Michael Koryta - The Prophet

“He was a different man than the one in the Bible.”

“Astute. I think there’s more than a little irony in the names, though. If Gideon was the sword, Coach, then I’m the prophet. I think you’ll remember my words often in days to come. I suspect you already have been remembering them. What was it that I told you the day we met?”

“You promised me that you could replace my faith with fear.”

“And what did you say?”

The wind was stinging Kent’s eyes, but he didn’t look away. “I disagreed.”

“You certainly did. And now we’ll see, won’t we?” Clayton Sipes said. “We’ll see. I probably should be on my way. Unless you’d like me to go upstairs and watch TV with Beth?”

The twin terrors of realization that he knew she was awake and that he’d said her name froze Kent. He offered no response at all, and Sipes smiled again, then put out his left hand.

“Keys, please.”

“What?”

“To the car, Coach. It doesn’t seem prudent for me to walk.”

Kent hesitated again; he wanted the man gone, but his house keys were on the same ring as his car keys.

If he wanted in tonight, he’d already be in, he told himself, the worst kind of reassurance, and then he passed him the keys. When Sipes accepted them, their hands brushed, and Sipes smiled at the touch.

“You think you’re learning already, don’t you?” he said. “I can see it in your face. Already trusting your decisions. Wonderful stuff, Coach. Wonderful.”

He walked around Kent, with the gun lifted, and stood with his back to the driver’s door.

“Go on up to the porch,” he said.

Kent headed for it, stepping sideways, and Sipes shook his head.

“Prove you trust me,” he said. “Turn your back, Coach.”

For an instant Kent thought about charging him, though this was the worst opportunity he’d had since he arrived, Sipes was too far away now.

“Trust me,” Sipes whispered.

Kent turned and walked for the house and waited for the shot. When the car door opened, he tensed, bracing his body for pain that never came. He kept moving, was up the steps and onto the porch when the engine roared to life and the headlights spread his silhouette over the front door. He stopped there, stood with his back to the street until he could no longer hear the tires on the pavement. He turned back then and saw the taillights of his car vanishing up the street, and the strength went out of his legs and he had to put his hand on the wall to steady himself. He watched the dark empty street and waited for balance to return and then, when it did not, he knocked on the door of his own home and cried out hoarsely for his wife.

31

IT TOOK STAN SALTER ONLY ten minutes to arrive, but when he got there, he informed Kent that none of his cars had located the Explorer yet. Kent had called 911 maybe ninety seconds after Sipes drove out of his neighborhood, but already he was gone.

“We’ll locate it,” Salter said.

“He won’t be in it by then.”

“Maybe he will.”

Kent just shook his head. They were standing in the living room and Beth was upstairs with the kids, who’d woken to the sound of their mother’s panicked voice as their father called the police for help. She’d composed herself quickly, or pretended to, at least, and she was with them now, calming, soothing, assuring them that everything was fine downstairs, the police just needed to talk to Dad for a few minutes, that was all, no problem, nothing to be scared of.

In the living room, Kent dropped onto the couch and braced his forehead with his hands as he told Salter what had happened.

“Did he explicitly say that he murdered Rachel Bond?” Salter asked.

“It was clear, yes.”

“Did he admit to it, though? Or was he content to let you think that?”

“He didn’t lift his right hand and swear to it on the Bible, Salter, but he had no problem acknowledging it.”

Salter let him snap, watching him without judgment, and somehow in the man’s patience Kent found only more fury.

“If you find him now, he’ll be happy to discuss it with you, I’m sure. But you need to find him, damn it.” His voice rose too loud at that, went into coaching tone, and he regretted that immediately because he knew it would carry upstairs, undermining every soothing word Beth was offering to Andrew and Lisa.

“Was there anything in the conversation,” Salter said, carrying on as if Kent hadn’t spoken, “that felt foreign to you?”

“Foreign?” Kent stared at him. “The man was pointing a gun at me and talking about murder. It all felt a little foreign, yes.”

“I mean anything that didn’t ring true to your past conversations. To the letter he left.”

“No. It was the same guy, using the same words, with the same sick mind. Only this time he was holding a gun and he was at my home. Those were the elements that changed. Just two of them, but a significant two.”

“The exchange about Gideon Pearce—was that in keeping with what you’d discussed on your visit to the prison?”

“Absolutely. He didn’t mention the biblical version then, but I’m sure he’s had plenty of time to read since I last saw him. And he admitted to breaking into Adam’s house. He said that he’d been in my sister’s room, described the way Adam has… has re-created it.”

“Offer any sense of when he was in there?”

“No.” Kent stood, walked to the window and looked at the dark street, then said, “I should tell Adam about that.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“What?”

“This is a complex investigation, Coach. We’ve got to be extremely cautious in how we proceed. You understand that. You’ve told me repeatedly how intelligent Clayton Sipes is.”

“If the man was in my brother’s home, Adam has a right to—”

“Not from you,” Salter said. “We will handle discussions with your brother. I would think you’d understand, after his latest response, the need for discretion in approach.”

“I’m not asking you to put up a billboard announcing the guy is a suspect. I’m asking you to disclose to my brother the identity of the person who broke into his house. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.”

“Nor do I. But let us do it. I’ll consult with Agent Dean and we’ll discuss it with your brother. Until then, we need your cooperation.”

“My cooperation,” Kent echoed. “Well, you’ve got it, Salter. When a murderer shows up at my door, the first person I call is you. There’s cooperation. What I need from you is protection. Can we discuss that?”

“You’ll change the locks? Keep the alarm in use at all times?”

“Obviously. But I don’t consider that proper security at this point. We’re talking about a murderer, someone with a history of stalking. I’d like to hear some better ideas for protecting my family than ‘use the alarm.’ ”

“We’ll have patrols in your neighborhood regularly. Multiple passes per hour.”

“Can’t we have someone here around the clock?”

“We don’t have that sort of manpower. I’ll make sure we have a very visible presence, but I can’t promise twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

“Are you getting closer to finding him?”

“We’re moving as fast as we can in every facet of the investigation.”

“That’s evasion. Not an answer.”

“We’re working with the FBI and the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation and we’re making progress. Your continued cooperation can only help.”

Kent nodded, but he couldn’t look at Salter anymore, was feeling more detached from the man with every word. It took them four months to find Marie’s killer, Adam had reminded him, and then it was police in another town who caught a lucky break.