Prophet (86 page)

A vision, maybe? Well, maybe.

The light had fully arrived, no longer growing in intensity but remaining steady now, shining out of his bedroom and lighting up much of the apartment. John moved step by step toward the bedroom door, knowing he would find
something
but having no idea what it might be. An angel perhaps? Things like that happened in the Bible, and he’d heard stories about such encounters from some of the saints in church years ago.

God? He stopped for a moment. If this was going to be a burning bush, he sure didn’t feel like a Moses.

But there was no fear. Only awe—and extreme curiosity. He took another step and then another.

Now he could see his bed, the bedspread brightly illumined.

Then the pillows neatly arranged at the headboard.

And there it was.

A lamb.

Warmth and joy flooded him, flowing like warm oil from his head and on down to his feet. He relaxed and even smiled, leaning against the doorpost, looking at that little creature now looking back at him with gentle, golden eyes, the lashes blinking every once in a while, the legs tucked neatly under its perfect, unblemished body.

The lamb! They’d met before, when John was ten. And as John stood there in awe, drinking in the vision, he remembered the details he’d seen back then—the white wool, so perfect it glowed; the attentive, flitting ears; the kind, gentle eyes; and the remarkably peaceful demeanor. The lamb looked exactly the same, in every detail.

“Hello,” he ventured to say, but very softly, afraid he might startle his guest.

The lamb raised its head attentively and returned the greeting with its eyes.

“It’s . . . uh . . . it’s been a while. I’m very happy to see you again.”

He dared to enter the room, approaching the lamb so very furtively, his hand outstretched.

The lamb rose to its feet, the little black hooves glistening, the bed sinking only slightly under its weight, and took a few steps toward him.

John chuckled as he stroked the lamb’s nose. This little guy wasn’t afraid of anything.

Then it entered John’s mind to find a treat of some kind, some token of friendship—or loyalty. “Uh . . . carrots. Would you like a carrot?”

The lamb didn’t respond one way or the other. John backed away, speaking gently. “Let me . . . let me bring you something, okay? I have to, you know, be a good host, right?”

He hurried into the kitchen and threw on the light.

Then he scrambled through the refrigerator for a carrot.

“Okay!” he said, closing the refrigerator. “Here you go!”

Oh. He stopped and fell silent.

The lamb was standing at the sliding glass door, looking out at the city, its body motionless with attention.

Suddenly the carrot was unimportant. John set it on the counter and quietly joined the lamb, kneeling beside it, looking out through the glass.

They remained there for quite some time, just listening. The lamb looked up at him, the eyes troubled.

He nodded. “Yeah, I hear them too.” He looked toward the city once more as the lamb followed his gaze. “I hear them too.”

THAT NIGHT JOHN
slept peacefully for the first time in over a month, the lamb curled serenely on the bed near his feet, keeping watch.

CHAPTER 35

THE VERY NEXT
day John Barrett was not seen in the newsroom, and few were surprised. In his place, Walt Bruechner hurried about, getting acquainted with the daytime staff, getting accustomed to the daytime routine.

Out in the station’s lobby, a maintenance man carefully removed the fasteners from the brightly lit, full-color, three-foot-high photograph of John Barrett, news anchor, and took it down from the wall, removing it from the company of the other great names and faces.

Above the avenues, streets, and freeways here and there around the city, workmen began to peel the face of John Barrett from the billboards, removing him in long, jagged strips that fell into the bed of a truck parked below.

At the city garage, the Barrett and Downs posters were removed from the sides of the buses to make room for new posters that were due to arrive any day, new posters with the face of Ali Downs plus the new face of Walt Bruechner. The old posters were rolled up tightly and deposited in the trash bin.

Throughout that day’s programming on Channel 6, bold new promo spots began to air. Impressive video images of the hot new NewsSix team—Bruechner and Downs—flashed across the screen, exuding integrity and incisiveness.

By the day’s end John Barrett, bold, incisive, trustworthy, accurate, and up-to-the-minute anchorman, would silently slip out of existence
in the popular culture and within weeks would vanish completely from the public mind.

JOHN BARRETT, HIGH,
lofty, untouchable, and altogether perfect, was still gazing down with honest eyes from the rafters of Dad Barrett’s shop as Carl positioned a ladder just beneath him, climbed up the rungs, and removed the portrait from its place. The stern look of honesty never changed as the portrait made the trip down the ladder in Carl’s hands, and the eyes showed no response as Carl broke the wooden frame with a hatchet and neatly folded the canvas into quarters. When the folded canvas and its wooden frame were ceremoniously placed in the garbage, the face wasn’t even seeing the light of day, but was folded upon itself in darkness, never to be seen again.

Carl placed the lid back on the garbage can, fastened it down with an elastic strap, and then let out a whoop the whole neighborhood must have heard, his face toward Heaven, his arms stretching upward.

Mom Barrett stuck her head out the back door. “Carl! What’s wrong—”

When she saw him standing by the garbage can and noticed the joy on his face, she pieced it all together and went back inside, indulging in a quiet little whoop of her own.

GOVERNOR HIRAM SLATER
wasted no time. The moment he arrived at his office he told Miss Rhodes, “Get Martin Devin in here right now, right away, pronto, no excuses!”

She gasped at his manner but carried out his order immediately, grabbing up her telephone to make the call.

Slater went into his office and immediately removed his suit jacket, throwing it on the deep, leather-covered sofa. He would talk to Martin Devin this morning, and he would get the straight scoop from him on
everything
or Devin was going to walk that very day, that very hour!

First the spilled coffee, and then the blue running shoes, and now . . . well, everything the prophet had said about Devin yesterday did make sense. The 911 tape! Of course. It would have been the easiest, most direct way for Barrett and Albright to find out about Shannon
DuPliese.

That tape could have triggered everything. That tape that Martin Devin was supposed to destroy!

Well, did he?
Did he?

The governor hit his intercom button. “Miss Rhodes! Have you talked to Devin?”

“Sir . . .” She sounded hesitant. “Mr. Devin says he’s with some visitors right now and can’t get away.” The governor wouldn’t accept that, and then thought that maybe he should, and then decided he wouldn’t. He called Devin’s office himself. Devin’s secretary answered.

“This is the governor! I want to talk to—”

Miss Rhodes’s voice squawked out of the intercom. “Mr. Governor, Mr. Devin is here now.”

The governor hung up on Devin’s secretary as the office door opened and Martin Devin came in with two gentlemen.

That perturbed the governor even more. “Devin, we need to have a conference immediately.” He looked at the two men. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us?”

“Uh, Mr. Governor,” said Devin, “these men are from the Police Department. I’d like you to meet Detective Robert Henderson and his partner, Detective Clay Oakley.”

No one made a move to shake hands. The two detectives only nodded at the governor, and he replied, “Gentlemen . . .”

Devin explained, “Mr. Governor, I’m sure you’ll want to know that these two gentlemen are here to take me into custody.”

That didn’t register. It was just too outrageous.

“Custody? What do you mean,
custody
?”

“They’re . . . uh . . . they’re placing me under arrest.”

For one of the few times in his life Hiram Slater was at a loss for words. He just stood there, his mouth hanging open and trembling, his eyes darting from face to face, looking for some safe place to land.

Devin figured he’d better sew up some loose ends before he left. “Wilma Benthoff has the new poll results, and she’ll be bringing them by this afternoon. You’re doing well—still way ahead of Wilson. Rowen and Hartly are preparing a new package of TV and radio promos. Uh . . . I’ve told them to be available in case you need to do any image repair. They should be getting in touch with you today or tomorrow.”

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?”