Michael Koryta - The Prophet

“What?”

“Where she died, Kent. Where I sent her. You should see it. Desolate, empty, dangerous. If I’d bothered to give it a look first, she never shows up there. If I’d known where I was sending her, everything changes. I sent her to a place I did not know. That’s why it happened.”

“No, Adam. Whoever did this… he wouldn’t have just gone away.”

“Maybe not. But, Kent? Read your own damn slogan.” Adam pointed at the banner above the locker room door, the one the players passed under ahead of every game, every half, every practice. THERE IS A DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ACCEPTING A LOSS AND EARNING ONE.

Kent shook his head, frustrated but running out of words, because words never seemed to work on his brother. At least not Kent’s.

“Funny, you being in this locker room still,” Adam said. “Keeps it all fresh to you, I bet. For me, it’s been a while. A lot of shit that went down in here I can hardly remember. Being in here brings it all back, you know?”

Kent was happy that he wasn’t talking about Gideon Pearce anymore, so he rolled with it, said, “Yeah, I’m sure it does.”

“There was a kid, had a locker right over there…” Adam pointed into the corner. “Rodney Bova. Got thrown off the team for trouble with the police. You remember him?”

“Sure.”

“What was that he did?” Adam was squinting, thoughtful. “Stole a car, maybe?”

“Set it on fire.”

“No shit?”

Kent nodded. “They sent him to a juvenile detention center.”

“He was your age?”

“Yeah.”

“Any good?”

“No. Wanted to play receiver but couldn’t catch a cold. Ward moved him to defense but he never played.” Why in the world were they talking about Rodney Bova? All the things he needed to say to his brother, all the people they needed to discuss, and somehow they were locked in conversation about a random kid they’d played with more than twenty years ago? He tried to steer them back to what counted. “Adam, you’ve got to understand that Stan Salter is going to return to talk with me, and when he does—”

“When he does,” Adam said, “you can tell him the truth. Tell him you’ve washed your hands of me. Tell him good luck and God bless, and that it doesn’t involve you. Then let it sit.”

“I wish you would—”

“Then let it sit,” Adam told him again, and he rose from the bench and walked out of the locker room. The field showed itself, dark and windswept, for a moment when he opened the door, and then it clanged shut and Kent was alone in the pale white light, surrounded by his quotes and posters and bits of inspiration. Outside, Adam headed away from him and into the night. Kent wondered where he was going. It was impossible to know.

He wondered if he should have asked.

16

CHELSEA WAS IN THE YARD when Adam returned, pouring sunflower seeds into a birdfeeder, fumbling in the dark, spilling half of the seeds into the leaves as she struggled to balance the weight of the bag in one arm and the position of the feeder with the other. He braced the feeder for her and said, “Why in the hell couldn’t this wait until morning?”

“One died.”

“What?”

“It was on the porch. Flew into the window. You know how they do that sometimes.”

“So it flew into the window. It didn’t starve to death.”

She shrugged, indifferent to that logic. “All the same, I thought I should fill the feeders.”

She was wearing loose sweatpants and a tank top, nothing else, hadn’t bothered to put on a jacket before she stepped into the cold night. This wasn’t atypical. She liked the cold, embraced it. He’d found her on the porch one winter morning in the predawn wearing just jeans and a bra, exhaling long breaths and watching them fog. When he asked her what the hell she was doing, she just smiled and said there was nothing like lung-care advice from a smoker.

Once the feeder had been filled she turned to face him and said, “Where have you been?”

“Talking to my brother.”

“Really?”

He nodded, still looking at her standing there barefoot in the dead leaves, her nipples taut against the thin fabric of the tank top, and, as was often the case, he found himself overwhelmed with desire for her. It was one of those things that was supposed to wane over time, wasn’t it, that teenage hormonal rush? Somehow it never had, with her. And if he’d been able to control that back when he was a teenager, if he’d just taken care of his responsibilities…

“What did Kent have to say?” Chelsea asked.

“Not much.” Adam took her in his arms as she gave him a skeptical glance.

“Kent just wanted to have a casual talk?”

“Yeah.” He kissed her, and she returned it for a few seconds before breaking away.

“What did he really want, Adam?”

“To tell me not to get into trouble,” Adam said, and then he wrapped his fingers in her hair, a touch like satin, and pulled gently, forcing her head back in the way she liked, and put his lips to her throat.

“Don’t do that,” she said.

“Do what?” he whispered, tracing her collarbone with his tongue, his hands sliding down her back and over her hips, her body pressed against his.

“Try to distract me. It doesn’t work.” But her voice had gone softer and deeper and now she had her arms around him, too, her fingernails biting into his back, pulling him tighter.

“Thought you wanted my mind in other places. That’s what you said last night.”

“What I want right now,” she said, “is not your mind. We’ll get to that.”

He picked her up then, and she wrapped her legs around him and locked her ankles behind his back as he carried her into the house. She was light and he could have gotten her all the way to the bedroom easily, but they didn’t make it there. The living room floor was closer.

They made it to the bed eventually, though, and they were there, still sweat-covered and breathing hard, when she placed her palm flat on his chest, put her face just above his, her lips hovering so close he could feel her breath as she spoke, and said, “What changed?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mood. I’m not complaining, trust me. But what changed?”

Purpose, he thought. I know where I’m running now. But he said, “I just need you. Okay? Don’t interrogate me about it.”

She didn’t respond, still searching his eyes.

“You’re usually tense after talking to your brother. Why not tonight?”

“Maybe because I had the good sense to drink first,” he said, and then, because a drink sounded like a hell of a nice idea, he got up and poured a Scotch and returned to bed.

“Let’s try this again,” she said. “And this time, why don’t you tell me the truth?”

It was silent for a moment. She took the whiskey glass out of his hand and took a swallow. He traced the tattoo she had just over her hip, low on a stomach that shouldn’t be so flat and taut on a woman in her late thirties. It was a cat’s eye, shaded golden and outlined in bold black. She hated cats. Loved dogs, hated cats, had a cat’s-eye tattoo. It made sense to her, if nobody else. She just liked the look of it, she said. It had a hold on him, but not an altogether good one. He knew the tattoo artist who’d done it—her husband—and there that eye was, watching him in the night. Reminding him at all times that he was in bed with a married woman, and that Travis Leonard was coming back eventually. Then what? Would Adam sit back and hold his breath, waiting for the good news that they’d caught Travis with a stolen car, that he was going back to jail, a good long bust? What a beautiful life he had. What a beautiful damned life.

Chelsea said, “You didn’t kill the girl, Adam.”