The Prophet

44

KENT DID NOT LIKE parties after games. He let his staff have them, he could not and would not attempt to control that, but he almost never attended. Tonight, though, when Matt Byers told him there was barbecue and beer waiting at his house, he said he’d be there.

“What if we’d lost?” he asked on the noisy, elated bus.

Byers grinned. “You can always freeze barbecue,” he said. “But, Coach? We didn’t lose.”

Kent couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “No, we sure didn’t.”

He called Beth from the bus and asked her to join him.

“It’ll be a late night for the kids,” she said.

“They can survive one late night.”

And so it was, because of the party and the late night, that it was just past one in the morning when they returned to their home and found the photographs of Rachel Bond’s corpse taped to their front door. Beth was driving—Kent almost never drank, but he’d indulged in three beers tonight, and three beers to a non-drinker felt like a lot—and she saw them first. Kent had his head down, looking at his iPad, where video of the next opponent was already available, when she said, “There’s something on our door.”

He looked up with only idle interest, expecting some sort of banner or congratulatory note. That happened, sometimes. Once, after a rare string of three losses, a FOR SALE sign had also appeared in the yard, a favorite trick of fans who wanted a coach removed, but nobody was going to want to relocate Kent Austin after tonight’s come-from-behind win.

When he saw the odd collection of papers scattered over the door and realized that they were printed-out photographs, though, a sense of alarm that had been absent since Clayton Sipes was found dead by Lake Erie returned.

“Stop the car,” he said. He kept his voice low; both kids were asleep in the backseat. He wanted them to stay that way until he had a look.

“What are those?” Beth said.

“I’m not sure. Stay here, I’ll check.” When he got out of the car, he punched the lock button before he swung the door shut. The rain had stopped but the temperature was still falling, down into the low thirties now, and his breath fogged as he made his way to the porch. He was suddenly wishing he had not returned the gun to Adam.

The porch light was off, so the door was illuminated only by the glow of the headlights, but it was enough. He stopped on the steps, didn’t need to get any closer and didn’t want to.

He was looking at photographs of Rachel Bond, taken after life had left her.

There were longer shots and close-ups, pictures of her body and one of only her eyes shown through the haze of a plastic bag, and they registered in rapid fire because his eyes were already drawn to others in the mix. Lisa. Andrew. Beth. Pictures of them in the yard, in the bleachers, and one of Beth dropping Lisa off at school. He recognized the outfit—it was what she had on today. It had been taken that morning.

He moved off the stairs, looking back at his family. They had to leave, fast. Sipes could be here, he could be waiting, he could—

But he could not be. Clayton Sipes was dead.

“Kent? What is it?” Beth had gotten out of the car, and Kent lifted a hand and shook his head.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

He crossed the yard to her, saw that Lisa had woken up and was leaning forward in her seat, curious about why they were waiting in the driveway. Kent put his hand on Beth’s arm and said, “Get back inside the car, and drive them somewhere safe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Please take them away from here,” he said. “I’ll call you after I call the police.”

She stared at him, her blue eyes beginning to show understanding that he hadn’t even fully achieved himself.

“It’s not done,” she said.

“No.”

“How can that—”

“I don’t know. Please get away from here now, though. We can’t have Andrew and Lisa here. We can’t let them see this.”

She didn’t go far. Took the kids across the street, woke the neighbors, and explained the situation. By the time the police arrived she was back, standing with him in the cold. He told her not to look at the pictures, and she didn’t.

“They’re of Rachel, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” he said. He did not tell her about the others. Could not.

The police took pictures of the pictures. Kent watched with numb detachment as lights went on around the neighborhood and doors opened, everyone curious, everyone watching. The yard was bright with lights and a crowd was gathering and Kent stood before them. It felt almost familiar, except for the helplessness. He had no control here. He could make no adjustments, he could affect no outcome.

Salter arrived just as officers with gloved hands were removing the photographs from the front door. It had been more than thirty minutes; other officers had conducted the first round of interviews and then told him to wait on Salter. Why Salter was taking so long was not clear. When he finally appeared, Kent looked at him and said, “I thought it was done.”

“It’s not,” Salter said. His voice was tired. Sad, even. He watched his officers at work and then said, “I guess I’ll need to see if they’re the same.”

“The same?”

“You were not the only recipient, Coach. Photographs were also left for Rachel Bond’s mother. That’s where I’ve been.”

Kent just stared at him. Beth whispered, “Dear God.”

“Her mother,” Kent said, and he thought that he would be sick, those three unfamiliar beers roiling his stomach.

“Yeah,” Salter said, and there was no mistaking the man’s fatigue and sorrow now. “Let me review the pictures, and then we need to go somewhere away from here to talk.”

“All right.”

Salter crossed the yard and went to speak to his team, and across the street a neighbor called out to Kent, asking if everyone was safe. He didn’t answer. Beth lifted a hand and nodded but did not speak either. She wrapped an arm around Kent and lowered her face to his chest and said, “Who is it? Who is doing this?”

He had no answer. He thought he had known, he’d been sure of it, but the only certainty now was that the terror had not ended.

Salter studied the photographs, said a few more words to the officers on the porch, and then returned to them.

“We’re going to take you to a hotel, Mrs. Austin. You and your children, if that’s all right with you. I’d like to be certain of where you are, and I’d like to have one of my officers with you.”

“Okay. Yes, that’s okay.”

“What about Penny Gootee?” Kent said.

“She refused, unfortunately. She asked us to leave. Demanded it.”

“She’s alone.”

“Yes. We have a car nearby, though.” Salter ran a hand over his face and said, “If you could come back to the station with me, Coach, it would be a help.”

Kent said good-bye to Beth, gave her an empty kiss, and watched as a uniformed officer escorted her across the street to get their children. Salter put a hand on his arm and guided him toward his car. Up and down the street, the neighbors watched.

“He’s dead,” Kent told Salter, as if the lieutenant were unaware.

“Clayton Sipes is dead,” Salter agreed. “That doesn’t mean Rachel Bond’s killer is dead.”

“He did it,” Kent said.

“No, Coach, he did not.” Salter opened the passenger door of his unmarked car for Kent. “In fact, he was at your football game the night she was murdered.”

Kent was in the seat and the door was closed before he could respond. When Salter got in on the other side and started the engine, Kent said, “He was at the game? That night?”

“Yes.”

“How can you be sure?”

“We went through the newspaper’s photographs. They ran two pictures of the game, but they took about a thousand. He’s in three of the crowd shots.”

The rain started again as they drove away. Kent sat in stunned silence. He did not speak until they were out of the neighborhood. Then he said, “He could have been at the game and still killed her.”

“Not based on the scenarios the coroner gave us. Certainly not very likely.”

“You found him in pictures? Why wasn’t I told?”

“That was the FBI’s decision, not mine. I suggested it, and I was overruled. I understood their position, though. We’re trying to resolve a complex situation, and updating civilians is not a priority, nor is it a help, necessarily.”

“But he came to my house, with a gun. He admitted that he had killed her.”

“You said that he did not. I asked you specifically, and you said that it was implied, not stated outright.”

“I know that, but, still… it had to be him, Salter. He could have left the game and—”

“No.” Salter shook his head. “The timeline does not make that likely, and other evidence suggests it is even more improbable. He wasn’t working alone, Coach. And what happened tonight should remove your doubts. Clayton Sipes did not put those pictures on your door.”

He certainly had not. Kent stared at the dark road ahead and listened to the windshield wipers thump.

“He didn’t just show up out of nowhere,” he said. “He had to be involved.”

“He was clearly involved. But he didn’t kill the girl.”

“Then who did?”

“Agent Dean would like to talk to you about that. I’ll let him handle it. It’s become part of his investigation.”

“Part?”

Salter nodded. “You’re a piece of a complex situation, Coach. You and Sipes both. And while it might have seemed like a very good thing to you to have Sipes removed, it ultimately might be a problem.”

“How?”

“He was a link we needed,” Salter said. “He was someone who understood, and who maybe could have helped. Maybe. Now that’s gone.”