The Prophet

by Michael Koryta

  “Bring it in here!” Kent shouted. There were only eleven seconds left, they were out of timeouts, and they needed a touchdown. Had to put the football in the air, because an incomplete pass would stop the clock and give them another chance, but a run would not. The offense came over, huddled, and before Kent could get a word out, Colin Mears said, “I’ll catch the ball.”

  For a moment, nobody answered. Colin had been looking at Lorell, but now he turned to Kent. “I’ll make the catch. I’m telling you, I will make the catch.”

  Kent squinted into the rain. Nodded once. “I know you will. What play do you want?”

  “Slant. He takes my outside hip every time. I can kill him on a slant.”

  “All right,” Kent told his team. “You heard the man.”

  They broke the huddle, and Colin led the way out onto the field, clapping his gloved hands. Kent hesitated for a split second, then ran two steps out and snagged Lorell’s arm.

  “Check down to Justin,” he said.

  “Coach?” Lorell’s dark eyes were confused but focused, ready to listen, ready to execute as instructed. Kent grabbed the back of his helmet and pulled their faces together.

  “Play action to Justin, stay out of trouble, and then hit him going up the seam. They’ll lose him after the fake. They’ll pursue the ball, and he’ll be open. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kent slapped him on the back and returned to the sideline. His team lined up, Lorell barked the count, took the snap, turned, and faked the handoff. Nobody was fooled, they knew Chambers wouldn’t run in this situation. They chased after Lorell, pursuing the ball, and Payne slipped up the middle. Colin had executed a perfect route, digging hard, right to left, wide open on the slant just as he’d predicted. Wide open. Lorell glanced at him as he slid backwards, away from the defenders, and then he brought the ball back and fired it away.

  Payne up the seam. Justin caught it, secured it, barreled forward. Took a hard shot on the one-yard line but it wasn’t enough, he was across and through.

  Touchdown.

  Ball game.

  Kent raised his arms, signaling the score, and then Byers was screaming in his ear—We finally got the bastards!— and the band was playing and the crowd was roaring.

  Final score, 30–28. Saint Anthony’s vanquished, Scott Bless finally beaten. Two games left to play, and then the trophy was in the case.

  In the end zone, where he’d found himself free and clear, running the route he’d guaranteed would work, Colin Mears walked first to Justin Payne, then to Lorell McCoy, and hugged them both.

  Chelsea was screaming like one of the kids. When she spun to face Adam, her eyes were bright, her smile wide.

  “They won!” She put her hands on his shoulders and shook him. “They won! You aren’t even going to smile?”

  “Two games left to play,” Adam said. “Don’t rush the smile.”

  “You can let yourself be a little happy, can’t you?”

  “A little.” He knew that he should be happy. This was a huge win for his brother, this was the win he needed most. Or wanted most, at least. He’d called it perfectly, too. That route to Justin Payne was brilliant. It had surprised everyone, even Adam. Maybe Adam more than most, in fact, because Adam had watched Colin Mears blow clear on the slant, had seen him crossing the end zone with nobody in reach, and had been certain that Kent would put the ball in his hands, to win or to lose. Foolish football, with the way Mears had been playing, but even so Adam had been sure Kent would give him the chance.

  He couldn’t figure out why he felt so strangely sad that Kent had gone the other way.

  44

  KENT DID NOT LIKE parties after games. He let his staff have them, he could not and would not attempt to control that, but he almost never attended. Tonight, though, when Matt Byers told him there was barbecue and beer waiting at his house, he said he’d be there.

  “What if we’d lost?” he asked on the noisy, elated bus.

  Byers grinned. “You can always freeze barbecue,” he said. “But, Coach? We didn’t lose.”

  Kent couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “No, we sure didn’t.”

  He called Beth from the bus and asked her to join him.

  “It’ll be a late night for the kids,” she said.

  “They can survive one late night.”

  And so it was, because of the party and the late night, that it was just past one in the morning when they returned to their home and found the photographs of Rachel Bond’s corpse taped to their front door. Beth was driving—Kent almost never drank, but he’d indulged in three beers tonight, and three beers to a non-drinker felt like a lot—and she saw them first. Kent had his head down, looking at his iPad, where video of the next opponent was already available, when she said, “There’s something on our door.”

  He looked up with only idle interest, expecting some sort of banner or congratulatory note. That happened, sometimes. Once, after a rare string of three losses, a FOR SALE sign had also appeared in the yard, a favorite trick of fans who wanted a coach removed, but nobody was going to want to relocate Kent Austin after tonight’s come-from-behind win.

  When he saw the odd collection of papers scattered over the door and realized that they were printed-out photographs, though, a sense of alarm that had been absent since Clayton Sipes was found dead by Lake Erie returned.

  “Stop the car,” he said. He kept his voice low; both kids were asleep in the backseat. He wanted them to stay that way until he had a look.

  “What are those?” Beth said.

  “I’m not sure. Stay here, I’ll check.” When he got out of the car, he punched the lock button before he swung the door shut. The rain had stopped but the temperature was still falling, down into the low thirties now, and his breath fogged as he made his way to the porch. He was suddenly wishing he had not returned the gun to Adam.

  The porch light was off, so the door was illuminated only by the glow of the headlights, but it was enough. He stopped on the steps, didn’t need to get any closer and didn’t want to.

  He was looking at photographs of Rachel Bond, taken after life had left her.

  There were longer shots and close-ups, pictures of her body and one of only her eyes shown through the haze of a plastic bag, and they registered in rapid fire because his eyes were already drawn to others in the mix. Lisa. Andrew. Beth. Pictures of them in the yard, in the bleachers, and one of Beth dropping Lisa off at school. He recognized the outfit—it was what she had on today. It had been taken that morning.

  He moved off the stairs, looking back at his family. They had to leave, fast. Sipes could be here, he could be waiting, he could—

  But he could not be. Clayton Sipes was dead.

  “Kent? What is it?” Beth had gotten out of the car, and Kent lifted a hand and shook his head.

  “Don’t.”

  “What?”

  He crossed the yard to her, saw that Lisa had woken up and was leaning forward in her seat, curious about why they were waiting in the driveway. Kent put his hand on Beth’s arm and said, “Get back inside the car, and drive them somewhere safe.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Please take them away from here,” he said. “I’ll call you after I call the police.”

  She stared at him, her blue eyes beginning to show understanding that he hadn’t even fully achieved himself.

  “It’s not done,” she said.

  “No.”

  “How can that—”

  “I don’t know. Please get away from here now, though. We can’t have Andrew and Lisa here. We can’t let them see this.”

  She didn’t go far. Took the kids across the street, woke the neighbors, and explained the situation. By the time the police arrived she was back, standing with him in the cold. He told her not to look at the pictures, and she didn’t.

  “They’re of Rachel, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” he said. He did not tell her about the others. Could not
.

  The police took pictures of the pictures. Kent watched with numb detachment as lights went on around the neighborhood and doors opened, everyone curious, everyone watching. The yard was bright with lights and a crowd was gathering and Kent stood before them. It felt almost familiar, except for the helplessness. He had no control here. He could make no adjustments, he could affect no outcome.

  Salter arrived just as officers with gloved hands were removing the photographs from the front door. It had been more than thirty minutes; other officers had conducted the first round of interviews and then told him to wait on Salter. Why Salter was taking so long was not clear. When he finally appeared, Kent looked at him and said, “I thought it was done.”

  “It’s not,” Salter said. His voice was tired. Sad, even. He watched his officers at work and then said, “I guess I’ll need to see if they’re the same.”

  “The same?”

  “You were not the only recipient, Coach. Photographs were also left for Rachel Bond’s mother. That’s where I’ve been.”

  Kent just stared at him. Beth whispered, “Dear God.”

  “Her mother,” Kent said, and he thought that he would be sick, those three unfamiliar beers roiling his stomach.

  “Yeah,” Salter said, and there was no mistaking the man’s fatigue and sorrow now. “Let me review the pictures, and then we need to go somewhere away from here to talk.”

  “All right.”

  Salter crossed the yard and went to speak to his team, and across the street a neighbor called out to Kent, asking if everyone was safe. He didn’t answer. Beth lifted a hand and nodded but did not speak either. She wrapped an arm around Kent and lowered her face to his chest and said, “Who is it? Who is doing this?”

  He had no answer. He thought he had known, he’d been sure of it, but the only certainty now was that the terror had not ended.

  Salter studied the photographs, said a few more words to the officers on the porch, and then returned to them.

  “We’re going to take you to a hotel, Mrs. Austin. You and your children, if that’s all right with you. I’d like to be certain of where you are, and I’d like to have one of my officers with you.”

  “Okay. Yes, that’s okay.”

  “What about Penny Gootee?” Kent said.

  “She refused, unfortunately. She asked us to leave. Demanded it.”

  “She’s alone.”

  “Yes. We have a car nearby, though.” Salter ran a hand over his face and said, “If you could come back to the station with me, Coach, it would be a help.”

  Kent said good-bye to Beth, gave her an empty kiss, and watched as a uniformed officer escorted her across the street to get their children. Salter put a hand on his arm and guided him toward his car. Up and down the street, the neighbors watched.

  “He’s dead,” Kent told Salter, as if the lieutenant were unaware.

  “Clayton Sipes is dead,” Salter agreed. “That doesn’t mean Rachel Bond’s killer is dead.”

  “He did it,” Kent said.

  “No, Coach, he did not.” Salter opened the passenger door of his unmarked car for Kent. “In fact, he was at your football game the night she was murdered.”

  Kent was in the seat and the door was closed before he could respond. When Salter got in on the other side and started the engine, Kent said, “He was at the game? That night?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “We went through the newspaper’s photographs. They ran two pictures of the game, but they took about a thousand. He’s in three of the crowd shots.”

  The rain started again as they drove away. Kent sat in stunned silence. He did not speak until they were out of the neighborhood. Then he said, “He could have been at the game and still killed her.”

  “Not based on the scenarios the coroner gave us. Certainly not very likely.”

  “You found him in pictures? Why wasn’t I told?”

  “That was the FBI’s decision, not mine. I suggested it, and I was overruled. I understood their position, though. We’re trying to resolve a complex situation, and updating civilians is not a priority, nor is it a help, necessarily.”

  “But he came to my house, with a gun. He admitted that he had killed her.”

  “You said that he did not. I asked you specifically, and you said that it was implied, not stated outright.”

  “I know that, but, still… it had to be him, Salter. He could have left the game and—”

  “No.” Salter shook his head. “The timeline does not make that likely, and other evidence suggests it is even more improbable. He wasn’t working alone, Coach. And what happened tonight should remove your doubts. Clayton Sipes did not put those pictures on your door.”

  He certainly had not. Kent stared at the dark road ahead and listened to the windshield wipers thump.

  “He didn’t just show up out of nowhere,” he said. “He had to be involved.”

  “He was clearly involved. But he didn’t kill the girl.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Agent Dean would like to talk to you about that. I’ll let him handle it. It’s become part of his investigation.”

  “Part?”

  Salter nodded. “You’re a piece of a complex situation, Coach. You and Sipes both. And while it might have seemed like a very good thing to you to have Sipes removed, it ultimately might be a problem.”

  “How?”

  “He was a link we needed,” Salter said. “He was someone who understood, and who maybe could have helped. Maybe. Now that’s gone.”

  45

  ADAM WAS IN BED BUT AWAKE, Chelsea curled on his chest, when Penny Gootee called. The sound of the ring woke Chelsea, and she murmured unhappily and tried to burrow deeper in his chest, then grudgingly moved and opened her eyes when he reached for the phone, recognizing the number.

  Shit, he thought, don’t call me to talk about it. We do not need to talk about it, ever. Just know that it is done, and take what comfort you can from that. But we cannot discuss it.

  He thought about ignoring it, but he couldn’t do that, not to this woman, so he answered, sitting up in bed as Chelsea slid off him and rolled onto her side. He was trying to get away from her, this not being a conversation he needed anyone to overhear, but he thought he’d have time to get out of the room before they began to speak in earnest. He was not prepared for the scream.

  “You told me he was dead! You told me he was dead!”

  Even if he’d made it out of the room, Chelsea might have heard. It was that loud. As it was, she was at his side, and the words were clear. She grabbed his arm and spoke his name in a harsh, questioning tone. He pulled free and stumbled out of the bed and into the living room, banged into one of the snake shelves, heard an immediate strike against the plastic.

  “Penny, you can’t do this. You can’t call me and say—”

  “You told me you’d done it.” She was sobbing. Adam pulled up short in the dark living room, frightened now, wondering what in the hell had gone wrong.

  “I did,” he said. He’d feared saying something so damning over the phone, but now, listening to the woman’s hysterical sobs, he no longer cared. He just needed to understand.

  “No, you didn’t! That sick piece of shit is still alive, because he brought me pictures. He brought me pictures of my baby!”

  No, Adam thought. No, he could not have done that. He’s in the morgue now. I left him in the rocks and the water and he was dead, Penny, I am sure of it, he was dead. I put a bullet through the man’s heart. He is dead.

  “He must have sent them before,” he said. “That’s the only possibility.”

  “He didn’t send anything. He left them in an envelope at my front door!”

  This was not possible.

  “Someone else did,” Adam said. “I’m sorry, Penny. I’m so sorry. But it was not him. Someone else—”

  “I don’t believe you.” Her voice was choked with tears. “I don’t believe you did a
damn thing. You lied to me, and what sort of evil are you that you would lie about that?”

  “I did not lie.”

  “Go to hell,” she said. “Just go to hell, you and him both, you belong together.”

  She hung up and then he was alone in darkness and disbelief.

  For a moment there was no sound but the soft rustling of the shifting snakes. Then Chelsea said, “Why did that woman think the man who killed her daughter was dead, Adam?”

  He turned to her as the display light faded out on his phone and left him in blackness.

  “Because he is,” Adam said. “He is. He was supposed to be, at least. I don’t understand, someone else had to do this for him because—”

  “You know who it was?”

  “I thought I did.” He could not lie to her, not now, he had no energy left for lies. Hardly had the energy to breathe. He had finished it, he had made good on every promise, but now Rachel Bond’s mother said that nothing was fixed, nothing was finished.

  “How? Who told you?”

  “Kent gave me the name. He gave it to the police, and to me.”

  Kent saw him, he thought. Kent knew that it was true, he was certain.

  Chelsea had slipped into a sweatshirt, and she approached him now and put her hands on the side of his face, holding him as if to prevent him from turning from her, though he had no desire to do so.

  “What did you do, Adam?”

  “I killed him.”

  She took her hands away from his face. Whispered his name. That was it, just his name.

  “He came to my brother’s house with a gun,” Adam said. “He threatened his family, and he talked about Rachel Bond’s death. He did it, Chelsea, he did it, so I don’t know who gave these photographs to Penny, but the man I killed was the right man.”

  “You shot him? Murdered? Just went out and—”

  “He had a gun, too,” Adam said.

  “You murdered him,” she repeated.

  “I did what I promised I was going to do. What needed to be done.”