The Prophet

by Michael Koryta

  He hated the idea, but what could he say about it? It was her husband.

  “You want me to go with you?”

  “No, I do not.”

  He was glad of that, and didn’t know why he’d even offered. “Why haven’t you left him?” Adam said.

  “He’s in jail.”

  “Wonderful reason to stay with the guy, yeah.”

  She didn’t waver. “I didn’t think it was the best time to hand him papers, at least.”

  “Otherwise you would have? If he was out, you’d be divorced?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How in the hell can you not know?”

  She shook her head as if it were a foolish question. He felt anger rising, and though most of it was directed at him, he wanted to push it outward, and there she was. He turned from her and found the wet dishtowel and squeezed it, bleeding water out.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I’ve never understood why you were with him, so I guess it’s reasonable that I don’t understand why you won’t leave him.”

  “I was with him,” she said, “because when he told me he loved me, he meant it. And you know what, Adam? Back then, it felt like something. It felt like enough.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I’m…” she stopped, shook her head again, and waved her arm around at the house, and him. “Now I’m this. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “What do you want from me?” he asked.

  “For you not to have to ask that damn question, Adam.”

  “Huh?”

  She shook her head. “Forget it.”

  “No. What?”

  “You just do what you want. I’m curious to know what it will be. Have been for a while.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You want me to be with him, Adam? With Travis?”

  “Of course not. It is what it is. I deal.”

  “You deal.”

  He nodded.

  “If you don’t want me to be with him,” she said, “why not ask me to leave?”

  I believe my trouble and your trouble shook hands, Brian Fallon sang, and Adam snapped off the music.

  “That’s not my decision, Chelsea. You married him. You want to leave him? Then do it. You haven’t so far.”

  “And you haven’t asked.”

  “I’m supposed to, what, propose divorce? You want me down on one knee? Do I take the ring off your finger, is that the tradition?”

  “Forget it, Adam.”

  He started to argue. Started to say that, no, he wouldn’t forget it, they needed to finish this conversation, needed to understand each other, needed to finally put into words all the things that should have been said long ago but never were.

  Instead, though, he let her go.

  28

  GHOSTS AND GOSSIP FLOATED like vapors around Kent on Monday. He heard the names—Rachel, Adam, Marie—in flickering whispers and then they were gone as he turned to face the source, everyone looking away or offering awkward encouragement: Hang in there, Coach.

  He was used to attracting attention from the students as he passed through the halls, those who were impressed by him or those who wanted to impress peers by showing their contempt for the football coach. Today was different, though. The teachers almost as bad as the kids. Several who had expressed no interest in the team before stopped him to talk about the upcoming game. Others who usually would have settled instead for quick nods and averted eyes.

  That afternoon he left a message for Dan Grissom, the minister who had joined him on the speaking visit that included Clayton Sipes, asking for a call back. It came quickly.

  “I’m trying to verify my own memory, Dan,” Kent said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Do you remember my encounter with Clayton Sipes this summer?”

  “I do,” Dan said, low-voiced, steady, the way he always was.

  Kent closed his eyes and said, “Did I taunt that man, Dan?”

  “Taunt him?”

  “Yes. He was… challenging me. And I’m just trying to remember what I said. I can remember it all fine from my perspective, but I need yours. I need some objectivity.”

  “You didn’t taunt him,” Dan said. “I would not use that word, no.”

  “Well, what word would you use? I know that you told me to be careful with him. I remember you saying that, it’s vivid, because you’d never said that about anyone else before.”

  “Yes. That’s true.”

  “Why did you with Sipes, then?”

  “I didn’t like the way your exchange went.”

  “On which end?”

  “Both. He was disturbing. I won’t deny that; I’d been around him before and he’d exhibited the same behavior then. But with you… he, well, I’d say he got a little more intense.”

  “I used the same word today with the police. When you told me to be careful, though, I had the sense that you thought I’d already made a mistake. I’m looking for honesty, Dan. This guy may have killed a girl, and he may have sent me a letter about it. Don’t worry about my feelings. Tell me the truth.”

  “I thought you’d made a mistake, yes.”

  Kent nodded as if Dan could see him.

  “But I thought you made a mistake as a minister, as a witness, not in any sort of dangerous way. When I told you to be careful with him, I meant that your response was too combative. It’s a fine line, what he asked you to tread, and I just thought… I thought it was indicative of a problem you might have in the future. You want to show firm faith, but quiet strength, I think. That’s a personal opinion. And with Clayton Sipes, you treated it more like…”

  “Like what?” Kent prompted.

  “I was looking for a better word, but what I was going to say was a trophy. You asked if you taunted him, and the answer is no. But you carried your faith like a chip on your shoulder. I don’t fault you for that. Responding to aggressive questioning about your faith is hard. I just saw no gain to the way you approached it with Clayton. You just held firm ground.”

  “I should have yielded?”

  “No. You should have engaged. Tried to find a better dialogue. These were the thoughts I had at the time, and they were relating to your ability to make an impact, Kent. That’s all. What you’re wanting to know now, I’m afraid, is whether you could have brought this down upon yourself in some way. Whether your response to Clayton Sipes that afternoon makes you responsible for something he might have done afterward. No, Kent. No. Don’t let your mind go down that road. It’s treacherous ground.”

  “All right.”

  “You’ve done good work,” Dan said. “Don’t lose sight of that. You’ve done good work.”

  It was the same message Kent had for his team after every season-ending loss.

  Rodney Bova was home when Adam dropped by, answered the door with a nervous expression and kept it cracked just enough for conversation.

  “What’s the problem?” Bova said.

  “I’m hoping there isn’t one.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because it’s my job. You’ve got a preliminary hearing this week. Going to make it?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Good,” Adam said. “I can’t afford to have anything go wrong. I’m crossways with the police myself right now, actually.”

  “I saw that,” Bova said, and Adam watched him very carefully, looking for any sign that he’d been informed that his Mansfield connection was of interest in the Rachel Bond homicide investigation. There didn’t seem to be one. This was good. This was critical.

  “Feeling your pain, in other words,” Adam said. “First time I’ve been in this situation. You doing all right otherwise? You need anything?”

  “What I need is for my attorney to prove that somebody set me up.”

  “Any luck with that?”

  “Finding out who did it? No. Not yet.”

  Adam gave that a thoughtful look, as if he were really brooding over the problem, an
d leaned against the wall, gazing up the street.

  “Issue is, why would someone have the desire to bring this kind of trouble to you? I mean, this thing, it’s not fooling around. A pretty serious takedown attempt. And for what?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Regardless of whether you’ve got an idea, you’re going to have to create one, right? You can’t just sit back and plead for mercy, Rodney. The judge doesn’t listen to that sort of shit. What you need to do is put pressure on the prosecution. Create a sense of doubt. Then maybe they drop the charges. I’ve seen that happen a hundred times.”

  Now Bova was interested. “How?” he said. He’d opened the door a little wider.

  “Suspects, Rodney. Suspects. Who do you know who’s been in trouble? Who can you use to distract the police from yourself?”

  “I’m not rolling on anyone.”

  “Rodney?” Adam held his eyes for a long beat. “Better be damn certain of that choice. Because sometimes, even the people we trust let us down. Even the people we love. So I’d have some long conversations if I were you, and I would try to see who might be bullshitting you. Otherwise, brother, you’re looking at a long stretch. I know your judge. She’s not forgiving with weapons charges. Not a bit.”

  Bova looked sick. Adam grabbed his arm. “Listen,” he said, “you do what you want on your defense. Got nothing to do with me. But you miss that court date, and I’m coming for you.”

  “I won’t miss it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Adam said. “Good luck, brother.”

  He turned and left.

  The tracking device had logged four locations for Bova’s movements during the weekend, and Adam visited them all after he left Bova’s house. A Home Depot, a grocery store, a Walmart, and a Wendy’s. Bova had spent the day running errands, nothing more.

  Unless, of course, his Mansfield Correctional friend was at one of those places. Maybe they’d met in a parking lot. Maybe the unknown friend from Mansfield worked at the Wendy’s. That would be easy enough to determine, if Adam had the name. All he needed was the name. And his brother had it and would not share it.

  Adam sat in his Jeep after the addresses had been exhausted and thought of Kent’s refusal and felt the fury building again and tried to will it aside. There were other ways to learn the man’s identity. He had to pretend Kent wasn’t even an option. Pretend he had no brother at all.

  Being alone was not the same as being helpless.

  He drove to Mansfield to get the answers he needed.

  Adam had been to the prison before, but he didn’t know any of the corrections officers there. Nobody said a word to him about his recent media appearances as they checked his ID and listened to his explanation that he was working for the family. He felt something strange in that silence, thought they should have shown more interest. He was hopeful for Jason Bond’s cooperation but not guaranteed of it. If the man called off the interview, there was nothing Adam could do. Bond had agreed to see him, though, and that was something.

  They were left alone in a visitation room, glass between them, and Bond looked a great deal different from the photographs Adam had seen. His hair was short and gray now, he was clean shaven, and he weighed a good forty pounds less than he had at the time of his booking. He took his seat, studied Adam through the glass, and said, “Penny hired you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “She don’t have money to waste, would be my guess.”

  “She’s not spending any.”

  “Yeah? Who pays you then?”

  “Nobody.”

  Jason Bond thought that over and nodded. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “Because you can’t be very good. I’ve already said all I can say. Got nothing new for you.”

  “It’s all new for me, Jason. There’s a difference between police and a PI. What you’ve told them, they don’t necessarily tell me.”

  “What I’ve told them, I won’t necessarily tell you.”

  Adam nodded, then leaned forward. “She came to me,” he said. “With your letters. The real ones, and then the fakes. She wanted an address, wanted to be able to keep contact up with you. I found it.”

  Bond didn’t say anything.

  “She went to the place I told her to go,” Adam said, holding the man’s stare. “Do you understand that? I cannot let that go unsettled.”

  “Should have stayed the hell out of it. You and your brother both.”

  “I’ve got nothing to do with my brother.”

  “No? He was the one who told her to write. You were the one who helped her keep it up. That’s a coincidence?”

  “It actually is,” Adam said. “Small town, Jason. Small town.”

  “Your brother’s been here.”

  “You meet him?”

  “Nah. Came in to preach, basically. Had the Bible and all. Wasn’t really for me.”

  Adam nodded. “Who do you know who did go to hear him?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You need to be. I need you to be. Think about it. Remember it.”

  Bond said, “Whoever killed her, you think they knew your brother? Met him in here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you ask him, then?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “Man, I do not know the answer. Like I said, I wasn’t there. He came in the summer. Reason it stood out to me then was because he’s from Chambers. The coach, you know. I follow the team, see the scores, at least. But I didn’t meet the man.”

  “Does the name Rodney Bova mean something to you?”

  “No.” He said it firmly. Adam was waiting for a sign of a lie, but he didn’t find one.

  “You’re sure.”

  “I’ve never heard the name. Yes, I’m sure.”

  Adam considered, trying to think of what else he could ask, how he could ensure that this visit had not been wasted, fruitless.

  “When my brother came here,” he said, “was there word about it beforehand? Some sort of opportunity to sign up? You said you chose not to go.”

  “It’s optional, yeah. Like any of those groups. Outreach shit. They bring in all kinds, man. Preachers, sure. Football coaches. People who want us to grow plants, pet dogs, whatever. Everyone has an idea, right? Everyone’s got a cure. And most of us, hell, the only get-right meetings we care about are called parole board.”

  “But there’s an official posting, something like that?”

  “We know when they’re coming, at least.”

  “The prison would have records, then. They’d know who went to what program?”

  “Yeah, I’d expect so.”

  Adam nodded. They would not turn the records over to him. They could be subpoenaed, though. Maybe. It would take Penny and an attorney, but maybe he could make that happen.

  “Do me a favor,” Adam said. “You ask around. See who was there when my brother came. See what they remember. If anybody stands out. More importantly, you see if they remember anyone who was released this summer. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not a big talker.”

  “Someone murdered your daughter,” Adam said, “by impersonating you.”

  He let that sit between them for a moment, and then he said, “Ask around, Jason.”

  Jason Bond nodded. “I’ve been trying to figure it out, you know. A reason some asshole would have targeted my daughter? Would have even given a damn where I came from, what I’ve left on the other side? Nah. I can’t figure that.”

  “You wish you could,” Adam said.

  “Hell, yes, I wish I could.”

  “You can rest easy on one part of that. Whoever did it wasn’t targeting you.”

  “You say that like you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Bond nodded again, and Adam could see that this disclosure mattered to him. It was a comfort of some kind. One he needed.

  “All I know is, I hope when they get him, whichever one it was, they send him back here. And the
n he’s dead. Because, buddy? I might not have known her. But that was my daughter. That was my daughter.”

  Adam said, “You won’t have the chance to kill him.”

  “Yeah, I know, they’ll send him somewhere else.”

  “Not what I mean. I’m not going to leave that chance on the table. For you, or anyone else.”

  Jason Bond looked at him for a long time. Then he said, “I hope you’re just as nasty as you look.”

  “Haven’t let anyone down yet,” Adam said. “Not on that front.”

  29

  IT WAS OBVIOUS FROM THE MOMENT Chelsea returned that she’d been drinking. Adam watched as she tried—with slower hands than normal—to catch the rats and feed the snakes.

  “How’d it go?” he asked finally.

  “He wasn’t happy.”

  “How are you?”

  She caught one of the rats on the fifth try, then held it in a cupped palm as she moved toward the snakes. Slid out one of the tubs, dropped the mouse inside, then slid the tub back into place. The rat scampered, searching for an exit that did not exist, and the python lifted its head and studied it, tongue flicking, but made no move. Yet. He knew that he didn’t have to hunt in this place. The rat would be there. When he was hungry, he would eat.

  “How are you?” Adam repeated.

  “Ashamed. Angry. Relieved.”

  “Where did you leave it?”

  “He told me not to come back.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “They were my vows, not yours.”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  “Where were you today?”

  “Mansfield.”

  She turned to face him. “The prison?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You saw her father?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Had to be tough.” She crossed the room to join him. Lay down on the couch, curled up like a child, and rested her head on his lap. Closed her eyes. He was surprised at how vulnerable she looked, how fragile. She always put out strength like body heat, and he’d grown content in that, relaxed by it, comforted by the knowledge that she didn’t need him. Because of that, he could not fail her. Love without burdens. Or could that really be love?

  “I’ve got something to show you,” she said. Eyes still closed.