The Prophet

33

THEY SAT ON THE DRIED, cracked wood of the dock across from the cottage, where they could face it but not have to be on the property. The fall winds had torn most of the leaves from the surrounding trees, and already the place was dull and colorless. None of the cottages were in use. The lake was as gray and still as concrete. Kent didn’t like to look at the house, the kill house, the spot where Rachel Bond had sought a final, impossible breath, so he kept his eyes on the water while he told Adam about the visit to Mansfield in the summer.

He didn’t need to worry about confiding in his brother, his brother with whom he had no real relationship, his brother who had been on the front page of the paper in handcuffs, a bloodied police officer beside him. The police might have asked Kent not to share theories about Clayton Sipes, but Kent was, after all, his brother’s keeper now. Chelsea Salinas had said so herself as he signed the paperwork. Kent had failed to inform Adam of the police search, and he had seen the result. Adam was in trouble because Kent had not prepared him. It could not happen again. For Adam’s own good, Kent needed to keep him informed.

Prepared.

“Gideon Pearce was never at Mansfield,” he said.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Adam asked.

“I’ve been wondering if they knew each other. If the card… that connection to Marie, if that came from research, or from Pearce. It wouldn’t have been hard to find out about. A little while with old newspapers. But I wonder if they knew each other.”

“It’s possible.”

“I found out that you met Pearce.”

“Yeah?”

“Police told me. You went in to promise him you’d kill him.”

Adam cleared his throat and spat into the water. “That’s right. If I could have gotten to him that day, I would have done it then. That son of a bitch’s eyes, Kent… shit, I’d have killed him for the eyes alone, just for the way he looked at me.”

“Amused,” Kent said.

“Yes. That’s the word.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what? That I would kill him?”

Kent nodded.

“Hell, yes, I meant it. One of the saddest days of my life was when he died, Kent. Really. Because I’d been waiting. I wanted the chance. I didn’t care how long it took. If Gideon Pearce had come out of that prison a white-haired old man pushing a walker and hooked up to a frigging oxygen tank, I would have cut his throat.”

His voice was steady. No shouting, no rage, no choked-down tears. Just steady and firm.

Kent stared at the house where traces of crime scene tape lay limp along the weathered porch railings, where a man he’d met months earlier had set a trap for a child and ended her life. The wind pushed in a short, chill gust, flapping the tape and putting a momentary gray glitter over the pond. Then it was still again.

“Why’d you ask me that?” Adam said.

“I’m worried about you, man.”

“Worried?”

“Yeah. You do a lot of talking about killing. First Pearce, now… now the man who killed Rachel. The other day when you came to the locker room, it was the same talk. I understand the anger, I just… you know, I want you to find a way to be at peace.”

Adam was watching him with an odd smile. “You want me to be at peace?”

“Of course.”

“All right. I’ll work on it. You know what would help put me at peace today, Kent?”

“The name.”

Adam nodded. “Yes. I would like the name.”

“I was told not to share it. That the police would.”

“You’re worried about your family,” Adam said. “Already told me that. Beth’s scared, you’re scared.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“I hope so. But let’s remember something—this son of a bitch also came into my home. He got that football card from inside the place where I live. And you don’t think I’m entitled to a name? Suppose this guy is hanging around. Following me, following Chelsea. Wouldn’t it be useful if I could recognize him? Now, if something happens, and you know that had you just shared a name and let me find a few photographs, it might have prevented things… how will that sit with you, Kent?”

It was a shrewd argument. Adam had always been shrewd, and he’d always understood how to motivate Kent.

“I’ll spend every night outside your house watching for this bastard if you want me to. Every night. You have a chance to do the same. To help protect me.”

For a long time, Kent was quiet. The image from the front page of the newspaper returned, that glimpse of his brother’s flat eyes and bloodied hands. If Gideon Pearce had come out of that prison a white-haired old man pushing a walker and hooked up to a frigging oxygen tank, I would have cut his throat.

“Clayton Sipes,” Kent said. He’d expected it to come out in a whisper, but his voice was clear and strong.

“Clayton Sipes.” Adam echoed the name in a measured way, like someone tasting wine before accepting the bottle.

“I brought him here,” Kent said, and then he told him all that had happened, from the first prison encounter to the previous night. “He’s here because of me.”

“Seems that way.” Adam’s voice was tight. He removed a cigarette and lit it, and it took him five tries to get the flame steady, his thumb trembling on the lighter’s flywheel.

“You want to say something about the circumstances, get it out now,” Kent said. “Go on and tell me that if I didn’t go parading into prisons with a Bible, none of this would have happened. Go ahead and tell me that and whatever else—”

“Shut up, Kent.”

Kent looked at him, watched Adam exhale a wreath of smoke.

“You’re thinking it,” he said. “And in this case, at least, you’re not wrong.”

“All I am thinking,” Adam said, “is that a man who killed a seventeen-year-old girl is out there, free. And he walked into my home—into our home—and removed our sister’s property. That’s what I’m thinking.”

Kent didn’t answer. The sun hadn’t so much as creased the clouds but still he had his Chambers High cap pulled very low over his eyes.

“Do what you say,” Kent told him, “take precautions, stay vigilant. But the other ideas… Stay away from those thoughts, Adam.”

“It’s hard to stay away from thoughts, Kent. They have a way of chasing you down, you know? It’s awfully hard to relocate from your own mind.”

It was quiet for a moment. Adam blew smoke into the wind, and then he said the name again, soft. “Clayton Sipes.” He nodded, and he looked calm when he rose to his feet and offered Kent his hand. “You did the right thing, telling me.”

“I hope so.”

“Trust me,” Adam said. “You did the right thing.”