Prophet (22 page)

C’mon, John Barrett! Just stay on the screen a little longer. Just a little longer.

OKAY, THE FIVE THIRTY
went fine. No foul-ups, no glitches, just a smooth, professional, neat newscast, the way it ought to be, the way it used to be. No, maybe even better. John didn’t wiggle his thumbs this time, he made sure of that.

Back to normal at last? Maybe, maybe not. He went across the newsroom to his desk and plopped into his chair. It was ten after 6. The
CBS Evening News
was on. Maybe Max Brewer was home by now. Maybe he was sitting down to dinner and wouldn’t want to be called.

Maybe John didn’t want to call him anyway. But maybe Carl would ask John if he’d called, and then John would have to make up some excuse for why he hadn’t called, which Carl probably would not believe.

Okay, John, dive off the deep end just one more time, and then life can get back to normal.

He dug the slip of paper out of his wallet, set it on his computer keyboard, and dialed the number.

“Hello?” Not a kind hello, and this guy didn’t sound very small either.

“Hello . . . Max Brewer?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“This is John Barrett, from NewsSix—”

The guy swore a blue streak at him!

“Excuse me?”

“You think you pretty funny, huh, like nobody gonna touch you, nobody gonna find you . . .”

“Mr. Brewer, this is John Barrett from—”

“No, you ain’t John Barrett! Listen, you kill him, that’s one for you, but I’m dead too, you got that? I’m dead, and you forget about me ’cause I forgot about you!”

“Mr. Brewer, I don’t think you understand—”

“You show up ’round here, you just try it, I’ll rip your head off! I’ll cut you into pieces so small the dogs won’t find ’em!”

Clatter, fumble,
click.
Dial tone.

John slowly hung up the phone. “Well, good evening to you too.” Rachel did say this guy was mean.

No. This guy isn’t mean. He’s scared. And what did he say? Something about killing John Barrett?

Dad. John Barrett Sr. A tape replayed through John’s mind. The black man at the governor’s rally, the big guy on the videotape, throwing bodies around, fighting, scrapping, right up there next to Dad.

Max. Dad called him Max! He picked up the phone and dialed again. He had to explain the mix-up, explain who he was.

But Max Brewer was not answering the phone now. John dialed Mom’s number.
Okay, Carl, you want to pursue this, now’s your chance. I’m not going to this guy’s house alone.

CHAPTER 10

JOHN USED A
crisscross directory to find Max Brewer’s address, and Carl was able to contact Rachel at Hudson’s Restaurant to verify the location. Everything matched.

The Brewers lived toward the south end of The City in a predominantly black neighborhood, a low-income area where the houses and yards were small and clusters of kids played on concrete and asphalt more often than on grass; where both sides of the street were lined with aging, parallel-parked automobiles, and vandals cursed their enemies with spray paint. It was a rough neighborhood too, known for its unemployment, gangs, crack houses, and shootings.

It was an especially uncomfortable area to be driving through in a nice car and white skin. John and Carl moved slowly up the block in the ebbing daylight, trying to find the right address.

“There,” said Carl, peering out the window. “Is that it?”

John looked out Carl’s window and could barely make out the house number, little black numerals tacked on the lap siding of a small, gable-roofed house. There was one large maple tree in the front yard with a tire swing hanging from it. No fence. The porch light was on, and the lights inside the house were on, so somebody had to be home.

They found a place to park halfway up the block, got out, and locked the car. They stayed close together.

“What did he say again?” Carl asked.

John recited it in a near whisper. “He said if we ever showed up
he’d tear our heads off and cut us up into pieces so small the dogs wouldn’t find them.”

“Thanks. I’d almost forgotten.”

“Be bold. We’re not here to hurt anyone, we’re not sneaking around. We’ll just walk right up to the door and knock.”

“Okay.”

“Incidentally, what happened to your earring and your chain?”

Carl had left off all his facial jewelry. “Less for him to grab.”

They turned up the front walk to the house. As they mounted the porch, they thought they saw some movement inside, some shadows against the drapes.
No sneaking now. Stand up straight. We’re here on legitimate business.

John couldn’t find the doorbell, so he knocked. The porch light went out. “Oh-oh,” said Carl.

“Uh . . . hello?” John called through the door. “Mr. Brewer? It’s John Barrett and his son Carl. Uh . . . I talked to you on the phone today. We’d just like to talk to you—”

They heard the heavy footsteps pounding up behind them, but not in time to do anything about it. John had no sooner turned to look when a ham-sized fist grabbed his tie and made a lasso out of it, yanking him off the porch and sending him sprawling into the yard, rolling in the autumn leaves and just about hanging himself on the tire swing.

Carl tried to leap from the porch and get away, but the shadow in the white T-shirt grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him backward, pulling him off balance. He fell but didn’t make it to the porch floor. The huge hand was still gripping him by his coat and he was hanging there, limp with fear. He looked up and saw the shiny surface of a knife blade in the dim light.

“Okay, sucker, you wanna live?” huffed a big voice above him.

John shouted, “No! Don’t—”

“Yes!” Carl insisted. “Yes, I do want to live!” Now Carl could see the man’s scowling eyes looking him over.

“Kid, I don’t like the way you look.” The porch light came on, and the front door cracked open.

A woman’s voice pleaded, “Max, don’t do anything!”

“Get inside! Get in there!” the man shouted. In the light they could see Mr. Max Brewer, as big as a football lineman, raging and wild-eyed.

John was on his feet but trying not to make any sudden moves. “That’s my son. That’s Carl Barrett. He’s . . . he’s a pacifist, you know? He’s never hurt anybody.”

Max agreed. “He couldn’t if he tried.”

The woman said through a crack in the door, “Max, don’t hurt him! You don’t know—”

Max yelled at John, “Stay there, man, or I cut him!”

“No!” Carl whimpered.

“Max!” the woman cried. “Don’t! Please!”

“Now who are you?” Max demanded of John.

John tried to answer clearly, without yelling. “I’m John Barrett—”

“Yeah, and I’m Ray Charles!” He waved the knife in small circles near Carl’s face. “And maybe this kid needs a better haircut.”

“I’m John Barrett,
Junior.
John Barrett, Senior, was my father! You’re holding John Barrett, Senior’s grandson there.”

Carl stammered, “You . . . I saw you at Grandpa’s memorial service! You were sitting on the right-hand side, toward the back, you and your wife, right?”

That seemed to register. Max held the knife still, but didn’t let go of Carl as he took another look at John. “John Barrett, Junior?”

“My dad must have told you about me.”

“You on TV?”

“Yes. Channel 6. The news guy.”

The front door of the house across the street burst open, and a neighbor hollered, “Max, what you doin’ over there?”

The knife dropped out of sight. Max lifted Carl gently to a standing position. “Ain’t doin’ nothing, Henny! These are friends.”

“Well, keep it down, man. I was gonna call the cops.” The door slammed.

Max released Carl. “Hey, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t have no idea who you were. Deanne!”

The door came open, and an attractive, fortyish woman cautiously poked her head out.

“We got company here.” He beckoned to John. “C’mon, c’mon, get inside before somebody sees you. Deanne, c’mon, open the door. Let’s go.”

She opened the door, and John and Carl went inside. Max was
right behind them, closing the door again.

“Have a seat,” he said, still brandishing the knife.

John looked at the knife. A man could dress out a deer with that thing. “Are you . . . through with that . . . uh . . .”

Max noticed he was still holding it. “Oh . . . yeah.” He dropped it into the drawer of a small end table. “I don’t guess you guys want trouble.”

Deanne Brewer, visibly shaken, was concerned with proper hospitality nevertheless. “Max, why don’t you introduce your two friends?”

Max eyed them a moment to make sure, then gave it a try. “Deanne, this here’s John Barrett, Junior. He’s John’s boy. And this here is . . . uh . . .”

“Carl.”

“Yeah, Carl . . . John’s grandson.”

Deanne extended her hand, still trembling a little, and they greeted each other. “May I bring you something to drink?” she asked.

John and Carl looked at each other. “Uh . . . coffee?”

“All right. Please sit down.” She looked at Max and he said, “Yeah. Sit down. Sit down.”

There was one couch in the small living room, so they took that. Max sat on the edge of a worn-looking stuffed chair. Deanne went into the kitchen, a small area divided from the living room by a dining table and six unmatched chairs.

“Daddy . . .” came a timid voice from down the hall.

“’s okay, honey. Come on in here, say hi.”

Two bedroom doors toward the back of the house opened. From one room came a boy about ten. From the other room—the one with the Michael Jackson poster on the door—came two girls, one about twelve and the other in her midteens. They moved gingerly down the hall toward the living room.

Max waved them in with his hand. “C’mon, c’mon, it’s all right. Nothing wrong here . . . These are friends.”

They came into the living room and stood side by side, like notes in a musical scale, ten-twelve-midteen.

Max introduced them. “This is George.” “Hi” was all George would say. He was being shy. “He likes fast cars. And this is Victoria.” The twelve-year-old just gave a little wave and stared at them, rubbing the
back of one foot with the other toe. “She’s the dancer.”

“Daddy, I’m a fashion model,” she protested.

He laughed. “Okay, honey. Seems like the same thing to me. And this is Rebecca. She’s the artist.”

“Hello. I’m pleased to meet you.”

They were beautiful children, though clearly frightened.

“You go on now. We’re talkin’ in here. Get your homework done.”

They scurried down the hallway, obviously relieved. Max continued to gaze down the hallway even after the kids were back in their rooms. Then he nodded toward the end table where he’d put the knife. “I’d kill for them. Yeah, you know I would.”

John swallowed and ventured his first full sentence since they’d become guests. “We’re terribly sorry for any alarm we may have caused you.”

Max smiled a devilish smile. “How’d you like my ambush?”

“It was great,” said Carl.

“Gotcha good, didn’t I? Turned out the light, snuck ’round the back, nailed you. Pow!”

Carl held up his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t want to be on your bad side.”

“Yeah, well, some people are, and I thought you were them.” He looked straight at John and added, “I thought you were the ones that killed your father.”

John had to look at Carl. Carl’s expression must have matched his own—dumbfounded disbelief.

“Uh . . . say again?”

Max explained, “You know, callin’ me up and sayin’ you were John Barrett. Well, ever’body knows John Barrett’s dead, so I thought you were them, just tryin’ to scare me.”

“Them? Who?”

“The people that killed him. I thought they were comin’ after me now. They killed my Annie, then they killed John, so I figured now they’re after me.”

“Oh . . .” John was lost and groped for a starting point. “We got your phone number from a girl named Rachel Franklin. She’s a waitress at Hudson’s. Fine young lady.”

“I know who she is. Ain’t seen her since Annie died though. I think
I ran ’em all off, all of Annie’s friends. I wasn’t handlin’ it too well.”

“Uh-huh. Rachel said you were asking around, trying to find out if Annie’d had . . . an abortion. Is that right?” Max didn’t answer, but just glared at him. “Well, listen, we don’t know anything about this. I never knew you and Dad were friends . . .”

“And I never seen you before. I guess you ’n’ your ol’ man didn’t hang around together much.”

John admitted, “No, I guess we didn’t. So . . . I just didn’t know about you, and I never knew anything about Annie.”

Max went over to the bookcase in the corner and picked up a framed photograph. He handed it to John, who shared it with Carl.

“That’s Annie,” said Max. “That’s her senior picture.”

She looked a lot like her mother, smooth-featured, lovely, with a captivating smile.

“She was seventeen,” said Max. “Senior at Jefferson. Sweetest thing you ever saw.” He hesitated as tears came to his eyes. He looked toward the kitchen. “Coffee ready, babe?”

“Just about,” she replied.

He looked back at them and wiped his eyes. “I gotta be careful what I talk about.”