Covenant

by Brandon Massey

  Both of them had served in the Marine Corps, had done boot together on Parris Island in South Carolina. The hard-hat DI who’d led their platoon had been such a hard-driving maniac that he’d found his way into recruits’ nightmares.

  “You know I don’t believe that,” Anthony said.

  “True words.”

  “Where’d you meet this one?”

  “On Jarhead. She liked my photo, sent me a private message.”

  Jarhead was a Web site devoted to Marine Corps veterans. It offered a message board open to anyone, private e-mail, and news of interest to vets. Although it wasn’t meant for dating per se, some of Anthony’s old Marine buddies had used it as a means of hooking up with members of the fairer sex, many of them groupies obsessed with bedding a devil dog.

  “She a Marine?” Anthony asked. “Or just a groupie?”

  “A real Marine. Discharged last year. She told me she scored a perfect 300 on the PFT—the men’s one.”

  The PFT was a Physical Fitness Test that challenged you with pull-ups, sit-ups, and a three-mile run. Female recruits were subjected to a less-intense version, and for a woman to notch a perfect score on the men’s exam was impressive indeed—only three guys from their platoon had pulled it off during boot, including him and Mike.

  “You gonna see her again?” Anthony asked.

  “Doubt it. She lives in San Diego, she was only in ATL on business.”

  “You can try the long distance thing.”

  “Do I need to break this down to you, AT? It was strictly a booty call.”

  “Oh, right.” Anthony chuckled. “I forgot about those.”

  “Since you’ve been locked down—excuse me, married—you’re totally out of touch with the bachelor life, huh?”

  “I experience it vicariously through you,” Anthony said. “What I wonder is when you plan to hang up the spurs?”

  “When I meet a woman who can tame me. Ain’t met her yet.”

  “She’s out there somewhere. Speaking from experience here.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.” Mike hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice was subdued. “So. Everything okay today?”

  Anthony paused, and thought: This is so sad. On such a significant day in his life, he received a concerned call from his friend, while his own sister avoided him and his nephew didn’t even understand why the date was relevant.

  It was partly why he’d enlisted in the Marines straight out of high school. With a broken family at home and little interest in college, he’d sought fellowship in a group with a purpose to which he could devote himself, and found the Marine discipline, ethos, and camaraderie to his liking. He’d earned a reputation for being totally squared away, a hard-core grunt who’d eagerly fought on the front lines in the infantry, and in spite of the numerous combat missions in which he’d participated, he’d never sustained more than minor flesh wounds and trivial bruises, something that, in hindsight, was a bit of a miracle.

  If his first novel had not found a publisher and sold for a healthy six-figure sum, he probably would have re-enlisted. As it happened, he found himself plunged into a writing career, met and married Lisa, and spent his days spinning stories about a character who embodied more than a little wish fulfillment—and taking calls from war buddies who cared more about him than his own blood relatives.

  A hard lump of emotion formed in his throat.

  “You there?” Mike asked.

  A familiar beep sounded from the computer. Anthony bolted upright in his chair.

  A message had appeared in his e-mail inbox. It was from “truthgiver15@hushmail.com,” an address Anthony had never seen before.

  The subject line of the e-mail stated:

  Click this link, but only if you’re ready

  It was precisely six o’clock. Anthony found the stranger’s punctuality encouraging.

  He opened the message. It contained no text, just a link, a long web address with a string of seemingly random characters—letters, numbers, and punctuation symbols—evidence of powerful encryption at work.

  Heart booming, Anthony said, “Sorry, Mike, gotta run. I’ll holler at you later.”

  7

  When Anthony clicked the link, a new browser window opened, filling his screen. Quickly, the browser rendered a page comprised of a large dialogue box with a light, grayish background.

  It was a chat room, but it was hosted on a web site with an indecipherable web address. A secure site, presumably, though Anthony had no clue exactly who might be interested in this chat.

  TRUTHGIVER15 was already in the room. Anthony’s own chat room handle was already selected for him: GHOSTWRITER79.

  “Funny,” Anthony said.

  Staring at the screen, he bent forward in the chair. He typed a message, fingers tingling.

  GHOSTWRITER79: WHO R U?

  TRUTHGIVER15: DID YOU READ PSALM 37:32?

  GHOSTWRITER79: YES. WHO R U?

  TRUTHGIVER15: A FRIEND WHO KNOWS THE TRUTH.

  “We’ll see about that,” Anthony said under his breath. “The jury’s still out.”

  GHOSTWRITER79: HOW DO I KNOW THIS ISN’T A JOKE?

  TRUTHGIVER15: DID YOU FIND THE LURE?

  GHOSTWRITER79: HOW DID U KNOW ABOUT THAT?

  TRUTHGIVER15: I WAS THERE WHEN THEY FOUND YOUR FATHER’S BODY.

  Anthony rocked backward in the chair. He felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach.

  Old memories flooded his mind. Staring at his father’s lifeless body on the floor of the boat. Pulling his dad into his arms, blood drenching his clothes, his hands. Screaming, screaming, screaming . . . Somehow managing to start the motor and steer the boat across the lake and back to the docks, gaze straight ahead, refusing to look at his dad for he knew if he did he would lose it . . .

  That was where his mind hit a wall. He couldn’t remember what had happened after he reached the docks, as if the part of his brain that stored events in memory had simply switched off like an overloaded circuit. All he could remember happening afterward was sitting on a hard plastic chair in the local police station, waiting for his mom and sister to arrive.

  If this guy was saying he’d been there when they’d found Dad’s body ashore, maybe he was telling the truth.

  Anthony blotted his damp palms on his lap, and typed again:

  GHOSTWRITER79: PROVE 2 ME U WERE THERE.

  TRUTHGIVER15: YOUR DAD WAS WEARING A GEORGIA TECH CAP. THERE WAS A STEEL THERMOS OF COFFEE IN THE BOAT. HE WORE A SILVER SPORTS WATCH, THE SAME WATCH YOU WEAR TODAY.

  As the words filled the screen, Anthony was twisting the watch around his wrist. Jesus. Only someone who had been there would know these details. None of these things had ever been printed in the newspaper, weren’t included even in the official police report. Anthony had read the documents himself, using his relative celebrity to convince the cops to let him take a peek at the case file.

  Whoever TRUTHGIVER15 was, he had been there.

  TRUTHGIVER15: NOT AN ACCIDENT, ANTHONY. IT WAS A COVER UP.

  “Of course it was,” Anthony whispered. “Don’t you think I know that?”

  He pounded the keys:

  GHOSTWRITER79: WHO DID IT?

  TRUTHGIVER15: I’M SORRY YOU HAD TO SEE THAT HAPPEN. YOU WERE ONLY A KID. IT WAS A TERRIBLE THING.

  GHOSTWRITER79: TELL ME WHO DID IT!

  TRUTHGIVER15: NOT ON HERE. NOT SAFE.

  GHOSTWRITER15: WERE U INVOLVED?

  Anthony waited. The messenger did not respond—and his silence was an answer in itself.

  “Sonofabitch,” Anthony said.

  He shot out of the chair, paced around the desk. Hands clenched into fists. He had a strong and entirely irrational urge to smash his hand through the screen, as if he could grab the so-called “friend” by the throat on the other side of the Web connection and strangle a confession out of him.

  The computer beeped.

  TRUTHGIVER15: I WANT TO HELP YOU FIND OUT THE TRUTH.

  “Now you want to do
the right thing, asshole?” Anthony said. “Fifteen fucking years later?”

  He sat down hard and hammered the keyboard:

  GHOSTWRITER79: WHY DO U CARE? THAT WAS 15 YEARS AGO!

  TRUTHGIVER15: JUSTICE NEEDS TO BE DONE.

  GHOSTWRITER79: U COULD HAVE DONE JUSTICE THEN. TELL ME THE TRUTH!!!!

  TRUTHGIVER15: NOT ON HERE. NOT SAFE.

  GHOSTWRITER79: NOT SAFE FROM WHO?

  TRUTHGIVER15: VERY POWERFUL ORGANIZATION.

  GHOSTWRITER79: GIVE ME A NAME.

  TRUTHGIVER15: TOO DANGEROUS. THEY MONITOR THE WEB.

  It made no sense at all. Why would an organization as powerful as this person was suggesting mastermind his dad’s murder? His father had written about sports, for God’s sake. He hadn’t been some investigative political reporter, digging up explosive stories that would topple the White House. He’d just been Dad, devoted husband, great father, an all-around ordinary guy.

  All that was true, but he’d always suspected there was someone big behind Dad’s murder, hadn’t he? A conspiracy. The question was: why?

  The computer beeped again.

  TRUTHGIVER15: READ MATTHEW 7:15.

  Anthony ripped open a drawer, grabbed a steno pad and pen, and jotted down the scripture.

  GHOSTWRITER79: MORE BIBLE VERSES? WHAT ARE YOU, A PRIEST?

  TRUTHGIVER15: FAR FROM IT. WE MUST MEET.

  GHOSTWRITER79: NAME A TIME AND PLACE.

  TRUTHGIVER15: GO WHERE YOUR FATHER WOULD TAKE YOU AFTER GT BALL GAMES. 22:00 TONIGHT.

  How could this guy know about that place? Anthony hadn’t visited it in well over a decade.

  GHOSTWRITER79: I’LL BE THERE. HOW WILL I KNOW U?

  TRUTHGIVER15: I KNOW YOU.

  GHOSTWRITER79: YOU’VE BEEN WATCHING ME. THAT’S HOW U GOT THE LETTER IN MY TRUCK. WHO THE HELL ARE U? GIVE ME A NAME, SOMETHING.

  TRUTHGIVER15: CALL ME BOB.

  Bob? Hi, and I’m John Doe, nice to meet you.

  GHOSTWRITER79: LAST NAME?

  TRUTHGIVER15: BARKER.

  Anthony laughed out loud. Bob Barker. Sure, man.

  TRUTHGIVER15: KEEP THIS SECRET, ANTHONY. THEY ARE EVERYWHERE. SEE YOU @ 22:00.

  TRUTHGIVER15 left the chat. The chat room vanished, the browser window closing, as if the guy’s exit triggered a session deactivation.

  His tongue felt like a board. He grabbed the bottle of water and chugged the rest of it in a few big gulps.

  Glancing at the notepad, he found a Web site that contained the full text of the Bible. He pulled up Matthew 7:15.

  Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing,

  but inwardly they are ravening wolves.

  What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  The security system chirped, signaling that a door or window had been opened somewhere in the house. He heard feather-light footsteps traveling across the floor upstairs.

  Rising, he flipped up the edge of his shirt and grasped the Beretta. He stepped into the hallway outside the office and edged toward the staircase.

  “Lisa? That you up there?”

  “The one and only!” she said.

  He slid his hand off the gun.

  8

  He met Lisa in their bedroom on the second floor. She’d gone to a Pilates studio after work for her twice-weekly workout session and was near their king-size sleigh bed, peeling out of her white spandex leggings and top. The shower ran in the bathroom behind her.

  She cut a lovely sight in the form-fitting clothes, and on any other day he might have drawn her to him and held her firm, warm body close, but he greeted her with only a brief kiss on the lips.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “Is everything okay?” Her eyes searched his face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Go ahead and shower first. That’ll give me time to make us a stiff drink.”

  As she gave him a puzzled look, he went downstairs to the butler’s pantry off the kitchen. At the wet bar, he grabbed two shot glasses, and with a shaky hand, added a splash of cognac to each. He took the shots and the cognac to the breakfast room table.

  About five minutes later, Lisa entered. She’d changed into an oversized t-shirt that featured a character from The Boondocks cartoon, baggy shorts, and flip flops.

  “Okay, talk to me,” she said, sitting cater-corner from him. “When you say we need to talk in a tone like that, I get nervous.”

  He passed her a drink. She wrinkled her nose.

  “Is this Hennessey?” she said. “You know I don’t do hard liquor.”

  “You’ll want it for this.”

  He showed her the letter from Bob, and the lure. He told her everything they had discussed in the chat room.

  When he finished, both of their glasses had been drained.

  He poured new shots, his hold a bit steadier around the bottle. Although Bob had warned him to keep their communications secret, there was no way he could have kept it hidden from Lisa, and unloading with her had calmed his nerves.

  Lisa was shaking her head. “Wow. I know you’ve never believed it was a hunting accident, and I’ve had my doubts, too, but this might finally be the break you’ve been looking for.”

  “This guy, Bob, was there. He told me what my dad had been wearing, the steel thermos he always used to keep his coffee in, the watch.” He tapped the lure he’d placed in the center of the table. “And don’t forget this.”

  She picked up the lure between thumb and forefinger and examined it like a crime scene tech scrutinizing evidence.

  “Assuming that this Bob was involved, why tell the truth now?” she said. “It’s been fifteen years, Tony.”

  “I intend to find out when I speak to him.”

  “What do you make of this all-knowing organization he claims can monitor your chats on the Internet?”

  Anthony shrugged. “I would assume a political group of some kind, maybe some rogue government agency. He wouldn’t give me the specifics, just those Bible verses.”

  “That’s another odd thing. The biblical quotes. Is this Sunday school?”

  “Could be it’s the safest way for him to communicate certain things. Like a code, you know? I guess it’ll all make sense later.”

  “Why would some clandestine group want to kill your father?”

  He sighed. “I have no idea, Lisa. I’m assuming he’ll tell me when we meet.”

  She nodded. “Of course he will. He’s given you just enough tantalizing clues to entice you. You know, the more I think about it, the more this sounds like the plots of your novels.”

  Anthony had been about to raise the shot glass to his lips; he stopped. “Hold on, you lost me. What’re you talking about?”

  “You won’t want to hear this.” She set the lure on the table, pushed aside her glass. “But how can you be sure that Bob isn’t setting you up for a scam?”

  “A scam? He hasn’t said anything about wanting money for his info.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Are you kidding me? I thought I was the cynic in this marriage.”

  She touched his hand. He didn’t see cynicism in her eyes. He saw worry.

  “You desperately want to believe this is going to lead you to the truth,” she said. “You’ve waited so long to get closure, justice. Now, you’re seeing a glimmer of hope.”

  “I wouldn’t call it that. I’d call it healthy curiosity.”

  “Hope,” she said with a squeeze of his hand. “I know you, Tony. I wouldn’t be doing my duty as your wife if I didn’t ask you to take a step back and view this situation from another perspective. This Bob might be a con artist.”

  Count on Lisa to think of something he’d never considered. It reminded him of why he’d married her. She was beautiful, she was kind-hearted, she was funny, but most of all, she was smart.

  She folded her arms on the table, watching him.

  “You make a good point, but I think this is legit,” he said.

  “Based on a
handful of details.”

  “Not just any details. He told me stuff no one else would know, things that hadn’t been reported. He must’ve been there.”

  “Maybe he was there—as an innocent bystander. Or, he might know someone who’d been present, and they fed him the details. You know how nosy people can be, snooping around murder scenes, gawking at traffic accidents.”

  “That seems pretty far-fetched,” he said.

  “But it’s possible.”

  “How about the place he scheduled for our meeting tonight? How would he know that my dad used to take us there after Tech games?”

  “A little research,” she said. “All he’d have to do is get his hands on your dad’s obituary. Your dad was a sports writer, so the paper he worked for ran his obituary, correct?”

  He nodded reluctantly.

  “Do they have archives of the paper stored somewhere?” she asked.

  “Probably online.”

  “And does the obituary say anything about how your dad would take you on fishing trips, and to Tech games?”

  “It does.”

  “And anyone who’s been to a Tech game knows where folks like to go eat on game days.”

  “Yeah.” He absently twisted the wrist watch a few times. “Now that I think about it, I may have even mentioned it during an interview or two.”

  “There you go.” Lisa smacked the table. “I rest my case.”

  “But why wait fifteen years to contact me? There must have been a good reason for him to wait so long.”

  “That was one of my first questions. Why wait fifteen years—unless there’s something to be gained from sharing the alleged truth with you? And why contact you on the anniversary of your father’s death, when you’re guaranteed to be at an emotional low, heartsick and vulnerable?”