The Warning (29 page)
“They're everywhere!” The guard's voice was as hoarse as his own.
“Get me
out
of here!”
Thad felt a burning sensation on his hand, as if acid were seeping off the leather strap. He peeled skin off his wrist with his fingernails in his terror to get the cush off.
He dropped to his knees. Yes. That was the answer. Get down low and let the others take the heat. He sank lower, crawling and scrabbling on his belly through the damp filth coating the alley.
He heard shrieks and cries behind him. The sounds only made him crawl faster, through the blinding mist, wriggling on his belly so hard his clothes were shredded by the gravel underneath, finally catching a glimpse of light up ahead, as if he was approaching the end of a suffocating tunnel.
Thad gasped a sob and stumbled to his knees. His fine Armani suit was drenched and filthy with tatters flapping from his elbows and knees. He did not even notice. He scrambled to his feet and fled in terror.
Richmond that Thursday afternoon was experiencing a late heat wave. But it was not the temperature that made Buddy stop as he walked up the concrete runway and entered the stadium. Beneath a brilliant sun spread the largest crowd he had ever seen, much less addressed. Every seat in the bleachers was taken. Faces and colors spread out in every direction until they became distant blurs.
The playing field itself was lost beneath a seething mass of bodies. From the thirty-yard line back stretched row upon row of folding seats. Between them and the front stage, thousands of people gathered and stood and knelt and prayed.
Clarke moved up alongside. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine.” It was a noisy, joyous, fervent cauldron of people and spiritual power. The Spirit was there and moving among the family of believers. “Just fine.”
“Mr. Korda?” A harried young man wearing a badge and carrying a walkie-talkie scurried over. “Greg Knowles. Great that you could make it.” He took Buddy's arm and began leading him forward, down the stairs and across the single patch of green not filled with bodies. “There's one more speaker before you. He'll be about a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes. We like to leave time for the Spirit to move at will.”
“I understand.” Buddy mounted the stairs, shook a couple of hands, and seated himself on the stage's back row. Strange that he could look out over such a gathering and feel no nerves. His fatigue and travel stress had gradually eased. Here and now, the outside world could not enter. Here and now, he was home.
When it was his time to speak, a distinguished gray-haired minister known throughout the nation gave the introduction. “By now, most of you have heard of Buddy Korda. This past week the press has been full of reports about how this one man has begun to have an effect upon the stock market. How there has been an unprecedented buying of futures options by people who would otherwise never be expected to enter this high-risk market. Huge numbers of people. Phenomenal numbers. That is the word I have read over and over this week.
Phenomenal
. It is phenomenal, the papers and the television pundits say, that one small-town banker can have such an impact upon people. They claim that it is simply a sign of the times, that people are nervous and willing to follow anyone who claims to know where the market is headed.
“Well, I am here to tell you that I have heard a tape recording of Buddy Korda's message. And after that I saw a video. I imagine that many of you out there have. And both times I was completely thunderstruck by the power of God moving through this man.
“We have a bank of television cameras out here in front of the stage today. Those of you who have attended our gatherings know this is not normal. But from what I have learned in a conversation with his home office this morning, today is the final day of Buddy Korda's message. Tomorrow is the last day we can act on his advice.
“I have every confidence that his message is correct, so much so that I have put all of my savings into something I did not even know existed before last weekâsomething called put options. I am staking my reputation and my family's savings that Mr. Korda carries a message from God. And if his message is correct, Monday is too late. Brothers, hear what I am saying. More important, listen to Mr. Korda himself. And if you agree, if you feel the Spirit's direction, then I urge you to act. That is why the cameras are here. So that as many people as possible can hear and act.” He turned and nodded toward Buddy.
Buddy approached the podium and the bank of microphones, greeted the crowd, and began. “I wish I could leave unsaid what I'm up here to tell you. Because what's most important is what you've been hearing from the speakers before me, that Jesus must reign in your minds and hearts. He is truly the way, the truth, and the life.
“But I can't stop there. Not today. I feel called to be where I am. Yet what's important is what you hear the
Spirit
say to you, not what words I speak. Remember that. I need to be the Lord's messenger, and you need to hear confirmation from the Lord, not from me.”
“This way, Mr. Korda. Here, let me take the towel.”
“Oh, thank you.” It was Thursday evening, and Buddy was in the Washington offices of CNN. As he removed the makeup towel from around his neck and handed it to the production assistant, he glanced around. Here everything seemed to run at double time. People did not walk, they scampered. Voices were tense and high-pitched. All the expressions looked vitally important, immensely serious.
Buddy allowed himself to be shepherded through a series of doors and into the side wings of a large soundstage. At its center was the familiar backdrop for
Lonnie Stone Live
. The production assistant pointed to a large screen situated to one side of the empty stage and said, “Mr. Stone is in New York today. You'll be able to see him on that feed. The questions will be passed to you through a speaker set in the desk, see it there?”
“Yes.” Buddy felt nervous tension transmitted from everything around him. Cables littered the floor. People moved lights and cameras about, barely casting a glance in his direction. He was simply the day's product, to be spotlighted and handled and monitored, and then moved aside for whatever was hot tomorrow. There wasn't time for anything else.
“Okay, let's just fit your mike into place.” The production assistant stepped aside as a sound technician clipped a tiny microphone to his lapel, ran the wire under his jacket, and gave him the control pack to slip into his back pocket. “Would you say something so they can adjust the sound level?”
“I have never been on television before.”
“Fine. That's great.” She returned a thumbs-up through the control room window and ushered him toward the desk. “All right, let's adjust your coat so it doesn't bunch around your shoulders.” She gave the back of his jacket a hard tug and tucked it farther into his seat. “Try to hold to one position through each question, Mr. Korda. If you want to move, do so when Lonnie is talking.”
“I understand.” The makeup was constricting, and under the lights it left his skin feeling as though it could not breathe. “How longâ”
“Eight minutes until you go on, and we will probably play this for five minutes today.” She glanced at her clipboard. “You're back with us next week, do I have that right?”
“On Tuesday,” he confirmed.
“You'll be an old hand by then, won't you?” She gave him a practiced smile and moved back beyond the reach of the lights. Immediately a camera rolled forward and fastened its great square eye on him.
Buddy gave a swift prayer for guidance and received the same response as at press conferencesâa simple determined foreknowledge of what needed to be said.
The minutes dragged on until the production assistant waved at him, counted down, and then pointed to the monitor. Buddy saw the seasoned smile and heard the famous voice say, “And joining us now from our Washington studio is Buddy Korda, a name that has become increasingly familiar, and in a remarkably short span of time. Mr. Korda, it's a pleasure to have you with us today.”
“Thank you for having me.”
“Mr. Korda, do I have it right that you are predicting a major economic downturn to strike sometime next week?”
“On Tuesday,” Buddy affirmed.
“You'll excuse me if I say that it seems a little strange. The markets are booming. The latest economic figures, released just yesterday, indicate that the nation enjoys the best economic health it has seen in years.” Stone picked up a sheet of paper and read, “Unemployment is down, wholesale purchasing is up, factory usage is at an all-time high. Today the market hit another record level, with the Dow climbing almost two hundred points.” He let the paper drop. “It seems as though the economy is not agreeing with you, Mr. Korda.”
“There are a number of factors that could change that almost instantly.”
“So you are suggesting, are you not, that people who hear your message should risk everything they own by going against the market, flying in the face of every pundit on Wall Street, and betting the lot on the market falling? Isn't that right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you perhaps interested in changing your deadline, Mr. Korda? Perhaps give yourself a little breathing space?”
“There is no need.” Buddy looked straight at the camera and put as much emphasis as he could on each word. “The reason I came into the studios today was to urge those who have heard my message and feel it is true to
act
. Tomorrow is their last chance.”
“The markets will be open for business on Monday as well,” the interviewer pointed out.
Buddy shook his head. “Monday will be too late.”
The interviewer gave his familiar, hoarse chuckle. “I wish I was as certain about anything as you appear to be about this. Tell me, Mr. Korda, do you have any idea just how far the market will fall?”
Buddy felt the door open. Not for emotional impact, but rather for a response. One given in astonishing clarity. “The Dow Jones average will close next week at less than nine hundred.”
It took Lonnie Stone a moment to recover. “That is a drop of over eighty percent.”
“Yes, it is.”
“In one
week
?”
“That is correct.”
Another moment, and then, “Mr. Korda, all I can say is, I hope you are wrong.”
Buddy felt an overwhelming sorrow, a sadness for the people, the businesses, the nation. He shook his head. “I'm not wrong.”
Four Days . . .
Friday morning Thad Dorsett returned to the office a broken man.
He sat at his console, watching the markets open with the speed of a grand prix roaring into action. He saw nothing but a blur.
He started when the red light at the center of his phone console began flashing. Thad sat a very long time, trying to formulate a plan, struggling to draw his shattered parts together. Then he reached and picked up the receiver and punched the connection. “Dorsett.”
“So how'd it go?”
The question brought a first sign of hope. Clearly Fleiss had not caught the interview with Korda, which CNN televised nationwide. Thad ventured, “Not too bad.”
“That's good, sport. Real good. The old man will be pleased.” The voice sounded like a robot's voice in a human body. “Say, what happened to the two security guys? They never checked back in.”
Thad heard the flatness of his own voice, knowing the dead sound matched Fleiss's exactly. “I guess they must still be celebrating.”
“Yeah, well, they deserve it. Say, you seen the market this morning?”
“It's rising,” Thad guessed. It had been setting new records all week.
“Like a skyrocket. We're going for the stratosphere, you mark my words.”
“Time to grab hold and ride the bull.” Thad mouthed the words, but felt nothing.
“You got it. Heard your new office is gonna be ready first thing Monday. You still moving into your brownstone this weekend?”
“Tomorrow,” Thad confirmed, searching inside himself for a shred of pleasure over the coming step, the arrival of all his dreams. All he found was a gigantic void.
“Good timing, kid. Nothing I like to see better in a trader.” Larry's chuckle sounded machine generated. “Well, back to the trenches.”
“Right.” Thad hung up the phone and returned to staring sightlessly at the flickering screens.
He would leave early, as soon as he was certain the market was going to continue its ride into the wild blue yonder. Monday would come soon enough, then Tuesday, and with it Korda's downfall. As soon as the world saw that Korda's predictions were wrong, Thad's failure to take the banker down would not matter.
He struggled to draw the screen's numbers into focus; he saw that the prices continued to rise. He sat back, deaf to the screaming pandemonium rising around him. His lie was indeed intact. The market was going to rise, and Buddy Korda was soon to be history.
Three Days . . .
The Saturday morning papers were vicious. The market had broken all records on Friday afternoon. The pundits who mentioned him at all made Buddy out to be a disgruntled former bank employee who had turned against everything and everyone.
The weekend editorials read like obituaries. They were putting his time in the spotlight down as another of those unexplainable aberrations, symbolic of how people preferred to follow their hearts rather than their minds. With words as brooms, the papers and the radio and the television all pointed at the market's continued rise, then swept Buddy Korda into the back room of oblivion.
Buddy did not budge from his backyard. At his request, Molly had gone out and returned with as many papers as she could find. She delivered them with a set mouth. When Buddy asked her what the matter was, she simply said, “Stay where you are.”
