Covenant

by Brandon Massey

  Her words pierced his heart like a needle. He was silent for a moment, the drumming rain filling the void in conversation.

  “My dad was the best,” he said. “Funny, smart. Generous to a fault. Loved his family to death—you never, ever, had any doubts about his priorities. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up.”

  “I wish I’d gotten to meet him. And your mom, too.”

  “You would’ve loved them.” He smiled wistfully. “They’d have gone nuts over you, too.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “I don’t know how you do it, going on after losing both of them when you were so young,” she said. “I can’t imagine what it would life would be like without my folks.”

  “Not a day goes by when I don’t think of them,” he said tightly, emotion constricting his chest. “Sometimes when we’re out to dinner or somewhere, I see older couples together, looking happy, and I think to myself, ‘those could be my parents.’ They could still be here, happy, our entire family together, none of this fucked up shit going on with me, Danielle, or Reuben.” He blew out a heavy breath. “But that’s life, huh?”

  Quiet, she lifted her head off his chest. Her eyes were full of understanding, love. She kissed him softly, and then snuggled against him again.

  “No matter how good of a father I might be, I couldn’t protect a child from life,” he said.

  “Life?”

  “You know, life these days. So much senseless, unpredictable violence. Kids at home doing their homework getting hit by stray bullets. Kids getting gunned down at school by a psychotic classmate. Kids being snatched by some pedophile when they’re walking home.”

  “It’s not like it was when we were kids.”

  “If any of those things happened to our child, I would snap. I would go on a rampage.”

  “Like Ghost?”

  “Yeah. As Ghost likes to say, ‘the world ain’t your damn friend. The world is a mad dog and you’ve gotta keep it on a short leash.’ ”

  “You said that, not Ghost. You created him, remember?”

  “Sometimes I forget.”

  “But you know, as much as we try, we can’t protect children from everything. Getting bumps and bruises, coping with tragedy . . . that’s always been part of life. It makes a child strong. Look how strong it’s made you.”

  “I’d never want our kid to be like me. I’d want him or her to be like you.”

  She gazed at him. “And how am I?”

  “You have peace.” He closed his eyes, and as sleep tugged at him, the words floated up from some well of thought and feeling deep in his soul. “You see . . . goodness in people. You can bow your head to pray . . . and have faith that God hears, and cares.”

  “God hears everyone. He cares about everyone. That’s what I believe.”

  “I used to.”

  “Maybe you will again some day.”

  Silence overtook them. Their breaths deepened, became synchronized in a slow, steady rhythm. He began to drift away.

  “So,” she said suddenly, “if all of this stuff works out for us, if you find out who’s behind what happened to your dad, and if you get justice—whatever form it takes—do you think you’ll feel differently then about having children?”

  Blinking heavily, he said, “Don’t know . . . maybe. I don’t know how I’ll feel about anything . . . if that happens. What happened to my dad . . . been sitting on my shoulders like a lead weight for fifteen years. I don’t know how it feels to have peace . . . ‘cept when I’m with you.”

  “Tony, that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me in my life.”

  “Don’t tell anyone. Wouldn’t want to damage my macho image.”

  She laughed softly, and one of her hands found his. “Even if we never have kids, so long as we’re together, I’ll be happy.”

  “I’ll remember . . . you . . . said that.”

  Wrapped in a cocoon of shared body heat, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, while outside, the thunderstorm gathered force, like an army preparing to strike.

  35

  As Valdez wheeled away from the subdivision, Cutty used Genesis to pull up a report of Alfaro’s real estate holdings. Alfaro was an industrious fellow. Under the name of his company, Alfaro Enterprises LLC, he owned eleven properties, including his home in Duluth.

  On what Cutty considered a Holy Spirit-inspired hunch, he had pocketed all of the keys they’d found in Alfaro’s kitchen. Comparing the address labels on the keys to the report, he determined which one was missing: it belonged to a house in Roswell.

  “Intriguing,” he said. “The missing key is for a house in Roswell. How much do you want to bet that’s where Thorne has gone?”

  Valdez nodded, adulation shining in her lovely eyes. “What is address?”

  “Not so fast, my fair lady.” He wagged his finger at her. “Let’s not forget that Thorne abandoned his vehicle at Alfaro’s. According to the DMV, Alfaro owns a motorcycle and a late-model Jeep Grand Cherokee. The motorcycle was there, but the Jeep was not.”

  “Ah, si. Thorne is driving.”

  “Time is of the essence. Before we set off on another pursuit, let’s be certain of the sinner’s whereabouts.”

  With a few quick keystrokes, he opened the vehicle tracking module that Genesis offered. The capabilities were quite impressive. By entering a license plate number or VIN, you could locate a vehicle via a complex, GPS mapping scheme. The majority of automobiles currently rolling off assembly lines had factory-installed GPS navigation systems, satellite radio receivers with a unique ID code registered to the driver, and, in other cases, after-market theft deterrent transponders that purportedly only activated if the vehicle were stolen and the police notified. All of the devices fed data to remote servers that Genesis could secretly access and use to process an exact location.

  He entered the license plates information he had pulled from the DMV. About a minute later, a color street map appeared on the computer display. The location of Alfaro’s jeep was indicated by a pulsing red dot, and a white balloon caption above the marker gave the address.

  “Now this is truly intriguing,” he said. “Alfaro’s jeep is only a few doors away from his Roswell property. What do you make of that?”

  “Eh?” She glanced away from the road, frowned. “That is strange, si?”

  “Si.” He inputted the address for Alfaro’s Roswell home into the navigation panel. “Let’s check ‘em out.”

  Gaze sharpening, Valdez pushed the big SUV along the rain-slick road. In spite of the late hour, she looked fresh. Unlike his last partner, a stodgy old warrior who’d always seemed on the verge of falling asleep, Valdez seemed tireless.

  It was a trait they shared. He had not slept in over twenty-four hours, and might not close his eyes for many more. The devil was busy toiling to destroy the Kingdom, and God’s warriors had to be ever-vigilant, always striving to beat back the darkness. As a matter of necessity, he’d learned to grab micro-naps, fifteen minutes here and there, just enough to keep him on point.

  On those rare occasions where he was without a mission to engage his energies, he still practiced remaining awake for long stretches; alert wakefulness was like a muscle that needed to be exercised daily. At such times, he would occupy himself by holing up in his small bedroom and transcribing certain passages from the Bible, and would get so engrossed in the activity that he would lose all sense of time and place. After one particularly long session, he snapped out of his trance to discover that he had copied a favorite verse from Romans, “The wages of sin is death,” over twenty-four hundred times.

  Oddly enough, Father had often used Bible-verse transcription as a means of punishing his children. A cramped, enclosed room in their cellar had held only a hard cot, a toilet, a jug of water, a Bible, and a notepad and pencils. Father had banished him to the room many times, with the command to repeatedly write a verse that best described his sin, until Father decided he had made suffic
ient penance. He had spent as many as three consecutive days locked in the room, famished, yet scribbling with swollen fingers.

  As often happened, what had once been punishment for him as a child had become his joy as an adult, sustenance for his spirit.

  He glanced at Valdez. He wondered what she did to rejuvenate her spirit and stay refreshed.

  He wondered, too, how she looked whenever she relaxed, loosened her hair out of the ponytail, and let it flow over her shoulders. He wondered how her face appeared when she was sleeping.

  He wondered what she wore to bed. Or if she wore anything at all . . . .

  As he visualized how she might appear nude, he experienced a hot charge of almost excruciating lust.

  These are sinful thoughts. Cast them out. Out!

  He blotted his palms on his lap. They were clammy with perspiration.

  To protect against further spirit-damaging thoughts, he switched on the radio. The Suburban, like all vehicles in their fleet, was equipped with a special radio attuned to a digital signal owned by the church: Kingdom Radio. Around the clock, Kingdom Radio broadcast The Prophet’s sermons and life-enhancing affirmations, wholesome music produced by the Kingdom Choir, scripture readings (on the hour, every hour), relevant news, and talk-show programs hosted by various elders on subjects of interest to faithful servants.

  There was also Kingdom Television, which offered similar 24/7 content. Currently, Kingdom Radio was available only through specially equipped radio systems, and likewise, their television station was available exclusively via a closed-circuit network in the residences located on the Kingdom Campus.

  When they had completed their mission to seize dominion, however, their television and radio programming would be the only selections offered to the public. The airwaves were full of corruption and wickedness that rotted mind, body, soul, and spirit. The Prophet had an ambitious plan to cleanse the flocks, keep them fit for the Kingdom.

  On the radio that night, the Prophet happened to be delivering a fiery sermon on the sins of carnality.

  The flesh is weak, my friends! Yes, it is. If you are not careful, if you don’t keep your spirit immersed in God’s word, your flesh can be an instrument of sin! You know I’m telling the truth! At this very minute, someone is listening to this message, but he isn’t really hearing it, because his sinful flesh is blocking it out with fantasies of carnal pleasures . . .

  Cutty’s face burned. It was as if the Prophet knew the depravity that lurked in his heart, and had intended this rebuke especially for him.

  He had heard stories that sometimes the Prophet did, in fact, personally deliver admonishments. Servants had reported entering their homes to discover the Prophet waiting for them, ready with a scolding word. Others had received phone calls from him in the middle of the night. Some had even gotten text messages on their cell phones, charging them with sin and demanding repentance.

  What was done in the dark would come to light. There was no concealment of sin from the Prophet. God revealed all to his anointed shepherd, for the health of the flock.

  As he listened to the Prophet’s resounding voice, he accepted the sermon as a warning to bring his lust under control. The Prophet had promised him the desires of his heart once he completed the mission, but he would grant blessings only to one with a clean heart.

  “A powerful message,” he said to Valdez. “It’s a blessing to hear him teach.”

  “Si,” Valdez said.

  She seemed unaware of the turbulence in his spirit, and he took that as a blessing, too. He was being given an opportunity to deal with his sin in private.

  Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets. Lightning stabbed the horizon, and thunder rolled across the low sky.

  Driving carefully, Valdez turned onto the block where Alfaro’s rental property was located. Cutty scanned the addresses with his night-vision binoculars.

  “Alfaro’s house is ahead, on the right,” he said. “The address where Alfaro’s jeep is being kept is three doors down from the property, on the left.”

  “Drive by?” Valdez asked.

  “Yes, but cut the headlights, and don’t slow down. The rain should give us cover.”

  She doused the headlights, and the road ahead fell dark but for a nearby streetlamp. Rainfall tinted the color of copper hammered the pavement. They passed through the pool of light, and neared Alfaro’s home.

  It was a modest split-level with a detached garage. A lamp burned in a room upstairs.

  Next, he scanned the house on the left, a ranch. Light also glowed in the front window. The jeep was not parked in the driveway, but it could have been stored in the garage.

  Valdez halted at the Stop sign at the end of the block. She looked at him, eyebrows raised.

  “Okay,” he said, “here’s the plan . . .”

  36

  As if God were clapping a set of giant cymbals, a clash of thunder jarred Anthony out of sleep.

  He’d been dreaming about being on a bass boat with his father. The front of his dad’s checkered shirt was saturated with glistening blood, and the fabric was ripped as if by a rifle round. Horror froze Anthony speechless in his seat—but his dad was speaking to him in his familiar amiable way, utterly oblivious to his gruesome wound. I’ve been waiting on you, son, he said, absentmindedly adjusting the fishing rod. Your mom and I both have been waiting on you to get to the bottom of things. How much longer are you gonna keep us hanging, huh? I thought you had my I’ll Show You Gene. How long’s it gonna take for you to show those folks some real justice . . .

  Suddenly awake, he bolted upright on the sofa, automatically grasping the Beretta he’d left in reach on the carpet. He chambered a round and paused, breath bottled in his chest.

  Disturbed by his abrupt movement, Lisa stirred awake, too. Her eyes were wide.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Wait.” He raised his finger. Listened.

  Rain marched across the roof and machine-gunned the windows. A boom of thunder rattled the walls and floor.

  But the inside of the house was silent, and felt as empty as the vacated place that it was.

  He checked his watch, squinting to read the hands in the gloom. Five minutes past four. They’d been asleep for less than an hour.

  “Well?” Lisa asked.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “The storm woke me, that’s all.”

  “Okay.” She closed her eyes and lay against him again. But he gently moved from underneath her.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I can’t sleep any more.”

  “Can I?” She kept her eyes closed.

  “Sure. I’ll wake you if I need something.”

  Perhaps it was due only to the dissonant music of the storm, but his nerves were as taut as guitar strings. He approached the front window, peeled back the curtains, and looked toward Mike’s rental house.

  A spectral flicker of lightning temporarily obscured the view. When the brightness faded, he saw that the light he’d left burning in the second-floor bedroom was off. Blackness shrouded the property.

  While the floor lamp still glowed in their hideout, the thunderstorm could have prompted a power outage that had killed the light in the rental if the homes drew electricity from different lines. It was a plausible explanation.

  But he didn’t like it.

  Gun drawn, he swiftly searched the entire house and garage. They were alone, and the jeep was as they’d left it. There were no signs of an intruder.

  But he wasn’t satisfied.

  Back in the living room, he pulled on a baseball cap—and then shrugged into his concealable body armor vest. He strapped a nylon utility pouch around his waist and filled it with two magazines of 9mm ammo and a speed-loader of ammo for the .45.

  As he prepared, Lisa came awake again. “What’re you doing?”

  “I was about to wake you up. I need you to stay alert for a little while.”

  “For what?”

  He hung his night-vision binoculars aroun
d his neck.

  “I’m going to go outside and look around.”

  “What? Why? Is there something wrong?”

  “It’s probably due to a power outage, but the light I left on at Mike’s house is off. I’m going to look into it. I want you to stay here while I’m gone.”

  Fear brightened her eyes. “You think they found Mike’s place?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you’re thinking it. I know you—it’s all over your face.”

  After three years of marriage, she could read him as easily as a book.

  “Let me come with you,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  He shook his head. “Like I said, it’s probably nothing, just me being paranoid. No point in you going out there and getting your hair wet. I know how fussy you can be about your ‘do.”

  “Very funny. I still want to go.”

  He holstered the Beretta, and grabbed the Colt revolver.

  “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” he said. “You got your piece?”

  She unzipped her purse and showed him the gun.

  “Keep it close,” he said. “Stay away from the windows, too.”

  “But—“

  “Please, Lisa. I need you to wait here.”

  “You’re in one of your stubborn moods, I see.” She placed the purse on the sofa cushion beside her. “But you better come back soon, or I’m coming out there to get you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He kissed her, and quickly moved through the house to the back door. He stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind him.

  Cold rain immediately drenched him, bounced off the bill of his cap. He wished he had thought to bring a rain jacket. But he had fought in worse conditions.

  He clasped the .45, muzzle pointed to the ground. Moving low and fast, sloshing through muddy puddles, he rounded the rear corner of the house. All clear. Keeping close to the wall, he moved along the western face, crept around the big AC condensing unit, and neared the front corner, where a downspout dispensed a gurgling river of rainwater into the grass.

  Rumbling thunder shook the earth beneath his feet. A crack of lightning briefly brightened the night.