Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  Howie shook his head. “No way! No way!”

  “Are you talking to us, Howie?”

  “Yeah, I’m talking to you! And you’d better be listening!”

  “So that isn’t what happened?”

  Howie was insulted. “No, no, no . . . now that’s Ted talking, man! What do you expect he’s gonna say?”

  “So where’d he go wrong?”

  “I didn’t kill the old man!”

  “So Ted did?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Well what?”

  “Nobody killed anybody. We roughed him up, that’s all. We wanted the tape, and he wouldn’t tell us where it was, so we just tried to persuade him a little.”

  “I’d say you persuaded him a lot, so much that he died.”

  “Hey, he had a heart attack or something. We didn’t hit him that hard. We hit another old guy, and he didn’t die like that.”

  “What other guy?”

  “Oh . . . Ted didn’t tell you about that?”

  “What other guy?”

  Howie smiled. “See? Now you’re talking to the right man! I’m not holding out on you—I’m cooperating. You remember that later. The other guy . . . Lake . . . We went after him first ’cause we thought he had the tape. We cornered him right outside his house and . . . man, I don’t remember if we hit him first or if he talked first . . . The guy had no guts at all, you know? Soon as we grabbed him, he started squealing, ‘I don’t have it, I don’t have it!’ I think Ted slapped him once or twice. Ted’s cruel, you know? I don’t go for that cruel stuff.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “But he told us right away, ‘I gave it to John Barrett, the old guy that runs that plumbing warehouse,’ and he told us where the warehouse was and everything. He spilled his guts, man, so we let him go. He was a pushover.”

  Oakley thought that was intriguing. “So, it sounds like you hardly hit him at all.”

  “No. Guess not.”

  Henderson renewed his charge. “But you had to hit Barrett a little harder, didn’t you?”

  “Well hey, man . . .”

  “So hard you killed him.”

  Howie shook his head, indignant. “Hey, nobody killed anybody!”

  “Lake. You said the other man’s name was Lake? Got a first name?”

  “Uh . . . Edward, I think. Willy said he used to be some head honcho with the government. I don’t know what he did.”

  “All right. So who dumped the pipe rack over on old man Barrett? Was that your idea?”

  “No, no, it was Ted’s idea! Hey, I’m not that smart! I don’t kill people for a living! Ted does that stuff. He’s good at it. He said we had to make it look like an accident.”

  “So you drove the forklift—”

  “Ted drove the forklift! Man, will you quit looking at me? Ted’s the killer. I’m a witness. I’m telling you what really happened.”

  “And you never found the tape?”

  “Didn’t stick around to look for it. Once the old man was dead we just dumped the pipe rack and got out of there.”

  “Who’s Willy?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said Willy told you about Lake. Who’s Willy?”

  Oakley asked, “Willy Ferrini?”

  Howie brightened. “Yeah. The Fixer. Ferrini the Fixer.”

  Henderson chuckled. “The would-be godfather.”

  Howie thought that was funny. “Yeah. Even tries to mumble like Marlon Brando!”

  “So where does he come in?”

  “We work for him sometimes. He’s the guy who hired us to bust heads at the governor’s rally, and he’s the guy who sent us after Lake and that tape.”

  “So what was on the tape—did he ever tell you?”

  Howie shrugged a little. “Top-secret stuff, like wiretaps, secret conversations, surveillance—that kind of stuff. Sounded big-time.”

  “So who hired Willy?”

  Howie shrugged. “Ask Willy.”

  TUESDAY MORNING, AT about a quarter to 9, John and Mel the cameraman parked their white NewsSix fastback in one of the press stalls behind the capitol building and started across the vast lawns of the Capitol Plaza toward the Executive Offices, a four-story, marble-and-concrete complex that faced the capitol and emulated the classic architecture of the landmarks around it. John thought the building looked rather dismal and boxlike, almost as if nice offices and large windows had been installed in a parking garage, with huge pillars added in front for no apparent reason. Oh well, today he wasn’t feeling too good about this place anyway.

  Across the plaza they went, like two tiny sojourners crossing a sea of green, Mel lugging the camera on his shoulder and the equipment bag at his side, John carrying the tripod and some extra lights, as well as his notebook. They drew a few looks but only briefly. News crews were a common sight around here.

  John looked at his watch. The governor was expecting them at 9 sharp. They should be on time.

  But the walk seemed very long, not only because they were lugging the equipment, but because neither one of them was looking forward to this interview. All the way over here in the car, Mel kept saying things like, “Well, you’ve got guts, John, I’ll hand you that,” and “Yes sir, this one ain’t gonna be easy,” and “Hope they remember I’m just the cameraman,” and “What are you gonna ask him anyway?”

  John had an odd feeling walking toward this interview, a strange mixture of anxiety over the interview itself and how it might turn out, and exhilaration from the whole sense of adventure surrounding the story. He looked around, noticing how tiny and insignificant he and Mel looked out here in the middle of the plaza. Like ants. Very lonely ants. Yes, the loneliness was part of the adventure.

  It took some struggle to get the equipment through the revolving door and into the lobby. Then they had to pass through security, letting two guards in blue uniforms check their IDs, go through their equipment, X-ray their bags and cases, and watch them walk through the metal detector. Mel kept making the thing beep until he took off his earring—he’d chosen a rather large one today.

  Finally, they were inside, feeling the awe and intimidation of having breached a fortress. This was where the Big People worked, the Giants, the Rulers and Kings. Here, in these halls of marble, under these high ceilings and brass chandeliers, the Holders of Power made their decisions and turned the tide of history. In the movies lofty background music always played whenever a character found himself in such a setting. John couldn’t help thinking of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington with James Stewart.

  Then the thought “Elijah the prophet confronts King Ahab” struck him, and he felt the size of an ant again.

  When the elevator door opened at the fourth floor, it unveiled the hallowed halls of the King: an expansive lobby and reception area, mostly marble, with murals of state history on the walls and a reception desk standing like a bastion in the middle of the red carpet, the skinny lady with glasses on the chain around her neck facing the elevator like a guard on the ramparts, ready to ward off invaders. Over in one corner to the right a uniformed guard sat at a desk, doing nothing in particular.

  John introduced himself and Mel. The lady smiled and made a call.

  Then, from the far end of a cavernous hall, a woman appeared, walking briskly toward them, her high heels tapping out a tight little rhythm that echoed off the ceiling and floors and sounded like distant gunfire. At first she was so far away they couldn’t even make out her face. But as she approached and grew steadily in size, they could discern a sharp-looking, thin woman with stare-you-down eyes and billowing, curly blonde hair.

  When she finally reached the reception area, she extended her hand in greeting. “Mr. Barrett, I’m Wilma Benthoff, the governor’s campaign manager and head of public relations. Will you come with me please?”

  John picked up the tripod and lights, Mel grabbed his camera and carry bag, and they followed her down the vast hallway, walking under huge marble arches and bronze chandeliers with myriads
of tiny bulbs glowing gold. Mel had worn a conventional shirt instead of his usual T-shirt, but now he was wishing he owned a tie.

  “There is to be no eating, drinking, or smoking anywhere on this floor, and you are not to touch any of the brass railings or fixtures,” Ms. Benthoff instructed over her shoulder. “Any umbrellas, canes, tools, or implements must be checked outside the chamber door except those items necessary for the interview.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The governor has granted you one half hour for the interview and reserves the right to terminate the interview at any time. You must address him as Mr. Governor, you must ask your questions only when he has indicated he is ready to receive them, and you must not interrupt him when he speaks. You must frame your questions clearly and succinctly.”

  “Right.”

  “Right on.”

  “Please observe protocol at all times, and follow the directions given you as to where and how you may set up your camera.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  At the end of the hall were two huge, ornately carved oak doors with bronze hinges and handles. Ms. Benthoff put her full weight into swinging one of them open and held it steady while they passed quickly through.

  Now they were in the mini-kingdom of Miss Rhodes, the governor’s secretary, the comfortable, well-furnished chamber that lay between the outside world and the chamber, the governor’s office. Had any other mortal ever gotten this close?

  Miss Rhodes, a matronly, round-faced woman with hair dyed reddish-brown, rose from her desk to greet them. “I’ll let the governor know you’re here.”

  She picked up her telephone, spoke very quietly, and set it down.

  The big oak door to the governor’s office swung open with a burst of wind, and a tall, strong, handsome man emerged, jabbing out his hand in greeting. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m Martin Devin, chief of staff and special assistant to the governor.” John and Mel each had a turn having their whole frame shaken by his handshake.

  “Won’t you come in?” They followed him around the last bastion—Miss Rhodes’s desk—and through the big oak door, into the Office of the Governor.

  This was a wondrous room, with ornate paneling on the walls, brass hardware on every door, window, cupboard, and cabinet, a central chandelier for general lighting, ornate brass wall sconces for mood lighting, floor and table lamps positioned just so. Two walls were lined with bookshelves full of books and fine collectibles of brass, iron, and pottery. Art hung on the walls, a huge globe stood in the corner, and through the ceiling-high window behind the governor’s chair the capitol dome rose against a blue sky, a soul-stirring symbol of honor, duty, and country. John could hear lofty, patriotic music rising in his mind, and now he felt very much like Jimmy Stewart’s Mr. Smith.

  Mr. Devin stood to one side of the governor’s desk, ready to do his bidding. Ms. Benthoff took a seat on the other side, a writing pad ready for taking notes.

  But where was the governor?

  “Gentlemen,” Mr. Devin said, “Governor Hiram Slater.”

  “Uh, hello, sir . . .” John heard Mel say. “I’m honored.”

  Mel was looking toward the governor’s desk, but John didn’t see anyone there.

  No, wait, there was someone. John could just see the top of someone’s head poking up from behind the desk.

  Governor Slater? Governor Hiram Slater, the Architect of the New Dawn? The towering icon of progress? The Fate of the State? The King atop the highest pinnacle of power?

  John saw a little man, no taller than four feet, peering out over the top of the desk, his eyes wide with fear, his little fingers gripping the edge of the desk in a death grip.

  “And you must be the anchorman John Barrett,” came the governor’s voice, somewhat high-pitched but normal for Governor Slater.

  John recovered from his vision in time to see the full-size governor standing behind his desk in a perfectly tailored blue, pin-striped suit, with white shirt and red tie, one hand resting on the glassy smooth desktop, the other extended toward him.

  John was amazed and couldn’t help appearing so as he took the governor’s hand and shook it. “Hello, Mr. Governor,” he said, even smiling a little, not in a socially pleasant way but in relief and even amusement.

  The governor looked at Mel and also threw some prompting glances at Ms. Benthoff as he said, “Why don’t you go ahead and set your things down for a moment? The interview is somewhat contingent at this time. I think we’ll just talk first.” Ms. Benthoff guided Mel to a nice area some distance from the governor’s desk where he could set everything down and then placed a chair there for him to sit in. “Thank you for your patience,” she said in a tone that said he’d better be patient.

  The governor looked at John again. “Mr. Barrett, with little time afforded us, I think we should come to an understanding in short order. Won’t you sit down?”

  John watched as the little four-foot Hiram backed away from him, bumped into his chair, and then ducked behind the desk.

  Bump! A chair came up behind John’s knees, and he just about fell backward into it. Mr. Devin was quick to facilitate the governor’s wishes. John sat.

  The governor—the “real” governor—sat, eyeing John for a moment. Then, leaning forward, his hands folded on the desk, he said, “First of all, I’d like to know just where you’re coming from, Mr. Barrett, and why you’re doing this story. Now I might be wrong in assuming this, but I’m sure you and your father have had many conversations about me, hmm?”

  John made a conscious effort to look normal and not gawk. But he was distracted by the realization that his eyes were open. He could see. He could really see. “Um . . . only one conversation actually. It was after your kickoff rally. I was trying to tell him to leave you alone and stop preaching at you.”

  The governor’s eyebrows went up, and he exchanged a glance with Mr. Devin. “That’s very interesting, Mr. Barrett, considering the approach you’re taking now.”

  John continued to build his answer. “I was embarrassed by his behavior. Most everyone knew who he was, and here I was, an up-and-coming television news anchor very concerned for my image and reputation, with a religious kook for a father.”

  The governor said nothing but eyed John warily.

  John continued, figuring the governor was giving him the floor. “But his religious zeal aside, as I considered the gist of what he had to say . . . I came to realize he had a valid point. Mr. Governor . . .” John tried to keep a gentle, even tone. He was venturing onto thin ice, and he knew it. “I was running scared. Running from the Truth, running from the man I truly was, hiding behind an image that portrayed me as more than I truly was. I couldn’t see that Dad was just trying to warn you—all of us actually—that we’re not being honest with ourselves or with others or with God. Mr. Governor, contrary to what your PR people have told you, image is not everything. It’s an illusion, a trick, a lie that we even start to believe ourselves. And like Dad said, someday the image will collapse—your image, my image—and . . . well, I had to ask myself, when the image collapses, will there be a real man left standing in its place?”

  The governor grew restless. “So please tell me what all this has to do with the story you’re doing and with this interview.”

  “The story, and this interview, have to do with Truth. Dad told me once that the Truth can be your best friend or your worst enemy. If you’re willing to hear the Truth, it might hurt a little, but you’ll come out ahead, you’ll benefit. If you’re encasing yourself in an illusion and running from the Truth . . . well, sooner or later it’ll catch up to you, and then the blow will be a lot more severe. You may not be able to pick up the pieces. That’s what Dad was trying to get across, and I’ve since concluded that he was right.”

  Governor Hiram Slater sneered just a little. “And now . . . I suppose you have picked up the mantle of your father—hence this vindic
tive, prying, moralizing story of yours?”

  “I’ve come to know the same God my father knew, and I’ve tried to know and live according to God’s Truth. That’s what brought about this story.”

  “But you do realize what you’re up against?”

  “A bubble? An illusion?”

  Slater slammed the top of his desk in anger.

  Devin stepped forward. “Okay, that’s enough. The interview’s over—”

  Slater put out his hand. “No, Martin, not yet. I’m not through with this . . . this self-righteous, hypocritical bigot . . . this . . . this . . .” Not able to think of a greater insult, he skipped ahead. “Barrett, we’re going to talk in practical terms here. We’re going to be reasonable. We’re going to weigh the alternatives and come to an understanding, all right?

  “Now, what do I have? Let’s just lay it out in the open. I have an ad campaign saturating every household in the state even as we speak, and it’s weeks ahead of you. I’ve already come out publicly with the true cause of Hillary’s death, and I’ve pledged to look into the safety standards of abortion clinics. I have the public mind on my side, way on my side. I’m on your 1-yard line, all right?

  “Now, what do you have? Some little mud-slinging story about . . . what? That I knew how my daughter died in the first place but covered it up and so another girl died in the same clinic. Well, big deal. You really think anybody out there really cares? And how much time do you have to do the story? Two minutes! Just two minutes! Yes, I’ve talked to Loren Harris. He’s a friend of mine. We look out for each other, which means you’d better look out!

  “So just imagine how much effect your little two-minute package is going to have against all the other media saturation we’ve already established, not even including the paid advertisements! Hey, the papers are telling my side of the story, and so are all the other stations, and tomorrow, Barrett, so will your station! It’ll be like you were never there, like you never said a word!