Michael Koryta - The Prophet

He paused halfway down the hall between the offensive and defensive classrooms, thinking of how many calls he’d made out of fear today and trying to remember how many times he’d prayed. Had he prayed? Surely he had.

But he couldn’t remember.

He was preparing to kneel there in the hallway, a quick prayer but a needed one, when he heard the squeak of wheels on tile just before the janitor’s cart appeared.

“Hey, Coach.”

“Hey,” Kent said, straightening. He didn’t want to be seen on his knees, not even in prayer. It felt like weakness to him today. He listened to the wheels of the cart approaching down the hallway, found himself thinking, Clayton Sipes was a janitor at a school, just like him, he was just like him, and then he held the man’s stare for a long moment, gave him a curt nod, and walked on toward the defensive classroom, head high, no longer bowed.

Adam slept for two hours in the morning, then went in to the office, where Chelsea was already at work, and began the hunt in the only way he knew how, treating Sipes not as a murder suspect but as a skip. He printed out an address history report, developed a list of neighbors from that, found phone numbers… and stopped. Stared at it, shook his head, and swore softly. Chelsea looked up.

“What’s the problem?”

“He’s been in prison for years. Such a cold trail.”

She leaned back in her chair, let out a long breath, and pushed her hair back over her ears.

“This would be Clayton Sipes you’re talking about. Not one of our own skips.”

He didn’t answer.

“Adam, the police will—”

“No,” he said. “No, Chelsea. I’m sorry. I understand what you’re going to say, and why you’re going to say it, and why I should listen to it. I do. But you need to know…” His voice faltered then, the way it did sometimes in Marie’s room, and he turned his eyes from her and said, “A seventeen-year-old girl walked through that door and asked me for help. And, circumstances be damned, excuses be damned, I sent her to a man who murdered her. He’s still out there. Not only is he still out there, he came to my brother’s house with a weapon. My niece and nephew asleep upstairs. So, no, Chelsea, I’m sorry but I cannot listen even if I should.”

She was silent for a moment, and then she said, “What do you need? To find him, what do you need, how can I help?”

He turned back to her then, and, God, how he loved her.

“It can’t be neighbors,” he said. “I’ve got to find someone close to him, someone with the sorts of ties that don’t break no matter what happens. No matter what he did. I’ve got to find that person, and I’ve got to do it in a way that doesn’t attract police attention. They’ll jam me up, they’ll make it so damn hard, make it hopeless. So I’m trying to think of a way to find that person. Nobody will turn over prison visitation. I’ve got one guy who I think might be it, but nothing’s panned out there, so maybe I was wrong.”

“How’d you come up with that person?”

“Looking for people who knew the property at Shadow Wood,” he said, and he was thinking of what it would mean if indeed he had been wrong. Bova’s court date was this week, his charges were serious. How in the hell did Adam go about putting that genie back in the bottle? He rubbed his eyes. He needed more sleep. Needed coffee. Needed a drink, needed—

“Find someone like you,” Chelsea said.

“What?”

“You already said how to do it. You need to find the sort of person who would stand by him no matter what he did, right? Well, somebody had to post bond for him at some point. It wouldn’t have been a stranger.”

He lowered his hand, looked at her, and said, “You’re brilliant, you know that?”

She didn’t smile. Instead she said, “Be careful, Adam. Please.”

Sipes had been arrested in Cuyahoga County, and his bail agent was someone Adam had known for years, Ty Hampton, a black guy who went about six-six and three hundred pounds. Adam had always figured Ty had fewer skips than the average agent because he wasn’t the sort of man you’d want to come looking for you.

“He ran on you, eh?” Ty said when Adam explained what he wanted.

“A little worse than that,” Adam said. “He’s threatening my brother.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Man, I’m not all that surprised to hear it. Never did like that creepy asshole. I didn’t have any trouble with him, I just didn’t like him.”

“I’ll pay you whatever you think is fair,” Adam said.

“Stop it. If I called you with the same problem, would you want my dollars? Just give me a few minutes. I’ll find it, call you back.”

It took him less than ten minutes.

“Got your name,” he said, “and I hope it helps. Bond was posted by his half brother. Now, this is old information, but I’ve got an address and a phone number. His name is Rodney Bova, and his number was—”

“I’ve got his number,” Adam said.

“What? Damn, not a new name for you, huh? I’m sorry, man. Hoped I could help.”

“You did,” Adam said. “Ty, you absolutely helped. Half brother, you say?”

“Yeah. Same mother, different fathers, that’s what I’ve got in my notes. You sure you don’t need anything else?”

“No,” Adam said. “I’ve already got that gentleman’s number. I keep hoping it will pay off.”

“Good luck, Austin.”

“Appreciate it.”

Adam hung up, and Chelsea raised an eyebrow. “Nothing new?”

“Nothing new,” Adam said, and then he pulled open his tracking software and stared at the red dot that represented Rodney Bova’s existence. He’d been right.

Move, damn it, he implored the dot silently. Move. Go to him.

36

AFTER PRACTICE KENT AND his staff met for an hour to discuss the offensive game plan, considering tight end seam routes and quick slants and bubble screens and all of the things that might work if their number-one receiver was done catching the ball. Then they emerged from the locker room and found Colin Mears sitting on the hood of his car, pointing toward them like an accusatory finger.

“What’s he still doing here?” Byers asked, and then Haskins said he’d go talk to him, but Kent shook him off.

“I’ve got it. Go on home, guys.”

He crossed the grass to Colin’s car alone. It was cold out, and the boy’s breath fogged the air. He’d been waiting a long time.

“You all right, son?”

Colin nodded. He had a tennis ball in his right hand. Squeezing rhythmically. Working on his grip strength.

Kent propped one foot on the tire of the boy’s Honda. “Why are you sitting here in the cold, Colin? Last thing we can afford is for you to get sick.”

Colin shifted the tennis ball from his right hand to his left, kept squeezing.

“I want you to know I’ll make plays this week.”

“Don’t doubt it, son. You always have.”

“Not Friday night.”

“You worry more about your stat line or the scoreboard?” Kent said. He was studying the worn tire treads, not looking at the boy.

“Scoreboard.”

“Then you ought to be happy.”

“Yes, sir.” He stopped squeezing the tennis ball, passed it from hand to hand, and said, “What’s the deal with your brother, Coach?”

“Pardon?” Kent looked up now.

“Why were they searching his house?”

Kent was quiet, looking into the kid’s intense eyes, and then he said, “Because they thought it might help. That’s all you need to know.”

“What more do you know?”

“Excuse me?”

“You have to know what they were looking for. It’s your brother.”

“The police don’t always tell you what they’re looking for, Colin. Sometimes they don’t even know. It’s about gathering—”