Prophet (79 page)

“Let’s cut all that first part,” said John, marking the script, “up to . . . ‘she willingly and gladly chose . . . ’”

Bill rewound the tape as the governor’s voice rose to a garbled squeal, his head bobbed and jerked, and his mouth chattered. Bill hit the Play button.

“. . . embrace those risks, she willingly—”

“That’s it,” said John.

“Okay, we’ll trim it down . . .” Bill rewound the tape to the cut point and noted the time code on the LED counter.

“That’ll save you seven seconds. What about the Brewers?”

John was emphatic. “No. The Brewers have to stay—absolutely. We’ll just have to cut something else.”

“Okay,” Bill said with a sigh. He scanned the script.

“What about Shannon DuPliese? She had a lot to say.”

“Let’s take a look at it.”

Bill ejected the governor cassette and dropped in the interview with Shannon DuPliese. It was already cued to the sound bite they’d hoped to use.

Play. Shannon sitting comfortably, well lit, speaking to the interviewer off-camera: “The bleeding just wouldn’t stop, and Hillary kept saying, ‘Don’t tell anyone, I don’t want my father to find out.’” Pause.

Bill consulted the script. “And then you say, ‘Shannon finally called 911 and help arrived . . . ’”

John nodded, grabbing his pen. “Yeah, we can cut that out. People know how Hillary died . . . I guess.”

Bill regretted the cut too. “Yeah, it’s too bad. This is powerful stuff.” He fast-forwarded the tape. “So now we’ve got that other part . . .”

Stop. Play.

Bill and John followed along in the script as Shannon spoke on the tape. “Well, first it was the governor. He came over to visit me after Hillary died, and kept saying things like, ‘Well, we want to protect Hillary’s
memory, don’t we?’ and ‘Nobody needs to know what happened, and I’m not going to ask, and don’t think you need to ever tell anyone,’ and I didn’t get it at first. I thought, well, of course I won’t tell anyone, it’s a private matter . . .” John shook his head. The paragraph on the script looked long, and Shannon was sure taking a long time to speak it.

“Okay, there’s got to be something we can cut here.”

“Let’s just find a piece of it.”

John looked up and down the long paragraph while the Shannon on the tape kept talking. “. . . But after I started school, Martin Devin started calling me on a regular basis, and I realized that . . . hey, these people didn’t trust me. They were going to keep an eye on me and make sure I kept my part of the bargain—and I didn’t even know there
was
a bargain.”

“We can cut that last part about not knowing there was a bargain,” John thought out loud.

“No, come on, give me more than that.”

“All right, all right. Uh . . . cut . . . how about from ‘and I’m not going to ask’ up through . . . ‘private matter’?”

Bill balked a little. “Cut something from the middle? Do you have a reaction shot anywhere to cover the cut?”

John could feel the tension twisting his stomach. “Oh . . . man, I don’t know. A friend of mine did this interview and I’m not sure—”

“We could dissolve it. It’ll look kind of tacky, but . . .”

“No, just . . . just cut it from that point. Cut the whole thing . . .” John had a second thought. “But then we’ll lose the part about Martin Devin.”

“Well, let’s try the cut in the middle and also take off the part about the bargain.”

“Okay.”

Cue to the cut. Check the time codes. Cue to the other cut. Check the time codes. Add it up.

“2:59.”

“Nuts!”

“You’re sure you don’t want to cut the Brewers?”

John didn’t answer so quickly this time. “Well . . . can we shorten them a bit without cutting them out?”

Bill slapped in the Brewers interview and cued it up.

There was Deanne, sitting on the couch with Max.

Deanne: “When Annie died, the doctor told us it was from toxic shock syndrome, but . . .” She fumbled, dealing with emotion. “We . . . we just weren’t sure about that, and . . . we didn’t know where to turn . . .”

John grew impatient. “Come on, Deanne, just
say
it!”

Bill observed, “If you want this one, you’ll have to cut the tears and just keep the statement. She takes too long when she’s crying.”

John decided. “Cut the tears, trim back to the statement.”

“Righty-oh.”

Cut. Play. Time.

“2:45.”

“Oh, come on!”

Bill was getting short-tempered. “John, you can’t have everything—you have to accept that!”

“Okay, okay.”

He scanned the script, desperately looking for anything else dispensable.

Bill suggested, “How about this line: ‘Max and Deanne Brewer had their suspicions but were unable to learn anything because of the reproductive privacy laws’?”

“You mean shorten it?”

“I mean cut it.”

John winced. “But it’s an important point! The privacy laws . . . I’ve got to point out—”

“Hey, wait a minute. Doesn’t Max sort of capture that in his sound bite?”

He cued the tape to Max’s sound bite as John consulted the script.

Play.

Max, sitting on the couch next to Deanne: “’s long as your daughter’s alive you got no right to know what she’s doin’, or what somebody’s doin’ to
her.
Only reason we could find out what happened to Annie was ’cause she was
dead
, and I think that’s a little late.’”

Bill looked to John for a verdict.

John thought it over quickly and then nodded.

“Okay,” said Bill, “we scratch the whole paragraph about the privacy laws.”

Cut. Play. Time.

“2:38.”

John flopped back in his chair. “Well, we’re getting closer.”

CHAPTER 33

GOVERNOR HIRAM SLATER
was ready to call it a day and hopefully forget that this day had ever occurred. The business and the normal routine had been substantially disrupted by that unfortunate encounter with Mad Prophet Junior, leaving the governor shaken, disgruntled, and distracted. Not being able to reach Loren Harris and rake him over the coals left Slater even more shaken and disgruntled. And as for Martin Devin, he was no help at all, disappearing after ousting the prophet and seeming to be busy everywhere except in the governor’s presence.

So now some dirty-laundry story was probably going to run on Channel 6 that night, and all Slater could hope was that Rowen and Hartly would be able to wash it out with a counter-campaign of their own. Wilma Benthoff was already looking into that.

Well, he had to get home. He had to address the Fellowship of Business that night, and he really wanted a nap and a shower first. He knew he’d feel better after that.

He had Miss Rhodes call his chauffeur, grabbed his overcoat, and headed down the long, ornate hallway, saying quick good nights to Miss Rhodes and the female sentry on duty at the main reception desk.

Bryan, a part-time law student, serving as his chauffeur, met him in the main lobby as he emerged from the elevator. “Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, Bryan. Let’s get me home. I’m tired.”

“Very good, sir.”

And then, just as Bryan did every day, he offered the governor his
usual cup of coffee in a styrofoam cup with a plastic lid.

The governor stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the cup of coffee, and then he chuckled, shaking his head.

“Ooohhh, boy . . .”

“Sir?”

“Bryan, now this is going to sound odd . . .”

Bryan chuckled too.
Something
was funny.

The governor looked across the room at a drinking fountain. “Bryan, why don’t you go over there to that drinking fountain and . . .” He made a slow, deliberate pouring motion with his hand. “. . . pour that coffee down the drain, down that drinking fountain.”

Bryan was bewildered. “Down the drinking fountain, sir?”

The governor laughed and even backed away from the coffee cup. “It’s, uh . . . well, I’ve got a little bet going.”

Bryan shrugged. “Okay. Yes, sir.”

He walked briskly toward the drinking fountain to carry out his orders. Governor Slater stood still, looking all around for any coffee that might float by in the hands of angels or gremlins, and then watched as Bryan slowly and carefully emptied the coffee cup and tossed it into a waste receptacle.

Bryan returned, and the governor released a mock sigh of relief. “Good enough.” He started walking, not looking. “Well, let’s get going—”
Oof!
Too late, the governor abruptly encountered a wall of gray wool and felt hot drops of liquid striking his face.

“Oh, man! Sorry, Governor!”

Slater backed away from Ron Brennon, the Senate Majority Leader who was wearing a gray wool overcoat and carrying a cup of coffee. The cup had no lid, unfortunately.

Bryan was all over the governor with a handkerchief. Slater beat him off. “Okay, okay, leave me alone!”

Brennon thought it was kind of funny and ventured a little laugh.

Slater didn’t think it was funny at all. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

Brennon shook his head innocently. “Hey, I wasn’t going at all, Governor! I was just standing here.
You
walked into
me.
Sorry . . .”

The governor looked at Brennon, then at Bryan, then at the coffee soaking into his overcoat, and tried to calm himself. “Well,” he struggled
to say, “it’s no big deal.”

That’s what he absolutely had to believe.

4:45 P.M.

Mardell the floor director, her long, black hair tied back with a bow and her headset in place, was at her post behind Cameras One, Two, and Three on the news set, as were the camera operators. The lights were coming on, and the robotic camera on the boom was being checked for its nightly dive out of the rafters.

John stood in the makeup room before the huge, illuminated mirror, putting on his best face and having strange, fatalistic thoughts about the future.
This must be what it feels like to go to your execution
, he thought. Quite honestly, he didn’t feel all that excited about being a martyr. Not for what could turn out to be a nonstory. But it was all in the Lord’s hands now. Whatever would come, would come.

He and Bill had finally finished the package early in the afternoon, and now the cassette was ready and waiting up in the control room. The final script was a mere fraction of the story John started out with, which was a mere fraction of the whole incredible adventure he and the others had been through over the past month or so. It would have taken an hour-long television special to capture even half of it, and all he had for tonight, and maybe forever, was two minutes.

But he had some good feelings as well, especially gratitude. He had to be thankful to God that he’d even gotten this far with the story. It was like getting a second chance, a chance to make things right. And for all the pain he now felt, he also enjoyed a deeper feeling of peace. He just hoped Max and Deanne were watching, not to mention Rachel, Cindy, Shannon, and Mrs. Westfall. And Carl. And Mom.

CARL CAME IN
from Grandpa’s shop in time to wash up and get not only the television but also the VCR turned on and a blank tape ready to roll. A thing like this was only going to happen once, and he didn’t want to miss it.

“Grandma, it’s almost 5!”

“Ohh,” came a cry from the kitchen. “Lord Jesus, help my Johnny!”