The Prophet

27

ONE OF KENT’S STRUGGLES, and they were many, was with his language. Locker room talk was a product of testosterone, nerves, and macho competition. Always had been, always would be. Kent, who had been raised in locker rooms, and whose father had been one of the most impressively profane individuals he’d ever known—The secret, boys, is in the verbs. Everyone uses the adjectives, but you’ve got to pick unique verbs— wanted to run a clean locker room. That started by keeping his own tongue in check, which was a far more difficult ordeal than anyone probably would have guessed. He’d been nurtured on profanity; it came as a reflex.

That morning he got as far as “worthless cock—” and was about to employ the unique verb when he saw his son’s head snap up. Kent bit down the rest of the sentence, and that was too bad in a way because it was one that would have impressed the heck out of his coaches, who didn’t think he had it in him. Neither, though, did his son, and he wanted to preserve that for as long as possible.

“Daddy?”

“Sorry, buddy. I’m good. We’re all good.”

But his hands were fists at his sides down below the kitchen island, where Andrew couldn’t see them, and when he brought in a breath it was through his teeth.

The arrest had made the front page of the paper. Kent shouldn’t have been surprised—there weren’t many big stories in Chambers right now. There was his undefeated high school football team, and there was Rachel Bond. Of course her case would stay on the front page.

He hadn’t counted on the photograph, though.

In the photograph, Adam was in handcuffs, head down, a cop on either side, and just in front of him another officer stood beside a cruiser with a bloody towel held to his face.

LOCAL BAIL BONDSMAN ARRESTED AFTER SEARCH IN BOND HOMICIDE CASE

Adam Austin, 40, of Chambers, was arrested on preliminary charges of assaulting a police officer, resisting law enforcement, and battery after police attempted to serve a search warrant at the local bail bondsman’s house as part of the investigation into the murder of 17-year-old Rachel Bond. Police said that Adam Austin, brother of Chambers High School football coach Kent Austin, has not been named as a suspect in the homicide, but that his professional interaction with the girl provoked “avenues of interest,” according to Lt. Stan Salter of the Chambers Police Department.

Salter deemed the incident an “unfortunate situation” and declined further comment, saying the pending criminal charges against Austin are a separate matter from the Bond homicide case. Salter also said he could not provide details as to what led police to seek a search warrant for Austin’s home and office, and was unable to confirm whether any articles of evidentiary value were confiscated during the search.

“This is part of a process,” Salter said. “It is one of many searches conducted in that process. We will release more information when it is suitable to do so.”

The rest of the article included a short biography of Adam, and that of course carried a mention of Marie. No accusations were made, careful journalistic distance was upheld, and yet in the gaps between what police confirmed and what they did not, dark suspicions would flourish. Why would the police have sought a warrant? Why would anyone possibly try to prevent the search if there was nothing to hide? Why would any man of pure heart do anything but assist? That photograph—Adam in cuffs, a bleeding officer at his side—would tell people more than the text. Or so they would think.

It’s not about Rachel Bond, Kent wanted to tell them all. You’ve got to understand that it is about my sister, and when it comes to my sister, Adam is not quite right. You cannot expect the same reactions from Adam if it involves my sister. You’d understand a little better if you realized that all they needed to do was stay out of her room.

While his children shouted at each other upstairs—Andrew had apparently walked into the bathroom while Lisa was “working on my hair!”—Beth emerged around the corner, stepping into the kitchen, and headed for the coffee. She stopped when she saw his face.

“What’s wrong?”

He slid the paper across the countertop, and she did what everyone in Chambers would do: looked at the photograph first.

“Kent… this is going to be really bad for him, isn’t it? This is going to be really bad.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think he’ll be ready to see it? Handle it?”

“I don’t know what Adam’s ready for,” Kent said. “I really do not know.”

There was always a newspaper on the counter in the morning; Chelsea brought it in before she fed the snakes, and Chelsea was always up ahead of Adam. It was usually turned to the police beat column, jail bookings being of paramount importance to them. Today there was no paper in sight. Adam poured his coffee and walked to the sink, where she stood washing dishes, wearing one of his sweatshirts and a pair of loose cotton pants. Soft music played from the little iPod dock on the counter. A dark, brooding rock tune by Brian Fallon. I kept my secrets far from your condition. And in the explosions, they both were just powders…

He leaned down, kissed the back of her neck, and said, “You can let me see it.”

She rinsed a glass, dried it, and her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath.

“It’s not good.”

“You can let me see it.”

She went into the garage to get the paper then, which had already been tossed into the recycling bin, leaving him alone with the soft sad song. Did you say your lovers were liars? All my lovers were liars too.

When she brought the paper back inside, she dropped it on the table without a word. Adam studied the picture and, in a perverse twist of the mind, found himself thinking, I look big, and I look mean, with a touch of pride. Old habits, maybe. Memories of the days when his picture was in the paper often, and the bigger and meaner he looked, the better. That was an acceptable version of the traits; this was not. He pushed the paper aside.

“Thought you wanted to read it,” Chelsea said.

“I said I wanted to see it is all,” Adam said, and felt like a child. He had thought he wanted to read it. The headline and photo were enough, though. Seeing the spread scared him, but not for any of the reasons people might expect—public perception or jail time. The thing that scared him was that Rodney Bova was unlikely to miss this, and if Rodney Bova understood, then Adam’s best hope for success was dead.

He said, “I should talk to Rachel’s mother. I’ll need to clear some things up.”

“Or let it go.” Chelsea had her back to him, standing in the living room, and when he looked at her, he saw that she’d taken one of the snakes out of its tub. The python coiled around her arm, then slid up her shoulder, its wedge-shaped head bobbing, gliding past the row of silver loops that lined her right ear. She knew that he hated the snakes, never wanted to touch them, and he couldn’t help but feel that she’d removed it to keep him at a distance.

“No,” he said. “No, I cannot do that.”

She didn’t answer. The snake’s tongue flickered, its eyes on him, its thick body slinking past her neck now as it slithered from one shoulder to the other. Why does she have to come with the snakes? he wondered, and then he looked down at the photograph of himself and thought she was probably asking herself something similar.

“I can’t, Chelsea.”

“You could,” she said. “But you don’t.” She put the snake back into its plastic tub and slid it into place against the shelves. “I’ve got to see Travis today.”

“Why?”

“He’s my husband.”

“Why?”

“Is that a new question or a repeat?”

“Both.”

She turned and faced him then, folding her arms under her breasts. “He knows by now, Adam. I need to address that in person.”

He hated the idea, but what could he say about it? It was her husband.

“You want me to go with you?”

“No, I do not.”

He was glad of that, and didn’t know why he’d even offered. “Why haven’t you left him?” Adam said.

“He’s in jail.”

“Wonderful reason to stay with the guy, yeah.”

She didn’t waver. “I didn’t think it was the best time to hand him papers, at least.”

“Otherwise you would have? If he was out, you’d be divorced?”

“I don’t know.”

“How in the hell can you not know?”

She shook her head as if it were a foolish question. He felt anger rising, and though most of it was directed at him, he wanted to push it outward, and there she was. He turned from her and found the wet dishtowel and squeezed it, bleeding water out.

“Fair enough,” he said. “I’ve never understood why you were with him, so I guess it’s reasonable that I don’t understand why you won’t leave him.”

“I was with him,” she said, “because when he told me he loved me, he meant it. And you know what, Adam? Back then, it felt like something. It felt like enough.”

“And now?”

“Now, I’m…” she stopped, shook her head again, and waved her arm around at the house, and him. “Now I’m this. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“For you not to have to ask that damn question, Adam.”

“Huh?”

She shook her head. “Forget it.”

“No. What?”

“You just do what you want. I’m curious to know what it will be. Have been for a while.”

“Meaning?”

“You want me to be with him, Adam? With Travis?”

“Of course not. It is what it is. I deal.”

“You deal.”

He nodded.

“If you don’t want me to be with him,” she said, “why not ask me to leave?”

I believe my trouble and your trouble shook hands, Brian Fallon sang, and Adam snapped off the music.

“That’s not my decision, Chelsea. You married him. You want to leave him? Then do it. You haven’t so far.”

“And you haven’t asked.”

“I’m supposed to, what, propose divorce? You want me down on one knee? Do I take the ring off your finger, is that the tradition?”

“Forget it, Adam.”

He started to argue. Started to say that, no, he wouldn’t forget it, they needed to finish this conversation, needed to understand each other, needed to finally put into words all the things that should have been said long ago but never were.

Instead, though, he let her go.