Covenant (2 page)

            “So do you cross it anyway?”

            Dad stared at him.  His gaze was so intense, so
furious
, that Anthony felt something inside him shrink, and he abruptly decided that he didn’t want to know what could make his father that angry.

            “If the line is worth crossing—yes,” Dad said, iron in his voice.  “You’ve gotta have the good sense to know the difference between doing it for pride, and doing it because it’s the right thing to do.”

            “Always do the right thing,” Anthony said automatically.  It was one of his dad’s favorite sayings.

            “Good to know you’ve been listening during these father-son chats of ours.”  Dad smiled, eyes brightening once more.  He nodded toward Anthony’s rod.  “Hey, check it out.  I think you got something there.”

            A fish tugged at the line.  The lake was full of cod, perch, and bass, some of them quite large, and this one was pulling so forcefully that it might be a big one. 

            Grabbing hold of the spinning reel, Anthony stood.  He lifted the tip of the rod, turned the handle of his reel.

            The fish jerked at the bait, yanking him forward.  Anthony nearly lost his balance, but his father placed a steadying hand on his arm.

            “Easy now, son.  Draw it in, nice and slow.”

            “I think it’s a huge one.”

            “You can handle it.”  His father prepared the landing net, as if Anthony catching the fish was a foregone conclusion.

            Heart knocking, Anthony wound the reel.  The fish fought him with each turn, but Anthony dug his feet in, and kept spinning.

            “There you go, Junior.  You’ve got it, keep it coming.”

            With a triumphant yell, Anthony tore the fish out of the water.  The fish flailed on the line, a gorgeous largemouth bass, gleaming like quicksilver in the sunshine. 

            “Whoa!” Anthony shouted.  “Look at him!” 

            “Hell, looks like it might be a ten-pounder.” Dad rubbed his hands together.  “Bring him home.”

            Anthony swung the rod around and lowered his catch into the awaiting net.  Dad looked up from the flopping fish, grinned.

            “Guess what we’ll be eating tonight?”

            “Not snake,” Anthony said.

            Laughing, Dad slapped him five.  He bent to the net to attend to the fish.

            The crack of a rifle shattered the morning, much louder than the distant gunfire he’d heard a few minutes ago.

            Although he and his father didn’t hunt, Anthony had heard rifles discharge many times during their fishing trips, had seen the hunters in their blaze orange vests and hats entering the woods to stalk deer and quail.  Hunters were supposed to keep to the northern side of the lake, but this shot sounded as if it had come from nearby, behind them.

            Turning, Anthony looked to the shore. 

            A couple of hundred yards away, a figure raced away from the banks and into the forest.  The person didn’t wear the orange vest of a licensed hunter.  He wore dark clothing and moved like a fleeting shadow through the pine trees.

            Knowing instinctively there was something wrong about what he was seeing, Anthony felt his insides seize up with cold dread.

            Dad gasped.  “Junior . . .”

            Anthony spun.  Dad had dropped into his seat.  Bright blood soaked the front of his shirt.

            Anthony couldn’t breathe.  Couldn’t move.  Couldn’t think.

            His father’s eyes rolled.  He clutched at his chest, where there was so much blood, oh God, more blood than Anthony had ever seen in his life. 

            Although his father’s glasses hung askew on his face, his gaze fastened firmly on Anthony, lips quivering.

“I love you . . . and . . . your sister, your mom . . . . tell them . . . I’m sorry . . . .”

            He spilled forward and hit the floor of the boat, body as lifeless as the fish in the net. 

            Soon after, a boy’s scream echoed across the lake.

Part One
The Ghosts of the Past

1

Fifteen years later

            Anthony was running late.  He was supposed to meet his wife for lunch at noon, and as usual, Atlanta traffic was uncooperative.  It was five minutes to twelve, and though he was only a mile away from the restaurant in Midtown, traffic looked as if it would turn the rest of his drive into a frustrating, half-hour ordeal.

            He brought his Chevy Tahoe to a stop at a red light.  The day was far from over, but it had already proven to be as awful as he’d expected. 

            The anniversary of his dad’s death always was.

            The searing June sunshine bounced off the windshields of oncoming cars, boring like laser rays into his brain and intensifying the dull headache that had dogged him all day.  He slid on a pair of sunglasses, but the headache remained.

            Located between downtown on the south and Buckhead on the north, Midtown was a bustling district of high-rise condos, trendy restaurants and boutiques, corporate headquarters, art venues, and lately, it seemed, endless construction projects.  Ahead, Peachtree Street narrowed to one miserable northbound lane, while construction crews on break gabbed on cell phones and gawked at women strolling past in short skirts.   

            He was looking forward to lunch with Lisa, but he wondered if he should have stayed in and saved himself some aggravation.  Although moping around at home, chest tight with emotion he couldn’t eradicate, probably wouldn’t have been much better.  Lisa, well aware of how he tended to brood around this time of year, had lured him out of the house to try to cheer him up—but what she failed to accept was that nothing would truly cheer him up on that day.

            The light switched to green.  He inched through the intersection, saw a side street ahead, and swung a sharp left at the corner.  The road was empty of traffic and intersected West Peachtree, which paralleled Peachtree Street for a good distance, far enough to carry him to his destination. 

            Problem solved. 

            Five minutes past noon, he pulled into an asphalt parking lot across the street from the restaurant.  He hurried inside, smoothing down his rumpled button-down shirt and cargo shorts, absently twisting the band of his father’s silver Seiko.

            Gordon Biersch was a brewpub that created micro-brews on the premises.  It had a sort of Industrial décor: high ceilings, hardwood floors, leather booths, and a large, polished wood bar.  The beer was brewed in giant steel tanks partly visible through windows near the back of the building. 

            The place was packed with the business lunch crowd: fresh-faced college grads in Polo shirts and khakis or bright blouses and skirts, Blackberries clipped to their waists and company-issued ID badges dangling around their necks from lanyards.  The youngish wait staff, attired in black, moved about with calm efficiency, balancing pints of beer on trays.

            Anthony spotted Lisa waving at him from a booth on the far side of the dining room.  She rose to meet him and clutched him in a tight embrace.

            “Sorry I’m a little late.”  He kissed her on the cheek.  “The usual traffic issues.”

            “Gotta love the ATL, baby.”

            Lisa wore a tan, double-breasted pantsuit, and black pumps.  Elegant diamond studs twinkled in her ears, and a small gold cross dangled around her neck.  Her dark brown hair was styled in a cute bob that framed her fine-boned sienna face and accentuated her cinnamon eyes.

            Whenever Anthony looked at his wife, his heart rate kicked up a notch.  Of course, she was fine—with her tight dancer’s body, baby-smooth complexion, soft full lips, and big eyes a man could lose himself in, she demanded attention wherever she went.  When their paths had crossed four years ago at a Memorial Day cookout hosted by a mutual friend, he had to admit that his initial, intoxicating attraction to her had been purely physical.  Within five minutes of talking to her, however, he realized she was much, much more than just a pretty face and knockout figure.

            He’d been doing his own thing, recently discharged from the Marine Corps, high on a lucrative book deal and planning to enjoy his status as an eligible bachelor, but meeting Lisa changed everything.  A year and a half after they met, they married.  Three years into matrimony, he could honestly say, much to the chagrin of his single buddies, that every moment he spent with her was the best part of his day. 

            Especially on a day such as that one.

            Lisa sipped her iced tea.  “How’re things going?”

            “I haven’t written a word all morning, I forgot to shave, and I’ve got a killer headache.  But I’m glad to see you.”

            She reached across the table and took his hand.  Her touch was warm.

            “If you want, I can leave the office early,” she said.  Her voice lowered, and a seductive glint came into her eyes.  “Keep you company . . . and make wild, passionate love to you.” 

            “Now that’s a tempting offer.”

            “But?”

            “After lunch I was planning to visit the gravesite.”

            “Of course.”  She squeezed his hand.  “Want me to come with?”

            “You don’t want to come, Lisa.  I’ll be in an even worse mood than I’m in now.”

            The waiter stopped by the table.  He was a tall twenty-something with reddish hair and wrists as thin as bamboo sticks.  Anthony knew instantly from the man’s effeminate demeanor that he had a dash of sugar in his tank, as his mother would have called it; Midtown was known for its large population of gays and lesbians.

            Anthony ordered a pint of dunkles, one of the house lagers.  Lisa regarded him with a cocked eyebrow. 

            He shrugged.  “What the hell, I’m off the clock for the rest of the day.”

            “You’ve still got plenty of time to finish the book.  It’s due when?  November?”

            “End of October.”

            “I’m looking forward to reading it.” 

            He grunted.  “I’m looking forward to finishing it.” 

            His work-in-progress was his fifth novel, the latest installment in a crime series.  He had been writing crime stories since he was fifteen, and with the exception of poems, reports, and essays for high school English classes, had never written anything else.  Although he’d once entertained fantasies of becoming a sports writer like his dad, the prospect of chronicling athletes paid outrageous sums of money to play games was about as appealing to him as working as a clown in a traveling circus.

            Crime writing was different.  Although fiction, it was relevant to him in a way that sports journalism would never be, more relevant to him than his readers—and there were, surprisingly, legions of them—would ever realize.

            The waiter delivered his beer.  Anthony took a sip of the light, smooth brew and requested a minute to skim the menu.

            “Have you talked to Danielle today?” Lisa asked.

            “I called her cell and left a message.  She hasn’t called me back.  Big surprise.”

            “Right.”  Lisa rolled her eyes.  “Are you going to visit the site without her then?”

            “Looks like it.”  He dropped the menu on the table.  “Anyway, let’s talk about something else.   How’s your day been doing?”    

            “My day’s been great so far.  I could tell you about the intellectual property rights contract I drew up on this morning, but that would bore you to tears.” 

            Lisa worked as general counsel at a technology consulting company in Buckhead, writing contracts and handling other legal matters.  When she’d graduated from Emory law school several years ago, she’d joined one of Atlanta’s top firms as an associate, but had tired of seventy-hour work weeks and the all-consuming need to generate billable hours.  Being general counsel position offered her a chance to work an eight-hour-day, without the stresses of a pressure-cooker law firm environment.     

            “But I’ve got some good news,” she said.

            “I could use some of that.  They’re giving you a raise?”

            “Nope.  Lauren’s pregnant!”

            Lisa was the eldest of three sisters.  Lauren was the middle girl.  She and her husband had been trying to start a family for a while. 

            He knew where this conversation was headed, but he said only, “Really?  Wow, that’s great news.  You’re going to be an auntie.  Congrats.”

            “It’s exciting.”  She folded her arms on the table, leaned in closer.  “Being an auntie will be fun, but I’d love to be a mother.”

            “I’d love to order lunch.”  He made an exaggerated display of studying the menu.  “I think I’m going to order a burger.  How about you?”

            “Ha, ha, you’re such a comedian.  I didn’t know I’d married Eddie Murphy.”

            “You didn’t.  Eddie Murphy has kids—lots of them.  I don’t want any kids.”

            “Come on, you would make such beautiful babies.  I bet they’d have your eyes, your honey-brown complexion, your cute dimples.”

            “My brooding demeanor.”

            “You aren’t a brooder.  You talk to me.”

            “My cynicism.”

            She smiled a little.  “Well . . . .”

            The waiter returned.  Anthony asked for the mushroom Swiss burger and garlic fries, and Lisa ordered a chicken Caesar salad. 

            After the server departed, Lisa turned a questioning look on him.  Inwardly, he groaned.  She wasn’t ready to let this go yet.

            He said, “All right, listen, when we first started dating, what did I say when you asked me if I wanted to have kids?  Didn’t I say I don’t want kids?”