Page 37 of Go First
“I keep it that way.The Japanese have a unique method of preserving the blade.”
“I know all about it.Whale oil.The killer uses it, too.”
For the first time, Dr Phillips looked genuinely shocked.
“We’re not accusing you, Dr Phillips,” said Marcus.“We just need to rule you out—or in.”
For a moment, Phillips said nothing.Then she set the stack of printed pages down on the desk with a soft thump.
“Very well,” she said, voice cool as glass.“If it will satisfy you.But I warn you—what I know will burn more than just Whitfield and Harper.It will burn half the faith industry to the ground.”
Kate met Marcus’s eyes.He gave a fractional nod.
Together, they guided Dr.Angela Phillips out of the cramped office, past her startled colleagues, and into the bright, empty corridor.The silence of the campus seemed suddenly thinner, stretched tight as a drum.
And Kate could not shake the feeling that, sword or no sword, Phillips knew more about the deaths of Jonathan Whitfield and Daniel Harper than she had yet chosen to admit.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Prison Officer Coates walked half a step behind Elijah Cox, the prisoner’s chains scraping faintly with each movement.The corridor smelt of bleach and iron, the walls sweating with damp.Coates hated the silence of these walks.It wasn’t the quiet itself—he liked quiet—but the kind of quiet Cox carried with him.Self-contained.Coiled.As though his thoughts were a locked room and Coates was a trespasser just by being near.
Sunday, of all days.He clenched his jaw.This was supposed to be an easy shift.No classes, no work details, no visits.
No visits unless you happen to be the Governor’s latest pet-project.
So here was Ray Coates, who should have been in the east-wing office, watching last night’s baseball game.And instead, escorting a serial killer down to the visit room in the bowels of the jail.For a cosy chinwag with a preacher.
The more he thought on it, the less sense it made.What sort of pastor had time to come here on the Sabbath?Shouldn’t this Father Santos be on a pulpit somewhere, sermon in hand, flock hanging on his every word?Not down here in a slab of concrete with Elijah Cox.
The last time he’d watched them talk, something had unsettled him.The way Cox spoke like a man half-reading from a script.The way Santos responded like he wasn’t quite hearing the words, but waiting for cues.Stiff, unnatural.It had prickled Coates’s neck.
But the Governor had verified at least some of it: Santos really was applying for the vacant chaplaincy.He was speaking with prisoners, trying to get some sense of their spiritual needs.It sounded neat, tidy, reasonable.And yet it didn’t quite quiet the itch at the back of Coates’s mind.Not then.Not now.
He unlocked the visitation room, ushering Cox inside.Santos stood ready at the table, clerical collar sharp, hands folded.Two bottles of water glistened between them, condensation pooling on the plastic.
Coates leaned against the door, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
“Mr.Cox,” Santos said, all warmth and courtesy.“Thank you for meeting with me again.”
Cox lowered himself into the chair with the slow precision of someone used to making every gesture count.“I’ve been thinking about our prior conversation, Father.It was refreshing.Let’s talk some more.”
And they did.The two men batted questions back and forth, circling the riddle of evil.Had God created it, or simply permitted it?Was evil the shadow that proved the light, or the stain that proved the lie?Cox’s voice was hard, edged with the zeal of a man who had thought these things through too many nights in a row.Santos leaned in, fascinated, nodding, as though every phrase was fresh bread from heaven.
From his position by the door, Coates thought it was nonsense.A lot of hot air and word games.Still, it felt less forced than last time, less like bad theatre.The oddness just wasn’t there.Or perhaps he’d imagined some of it, because he’d been so sure that that one founding detail — about Santos applying for the chaplain’s job — had been a falsehood.He allowed his shoulders to drop, let his thoughts drift on.
His eyes lit upon the intercom at his left elbow; a big red sticker on it saying Do Not Use – Fault Reported.Had it been bust when he was last in this room?Their handheld radios didn’t work this far down, so there were contact units in every room and along the central corridor.Some of the… more unionized guys had kicked up a fuss, said the Department of Corrections was gambling with their lives.But as far as Coates was concerned, the system worked.Except when it wasn’t working, that is.
“…If God permits evil,” Santos pressed, eyes dark, “is He not guilty of it?A partner in the crime?”
“Or,” Cox countered, “is His gift of choice the highest form of love?Without the night, would you ever see the stars?”
Their words blurred.Coates let them fade, forgetting the intercom and fantasizing about his dinner.
Then the coughing started.Harsh, tearing, wet.Coates snapped upright.Cox was bent forward, over the table, hacking, clutching at his chest, his face flushing crimson.His hands scrabbled on the tabletop.
“Officer!”Santos shouted, his voice sharp with panic.“Get help!Now!”
Coates lunged for the intercom.Punched it, remembering it was already dead.Swearing, he tore open the door and sprinted down the corridor, boots pounding, breath ragged, knuckles burning from the punch.He slammed his hand against the next panel, barking an urgent report for medical assistance.Then he ran back, heart thudding, half-expecting to find Cox blue-faced but alive, maybe collapsed, maybe still choking.