Lies of the Prophet

by Ike Hamill

  “Well maybe you remember our conversation from last night, when I told you that my cell phone won’t even work in this house anymore. In fact, I can’t even bring the thing into the house—it drains the battery instantly,” he said, beginning to really raise his voice. “And forget about the cell phones—who knows what that kind of radiation is doing to us.”

  “It’s not radiation,” said Marta. “Dr. Maynard said it’s totally safe to be around him. You always blame him for everything.”

  “Well something’s going on,” said Daryl. “You can’t stand there and claim that he’s normal. You can’t use a cell phone within twenty feet of him, he can’t stand near the TV, even the microwave starts to smell funny when you use it around him. Something’s going on and it’s just not right. We don’t know what it is, and you’ve got him living in our guest room.”

  “He needs a place to stay,” said Marta. She had tears welling up now—she saw where this was going and she was afraid. “He needs us. We’re the closest thing he has to family.”

  “He’s our neighbor, Marta,” said Daryl. “He’s not our responsibility. And how much does he need us anyway. You know how much he got in advance for that book. He could go take a suite at the Four Seasons.”

  “Daryl, no, he needs us. Don’t say that,” said Marta. She was starting to lose her grip.

  “Marta, we need to think about us. It’s time for us to get back to thinking about a family again. It’s time,” said Daryl.

  She looked down and let her big, hot tears flow. She blinked them away and the floor turned into a big crystal swirl of color as more came and filled her eyes. She hoped Gregory wasn’t listening from the other room, but knew he was. She could sense him—almost the same way the cell phones sensed him. He was like a bright ball of static electricity and she could tell he had moved over to the other side of the paper-thin wall to listen to their argument.

  “Don’t do this,” Marta whispered. She looked up at Daryl and caught his eyes and the hard set of his mouth. His hands were on his hips and his shoulders were hunched. She knew that if she could get him to melt his shoulders a little, he would relent, but they were strong. Daryl was set.

  “I’m not doing anything,” said Daryl. “I’m just pointing out the truth, babe. You’ve done right by Gregory. You didn’t have to arrange for his whatever, you didn’t have to nurse him through the hospital stuff, or bring him home, or negotiate his book contract, or do any of this. You’ve done right by him, but now you have to let him move on. You’re not his mother; hell, he’s practically as old as you are.”

  “I need him,” she said.

  “He’s not yours,” said Daryl. “Let him find his new life. You’re holding him back.”

  That had been the beginning of the end, just as Daryl had wanted. Gregory had heard everything through the wall; Marta knew it later that evening when she’d interrupted his writing to let him know that dinner was ready. His presence was gone—his face was empty—like he’d already decided to move along. Marta had excused herself from the dinner table and left everything for Daryl and Gregory to finish up. She couldn’t stand to see the rift between them as they sat there chewing silently.

  When Daryl left for the work the next morning, Gregory began his preparations. He was gone by the end of the week.

  Marta told him everything before he left. She knew she would regret it forever if she never told him how she felt. Gregory listened to it all with his soft, sympathetic eyes, but the sympathy sat on top of something deeper; something she felt too—a deep hurt. He wouldn’t engage in a debate. He knew he had overstayed his welcome with Daryl and nothing Marta said could change his mind. She hated Daryl at that moment. She hated him the same way she’d hated her traitorous body when it had flushed out her baby.

  Gregory said he would stay in touch, but Marta knew he wouldn’t. She knew that once he left them behind he wouldn’t look back. But the depression that settled over her life was familiar. She knew those murky waters and took up her post at the kitchen window, this time watching as the reporters gave up on their vigil. Once Gregory was gone they had no interest in trampling Daryl’s shrubs.

  And then Daryl replaced the shrubs. He snuffed the last evidence that she’d ever been a part of something special.

  When Gregory moved out, Marta wrote him a letter almost every day. She continued conversations that they’d started, and wrote about ideas for his nascent career as the world’s first immortal motivational speaker. The correspondence seemed too presumptuous to her though. It was too much of a stretch to figure that Gregory would care what she thought. So she tucked each letter into a desk drawer and didn’t dare mail them. After he moved out of the hotel she wouldn’t have had any idea where to send them anyway. The volume of letters and boxes that arrived at her house for Gregory fell off immediately, most getting forwarded to his new address.

  Marta stayed with Daryl. It occurred to her to leave him, but she didn’t know where to start. Besides, they kept trying to get pregnant again. She couldn’t leave him just because of the way he’d driven Gregory away. That would be too much like leaving him for another man. Worse, it would be like leaving him for another man who didn’t even want her.

  She couldn’t avoid all the press about Gregory, so she embraced news of him. She collected newspaper and magazine articles, watching him avidly like so many other unemployed, shut-ins and lonely people. Sometimes she fantasized about running into him at the store or a restaurant. She wondered if he would even recognize her. She looked so much older and sadder in the mirror, she hardly recognized herself.

  Marta’s devotion to Gregory’s career soured at the moment she opened up the hardcover of his first book. It arrived at the house without a note or return address, a full week before it was supposed to be available in stores. For a brief second, she felt special again; she felt chosen. Her fingers made their way to the dedication page on their own. She regarded each word separately to try to make sense of what it said: “To Josie, the best publicist south of west fifty-seventh street." In her heart the fantasy collapsed. She’d been fully prepared to read her own name on that page, knowing that she was the one to whom he owed all his inspiration.

  At that moment she wanted nothing more than to tear him down. She wanted to pull Gregory from his lofty fame and return him to his pre-mortem obscurity. She wanted him to remember that he was once nothing—barely even worth acknowledging the few times a month that she’d see him out in the yard or around the neighborhood. These were the things she wanted, but she had no idea how to make them happen. Gregory had become a sensation. He was the biggest celebrity in the world, and constantly sought for speaking engagements and interviews. How could she possibly humble someone in that position?

  The answer was simple, but it was also something she could never even consider. The only way to humble an immortal would be to prove him mortal.

  Chapter 12

  Lynne

  LYNNE WOKE IN A HOTEL ROOM; a very fancy one. The sheets weren’t scratchy, the furniture was made of real wood, and the walls were nicely painted instead of poorly papered. Lynne didn’t have much experience with hotel rooms, but she knew enough to pick out those details. She wore black pajamas with white piping on the cuffs and lapels. When she drew back the curtains she didn’t recognize the view, but appreciated it.

  A river ran through the center of the city below. She was up high, and judging by the skyline, in one of the tallest buildings around.

  Lynne sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the window, trying to get a sense of how she’d gotten there. Her arm was wrapped tight and slung close to her body. It itched inside the sling. The left arm of her pajamas flopped at her side, unused.

  She pulled herself over to the nightstand and tried to find a phone. She found no phone. The clothes in the dresser looked like they would fit, but they weren’t hers. Lynne headed for the door and jumped back when it opened just as she reached for the handle.

  A tall man in a black su
it pushed his face through the door opening—“Ms. Benson?”

  “Stratford,” she said.

  “Pardon?” asked the tall man.

  “My name is Stratford, not Benson. I changed it,” she said.

  The man touched a finger to his right ear and looked away for a moment—“They’re ready for you, Ms. Benson.”

  “Who’s ready for what? My name is Stratford,” she said.

  “You can follow me,” he said.

  “I’m not following you anywhere. First of all, I’m not even dressed. Second, I have to go to the bathroom. Third, you’re goddamn creepy,” said Lynne.

  The tall man touched his ear again before pulling the door shut.

  When Lynne was through in the bathroom, she approached the door again, more careful this time.

  The door opened once again, just as she was about to attempt an exit.

  “Hi, Lynne?” an older woman pressed through the door and appeared in her room. She was dressed in all in gray—several shades of light gray. Combined with her gray hair it made the woman look official and efficient—consolidated.

  “What?” Lynne sighed. She sat down on the edge of the bed.

  The gray lady stepped through the doorway and let it close behind her.

  “We’re ready for you, anytime,” Gray said and motioned over her shoulder.

  “Who’s ready for me?” asked Lynne.

  “Everyone,” said Gray. “But take your time. I don’t mean to rush you, and I know it must be difficult to get around with your arm. How is your pain level?" Gray wove her fingers together and held them in front of her chest as she asked, as if the answer to this question was very important.

  “It’s okay, I guess.” Lynne actually didn’t feel much except for the itch.

  “On a scale of one to ten? One being no pain, and ten being the worst pain of your life?”

  “A four?”

  “Very good,” said Gray. “You let me know if that changes. You’ve got clothes here, and everything else you need should be in the bathroom. We’re very casual this afternoon.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll just stay here and watch TV,” said Lynne.

  “This is just a meeting,” said Gray. Her hands went to her sides and her face turned cold. “And the faster you take this meeting, the faster we’ll get you out of here.”

  “You believe that?” asked Lynne.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” asked Gray. She pursed her lips and looked straight forward.

  Lynne sighed and began the arduous process of getting dressed with one arm in a sling. She couldn’t get the shirt on past her wrapped arm. She found that she was already wearing a reasonable undershirt, so she just pulled on a blouse like a cloak and buttoned the bottom couple of buttons. The whole time Lynne devised new ways to get dressed with only one hand, Gray just stood there, not looking or helping. Lynne found some sneakers in the closet and completed her outfit.

  “How do I look?” she asked Gray.

  The Gray lady knocked thrice on the door and it opened, letting them out. Lynne expected to find a hotel hallway. Instead, the door opened to the living room of a suite. Aside from Gray and the tall man, Lynne was alone. She’d expected her host. Her two escorts stood near the door to Lynne’s room while Lynne walked around and looked out the big windows. In the corner of the living room the windows stretched from floor to ceiling and met at the corner with no frame. The result was disturbing—it felt like you could just step right out through the corner and plummet to the ground. Lynne inched up on the corner slowly and saw someone a few floors below making the same careful journey. A floor below that, she saw that someone else had dragged their bedding to the corner so they could fall asleep while looking out at the amazing view.

  Lynne touched the window and left a handprint in the center of the glass. It didn’t completely ruin the illusion, but it made her feel better anyway.

  “It’s Fenway,” said a voice from behind her. She didn’t need to turn around to recognize Gregory’s voice—she’d heard him on enough interviews and talk shows to know his tone.

  “What’s Fenway?”

  “The park? You’ve never heard of Fenway park? Where the Red Sox play?”

  “No, I’ve heard of the park, but where is it?” she asked. She looked over her shoulder at him. He looked older that she expected. If anything, she thought he would look better in person after everything she’d heard about TV adding years and pounds. Another man had arrived as well. He stood over near one of the doors.

  “Oh, I thought that’s what you were looking at,” said Gregory. “Right there. It’s recognizable from the Citgo sign. See? Actually, the sign is just at Kenmore Square, but it looks like it’s part of the park from this angle.”

  “Yeah, I see,” said Lynne. She turned around to face Gregory, forcing him to back away a step. “What do you want from me?”

  “Have a seat,” said Gregory.

  “I’m a little tired of following orders,” said Lynne. “Why don’t I just stand, and you’ll make this quick so I won’t get too tired?”

  “Okay,” said Gregory. He backed away and sat at the long couch. When he’d settled and crossed his legs he made a little motion to Tall Man and Gray Lady. Gray just nodded and left, going out past the kitchenette. The Tall man went over to the fridge and got a bottle of water. He tossed it on a low arc to Gregory and then followed after Gray. The man near the door stayed put. He shut the door after Tall and Gray left.

  Gregory took a long pull of water and addressed Lynne again—“So you want to know what I want?”

  “Yes,” said Lynne.

  “It’s a long story, but I’ll take a shot at condensing it down for you, since you seem to be in a bit of a rush.”

  “Please,” prompted Lynne.

  “I believe you’re trying to kill me,” said Gregory.

  Lynne watched him carefully, not dropping her eyes, or making any reaction to his claim. “That’s nuts,” she said after she’d waited enough time. She wanted him to be clear that she’d carefully heard and responded to his question.

  “Is it?” asked Gregory. “Do you work for Veyermin?”

  “I work for the Veyermin Group,” said Lynne. “So do lots of people. Are they all trying to kill you?”

  “And you’re looking for The Passage?” asked Gregory.

  She didn’t answer for a while—she was considering the ramifications of telling the truth. He seemed to know exactly what she did and who she did it for, but that wasn’t the only issue. If she answered that truthfully, she’d be walking right into his next likely question: how exactly was she able to help Veyermin look for The Passage? Part of her wanted to just come right out and tell him. That it was her job because she had some kind of supernatural ability to see The Passage—the Sparkle—when nobody else could.

  But that was the real problem. The man sitting in front of her was undeniably Gregory. He was the undisputed king of the Sparkle, the original Passage, and she couldn’t see anything different about him at all. Suddenly she felt like a fraud all over again.

  “I can see you’re not going to answer,” said Gregory. “So let me tell you what I know. You’ve got some method of spotting immortals, don’t you? You’ve perfected some technique or found some device or something? Now you’re working for Veyermin so they can get ahold of the next immortal and use them for who knows what? Is that it?”

  “I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else,” said Lynne. “How many other woman have your goons kidnapped and injured? Maybe it’s one of those women you’re looking for.”

  “Do you have any idea how much money I spend each year just on collecting information that nobody else has?”

  Lynne shrugged.

  “Andrew?” Gregory asked the man over by the door. “How much have we spent this month on information?”

  “About seven-hundred million, so far,” said Andrew.

  Gregory nodded at Lynne. “I’ve got more people on my payroll than the federal gov
ernment. Not full time employees, of course—most have day jobs. At least half of Veyermin reports to me. There’s nothing that goes on there that I don’t know about,” said Gregory.

  “So why are you asking me questions?” asked Lynne.

  “They only know what they know,” said Gregory. “You might have tricked them into thinking you’re something that you’re not. As far as I know, you haven’t turned up anything concrete for them, so perhaps you just tricked your way through the interview process and now you’re just riding it out until someone figures out that you’re a phony.”

  “There you go,” said Lynne. “One more reason that I’m not the woman you’re looking for. How many of those do you need?”

  “Yeah, but you are,” said Gregory. “I can feel it. I know you’re the one I should be talking to, I just don’t know why.”

  “Great,” said Lynne. “So you’ve got money, and power, and no moral compass to tell you that it’s wrong to have someone kidnapped, and you have no idea why you’re holding me here. Perfect.”

  “Andrew is my moral compass, and even he thinks you’re a threat. You think it’s wrong of me to defend myself?” asked Gregory.

  “Defend against what? Me? What have I ever done to you?” asked Lynne.

  “As far as I know, nothing. But you will, and that’s what I’m worried about." Gregory turned his eyes down. He looked sad and a little scared, but it was just a flash. It passed in a moment and his casual confidence came back at once.

  Lynne tried to think it through. She tried to see past her anger and fear so she could figure out a clean way out of the situation. She came around a chair and sat on the edge, facing Gregory.

  “Let me be honest with you, Gregory,” she said. “I think we’ve got the same problem. We’ve both tapped into new sources of information and we don’t quite know what to do with them. And there’s nobody around to tell us how to process this new information. I was dropped into this whole thing. I started to notice things that I couldn’t explain, and then I talked to some people, and the next thing you know, Veyermin is at my door offering me all this money. I’m not out to mess with you. I don’t even know you.”