Michael Koryta - The Prophet

“Dan Grissom had visited with Clayton Sipes on five occasions before he arrived at Mansfield with you. Sipes wasn’t taken aback by you, he wasn’t reacting. He was prepared.”

“Five times?”

Dean nodded. “Six more after your visit and before his release. They’d formed quite a bond. Shared a similar worldview, it seems. So whatever Sipes said to you, he probably believed, Mr. Austin. But that doesn’t mean the ideas were of his own mind. They could have been put there. After the interviews I conducted today, I suspect they probably were. There was a partnership at play here. Originally, Dan Grissom had his job—Rachel Bond—and Clayton Sipes had his: dealing with you. Dealing with you, and deceiving you. He did it well. But once Rachel was gone, Grissom didn’t have his own game to play anymore. I’ve wondered if there could have been a territory battle.”

“Over me.”

“Over the goal of breaking you, yes. Grissom protected himself by letting Sipes take the lead at first, but it’s quite possible he wanted it back. He seems to value control.”

Kent was remembering the photographs again, Rachel Bond’s eyes seen through the milky plastic, his own daughter’s seen bright and smiling and oblivious.

“You need to find him,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

“Agreed. We’re hoping you can help. If you can bring him to the surface… that’s what we need, Mr. Austin. We need him to appear. For you he might, even if he is concerned that his cover is blown. You seem to be of great value to him, great excitement. Will you help us?”

“You want me to bait him?” Kent didn’t like the idea, wanted no part of it.

“Yes. We’d like you to call him again, at least. Just as you did before, when you were unaware of the situation. Leave a message, wait and see if he responds. We’ll talk about what you say, and we’ll work on how you say it. Are you willing to do that?”

“You’ll keep my family protected?”

“Absolutely. Of course.”

Kent took a deep breath and nodded. “We can try.”

“Thank you. It may help.”

“If it does,” Kent said, “if I can bring him to the surface, as you termed it, are you prepared to convict him?”

“We’re building a very strong case.”

“You are building? That implies that it is not yet built. That you do not have the evidence you need to convict. Can you prove he killed Rachel Bond?”

“I believe we will, yes. We have DNA samples from the house and from her body that do not match with Sipes. If they match with Grissom, and I think that they will…” He spread his hands, his point made. Then lowered them to the table and said, “I will see that man convicted, Mr. Austin. Have some faith in me, please. I’ll see that it’s done.”

Kent was quiet, and when Dean spoke again, his voice was gentle, soothing.

“What’s on your mind, Mr. Austin? I’m trying to give you answers this time. I’ll offer what I can.”

“I believed in him,” Kent said.

“He had a convincing story.”

Kent shook his head. “Not just the story, Dean. I believed in him.”

“What he is,” Dean said, “is a false prophet, Mr. Austin. And a convincing one.”

47

HE CALLED GRISSOM AT SIX in the morning, after some coaching from Robert Dean, who liked the feel of an early call, the sense of need it would create.

“If you seem emotionally desperate,” he said, “it could be very appealing to him.”

Seeming emotionally desperate was not a difficult task for Kent. Keeping his voice steady and not shouting at the son of a bitch who’d taken photographs of his family less than twenty-four hours earlier, this monster who’d left a beautiful girl dead in a ditch and then sent Kent tokens of the horror, that was the difficult task.

He got through it. Called from his cell phone while Dean listened. Kent had told Dean that admission of fear would matter. If Sipes had been acting at Grissom’s request, then fear was paramount. They’d wanted to break him. Dean suggested that Kent ask Grissom to pray for him. That was the only thing Kent refused to say. His voice did not waver as he left the short but carefully choreographed message.

Dan, it’s Kent Austin. You’re probably asleep, and I’m sorry if I woke you, but… I could use you right now. If you have a chance, I’d appreciate a call back. Clayton Sipes is dead, Dan, but this thing is not. I don’t know what to say or what to do. The police seem to be blaming me, almost, but I saw Sipes, so I don’t know how they can fault me for what I told them. Whoever’s doing this is targeting my family. I’m afraid for them, Dan. I’m truly afraid.

If you’ve got time to get together, or at least time for a phone call, it would mean a lot to me, he told the murderer, and then he disconnected.

“We’ll see if he bites,” Dean said.

Yes. They would see.

Dean wanted him to go about his routine that day. To coach his team, play his games. Police would be watching, he said.

And so he did. He stopped by the hotel where they had his family, he held Beth in an exhausted embrace, and he kissed his children and told them that it was all going to be fine soon, it was just a bad day and they’d have to get through it. Part of growing up, he said. They were going to have some bad days now and then, and it was important to learn how to get through them. You had to keep your head down. You had to endure.

He coached in a fog. His staff had heard about the chaos at his home in the night, and half the kids had, too. He was a well-known man in a small town. It was not a situation for privacy, let alone for secrets, and still he had tried, and hoped. He told his coaches that he couldn’t talk about the matter, as required by the police, and asked for their help in keeping the kids focused. They tried. Everyone tried.

It should have been a euphoric few hours on the field. They were coming off the biggest win in their careers, they’d defeated the second-ranked team in the state, they were two wins away from a championship. Instead, the mood was hushed, everyone sharing whispers about what was going on with Coach, everyone confused and uncertain. Kent’s involvement was minimal. Byers ran most of the practice, while Kent stood on weary legs and chewed on his whistle and watched his undefeated boys. When practice was through, he began to walk directly to his car. The team gathering at midfield confused him somehow, even though it was the daily routine, and it wasn’t until he saw players taking a knee that he realized he still had the prayer to lead.

The words didn’t come easily. He prayed for their health and thanked God for the opportunity to be surrounded by this group for another week. Kept it short, then tried to disappear from the field, but didn’t make it. Colin Mears caught him before he could, and told him that he wanted to be benched.

It would have mattered, once. It would have been extremely important, a star player suggesting that he no longer deserved to be on the field during a playoff game. This morning Kent looked at him and could hardly register why anyone might think that this football field and what happened on it was significant.

But it is, he reminded himself, thinking of the days after Marie disappeared, of the long walks to watch film with Walter Ward, of the hours spent wearing his shoulder down to rubber, flinging a football at nothing. It had mattered to him then, and it mattered to Colin now.

“We’re not benching you, son,” Kent said.

“I’d like you to. Please. I’m not helping the team out there anymore. You know it, Coach, everyone does. I promised we’d win state for her. I promised that. I’m not going to help us. I wish I could, but I’m not going to.”