Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  John replied, “We haven’t released any information or done any story pertaining to you, and we won’t do so without your knowledge.”

  “That doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”

  Henderson said, “Well, this won’t take long, and quite truthfully you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want—the law’s clear on that. But we were wondering if you’d be willing to open the file on Hillary Slater and confirm for us the real cause of death. We need the information for a possible murder investigation.”

  Matthews gave a slow shrug. “I’ll need a court order, gentlemen.”

  Henderson expected as much. “Mm . . . Okay. Can’t hurt to ask. We’ll get the court order.”

  John ventured, “Dr. Matthews, through some investigation of our own we’ve found other evidence to indicate Hillary Slater died from abortion malpractice. We just need you to verify that’s the case.”

  Matthews leaned forward, his chin resting on his hands, and considered John’s question for a moment. “Other evidence?”

  “Yes, sir. Very strong evidence, possibly enough to break the story with or without your involvement.”

  He smiled at that. “Without, most likely.”

  “Except for . . .”

  “Yes?”

  John thought for a moment, formulating his argument. “If and when we break the story, the governor’s going to deny knowing the cause of death at the time, which means he’ll have to argue that he was given erroneous information, which means . . . Well, doesn’t it make sense, sir, that the finger of blame is going to have to point somewhere? And do you imagine that your superiors are going to point it at themselves? If you filed a correct and truthful report and were honest about the real cause of Hillary’s death, it may be in your best interests to establish that before someone else makes you out to be incompetent.”

  That actually made Matthews laugh, nodding approvingly. “One would think you worked here.”

  Henderson stole a glance at John, visibly impressed.

  Matthews asked, “Can you guys get a court order and make me produce the report?”

  Henderson smiled. “Yeah. We could do that. It would provide you with personal protection if you feel you need it.”

  Matthews went back to the work on his desk, his way of dismissing them. “Bring me a court order and I’ll see what I can do.”

  As John and Henderson went down the hall, Henderson whispered, “What he’s really going to get is a search warrant. I just didn’t want to scare him.”

  “JOHN!” LESLIE SAW him come into the newsroom and ran to meet him in front of the assignment desk, her face full of urgency.

  He shook his head. “Matthews won’t release a thing without a court order—”

  “Slater’s going public!”

  The sudden change of gears was jarring. “What?”

  Leslie started back into the newsroom, and John had to follow her to hear what she was saying. “Tina got the tip this morning and sent Marian Gibbons after the story. He’s going public with Hillary’s abortion.”

  Now that was intriguing! “Oh, is he now!”

  They hurried over to a bank of monitors in the corner of the newsroom. One monitor showed what was on the air at that moment—a soap opera being carried on the network; one showed the newsroom—the screen was black at the moment; and one showed any live feeds from out in the field. On this monitor they could see a blue podium in front of a large convention hall. A large lady in a blue dress was introducing people, going through preliminaries.

  “It’s a fund-raiser put on by the Women’s Citizen League,” Leslie explained. “They’re backing Slater, and he’s scheduled to speak.”

  John noticed some familiar faces sitting at the head table on either side of the podium. “Gretchen Rafferty . . . Fanny Wolfe!”

  “I think Candice Delano’s there too, down at the other end.”

  John looked at Leslie. “Then they’re all in this together.”

  “You know they are. They’re jumping our story.”

  “And Tina got the tip, of course!”

  “If you want to call it a tip. She could have been one of the organizers. She sent Marian Gibbons to cover it, and that says plenty. She’s having it fed directly here so she can see the speech herself. She and Rush are up in the control room right now.” Leslie’s eyes were glued to the screen as she whispered, “What are we going to do?”

  “Listen . . . very carefully.”

  Wilma Benthoff, the governor’s campaign manager, her blonde hair billowing and her black, sequined dress sparkling, made the introduction. “Ladies . . . and you men out there too . . . please welcome to the podium the Architect of the New Dawn, Governor Hiram Slater!”

  Thunderous applause. The camera followed Slater as he rose from the table and walked to the podium, the written speech in his hand.

  John ran to his desk for his notepad and got back in time to hear Slater begin his speech.

  “Fellow citizens,” the governor began, “and I do emphasize the word citizens, in these days, more than ever, the meaning of that word as it applies to everyone—all races, creeds, genders, and lifestyles—is crucial and a part of what this campaign is all about . . .” He went on, reiterating his platform and ideals and getting plenty of applause.

  Leslie took a turn listening and jotting notes, while John went to his desk to start editing for the Five O’clock. Then John stood and listened while she went to her desk to polish up her day’s work. It looked better than just standing there gawking at the screen.

  Snap! Snap! Snap! John was snapping his fingers, signaling her. She bounded from her desk, catching her wastebasket with her toe and flinging it into the aisle, where it promptly drew attention from the other staff.

  “Man, what’s up?” someone said.

  Leslie and John listened raptly as Governor Slater continued his speech and other newsroom staff began to gather out of curiosity.

  “. . . a woman’s inalienable, inviolable right to choose . . .” the governor said loftily. “I have not compromised on that ideal, and I always knew, even as we have all learned time and again together, that such freedom comes with a price, and that eternal vigilance is only one of its costs. As an army marches to victory, every soldier in the ranks knows he or she may not come back from the battle, that he—or she—may be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice in order that those who come after can walk on ground that was gained through that sacrifice. And so it is not with shame but with pride—and with hope that your hearts may be encouraged—that I share with you, just for a moment, how the battle for abortion rights has affected my own home, my own family.”

  At this moment the camera captured some reaction shots of Slater’s family—his wife, Ashley, his daughter Hayley, and his son Hyatt, all present to publicly support him.

  Slater continued, “My daughter Hillary was a young woman after my own heart, and I want her to be remembered for the fierce fighter she was. She was a soldier for justice, striving right alongside her daddy for the ideals my family and I—and you—all share. And so . . . it did not come to me as any great surprise or shock to receive the news that Hillary had given her life on the battlefield of women’s rights. It did not shame me to learn just recently that the original medical assessments in Hillary’s case were incomplete, that some fine details had been overlooked, and that, contrary to the original conclusions of the skilled medical team who tried to save her life on that fateful night in April, she did not die from mislabeled drugs or from a foolish mistake or from any overdose. Rather, knowing the risks but standing firm nevertheless on her right to choose for herself whether to embrace those risks, she willingly and gladly received an abortion. She chose to control her own body, her own life, and to carry on with her future.”

  Leslie just about fell over and did manage to compare Slater’s words with stuff one might encounter in a barnyard. John just shook his head and kept listening, his spirit churning within him to such a degree that his ha
nds began to shake.

  Slater continued, “Now, exactly how she died is unimportant. No medical procedure is totally without risks, we all know that, and there is no point in dwelling on the odds of such a thing happening or trying to fathom the unfathomable luck of the draw or hunt down who is to blame, if anyone. What if we did? Friends, it would be tantamount to marching backward, and I know Hillary would not want that. I also know that the enemies of choice would want that.

  “Did we know she was pregnant? No, we did not. Did we know she had chosen to have an abortion? No, we did not. Did we want to know these things, before or afterward or ever?” Then, with great emphasis, he said with special intensity, “No, we did not!” He paused. The crowd let it sink in a moment, adjusted to this new revelation, and then, in a slow crescendo of approval and encouragement, rose to their feet and applauded. The governor had become all the more their champion.

  In the newsroom Erica Johnson, the managing editor, indulged in some short applause herself, as did Valerie Hunter, special assignment reporter, and Barry Gauge, the commentator. Leslie didn’t applaud, and it caught her interest that only a month ago she probably would have.

  Governor Slater looked at the people sitting on either side of him, and the camera got close-ups of his supporters, including Fanny Wolfe, Gretchen Rafferty, and Candice Delano as he continued. “As a family, we have stood for the sanctity of privacy for all our children, and though trust and communication are foundational to our home, we still understand there are lines of privacy that cannot be crossed. I believe Hillary did what was right for her at that time, at that place in her life, and I will stand by her proudly, even in her death. I want you to do the same.” More applause, from the audience and from the newsroom.

  Leslie could feel some eyes staring at the back of her neck, but her arms remained firmly crossed, her hands silent.

  “Are abortions safe in this state? Of course they are, as my good friends here on the platform with me can and will guarantee. But we would be blind and shortsighted if we didn’t expect our enemies to dig and pry and demand to know more than they are entitled to know. Demagoguery is unavoidable in a situation like this, especially with the election coming up. So before my worthy opponent Bob Wilson begins to whine about this, let me say from the very outset that I intend to appoint a special committee to evaluate the safety, sanitary, and procedural standards of clinics licensed in this state. The committee will include Ms. Fanny Wolfe, president of the Federation for Controlled Parenthood and well known to you all . . . and also Gretchen Rafferty, director of the League for Abortion Rights.”

  Leslie and John exchanged a glance. They both understood that foxes were being appointed to guard the chickens.

  “I will also appoint distinguished members of the medical community to assist them, people who are intimately acquainted with the needs of women and equal to the delicacy of their task. I know their work will be to the advantage, and not the detriment, of women and women’s rights, and as a result none of us will ever need to worry over the safety of loved ones who may have to make this difficult choice in the privacy of their own hearts.

  “Your governor cares about women and their sacred right, and it is his desire to protect it, strengthen it, and establish it without fear or misgivings, so help me God!”

  Another standing ovation, the crowd cheering, waving their hands, some even jumping up and down with ecstasy. Some whoops also rose from the newsroom.

  John watched it all, and then, as if Carl were standing beside him, he heard the question Carl had first asked that rock group at the concert he attended and then left: “Where are we going? Where are you taking us?” He looked around the newsroom, then back at the monitor as the governor began his closing remarks, and once again he could hear that low rumble, could sense the same impending darkness he’d encountered in the shopping mall.

  Leslie couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Mommy, the emperor is naked!”

  That brought some mutterings from the others. She could feel the chill in the air.

  “Hey,” said Valerie Hunter, “whose side are you on anyway?”

  Leslie glared at her and pointed at the monitor. “That is the biggest pile of tripe I have ever heard! The guy’s crazy!”

  Two reporters looked at her and moaned as if she’d just told a stupid joke.

  Ali Downs, John’s co-anchor, looked at John and Leslie as if they’d caught a fatal disease. “What’s gotten into you two?”

  Valerie reprimanded her. “Leslie, you’re being unprofessional!”

  “Yeah, pretty emotional,” said Barry Gauge as he turned back to his computer console.

  Leslie turned to John and saw tears in his eyes. “He’s crazy!” she told him, hoping he’d agree.

  “And doomed,” said John.

  The governor was just finishing his remarks. Now he was returning to his seat.

  John’s eyes were glued to the screen. He knew what he was seeing now was not really on the monitor, but he knew he’d better watch carefully.

  He could have been staring at the glass door of a large washing machine. Inside, like so much laundry, the hundreds of people attending that rally were swirling, tumbling, screaming, and receding as if going down a huge, black drain.

  And there was the governor, tumbling past the window, headed for certain destruction, but beckoning to them, shouting to them to follow. Sometimes people would come against the glass and bang on it, trying to get out, but then their faces would vanish in the crowd to be seen no more.

  “Where are we going?” John asked quietly. “Where are you taking us?”

  “Forward, John!” said Ali Downs, turning away. “He’s taking us forward, and you’d better wake up and come along!”

  But Leslie understood what John was going through. “What do you see, John?”

  The monitor had gone blank. The feed of the governor’s speech was completed, and now Marian Gibbons was most likely doing her opening and closing stand-ups for the camera, trying various summaries of the governor’s comments in several different takes. Upon her return to the station she would select the one to include in her final package.

  John stared at the blank screen. “He’s caught in there. He’s ensnared in his own illusion.” Then he backed away, pointing at the blank screen. “You look at that thing long enough, it starts sucking you in, you know that?”

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “What do we do now, John? What about our story?”

  He turned away from the screen all the more determined. “You’re going to get the Brewers on-camera tonight, right?”

  “They’re ready. After this whole business with Shannon they’ve got the fire back in their eyes.”

  “Okay. I’m still expecting that tape of Shannon’s interview from Tom Carey. He said he Fed Ex’d it yesterday, so it should be in today. Carl and I will take a look at it tonight.” Another thought. “Oh, have you called Mrs. Westfall?”

  “Yeah, this morning. I told her all about Shannon, and I asked her if Mary might have a copy of the ‘Post-operative Instructions’ as well. She’s going to contact Mary and try to persuade her to meet with us. She can’t guarantee Mary will go on-camera though.”

  “We’ve got to get this story together, Leslie, and we’ve got to do it fast. Hiram Slater’s already come off the starting line!”

  CLANCY’S, THE BOISTEROUS nightspot, lounge, and pool hall, was enjoying its afternoon, right-after-work crowd. Though the place was noisy, it wasn’t as crowded and definitely not as dark as the other night.

  So much the worse for Martin Devin, who wanted very much not to be seen or recognized, but who felt he would have to take the risk as he stepped up to the bar.

  “Yeah, what’ll you have?” asked the bartender.

  Devin, dressed in his blue-collar worker disguise and wearing the same dark glasses, asked in a low voice, “Have you seen Willy around?”

  The bartender immediately eyed Devin suspiciously. “Who’s asking?”

&
nbsp; “A friend.”

  The bartender only sneered at Devin, drying some shot glasses with a white towel. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced, mister.”

  Devin was past being cool or professional. “Hey, cut the crap, will you? I’ve got to talk to him!”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  The bartender shrugged. “Like I said, buddy, we haven’t been introduced, and I value Willy’s patronage, you follow?”

  “But . . . but what about . . .” Devin lowered his voice. “. . . what about Ted Canan? I heard he was in a jam.”

  Now the bartender’s eyes filled with malice. “You know what? You ask too many questions.”

  Devin tried to grab him. “Now listen, you—” But the bartender backed away, and at the same moment four big, able-bodied friends of the establishment turned to give Devin their full, icy attention, burly arms ready.

  Devin backed off. “Hey . . . I don’t want any trouble—”

  “Then get outa here!” said the bartender.

  Martin Devin, chief of staff and special assistant to the governor, got out of there like a dog shooed out of the house.

  VIDEO: JOHN BARRETT and Ali Downs in a quick-cutting montage of different shots, a video scrapbook. Both of them looking out over the city as the sun sparkles on the skyscrapers; John interviewing a fire captain as firefighters douse a burning warehouse in the background; Ali showing a class of first graders some flash cards about AIDS; John and Ali working together on a newscast script, laughing at a joke, talking to a camera.

  Audio: A low, mellow voice borrowed from a wine commercial that uses only periods, no commas: “For the third year in a row NewsSix is number one. NewsSix. Ali Downs. John Barrett. Your premier news gathering team. Again.”

  “Nice ad,” said John.

  “They’re all nice,” said Carl. Then he laughed. “If all those people out there only knew!”

  They were in John’s apartment, the television playing while John tinkered with a Beta cassette deck an engineer had let him borrow from the station.