Prophet (25 page)

John looked back at the Five Thirty script on his computer screen, but it was all he could do to pay attention to it, to get the editing done.

Anything newsworthy, she said. My dad is killed outright, suddenly, tragically, and she wants to know if there was anything newsworthy. He tried to put the subject out of his mind. This script wasn’t going to edit itself.

Newsworthy. Speaking of newsworthy, sure, there were plenty of important and legitimate news stories in the script for tonight—the ongoing campaign of the gubernatorial candidates for one, as well as a major traffic rerouting on the I-40 bridge. But what in the world was this item all about? And this item?

He looked over his shoulder. Rush was at his desk, working on the script as well.

“Rush . . .”

“Mm?” he said, not looking up. Hoo boy. John tried to soften his approach as much as he could. He didn’t want another fight. “Could I ask you about a few stories here?”

Rush finally looked up. “Sure.”

John looked at his computer screen and called up the first story in question. “Uh, this one here, Number 230, the lady dying at the zoo?”

Rush didn’t look at it himself; he was too busy with something
else. “What about it?”

“The way I read this story, the zoo had nothing to do with her dying. I mean, it wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t due to anyone’s negligence, she wasn’t mauled by a lion or stepped on by an elephant or anything.”

“No, they figure it was a heart attack.”

“Heart attack.” John thought it over for a moment. “So . . . she just died.” Rush didn’t respond, so John dared to press the question. “Why is this news?”

“Channel 8 got some good video on it,” said Rush, going back to his computer screen. “Somebody was there and got a home video of it, and it was good stuff, and Channel 8’s going to run it, so we’re picking up the story.”

“So we’re running the story because Channel 8’s running the story because they happened to get some home video of it?”

“Right.”

“So what are we doing for video?”

“We sent Ken down there today to get some shots of the zoo.”

“Of what? Gorillas playing with their toes?”

Rush was getting red in the face. “Hey, just look at your script. We’re slotting thirty seconds for the story. It’s a voice-over. You read the copy, we roll the video. It’s that simple.”

“Yeah, but I still don’t see the news in this. I’m going to be telling people that a lady died an unremarkable death that was not due to any accident or negligence while we roll video of . . . of animals lying around and pacing back and forth and kids throwing food to the pigeons, which really has nothing to do with it.”

Rush was eager to get back to his work. “Well, sometimes that’s just the way it turns out.”

“Hang on. I’ve got one more.”

It was only professionalism that made Rush pay attention. “Okay . . . quickly.”

“This story from England about the protester shooting several bystanders and police. Who was he?”

“We got it from the network feed, and they didn’t say.”

“It says he was protesting the rezoning of a public park. Which public park?”

“The feed didn’t say.”

“So . . . we don’t know what was happening to the park or what he was disgruntled about in particular?”

“Nope.”

“Whom did he shoot?”

“Some press and some cops. It’s on the video. Somebody had a camera right there.”

“Any charges filed against him?”

Rush slapped his desk. “Look, does it matter?”

“That’s exactly what I’m asking. I admit it makes for some great television, but really, what does this have to do with anything?”

Now Rush had reached his limit. “Listen, if you’re bummed out because we didn’t run anything on your father I can understand that. But, John, life has to go on. Now, I have slotted that story into the program, and I want you to read the copy. I also want to carry the story on the 5 o’clock promo. CBS is running it, we’re running it. It’s hot. It’s what people want to see. End of discussion.”

Rush went back to work in a huff.

John turned back to his computer and scrolled through the script. News. Newsworthy. John was starting to feel sour about this, as unprofessional as that was.

If only we could’ve gotten some shots of the pipe rack falling, or Chuck’s bleeding hands, or the blood stains on the floor . . . If only there’d been a camera right there in the clinic when Annie
—

John stopped himself.
Come on, John. Ease up. Let it go.

CARL WORKED THAT
afternoon on his portrait of John Barrett, but found the task agonizing, unreachable. The face lacked expression. It seemed cadaverous.

He checked the clock. Almost 5. There would be a promo coming up, a whole twenty-five seconds worth. He didn’t know why he even bothered, but he clicked on the television set and waited, pencil in hand. Maybe something would come across that would reach his soul, a glint of warmth, of humanity, of . . . whatever.

As he waited, his eyes drifted to that pile of unassembled parts, Grandpa’s and his father’s boat, still resting and waiting under the
cloth. He went over to take another look, to fold back the cloth and touch the wood. He felt sorrow for Grandpa.

A voice came from the television. “Hello, this is John Barrett in the NewsSix newsroom. Coming up in one half hour on NewsSix at Five Thirty . . .”

Carl dashed to his easel, compared the television eyes with the penciled eyes. They were—

What was this? Some old geezer shooting people? “. . . we’ll have a shocking report of a protester opening fire on several bystanders and police . . .”

Carl stood there, watching the gun go off, watching people scurry for cover.

“. . . and a woman dies at the zoo, apparently of a heart attack.”

There was John Barrett again, in shirtsleeves, the newsroom behind him. “All this and other top news of the day, one half hour from now, on NewsSix at Five Thirty.”

Commercial.

Carl turned the television off, stared at the blank screen, and cursed.

JOHN SET DOWN
the camera remote control, got off the flashcam stool, and cursed.

TINA LEWIS, IN
her office with the door closed, spoke quietly into her telephone. “I have talked with John Barrett. He says there are no developments in his father’s death at this time. No . . . he said nothing about any police investigation. Yes, I’ll let you know.”

She hung up and went back to work.

Martin Devin hung up the phone and went down the hall to the governor’s office. Miss Rhodes, the governor’s secretary, announced him and waved him in.

Wilma Benthoff, the hardworking campaign manager, was already there for the meeting and had laid out some new billboard designs on the governor’s desk.

“So how goes the battle?” Devin asked.

The governor was pleased. “We are whipping Wilson’s butt, that’s how it’s going! Take a look at these!”

Devin came around to the governor’s side of the desk to view the new artwork. The photographs and graphics were lofty, eye-catching, even transcendent, and made Hiram Slater bigger than life, no question.

Wilma Benthoff reported, “The early analysis finds more people identify Hiram Slater with the issues that concern them than they do Bob Wilson, especially in the areas of civil rights and environment.”

Devin laughed. “Well, what else did we expect? When you control the images, you control the high ground. Too bad we can’t carve the governor’s face in the side of Mount Blanchard.”

Benthoff was delighted to report, “Well, maybe we have. Look at this poster.”

Hmm. There was Mount Blanchard, and if you looked a second time, you could see the governor’s face cleverly hidden in the rocks, glaciers, and crevasses. The lettering below the scene read, “Slater = Environment.”

Devin moaned in mock disappointment. “Aww, and I thought I had a brand-new ideal!”

Wilma pulled out some photo proofs. “So now, to get stronger on the family values side of things . . .”

Devin received the proofs from Wilma’s hand. Family portraits. The governor with his silver-haired wife, Ashley, and their two remaining children, Hayley and Hyatt. “Well, if that doesn’t look like the typical All-American family!”

Slater’s smile was a little crooked. “Beaver Cleaver’s family, if you ask me! Hayley never dresses that way—and look at Hyatt! His hair’s combed! You can’t even recognize him!”

Wilma gave the governor’s hand a mock slap. “Now, now! You all look charming! It’ll sell, believe me!”

“Well, at least we look happy for once . . .” He shook his head. “Sometimes it’s like pulling teeth, but they do it for me.”

“Image is everything, Mr. Governor,” Devin reminded him.

“Image is everything,” the governor admitted, leaning back in his chair and switching to thoughts about success. “The polls are favorable. We’ve gone up fifteen percentage points since we started our ad campaign,
so don’t tell me people don’t learn by watching TV!”

Devin chuckled. “Don’t worry, sir, I won’t.”

The governor looked at Benthoff. “So, let’s hear the latest on the rally over in Sperry.”

Benthoff handed some copied reports to the governor and Devin. “They’re ready for you, sir, in two weeks. I think you’ll have a full house, and of course the press will be there. We have a press conference set up afterward, and I’ve gotten confirmations from a local station in Sperry, plus the four big news stations from over here. I’m flying to Sperry tomorrow to do some advance work among the businessmen. The local organizers aren’t pulling enough support from them.”

The governor nodded, scowling. “Yeah, kick their butts, will you? The eastern half of this state isn’t a different world, no matter what they say, and I’m still their governor and they need to be rowing this boat with the rest of us.” The governor quickly scanned the letter from Sperry, his flight schedule, and the attendance projections. “Well, at least there won’t be any mad prophets over there.”

Hiram Slater shuffled through the papers on his desk. “Well, it’s after 5. I’m about to call it a day.” Then he stopped and considered, “But isn’t it interesting how we never knew about the prophet’s death until now, even with the media connection in the family . . .”

“No one else did either. I imagine most people in this state don’t . . . and never will.”

“Well, that’s nice. We want the people to be thinking about me and only me, right?”

“That’s my concern,” said Benthoff.

“So I’m glad my little messenger from God hasn’t gotten any more attention than he has.”

Devin looked away for a moment. “So am I, sir. So am I.”