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There’s something else, too, and she’s willing to admit—to herself, only to herself—that it was what really shook her. Has he been spouting random numbers? Not having to do with anything, just off the cuff? She’s heard Frank do that several times, more since they’ve been investigating the Wicker murder, and it probably means nothing, but he’s lost weight and he’s so fixated on Coughlin…

Don’t use that word! Not fixated, dedicated. He’s Wicker’s advocate, he wants to give her justice.

Only what if if is the right word?

31

Halfway back to Lyons, Jalbert pulls into the cracked and potholed parking lot of an abandoned strip mall. He feels if he doesn’t get out of this car and do some counting, he will explode. It’s still daylight, and will be until nine o’clock. Not too far away, a giggle of girls is watching Frozen.

“He’s running it out,” Jalbert whispers. “That son of a bitch is trying to run out the clock on me.”

Oh, his head! Throbbing! He runs both hands through his arrowhead swoop of hair. On either side of the widow’s peak, he can feel tiny beads of sweat. He needs to count. Counting will soothe him. It always does, and when he gets back to his two-room Celebration Centre suite, he can run the chairs. He won’t be able to sleep until he does. What was once a game to pass the time has become a necessity.

He walks from his car to the front of an abandoned pawnshop. Thirty-three steps, which is seventeen and sixteen. He walks back, fifteen and fourteen. He walks back to the pawnshop again: thirteen, twelve, eleven—the last three baby steps because that trio totals thirty-six and it must come out right. He’s starting to feel better. Ten, nine, eight, and seven takes him back to his car. He makes a fist and raps it on the hood twenty-one times, counting the numbers off under his breath.

He can’t arrest Coughlin yet. Never mind the county attorney; the KBI Director put the kibosh on that. And, Jalbert is forced to admit, the director is right. The story of the dream is absurd, but without anything else, even that smalltown lawyer Edgar Ball could get the case dismissed.

Or maybe he wouldn’t get it dismissed. If the county attorney was stupid enough to take such a dumb case to trial, Coughlin would be found innocent and couldn’t be re-tried: double jeopardy, case closed. Jalbert needs something that will pry Coughlin open so the world can see the psycho beneath those wide-eyed proclamations of innocence. He has to grind. He has to turn the screws.

Jalbert decides to walk around the strip mall, counting carefully from one. He’s made it to twenty-six (351 total) when he returns to the front and sees a Highway Patrol car, misery lights flashing, parked beside his unmarked Ford. A trooper is using his shoulder mike to call in his license plate. He hears Jalbert coming and turns, hand going to the butt of his Glock. Then he sees Jalbert’s KBI windbreaker and relaxes.

“Hello, sir. I saw you parked here and—”

“And you did your duty. Your due diligence. Twenty-six. Good for you. I’m going to reach into my pocket and show you some ID.”

The trooper shakes his head and grins. “Not necessary. Frank Jalbert, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He holds out his hand. The trooper shakes it three times, just right for a handshake. “What’s your name, Trooper?”

“Henry Calten, sir. Are you investigating the dead girl?”

“Miss Yvonne, yes.” Jalbert shakes his head. “Poor Miss Yvonne. I stopped to stretch my legs and think about my next move.”

“The guy who reported the body looks good for it,” Trooper Calten says. “Just my opinion.”

“Mine, too, Troop, but he’s hunkered down.” Jalbert shakes his head. “Kind of laughing at us, to tell you the truth.”

“I hate to hear that.”

“We have to grind. Find a way to turn the screws.”

“I’ll let you do your thinking,” Calten says, “but listen—if I could do anything to help, I know it’s unlikely…”

“Not that unlikely,” Jalbert says. “In this world, anything is possible. Sixteen.”

Calten frowns. “Pardon?”

“It’s a sweet number, that’s all. Speaking of numbers, give me yours.”

Calten, eagerly: “You bet, sure.” He takes a KHP card from his breast pocket and scribbles the number of his personal on the back. “You know, I was thinking about applying to KBI myself.”

“How old are you?” Jalbert takes the card.

“Twenty-four.”

“Eight tripled, good. Want some advice? Don’t wait too long. Don’t put it off. And have a good night.”

“You do the same. And if I can, you know, help in any way…”