The Prophet

35

HIS TEAM LOOKED CRISP on the field, polished, and Kent almost wished that they weren’t. He felt swollen with emotion and wanted to find an outlet, release his fear and frustration into a shouting session about poor effort or technical shortcomings. The kids didn’t grant him that, though; they were precise and intense, and it was a short practice because most of the time would be devoted to watching video, the only chance all week that the coaches would have to review video of the opponent.

They went into the school, breaking up into offensive and defensive units to study football, sitting at desks in the same classrooms they’d so eagerly left an hour earlier.

The assistant coaches ran the video sessions so Kent could drift between the two groups and offer input to both sides of the ball. Today he started with the offensive group, where Steve Haskins ran through the various defensive fronts Saint Anthony’s had played during the season. Unfortunately, there were a lot of them. Scott Bless liked to mix it up.

“Any additional thoughts, Coach?” Haskins asked Kent.

“Their cornerbacks are not fast enough to keep up with Colin,” Kent said. “They’ll play a safety over the top, like we’ve seen all year, but these kids are a half-step behind, all the time. We’re still going to have the vertical game there if Lorell can put the ball in the right spot. Think you can do that, Lorell?”

This was by design, of course. He wanted everyone to think his only question was with his quarterback’s ability, that Colin’s hands offered him not even a flicker of doubt.

“I can do that, yes, sir,” Lorell said, but he was looking at Kent with a knowing stare. Colin wasn’t looking at anybody.

“Glad to hear it,” Kent said, “because those kids cannot keep up with him.”

He nodded at Haskins, who moved on to blocking schemes for inside runs, and then slipped out of the offensive classroom, paused in the hall, and called Beth.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Everything good?”

“Yes.”

“Just checking,” he said. It was the fifth call of this sort he’d made today. He was trying not to make so many, not to feed her paranoia with his own, but it was hard. He’d be focused on something and then he’d see Clayton Sipes, remember the intensity of his eyes and the way the prison’s fluorescent lights had cast a shine on his shaved head, remember the way he’d smiled when Kent told him that there was no fear that could break his faith.

“Everything’s good,” Beth said. “Kids home, doors locked, alarm on.”

“I’m not trying to scare you.”

“I know.”

“Home soon.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.” He hung up and started for the defensive group, thinking about Agent Dean, who knew damn well that Clayton Sipes had killed that girl. How in the hell could they not find him? It was the FBI, it was what they did, why couldn’t they go out there and get it done? And why in the hell had Kent gotten into it with Sipes in the first place? Dan Grissom was right; he’d responded to the man’s attack in the wrong way. He’d worn his faith like a chip on his shoulder and promised Sipes that nobody could knock it off, and now Rachel Bond was dead and Kent was calling his family every thirty minutes and if he’d just…

He paused halfway down the hall between the offensive and defensive classrooms, thinking of how many calls he’d made out of fear today and trying to remember how many times he’d prayed. Had he prayed? Surely he had.

But he couldn’t remember.

He was preparing to kneel there in the hallway, a quick prayer but a needed one, when he heard the squeak of wheels on tile just before the janitor’s cart appeared.

“Hey, Coach.”

“Hey,” Kent said, straightening. He didn’t want to be seen on his knees, not even in prayer. It felt like weakness to him today. He listened to the wheels of the cart approaching down the hallway, found himself thinking, Clayton Sipes was a janitor at a school, just like him, he was just like him, and then he held the man’s stare for a long moment, gave him a curt nod, and walked on toward the defensive classroom, head high, no longer bowed.

Adam slept for two hours in the morning, then went in to the office, where Chelsea was already at work, and began the hunt in the only way he knew how, treating Sipes not as a murder suspect but as a skip. He printed out an address history report, developed a list of neighbors from that, found phone numbers… and stopped. Stared at it, shook his head, and swore softly. Chelsea looked up.

“What’s the problem?”

“He’s been in prison for years. Such a cold trail.”

She leaned back in her chair, let out a long breath, and pushed her hair back over her ears.

“This would be Clayton Sipes you’re talking about. Not one of our own skips.”

He didn’t answer.

“Adam, the police will—”

“No,” he said. “No, Chelsea. I’m sorry. I understand what you’re going to say, and why you’re going to say it, and why I should listen to it. I do. But you need to know…” His voice faltered then, the way it did sometimes in Marie’s room, and he turned his eyes from her and said, “A seventeen-year-old girl walked through that door and asked me for help. And, circumstances be damned, excuses be damned, I sent her to a man who murdered her. He’s still out there. Not only is he still out there, he came to my brother’s house with a weapon. My niece and nephew asleep upstairs. So, no, Chelsea, I’m sorry but I cannot listen even if I should.”

She was silent for a moment, and then she said, “What do you need? To find him, what do you need, how can I help?”

He turned back to her then, and, God, how he loved her.

“It can’t be neighbors,” he said. “I’ve got to find someone close to him, someone with the sorts of ties that don’t break no matter what happens. No matter what he did. I’ve got to find that person, and I’ve got to do it in a way that doesn’t attract police attention. They’ll jam me up, they’ll make it so damn hard, make it hopeless. So I’m trying to think of a way to find that person. Nobody will turn over prison visitation. I’ve got one guy who I think might be it, but nothing’s panned out there, so maybe I was wrong.”

“How’d you come up with that person?”

“Looking for people who knew the property at Shadow Wood,” he said, and he was thinking of what it would mean if indeed he had been wrong. Bova’s court date was this week, his charges were serious. How in the hell did Adam go about putting that genie back in the bottle? He rubbed his eyes. He needed more sleep. Needed coffee. Needed a drink, needed—

“Find someone like you,” Chelsea said.

“What?”

“You already said how to do it. You need to find the sort of person who would stand by him no matter what he did, right? Well, somebody had to post bond for him at some point. It wouldn’t have been a stranger.”

He lowered his hand, looked at her, and said, “You’re brilliant, you know that?”

She didn’t smile. Instead she said, “Be careful, Adam. Please.”

Sipes had been arrested in Cuyahoga County, and his bail agent was someone Adam had known for years, Ty Hampton, a black guy who went about six-six and three hundred pounds. Adam had always figured Ty had fewer skips than the average agent because he wasn’t the sort of man you’d want to come looking for you.

“He ran on you, eh?” Ty said when Adam explained what he wanted.

“A little worse than that,” Adam said. “He’s threatening my brother.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Man, I’m not all that surprised to hear it. Never did like that creepy asshole. I didn’t have any trouble with him, I just didn’t like him.”

“I’ll pay you whatever you think is fair,” Adam said.

“Stop it. If I called you with the same problem, would you want my dollars? Just give me a few minutes. I’ll find it, call you back.”

It took him less than ten minutes.

“Got your name,” he said, “and I hope it helps. Bond was posted by his half brother. Now, this is old information, but I’ve got an address and a phone number. His name is Rodney Bova, and his number was—”

“I’ve got his number,” Adam said.

“What? Damn, not a new name for you, huh? I’m sorry, man. Hoped I could help.”

“You did,” Adam said. “Ty, you absolutely helped. Half brother, you say?”

“Yeah. Same mother, different fathers, that’s what I’ve got in my notes. You sure you don’t need anything else?”

“No,” Adam said. “I’ve already got that gentleman’s number. I keep hoping it will pay off.”

“Good luck, Austin.”

“Appreciate it.”

Adam hung up, and Chelsea raised an eyebrow. “Nothing new?”

“Nothing new,” Adam said, and then he pulled open his tracking software and stared at the red dot that represented Rodney Bova’s existence. He’d been right.

Move, damn it, he implored the dot silently. Move. Go to him.