Prophet (51 page)

John’s head sank, and he covered his face. He needed a moment to gather himself.

Leslie considered whether to continue the tape. “I don’t know . . . Maybe that’s all there is of your father . . . Well, later on he gets grabbed and hauled off. I don’t know if you want to see that . . .”

John took some deep breaths to pull himself together and then wiped the tears from his eyes. “Leslie . . . Carl . . . that was no kook . . .” When he raised his head, they were not looking at him.

They may have been listening, but their attention was fixed on the still screen.

“No,” said Leslie, her face troubled. “It wasn’t.”

“No way,” said Carl.

John looked again at the screen, at the lone prophet becoming the object of a mob’s hate. “He was right. Everything he said was true.”

Carl gazed at the screen, at John Barrett Sr. standing his ground. “That was my grandpa. That was him! That was the man . . . the man with a creed!”

John too gazed at that hurt old man, his heart filled with yearning. “The man with a creed,” he repeated, and then a phrase came to mind from his religious tradition. “His feet planted on the Rock.”

Leslie fell silent, her eyes on the screen, her fingers over her mouth. John Barrett Sr. was speaking to her. John could see it in her face.

“Leslie?”

She jumped a little, startled out of her contemplation.

She looked at John and Carl and then back at the screen. “He . . . he couldn’t be moved, could he? Look at that—a whole river of humanity moving all around him, and there he is, holding still, just standing firm.”

“Mm.” John nodded, fully realizing her point. “Yeah, we’ve talked about that, haven’t we?”

“We’ve talked about it.” Leslie pondered it just a moment longer, and then, tucking it all away somewhere in her heart, she left it there and got back to business. “Well . . . I guess we’ve gotten the message from that tape.”

John agreed with the shift back into gear. “Sure. At least we have a rough idea of what he was talking about, and knowing what we know now, it all makes a lot more sense.”

Carl suggested, “Well, how about the last one?”

“Sure,” John said. “Let’s get on to that.”

Leslie explained as she changed the tapes, “Well, this is whatever NewsSix did on the governor announcing the Hillary Slater Memorial Fund. I think Joyce Petrocelli was on this one too. I don’t really remember it.” She hit the Play button and they waited, starting to feel a bit weary.

Video: An auditorium filled with students.

“Oh, right!” said John. “The student assembly at the Adam Bryant School. Any date on the tape?”

Leslie ejected the tape momentarily and checked the label. “May 3rd, 1991. What’s that? Just about two weeks after Hillary’s death.”

“Yeah, two weeks.”

Leslie put the tape back in and let it play.

The governor was starting his speech, speaking informally from note cards. “I know many of you were close friends of Hillary’s, and her passing is a tragic loss to all of us. Her years here at Bryant made up a substantial part of her brief seventeen years, and you, her friends, were the center of her life. She spoke of you often, and . . . well, you know how it is with high schoolers, how they get so wrapped up in activities and school functions with their friends, you hardly ever see them. That’s how it was with Hillary. Her friends were important to her, they were her joy, and I know she was your joy . . .”

John put a quick note on his mental bulletin board: Then why did he yank Hyatt and Hayley out of Bryant? What about
their
friends?

The governor went on to praise the school, its principal, and its teachers, all longtime acquaintances whom the governor admired. Then he came to the focus of his talk, holding up a special envelope. “Education is a top priority for me as governor, and had Hillary lived, I would have done all I could to be sure she got the best education possible. But I want you to know that the dreams I had for her are still alive, and I want them to live on—if not through her life, then through the life of other students who exemplify the joy, the character, the virtue and tenacity which so characterized Hillary Nicole Slater.”

The governor looked toward the side of the stage and smiled. “Well, when it came time to decide who would be the first recipient of the Hillary Slater Memorial Scholarship, we didn’t have to look very far. I think it’s only fitting that the first recipient is not only an honor student from Bryant, but also one of Hillary’s closest friends. Shannon?”

The auditorium erupted into thunderous applause and cheers. The camera zoomed back, quickly focused, and caught a young lady, smartly dressed, dignified, and lovely, striding across the stage to join the governor at the podium.

As one, Leslie, John, and Carl leaned forward a little and peered at the screen.

She was beautiful, but she seemed ill at ease and her smile weak. As she came and stood beside the governor, her hands clasped nervously in front of her and her eyes on the podium, not on him, he finished his comments. “I know that if Hillary could see us now, she’d be cheering
and saying, ‘Go, Shannon! Go after your dreams!’” He looked toward the audience again. “The very first Hillary Slater Memorial Scholarship is hereby awarded—with pride—to Shannon DuPliese!”

Applause, applause. Now the kids all rose to their feet, applauding and cheering as the camera panned the auditorium.

“Speech, speech!” said Carl spontaneously.

“Does she say anything?” John asked Leslie.

Leslie gave a shrug. She couldn’t remember.

The governor handed Shannon the envelope, shook her hand, and then . . . Shannon turned away and went back to her chair on the stage, sitting between her teachers and what must have been her parents. Her mother gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Shannon took it all with a sorrowful, troubled expression.

They kept watching. Perhaps there would be an interview.

The tape ended in snow. No speech. No interview.

“Don’t you just hate it?” Leslie moaned.

“Where’s Shannon now?”

“Probably off to college somewhere, spending her scholarship.”

“Yeah . . . her scholarship,” John mused. “Only two weeks after his daughter dies, the governor has a memorial fund set up and a recipient picked out—Hillary’s best friend.”

“Well . . .” Leslie was dubious.

“Oh, I know I’m being suspicious, but . . . right now we’re scratching for anything.”

Carl understood John’s drift. “So you’re saying he bought her off?”

“We’ve got to hear her voice, I know that.”

“Okay,” said Leslie, “I’ll check the library for news clippings. There might be some info on what college she planned to attend. Then I’ll call the college and see if I can find her.”

“And then what?” Carl asked. “What are you going to ask her?”

Leslie shrugged. “I haven’t thought of that yet.”

John sat up straight and started scanning the list in his head. “We’ve all got plenty of work cut out for us, and I think we need to move fast, before we get found out and the governor can bury everything.”

“We have seen that happen,” said Leslie.

“You got that right,” said Carl.

“Well, that’s why we have to keep this all under wraps. I don’t even
want the police to know, not until we have something they can really run with in a hurry. I don’t think we’ll be interfering with any investigation because right now there isn’t one. And besides, NewsSix has a reporter on the police beat, and if he gets wind of it, Tina Lewis and various other elements at the station will get wind of it too.”

“So what are the assignments?” Carl asked. He was raring to go.

“Carl, let’s you and I call these numbers here in Dad’s notes and try to find out who this paramedic is and what he knows. Then, based on whatever we find out, Leslie can track down this . . . uh . . . the MD who filled out Hillary’s death certificate.”

Leslie found the death certificate and the name. “Dr. Leland Gray.”

“So, Leslie, if you would, track him down and see if he’ll release any information at all. Did he do the autopsy, and if not, then who did, and . . . what we’re finally after is the real cause of death. Something got altered or covered up somewhere along the line.”

“What about Dr. Denning?” Carl asked.

“I’m still waiting for him to get back from Sacramento,” said Leslie. “But I feel good about that contact. I think it’s in the bag.”

“What did Deanne Brewer say?” John asked.

“I’m respecting her more as I get to know her. We talked this afternoon by phone, and I think she understands what happened, and she trusts us. Max still doesn’t, which makes it hard for her. She’s hesitant to associate with us again until he simmers down.”

“That autopsy report would help, wouldn’t it?”

Leslie smiled. “If we can come through with that—and it’s still going to take Deanne’s help—it would make a nice peace offering. We have to convince Max he isn’t being used again.”

John made a grim face. “That’s why we have to keep this quiet until we can play the game on our terms. I’ve still got my theory—maybe more than a theory—that both Hillary and Annie died in the same clinic. But if we’re going to prove that, we’re going to need on-the-record testimony from both Shannon DuPliese and that other girl, the one called ‘Mary’—if Shannon DuPliese is the girl on that 911 tape and if ‘Mary’ will come forward again and go on the record. And if we’re going to do that, we can’t have any more confidence crashes or foul-ups.”

“Good luck,” moaned Carl.

John replied directly, “That’s the goal, folks. That’s what we’re after.”

“That’s what we’re after,” Leslie agreed. “Plus any revelations about your father’s death?”

“I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that we’ll stumble over those in the process. So . . .” John scribbled as he spoke. “I’ve got a friend at the capitol—Charley Manning. He used to feed me tips all the time, years ago when I was still a reporter . . .”

“Exciting days, huh?” asked Leslie.

John smiled. “Oh, they’re getting exciting again. But anyway, I’ll ask him if there have been any upheavals in the governor’s office. I’m just wondering if someone close to the governor has any reason to want to get back at him.”

“By leaking a sensitive tape to a plumbing wholesaler?” Carl asked, not needing an answer.

John stopped short. “Hm . . . whatever Dad was finding out, it could have been enough reason for somebody to kill him. Now that they’ve killed him, the heat’s got to be turned up for whoever it is.” He took a moment to be sure he had their eyes and then said, “Whatever, whoever this ultimately leads to, they’re not going to like what we’re doing.”

CHAPTER 22

AS IT TURNED
out, Glen Murphy, the first name on one of Dad’s little note sheets, was one of Barrett Plumbing and Fixtures’ longtime customers, a partner with his brother in Beacon Hill Plumbing, a nice little retail supply and repair service on the south end. The guy sounded jolly enough over the phone, one of those loud-laughing characters who lived to hunt, fish, and watch football on wide-screen TV. In person he was big, wide-waisted, and a real back-slapper.

“Well, no kidding,” he bellowed, standing behind the counter in Beacon Hill Plumbing with his burly arms crossed. “I am really talking to John’s boy face-to-face?”

“You sure are,” said John, accepting Glen’s firm handshake. “And this is my son, John’s grandson, Carl.”

Glen grabbed Carl’s hand and pumped it with his big fist. “Well, good to meet you, Carl.” He told John, “Nice-looking boy you got there.”

Carl smiled. This guy was making him feel a little shy, but at least Glen Murphy would not be put off by his appearance, which certainly had changed. Carl had let his grandma cut his hair into something conventional, trimmed evenly on the sides, parted on the left, quite mute as far as any statement was concerned. As for the jewelry, it had remained in his drawer at home. Carl gave no reason for the change other than he just felt it was time for one.

“Well,” Glen said in a somewhat more sober tone, “Al’s here, so let’s
go on into the office. Jack, cover the counter.” Jack, a young man in a blue apron, nodded and took his post, while Glen led John and Carl down an aisle past shower heads and flexible tubing to an office in the back of the store.

Glen made the introductions. “Al Connors, this is John Barrett, Junior . . . John Barrett’s son. And this is John Barrett’s grandson, Carl. John and Carl, Al Connors; he’s a paramedic.”

Al Connors was a young, blond, mustached man about thirty years of age with a somber expression, dressed informally in jeans and plaid shirt. “Well . . . pleased to meet you. I’ve seen you on TV. Your father told me about you.”

Glen cleared off a portion of desk to sit on, and the others found chairs. “Al, just to get you caught up, this is almost a repeat of last time. Remember, I called you about the elder John Barrett wanting to pick your brain a little.”

Al nodded. It seemed he was feeling things out before saying too much.

Glen continued, “I already told John here about that—how his dad and I got talking about the governor’s daughter and . . . When was that?”

“May, I think,” said Al. “Early May.”

“Yeah. I know the governor’s daughter had just died, and they’d buried her . . .”

“And that’s when you and I talked about it,” said Al.

“Yeah, right . . . since you were there and saw the whole thing.” Glen said to John and Carl, “We’re fishing buddies. When you’re out in a boat you talk about all kinds of things.”

“Sure,” said John. “So you came to Dad’s warehouse the week after that . . .”

“Yeah, and your dad saw me and right away, like it was the first thing on his mind, he took me aside and asked me, ‘Glen, you’ve heard something about Hillary Slater. Can you tell me what you know?’ and I was kind of . . . you know, surprised that he’d just ask me that, like he knew I’d been talking to Al or something. But I told him what I’d heard from Al and how I thought it was a real sad situation—”

Al interjected, “But he already knew about the abortion thing.”

“Yeah, right. That’s why we got him and Al together.” Glen could
tell from John’s face that some parts of the narrative had gotten lost somewhere. “Well, you see . . . Al and his buddy on the medic crew had a feeling about the Slater case . . .”