The Prophet

by Michael Koryta

  “What’s that?”

  She opened her eyes and looked into his for a long time. Then she rose and walked to the bedroom. When she returned, there were a few sheets of paper in her hands. She dropped them onto his lap and went into the kitchen to get a beer, removing a second one for him. He took his eyes off her and looked at the papers in his lap. He didn’t need to read much. The heading identified it as a petition for divorce.

  “You filed?”

  “I haven’t yet. I’m going to.” She returned and handed him the beer. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she looked so young, a decade younger than she was.

  He didn’t know how to answer, so he looked back at the papers, read the legalese as if somehow it had significance beyond that single word. Divorce. Finally she said, “Adam, it’s not a riddle. There’s no paragraph in there that will tell you how to respond. So… just respond.”

  He said, “It’s too fast. He just found out yesterday. You just got hit in the mouth with this. Don’t rush the decision because of that.”

  “Don’t rush.”

  He nodded.

  “Take a look at the date on those, please.”

  The date at the top, which he’d read right over, was May 1.

  “You had these drawn up in May?”

  “Yes.”

  “And didn’t move on it.”

  “No. But I’m going to now. Don’t worry, I’m not asking for your encouragement. I’m not going to ask anything from you. It’s the right thing to do, and I should have done it before. I shouldn’t have kept this sad state of limbo going. I’m embarrassed that I have for so long. When you say I just got hit in the mouth yesterday, you’re right. That doesn’t mean it made my decision for me, though. The decision had already been made, but… apparently I needed to be pressured to follow through on it. Sometimes that’s not a bad thing. A little pressure can help.”

  He said, “Coach Ward loved it when teams blitzed Kent. He thought he played better if he had less time to think.”

  For a moment she just stared at him, and then she started to laugh.

  “What?” he said.

  “I tell you I’m leaving my husband and you reinforce it by equating it to a linebacker?”

  He felt a smile creeping onto his face, which seemed impossible for this moment that had been so heavy. “Sometimes it’s a safety on the blitz,” he said. “Even a cornerback.”

  “I stand corrected,” she said, and then she put her hands on his face. Kissed him once and said, “No pressure’s coming at you, though. Understand that? I’m doing what I needed to do. I’m not asking anything of you.”

  “You’re not asking me to stay.”

  She shook her head. “Not asking you to go, either. Definitely not that. We’ll see, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “We’ll see.” It was hard to keep the smile off now. He looked down at the papers in his hand and realized for the first time how long he’d hoped to see them. He wanted to be something real with her. It was startling to feel just how badly he wanted it.

  “It won’t be easy on you,” he said.

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “All right.”

  “I also just lied to you,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Not about this. When I said I wasn’t going to ask anything of you. I won’t when it comes to us. I’m going to with something else.”

  He waited.

  “Let the Rachel Bond thing go,” she said.

  He didn’t answer. She wouldn’t look away from his eyes and finally he lifted the beer to his lips, drained the rest of the bottle.

  “It’s dangerous for you, Adam,” she said. “You’re facing felony charges. You’ll get those reduced without much of a problem. Clean record, and that situation, people searching Marie’s room? You’ll get it pled down. As it stands now. If you keep pushing, though? If you keep pushing, it’ll get bad. Fast. And for what?”

  “For what?” he echoed.

  “Yes,” she said, calm. “For what?”

  “Someone killed that girl, Chelsea. Someone pretended to be her father, baited her with her own damn heart, trapped her and taped a plastic bag over her head and watched her try to find air that wasn’t—”

  “Stop,” she said, looking away, one hand raised. “Please. I don’t need that. I understand all of that. It’s terrible. It must be dealt with. By the police.”

  He exhaled and looked away from her and she reached down and forced his face back toward her, forced his eyes back on hers.

  “Please,” she said. “Give them some time. Step back. Breathe. Understand that it wasn’t your fault, that she’s not Marie, and that you can’t atone for anything here. They don’t take any points off this scoreboard, Adam. I won’t tell you all of the things you refuse to hear and have refused to hear for more than twenty years. I’ll just ask you this: please, step back.”

  “In the right way,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I can step back if it’s done in the right way.”

  This wasn’t the answer she’d been looking for, so he tried again.

  “I want to move on,” he said. “Understand that? I do.”

  Her eyes doubted him. He kissed her forehead to break the stare, then went for a second beer.

  “Here’s to moving on,” he said, and she seemed to find more comfort in him this time, because she smiled as they clinked bottles. He hoped she believed him. He was serious about this, more serious than she knew. He wanted to move on. There were just a few things to be done first. He could try to explain that to her, or he could simply do what she had done back in May—have things in place when the time came to act. When it did, then he, too, would be clean and able to move on. She was correct that you could never set the past right, but you had to part ways formally with your mistakes, just as she had done. He did not want to live with her amidst secrecy and lies, but he could make his own plans, and when the time came to act, he would tell her. He promised himself that, then realized that he was still holding her divorce papers as they toasted and drank, reluctant to let them go.

  30

  THE COACHES HAD A GROUP film session after practice that night, and it went late. Kent had told Beth not to expect him for dinner, but he hadn’t intended to be as late as he was. Part of that was inability to focus. He’d broken his no-phones policy five times, calling to check in with her. Was everything all right, were the doors locked, was the alarm on?

  His staff asked no questions, but he could tell from their exchanged glances that they had their suspicions about the situation, and he felt like Colin Mears, the target of everyone’s silent sympathies and worries, striving for a normalcy of routine that was impossible to achieve.

  He didn’t know how much progress they had made. The defensive strategy was sound, but on the other side of the ball, so much depended on Colin Mears. Would he make catches?

  He was pulling into his driveway when the headlights of the Explorer passed over the front door and he saw the man waiting for him on the front porch.

  For an instant, he wasn’t sure how to react. It was so startling that he didn’t have the good sense to be afraid. In this neighborhood, where he’d lived for nine years without so much as hearing of a burglary or a domestic dispute, where he’d raised his family in peaceful suburban security, he lacked even the instinct of fear. All he felt was confusion until the man rose from the stoop and walked into the lights, toward Kent, who registered his face before he registered the gun in his hand.

  Clayton Sipes.

  Clayton Sipes was at his home. Beth and Lisa and Andrew were here.

  “They’re fine, Coach. Everybody’s fine so long as you want them to be.”

  Sipes spoke loudly, no fear of attention from the neighbors, as if he, too, had assessed the environment and determined it without threat. He was the alpha predator here, and he knew it, and was comforted by it.

  Police, Kent thought, call them, call for
help.

  But even as he reached for the phone, Sipes rounded the front end of the car and pointed the barrel of the gun at Kent’s head.

  “It’s up to you, Coach. What happens to them tonight is up to you. Choose wisely.”

  Should have driven into him. Should have floored it while he walked in front of the car, what’s the matter with you, the chance was there and you missed it and now it’s too late.

  “My suggestion,” Clayton Sipes said, “would be to turn off the car, get out, and talk with me. Now, that’s only a suggestion. The decision is yours. I’ll wait while you make it.”

  Kent didn’t move. He had his foot on the brake and his cell phone in his hand, and he was still trying to think of ways to use them, was considering the car alarm—Could you set it off while you were inside? Did the panic button even work if the key was already in the ignition?—when Clayton Sipes waved his free hand toward the dark house where Kent’s wife and children slept and said, “They’re waiting, too, Coach.”

  Kent shut off the car. The lights stayed on while he opened the door and stepped out but went dark a few seconds after he swung the door shut. Then they were alone in the night. The autumn wind blew steady and cold. Sipes stood five feet back, far enough away to avoid grappling, close enough for an easy kill shot on Kent.

  “If you’ve hurt my family, I will—”

  “No,” Sipes cut him off. “No, that’s not one of your options, Coach. You don’t get to offer threats. You want to use the word if, then I can use it for you. If I pull this trigger, your children may grow up with the memory of finding their dead father in the driveway. If I pull this trigger, they may not grow up at all. If you insist on acting like you have any control over this moment, I may introduce myself to your wife tonight. There you go. There are some ifs for you.”

  His voice was as it had been in the prison. Amused menace.

  “You remember me, Coach?” Sipes said when Kent had been silent for a while.

  “Yes.”

  “You remember my name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you said it recently?”

  Kent hesitated, a mental double-clutch, looking at two options and not liking either but knowing he had to let the ball go in one direction or the other, and then he shook his head. “No.”

  “Coach.” Sipes sounded thoroughly disappointed, a scolding parent. “Imagine if I had decided before this moment that I’d kill your children if you told a single lie. I could have done that. I still could. Now, would you like that answer back so you can try it again?”

  Kent nodded. His hands were trembling.

  “Have you said my name recently?”

  “Yes.”

  “To whom?”

  “The police.”

  “And why did you say it?”

  Kent’s eyes were adjusting to the dark now, and he could make out the man’s features, the slick shaved head and the ring of blue ink tattoos around his neck, his skin pale, body lean and strong. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that fluttered in the wind. He should have been cold, but he showed no trace of it, looked comfortable and at ease.

  “I said it because you left that letter.”

  “You called the police over a letter? That’s strange. Do you often contact the police with concerns about your mail?”

  In the house, just above Clayton Sipes’s head, a light flickered on. A television. Beth was awake. Awake but oblivious.

  Look out the window, Kent thought. Please look, please see. But did he really want her to? Or was that the worst possible thing, was that—

  “Coach?”

  Kent’s eyes returned to Sipes. It was harder to speak now, knowing that Beth was awake. He said, “I called them because I thought you killed Rachel Bond.”

  “There you go, Coach. An honest man is better received on earth and in heaven.”

  Turn the TV off, Kent thought, afraid to look at it now, the pale light seeming impossibly bright. Please, Beth, turn it off. He didn’t want Sipes to be reminded that there was other prey here; he wanted nothing from his family but darkness and silence.

  “Why do you believe I’m here?” Sipes said. “Why do you think I came for you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve forgotten me?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that was the implication. Words can wound, Coach. You should be careful with them.” Sipes had lowered the gun. It was pointed at the driveway now, and Kent could reach him before he lifted it, but he would not try, not with Beth and the children inside.

  “I came,” Sipes said, “to test the strength of your promises.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When you met me, what did you offer me?”

  “Help,” Kent said.

  “Help?” Sipes gave him mock astonishment. “I recall it differently. I recall a promise. That was what you called it, at least. You told me that there was no fear so strong that it could break your faith. Is that correct?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Is it what you believe?”

  “Yes.”

  Sipes smiled, and Kent was terrified by how genuinely pleased the man looked.

  “Good for you, Coach. Good for you.” He spread his arms wide, the gun rising with him. “I’m here to see if that’s true. You should appreciate that. Every man learns so much about himself in a crucible. You told us that. I believe you felt you’d learned all you needed.”

  “No. That’s not—”

  “I was in your sister’s room,” Sipes said, and Kent fell silent. “Interesting, how your brother preserved that. Do you visit often?”

  Kent shook his head.

  “Somehow, I didn’t think that you would,” Sipes said. “I’m curious, Coach, do you know who Gideon was in the Bible? Do you recall his significance?”

  Kent loathed the name Gideon. But, yes, he knew.

  “I’ve read the story,” he said.

  “So have I. Gideon was God’s own chosen warrior. What was the phrase? ‘For the sword of the Lord and of Gideon,’ I believe. Does that sound right?”

  Kent didn’t answer.

  “Do you think Gideon Pearce was the sword of the Lord, Coach? Was he God’s chosen warrior?”

  “He was a different man than the one in the Bible.”

  “Astute. I think there’s more than a little irony in the names, though. If Gideon was the sword, Coach, then I’m the prophet. I think you’ll remember my words often in days to come. I suspect you already have been remembering them. What was it that I told you the day we met?”

  “You promised me that you could replace my faith with fear.”

  “And what did you say?”

  The wind was stinging Kent’s eyes, but he didn’t look away. “I disagreed.”

  “You certainly did. And now we’ll see, won’t we?” Clayton Sipes said. “We’ll see. I probably should be on my way. Unless you’d like me to go upstairs and watch TV with Beth?”

  The twin terrors of realization that he knew she was awake and that he’d said her name froze Kent. He offered no response at all, and Sipes smiled again, then put out his left hand.

  “Keys, please.”

  “What?”

  “To the car, Coach. It doesn’t seem prudent for me to walk.”

  Kent hesitated again; he wanted the man gone, but his house keys were on the same ring as his car keys.

  If he wanted in tonight, he’d already be in, he told himself, the worst kind of reassurance, and then he passed him the keys. When Sipes accepted them, their hands brushed, and Sipes smiled at the touch.

  “You think you’re learning already, don’t you?” he said. “I can see it in your face. Already trusting your decisions. Wonderful stuff, Coach. Wonderful.”

  He walked around Kent, with the gun lifted, and stood with his back to the driver’s door.

  “Go on up to the porch,” he said.

  Kent headed for it, stepping sideways, and Sipes shook his h
ead.

  “Prove you trust me,” he said. “Turn your back, Coach.”

  For an instant Kent thought about charging him, though this was the worst opportunity he’d had since he arrived, Sipes was too far away now.

  “Trust me,” Sipes whispered.

  Kent turned and walked for the house and waited for the shot. When the car door opened, he tensed, bracing his body for pain that never came. He kept moving, was up the steps and onto the porch when the engine roared to life and the headlights spread his silhouette over the front door. He stopped there, stood with his back to the street until he could no longer hear the tires on the pavement. He turned back then and saw the taillights of his car vanishing up the street, and the strength went out of his legs and he had to put his hand on the wall to steady himself. He watched the dark empty street and waited for balance to return and then, when it did not, he knocked on the door of his own home and cried out hoarsely for his wife.

  31

  IT TOOK STAN SALTER ONLY ten minutes to arrive, but when he got there, he informed Kent that none of his cars had located the Explorer yet. Kent had called 911 maybe ninety seconds after Sipes drove out of his neighborhood, but already he was gone.

  “We’ll locate it,” Salter said.

  “He won’t be in it by then.”

  “Maybe he will.”

  Kent just shook his head. They were standing in the living room and Beth was upstairs with the kids, who’d woken to the sound of their mother’s panicked voice as their father called the police for help. She’d composed herself quickly, or pretended to, at least, and she was with them now, calming, soothing, assuring them that everything was fine downstairs, the police just needed to talk to Dad for a few minutes, that was all, no problem, nothing to be scared of.

  In the living room, Kent dropped onto the couch and braced his forehead with his hands as he told Salter what had happened.

  “Did he explicitly say that he murdered Rachel Bond?” Salter asked.

  “It was clear, yes.”

  “Did he admit to it, though? Or was he content to let you think that?”

  “He didn’t lift his right hand and swear to it on the Bible, Salter, but he had no problem acknowledging it.”