Michael Koryta - The Prophet

“Are you really saying that to me?”

Kent stopped talking and nodded. “Sorry. And, yeah, if you don’t mind… maybe just tonight at least. Until I hear from the police. I’m sure it will be soon.”

“Right,” Adam said. “It will be soon. Now, do you want to tell me about this asshole? You say you saw him. Spoke with him.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know him? Can you identify him?”

“I know him.”

“Yeah?” Adam’s heart rate had been up all morning. Now it seemed to slow, as if his blood had thickened, and he had to wet his lips before he spoke again. “If you’re so confident, and the police already are looking at this guy, why hasn’t there been an arrest?”

“He’s missing.”

“Missing.”

“Was released from prison this summer. Hasn’t made his parole meetings. There was already an arrest warrant. They’re looking for him.”

Of course there was already a warrant. Of course they had already been looking for him. Of course they had fucking lost him and not bothered to find him before this.

“Who is it?” Adam said.

Kent was silent, eyes back on the gun, still turning it over in his hands, adjusting his fingers around the grips as if they were laces on a football. Adam remembered the way he’d looked when he knew the defense was going to bring a blitz. So restless, so amped. He’d execute against it just fine, but Adam had always hated the body language he displayed in the pocket when pressure was coming. Even though he could handle it, he looked like he couldn’t. He looked scared. Today Adam watched him handle the gun and thought, He knows, damn it, he knows this prick’s name, and he will not tell me. The anger began to surge and he fought it back, reached out and grabbed Kent’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Tell you what, Franchise. You asked me for a favor, and I granted it today. I’m going to do the same now.”

“Adam, the police told me that I had to—”

“Let me get the favor out before you say no,” Adam said.

Kent glanced at the hand that was still on his shoulder. The flesh over the knuckles was swollen and dark. “What is it?”

“There’s a place I’d like you to see.”

“What’s that?”

“The spot where Rachel Bond died,” Adam said.

“I don’t need to see that, Adam. And you shouldn’t be there.”

“I’d like you to have a look.”

After a long time, still staring at Adam’s bruised hand, Kent nodded.

33

THEY SAT ON THE DRIED, cracked wood of the dock across from the cottage, where they could face it but not have to be on the property. The fall winds had torn most of the leaves from the surrounding trees, and already the place was dull and colorless. None of the cottages were in use. The lake was as gray and still as concrete. Kent didn’t like to look at the house, the kill house, the spot where Rachel Bond had sought a final, impossible breath, so he kept his eyes on the water while he told Adam about the visit to Mansfield in the summer.

He didn’t need to worry about confiding in his brother, his brother with whom he had no real relationship, his brother who had been on the front page of the paper in handcuffs, a bloodied police officer beside him. The police might have asked Kent not to share theories about Clayton Sipes, but Kent was, after all, his brother’s keeper now. Chelsea Salinas had said so herself as he signed the paperwork. Kent had failed to inform Adam of the police search, and he had seen the result. Adam was in trouble because Kent had not prepared him. It could not happen again. For Adam’s own good, Kent needed to keep him informed.

Prepared.

“Gideon Pearce was never at Mansfield,” he said.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Adam asked.

“I’ve been wondering if they knew each other. If the card… that connection to Marie, if that came from research, or from Pearce. It wouldn’t have been hard to find out about. A little while with old newspapers. But I wonder if they knew each other.”

“It’s possible.”

“I found out that you met Pearce.”

“Yeah?”

“Police told me. You went in to promise him you’d kill him.”

Adam cleared his throat and spat into the water. “That’s right. If I could have gotten to him that day, I would have done it then. That son of a bitch’s eyes, Kent… shit, I’d have killed him for the eyes alone, just for the way he looked at me.”

“Amused,” Kent said.

“Yes. That’s the word.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what? That I would kill him?”

Kent nodded.

“Hell, yes, I meant it. One of the saddest days of my life was when he died, Kent. Really. Because I’d been waiting. I wanted the chance. I didn’t care how long it took. If Gideon Pearce had come out of that prison a white-haired old man pushing a walker and hooked up to a frigging oxygen tank, I would have cut his throat.”

His voice was steady. No shouting, no rage, no choked-down tears. Just steady and firm.

Kent stared at the house where traces of crime scene tape lay limp along the weathered porch railings, where a man he’d met months earlier had set a trap for a child and ended her life. The wind pushed in a short, chill gust, flapping the tape and putting a momentary gray glitter over the pond. Then it was still again.

“Why’d you ask me that?” Adam said.

“I’m worried about you, man.”

“Worried?”

“Yeah. You do a lot of talking about killing. First Pearce, now… now the man who killed Rachel. The other day when you came to the locker room, it was the same talk. I understand the anger, I just… you know, I want you to find a way to be at peace.”

Adam was watching him with an odd smile. “You want me to be at peace? ”

“Of course.”

“All right. I’ll work on it. You know what would help put me at peace today, Kent?”

“The name.”

Adam nodded. “Yes. I would like the name.”

“I was told not to share it. That the police would.”

“You’re worried about your family,” Adam said. “Already told me that. Beth’s scared, you’re scared.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“I hope so. But let’s remember something—this son of a bitch also came into my home. He got that football card from inside the place where I live. And you don’t think I’m entitled to a name? Suppose this guy is hanging around. Following me, following Chelsea. Wouldn’t it be useful if I could recognize him? Now, if something happens, and you know that had you just shared a name and let me find a few photographs, it might have prevented things… how will that sit with you, Kent?”

It was a shrewd argument. Adam had always been shrewd, and he’d always understood how to motivate Kent.

“I’ll spend every night outside your house watching for this bastard if you want me to. Every night. You have a chance to do the same. To help protect me.”

For a long time, Kent was quiet. The image from the front page of the newspaper returned, that glimpse of his brother’s flat eyes and bloodied hands. If Gideon Pearce had come out of that prison a white-haired old man pushing a walker and hooked up to a frigging oxygen tank, I would have cut his throat.

“Clayton Sipes,” Kent said. He’d expected it to come out in a whisper, but his voice was clear and strong.

“Clayton Sipes.” Adam echoed the name in a measured way, like someone tasting wine before accepting the bottle.

“I brought him here,” Kent said, and then he told him all that had happened, from the first prison encounter to the previous night. “He’s here because of me.”

“Seems that way.” Adam’s voice was tight. He removed a cigarette and lit it, and it took him five tries to get the flame steady, his thumb trembling on the lighter’s flywheel.