She stepped away from him, then slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, her bare legs stretched out in front of her. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. Didn’t seem to be looking at anything.
“How did you even find him?”
“I was getting close by myself,” he said. “Then Kent took it home for me. He gave me the man’s name, and I’d already found his half brother. Rodney Bova.”
“You used his brother?” she said. “That’s how you found him? By putting a tracking device on his brother?”
“Yes.”
“Rodney Bova didn’t just happen to get arrested in time for this.” Her voice was soft and distant and impossibly sad.
“No.”
“So you… what did you do? Just call in a tip after you found out he had drugs on him?”
“I did a little more than that.”
“Adam.” She put her face in her hands.
“I intended to fix that at some point.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, Chelsea. But I will make that right. I always was going to. I just needed him. And it worked, damn it. He led me right to him. It worked.”
“You could have called the police. When you found him, you could have—”
“When Gideon Pearce killed my sister, the police had been looking—”
“This isn’t about your sister!” she screamed.
He didn’t answer. It was silent for a while, and then he sat down on the floor, too. Not close to her, though. Across the room, widening the distance, staring at her from the shadows.
“They’ll find out, Adam,” she said. “Someone will talk. Bova, Penny, someone.”
“They’ll be suspicious. They won’t be certain. There’s a difference.”
“To a guilty man, I guess there is.”
What could he say to that?
“Can they prove it?” she asked finally.
“That won’t be as easy for them as connecting it back to me was.”
“What will the tracking logs show them?”
“That Rodney Bova went to a house on Erie Avenue where Sipes was staying, and that I knew about it. It will be hard to prove anything beyond that. Possible, of course. But harder.”
Chelsea didn’t speak. Adam said, “He killed that girl, Chelsea. Murdered a child.”
“It sounds like maybe he didn’t.”
Adam couldn’t begin to wrap his head around that. He’d known it was true. He’d walked all the way down to the lake with Sipes and Sipes knew what he believed and he’d never said a word, never issued a denial. Why?
“He was a predator,” Adam said. “Even if somehow we were wrong, and I don’t know how we could be, he was still a threat. He’d stalked a woman for years and ended up in prison because of it, and as soon as he was back out, he began to stalk my brother and his family. He came to their home with a gun in his hands, Chelsea. He was a predator.”
“And so you decided to become one, too.”
“What do you want from me?” he said. “I’m asking honestly. Tell me what you think I should do, and I will do it. Do you want me to confess? I can call them now.”
“I want you to be with me,” she said. “And I want you to be right, Adam. To be the person you really are, not the person you’ve let yourself become.”
“I may need an alibi,” he said slowly. “If it comes down to that, if they push hard enough, I’m going to need to be able to say where I was.”
“I’ll do it.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Who else will, Adam? Who else?”
“My brother, maybe,” he said.
46
AS HE FOLLOWED SALTER DOWN the sidewalk, up the steps, and into the police station, Kent recalled the trip after the first playoff game, the night it all started. How terrible that night had seemed. How impossible for it to get any worse.
Robert Dean was waiting for them. The agent showed not a trace of Salter’s fatigue. He hummed with the same quiet energy he’d had in their first meeting. Good motor, Kent would have said of him if he were a football player. He just struck you as the sort of guy who could run a long time without rest.
“I understand your family is secure,” Dean said.
“They are,” Salter answered for Kent.
“Good.” Dean nodded. He had the notepad and pencil out again. He looked at the pencil and not at Kent when he said, “I’m sure you will not share my opinion after the encounters you had with the man, but I consider the loss of Clayton Sipes rather disappointing.”
“I don’t wish death on anybody,” Kent said. “I want to know what I haven’t been told, though, and why things were hidden from me.”
“You’re entitled to your frustration, but I don’t agree with the categorization. I did not hide anything from you, Mr. Austin.”
He was the only one who didn’t call Kent “Coach.” Salter couldn’t help himself, it seemed; in this town, Kent was the coach. Robert Dean was not from this town.
“Clayton Sipes was a very dangerous man in some ways,” Dean said. “He was certainly a troubled man. He had an ill mind and it is becoming more than apparent that he did not receive the proper sort of help. That’s a shame. But he was not a violent man, Mr. Austin.”
“He pointed a gun at me!”
“He did not use it.”
Kent almost laughed. It was that insane a comment. Instead he shook his head and said, “He was in prison for a reason. He’d been convicted of assaulting a woman. What is that if not violent?”
“He fondled her breasts while he held an unloaded weapon. Criminal, yes. Disturbing, yes. It is sexual assault, but I’d hesitate to call it violent. He did not attack her, did not leave so much as a bruise. In the many months—years—he spent stalking that poor woman, he did not take truly violent action. He seemed to prefer the game of it. In his history we find stalking, voyeurism, even arson, but we do not find an inclination toward violence. His psychological evaluations support this. A love of it, yes, a fascination with it, but more as a spectator sport.”
“You could have said that before. You knew I believed that he killed Rachel Bond.”
“You and I were each operating with limited understanding at that time. We have new information today. It started when Sipes was killed. When we found the apartment where he was staying in Cleveland, we found evidence suggesting that while he was a participant in the Rachel Bond homicide, certainly some level of collaborator, he was not alone. In fact, it appears he was very much under the control of another man. I would venture to guess, at this point, that you were actually of greater interest to this suspect than you were to Sipes.”
“Who are you talking about?”
Dean glanced at Salter, then extracted a piece of paper from the back of his notebook and slid it across the table to Kent. It was a photograph of Dan Grissom. Kent’s first reaction was to shake his head, dismiss it as a mistake. Clearly, Dean had given him the wrong photograph. Then he saw the agent’s face and understood it was anything but a mistake.
“I don’t believe that,” Kent said. “Dan’s a minister, he’s a counselor, he’s—”
“No,” Dean said. “He is not. Daniel Grissom holds a degree in theology, but he is not a minister with any church. In fact, he was expelled from a seminary six years ago. He also holds a degree in psychology, but he has never practiced in a clinical environment. Aside from the degrees, the résumé he offered when he began his prison ministry was largely falsified. It was, unfortunately, also unquestioned. He was not a corrections officer; he was not being given weapons or keys or anything that might have required that thorough a background investigation. He was not even employed by the state. His organization was a voluntary effort. He said he was there to help, he had a convincing story, and he was believed.”
Kent was staring at the photograph. He’d been visiting the prisons for years with other people when Grissom reached out to him. So compelling. So earnest. He told Kent that he found his eff
orts fascinating and hoped Kent would consider working with him.
“How long have you known this?”
“Me, personally? A matter of hours. I’ve already interviewed three other targets of Mr. Grissom.”
“People like me?”
“No,” Dean said. “People like Sipes. I haven’t found anyone else like you yet, though I’m sure there are some. His primary interest in the false ministry seems to have been in recruitment. Control. Daniel Grissom likes to compel men to follow him. That seems to be a high priority. In your situation, for example, what he saw was an opportunity to test two men, to explore their boundaries. You, and Clayton Sipes.”
“You know all this, yet you haven’t arrested him?”
“I’ve learned all of this in the past day, after the discovery of evidence linking Sipes to Grissom. I’m working as fast as I can, Mr. Austin. We all are. And much as with Clayton Sipes, arresting Grissom first requires finding him.”
“What are you talking about? Grissom isn’t hiding.”
“He is now. He has been since September, in fact.”
“But I just talked to him.”
“When?”
“Maybe a day after I talked to you. I called him to ask what he remembered about Sipes. He was—” Very encouraging, Kent wanted to say. “He seemed normal. Seemed the same as he always had. And he answered his phone. So what do you mean he disappeared?”
Dean leaned forward. “Did he answer the phone? Or did you leave him a message?”
Kent had to think about that for a second. “A message. He called right back, though.”
That seemed to deflate Dean.
“He was still close to the phone,” Kent said. “And the only number I have for him is a landline. So—”
“We’ve already pursued this route,” Dean said. “It appears to be how he maintained contact with Sipes as well. It looks as if he checks his messages from a safe line, and then he apparently returns the calls from yet another number. He paid the bill a year ahead. He was anticipating that he might be pursued, clearly, and preparing for it. We’re going to keep the line active and hope he makes a mistake, but I’m not counting on it.”
“Why would he go through the motions of returning my call if he thought he could already be a suspect?”
“I’m not at all surprised to hear that he returned your call. I suspect he was intensely interested in what you had to say. You may hear from him again. Previously, Sipes was able to offer updates about you. That’s no longer the case. Grissom made a decision to take control.”
“How?”
“Sipes is dead, Mr. Austin, and contact is still being made with you. Once the contact came from Sipes, now it does not. Do the simple math. If there was a falling-out between them, and it would appear that there was, then Grissom killed his partner and assumed total control. And immediately he felt the need to reach out to you.”
“Reach out to me. That’s what we’re calling those photographs?”
“The question,” Dean said as if Kent hadn’t spoken, “is whether he understands his cover is already blown. It’s hard to say. My fervent hope is that he believes killing Sipes might have added a layer of protection. Two men walked out of a house with a secret, one man remains.”
“Why not run, then, hide, whatever? Why not let it rest?”
“I’d say he enjoys the idea of what he’s putting you through. He knows you suspected Sipes. Beyond that, he knows that you believed it was Sipes. Then Sipes was killed. It doesn’t seem to be in keeping with his goals to let you live with the peace of that, the sense of resolution. Whether he runs now or stays with it, I’m certain he wanted to provide you with the knowledge that you were wrong. He wanted to take the evil you thought was gone and resurrect it.”
“That’s all Sipes,” Kent said. “I know he couldn’t have put up the photographs, but the ideas you’re talking about, the goals, that is all Clayton Sipes.”
“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 h
im. 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.
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