Michael Koryta - The Prophet

“Cops break into my home and I’m supposed to—”

“They did not break in, and you knew they would be there. Let me ask you this: Why did you really swing on that guy? Because he was in your home? Was that really the reason, Adam?”

It was not. It was because the son of a bitch had been in Marie’s room. Chelsea watched and waited and Adam looked away without answering.

“Okay,” she said softly. “These are things to think about. It’s time to move forward for me. I want to do it with you. But that’s going to require both of us being willing to move.”

She came around the desk, dropped to her knees, and sat with her hands on his waist and waited until he turned back to face her. Her dark eyes searched his, dancing as if she knew she needed to evade some of the things his eyes would show her to find the things that were true.

“Talk to Marie about it,” she said.

His throat tightened. He had never told her, had never told anyone about his conversations with his sister. Chelsea would never have overheard so much as a whisper of Marie’s name, and yet there was no doubt to her voice. She knew that he spoke to Marie, and she was not alarmed by this, or even surprised. The realization, and the way she’d just suggested he talk to her about this, crippled him. Before he’d chosen not to answer her; now he could not.

“Consider it,” she said. “Talk it out. But be fair to me on it, Adam. If you decide it isn’t the right thing for you, okay. I’ll stand by you. But give it fair consideration. I want us to be together, and that is not the right place. We need to find a new one, and make it ours.”

He nodded. She studied him, then rose, leaned over to kiss him, and left. He stared at the door for a time, shook his head, returned his attention to the computer screen, and pulled up his tracking program. The red dot that was Rodney Bova held steady.

He had not returned to the house since his arrest. Had planned to every day but found an excuse every day, and there was work to be done, searching for Sipes and guarding Kent’s house and trying to snag a few hours of sleep in the time between. This afternoon he found no police in sight, no media, no curious neighbors. He parked on the street and let himself in the side door, which opened into the kitchen. He’d had new appliances and countertops put in, replaced the floor tiles, but still it was the kitchen of his childhood; you couldn’t remodel that away. He could almost see his father at the table, the bottle of whiskey sitting between the two of them, could almost smell his mother’s Pall Mall smoke wafting out of the living room.

It was a warmer afternoon, maybe sixty degrees, and he cracked some windows and let the fall breeze fill the house. Paused at the bottom of the stairs and took a deep breath and then went up, knocked, and entered Marie’s room.

Nothing looked disturbed. Unless you knew where the stained-glass turtle belonged, you’d never have known it was gone. The police had been unusually respectful in their search, actually, although the cleanup probably improved substantially after Adam’s arrest, when they knew they were going to have to defend their conduct against his response in court. They’d swept up the broken glass. He wondered where it had gone. Probably into the trash somewhere. A shame, because he might have been able to put it back together. It would have taken time and care, but he might have been able to do it.

He lit the candles one at a time, then cracked this window, too—autumn was Marie’s favorite season, no surprise in a football-crazed family—and let the fresh air come in and stir the flames. Took his customary seat on the floor, back to the wall, and began to talk.

“I’m sorry I’ve been gone,” he said. “I’m so sorry they were here, and I’m sorry I’ve been gone. I wish it hadn’t happened in your room. I really do.”

His head was bowed and his eyes closed now.

“Let’s start off with good news, all right? Your little brother’s winning football games. They’re an awfully good team, Marie. They should get it done. There are some distractions that might be a problem, but I’m trying to help with that, and if anyone can focus through these sorts of distractions, it is your little brother. This week’s a big one. Saint Anthony’s. I’m scared for him against that team, but I’m also glad he drew them. I think he has to go through them if he’s going to get it. That’s part of it. He’s got to beat them. I think he will.”

He paused, covered his closed eyes with his bruised hand, and said, “Now for the bad news. There’s been some trouble with Kent. It’s nothing you need to worry about. I promise you that, Marie. I’m watching out for him. I will not let anything happen to him, or to Beth and Lisa and Andrew. I won’t. It’s a bad situation, but I’ll get it fixed. I can still get this one fixed.”

Her favorite candles had smelled of cinnamon, and the scent was heavy now, drifting toward him on the gentle breeze, and he felt as if she’d pushed it his way, trying to relax him. He stopped talking and breathed it in for a while.

“Chelsea wants me to move,” he said, and his voice was choked, so he cleared his throat and gave himself another minute. “She’s not pushing me on it, that’s not her way. She’s so patient, Marie. I wish you’d gotten to know her better. I think you’d have liked her. I really do. I think everyone would have liked her.”

Another pause, wiping a hand over his mouth, and then he said, “I think she might be right. I think it might be time to go. If you’re unhappy with that… I hope you find a way to let me know. But I think she’s right. It could be… could be a good thing for me. For us.”

He’d expected a greater sense of guilt and betrayal, but felt little of either. Felt clean, actually, far better than he had when he’d entered.

“We’ll see what happens,” he said. “This is what I’ll promise you, though: I’m not going anywhere until I’ve taken care of the things that I need to take care of. When I know I can leave Kent alone at night again, when I know I can make a call to Rachel’s mother, we will see what happens. But I will set that right first.”

He sat in silence for a moment, and then he blew out the candles, told her that he loved her and that he was sorry, and left the house. He needed some sleep before he returned to Kent’s, and, these days, he slept much better at Chelsea’s place.

38

IT WAS BETH’S IDEA TO invite Adam to dinner.

“We’re sleeping while he sits down here awake,” she said. “And you know what, Kent? I’ve been able to sleep. He’s the only reason. I’d like to try and show him that. Not just slip him in and out under the cover of darkness.”

“I don’t know if he’ll like the idea,” Kent said.

“One way to find out.”

So Kent called him. His brother seemed uncertain but said he’d make it. There was a woman’s soft voice in the background, and only after he’d hung up did Kent think that perhaps he should have extended the invitation to Chelsea Salinas as well. She probably wouldn’t have accepted, but he should have asked.

One step at a time, though. That was fair.

Adam arrived at seven, and when the doorbell sounded, Kent realized that he hadn’t reminded his brother not to bring the gun into the house when the kids were awake. It wasn’t there, though; he wore just a blue button-down shirt, and had a shopping bag in his arms. Lisa and Andrew approached hesitantly, and Adam’s smile seemed equally uncertain.

“Hey, guys.”

They both said hello, and he set the bag down and said, “Well, I’ve missed a couple of birthdays, haven’t I? Figured I’d do something about that.”