Prophet (11 page)

MORE ADS FOLLOWED,
with more images moving quickly, jump-cutting from one to another.

Scene: The governor in close-up on grainy film stock, in jerky stop-motion. Hardworking. Gritty. Determined.

Governor’s voice over the pictures: “Fiscal responsibility is still one
of my goals for the state. I’m happy to say that last year we realized our first budget surplus, and if I can help it we’re going to see another one this year, and the next, and the next.”

Scene: Women cheering, waving KEEP ABORTION LEGAL signs. In the center, Governor Hiram Slater, greeting them, shaking their hands. Cut to:

Governor addresses a gathering of women: “I once dreamed of a state where reproductive freedom was a fundamental right of every woman. We have seen that dream come true, and as long as I am governor that dream will live on!”

Cheers. Some tears.

Scene: The classroom. Teachers dashing ABCs and famous names onto blackboards. Kids listening attentively, hard at work. Hiram Slater in the middle of it, talking to the children, addressing the class, taking questions, laughing.

Slater addressing a group of teachers: “History has carried our world forward, but our schools have lagged behind. I say it’s time not to catch up with history but to outrun it. We must live, and we must educate, as if the future were today.”

The teachers nod, exchange positive looks.

THE ADS TUMBLED
colorfully out of the television screen, the music rising, the sun continuing to shine. From every angle, at every film speed, in backlight, sidelight, stark light, faces, faces, faces, happy, hopeful, adoring, prospering, a moving montage of political satisfaction.

Title: “Paid for by the Committee to Reelect Governor Slater, Wilma Benthoff, Chairperson.”

THE SCREEN WENT
black. Slater, Devin, and Benthoff exchanged pleased expressions and applauded.

“Bravo!” said the governor.

“Good enough, good enough,” said Benthoff.

“Boy,” said Devin, “they’re going to think they’re electing God.”

“Well,” said Rowen, the smaller of the duo, the one with the horn-rimmed glasses and crooked tie, “the ultimate benefactor at least. We’re
showing the people that Governor Slater is good for the state and good for them.”

“Image is everything,” said Slater.

“Image is everything,” echoed Hartly, the taller of the two, and the better dressed. “Uh . . . you may have noticed we emphasized the bass on your voice a bit. In those . . . uh . . . outdoor scenes, you know, the higher tones tend to carry.”

“Good move,” said Devin.

“Yeah, fine,” said Slater. “Well? Questions? Comments for these gentlemen?”

Benthoff referred to her notes. “Now . . . you just showed us six commercial spots. How many do you have planned overall?”

Hartly replied, “These six will open up the campaign starting next week if you’re all agreeable. Then, after they’ve reached saturation, we’ll start rotating our celebs through to recapture the public’s attention.”

“That’s a great lineup, too,” said Devin.

“I think it’s outstanding,” said Rowen. “We have Rosalind Kline, the star of
Who’s Got Problems?
”

“Ever seen the show?” Devin asked the governor.

“I don’t watch that slop,” he said under his breath.

Rowen continued, “She’ll be doing a spot emphasizing the women’s rights issues. And then there’s Eddie Kingland, who’s really into environmental issues, so he’ll do a plug from the environmental angle.”

“Help me out,” said the governor.

Benthoff rolled her eyes. “Oh brother, you guys! Haven’t you ever watched
Love Thy Neighbor
? He plays the hunk next door.”

“These are household names,” said Rowen, “faces the public will instantly recognize and identify with.”

“Uh,” Devin prompted, “you do have Theodore Packard doing an ad, right?”

“Oh?” said the governor, his eyebrows going up.

“Got him,” said Hartly. “He’ll be doing an ad on pluralism, freedom of artistic expression, cultural diversity. We picked him for the classy folks.”

“Thank you,” said Slater, and they all laughed. “Well, that’s what we want. Whatever will get their attention where they are.”

“And what about the posters, the billboards?” Devin asked.

“Those should be ready for posting next week,” said Rowen. “I think . . . uh, Mason, do we have photocopies of the revisions?”

Hartly dug into his valise. “Right. I think you’ll like these.” He gave a small pile of papers a shove and let them slide across the conference table to the three. “You’ll notice we took the same style from the TV spots and translated it into provocative stills that evoke the same image. The public will see the TV ads, so they’ll immediately recognize the billboards. Their eyes will be drawn to the familiar.”

Slater, Devin, and Benthoff perused the sketches and nodded approvingly.

“And did we ever get any mention of the Hillary Slater Memorial Fund?” the governor asked.

“Oh!” said Rowen. “I believe we had Anita Diamond lined up to do a TV spot. You’ll recall she’s very active in animal rights—”

“Animal rights!” The governor cursed. “I want people to see how I care about young women needing an education and you give me someone identified with animal rights?”

Rowen and Hartly looked at each other for a suitable reply. Hartly took the question. “Oh, beg your pardon, Governor, I’m afraid we may have misunderstood—”

“If image is everything I don’t like the image!”

Devin tried to intercede. “Guys, the Hillary Slater Memorial Fund provides grants for girls going to college. It doesn’t have anything to do with animals.”

Rowen and Hartly stopped cold, then chuckled, then laughed a very socially soothing laugh. Hartly addressed the problem. “Hey, I think we’re still okay. Eugene said we had Anita Diamond lined up. Uh . . . that means we’ve talked to her, but it’s nothing firm. But using her might work anyway. She’s a successful young black singer who overcame poverty and hardship and racial prejudice, that sort of thing . . .”

The governor was not appeased. “We’ve got enough black footage in the TV ads. We’ve established that I like blacks. What I need now is a young woman with some brains.”

The two media consultants looked blankly at each other. “Who do we have who’s known?” Hartly wondered.

“How about a lesbian?” Devin suggested.

The governor cursed again.

“Hey, they vote!” said Devin.

“I know that!”

Devin turned to Rowen and Hartly. “What about Packard? Isn’t he gay?”

Hartly shrugged. “He isn’t telling, sir.”

Slater mulled it over. “Well, Martin’s got a point. Get me a gay. Somebody famous, with some credibility. And I don’t want any lisping limpwrist. Have him say something nice about me. I’ve been nice enough to them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then maybe we can get an actress to plug how I’ve formed the Hillary Slater Fund. I don’t know who.”

Rowen brightened. “Why not a local girl, someone right from the area, who benefited from the Fund?”

The governor was silent. Devin quickly answered, “We’ve only funded one girl so far, and . . .” He wiggled his hand, palm down.

“How about a woman athlete?” suggested Benthoff.

“Yeah, right,” said Slater. “What’s wrong with that? A tennis champ or something, talking about me helping girls reach their full potential and all that crap.”

“Better get on it,” Devin goaded.

Rowen was taking notes. “Yes, sir. You’ve got it, sir.”

“Now have we covered everybody?” the governor asked.

“What about the homeless?” Benthoff asked.

“Not this election.”

“They don’t vote,” Devin quipped.

“Well, next election.”

They had to laugh at that. It broke the tension.

Benthoff perused the list in front of her. “So we’re talking about TV ads, with adaptations for radio . . . billboards, bus posters . . .”

“We’ve purchased space on twenty Metro buses.”

“Okay. Bumper stickers, yard signs, balloons . . .” Devin flipped to the next page. “Not to mention public appearances. You’re going to be busy, Mr. Governor.”

“How public?” the governor asked.

Rowen read down his list. “Oh, many different venues. The University,
the Kiwanis, the Teachers’ Union . . .”

The governor asked Devin, “Any places where that prophet might show up?”

Rowen’s eyes went blank. “Sir?”

Devin glossed it over. “Oh, an old friend. One of the governor’s most faithful followers.”

CHAPTER 5

JOHN SLAMMED THE
receiver down. He was fully awake and out of bed without a thought, scrambling for his clothes. It was 8:32
A.M.
, Wednesday. There’d been an accident at the warehouse. Dad was hurt. Buddy wouldn’t say how badly, but he emphasized, “You’d better get down here right away.”

Rush hour. The northbound interstate was jammed and sluggish, but southbound was moving. John made it to the Industrial Street exit without delay and worked his way through the industrial grid, through alleys and over railroad tracks, to the warehouse. He could see the flashing lights blocks before he got there.

He pulled around the back, drove through the big yard gate, and jerked to a stop beside two police squad cars. Near the loading dock, a large fire truck and an aid car stood ready. A fireman was just going up the stairs to the loading dock with some cable in his hand.

John spotted Buddy Clemens on the dock waiting for him, waving frantically. John was there in an instant.

“What happened?”

Buddy stood in his way. “Johnny, let’s go in the office.”

John pushed Buddy aside and ran into the building, past the office, past Aisles 8, 9, and 10, then into the open area where the galvanized stock was kept.

The images that confronted him would haunt him for days afterward, every time he closed his eyes.

Firefighters scrambling, lifting, shoving heavy pipe aside. Chains, hooks, pulleys. Shouting.

A toppled pipe rack now lying on the concrete floor, twisted and bent.

Heavy, twenty-foot lengths of galvanized pipe strewn on the floor like jackstraws.

Paramedics working, moving . . . but not hurrying. No urgency in their manner.

Police officers watching, muttering into their portable radios, looking grim.

Some guy with a camera snapping pictures.

A white cloth on the concrete floor, covering . . .

Jimmie Lopez saw John and walked toward him, heading him off, blocking his way. “Johnny, hang on, man. Just hang on.”

John tried to get around him, but Jimmie outweighed and outsized him. “Jimmie, what’s happened?”

Jimmie held him back, then somehow turned him around. He spoke gently. “Johnny, your father’s dead. He’s gone.”

It didn’t sink in. John kept trying to look. “What happened?”

“Your father’s been killed in an accident. Just work on that.”

The realization, like a spear, reached John’s heart. He grabbed hold of a shelf. Jimmie held him, braced him from falling.

“Let’s get into the office where you can sit down,” said Jimmie, guiding him with a strong arm.

John’s vision went blurry. He felt like he would smother. His breaths were short, shuddering. He was trembling all over.

Jimmie got him through the office door and into a chair. Jill was at her desk, completely beside herself, whimpering into her clenched fists, stealing horrified glances through the office window and then turning away with anguished cries.

“Is your husband on the way?” Jimmie asked her. She couldn’t answer. He asked her again, gently, “Did you get ahold of Kevin?”

She nodded.

“Is he coming to get you?”

She nodded again.

“Okay. Just sit tight.”

In came Buddy Clemens, helping Chuck Keitzman along. Chuck,
shaggy-haired, mustached, and built like a tank, was cradling his right arm and cursing over and over. His right hand was wrapped in paper towels; blood was soaking through them. Chuck flopped into a chair, threw back his head, and cursed in violent anger. Then he wilted in the chair and wept. Buddy raced into the washroom and returned with more paper towels.

“The medics will be here,” said Buddy, his voice high and rushed. “Just sit and be quiet. Just take it easy.”