The Oracle Year(10)

“Right here! The Word of the Lord himself! The Holy Bible!”

A resounding cheer rose up from the crowd, amens and hallelujahs and such. Hosiah noted his ushers circulating through the aisles with the collection plates.

“Denounce the Site. Denounce the Oracle, wherever and however you can. Know that I am with you in this fight, as are all our brothers and sisters around the world. God bless you all, and I will see you soon!”

Hosiah nodded to one of his deacons, a large man named Henry, and he and the rest of the men quickly positioned themselves behind him in a wedge with him as the point at the center. Television cameras on either side of the stage repositioned themselves, catching the scene from multiple angles.

Hosiah raised his arms heavenward. He knew the deacons behind him had done the same. They wore bright blue suitcoats and red trousers, like a platoon of French Zouaves. His own little army, and him in a blinding white suit, brighter than anything the spotlights were putting out, standing out in front like a general, the focal point of the stage’s pageantry.

The lights cut out, and Hosiah slipped through a door set just behind and to the left of the stage, followed by his deacons. He entered a long, softly lit hallway. The carpet was a thick cream, and the walls were painted in exactly the same shade. As soon as the door closed behind him—the deacons stayed outside to make sure it stayed that way—the noise of the crowd vanished. The hall was thoroughly soundproofed. After the chaos of the stage, stepping into the hallway was like sliding into a bath of warm milk.

Branson walked down the hallway, through another door, and entered his office. He dropped heavily into the seat behind his desk, a sigh escaping his lips. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up toward his forehead. Letting them fall back into place, he ran that same hand across his hairless scalp. He grimaced, feeling a wash of sweat against his palm.

Hosiah checked his watch—just a cheap model, the sort of thing you could buy at a drugstore. It wouldn’t do to have the television cameras picking up anything too fancy. He reached across the top of his desk—an unadorned white expanse, like an ice floe—extending one finger toward a button set flush with the desktop. He rested his index finger on the button, but hesitated before pressing it.

Come on, Hosiah. Pull off the damn Band-Aid, he thought.

He pressed the button. It moved downward with a slight, whispery click, and almost before it had returned to its original position, a knock sounded from the wall opposite his desk.

“Come,” Hosiah called.

A previously invisible seam opened in the wall and expanded into a door. A young, extremely slim man entered—Brother Jonas Block, Branson’s executive assistant. His pinched, frowning face sat above a black suit and tie, with a crisp white shirt beneath. Undertaker chic.

“How can I help, Reverend?”

Brother Jonas’ complexion was never robust, but at this moment he looked positively cadaverous, like a man made of white candle wax. His eyes darted to either side—he wasn’t able to meet Branson’s gaze. Not a promising sign.

“It happened, I assume?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” he said. Jonas’ mouth twitched, and his eyes rolled toward Branson briefly before skittering away. “The Site’s prediction about the woman in Boulder winning the lottery. Confirmed true, just a few minutes ago. But that’s not—”

Branson slammed his right hand down on the surface of his desk. He’d spent almost twenty thousand dollars to make this office as acoustically neutral as a space could be—even so, his palm hitting the desk was a gunshot, cracking out into the room.

He spun his chair to face away from Jonas, cradling his wrist in one hand. He looked around his office, decorated in muted tones, except for a few tasteful splashes of color here and there. A blue lamp, a couch upholstered in celadon silk. A large painting on the wall directly behind his desk.

A sanctuary.

Branson’s hand was already starting to hurt. He looked up at the painting on the wall, his eyes narrowed.

It was a work by a Filipino artist, depicting in thickly applied oils a procession of penitents being carried through the streets of Manila on Easter Sunday. Each year, certain individuals opted to demonstrate the depth of their faith by allowing themselves to be crucified. The truly devout put nails through their wrists and thorns on their heads.

“Sir . . .” Jonas said, his voice tentative. “That’s not all.”

“What else?” Branson said, his voice tired.

“You know that new predictions occasionally appear on the Site—a few at a time?”

“Yes, of course.”

“A new set of predictions was released just after the Colorado lottery prediction came true. Just three, but one of them . . .”

Jonas trailed off.

Hosiah spun around in his chair. He slapped another control on his desk, and without a sound, a screen rose up, followed by a keyboard sliding out from just below it. Branson sat down and tapped a few keys, pulling up the CNN home page.

He stared at the screen. A long moment passed.

“Sir, one of them . . .” Jonas began.

He swallowed, producing a froglike sound fully audible in the silent office, then finished.

“. . . it’s about you.”

And so it was. Shorter than most of the predictions, just a single innocuous sentence:

AUGUST 23: REVEREND HOSIAH BRANSON WILL PUT PEPPER ON HIS STEAK.