing on all the acting ability he could muster.

  Watch your voice now, Martin. Low, even tone. “Yes, Detective, how may I help you?”

  Henderson stood there a moment, observing. He seemed to be reading Devin like a book. “Feeling all right?”

  Devin sat behind his desk. It would be a good place to sit, to hide as much of his body as possible and regain control of the situation. “Well, actually, no. I think I’m battling a touch of flu this morning, so . . .”

  “Oh, I won’t take long. I’m just out gathering some information on a case, and I figured you’d be able to help me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Henderson got out his notepad and flipped through the pages to a particular spot. “Well, of course you would be familiar with Shannon DuPliese, the young lady who received the first Hillary Slater Scholarship?”

  Control, Martin, control! “Why, yes, of course. She’s attending Midwestern University now, and I understand she’s doing quite well.”

  “Have you heard from her lately?”

  “No, not lately.” Then Devin even managed to show some concern. “Uh . . . is she all right?”

  Henderson smiled. “Oh, she’s fine. A little shaken up, but she’s fine.” Henderson waited for just one beat and then hit Devin with the news. “But some thug tried to jump her this weekend, and we’re looking into it.”

  This was terrible news. Devin didn’t have to act stunned, but he did try to appear stunned for the right reason. “I’m . . . I’m shocked.”

  Henderson just stood there, observing. “Well, that’s understandable. I gather you were pretty close to Shannon, working with her on the scholarship thing, helping her enroll at Midwestern University, taking care of all the details.”

  This guy had been doing his homework. “Well . . . yes. We . . . I’ve, uh . . . I’ve been very happy, very encouraged to be a part of it. It’s been good for the governor too to see a bright young lady like Shannon have the opportunity to excel in the place of the daughter he lost. It’s been very helpful.”

  Henderson consulted his notes. “Did you call Shannon the night of Tuesday, October 1st?”

  Devin’s mind raced. What was that? When was that? Why was that? Did I? Didn’t I? Can I deny it, or should I admit it? What harm will I do myself?

  “Uh . . . I’m not sure of the date, but I did call her last week, and it was in the evening, yes.”

  Henderson nodded and checked something off in his notes. “Can you tell me what the conversation was about?”

  Devin found a shield to hide behind. “Well, no, not really, not without Shannon’s permission. We talked regarding the scholarship, her studies, that sort of thing. Under the agreements we have, such matters are kept in confidence.”

  “Sure. That’s fine. But tell me, did you threaten her?”

  Devin actually did feel indignant. “Excuse me?”

  “Did you pressure her or threaten her regarding anything?”

  “Regarding what, if I may ask? And just what do you mean by ‘threaten’?”

  Henderson smiled. “Hey, it’s okay. These are routine questions. Nobody’s accusing you of anything.”

  “Well, I should hope not! Shannon and I have had a good relationship. The governor’s family and her family have been friends for many years. I . . . I really find such questions offensive.”

  “Certainly. Just have to cover all the bases, that’s all.” Henderson scribbled a little more. “Let me tell you what’s going on—maybe that’ll help. You see, Saturday night the police out at Midwestern caught a punk named Ted Canan, and from what they’ve been able to gather so far, he’d been following Shannon for a few days, just waiting for a chance to attack her. They caught him first, fortunately. But here’s the question I have to deal with: Ted Canan’s a local hood, from around here, and Shannon DuPliese is from around here too. Now apart from assaulting Shannon, we can’t think of any reason why Ted Canan would be halfway across the country singling out a girl who was from the same town as himself, a girl I’m sure he’d never met before. You see the problem here?”

  A question popped into Devin’s mind: What did Murphy Bolen say out in the hall? “He’s dead”? Who was he talking about?

  Henderson was waiting for an answer, so Devin gave him one as best he could. “I . . . uh . . . I think I do. This is all so sudden, so bizarre.”

  “Yeah, it sure is. So let me just ask you, you know, for the record, just so I can say I asked, Would you have any idea why someone would come after Shannon?”

  “Well, I . . . I don’t . . . no, I just don’t know why anyone would want to kill her.” A new idea came to mind. “Except, maybe . . . that wasn’t his real intention. Perhaps he intended to . . . uh . . . take moral advantage of her. Maybe he saw her here . . . saw her on television when she received the scholarship and decided to follow her. Maybe he gets a kick out of degrading important people, people recognized for achievement . . . people like Shannon . . .”

  Henderson seemed to be writing down Devin’s ideas, then looked up. “Nobody said Ted Canan intended to kill her, Mr. Devin. But maybe you’re right. Maybe he just wanted to take moral advantage.”

  “Well . . .”

  “But that is difficult to swallow, isn’t it? That he’d go halfway across the country to do something like that? And there’s another thing—the plane fare was over eight hundred bucks, and Ted Canan’s never had that kind of money—except when somebody else hires him.”

  “Well . . . what did this Ted have to say about all this?”

  “Oh, he isn’t talking. He’s pleading the Fifth.”

  “Hmm.” Good news? Not really. “And what does Shannon think?”

  “Oh, we’re still talking to her. We don’t have the whole picture yet. Oh, and I never got an answer to that question that offended you. You want to answer, just for the record? Did you threaten Shannon when you called her?”

  The question was still offensive—too close to the target, actually. “Absolutely not. I categorically deny threatening her!”

  “All right then, did you strongly urge her to remain quiet about certain matters pertaining to the governor’s daughter Hillary?”

  Henderson was trying to nail him to the wall, and Devin knew it. Well, there was no sense in denying it. “Listen . . . Shannon and I have talked about this matter of Hillary before. The governor is a public figure who needs his privacy, and I felt a need to remind Shannon of that. She was close to Hillary, and so . . . Well, there could always be a temptation for her to talk to the press, and . . . the governor simply didn’t want that to become a pattern.”

  “Okay. Got it.” Henderson scribbled it down and then said, “Well, that’ll do it for now. Thanks a lot for your time. I’ll call if I have any more questions.”

  “Good day, Detective.”

  Henderson pocketed his notepad and went out quietly, just quietly and calmly enough to make Devin wonder what he was thinking.

  Willy! Where was he? What had happened?

  Devin gave Henderson enough time to leave and then hurried out of the building and walked three blocks to a hotel. Toward the back of the lobby, just outside the elevators, he hunched over a pay phone, carefully concealing his face as he placed a call to a number he kept only in his head. The
phone at the other end rang several times, and finally a sleepy voice answered. “Yeah?”

  Devin tried to sound tough and unidentifiable. “Let me talk to Willy.”

  “Not today, man—he’s gone.”

  No! That wasn’t what Devin wanted to hear at all.

  “What do you mean gone?”

  “Oh, he’s left town. Probably some heat on somewhere—you know how that is.”

  “Well, did he say where he was going?”

  “Are you kidding? He never does. And I don’t know anything, all right?”

  Click.

  Easy, Martin, easy. Just think. Work it out. There’s an answer somewhere.

  But he was shaking all over.

  He hurried back to the office, passing by a small lunch counter where Detective Bob Henderson stood concealed behind a rack of magazines, munching a hot dog, watching him go by.

  “DR. HARLAN MATTHEWS?”

  The doctor looked up from his desk as the thought Now what? went through his mind. The pressure around Bayview Hospital had been bad enough ever since that woman reporter came to see him. He didn’t need any more trouble of that kind.

  Well . . . it wasn’t Leslie Albright. But it did look like more trouble of that kind, and maybe worse. He immediately recognized the well-known face of John Barrett, NewsSix anchorman, and the man standing beside Barrett was showing a police badge.

  “I’m Detective Bob Henderson, homicide, and this is John Barrett, with Channel 6 News, though he’s here unofficially at the moment.”

  “And what in the world can I do for you?” Matthews was getting fed up and couldn’t keep from showing it. “I recall talking to another reporter from Channel 6, here as unofficially as you, Mr. Barrett.”