The Prophet

15

IN THE YEARS SINCE HE’D faded into the mists of memory, Rodney Bova had drifted out of Chambers County and then returned, with stops at three jails and one prison in between.

The first bust—at least the first available to the public, his juvenile record was protected—had been in 1994, for selling weed. He did thirty days in jail in Sandusky and then got out and migrated back east, pausing in Cleveland to be arrested for trafficking with an inmate at the Cuyahoga County Jail and sentenced to three months. Back out again, long enough to sniff the fresh air and decide he didn’t like the smell, and then through the revolving door and into the Lorain County Jail for a three-count conviction involving assault, drug possession, and an unlicensed firearm after he was arrested during a bar fight. The judge in that case had less patience with young Rodney and sent him to prison for an eighteen-month stay. Mansfield Correctional had been his home from the autumn of 1998 to the spring of 2000.

The facility had also been home, those years, to Gideon Pearce.

And, later, to Jason Bond.

Something began to tick inside Adam as he read through the arrest records and constructed his timeline. It wasn’t a bad feeling. Not at all. More like the application of a match to a part of him that longed for heat, ached for it.

He was lost in the web of overlapping names and dates and prisons when his phone began to ring, and he silenced it without a glance, didn’t look at the display until the second call, an immediate, impatient follow-up effort, and then it froze him.

Kent was calling.

Kent did not call.

Five rings before voicemail, and he let it get to four before he picked it up.

“Yeah.”

“It’s me.”

“I noticed that.”

Silence. Kent said, “We need to talk, Adam.”

“Do we?”

“Yes. I’d rather it be in person.” There was a hard edge to his younger brother’s voice. The coach’s tone, that’s what it was, the ruler of young men, captain of the ship, and it raised a bristle in Adam. Always did. Coach your boys, Kent, don’t coach me, he’d said more than a few times, back in the days when they spoke.

“I’m not at home.”

“That’s fine. Tell me where you are.”

“Busy.”

“That’s not a place, Adam.”

“It’s a condition, Kent. So you’re right. But it’s still true.”

“True for me, too. I’ve got a game tomorrow, I’ve got two kids and a wife at home, and I’ve got police calling me, looking for you. But I’m making time, and you will, too.”

Adam let a few seconds and a few responses float by, and while he did that, Kent said, “Tell me where I can find you, all right? Just do that much.”

“Let’s go to Haslem’s.” This was designed to get a rise out of him, just the sort of needle Adam couldn’t bring himself to put down with Kent, even when he tried.

“I’m not meeting you at a strip club.”

“The house, then.”

The only place that would appeal to Kent less than the titty bar was their childhood home. You could practically see his skin crawl when he crossed over the threshold. How long had it been since he was inside? Adam couldn’t remember.

“Okay,” Kent said after a pause, and then Adam pulled back on the offer, a poker player immediately regretting his bluff.

“Like I said, I’m not there. Tell you what, Coach, I’ll come out to the school. Meet you in your office. That way you can get some work done while you wait.”

“I don’t want to wait.”

“Then I’ll hustle right along,” Adam said, and hung up. He bounced the phone in his palm and stared at the wall and eventually he became aware of a pain in his jaw and realized how tightly he was clenching his teeth. He set the phone down and opened the refrigerator. There were five beers left in the twelve-pack he’d bought last night.

“See you in five, Franchise,” he said aloud, and then he opened one of the Coronas and took another in his free hand and walked outside to drink in the cold.

Kent was glad Adam had picked the school. He didn’t want to chase his brother through the town’s grunge bars and he certainly didn’t want to see him at either of the two places he called home: one that belonged to a married woman with an inmate husband, or one that belonged to bad memories. Carefully preserved bad memories.

He knew when he hung up that Adam would take his sweet time appearing. He had to do that, had to try to establish the alpha status in whatever sad way possible. Kent had said he did not want to wait, and that meant he would be made to wait.

The coach’s office and locker rooms at Chambers were in a single-story concrete-block building behind the end zone. When he pulled in and parked in the empty lot he could see posters and silver and red streamers covering the walls, handiwork of the boosters and parents and cheerleaders. PLAYOFFS: WIN OR GO HOME! one of the signs shrieked.

He was so sick of going home with a loss he could hardly bear it, so sick of uttering the same damned reassurances of how he was proud of his kids and proud of their character and proud of the season, the season that had ended with his kids watching their opponents celebrate.

It wasn’t supposed to happen again this year. Not with this team. They were too good, they were too well prepared, they were too experienced. Every part was there, every element a championship squad needed was in place. They were the best this town had ever seen. Better than the ’89 team by a mile. But the ’89 team had put a trophy in the case, they had rings on their fingers. Their work was done. His was not.

He had one of those rings himself, but it didn’t count. He’d been a freshman that season, never took a snap in the playoffs, just stood on the sidelines with a clipboard and charted plays while Pete Underwood, the senior starter, ran the careful, plodding offense, the world’s most boring offense, a two-running-back set that asked very little of the quarterback beyond the ability to complete a handoff. It was tedious to watch, but Walter Ward was not interested in entertaining, he was interested in wins. They had a big bruising line and a committee of big bruising backs, and they just wore teams down. In the state championship they’d used fifteen straight running plays on their final drive. Fifteen. The opposing defense had everyone down in the box, essentially ignoring the threat of a vertical passing route, committed to stopping Chambers up front, confident that if they did that, they’d win the game, because Underwood was not going to beat them with his arm. And Coach Ward had looked at that, at the way his team was being dared to pass, and he’d kept running the ball. All the way into the end zone.

Prophet right.

Prophet left.

Prophet right.

Prophet right.

Prophet right.

Never showing a trace of emotion, no hint of fear, not even when they got to fourth and two, just kept calling those plays in a flat, steady voice, everyone in the stadium knowing exactly what was coming, including the defense, all of it on Adam, who was the prophet, who was the telltale blocker out front, promising contact. Coach Ward just stood there with his arms folded across his chest and gave it to them again and again, relentless and confident—You must stop this, and you will not be able to.

How the fans had loved that! You wanted to talk about smashmouth? Watch a fifteen-play drive against the state’s best defense in which the ball was never passed. Adam had been out in front of the ball carrier the whole way. He’d played every down of the state championship game, both sides of the ball, and somewhere in Ohio there were ex-linebackers with loose teeth who remembered him well. They used four different running backs on those fifteen handoffs, but just one lead blocker for all of them. It was the point of the play—promise package, they called it. When Adam came in on the offensive side of the ball, you were going to get a run, and you were going to have him out front. Every time. Usually he rotated, usually Ward saved most of his strength for defense and short-yardage situations, but not that drive. Fifteen straight.

The way the crowd had roared after that drive… Kent hadn’t heard anything else like it in high school football. Doubted he ever would again. It had been ugly football, mean and nasty, but somehow it connected with hearts in the stands because of that. It took Kent a while to understand the reason exactly, and with it came a better understanding of the game, why it inspired such a fierce pride in towns like Cleveland and Green Bay and Pittsburgh. Like Massillon. Like Chambers.

The way they’d roared that night—people cried in the stands, he remembered that, would never forget it, people cried— wasn’t just because Chambers had won the game. At that point, in fact, victory had hardly been assured; there were three minutes left to play, and the top-ranked team in the state had the ball and a last chance to regain the lead. No, it was because they’d started with their backs against the wall, jammed against their own goal line with a deficit and a ticking clock and then lined up in a way that said, We will have to take a beating with this approach, there is no other way, and then they’d taken it, and taken it, and taken it, until suddenly they were administering it.

That was why people cried in the stands.

It had taken Kent a long time to understand it.

Tonight he was in the locker room alone, and when he flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights, the place picked up a white glow, and at the end of the locker room he could see the photograph of the 1989 team, the only team picture that he’d ever allowed to hang in the locker room. It was not all about wins and losses, he reminded his boys every day, but then there was just the one team picture hanging in the room.

Because they won. Right, Coach? Why else? And you’re in that picture but you don’t belong in it, and all of the pictures you do belong in, well, they don’t belong on the wall.

He went through the locker room and into his office, fired up the computer and projector and began to watch video. A little more than an hour passed before Adam arrived.

In through the locker room door without a knock, and then Kent could see him standing out there, gazing around. The door to the coach’s office was open and the lights from the video painted it and its lone occupant with that white glow, but Adam didn’t even glance that way, just stood with his back to the office and took in the rest of the room, and Kent knew he was both remembering old ghosts and assessing the ways in which it had changed since the days when they were not ghosts at all.

Kent rose from the chair and walked out to join him. Adam looked at him for a minute. “Not even a handshake, Franchise?”

They shook hands. Adam’s grip was stronger. One of the reasons he liked to shake hands. He enjoyed intimidation in all of its forms, brutal to subtle. Kent was not a small man—six-two and 190 pounds that still saw several hours a week in the weight room—but around Adam he was not just the little brother in terms of years. When he’d signed with Ohio State, Adam had stood six-four barefoot, with a forty-five-inch chest and thirty-one-inch waist. Ridiculous proportions. He ran the forty in 4.7 seconds, which wasn’t blazing speed, not Colin Mears speed, but was awfully damn fast. Twenty-two years had taken the speed from him, but it had hardly made a dent in the muscle, and somehow that annoyed Kent. Maybe his brother was always in a gym, and he just didn’t know it. He doubted it, though. So how did he do it? How could a man drink like that and live like that and still look like that?

“How you doing?” Kent said, already awkward, the handshake somehow removing the sense of focused control he’d had when he walked over to meet his brother.

“I’m all right. You?”

“Tired.”

“Going to get more tired, if you’re any good. Should have a few weeks left. Undefeated season’s never been done in this school. Going to get it for them?”

“We’ll try,” Kent said. “Listen, I didn’t bring you in here to talk football.”

“Should have. I could help your Pollyannas. Teach them how to play with blood in their eyes.”

“Adam, listen, we need to—”

“You remember the last time you called me?” Adam said. His dark blue eyes held a faraway sheen, and Kent could smell beer on his breath.

“You’ve been drinking tonight, haven’t you?”

“I drink every night. Now, do you remember the last time you called me?”

Kent thought about it, said, “Your birthday.”

“That doesn’t count. Remove the obligatory holiday calls and then tell me.”

They were obligatory only to Kent; he did not receive holiday calls from Adam. But his brother’s eyes had gone serious and for some reason he was compelled to go along with it, to try and remember. He couldn’t do it. Adam saw that in his face and smiled humorlessly.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I couldn’t recall it myself.”

Kent said, “A girl was murdered, Adam, and the police are calling me about it.”

“I’ve heard from them, too.”

“Apparently they don’t hear back.” Kent stepped forward, forced himself into Adam’s wandering gaze, and said, “Did you really tell some woman you were working for our sister?”

It went very quiet then. In his office the video played, and flickers of light and shadow bled out of the room and danced over Adam’s lean face as he looked down into Kent’s eyes.

“I said I was there on her behalf,” Adam said, and his voice was slow and cold. “That’s what I said, and that’s what I meant. Would you like to take issue with it?”

“Yes,” Kent said, not backing down, not on this point, not when Marie’s name had been invoked. “I take issue with it. I don’t know what sort of scheme you had in mind at the time, but it boils down to a lie, and you can’t tell me it doesn’t. You’re not a detective, and nobody’s hired you to do anything. So you’re out masquerading as one and telling people that Marie sent you? The first half is pathetic, the second I take personally.”

“You take it personally.” Adam’s voice had gone absolutely empty.

“That’s what I just said.”

Adam gave a small nod. “And you’re entitled to do that. Because she was your sister.”

“She was our sister. I don’t understand how you could use her name like that, how you can even suggest that, twist her into whatever lie—”

“Not a lie.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Keep calling it one, Kent. That’s fine, but it won’t become one. You say I’m not a detective? I’ve got a state license that says otherwise. You say I wasn’t there on Marie’s behalf? You better believe you’re wrong on that count. You better know that.”

Kent stepped back, put one hand on a locker, and leaned against it. Let a few seconds pass, trying to let the building anger ebb away. Then he said, “What are you doing, man? What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

Adam sat down on one of the long benches in front of the lockers, braced his forearms on his knees and looked at the floor and took a deep breath. Kent could see his back muscles spread out under his T-shirt, could see his big shoulders rise. Loading dock muscle, Coach Ward had called it. That’s the kind that moves freight, boys. That’s what we want. I don’t give a damn if you look pretty in the mirror, I want you to move freight.

“What did they tell you about the situation?” Adam said.

“Which situation? The woman you interviewed? Or Rachel Bond?”

“Rachel.”

“I know that she went to you looking for help finding an address. I know that she lied to you about her age, and the police probably didn’t cut you much slack on that, but you’ll cut yourself less slack on it.” He was almost surprised he’d said that; it wasn’t a thought he had expressed to anyone else. “I know that you gave her an address.”

“And you know what happened when she went there.”

“Yeah. Yes.”

Adam nodded again.

“So that’s what I know,” Kent said when it was clear his brother was not going to speak. “Today, I was told about your contact with some woman who the police don’t want you dealing with. I was told what you said to her. I didn’t like what I heard.”

“I can imagine not.”

“Tell me, then. Tell me what you’re doing, Adam.”

Adam lifted his head. “I’m going to find him.”

Kent stared at him. Adam’s eyes were clear and cool.

“Rachel’s murderer,” Kent said.

“Gideon.”

For a moment Kent thought: There he went. Finally. All the way over, it was bound to happen, he was bound to tip and now he has— but then Adam added, “That’s what I like to call him. I needed a name. That one works.”

Kent was scared for him now. Anger had faded to fear, and he said, “Don’t talk like that.”

“The name helps me.”

“No, it doesn’t. Adam, they are not the same person.”

“The hell they aren’t. One abducted and murdered a teenage girl. So did the other. They’re close enough to share a name, at least. Shit, you and I do, and how much do we have in common? They can share a name.”

Kent said, “He’s dead, Adam. The man is dead.”

“Marie’s Gideon is dead. Rachel’s is not.”

Kent wanted to tell him to shut up, stop using names, but that wasn’t going to accomplish much. He couldn’t look into that unsettling, empty stare anymore, and turned to face the white light in the office as he said, “Don’t get in their way, Adam. Please.”

“The police. You don’t want me to get in their way.”

“That’s right.”

“Because you don’t think I can find him.”

“I don’t know if you can or not, but I know it’s not your place to try. I know you’ll cause problems if you do, I know—”

“The police,” Adam said, “looked for Marie’s killer for four months.”

“And they found him.”

“Police in another town made a random stop and caught a break. The police assigned to find Marie’s killer, though? They were not close, Kent. They were not close. And he was supposed to be in prison the whole time. He’d been missing for months, and how good a job did the police do then? How quickly did they find him?”

Kent reached up and rubbed his eyes. He hated to think of it, hated to remember it, but Adam lived in a temple of memories, he could not move forward, his past was his present.

“Don’t do this. Even if you could help, they won’t let you. It’ll only make things worse.”

“Because it’s not my place.”

“Because they’re cops, Adam, and, yes, they will be upset because it is not your role.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. It is my role, it’s the only one for me. So this, this is my place. Because this Gideon? This one belongs to me.”

“Stop calling him that.”

“It’s the right thing to call him.”

Kent dropped his hand, looked at him, and said, “Please, Adam.”

“What did they want from you? What were you supposed to accomplish? Just get me to step away? Get me to call Salter back? What?”

“All of the above. But I called you because… because I didn’t like what I’d heard.”

Adam said, “You should see the place.”

“What?”

“Where she died, Kent. Where I sent her. You should see it. Desolate, empty, dangerous. If I’d bothered to give it a look first, she never shows up there. If I’d known where I was sending her, everything changes. I sent her to a place I did not know. That’s why it happened.”

“No, Adam. Whoever did this… he wouldn’t have just gone away.”

“Maybe not. But, Kent? Read your own damn slogan.” Adam pointed at the banner above the locker room door, the one the players passed under ahead of every game, every half, every practice. THERE IS A DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ACCEPTING A LOSS AND EARNING ONE.

Kent shook his head, frustrated but running out of words, because words never seemed to work on his brother. At least not Kent’s.

“Funny, you being in this locker room still,” Adam said. “Keeps it all fresh to you, I bet. For me, it’s been a while. A lot of shit that went down in here I can hardly remember. Being in here brings it all back, you know?”

Kent was happy that he wasn’t talking about Gideon Pearce anymore, so he rolled with it, said, “Yeah, I’m sure it does.”

“There was a kid, had a locker right over there…” Adam pointed into the corner. “Rodney Bova. Got thrown off the team for trouble with the police. You remember him?”

“Sure.”

“What was that he did?” Adam was squinting, thoughtful. “Stole a car, maybe?”

“Set it on fire.”

“No shit?”

Kent nodded. “They sent him to a juvenile detention center.”

“He was your age?”

“Yeah.”

“Any good?”

“No. Wanted to play receiver but couldn’t catch a cold. Ward moved him to defense but he never played.” Why in the world were they talking about Rodney Bova? All the things he needed to say to his brother, all the people they needed to discuss, and somehow they were locked in conversation about a random kid they’d played with more than twenty years ago? He tried to steer them back to what counted. “Adam, you’ve got to understand that Stan Salter is going to return to talk with me, and when he does—”

“When he does,” Adam said, “you can tell him the truth. Tell him you’ve washed your hands of me. Tell him good luck and God bless, and that it doesn’t involve you. Then let it sit.”

“I wish you would—”

“Then let it sit,” Adam told him again, and he rose from the bench and walked out of the locker room. The field showed itself, dark and windswept, for a moment when he opened the door, and then it clanged shut and Kent was alone in the pale white light, surrounded by his quotes and posters and bits of inspiration. Outside, Adam headed away from him and into the night. Kent wondered where he was going. It was impossible to know.

He wondered if he should have asked.