The Prophet of Queens Read online

  “Shackleton’s a pinko,” Reggie muttered. “Karl Marx in a skirt. What’s she know about creating jobs? Never worked a day in her life, daddy gave her everything.”

  “Filby’s a sock puppet,” Zing replied. “Religious Right’s up his ass working his mouth.”

  They turned to Scotty, and Reggie asked, “Who you think won?”

  Scotty made a show of switching on his computer, getting to work. “No idea. Didn’t watch.”

  Zing exhaled. “Pathetically apathetic.”

  Not apathetic, resigned. The system was hopelessly rigged. All the gerrymandering and vote suppression; the constant deluge of insidious false facts. Getting involved was a waste of time.

  Zing paused to study Scotty. “Damn, dude, you look like hell. You sick?”

  Scotty preferred to keep personal issues to himself. But this latest complication had nothing to do with finances or females. “There’s something really weird going on in my apartment,” he confided, and unspooled his tale of loud growls and whines mysteriously confined to his living room. Noises only he and his cat could hear, as if behind a sound barrier.

  “That’s some strange shit, all right,” Reggie gave him.

  Zing asked, “What do you know about your building? Its construction?”

  “Not much.” Scotty subleased from a woman who’d vacated to tend an ailing sister abroad. “The neighborhood’s old. The building must go back a century or better.”

  “In that case,” Zing said, “you never know what’s buried under it. Or in the walls. Rusting systems. Plumbing, electric, heating ducts.”

  “Doesn’t sound mechanical to me,” Reggie said. “Growls and whines, that’s a restless spirit.”

  Scotty wasn’t inclined toward the supernatural, but Reggie’s words gave him goosebumps.

  Zing said, “Before we go all spooky, how about a rational explanation? Microwaves. Microwaves can cause all kinds of creepy crap. Maybe there’s a dish out of whack somewhere.”

  Those saucer-shaped transmitters were everywhere on towers and buildings in Queens. Even Reggie had to concede, “That storm last week could have knocked a dish loose. Get one aimed at your ass, it’ll cook the shit outta your ‘lectronics.”

  “Not to mention your brain,” Zing added. “Like living in a microwave oven. Better find it and report it before you’re bleeding out the ears.”

  Microwaves. Why hadn’t Scotty thought of that? He felt relieved—aside from the brain part. Eye out for Margo, he hopped online. She couldn’t see his screen from her office, but she liked to roam. Uncannily light-footed for her size, liable to sneak up behind.

  A Google search supported Zing’s theory, halfway. A single microwave beam couldn’t account for what happened, though two might. A phenomenon known as a moiré effect. Beams crossing paths at just the right angles, combining to create a mutant wave with peculiar audial and/or visual properties. One other qualifier: for a moiré to occur, the beams needed clear lines of sight to their point of intersection.

  Scotty stopped to buy cheap binoculars on his way home, arriving at his building and entering the foyer to see a new name taped on its row of mailboxes.

  2-D, K Kraft

  His heart lightened. Karen? Kathy? Kelly?

  No time for that now, he raced upstairs, held his breath, and opened his door to find…

  Things just as he’d left them. Quiet. Bedroom door closed. Yet, something didn’t feel right. And heading to the back room, sure enough, he spied Homer under the bed.

  Scotty hauled him out and sat with him.

  “Microwaves,” he told the cat.

  Homer blinked, and Scotty explained, “According to Zing, microwave dishes are out of position somewhere, beaming at us. When waves line up, they cause weird noises and stuff.”

  What are we supposed to do? Wear tinfoil hats?

  Showing Homer the binoculars, Scotty slung him over a shoulder and left the apartment, climbing the ladder to the roof, picking his way through a patchwork of tarred cracks and seams. He made for the right front corner above their living room, giving the surroundings a three-sixty. Between the binoculars and the cat’s sharp eyes, he identified dozens of dishes.

  Yet a thorough search revealed none directed their way, and they returned home flummoxed.

  If not microwaves, what?

  Reggie’s spirit theory sprang to mind, but Scotty refused to go there. And though exhausted, he spent a restless night.

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, October 7, 8:00 am

  Endicott, Percy & Moore Communications

  Manhattan, NY

  The conference room sat on the 29th floor overlooking 57th. Fine art on the walls, plush carpet, long teak table with cushy seating for thirty. But the attendees did not look comfortable.

  A well-dressed woman took a seat next to another, grumbling, “Why the fire drill, Shonda?”

  Shonda brushed back dark hair and shrugged. “I got here at 6:00, and the directors were all in the crisis room teleconferencing. Whatever’s up, it’s not good.”

  Endicott, Percy & Moore Communications was one of four firms handling public relations for the Ellen Shackleton U.S. presidential bid. As the race entered the home stretch, hours and nerves were stretched, too.

  “God, I loathe politics,” the first woman spat. “Constant damage control.”

  “Vicious, sleazy, and the bastards don’t pay their bills.”

  On the other hand, a Shackleton victory would mean huge cachet for EP&M and its strategists. Like Shonda.

  The table filled, and five younger attendees entered to stand at the back of the room, notepads poised. The first woman asked Shonda, “Your new crop of interns?”

  Shonda, who also served as intern supervisor, nodded. “It’s all hands on deck.”

  “Who’s the fashion plate?”

  “Kassandra Kraft. Great pedigree, but she’s shown me shit so far. I don’t see her making it to the balloon-drop.”

  EP&M’s internship program was a high-pressure process, candidates steadily winnowed until the survivor earned a permanent position. But the firm didn’t typically include interns in senior-level meetings like this.

  Abruptly the room fell silent as in walked Franklin Percy, last living partner of the firm, trailed by four men and a woman. He withdrew files from an attaché and passed them out.

  “I’ll get straight to it,” he said, eyes stern behind glasses. “We’re shifting focus and tactics.”

  Met by groans, he raised a hand to still them. “As you’re aware, the election will turn on the battleground states of Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Florida. We’ve known for months the Republican National Committee’s planning something big, and last night we finally got word.” His voice sharpened. “The weekend before the election, they’re going to unleash a ground assault in all three states. And on a scale unlike anything we’ve ever seen.”

  He yielded the floor to a colleague.

  “For the past several months,” the woman explained, “a number of megachurches across the country have been building secret armies of volunteers. Tens of thousands. They plan to ship them to the swing states the last week of the race in a massive get-out-the-vote for Filby. We haven’t the forces or time to match it, and all things considered, the strategy could damn well work. We need a Mother of all Bombs, and we need it fast.”

  Group-mumble. Then a man down the table offered, “We’ve still got the debates. Shackleton carved Filby up in the first, and it moved the polls. She’ll do it again.”

  The spokeswoman replied, “It moved the polls where she’s already ahead. Barely a ripple in the swing states. This requires a targeted response. Something with teeth.”

  “Wait a minute,” another man snapped. “Churches supporting a political candidate? That’s bullshit. That violates all kinds of rules and regs.”

  “No question. And there’ll be plenty of lawsuits—after we lose the election.”

  Percy took the floor again. “The Democratic National C
ommittee is putting every think tank on this. I don’t have to tell you what it would mean for us if we carry the day. I want a plan to beat the threat. Nothing’s off the table, money’s no object.”

  Shonda asked, “Who’s behind this ground assault scheme?”

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday, October 7, 8:00 am

  City of God, Tennessee

  The Reverend Penbrook Thornton had been at his desk since before dawn. His custom every morning but Sundays, never enough hours in the week for the head of the world’s largest Evangelical church. Especially these days as Thornton approached a goal he’d been working toward for more than three decades. A goal on which he’d wagered his entire ministry.

  And it would all come down to the first Tuesday in November.

  Noting the time, he snugged his tie, pushed back his chair, stood, and stretched. His secretary would have arrived by now, ever-prompt, and he buzzed her on the intercom.

  “Morning, Ms. Willoughby. How are you this fine gift of a day?”

  “Morning, Reverend. Feeling blessed, as always. Can I freshen your coffee?”

  “Thanks, no. I just wanted to say I’ll be out on the overlook if you need me.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Thornton crossed the room in the loping strides he’d acquired as a young man in a very different line of work, wingtips clacking on white marble. Reaching a wall of glass, he exited a door onto a rooftop terrace, stopped at a rail, and filled his lungs with brisk air. Though his office was in the penthouse, it was nevertheless designated “First Floor.” Here at Decalogue Tower, floors were numbered inversely, in homage to the Ten Commandments.

  Before him lay a spectacular view. In the foreground was a park with a tall hill known as Chapel Mount. Beyond sat the Tabernacle of the Church of the Divine Message, the heart and hub of the City. The Tabernacle was more massive even than St. Peter’s in Rome, dazzling in the morning sun. Its dome was pure-white Penteli marble, topped by a golden cornice and statue of the Ascending Christ. For a brief time, the Tabernacle had the largest seating of any church in the world—until Thornton found out and removed just enough pews to preserve his decorum.

  The City’s streets radiated from the church like spokes of a wheel, past alabaster offices, shops, hotels, restaurants. Townhall displayed the Commandments, and at Christmastime, a crèche. Police and fire stations served with compassion. The hospital and sanitarium combined state-of-the-art technology with spiritual healing. Elementary and high schools wove God and prayer into the curricula. There was a divinity college, country clubs, airport, bus station. And in the suburbs, new homes and apartments sprang up by the day. Every day but the Lord’s.

  The City of God was a rare bright spot in the recession. Over the years, Thornton had attracted to town some of the nation’s largest Christian businesses, helping the community thrive and grow to more than 70,000 residents today.

  The City had also been spared most of the problems plaguing the rest of the country. Thornton credited that to founding his community upon fundamental Christian principles, incorporating it as a private township in conjunction with the Church. No alcohol sold here. No nightclubs, gambling, rock concerts. No R-rated movies at the cinemas. No provocative radio or TV programming, no adult bookstores or massage parlors or profane literature at the libraries.

  And by extension, as Thornton had famously predicted, no crime.

  Well, no serious crime. Minor offenses attributed primarily to teens, prone to mischief as they were. Scuffles, shoplifting, truancies, runaways. Not forgetting the most irritating infraction in his sparkling-white City. Graffiti. And yet there was a matter concerning City juveniles that was dire, indeed. Something that weighed on Thornton’s soul like a millstone—

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Ms. Willoughby called out the balcony door. “Reverend Durban is on the phone.”

  Durban. Another unpleasant problem.

  “What’s he want?”

  “A meeting. He says it’s urgent.”

  Chapter 5

  Thursday, October 9, 5:47 pm, The Bronx, NY

  Scotty sat at the back of the bus, head in hands as he lurched homeward. Not only were the noises in his apartment continuing, bizarre new developments had deepened the mystery…

  Two days ago, Scotty returned home from work and opened his door to the sharp scent of tobacco. Sweet, like from a cigar or pipe. Scotty didn’t smoke. Nothing else looked out of order. The bedroom door was closed, towel in place, Homer mewling inside. He felt his pulse race, and snatching up his umbrella, he marched to the front of the living room.

  But as he rounded the couch, something crunched underfoot. Scattered across the floor and throw rug was white dust, along with tiny crystals of some sort, no bigger than an eighth inch. Rough, cloudy-colored. Rock salt, it appeared. He snatched one up and examined it closely. Had he been burgled? All else proved normal, save for the cat under the bed in a pouting ball.

  Homer growled, The noises again. Twice this time, 10:00 and 2:00. Do something!

  Scotty almost called the cops. But with no signs of forced entry, what would he tell them?

  Furious, he cleaned up the debris—angrier still to find some in Mom’s umbrella plant. The plant was the one thing he owned that still tied him to her. He’d so carefully nurtured it over the years, now this. Picking out the crystals, he’d mulled a shortlist of suspects. All long shots.

  Pop smoked, yes. But cheap cigarettes, not a pipe or cigars. And he had no key. Nor did Ivy, Scotty’s sister who lived with Pop. Neither had ever visited him here, Ivy forbidden. Besides, this kind of stunt wasn’t in their natures. Pop had interacted little with Scotty during his childhood, why start now? And while Ivy was mischievous, she wouldn’t do anything to upset Scotty. Not on purpose, anyway.

  Scotty’s super, Samood, had a key. Scotty wouldn’t put anything past that cockroach. But never having even met the guy, he couldn’t imagine why Samood might want to force him out. Scotty was low maintenance, and his apartment was a sublet.

  Of course, the intruder could have picked Scotty’s lock. But to what end? Nothing here was worth taking, everything a relic. If someone were venting a grudge, who? Scotty had no enemies he knew of. Well, his boss, Margo. But why go to this trouble when she could abuse him at work? If only he could discuss things with Reggie and Zing, but they were out on rounds all week. He went online and ordered a spycam, rush delivery…

  Wednesday night, Scotty had come home to see a package awaiting him in the foyer. The spycam. He’d carried it upstairs into his apartment with renewed hope, relieved to see things apparently undisturbed. All the same, Homer was under the bed again.

  Thunder and wailing, 10:00 and 2:00. Whatever’s haunting us, it ain’t goin’ away!

  But now, Scotty had a means to solve the mystery. Taking the package to his desk, he opened it, and Homer jumped up to sniff a self-contained, battery-operated mini camera, complete with a removable USB card for storing video. Scotty set it up next to his monitor, aimed it at the front door, and switched it on. A little red light began to blink, and Scotty smiled at Homer to say, “Let the bastard try salting us again.”

  Assuming cameras can record a spirit…

  Tonight, as Scotty’s bus reached his stop, the cat’s words from last night nagged him. Scotty wasn’t prone to premonitions, yet as he neared home, staring up at the darkness of his window, he felt a chill track his spine. He stole upstairs, held his breath, and pressed his ear to the door.

  No sound, save the thumps of his heart.

  But entering, he detected a foul stench. Not tobacco, a burnt, acrid smell. And flicking the light on, he gasped. Mom’s big umbrella plant lay toppled on the floor. Nothing else looked out of place, far as he could tell. The bedroom door was shut, Homer complaining on the other side.

  He raced for the plant, but rounding the sofa, his legs flew out and he landed hard on his back. When finally his head cleared, he sat, jolts of agony shooting through his spine and left ankle
. And turning to the plant, he swore. Seared onto its back side was a ring of scorched leaves. Like someone had pressed a flaming hoop against the foliage. The kind circus animals jump through.

  He let out a cry. The plant was his birthday gift to Mom when he was six. He’d sneaked out of his room at naptime, took his savings and wagon down to Schlompsky’s, and picked it out. A twig in a pot. Mom was beside herself when she found out, scolding, hugging, weeping. And thereafter, she’d cherished the plant the way she had him. His last, personal life link to her, thriving in his care all these years, tall, wide, lush and full. Now, this.

  Struggling to his feet, he heaved the plant upright, aggravating his back and ankle, gaping in disbelief at what he’d uncovered. Aside from spilled soil and leaves, a hodgepodge of pebbles, prunes (or maybe dates), a skid mark of red grapes (what he’d slipped on), corncobs, a small statue of an angel, and a bible, face-up and open.

  And oddest of all, lying across the bible was a six-foot-long wooden pole with a crooked end. A shepherd’s staff. Gray and weathered, grain splitting along the shank, charred on the tip.

  Like a scene from The Exorcist.

  He removed the staff to find it stout and old. The bible lay open to the Book of Exodus, the tale of Moses leading the Israelites out of bondage in Egypt. Mom used to read him bible stories, this a favorite. Every Easter they’d watch Demille’s classic, The Ten Commandments.

  Scotty set down the staff and picked up the bible, flipping to the front. Not the Vulgate edition he was raised on, a Gideon King James. He turned to the first page to see a simple, handwritten inscription. For Joseph. He frowned. Joseph was Scotty’s given name. Joseph Scott Butterfield, Jr. Not that he ever went by Joseph, or Joe, or Junior. Pop was Joe.

  He swapped the bible for the statue. Dark, heavy soapstone. An angel kneeling in prayer. Palms pressed together, haloed head bowed, wings wrapping like a hooded cloak.