Michael Koryta - The Prophet

There were ways around that, though.

In the state of Ohio, like most states, a bail bondsman holds unique authority. Adam could outfit skips with tracking devices, in the right circumstances he could perform warrantless searches, he could generally invade their lives and privacy in ways prohibited not just to the general public but to the police. You owned a piece of them once you held that bond, more than they realized in their frantic rush to sign whatever papers necessary to get the locks popped on the jailhouse doors.

He often considered the monetary value of the bond, but he’d rarely considered the power that came with the signature. I’m yours to watch, the offender was acknowledging. I’m yours.

On Thursday morning, exactly one week after he’d set out to look for him originally, Adam returned to searching for Jerry Norris, his outstanding skip.

The first two times Jerry Norris had skipped, he’d crashed at his cousin’s house, a pattern he’d given up since, but Adam knew damn well that Rick Tieken, the cousin, would know where he could be found. He’d tried bribes with Tieken in the past and had some success. Family mattered to Tieken, sure, but not as much as cash. Priorities.

Tieken worked for an auto parts store and was behind the register when Adam walked in. He looked up when the bell over the door rang, recognized Adam, and smirked. Probably had been waiting on him for days.

“How’s it going, Teek?”

“Just fine, man, just fine. The Jeep letting you down again?”

“Serpentine belt,” Adam said. “Got a feeling it’s about done. Got a match for me?”

“I’m sure we do. What’s the year on that?”

“Oh-four.”

Tieken clicked away on the computer, wrote down a number, and vanished into the back. Came back with a belt in a plastic bag.

“This should do the trick, chief.”

“Great. You mind coming out to take a look with me?” Adam said, taking a pointed glance at the other employee in the store. “Want to be sure I’m not wasting dollars. A professional opinion might help.”

Tieken’s smirk widened. He knew the drill.

“You seen your cousin recently?” Adam said as they walked around the corner of the store to the Jeep. It was parked behind the store’s van, out of sight from the road.

“Hillary? Yeah, we played cards just the other night.”

“Funny. But you know I mean Jerry. Where is he?”

“Oh, Jerry?” Tieken ran a hand through his red hair, pursed his lips, mock-thoughtful. “Man, I thought that old boy was in jail. You mean he’s not?”

“He needs to be,” Adam said. He opened the driver’s door, then popped the hood. “And I’ve got ten grand invested in seeing him back there. Think you can help?”

“Ten grand? Boy, that’s a lot.”

“It is.” Adam lifted the hood, set the brace. “And the thing is, Teek? I need this one settled fast. Like, today. ”

What he needed settled had nothing to do with Jerry Norris, but Jerry was an important means to the end, and Adam could not afford to waste time getting there. He took the bag from Tieken’s hands, tore open the plastic, and slipped out the belt. A long loop of very strong rubber, V-ribbed. He pulled on the ends, felt the satisfying tension.

“You want to entertain yourself with this bullshit, or do you want to make a little money?” he said. “Pick fast, Teek. It’s two hundred dollars you won’t have in about thirty seconds. So pick fast.”

“Two hundred? I thought he was worth ten grand to you. I mean, if you spent five to get him back, just breaking even, that would help, wouldn’t it?”

Adam dropped the serpentine belt over Rick Tieken’s head, jerked it backward, and twisted. Tieken’s grunt of surprise was the last sound he got out before his air was gone. He fumbled at the belt and Adam twisted it again, cinching it tighter, and then slammed him forward, pressed his face down against the engine block, which was not hot enough to sear, but still hot enough to be awfully uncomfortable. Adam leaned down and spoke with his mouth close to Tieken’s ear.

“I do not have time to waste on you. Just don’t have it.”

He hit him again, and Tieken tried to let out a sob but couldn’t get enough air, just strangled a little more. Adam stepped back and loosened the belt. Tieken fought to clear it from his neck, and Adam obliged, slipping it back over his head, then coiling the belt in his hand. When Tieken fell, gasping, into the parking lot, Adam whipped the belt back and lashed it off his ribs, watched him double over and drop onto his face in the gravel.

“Son of a bitch.” Tieken wheezed. “I’m calling the cops, you piece of—”

“Do that and I’ll come back here and when I leave again you’ll be toothless. Now tell me where to find your brain-dead cousin. I promise you, if you see me again, it will not go well.”

Tieken looked up at him, and Adam smiled and looped one end of the belt tight in his fist, let the rest dangle in front of the man’s eyes.

“You want to have me arrested, you better believe I’m going to earn it.”

Tieken gave him an address through shaking breaths.

“That better be accurate,” Adam said.

“It is.”

“I’ll go find out.” Adam dropped the belt onto his chest in a loose tangle. “I don’t think I need that. Restock it, would you?”

The address checked out. Jerry Norris was lounging in a trailer on the south side of Chambers, watching SportsCenter and throwing Doritos at a fat pug who sat on the couch with him. He looked out the window when Adam knocked on it, made eye contact, and then abandoned the couch and sprinted down the hallway. The dog moved on the Doritos immediately, was face-first into the bag in under three seconds. On another day, Adam might have laughed. There were skips you actually worried about, guys you wanted off the street and in jail, and then there were skips like Jerry. Eating Doritos with a pug at nine in the morning.

“Jerry?” he called. “We just looked at each other. It’s safe to say I spotted you in there. I can wait outside and call the police, or you can open the damned door.”

Silence. The pug had fallen off the couch with the chip bag on his head. Adam squeezed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

“Jerry. Come on.”

Now he heard the click of a door opening, and Jerry Norris came down the hall and back into the living room. He looked at Adam through the window, spread his hands, and gave an awkward smile.

“Instinct,” he said.

Adam nodded. Instinct.

“Let me in.”

Jerry unlocked the door and swung it open. Adam stepped inside, looked around the trailer, watching the pug push the chip bag out of the living room and into the kitchen, and said, “Whose place?”

“Girl’s name is Christine. Works on the turnpike. I met her at the tollbooth.”

Adam had to give Jerry a little credit here; picking someone up at a tollbooth was kind of impressive. He assumed it had been a light traffic day.

“She know you’re violating?”

Jerry shook his head.

“Good thing you’ve got going with her? Think you can stick it out if you’re not in jail?”

“Maybe.”

“Think you can stick it out if you are in jail?”

“Doubt it.”

“Well, then,” Adam said, “let’s talk.”

Jerry gave him a puzzled look. They had never discussed options before; Adam just cuffed him and hauled his ass in.

“You’ll do a minimum of ninety days if I bring you in,” Adam said. “Minimum. They might go for a year. No more Christine. Doesn’t sound like much fun, does it?”

Jerry waited, curious or confused or both.

“I will drive away and leave you here,” Adam said, “if you can do me a favor. I would like some drugs.”