The Prophet by Michael Koryta Read Free Book Online

news, and all Adam wanted to see were the scores ticking by at the bottom of the screen. He wanted to know who was coming at his brother’s team from the other side of the bracket. The only team in the state that posed a real risk was probably Saint Anthony’s, a program that had dominated Kent’s squad consistently. They’d won, of course. By forty points. A confident thrashing. Chambers, on the other hand, had advanced with a win that felt more like a sigh of relief.
    “Too close, Franchise,” Adam muttered as he thought about it, using a nickname that only one other person in the world had ever called his younger brother. “Way too close.”
    Kent had probably spent the past week preaching them up instead of teaching them to hit. That was his way. But they’d gotten the job done, they were 11–0, and the state title was no longer a dream for this town, it was an expectation. How his brother would handle that remained to be seen. Perhaps some of the Psalms would be forfeited in favor of the lessons of Lombardi, and the teachings of Paul would come to mean one man and one man only: Paul Brown.
    Behind Adam there were three girls working the stage and maybe two dozen rednecks shoving bills at them. Every now and then somebody who’d just sold a used jet ski or some such bullshit would get giddy over his fortune and flash a twenty, but mostly these girls were dancing for dollars quite literally. Adam kept his back to them. He was waiting for the appearance of one Jerry Norris, who hadn’t deemed Thursday’s court appearance worth his time. Jerry hadn’t shown yet, which suggested one of two things: he was too wasted to make it to the titty bar, or he had been tipped off to Adam’s presence by a friend.
    Adam meant to leave at midnight, but Davey poured him a shot of Jim Beam on the house, and it was sacrilege to pass on free whiskey. By the time it was gone, he felt a little less tired and a Drive-By Truckers song was playing on the computerized bastard imposter of a jukebox and he thought he might as well have one more last beer.
    He’d had three last beers before the phone call came. He felt no surprise; the calls that came for him often came at this time of night. It was late and he was tired, but this would be money calling, and when money called, it didn’t matter if it was late and you were tired. Hell, in his business, money rarely called at otherhours. When it turned out to be Stan Salter, he was surprised but not stunned. He dealt with police too often for that.
    “Which one of my favorites has done what?” he asked.
    “It’s not that kind of situation,” Salter said. “We’re going to need to talk to you in person, Adam. You good to drive in, or should I send someone out to get you?”
    “The hell you talking about?”
    “Homicide,” Salter said. “When I say I need to talk to you, I mean
now.
”
    This wouldn’t be the first time one of Adam’s charges had killed somebody—it would, in fact, be the third—but it was never a pleasant experience.
    “Who did it?” he asked.
    “Adam, it’s not that kind of case. We need to talk to you about the victim. I’ve been told you spoke with her recently.”
    “Name?”
    “I said we’re going to need to speak in person.”
    “And we will. I can still hear the damn name.”
    There was a hesitation, and then Salter said, “Rachel Bond.”
    “Don’t know her,” Adam said. He wouldn’t have forgotten posting bond for someone named Bond. That shit would stick with you.
    “We’re hearing otherwise.”
    Rachel,
he thought.
Rachel. Was that the woman who came in all bruised up, asking to get her husband out?
    “Blond chick, ’bout thirty?” he said. “Husband’s name is Roger?”
    “No,” Salter said. “Brunette, and she wasn’t about thirty. She was exactly seventeen. Came to you to ask for help finding her father.”
    “That’s not right. No. That girl… her name was April. She was a college student.”
    But he was remembering