Free Prophet by Frank Peretti Page B

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