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He moves to the chair by the tiny (almost useless) desk and sits down. “One plus two, add three: six.”

He goes to the bed and sits beside his briefcase and folded clothes. “One, two, three, four, five, and six make twenty-one.”

He goes into the bathroom and sits on the closed lid of the toilet. The plastic is cold on his skinny buttocks.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten make fifty-five.”

He goes back to the first chair, skinny penis swinging like a pendulum, and sits down. “Now add eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen, makes a hundred and twenty.”

He makes another full round, which satisfies him. Sometimes he has to go to ten or twenty rounds before his mind tells him it’s enough. He allows himself a piss that he’s been holding a long time, then washes his hands while he counts to seventeen. He doesn’t know why seventeen is perfect for hand-washing, it just is. It works for teeth-brushing, too. Hair washing is a twenty-five count, has been since he was a teenager.

He pulls his suitcase from under the bed and puts on fresh clothes. Those he took off and folded go into the suitcase. The suitcase goes back under the bed. On his knees he says, “Lord, by Your will I serve the people of Kansas. Tomorrow if it’s Your will, I’ll arrest the man who killed poor Miss Yvonne.”

He takes the folder to the chair by the useless desk and opens the file. He looks at the pictures of Miss Yvonne, leafing through them five times (one to five added together make fifteen). She is terrible to look at; terrible, terrible. These pictures would break the stoniest heart. What he keeps coming back to is the charm bracelet—some of the charms missing, from the look of it—and the dirt in her hair. Poor Miss Yvonne! Twenty years old, raped and murdered! The pain she must have felt! The fear! Jalbert’s pastor claims that all earthly terrors and pains are wiped away in the joys of heaven. It’s a beautiful idea, but Jalbert isn’t so sure. Jalbert thinks that some traumas may transcend even death. A terrible thought, but it feels true to him.

He looks at the pathologist’s report, which is a problem. It states that Miss Yvonne was in the oil-soaked ground at least ten days, plus or minus, before her body was exhumed by the Highway Patrol, and there is no way of telling when she was actually murdered. Coughlin could have buried her behind the deserted gas station immediately, or he could have held onto the body for awhile, possibly because he couldn’t decide where to dispose of it, possibly for some psycho reason of his own. Without a more precise time of death, Coughlin really doesn’t have to have an alibi; he’s a moving target.

“On the other hand,” Jalbert says, “he wants to be caught. That’s why he came forward. He’s like a girl saying no-no with her mouth and yes-yes with her eyes.” Not that he could make such a comparison to anyone else—most of all Ella Davis. Not in this era of #BelievetheWoman.

I believe in Miss Yvonne, he thinks.

He’s unhappy that they don’t have more and thinks about doing the chairs again, but doesn’t. He walks down to the Snack Shack for a cheeseburger and a shake instead. He counts his steps and adds them. Not as good as doing the chairs, but quite soothing. He sits in his Kansas plain suite, which he will forget as soon as he leaves it, as he has forgotten so many other temporary accommodations. He eats his burger. He drinks his shake until the straw crackles in the bottom. He thinks about Coughlin saying he dreamed Miss Yvonne’s location. That’s the part of him that wants to confess. He’ll admit it and then he’s done.

16

Danny is watching something on Netflix without really seeing it when his phone rings. He looks at the screen, sees it’s Becky, and thinks she’s had time to change her mind about loaning him her car. Only that’s not it. She tells him they better cool it for awhile, keep their distance. Just until the cops clear him of the Wicker thing, as of course they will.

“But see, here’s the thing, Danny. Andy’s talking about going back to court and suing me… or whatever they call it… for custody of Darla Jean. And if his lawyer can say I’ve been spending time with someone under suspicion for… you know, that girl… he might be able to convince a judge.”

“Really, Beck? Didn’t you tell me he’s six months behind on his child support payments? I don’t think a judge would be very eager to turn DJ over to a deadbeat dad, do you?”

“I know, but… Danny, please try to understand… if he had Darla Jean, he wouldn’t have to pay child support. In fact… I don’t know exactly how these things work, but I might have to pay him.”

“When was the last time he even took DJ for the weekend?”

She has an answer for that, too, more weak bullshit, and he doesn’t know why he’s pressing the issue. It’s never been true love, just an arrangement between two single people who are living in a trailer park and edging into middle age. She doesn’t want to be involved? Fine. But he’ll miss Darla Jean, who helped him plant flowers to dress up his cement block steps a little. DJ is a sweetie, and—

An idea strikes him. It’s unpleasant, it’s plausible, it’s unpleasantly plausible.

“Are you afraid I might do something to DJ, Becky? Molest her, or something? Is that what this is about?”

“No, of course not!”

But he hears it in her voice, or thinks he does, and it comes to the same.

“Take care of yourself, Beck.”

“Danny—”

He ends the call, sits down, and looks at the TV, where some male doofus is telling some female doofus that it’s complicated.

“Ain’t it just?” Danny says, and zaps the show into oblivion. He sits and looks at the blank television screen and thinks, I will not pity myself. I just screwed up reporting what I found, and I won’t pity myself.

Then he thinks of Jalbert’s eyes, crawling over his face.

“Watch out for that one,” he says. For the first time in two years he finds himself wishing for a beer.

17