Michael Koryta - The Prophet

His staff asked no questions, but he could tell from their exchanged glances that they had their suspicions about the situation, and he felt like Colin Mears, the target of everyone’s silent sympathies and worries, striving for a normalcy of routine that was impossible to achieve.

He didn’t know how much progress they had made. The defensive strategy was sound, but on the other side of the ball, so much depended on Colin Mears. Would he make catches?

He was pulling into his driveway when the headlights of the Explorer passed over the front door and he saw the man waiting for him on the front porch.

For an instant, he wasn’t sure how to react. It was so startling that he didn’t have the good sense to be afraid. In this neighborhood, where he’d lived for nine years without so much as hearing of a burglary or a domestic dispute, where he’d raised his family in peaceful suburban security, he lacked even the instinct of fear. All he felt was confusion until the man rose from the stoop and walked into the lights, toward Kent, who registered his face before he registered the gun in his hand.

Clayton Sipes.

Clayton Sipes was at his home. Beth and Lisa and Andrew were here.

“They’re fine, Coach. Everybody’s fine so long as you want them to be.”

Sipes spoke loudly, no fear of attention from the neighbors, as if he, too, had assessed the environment and determined it without threat. He was the alpha predator here, and he knew it, and was comforted by it.

Police, Kent thought, call them, call for help.

But even as he reached for the phone, Sipes rounded the front end of the car and pointed the barrel of the gun at Kent’s head.

“It’s up to you, Coach. What happens to them tonight is up to you. Choose wisely.”

Should have driven into him. Should have floored it while he walked in front of the car, what’s the matter with you, the chance was there and you missed it and now it’s too late.

“My suggestion,” Clayton Sipes said, “would be to turn off the car, get out, and talk with me. Now, that’s only a suggestion. The decision is yours. I’ll wait while you make it.”

Kent didn’t move. He had his foot on the brake and his cell phone in his hand, and he was still trying to think of ways to use them, was considering the car alarm—Could you set it off while you were inside? Did the panic button even work if the key was already in the ignition?—when Clayton Sipes waved his free hand toward the dark house where Kent’s wife and children slept and said, “They’re waiting, too, Coach.”

Kent shut off the car. The lights stayed on while he opened the door and stepped out but went dark a few seconds after he swung the door shut. Then they were alone in the night. The autumn wind blew steady and cold. Sipes stood five feet back, far enough away to avoid grappling, close enough for an easy kill shot on Kent.

“If you’ve hurt my family, I will—”

“No,” Sipes cut him off. “No, that’s not one of your options, Coach. You don’t get to offer threats. You want to use the word if, then I can use it for you. If I pull this trigger, your children may grow up with the memory of finding their dead father in the driveway. If I pull this trigger, they may not grow up at all. If you insist on acting like you have any control over this moment, I may introduce myself to your wife tonight. There you go. There are some if s for you.”

His voice was as it had been in the prison. Amused menace.

“You remember me, Coach?” Sipes said when Kent had been silent for a while.

“Yes.”

“You remember my name?”

“Yes.”

“Have you said it recently?”

Kent hesitated, a mental double-clutch, looking at two options and not liking either but knowing he had to let the ball go in one direction or the other, and then he shook his head. “No.”

“Coach.” Sipes sounded thoroughly disappointed, a scolding parent. “Imagine if I had decided before this moment that I’d kill your children if you told a single lie. I could have done that. I still could. Now, would you like that answer back so you can try it again?”

Kent nodded. His hands were trembling.

“Have you said my name recently?”

“Yes.”

“To whom?”

“The police.”

“And why did you say it?”

Kent’s eyes were adjusting to the dark now, and he could make out the man’s features, the slick shaved head and the ring of blue ink tattoos around his neck, his skin pale, body lean and strong. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that fluttered in the wind. He should have been cold, but he showed no trace of it, looked comfortable and at ease.

“I said it because you left that letter.”

“You called the police over a letter? That’s strange. Do you often contact the police with concerns about your mail?”

In the house, just above Clayton Sipes’s head, a light flickered on. A television. Beth was awake. Awake but oblivious.

Look out the window, Kent thought. Please look, please see. But did he really want her to? Or was that the worst possible thing, was that—

“Coach?”

Kent’s eyes returned to Sipes. It was harder to speak now, knowing that Beth was awake. He said, “I called them because I thought you killed Rachel Bond.”

“There you go, Coach. An honest man is better received on earth and in heaven.”

Turn the TV off, Kent thought, afraid to look at it now, the pale light seeming impossibly bright. Please, Beth, turn it off. He didn’t want Sipes to be reminded that there was other prey here; he wanted nothing from his family but darkness and silence.

“Why do you believe I’m here?” Sipes said. “Why do you think I came for you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve forgotten me?”

“No.”

“Well, that was the implication. Words can wound, Coach. You should be careful with them.” Sipes had lowered the gun. It was pointed at the driveway now, and Kent could reach him before he lifted it, but he would not try, not with Beth and the children inside.

“I came,” Sipes said, “to test the strength of your promises.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When you met me, what did you offer me?”

“Help,” Kent said.

“Help?” Sipes gave him mock astonishment. “I recall it differently. I recall a promise. That was what you called it, at least. You told me that there was no fear so strong that it could break your faith. Is that correct?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Is it what you believe?”

“Yes.”

Sipes smiled, and Kent was terrified by how genuinely pleased the man looked.

“Good for you, Coach. Good for you.” He spread his arms wide, the gun rising with him. “I’m here to see if that’s true. You should appreciate that. Every man learns so much about himself in a crucible. You told us that. I believe you felt you’d learned all you needed.”

“No. That’s not—”

“I was in your sister’s room,” Sipes said, and Kent fell silent. “Interesting, how your brother preserved that. Do you visit often?”

Kent shook his head.

“Somehow, I didn’t think that you would,” Sipes said. “I’m curious, Coach, do you know who Gideon was in the Bible? Do you recall his significance?”

Kent loathed the name Gideon. But, yes, he knew.

“I’ve read the story,” he said.

“So have I. Gideon was God’s own chosen warrior. What was the phrase? ‘For the sword of the Lord and of Gideon,’ I believe. Does that sound right?”

Kent didn’t answer.

“Do you think Gideon Pearce was the sword of the Lord, Coach? Was he God’s chosen warrior?”