Covenant Read online

  He went inside. He took the Beretta with him, wearing it concealed in his in-the-waistband holster. Perhaps he was being a little paranoid, but until he knew what was going on he didn’t want to be separated from his piece again.

  The front door was unlocked.

  “Hey!” he said. “Anybody here?”

  No answer. But he heard hip hop music thumping from upstairs. Reuben was home.

  Rather than heading immediately to the second floor, he wandered down the carpeted hallway, navigating around the clutter—empty bags from fast food restaurants, old shoes, pieces of junk mail. The stink of cigarettes hung in the stale air, mingled with the faint scent of marijuana, the ghost of his sister’s countless highs.

  He had to resist the compulsion to tidy up the place. He hadn’t come there to do house cleaning.

  A chain of photographs lined the hallway wall. Baby photos of Anthony and Danielle. Pictures of Anthony and his dad at Anthony’s Little League baseball games. A portrait of his dad, somber in a gray suit. A shot of his mother, a beautiful auburn-haired woman with a gentle smile. Photographs of the entire family together, everyone grinning.

  All of the photos on the wall had been taken before his dad’s murder, as if the entire family had died with him on the lake.

  Near the end of the hallway, there was a door on the left. It was closed, as usual.

  He opened it, and entered his father’s study.

  The room had been largely undisturbed since his dad’s death. Mom had been unable to commit to clearing it out, and neither he nor Danielle had been up to the grim task.

  It was furnished with an oak desk, a swivel chair, an oak bookcase stuffed with his dad’s beloved history books and sports bios. An upholstered reading chair and a floor lamp. A filing cabinet full of ancient, irrelevant documents. Autographed photos of his father posing with pro athletes crowding the walls, interspersed among framed copies of various sports stories he had written and the numerous award plaques he had won for his journalism.

  Dust covered everything, and fragile spider webs hung from the corners and between pieces of furniture. Although his mother hadn’t removed any of the items from the room, she had used to clean it regularly, as if keeping it tidy for his dad’s eventual return. Since her death, no one had touched it.

  Holding back a sneeze, he sat at the desk.

  A black Underwood typewriter with faded keys occupied the desktop, accompanied by a Mason jar full of dull lead pencils and dried-out ink pens. Three photographs crowded the edge of the desk: Mom and Dad together on a Caribbean cruise ship; Danielle and Dad dressed to the nines for a church-sponsored father-daughter dance; Anthony and Dad on a fishing trip, holding up their catches for the camera.

  He picked up the fishing trip photo. He traced his finger across his father’s face.

  They said that time healed all wounds, but that was bullshit. Some wounds, time allowed to fester and spread, until they had consumed body, mind, and soul. Those wounds had taken down his mother in her prime, sent his sister plummeting down a long, bleak chasm of addiction . . . and him . . . well, he woke up every morning wondering if that would be the day he would finally die of a violent crime.

  As he often did, he imagined that he could speak to his dad through the old picture.

  What were you involved in, Dad? Why did someone want to hurt you?

  He looked around the study again. Over the years, he had turned the room upside down and inside out, in a fruitless hunt for clues. Nothing would be gained from another search. The revelation promised by the messenger, fraudulent as it might be, was the only lead he had, and he wanted it to be genuine with a desire so intense that his heart clutched.

  The wicked watcheth the righteous, and seeketh to slay him.

  He stared at his dad’s eyes, suspended forever in a better time.

  Who had been watching you, Dad?

  Sometimes, he awoke from nightmares of reliving the morning on the lake, woke convinced that he had his father’s blood on his hands, blood that had drenched his palms when he’d held his dad to his chest and screamed until his vocal cords gave out. He would stumble into the bathroom and submerge his hands under scalding hot water, though they were clean, but he had to wash the

  dream blood away, had to wash away the memory of the wetness, the cloying coppery odor. Lisa had entered the restroom late one night when he was scrubbing at the ghost blood, her eyes alarmed, and when he’d muttered, “the blood, I have to get the blood off,” she’d come to him, turned off the water, gently dried his hands with a towel, led him back to bed, and held him to her bosom until he drifted back to sleep.

  He didn’t want any more of those ghost blood dreams. He didn’t want any more days like today, when he awoke with a grinding headache, as if nursing a bad hangover.

  What he wanted was what he’d always wanted: justice.

  And he vowed that no matter what, one way or another, he was going to get it. And soon.

  4

  The condemned man lived in the north metro suburb of Alpharetta, in a four-bedroom, three-bath home with stucco exterior. Entering the gourmet kitchen, Noah Cutty helped himself to the contents of the double-door refrigerator.

  The wide shelves contained bottled water, orange juice, eggs, margarine, condiments, a cardboard box of left-over pizza, a container of milk past the expiration date, and a twelve-pack of Bud Lite missing half the bottles. Stored in the freezer were an array of Hungry Man frozen dinners, and a half-gallon tub of butter pecan ice cream.

  Cutty removed the pizza, milk, frozen dinners, and ice cream and dumped them in the trash. He twisted the cap off each beer bottle and poured the amber fluid down the sink drain, lips curling as the corrupting stench reached his nostrils.

  The body was a temple, and fatty foods and over-processed meals defiled it. Alcoholic beverages of any kind—with the exception of the Eucharist—were a lure of the devil, and had no place in a proper home.

  The large kitchen island had a gleaming wood top. On it, there was a crystal bowl of fresh fruit: green apples, bananas, oranges.

  He selected an apple and took a tiny bite. Taking small bites and chewing thoroughly before swallowing promoted proper digestion and kept the temple in peak condition.

  Nibbling on the apple, he left the kitchen for the hallway.

  The target was a divorcee with an adult son in college in Alabama. He lived alone, and until his arrival, Cutty was free to peruse the house at his leisure, as he often did before executing orders. He liked to become acquainted with his targets, to learn of their lives and, especially, of their sins, of which there were always so many.

  In the hallway, afternoon sunshine slanted through the arched window at the far end of the two-story foyer and imparted a lustrous shine to the travertine floor. Framed photographs of landscapes—a desert at twilight, a snowy mountain summit at sunrise, a sunny beach with powder-white sand—hung on the walls.

  According to the backgrounder Cutty had read on the man, the mark fancied himself an amateur photographer, and had presumably snapped these pictures. Cutty approved of the photos. God had created the earth, and his handiwork was worthy of admiration.

  A room off the hall served as a library. As Cutty headed toward it, he passed by an oval, gold-edged mirror.

  He paused, as he often did lately, to appraise his reflection.

  He wore his division’s standard daytime uniform of white tracksuit and low-cut white sneakers. His pale skin contrasted only slightly with his snow-white raiment. His hair, too, was so blonde it was almost white, and was precisely trimmed in a buzz cut.

  His eyes, however, were the luminous blue of a summer lightning strike. People often felt anxiety when subjected to his direct gaze.

  His muscular, ripped physique was an instrument of power, too. He could bench press four hundred pounds for ten repetitions, squat with seven hundred for eight. His strength more than adequately compensated for his height: he was five feet two inches tall.

  Legen
dary men were often short in stature. Napoleon Bonaparte. Alexander the Great. Joseph Stalin. Strength of character, not height, not even physical prowess, was the truest measure of a man.

  He picked a piece of lint out of his hair, and entered the library.

  It featured tall, built-in mahogany bookshelves packed with volumes. Two wing chairs fashioned of buttery burgundy leather. Mahogany end tables. A fine Persian rug.

  He stepped to the bookshelves and studied the titles. There was a plentitude of Christian books, including volumes by C.S. Lewis and other approved writers.

  Between the shelves, a gigantic, leather-bound Bible lay open atop a polished bronze pedestal. The edition looked worth a small fortune.

  First placing the apple on an end table, Cutty lifted the Bible off the pedestal. The book was open to the first chapter in Job: There was a man in the land of Uz, whose name was Job; and that man was perfect and upright, and one that feared God, and eschewed evil.

  He carefully turned the delicate, crisp pages to Joshua, another book of the Old Testament. He loved the Old Testament. Throughout numerous ancient accounts, and especially in Joshua, God was revealed as a ruthless deity who would not hesitate to command his faithful to carry out bloody conquests to further the kingdom’s agenda. Violence, when performed in the name of and for the glory of God, was not only righteous—it was expected.

  Compare that to the New Testament. Love your neighbor. Turn the other cheek. Withhold judgment, lest you be judged. Those were wonderful lessons, to be sure, but what if you were facing an unrepentant sinner who deserved eternal torment in the lake of fire?

  He read a few favorite verses about the valiant Joshua laying siege to the city of Jericho and slaying all the heathens within, and then he returned the book to the display stand.

  On another shelf, he found a set of books that also appeared to be collector’s editions. They were bound in expensive leather, and each bore the title: The Lord of the Rings. It appeared to be a three-volume set.

  He had never read the books, but he didn’t have to in order to comprehend that they were pagan works. He would discuss this matter with their quarry when he arrived.

  He picked up his apple and crossed the hall to enter the great room—and before entering, slipped in front of the mirror for a moment to check his hair again. Okay.

  In the great room, Maria Valdez, the underlying reason for his fussy concern over his appearance, sat cross-legged on the plush carpet. She also wore the uniform of white tracksuit and sneakers, but her skin was as rich and golden as his was pale. Her thick, dark hair was knotted in a ponytail that hung to the middle of her slender back.

  Her eyes were closed in meditation. She drew slow, deep breaths.

  A new member in their esteemed ranks, Valdez had been his partner for only a week. She was quiet, but that was fine with him. It was a pleasure to simply look at her.

  In her late-twenties or early thirties, Valdez was a total bombshell. She had that silky black hair. Those ripe lips. Those dark, enchanting eyes. That figure—although her tracksuit fell loosely around her shape, the material occasionally clung to her curves when she moved quickly, and hinted toward a breathtaking form.

  Valdez wasn’t married or otherwise attached. Marriage and dating were not allowed for servants in their position. Neither were children.

  Beyond her presumed marital status, he knew nothing whatsoever about Valdez’s background, and he didn’t particularly care. His superiors had assigned her to be his partner, and he assumed they had made a wise decision, as usual. As it read in Hebrews 13:17: Obey them that have the rule over you, and submit yourselves . . .

  Typically, women were restricted from serving in their division. Exceptions were occasionally made if a female servant possessed valued talents. Although he had yet to see Valdez do anything out of the ordinary, he was confident that she would prove her worth in due course.

  The sound of a vehicle entering the garage drew his attention.

  Valdez opened her eyes. They were the brown of late autumn leaves.

  “He is here,” she said, in thick, Spanish-accented English.

  “Indeed, he is.” He finished the apple and disposed of it in a wastebasket. “Take your position, please.”

  Valdez rose to follow him. She was five-six, four inches taller than he. Somehow, the height advantage she enjoyed made her more attractive.

  He moved to the right of the hallway that led to the door for the attached garage. Valdez took up position on the left.

  From his shoulder holster, he withdrew a Glock semi-automatic outfitted with a sound suppressor. Valdez gripped a .38 revolver, the standard-issue rookie’s gun.

  The door at the end of the hall opened, and their quarry entered, feet thumping across the stone tile. Cutty glanced at Valdez, and nodded. He would handle this.

  When the mark reached the end of the hallway and turned to go toward the kitchen, he saw Cutty. He yelped in surprise.

  “Who the hell are you?” he said, voice crackling with shock and indignation.

  The mark was in his late forties, about six-two, with thinning brown hair and bronzed skin that could have only been gained from hours on a tanning bed. He wore golfing gear: white shirt and khaki shorts. According to the dispatcher, he had returned home from a trip to the local country club.

  His name was David Wright. Cutty had never met him before or heard of him until he’d been given the mission that morning, but it didn’t matter.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Wright,” Cutty said. “You’ve spread lies about us.”

  “What the—“

  Cutty shot Wright in both knees. The gun, muffled by the sound suppressor, made soft pops.

  Wright screamed, collapsed to the floor.

  “It is written,” Cutty said, “ ‘Touch not mine anointed.’ Do you understand what you’ve done?”

  Curled up in fetal position, Wright moaned in agony. Blood pooled around him, staining the travertine.

  Valdez watched quietly, her perfect face expressionless.

  “Bring me a chair from the kitchen,” Cutty said to her.

  She looked at him, gaze muddled.

  “A chair,” Cutty said. He traced the shape of the desired object with his hands. “El chairo?”

  He knew only two words of Spanish, the proper term for “chair” not being one of them. But Valdez said, “Si,” and hurried to the kitchen.

  Their organization operated throughout the world, and servants hailed from every nationality and spoke dozens of languages. Still, Cutty wondered why he had been paired with a woman who had a weak grasp of English. It sometimes seemed like his superior was playing a joke on him.

  She brought a ladder-back chair. Cutty swung it around so he could face Wright, and sat. Valdez hovered behind him.

  Face shiny with sweat, Wright said, “Who the fuck are you people?”

  “Please, Mr. Wright,” Cutty said. “Is that proper language for an allegedly Christian man?”

  “Give me a fucking break . . .”

  Cutty shot the man in the shoulder. Another muffled pop. Wright howled, rocked against the floor.

  “No more of that obscene language,” Cutty said. “It offends me.”

  Tears streaming from his eyes, words coming in quick gasps, Wright said, “Please . . . tell me . . . what’s this about? You . . . want money? You-you here to rob me? There’s a . . . safe in the bedroom . . . closet . . .“

  “I have no interest in your material possessions, you filthy, drunken heretic,” Cutty said. “I’m storing my treasures in heaven, where thieves do not break in and moths and rust do not destroy.”

  Although considerable agony wracked Wright’s body, he managed to look bewildered. “I don’t understand—“

  “You publish a well-circulated magazine that claims to report on matters of relevance to God-fearing people,” Cutty said. “For the past several issues, you’ve run a vicious smear campaign against our organization, reserving your worst venom for our anoin
ted leader.”

  Wright’s gaze clarified. “But . . . freedom . . . of speech . . . my rights . . .“

  “There are no such inalienable rights. Not any more. Freedom to express opinion exists only within the strict regulations of the God-focused society that we are bringing to fruition.”

  “Right . . . you’re right.” Chest heaving, Wright bobbed his head in acceptance. But it was much too late for that.

  “You were warned to cease your blasphemy, Mr. Wright. Twice, in fact. You’ve been boldly unrepentant in your sins, and need I remind you how God deals with unrepentant sinners?”

  “I’m . . . sorry,” Wright said, babbling now. “Forgive me . . . please. The devil . . . the devil made me do it . . .”

  “We are taught to resist temptation,” Cutty said. “Personally, I think the reason for your demise lies in your selection of reading material. I saw a rather pricey collection of volumes in your library. The Lord of the Rings? I’ve not read them, but I can tell from the titles that they are pagan works. Surely you know the commandment not to worship false gods.”

  “But they’re . . . only stories, books—“

  Cutty laughed harshly. “Only books, eh? Kingdoms have been built and destroyed based on books. Do not trivialize the power of the written word—you, of all people, should know better.”

  “Please.” Wright sniffled. “I’m begging . . . begging . . . you to forgive me . . .”

  “It is not in my power to forgive sin. You should know that, too. Or have those books about pagan gods and rings muddled your grasp of the fundamentals?”

  “No, I—“

  Cutty shot the man in the head, placing the hollow-point bullet precisely between the eyebrows. Wright’s skull knocked against the floor, and he twitched in death throes.

  Cutty rose off the chair and fired another round into the man’s throat. He lowered the muzzle, and pumped a third round into his heart.

  Wright’s death spasms ceased. His dead eyes gazed blindly at the ceiling.