The Prophet (36 page)

They agreed.

“We are going to get downfield and put that ball in the end
zone on the first possession,” he said. “Two-score game then. And when they get it back, we are bringing the house. Linebackers, are you ready to hit?”

Shouts of “yes, sir!” echoed around him. He nodded. “Blow those kids up, understand me? Blow them up. Does a blocker get credit for a tackle or a gained yard?”

“No.”

“Does a blocker make the play happen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If we don’t leave people on the ground, we don’t deserve to be on this football field.”

There was some fire coming back, he could see it, could feel it.

“We are not taking a loss from this team tonight,” he told them. “It’s not happening.”

They were shouting now, clapping, and Matt Byers was grinning in the back of the room, and Kent was almost frightened by just how good he felt, how alive.

“I want to see hitters out there,” he told them. “I want to see hitters.”

Adam had feared a blowout was in the offing, but what he saw was aggression and execution. They didn’t look hurried, didn’t look bothered by the deficit, Lorell McCoy so calm in the pocket you would have thought he’d just emerged from meditation. He got hit twice for losses, and twice Mears dropped balls that could have been big gains, but each time McCoy came back without a trace of frustration and converted. They scored to cut it to 20–10, and then the defense stunned Adam and everyone else in the stadium—including Sonnefeld—by blitzing on three straight downs. Saint Anthony’s punted, McCoy drove Chambers right back, and as the fourth quarter started, it was 20–17.

“Ball game here,” Adam whispered in Chelsea’s ear. “We’ve got a ball game here.”

Saint Anthony’s regained momentum with a pair of first downs but then Damon Ritter blew through the middle, sacked Sonnefeld, and forced a fumble. Chambers came out in the shotgun immediately and scored on one play. The extra point was good: 24–20, Chambers.

The crowd was going insane, and Adam heard Chelsea laughing and looked down.

“What?” he said.

She held her arm out, pulled up her shirtsleeve. Goosebumps. He smiled, squeezed her shoulders, and said, “Let’s see if he can finish.”

Kent knew they’d score again. His defense was playing superbly, swarming to the ball, but Scott Bless had not coached his way to two state titles without a few tricks up his sleeve.

He used one now, a double reverse that gained forty yards, and then on the next play Sonnefeld rolled right, looked downfield, and found nothing. He was a half-step away from a sack when he cut back inside, seeing a hole that only great players see, and then he was free and into the end zone.

“We’re all right,” Kent said. “We’re all right.”

He believed it, too. They were dominating this half in the way Saint Anthony’s had the first, and the extra point was going to make it 27–24, meaning they only needed to get into field goal range to force overtime. Then Saint Anthony’s came out and lined up to go for two, and Kent looked at Matt Byers and said, “Is he serious?”

If they didn’t make the two-point conversion, Chambers could win on a field goal. Bless had no interest in overtime, it seemed. He was ready to finish it, one way or the other.

Saint Anthony’s scored on a jet sweep, blocking perfectly, the running back never touched: 28–24. Touchdown mandatory now. Across the field, Scott Bless leaned forward, hands on his knees, impassive, and Kent felt a wild desire to tip his cap to the man.

“They asked for it,” he told his offense in the huddle, “now let’s give it to them. That was a risky play call, and do you know why they made it? Because they’re scared of you, gentlemen. They’re scared. Show them why.”

When Saint Anthony’s got into the end zone for two, Adam said, “Son of a bitch,” lowered his face, and buried it in Chelsea’s hair.

“I thought they’d kick it,” she said.

“Yeah.” Her and everyone else. Chambers had to put it in the end zone now, and with that clock running, they’d have to pass to do it.

“I hope he makes a play,” Adam said, looking up again. “Damn, I hope he makes a play.”

“Rachel’s boyfriend?”

“Yeah.” His mouth was dry. He’d forgotten just how much it could mean, this game, had forgotten the way your heart raced and your fingertips tingled and your lungs couldn’t fill. He wanted to be out there, he wanted to make a hit, and he was forty damn years old. Was that wonderful, or was that sad?

“Let’s go, Franchise,” he said. “Don’t panic. You got time.”

Chambers took the field with Colin Mears split out wide right, tensed and ready. It was clear that he still thought he would make the catches. He really did. It could break your heart, watching him.

“First down,” Kent shouted to Lorell. “That’s all we need right now. Play patient.”

Lorell played patient. Handed the ball off to Justin Payne for six, then picked up five with a pass to the slot receiver. Payne again, four more, and then Lorell got loose on the outside but was tackled short of the first down and couldn’t get out of bounds to stop the clock. Now time was an issue; the clock was under a minute and still rolling.

“Get a yard,” Kent said. “Just get one.”

Lorell got two before being knocked out of bounds. First down, clock stopped. Twenty-one seconds left. Ball on the Saint Anthony’s forty-two.

Lorell came to the sidelines, looking for a play call, and Kent told him the formation and then said, “Take what they give you, son.”

What they gave him was Mears. Colin exploded on the same hitch route he’d run to start the game, when he’d caught the ball but fumbled. Lorell looked right, saw him, and drew his arm back. Then tucked the ball and ran. Darted upfield, gained twelve yards, and called the team’s last timeout. On the five-yard line, where he’d ended up uncovered, Colin turned and stared at his quarterback with hands on hips.

“Bring it in here!” Kent shouted. There were only eleven seconds left, they were out of timeouts, and they needed a touchdown. Had to put the football in the air, because an incomplete pass would stop the clock and give them another chance, but a run would not. The offense came over, huddled, and before Kent could get a word out, Colin Mears said, “I’ll catch the ball.”

For a moment, nobody answered. Colin had been looking at Lorell, but now he turned to Kent. “I’ll make the catch. I’m telling you, I will make the catch.”

Kent squinted into the rain. Nodded once. “I know you will. What play do you want?”

“Slant. He takes my outside hip every time. I can kill him on a slant.”

“All right,” Kent told his team. “You heard the man.”

They broke the huddle, and Colin led the way out onto the field, clapping his gloved hands. Kent hesitated for a split second, then ran two steps out and snagged Lorell’s arm.

“Check down to Justin,” he said.

“Coach?” Lorell’s dark eyes were confused but focused, ready to listen, ready to execute as instructed. Kent grabbed the back of his helmet and pulled their faces together.

“Play action to Justin, stay out of trouble, and then hit him going up the seam. They’ll lose him after the fake. They’ll pursue the ball, and he’ll be open. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kent slapped him on the back and returned to the sideline. His team lined up, Lorell barked the count, took the snap, turned, and faked the handoff. Nobody was fooled, they knew Chambers wouldn’t run in this situation. They chased after Lorell, pursuing the ball, and Payne slipped up the middle. Colin had executed a perfect route, digging hard, right to left, wide open on the slant just as he’d predicted. Wide open. Lorell glanced at him as he slid backwards, away from the defenders, and then he brought the ball back and fired it away.

Payne up the seam. Justin caught it, secured it, barreled forward. Took a hard shot on the one-yard line but it wasn’t enough, he was across and through.

Touchdown.

Ball game.

Kent raised his arms, signaling the score, and then Byers was screaming in his ear—
We finally got the bastards!—
and the band was playing and the crowd was roaring.

Final score, 30–28. Saint Anthony’s vanquished, Scott Bless
finally beaten. Two games left to play, and then the trophy was in the case.

In the end zone, where he’d found himself free and clear, running the route he’d guaranteed would work, Colin Mears walked first to Justin Payne, then to Lorell McCoy, and hugged them both.

Chelsea was screaming like one of the kids. When she spun to face Adam, her eyes were bright, her smile wide.

“They won!” She put her hands on his shoulders and shook him. “They won! You aren’t even going to
smile?
”

“Two games left to play,” Adam said. “Don’t rush the smile.”

“You can let yourself be a
little
happy, can’t you?”

“A little.” He knew that he should be happy. This was a huge win for his brother, this was the win he needed most. Or wanted most, at least. He’d called it perfectly, too. That route to Justin Payne was brilliant. It had surprised everyone, even Adam. Maybe Adam more than most, in fact, because Adam had watched Colin Mears blow clear on the slant, had seen him crossing the end zone with nobody in reach, and had been certain that Kent would put the ball in his hands, to win or to lose. Foolish football, with the way Mears had been playing, but even so Adam had been sure Kent would give him the chance.

He couldn’t figure out why he felt so strangely sad that Kent had gone the other way.

K
ENT 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.