The Prophet

by Michael Koryta

  “One twenty,” he said. “There’s a lot of money there. Maybe we could talk about that?”

  Adam almost laughed. The dumb son of a bitch had a pair of brass balls on him, you had to admit that.

  “Jerry,” he said, “you probably have one hell of a battle of wits going with that dog who is currently stuck in the chip bag. I’m going to let you get back to it now.”

  He pocketed the pill bottles, left the trailer, and drove to the hospital garage where Rodney Bova parked his truck every day.

  The hospital parking garage was a risk-versus-reward scenario. On the one hand, it was a far more potent opportunity than Rodney Bova’s house; on the other hand, there would surely be security cameras in place. Adam addressed this problem as best he could by borrowing a jacket, hat, and set of car keys from Bova’s home. He was even more pleased to find that Bova had an extra security tag, complete with his photograph. It was outdated, but Adam doubted they’d changed the design much. He was a good deal taller than the man, but if he kept his head down and the cap pulled low and moved fast and with confidence, he’d make it hard on anyone studying the tapes, at least.

  He left his own car nine blocks away, where no camera would track it, and then walked in, staring at his feet as he entered the hospital, careful not to lift his face to the cameras. Once inside, he found a restroom, where there would be no cameras, and waited for a full hour, giving those security videos a long lapse to deal with after his entrance. All of this would not fool a diligent detective, but it was unlikely that a police detective would buy the “someone planted this stuff” story enough from a guy with priors to pursue it to such lengths.

  When he entered the parking garage through the attached walkway, he moved fast, and then he was in the poorly lit space and headed down to the second floor, where he’d seen Bova park the previous day. The F150 was right where it belonged. He used Bova’s spare set to unlock it, then reached out with a gloved hand, opened the door, and placed the bottles of OxyContin in the glove compartment, then removed a Colt .38 revolver from the jacket pocket. An acquisition from one of his previous skips—Adam had taken it after the guy threatened him but then backed down. The gun’s serial number was filed off, and it had probably floated through dozens of hands over the years. Today it was loaded, and wiped clean of prints. He added the weapon to the glove compartment, then locked the car again.

  He was out of the garage in under two minutes, back at Bova’s house in ten, the jacket, hat, and car keys replaced exactly as they had been.

  It was another two hours before Rodney Bova left for lunch. Adam, now parked with a clear view of the hospital, slipped in behind him, followed him to a Burger King, and called the police from a disposable cell phone—burners, his skips liked to call them, guys who didn’t want to have a number attached to their name—and gave the location and license number, then said that the driver seemed impaired and was armed.

  “I honked, you know, because he was so erratic, and he held a gun up,” Adam said, speaking high and with a shop towel held between the phone and his mouth, enough distortion to get by. “Pointed that thing right at me, I thought he was going to shoot.”

  They asked for his name, of course.

  “Hell, no,” he said. “No way, no way. That guy just pointed a gun at me, do you understand? I’m not going to be part of this. I don’t want him coming to my house, threaten my wife, my kids, how do I know what he’ll do? You just pull him over and see if I’m lying. He’s going to leave the Burger King on Lincoln Avenue in about five seconds if you don’t hurry. The guy’s drunk or stoned and he’s waving a gun around. Do something about it.”

  He hung up. A defense attorney would have a field day with this anonymous call, but Adam didn’t care what happened in court, he cared about providing probable cause for the vehicle search.

  When the F150 pulled out of the Burger King, Adam passed it driving the opposite direction on Lincoln, then banged a left so he was running on a different street but parallel. It was maybe a mile before he saw police lights come on through the houses beside him.

  He made another call then, this one from his own phone. Called the Chambers County Jail and asked for one of the booking agents he knew best, a guy who regularly sent business to AA Bail Bonds in exchange for a small commission. There were only three bond agencies in the county, but Adam wasn’t about to take a risk on missing this one.

  “I’m listening to scanner traffic right now,” he said. “You’re going to see a boy in there soon on possession charges, maybe weapons, too. Sounds lucrative. I need it. Understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A grand in cash tonight if you can send him my way. I need this one. And if anybody else comes in today on high-dollar shit, consider the offer matched. When you recommend me, though, don’t use my name. Just say Double-A Bonds.”

  “A grand? Shit, you got it, Austin.”

  “Thanks,” Adam said, and then he hung up and drove to the office. Chelsea was behind the desk.

  “Jerry Norris back in jail yet?”

  “He is not,” Adam said. “But I’m done chasing for the day. We got any calls?”

  She frowned. “None. Slow day.”

  “Maybe it’ll pick up,” he said.

  20

  IT WAS JUST PAST THREE when Rodney Bova called from the Chambers County Jail, seeking bond and release. Adam listened while Chelsea ran over the basics and promised him she’d be at the jail in fifteen minutes to secure his release.

  “Good news,” she said when she hung up. “Fifty-grand bond on a guy named Bova who’s in on drug and weapons charges. That’s a nice five-grand day for us.”

  “Very nice,” Adam said. “I’ll go down and handle it.”

  “I can do it.”

  He shook his head, getting to his feet. “I probably ought to put in an appearance.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive,” he said, and then he gathered the required paperwork and walked out of the office to the jail.

  There was a conference room at the jail designated for bail meetings, and when Adam arrived, they brought Rodney Bova in to meet him. To say the man looked shaken was an understatement. His face was pale and his hands actually trembled when he accepted the papers from Adam. He looked as if he might throw up, in fact, or faint. If he recognized Adam, he did not show it.

  “This is crazy,” he told Adam. “Someone put these things in my truck. I don’t know what to do. I called a lawyer, but I don’t know if he even believed me. I don’t—”

  “You remember me?” Adam said.

  Bova looked genuinely puzzled. “Huh?”

  “Adam Austin. We went to—”

  “Oh, shit. Yeah, yeah. High school. You were the football star.”

  “And you transferred out, right?”

  Bova’s expression flickered. “Right, I got transferred. But, listen, I need to figure out what to do here. Someone set me up, man.”

  “Did they?” Adam said, going for bored and dismissive, which was easy enough to fake, because half of the guys in this office claimed to have been set up. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, man. I don’t know. But this thing, it’s not an accident, right? Someone is taking a shot at me.”

  When Adam did not respond, Bova ran a palm over his face. It came back sweaty. “Let’s just get the paperwork done, okay? Let’s just get me loose, and I’ll deal with it.”

  “Fair enough,” Adam said, and he had to use effort to stay casual. He wanted all the secrets that this man held, wanted to bang his face off the wall until he provided them, as if the truth would leak out with the blood, but that was not the way to do this. “Your bond is set at fifty thousand dollars. The way this works is I guarantee the bond, and in so doing, I guarantee that you’ll appear in court or I eat that debt. Understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now, the way I make money, which is what I need to do in order to take the risk of insuring your bond, is that I am paid a premium. This i
s a nonrefundable amount. It’s what keeps my light bill paid. Whether you’re convicted or not, whether the charges are even prosecuted or not, you do not receive a refund on the premium.”

  “Ten percent?” This was the voice of a regular offender, someone who knew the drill.

  “Yeah. So, five thousand dollars.”

  Bova winced. “This is bullshit. I got set up, man, and—”

  “That’s not my concern, Mr. Bova. My concern is making sure you appear in court. To get out of jail, you’ll have to pay someone a bond premium, and the standard is ten percent. Now… I can bring it down a lot if you’re willing to agree to help me on my end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t afford to have you skip out on me, right?”

  “I’d never—”

  “I don’t think you will,” Adam said. “Your credit is decent, you’re employed, all that good stuff. Because of that I will offer a premium reduction of ten percent to one percent if you’re willing to wear an ankle bracelet. We’ll have to file the paperwork as if it’s the standard ten, but I’ll charge you a different amount.”

  Bova seemed uncertain. “I don’t know if that’s something I’d want.”

  Interesting, Adam thought. You’d prefer throwing thousands away to wearing a tracking device? Why’s that, Rodney, old buddy?

  He said, “Well, you think you’re going to get out of these charges, right?”

  “Absolutely. Yes, absolutely.”

  “Okay. When I hear that, it makes me happy, because I don’t have to worry about chasing you. Now, I worry even less about chasing you if you’re wearing the tracking bracelet. That’s why I can charge so much less.”

  The only unprecedented move here was the price drop. Adam would sometimes require ankle bracelets from offenders with a history of skipping, or on particularly high-dollar bonds. He’d never offered to drop his fee in exchange for one. It wasn’t even legal.

  Bova was still hesitating.

  “The other element to consider,” Adam said, “is that your willingness to wear the tracking bracelet might help in court. It proves that you’re not a flight risk.”

  The court didn’t give a damn what someone agreed to with a bail bondsman, but it sounded good, and he was immediately glad he’d played the card, because that’s what seemed to convince Bova.

  “All right,” he said. “Sure. Yes, I’ll wear one so long as you promise me that people won’t notice it. It doesn’t go off like an alarm or anything, right? And nobody can see it?”

  “Unless you wear shorts, nobody will have any idea, Mr. Bova. I think it’s a good option. Saves you a lot of cash.”

  They completed the paperwork, Adam accepted credit card payment for the five hundred, and then, once they’d gotten the jailers to open the doors and send Rodney Bova back into the free world, he walked him down to his Jeep and got out the ankle bracelet he’d brought along.

  “Nice and thin,” he said. “Won’t be a problem for you at all, and once you’ve gotten this mess cleaned up, you’ll be glad you saved all that money, won’t you?”

  Bova rolled up his jeans and let Adam clasp the bracelet high on his ankle, just above the sock.

  “So it… follows me?” he said.

  “No. It just lets me know if you’ve left the county.” This was a lie—the bracelet sent out a GPS signal that would follow every step Bova took and return it to both Adam’s computer and his phone, tracking him on digital maps. He’d tested it at the office before Bova even called, putting in fresh batteries and making certain that it showed up on the map software. It did. He’d know every step Bova took.

  “It’s got tamper detection,” he said. “So don’t get cute and try to cut it off. I’ll know immediately, and then you’ll be right back in jail for violating the terms of your release.”

  That, too, was total bullshit—the monitoring was Adam’s private arrangement, not court-mandated—but he wanted to keep the already-scared Rodney Bova as scared as possible about trying to remove the thing. It was a bitch to cut off, but it could be done. What he wanted Bova to believe was that he had no interest in where he went. That was imperative.

  “I won’t mess with it.”

  “Good.” Adam straightened up, looked at him, and said, “My role in this is simple: just make sure you show up in court. Don’t make that a problem for me. Deal?”

  “Yeah. Deal. Thank you.”

  Adam nodded. “Okay, Rodney. You’re free to go now. Can I offer you a ride somewhere? I assume your truck was impounded.”

  “That’s right,” Bova said. He’d clearly forgotten. “I’ve got to figure that out. But I’ll… I’ll take a cab. Or walk. Thanks, though.”

  “Fair enough. Good luck.”

  Adam got into the Jeep, slid his iPhone out of his pocket, and logged into his monitoring system’s application. A few seconds later he was looking at a map of Chambers and one slow-moving red dot.

  “All right, Rodney,” he said. “Go find him for me.”

  21

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON, DURING the pep rally, Lorell McCoy took the microphone and told the student body what Kent had been anticipating for days: the season was officially dedicated to the memory of Rachel Bond, and when the Chambers Cardinals took to the field tonight, they would wear her initials on their cleats and on their helmets.

  The crowd cheered, faculty joining the students, and Kent wanted to look away but he was standing out there in front of the whole school, and there were many eyes on him, so he just gave a small nod and kept his hands folded in front of him, head down.

  Colin Mears did not address the fans, and Kent was glad of that, but Lorell had said his piece for him, and now Lorell led the school in a moment of silence in Rachel’s memory, reminding them all that while the Cardinals intended to go out and win a state championship, none of that really mattered. What mattered was Rachel.

  All the right things to say. He sounded good, poised and mature and well reasoned. Kent should have been proud of him, probably. Instead he just felt uneasy.

  They had their moment of silence, and then the pep band started to play. Just like that. One murdered child recognized, one game to play. On to the next one. There was nothing wrong with it. How else were they supposed to do it? You put one foot in front of the other, you honored the past while you went to meet the future, that was the only way. Otherwise you turned into… into Adam.

  That was the end of the day, there were only fifteen minutes left before the final bell rang, and Kent let them walk out of the gym with its smells of trapped sweat and polished hardwood and go on to do whatever it was they each did before kickoff. He made no claims on them before five thirty, when they were required to arrive in the locker room. He didn’t even make claims on his coaching staff before five thirty. As he told them every year, if we aren’t ready to go by Friday morning, we’re already beaten.

  His own game day rituals were simple. A run, a shower, and then a retreat into his office until game time. He went to the locker room and changed clothes, put on shorts and running shoes and a hooded sweatshirt and a soft, flexible brace for his left knee, and then he went out into the fall day.

  Perfect football weather. Perfect. The sky was cobalt blue, a fringe of dark gray encroaching from the northwest, but not here yet, and the clouds were high and clean and white. There was a breeze that carried the scents of autumn out of the wooded neighborhoods past the school and down to the field, and the temperature was mid-fifties, brisk enough to energize. Kent stretched in the end zone, then paced off to the sideline, where he would not cross the playing surface, and began to run.

  There was a track that ran between the bleachers and the field, but he never ran the track. He loved the feel of the turf beneath his shoes, loved the memories each step brought. The track featured gentle curves, too, and by running around the field in rectangles, he was forced to make hard, ninety-degree cuts, each one putting a stab of pain through his left knee. He needed that.

  The
knee had ended his playing career. He’d played D-1 ball but for a small school. The knee began to give him problems his freshman year, when he was a backup. Over the summer he visited a joint specialist in Cleveland and was told that it wasn’t so serious, he had a partially torn MCL and some damaged cartilage that needed to be scraped, but once that happened, he’d have only a couple of months of rehab and be back on the field, good as new.

  A couple of months took him out of the starting competition, though. A couple of months set him back maybe a full season.

  He didn’t let them scrape the knee. Thanked them and said he’d make an appointment but never did. Showed up in the fall and won the starting job, and the team won four of their first five games before he began to hobble. Trainers recommended an MRI. This time the test showed that the cartilage damage was getting worse, should already have been removed, and that the ACL had begun to fray because it was absorbing extra stress from the already weakened ligament on the inside of his knee. They braced him up and shot him full of cortisone and he tore both ligaments all the way through in the third quarter of the final game of the season. Missed a year rehabbing it, and there was a big, strong-armed kid behind him who claimed the job and never relinquished it. Kent finished his career pacing the sidelines with a clipboard in hand, validating what he’d always known, the reason he wouldn’t take the time off for proper treatment—there was always somebody better than you waiting just behind you.

  After college he’d come right home. Walter Ward had a position waiting for him, and it was supposed to be a temporary gig, a filler, because Kent was done with football, and willing to let the game own him for only a few more months, while he determined the best course of action for the future.

  Then he met Beth. Well, got reacquainted with Beth. He’d known her during his high school years, but Walter Ward’s daughter was three years younger than him, and nobody was dumb enough to look too long at the coach’s freshman daughter. By the time he was part of the staff, Beth was in college, and Walter Ward approved, on one condition—Kent needed to get his ass into church. Case closed.