Covenant

by Brandon Massey

Valdez approached the body and tested the pulse on his wrist. Bowing her head, she made the sign of the cross over her chest.

  Cutty holstered the Glock in a shoulder rig underneath his jacket. “Don’t mourn for him, Valdez. The unrepentant sinner got what he deserved. As you sow, so shall you reap.”

  Admiration glimmered in her dark eyes. “You are a wise man.”

  He smiled. “Thank you, but I’m only a humble servant, doing the work I’ve been called to do by the Lord.”

  He removed a cell phone from his pocket and made a call on the encrypted line.

  A male voice answered: “Yes?”

  He had never met the dispatcher, though the man worked out of their campus headquarters in metro Atlanta. Likewise, he doubted the dispatcher could identify him on sight. For their important duties, secrecy was crucial.

  “The work is done,” Cutty said.

  “Excellent. We value your service.”

  Upon placement of the call notifying the dispatcher of the successful completion of his mission, a crew waiting on standby would be sent to the mark’s residence to dispose of the body. Wright’s house might be torched and burned to the ground, his remains incinerated. His cadaver might be weighed with stones and dropped into the Atlantic. His corpse might be ground to mulch and buried in a landfill—from dust you came, to dust you shall return.

  “Our work is our joy,” Cutty said. “We are faithful servants.”

  “There is more work for you. An especially sensitive assignment of utmost importance.”

  Cutty’s heart rate quickened. A special mission? It sounded like a task that could boost his standing in the ranks.

  “We are ready to serve,” he said.

  “There is a meeting tonight in the Armory. It commences at twenty hundred hours. Bring your partner, of course.”

  A key reason why servants in their division were not allowed to marry was because of the work schedule. It was not a nine-to-five job. Servants of their kind were always on call and expected to render service at a moment’s notice.

  “We will be there.”

  5

  Upstairs, Reuben had moved into Anthony’s former bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was closed, and a large black and white sign posted on the door warned: RESTRICTED AREA - NO HATERS ALLOWED. Hip hop rumbled inside, vibrating the door, the walls, the floor.

  Anthony knocked. No answer. With the music cranked that loud Reuben wouldn’t have heard a space shuttle launch in the driveway.

  He knocked again, harder. “Hey, Reuben! Open up, man, it’s your uncle!”

  The music’s volume dropped. The door opened a crack.

  Anthony stood an even six feet, but his nephew had gained a couple of inches on him. Every time he saw the kid, it looked as if he had grown taller.

  Reuben regarded him with languid grey eyes. “Hey, Unc.”

  “Can I come in, or do you have a girl in here?”

  “Man, I wish.” Reuben smiled, exposing teeth bracketed with braces. He pulled the door open wider. “I’m just hangin’ out, you know.”

  Although Reuben was tall, he still looked and dressed like the teenager he was. He wore a long white t-shirt and baggy denims that hung loosely on his gangly frame. Acne was scattered across his café au lait complexion, and he was struggling to cultivate a goatee.

  Entering the room, Anthony looked around to see how Reuben had further desecrated it since his last visit. In his youth, Anthony had used to keep the room neat, but Reuben had little inclination for tidiness. Wrinkled clothes covered the bed. Boxes of sneakers were scattered across the floor. Empty bags of fried pork rinds and cans of Red Bull were everywhere.

  The walls were plastered with so many posters they might have been a new form of wallpaper. Glossy pictures of tricked-out Bentleys, Lamborghinis, Range Rovers. Magazine spreads of voluptuous, nearly naked women in provocative poses. A full-length shot of the hot rap star of the moment, the guy snarling at the camera, clad in a wife beater t-shirt to best display his prison tattoos, platinum chain, and air-brushed muscles.

  The only organized area was the computer desk. A desktop PC, a large, flat screen display, and a laser printer occupied the smooth plane of cherry wood.

  “Have a seat,” Reuben said. He slapped a bag of pork rinds off a nearby chair, clearing the cushion, and settled into his swivel chair in front of the desk, long legs sprawled in front of him.

  Anthony took the seat. “I called here a short while ago, but no one answered.”

  “My bad, man, guess I didn’t hear the phone ring. Been listening to my music.” He bobbed his head in sync with the muted beat.

  “Where’s your mom? I’ve been trying to reach her for hours.”

  Reuben shrugged. “Probably hangin’ with some dude, you know.”

  Anthony knew. Danielle often disappeared for days on end, leaving Reuben at home to fend for himself. Occasionally, the kid would stay with Anthony and Lisa when Danielle was out of pocket, but if Danielle found out she took offense, ranting that she could raise her kid on her own and didn’t need his help.

  She needed help from someone, because Reuben was headed down a troubling path. He was an intensely bright kid, a quick study, but his grades were marginal, and he’d been suspended numerous times for tardiness, or ditching class altogether. He had no interest in athletics, extracurricular activities, or working a summer job. His friends, if you could call them that, were similarly apathetic, concerned only with impressing girls and appearing cool.

  In Anthony’s view, the root of most of the issues was Reuben’s lacking a father figure. Reuben had never met his biological father—some loser who had vanished before Reuben was born and had never resurfaced—and Danielle had yet to marry or form a lasting significant relationship, and if her track record of choosing worthless men was any indicator, she never would.

  Anthony tried to do his part to be there for the kid, as a positive male influence. They sometimes went to Hawks games, played hoops at the local park, and went head-to-head on X-Box. But as Reuben had gotten older, he’d grown less interested in hanging out with Anthony, as if being in the presence of an adult branded him as completely uncool.

  Anthony didn’t know what to do about the boy, or if he could do anything at all that would help. Hell, every day he wrestled with his own emotional issues. How was he fit to be Reuben’s surrogate dad and keep him on the straight and narrow?

  And Lisa wondered why he didn’t want children.

  “I was stopping by to see if she wanted to go to the cemetery with me,” Anthony said. “Did she say anything to you about that earlier?”

  “Nah, man.”

  Figures. “Do you know what today is?”

  Reuben scratched his head. “Friday the twelfth, right?”

  Anthony stared at him. Was he serious?

  “It’s the anniversary of your grandfather’s death, Reuben.”

  “Oh, snap.” Reuben cupped his hand over his mouth. “Sorry, Unc.”

  “I’m going to visit his grave, and your grandmother’s grave, too. You’re welcome to come along if you’d like.”

  “Nah, that’s all right. I’m kinda busy here, you know.”

  What in the hell can be more important than paying your respects to your grandparents? Anthony wanted to shout at him.

  But he kept his mouth shut. The kid didn’t know any better.

  Reuben swiveled to the computer. His fingers danced across the keyboard.

  He was a whiz with computers. Anthony had bought the machine for him last Christmas, an upgrade over the PC he had acquired for him a few years ago. He wanted to encourage his nephew’s talents in a useful direction.

  Last year, Reuben had created a program for him to track his book royalty statements. It worked far better than the Excel spreadsheet Anthony had been using for that purpose, and Anthony had actually considered licensing it to sell to other writers. He was convinced that Reuben had a great future ahead of him as a software developer, but the boy had to wa
nt to do it.

  “How’s that program coming along that I asked you about creating, for the press release promo?” Anthony asked.

  “Ah, man. I started on that but ain’t finished it. I been busy, you know. When you need it by?”

  A month ago, Anthony had asked Reuben to create a program that would send press releases to media outlets worldwide, based on specific, user-defined criteria. The idea was that when Anthony released a new book, he could use the software to zip a press message about the novel to the thousands of newspapers, magazines, television networks, radio stations, and blogs across the Internet. Although numerous press-release distribution software packages and services already existed that Anthony could have purchased, he wanted Reuben to create the program for him, to further develop his talents—and hopefully, his motivation.

  “As soon as you can get to it,” Anthony said. “I know you’re a busy guy, with school out and everything.”

  Reuben chuckled. “You know how it is, Unc.”

  The sarcasm had sailed right over his head.

  “Has your mom said anything to you about cutting the grass?” Anthony said.

  “Man, she let some dude borrow the lawnmower like two weeks ago.”

  “She did what? Who?”

  “I don’t know, one of her boyfriends, I guess. Some dude.”

  Anthony knotted his hands and counted to ten.

  “There’re a bunch of newspapers scattered across the sidewalk, too,” Anthony said. “You ever think about picking them up, throwing them away?”

  “Mom ain’t never said nothing ‘bout that.”

  “I know she didn’t, so that’s why I am. You need to do your part to keep the house clean, Reuben. You’re fifteen, man, old enough to start paying attention to those kinds of things.”

  Reuben glanced at him. “Sure, whatever.”

  “The garbage pickup comes every Tuesday, too. You need to roll that bin down to the curb and let them empty it. Right now, it’s practically spilling out of the can.”

  “Okay, whatever.” Reuben was typing.

  “Hey, look at me.”

  Reuben turned, frowning. “What?”

  “Nothing in life is free. I gave you that computer for Christmas with the expectation that you’ll start fulfilling certain responsibilities in school and around the house.”

  “Okay, yeah, whatever.”

  “Don’t ‘whatever’ me. You know I can’t stand that.”

  Reuben saluted him mockingly. “Yes, sir. That better, Uncle Tony, sir?”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. I’m not asking you for that for much. A few basic responsibilities. Remember our agreement.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  It was impossible to know if he was getting through to the kid. He probably wasn’t. Most likely, Reuben viewed him as a big pain in the ass, and would agree to anything to get him out of his face.

  “When you talk to your mom, tell her I came by.” Anthony started for the door. “And hey, we should hang out sometime soon. Maybe we can go fishing.”

  Reuben blinked. “Fishing?”

  Why had he suggested fishing? He hadn’t been fishing in fifteen years.

  “Fishing, or ah, something else,” he said. “We’ll see. I’ll give you a call.”

  Reuben spun back to the computer, and hit a button. The music blasted out of the speakers again at full volume.

  Anthony had been dismissed.

  6

  After his visit to the cemetery, Anthony went home.

  They lived in an eighty-year-old, Queen Anne Victorian in Grant Park, a historic Atlanta neighborhood of Victorians, Craftsman bungalows, quaint red brick sidewalks, and stately elms, maples, and oaks. The public park, the oldest in the city, was home to Zoo Atlanta and the Cyclorama, a popular Civil War exhibition. Their house was located on a wooded, one-acre parcel around the corner from the park.

  They’d moved into the place six months into their marriage, and they’d done extensive renovations to the exterior and interior. The new fiberglass siding was hunter-green, with black trim. A new spear point, wrought-iron fence enclosed the property. They’d re-sodded the yard with Bermuda grass and installed mulch and flower beds, too; the impatiens Lisa had planted last month were looking good.

  He pressed a remote control affixed to the sun visor. The gate to the driveway swung inward.

  The plan to purchase an old house and renovate it originally had been Lisa’s idea, but Anthony had quickly warmed to the possibilities. He wasn’t a fan of the housing subdivisions that consumed Atlanta’s suburbs, with their tyrannical homeowners associations and cookie cutter floor plans. They’d spent a bundle on the house and all the work, but he’d discovered an unexpected pleasure in restoring something from the past, in putting a shiny new gloss on history.

  He parked in the three-car garage, another addition. He flipped down the sun visor and unclipped the envelope.

  The note had said to be online at eighteen hundred hours. Less than two hours away. He took the envelope inside with him.

  The interior was an elegant blend of Victorian era charm and contemporary style. Rich hardwood floors. Traditional pocket windows, so long you could step out of them and onto the wrap-around veranda. Vaulted ceilings. Hand-carved crown molding, wainscoting, and intricate woodwork. Comfortable modern furniture in soft tones, with gentle lines. State-of-the art appliances, and wiring throughout the house for the stereo system.

  He took the staircase off the main hallway to the basement. The finished basement was comprised of a media room that contained their home theater set-up, an entertainment area with a billiards table and mini-bar, a fitness room full of free weights and a treadmill, storage space, and his office.

  His office was almost pure Spartan: a large, windowless room with white walls and beige carpeting. A simple desk stood in the center, and held his laptop computer and a laser-jet printer/scanner/fax machine. A bookcase contained his most-frequently used reference texts, and a mini-refrigerator full of bottled water and snacks occupied a niche underneath the desk.

  The only photographs were Lisa’s bridal portrait, and a photo of his father at work in the newsroom. The pictures stood on opposite corners of the desk.

  Many of his author colleagues adorned their work spaces with framed posters of their published books. Anthony didn’t have any such posters. In fact, the novels he’d written were mixed in with other volumes held in the library upstairs.

  There were two doors at the far end of the room. One led to the half-bath, and hung partly open. The other door was closed and secured with an electronic keypad lock, accessible via a code known only to him and Lisa.

  Settling into the desk chair, he powered on the computer. The machine was connected to the Internet via a wireless modem, but he rarely took the laptop out of the office.

  He checked his primary e-mail account, an AOL address he’d maintained for several years and which was listed on the “Contact Me” page of his author Web site. In his inbox, he found a handful of complimentary remarks from readers about his novels, a few pieces of spam advertising penis enlargements and drugs for erectile dysfunction, and that was all. Nothing from the mysterious messenger.

  So how was this guy going to get in touch with him online? Should he expect an e-mail? A tweet on the Twitter account he rarely used? A Facebook friend request?

  He wasn’t sure, but it was only fifteen minutes to five o’clock, a little over an hour to go until the meeting. He signed onto all of his social networking accounts and kept his e-mail inbox open. Meanwhile, time crawled at an excruciatingly slow pace.

  He grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-frig, opened Microsoft Word, and brought up the file of his novel-in-progress, tentatively titled, The Darkness in the Ghost.

  The book, as did the others in the series, chronicled the exploits of an urban mercenary known only as “Ghost.” Ghost was a Marine veteran who had come home from work one evening to find his wife brutally raped and murdered. The police a
pprehended a suspect, a serial rapist who confessed to the crime, but when the case reached trial, the killer wound up getting released on a technicality.

  Disgusted and furious, Ghost tracked down the killer and held a trial of his own—the kind that ended not with the bang of a judge’s gavel, but with the lethal discharge of a 9mm pistol.

  Thus, Ghost’s bloody vendetta against a corrupt society and inept legal system was born. Ghost typically was moved to help those who had lost loved ones in terrible crimes and found no help from the law, and his style of street justice—basically blowing a hole through anyone who dared to stop him from finding the perpetrator and ultimately leaving the guilty party with a bullet in the head—had gained him a fanatical following amongst those readers who liked to read about their justice served straight, no chaser.

  There must have been many such readers, as each new entry in the Ghost series hit bestseller lists in a dozen countries. The surprising success was a blessing, but Anthony would have gone on writing the stories whether or not they had even been published. He had been writing about Ghost, in various incarnations, for fifteen years.

  So far, he’d completed over two hundred pages of the new novel, but as he hunched over the keyboard, he found it impossible to concentrate. For once, real life had become more intriguing than fiction.

  Nevertheless, he toyed with the manuscript, changing a word here, rearranging a sentence there, just to pass the time. Fortunately, a call on his cell saved him from a prolonged bout of writer’s block.

  “Yo, AT, what’s up, man?”

  It was Mike Alfaro. Although he and Mike usually chatted about once a week, Mike never would have let that particular day pass without giving him a ring.

  “I’m working,” Anthony said. Although he and Mike went way back, he didn’t consider telling him about the message he’d received. Before he shared it with anyone he needed to prove that it was genuine.

  “Working, huh?” Mike laughed. “Better you than me. I rolled out of bed like an hour ago.”

  “You’re a lazy slob.”

  “I was tired, man. Had a lady friend over, she kept me up all night. Girl wore me out as bad as our DI used to.”