The Prophet (27 page)

Adam had dragged out a sheet of plywood, something they used for holding targets in place. He stood fifteen feet in front of it, pointed the revolver, and fired twice. Clouds of woodchips flew into the air.

“Trust me,” he said. “That’ll put him down. And then…” He walked over to the plywood, placed the barrel just an inch away from its surface, and fired again. This time a .45-caliber bullet blasted through. “You make sure he stays down.”

He looked back at Kent. “Can you do that? Because you’re going to need to. The shotgun rounds will drop him, but they won’t keep him down. Not a four-ten shell, which is what this takes. So you’ll need to be able to finish it. Can you do that?”

“I hope not to have the opportunity to find out.”

“Can you do it?”
Adam said. “Because otherwise, there’s no point, Kent. Go buy some pepper spray and hope the neighbors hear when Beth screams.”

Kent winced. Then he extended his hand for the gun.

“If he is in my home, and I need to defend my family, yes, I can put him down. I will.”

Adam nodded, then spun the cylinder open to reload.

“Let’s see how you like it,” he said.

Kent shot thirty of the shotgun shells and fifty of the .45 bullets. His hand was steady and his aim wasn’t bad at all. An old quarterback. The hand-eye coordination hadn’t left him yet.

“If you can do that,” Adam said, watching him, “you’ll be fine. Just remember to
finish
it. Don’t leave him on the floor and go for the phone. Finish it.”

Kent turned the gun over in his hand, studying it.

“Pretty nasty weapon.”

“It is. Not a very accurate pistol, but for close-range self-defense, I think it’s the best thing out there.”

“What kind is it?”

“A Taurus. The model is called the Judge.”

Kent seemed uncomfortable with the name, which was funny, because it had never struck Adam as having any significance. “The idea was that a judge would wear it in court, I think,” he said. “Close-quarters protection, you know, if some lunatic rushed the bench or whatever.”

“All right. Listen, I appreciate it. The gun and your time.”

“Stop, Kent. It’s my niece and nephew you’re talking about. I know you don’t want to worry Beth, but I could work nights outside the house. She’d never know I was there.”

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea, with the police going by all the time. They’d notice you, and with the situation you’ve got right now…”

“I’ll deal with it,” Adam said. The wind was blowing hard, flattening the dead grass around them, a few raindrops beginning to spit out of a gray sky. “Keep this in mind, though: you don’t want to come across a day when you wish you’d asked me. Remember that.”

“You’re willing to?”

“I’d like to.”

“I can pay you. It’s a job, and I wouldn’t—”

“Are you really saying that to me?”

Kent stopped talking and nodded. “Sorry. And, yeah, if you don’t mind… maybe just tonight at least. Until I hear from the police. I’m sure it will be soon.”

“Right,” Adam said. “It will be soon. Now, do you want to tell me about this asshole? You say you
saw
him. Spoke with him.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know him? Can you identify him?”

“I know him.”

“Yeah?” Adam’s heart rate had been up all morning. Now it seemed to slow, as if his blood had thickened, and he had to wet his lips before he spoke again. “If you’re so confident, and the police already are looking at this guy, why hasn’t there been an arrest?”

“He’s missing.”

“Missing.”

“Was released from prison this summer. Hasn’t made his parole meetings. There was already an arrest warrant. They’re looking for him.”

Of course there was already a warrant. Of course they had already been looking for him. Of course they had fucking lost him and not bothered to find him before this.

“Who is it?” Adam said.

Kent was silent, eyes back on the gun, still turning it over in his hands, adjusting his fingers around the grips as if they were laces on a football. Adam remembered the way he’d looked when he knew the defense was going to bring a blitz. So restless, so amped. He’d execute against it just fine, but Adam had always hated the body language he displayed in the pocket when pressure was coming. Even though he could handle it, he looked like he couldn’t. He looked scared. Today Adam watched him handle the gun and thought,
He knows, damn it, he knows this prick’s name, and he will not tell me.
The anger began to surge and he fought it back, reached out and grabbed Kent’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Tell you what, Franchise. You asked me for a favor, and I granted it today. I’m going to do the same now.”

“Adam, the police told me that I had to—”

“Let me get the favor out before you say no,” Adam said.

Kent glanced at the hand that was still on his shoulder. The flesh over the knuckles was swollen and dark. “What is it?”

“There’s a place I’d like you to see.”

“What’s that?”

“The spot where Rachel Bond died,” Adam said.

“I don’t need to see that, Adam. And you shouldn’t be there.”

“I’d like you to have a look.”

After a long time, still staring at Adam’s bruised hand, Kent nodded.

T
HEY 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.”

C
LAYTON SIPES HAD EARNED
his sentence at Mansfield for sexual assault and stalking. He’d been twenty-nine when he went in, was thirty-four when he walked out.

And vanished.

August. The same month Rachel Bond’s supposed father had contacted her to inform her of his release.

While he read about Sipes, Adam smoked four cigarettes in the time he usually allotted for one, not realizing it until he picked up the pack and was startled to find it empty. There was a tightness along the back of his skull. Too much nicotine, too fast.

The tightness didn’t go away when he stopped smoking, though. It spread into his neck as he sat at the computer and studied the newspaper accounts. Sipes was from Cleveland, and had been arrested there, a janitor at Case Western Reserve who’d taken an unhealthy interest in a twenty-one-year-old engineering student at the school. The first complaint from the victim had been made three years prior to the final arrest, proving that it was not a passing fancy. Clayton Sipes, the Gideon who’d
tracked Rachel Bond, was a patient man. Devoted, diligent. Kent was not likely wrong in his assessment of the man’s guilt. Sipes fit the profile.

After multiple unsettling encounters with Sipes, the victim had finally contacted the campus police, saying she felt intimidated. Sipes was warned to keep his distance, but he was not charged. Five months later, having failed to keep his distance, he was fired from the school and charged with harassment. The charges were dropped, but Clayton’s interest in his victim was not. Over the following two years, he appeared again and again. Calls were made to the police, investigations were conducted, but Sipes had alibis, and no further charges were filed. It wasn’t until three years after he first showed interest in the woman that he was finally arrested on her porch, carrying a .357 and wanting to talk to her about the way she was ignoring her destiny, while fondling her breasts and smelling her hair. She managed to hit redial on her cell phone while it was in her pocket; a friend picked up and, thankfully, amazingly, listened instead of dismissing it as an accidental call. Heard enough to hang up and dial 911 and the police found them there on the porch. Sipes was charged with violating a restraining order, sexual assault, stalking, and attempted kidnapping. The last charge was dropped, and he was sentenced to eight years, which meant with good behavior he’d walked in five.