Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  But of course that wasn’t what the governor wanted to talk about. “Martin! They’re arresting you on . . . on what charges?”

  Devin thought for a moment, then answered directly, “Oh . . . accessory to murder, conspiracy to commit murder . . . it all has to do with murder.”

  “What? What are you talking about—”

  Devin held up his hand. “Mr. Governor, I can’t discuss it . . . I’m sure you understand.” Then, “But maybe I can tell you this much . . . Remember Mad Prophet Junior from yesterday? He was right.” He allowed himself a self-mocking laugh. “See what happens when you lie?” Devin looked at the cops again. “Okay, gentlemen, let’s go.”

  The governor was flabbergasted and could only stand there while Oakley took some handcuffs out of his pocket.

  Henderson tried to be gracious and told Oakley, “We’ll wait until we get outside.”

  Oakley shrugged and put the cuffs away.

  Then Henderson said to the governor, “Nice to meet you, sir. Oh . . . if I may give you some advice . . . you should seek legal counsel, sir, right away.”

  With a nod from Henderson, all three left the room and went by Miss Rhodes’s desk and on down the long, ornate hallway to the elevators.

  The governor went as far as the big oak doors to watch them depart, his face pale with horror. This couldn’t be happening.

  What was happening? He looked at Miss Rhodes, but she didn’t have any answers and only gave him her most blank, most perplexed expression. “Should I . . . call an attorney or something?” she inquired.

  “Call Rowen and Hartly . . . and Wilma Benthoff . . . oh, and Clyde Johnson, my attorney.” He saw the elevator doors open. Devin and the two cops got on the elevator, and someone got off, stepping into the reception area.

  Oh no. It was Ashley . . . Mrs. Hiram Slater. She was not expected.

  But then, nothing that had happened so far had been expected, although he was beginning to think it should have been.

  By the time Ashley Slater got to her husband’s office, he was standing by the big window, looking out toward the capitol dome.

  “Hiram, I’m sorry to come in unannounced, but . . . I’m afraid we have to talk.”

  He turned slowly from the window, defeat and surrender just beginning to darken his expression. Abruptly he stated the fact before she did. “Hayley is pregnant.”

  Now it was Mrs. Slater’s turn to be shocked. “How . . . how did you know?”

  Slater looked down at the deep, royal-blue carpet as he recalled the prophet’s words from yesterday. “It’s Wednesday.”

  LESLIE GOT HER call from Ben Oliver that morning. The big battle was over, he said, and the dust was settling. If she could come back without kicking it all up again, she was welcome.

  Well . . . she would try to be a good girl, but she knew it wouldn’t be easy. At 9 o’clock she was back in the newsroom, ready for that day’s assignment, ready to participate in the story planning session around Erica Johnson’s desk. Tina was at that meeting, but their eyes never met, and they didn’t say a word to each other. It was clear they’d both had a talking-to from Ben.

  The day’s outlook seemed routine enough. There’d been a fire on the waterfront that needed a quick follow-up; Benson Dynamics was still wallowing in red ink and passing out pink slips; the mayor was appointing a special investigator to find out whom to blame for the new sidewalk buckling down at the public market. Leslie got assigned the buckling sidewalk story, something relatively tame, easy, and nonhazardous.

  When the meeting ended, she went to her desk to gather her gear and wait for her cameraman. John was on her mind. She hadn’t seen him or talked to him since the day before yesterday, and she was dying to know how he was doing, what he was doing, what he would be doing. Too much remained unresolved, and it was driving her crazy.

  Someone stopped at her desk. She looked up.

  It was Tina Lewis. “Hi.”

  Now you be a good girl, Leslie! “Uh . . . hi, Tina. How are you?”

  The moment Leslie asked that question, Tina’s eyes fell, and Leslie could see the old fight was gone. The fire in her eyes was all but extinguished. Tina seemed crestfallen. Something terrible must have happened since the morning meeting.

  “Tina? Are you feeling all right?”

  Tina raised her head again, drew a controlled breath, and said softly, “I’m . . . Well, I hope I’m just a little bit smarter now, smart enough to tell you . . . I’m sorry.” She struggled, trying to qualify the statement. “I’m not . . . well, I’m not abandoning my position on things. But I’m just trying to see things more accurately, get a fuller picture.” She got frustrated trying to explain herself. “I still have to think it through, but . . . let me say this much. You and John were right—in certain areas. In certain areas you were right on the money, you were following your instincts well, and I can see that now.”

  “Well . . . thank you.”

  “Anyway . . . it’s good to have you back.” And with that, Tina turned and hurried away.

  Leslie leaned back in her chair, a smile widening on her face and her eyes widening with surprise. “Well . . . what do you know about that?”

  What on earth had gotten into Tina? What was happening around here?

  Whoa! What was this? Ben Oliver and Erica Johnson came scurrying into the room and over to Erica’s desk, where Erica started scanning the day’s story assignments and having a muttered meeting with Ben. Then they both looked her way.

  “Leslie?” said Erica, beckoning with her finger.

  Oh-oh. This might be the answer right here. Leslie got over there, trying to play along with the low-key, semi-secretive mood.

  Erica looked at Ben, and Ben took the floor. “We’re putting you on another story.” He touched Leslie’s arm. “Hang on to yourself. I don’t want the whole newsroom coming unglued, at least not all at once.” Then he broke the news. “Martin Devin’s just been arrested—charged with murder.”

  Leslie tried to hang on to herself, but she could feel her heart racing, and when she spoke, her voice wanted to squeal. “Does . . . does John know?”

  Ben was still stunned himself. “If you want to know what I think, I think he always knew. He’s the one who called just now.”

  Leslie made an easy connection. “You mean . . . you mean the murder is . . . is—”

  “The victim is John’s father.” Ben sniffed a tight little laugh at himself. “I knew that story you two were working on was leading somewhere. Now we’ve got something that’s going to explode all over the state for months.”

  Leslie grabbed for the nearest phone. Ben shot out his hand and stopped her.

  “Ben! I gotta talk to John!”

  He forced her to look him in the eye. “Leslie, you get yourself a cameraman, you get down to the precinct and get the details, then you get in touch with the governor’s office to see what they have to say, and then you get in touch with anybody and everybody who might know something about this—and I’m sure you do know some key people, don’t you? People close to the victim, people close to the governor’s family, people who might have something to say about the possible motive for the murder? Hm?”

  Leslie nodded furiously. “Yes! Yes, sir, Ben—yes!” She was like a racehorse being held back at the starting gate.

  Ben kept a steady hand on her arm and kept looking her in the eye, demanding her attention. “The story’s yours, Albright. You earned it. Now don’t mess it up.” He let her go, and she went straight to her desk, straight to her phone.

  The phone rang just as she got there.

  “Hey, Leslie, this is Detective Henderson. I’m down at the precinct, and I’ve got a story for you—”

  “Yes!” she shouted, unable to keep her voice down. “You’ve arrested Martin Devin!”

  That caught the ears of several reporters at their desks. Ben moaned, “Oh boy, here we go!”

  Henderson was amazed. “Boy, news travels fast . . .”

  “I’l
l be right there!” said Leslie.

  “Okay. I’ve got a bunch of info for you, so bring a camera.”

  “Thanks. See you in a bit.”

  She called John’s apartment, but John didn’t answer. She left a frantic message on his answering machine.

  She called Mom Barrett.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom Barrett, this is Leslie!”

  Mom was excited. “Oh, Leslie! Have you heard?”

  “About Martin Devin?”

  “Yes! John told me. I’m still in shock!”

  “It’s incredible! It’s absolutely incredible! I’ve just got to talk to John!”

  Mom toned down just a little. “Oh . . . well, he isn’t here.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Well . . . yes, but—”

  “Where? I’ve got to talk to him! How did he find out? What does he know?”

  “Well, Detective Henderson called him this morning, and then John called Mr. Oliver at the station. But listen, Leslie, I’ll tell him you called, and I know he’ll want to get back to you.”

  “Well, where is he?”

  “Oh . . .” Mom fretted a bit. “I should have known this was going to be a problem. I promised him I wouldn’t tell.”

  “What?”

  “He and Carl went somewhere together, that’s all I can say. But they should be back later today.”

  Leslie stopped short when she heard that. She began to understand. “Oh . . . oh, okay. Well . . . um . . . tell him I’m . . .” She felt fully charged with energy. “Tell him I’m back doing the news, will you? Tell him Ben gave me the story!”

  “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful!”

  “And tell him not to worry!”

  Mom laughed. “I’ll tell him.”

  DAD’S OLD PICKUP came to a stop in the gravel only a few yards from the edge of a great body of water. The doors squeaked open, and two wayfaring seamen dressed in boots and warm coats got out, ready to challenge the briny deep.

  Actually it was just a small lake in the middle of a park, but the spirit of a magnificent voyage was still in the air.

  John, a warm stocking cap on his head, reached into the truck bed and threw back the canvas cover. “Okay, girl, here comes your maiden voyage.”

  Carl helped pull the cover off the little rowboat. “We still need to name it something. Something like Invincible or . . .”

  “Impenetrable . . .”

  “Yeah, right. Impermeable. Unsinkable.”

  “Well . . . we’ll find out about that, won’t we?”

  Carl jumped into the truck bed to take the bow, while John took hold of the stern, and without much trouble at all the little craft was half in the water, ready to shove off.

  John had to stand there for just a moment, admiring the boat in its natural setting, the small lake waves lapping at its sides. So far no water was leaking in.

  He put an arm around Carl’s shoulders. “You did a good job, son.”

  Carl returned the arm-around. “So did you.”

  They loaded the oars and a duffel bag containing their lunch and then flipped a coin to see who would row first. Carl won.

  The little boat sliced through the water like a champ, propelled along by Carl’s strong, even strokes. Out across the lake they went, father and son, laughing it up, talking it up. From far away you could hear their conversation carrying across the still water.

  “So . . .” came Carl’s voice, “it’s Grandpa’s sister Alice who married Robert . . . and then his brother Roger who married Doris . . .”

  “No,” came John’s correction. “Roger married Marie.”

  “Oh yeah, yeah . . . Marie.”

  “And they had four kids—Linda, Debbie, Bobby, and Jason.”

  “And Debbie’s the one who’s married.”

  “Linda’s the one who’s married—to Burt.”

  “Burt. Did I meet him?”

  “He’s the guy with the crew cut.”

  “No, I didn’t meet him.”

  As the time passed lazily by, they rowed up to one end of the lake and then headed back again, then took a side trip to circle a little island populated with ducks.

  “So what’ll you do now?” Carl asked.

  “Oh, be a columnist maybe,” came John’s answer. “I know some people at the Journal who’ve wanted me before.”

  Their approach alarmed some ducks that skittered across the water and took to the sky.

  “Sorry,” Carl called to the ducks.

  “They look great, don’t they?”

  “Hey, you want to row for a while?”

  “Sure.”

  They carefully traded places. John took the middle seat and the oars, while Carl sat in the stern.

  John started pulling at the oars. “Ah! Feels great!”

  “You know it.”

  “So what’ll you do now?”

  “Oh, maybe I’ll go back to school. That whole idea feels better to me now.”

  “Well, you’re good at what you do, Carl. Real good. I think you’ll succeed.”

  “I think so too.”

  John pulled briskly at the oars, and they started up the lake again with no real destination in mind. They just wanted to row and ride and talk. They talked about love and John’s marriage that didn’t work and whether John might get married again—he might—and whether Carl had thought about where he’d live and if he thought he’d like to get married and about Grandpa and Grandma and all the family that was so hard to keep straight and about God and what He was all about.

  John finally set the oars down. “Oh, that reminds me.” He chuckled. “Well, it doesn’t really remind me—I’ve been thinking about it all along, but . . . now would be a good time for a little ceremony.”

  Carl laughed, expecting something corny. “Oh brother, what now?”

  John had brought the duffel bag along, supposedly with only their lunch inside. Well, the lunch was in there all right, but there was also a very familiar old overcoat. He pulled it out of the bag and shook it out. “Dad gave this to me, and now, for some vague religious reason I haven’t clarified yet, I think I should pass it on to you.”

  Carl smiled and shook his head. “Naw, that’s from your father. Grandpa gave that to you.”

  John held it toward him. “Come on, try it on.”

  “Aw . . .”

  “Go on, take it. Humor your religious old man.”

  Carl shrugged and laughed and slipped the overcoat on over his other coat. “Don’t know if it’ll fit me.”

  John sat there and watched, just to see if it would.

  Carl pulled it closed and fastened some of the buttons, then looked up to get John’s reaction. “What do you think?”

  John looked at the coat on his son and thought it looked a little big or maybe a little out of style for one such as Carl, and he was about to say so. But at that moment John noticed Carl was looking toward the shore, his face full of perplexity and wonder.

  “Hey, Dad . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Look at that.”

  John looked where Carl was pointing.

  Far across the water, on the distant shore, the green trees of the park and the skyline of the city rising behind it, a lamb stood very still, its wool shining in the sun, its head held high, watching them.

  “Is that a . . . well, it looks like a lamb!” said Carl.

  John looked from the lamb to his son and back again.

  “You see it, Carl? You see the lamb too?”

  Carl looked at his father, puzzled by the question.

  “Well . . . sure.”

  John looked a second time at his son and at the fit of Dad’s old overcoat. Now he changed his mind.

  He reached out and gave Carl a loving tap on the side of the knee, then fingered the hem of the old overcoat.

  “Don’t worry about the coat, son. You’ll grow into it.”

  FROM ILLUSION, FRANK PERETTI’S NEWEST NOVEL

  CHAPTER 1

/>   MANDY WAS GONE. She went quietly, her body still, and Dane was at her bedside to see her go. The ICU physician said it was inevitable, only a matter of minutes once they removed the ventilator, and so it was. Her heart went into premature ventricular contractions, stopped, restarted momentarily, and then the line on the heart monitor went flat.

  It happened more quickly than anyone expected.

  She was an organ donor, so she had to be removed immediately for procurement. Dane touched her hand to say good-bye, and blood and skin came off on his fingers.

  A nurse wheeled him out of the room. She found a secluded corner out on the fourth floor patio, a place with a view of the city and shade from the Nevada sun, and left him to grieve.

  Now, try as he might to fathom such feelings, grief and horror were inseparably mixed. When he wiped his tears, her blood smeared his face. When he tried to envision how she gladdened whenever she saw him, how she would tilt her head and shrug one shoulder and her eyes would sparkle as she broke into that smile, he would see her through the blackening glass, crumpled over the steering wheel, the deflated airbag curling at the edges, melting into her face.

  A handkerchief made careful passes over his face below and around his eyes. Arnie was trying to clean him up. Dane couldn’t say anything; he just let him do it.

  The smell under his robe found his attention: sweat, antiseptics, gauze, bandages. His right shoulder still felt on fire, only, thanks to the painkillers, on fire somewhere else far away. Not a serious burn, they told him, so he kept telling himself. The bruises ate away at him, little monsters sequestered against his bones, festering under all that blued flesh in his side, his right hip, his right shoulder. It hurt to sit in the wheelchair; it hurt more to walk.

  He broke again, covering his eyes to ward off the vision of her hair crinkling, vaporizing down to her scalp, steam and smoke rising through her blouse, flames licking through the broken glass, but it remained. Oh, God! Why? How could He change her so instantly from what she was—the woman, the saint, his lover with the laughing eyes, wacky humor, and wisdom of years—to what Dane had just seen perish on a bloodied gurney behind a curtain, sustained by tubes, monitors, machines? The images replayed. He thought he would vomit again.