Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  “I can appreciate that.”

  Then there was silence, the ominous kind. John finally broke it by asking, “So, Ben, will I be working here tomorrow?”

  Ben’s gaze fell to the top of the desk for a moment and then returned to meet John’s. “Well . . . Loren Harris went over your contract. The contract says we can’t fire you, but it does allow us to reassign you.”

  John was expecting this. “Uh . . . to what? Feature reporting?”

  “Yeah . . . reporting fluff. Soft features. Barbershop quartets and oyster eating contests and slug races, things like that. Of course, it’ll mean fewer hours. You’ll only be working part-time.”

  John leaned back in his chair and laughed quietly. He’d heard this kind of offer being made before, usually to reporters who didn’t show up the next day.

  Ben had to laugh too. He knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. “You know how it works, John. Loren’s forcing you to quit. That way we kill our scapegoat and we don’t have to give him any severance pay. Such a deal!”

  “Can I have a day or two to think about it?”

  “Oh gosh, yes.”

  Another moment of pensive silence. John gathered up his script. “Ben . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you . . . do you understand what I did here today? Do you know why I did it?”

  Ben looked at John with eyes that hadn’t missed a thing.

  “For the same reason you’re getting . . . reassigned. You’re not being a good citizen in La-La Land; you don’t believe all this stuff anymore.” He looked at the plywood backdrop with the city skyline, the false monitors, the textured blues and greens. “I think . . . I think Loren’s afraid that one of these days you’re finally gonna lose it and start hollering, ‘We’ve been lying to you! The city you see behind me isn’t real—it’s just painted there, you hear me?’”

  “‘Mommy, the emperor’s naked . . .’”

  Ben put a finger to his lips. “Shhh! You want to get us both fired?”

  John had to laugh. Ben did understand.

  Ben came closer and sat in Ali’s chair. “But let me tell you something, John, just for the record. I was watching your performance just now, when nobody else was. You did all right. As a matter of fact, I think it was the best you ever did.” Ben’s eyes twinkled. “You went over by at least thirty seconds, but you did all right.”

  “I believed it. It was true.”

  Ben nodded. Then he added in all sincerity, “John . . . you did the right thing.”

  WILLY FERRINI HAD just gotten back in town and was enjoying another one of those Hiram Slater commercials on the wide-screen television at Clancy’s when Henderson took him aside for a chat—way aside actually, all the way down to headquarters.

  Willy was not a noble person, of course. He had no one’s interests but his own in mind. “Hey, you don’t wanna talk to me. Talk to the man on top—Martin Devin. He’s the one who hired me to . . . uh . . .”

  “To what?” Henderson asked, circling impatiently around the same interrogation room where he’d grilled Howie Metzger.

  “To get the tape from Ed Lake and then from that old Barrett character.”

  “Did he tell you to kill Barrett?”

  Willy shook his head and waved aside that notion. “Hey, he just said to do whatever it took. He wanted that tape back. He said not to come back without it, and that’s what I told Ted and Howie.”

  “You mean, of course, the Martin Devin, the governor’s chief of staff?”

  Willy liked the important sound of that. He smiled and nodded.

  Henderson instructed, “Say yes for the tape.”

  Willy remembered his confession was being taped. “Oh yeah . . . Yes.”

  THE PHONE IN John’s apartment rang two times, and then the answering machine clicked on, playing a message John had recorded as soon as he got home. “Hi, this is John. I hope you won’t mind if I don’t answer the phone right now. I’m all right, but I . . . well, I need to be alone for a while. Maybe we can touch base again tomorrow, okay? Go ahead and leave a message after the beep.”

  “Hi,” came a familiar and concerned voice. “This is Leslie. I saw the Five and Seven O’clock, and I can just guess what happened. Listen, hang in there, John, and remember, we’re all behind you. As soon as you’re ready, I want to talk about it, so give me a ring.”

  John sat in a chair at the dining table, looking out at the city coming alive with lights as the darkness of night deepened. The newscast was over now. He’d told Mom and Carl how he needed this night to himself, and they understood. Now he could feel all he wanted until the feelings made sense. He could even cry.

  Another call came in. “Hey, John, this is Susan—you know, the show director. Hey, guy, I’ve never done this before—you know, just stuck my neck out like this, but . . . I just want to say I’m sorry you got bumped. That story on Slater—I don’t think it’s going to go away. I think you’ve really uncovered something, and you should feel good about it, and uh . . . that’s . . . well, I guess that’s all I need to say. I hope to see you around. Good-bye.”

  John appreciated Susan’s call. Someday those encouraging words would work their way through his sorrow and do him some good. Someday.

  But tonight as John sat there quietly, motionless, looking out over the city, all he could do was weep over it.

  Just like Dad.

  Another call. “Hi, John. This is Aaron Hart. Listen, we were all watching tonight, and you did great. I won’t bother you about this until you’re ready, but you’ll be interested to know that the Brewers are going to go after the clinic, and they’ll be getting help from . . . uh . . . Rachel Franklin, Shannon DuPliese, and Cindy Danforth. Dr. Huronac and that Claire from the clinic too. Anyway, as soon as you get the chance we need to pool all the information and see what we have—but not until you’re ready, okay? You just take it easy, be encouraged, and . . . we’ll hear from you in your own good time. Bye.”

  John reached over and turned off the phone’s ringer and the answering machine’s volume. Then he sat there in the silence, alone with himself.

  Despair. That’s what he was battling right now.

  Aaron . . . what good will you do, really? If you shut down one clinic, another will pop up somewhere else; tear one clinic down, they’ll just build another one. The problem isn’t that clinic; it’s in the hearts of all those lost and crying souls out there. The answer’s got to come to them, to each heart, to each and every pain and resentment, to every wound that ever needed healing, to every soiled conscience that ever needed cleansing. It would take a miracle!

  And tonight . . . what good did I do, really? What difference did I make? Was anybody out there even listening?

  John’s Bible lay on the table. He’d turned to 1 Kings 19, where Elijah the prophet was hiding for his life in a cave and cried out to the Lord, “I have been very zealous for the LORD God Almighty. The Israelites have rejected your covenant, broken down your altars, and put your prophets to death with the sword. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me too.” He read the passage several times as he sat there alone in the dim lamplight of his dining room. Elijah’s words captured just how he felt.

  “Well, Lord, now it’s over, so maybe You’ll tell me just what it was all about.” John heard no answer. He saw no vision.

  He pointed toward the city and began to weep again. “Lord God, what about their cries? Why do You let me hear them? What can I do about it?”

  John sat up straight in the chair, watching the city, hoping for a thought, an insight, an answer from God, anything that would bring sense to his misery.

  But God remained silent.

  “Lord . . . what’s to become of us?”

  That was his last question. He listened only a moment longer and then, drained of tears, despondent in spirit, he settled back in his chair with nothing more to say or think or do or hope, his eyes closed to the whole helpless world. And there he stayed, he didn’t know for how
long.

  JOHN OPENED HIS eyes, for no reason he was aware of except that something had prodded him, much as a sound, a light, a bump, or a squeak might wake a person without his knowing exactly what had done it.

  The first thing he noticed was the pattern of the vinyl flooring on the dining room floor. There was nothing unusual about it, except that he was seeing it so clearly where before the light had been too dim.

  Light? Yes. Light that wasn’t there before.

  Fascinated, he sat there and watched as the light grew, fanning out gently, displacing the shadows, steadily building and widening until it filled a long rectangle across the dining room floor.

  It was coming from his bedroom, shining through the open doorway. Had the light come on in there?

  Couldn’t be. This light was not from some fixture or lamp. It was more like the glimmer from diamonds or the glint from polished silver, and yet it was soft, warm, comforting, with a hint of gold that seemed to move within it like myriads of tiny flames.

  John moved for the first time and only then became aware of his muscles and the weight and size of his body. He rose from the chair and stood on his feet. Yes, his feet, his physical feet on the physical floor in his real, physical apartment. He was really here, the light was really here, and this was no dream.

  A vision, maybe? Well, maybe.

  The light had fully arrived, no longer growing in intensity but remaining steady now, shining out of his bedroom and lighting up much of the apartment. John moved step by step toward the bedroom door, knowing he would find something but having no idea what it might be. An angel perhaps? Things like that happened in the Bible, and he’d heard stories about such encounters from some of the saints in church years ago.

  God? He stopped for a moment. If this was going to be a burning bush, he sure didn’t feel like a Moses.

  But there was no fear. Only awe—and extreme curiosity. He took another step and then another.

  Now he could see his bed, the bedspread brightly illumined.

  Then the pillows neatly arranged at the headboard.

  And there it was.

  A lamb.

  Warmth and joy flooded him, flowing like warm oil from his head and on down to his feet. He relaxed and even smiled, leaning against the doorpost, looking at that little creature now looking back at him with gentle, golden eyes, the lashes blinking every once in a while, the legs tucked neatly under its perfect, unblemished body.

  The lamb! They’d met before, when John was ten. And as John stood there in awe, drinking in the vision, he remembered the details he’d seen back then—the white wool, so perfect it glowed; the attentive, flitting ears; the kind, gentle eyes; and the remarkably peaceful demeanor. The lamb looked exactly the same, in every detail.

  “Hello,” he ventured to say, but very softly, afraid he might startle his guest.

  The lamb raised its head attentively and returned the greeting with its eyes.

  “It’s . . . uh . . . it’s been a while. I’m very happy to see you again.”

  He dared to enter the room, approaching the lamb so very furtively, his hand outstretched.

  The lamb rose to its feet, the little black hooves glistening, the bed sinking only slightly under its weight, and took a few steps toward him.

  John chuckled as he stroked the lamb’s nose. This little guy wasn’t afraid of anything.

  Then it entered John’s mind to find a treat of some kind, some token of friendship—or loyalty. “Uh . . . carrots. Would you like a carrot?”

  The lamb didn’t respond one way or the other. John backed away, speaking gently. “Let me . . . let me bring you something, okay? I have to, you know, be a good host, right?”

  He hurried into the kitchen and threw on the light.

  Then he scrambled through the refrigerator for a carrot.

  “Okay!” he said, closing the refrigerator. “Here you go!”

  Oh. He stopped and fell silent.

  The lamb was standing at the sliding glass door, looking out at the city, its body motionless with attention.

  Suddenly the carrot was unimportant. John set it on the counter and quietly joined the lamb, kneeling beside it, looking out through the glass.

  They remained there for quite some time, just listening. The lamb looked up at him, the eyes troubled.

  He nodded. “Yeah, I hear them too.” He looked toward the city once more as the lamb followed his gaze. “I hear them too.”

  THAT NIGHT JOHN slept peacefully for the first time in over a month, the lamb curled serenely on the bed near his feet, keeping watch.

  CHAPTER 35

  THE VERY NEXT day John Barrett was not seen in the newsroom, and few were surprised. In his place, Walt Bruechner hurried about, getting acquainted with the daytime staff, getting accustomed to the daytime routine.

  Out in the station’s lobby, a maintenance man carefully removed the fasteners from the brightly lit, full-color, three-foot-high photograph of John Barrett, news anchor, and took it down from the wall, removing it from the company of the other great names and faces.

  Above the avenues, streets, and freeways here and there around the city, workmen began to peel the face of John Barrett from the billboards, removing him in long, jagged strips that fell into the bed of a truck parked below.

  At the city garage, the Barrett and Downs posters were removed from the sides of the buses to make room for new posters that were due to arrive any day, new posters with the face of Ali Downs plus the new face of Walt Bruechner. The old posters were rolled up tightly and deposited in the trash bin.

  Throughout that day’s programming on Channel 6, bold new promo spots began to air. Impressive video images of the hot new NewsSix team—Bruechner and Downs—flashed across the screen, exuding integrity and incisiveness.

  By the day’s end John Barrett, bold, incisive, trustworthy, accurate, and up-to-the-minute anchorman, would silently slip out of existence in the popular culture and within weeks would vanish completely from the public mind.

  JOHN BARRETT, HIGH, lofty, untouchable, and altogether perfect, was still gazing down with honest eyes from the rafters of Dad Barrett’s shop as Carl positioned a ladder just beneath him, climbed up the rungs, and removed the portrait from its place. The stern look of honesty never changed as the portrait made the trip down the ladder in Carl’s hands, and the eyes showed no response as Carl broke the wooden frame with a hatchet and neatly folded the canvas into quarters. When the folded canvas and its wooden frame were ceremoniously placed in the garbage, the face wasn’t even seeing the light of day, but was folded upon itself in darkness, never to be seen again.

  Carl placed the lid back on the garbage can, fastened it down with an elastic strap, and then let out a whoop the whole neighborhood must have heard, his face toward Heaven, his arms stretching upward.

  Mom Barrett stuck her head out the back door. “Carl! What’s wrong—”

  When she saw him standing by the garbage can and noticed the joy on his face, she pieced it all together and went back inside, indulging in a quiet little whoop of her own.

  GOVERNOR HIRAM SLATER wasted no time. The moment he arrived at his office he told Miss Rhodes, “Get Martin Devin in here right now, right away, pronto, no excuses!”

  She gasped at his manner but carried out his order immediately, grabbing up her telephone to make the call.

  Slater went into his office and immediately removed his suit jacket, throwing it on the deep, leather-covered sofa. He would talk to Martin Devin this morning, and he would get the straight scoop from him on everything or Devin was going to walk that very day, that very hour!

  First the spilled coffee, and then the blue running shoes, and now . . . well, everything the prophet had said about Devin yesterday did make sense. The 911 tape! Of course. It would have been the easiest, most direct way for Barrett and Albright to find out about Shannon DuPliese.

  That tape could have triggered everything. That tape that Martin Devin was supposed to destroy!
>
  Well, did he? Did he?

  The governor hit his intercom button. “Miss Rhodes! Have you talked to Devin?”

  “Sir . . .” She sounded hesitant. “Mr. Devin says he’s with some visitors right now and can’t get away.” The governor wouldn’t accept that, and then thought that maybe he should, and then decided he wouldn’t. He called Devin’s office himself. Devin’s secretary answered.

  “This is the governor! I want to talk to—”

  Miss Rhodes’s voice squawked out of the intercom. “Mr. Governor, Mr. Devin is here now.”

  The governor hung up on Devin’s secretary as the office door opened and Martin Devin came in with two gentlemen.

  That perturbed the governor even more. “Devin, we need to have a conference immediately.” He looked at the two men. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us?”

  “Uh, Mr. Governor,” said Devin, “these men are from the Police Department. I’d like you to meet Detective Robert Henderson and his partner, Detective Clay Oakley.”

  No one made a move to shake hands. The two detectives only nodded at the governor, and he replied, “Gentlemen . . .”

  Devin explained, “Mr. Governor, I’m sure you’ll want to know that these two gentlemen are here to take me into custody.”

  That didn’t register. It was just too outrageous.

  “Custody? What do you mean, custody?”

  “They’re . . . uh . . . they’re placing me under arrest.”

  For one of the few times in his life Hiram Slater was at a loss for words. He just stood there, his mouth hanging open and trembling, his eyes darting from face to face, looking for some safe place to land.

  Devin figured he’d better sew up some loose ends before he left. “Wilma Benthoff has the new poll results, and she’ll be bringing them by this afternoon. You’re doing well—still way ahead of Wilson. Rowen and Hartly are preparing a new package of TV and radio promos. Uh . . . I’ve told them to be available in case you need to do any image repair. They should be getting in touch with you today or tomorrow.”