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On his way back to his hotel, Jalbert uses a burner phone to make a call.

“There were no drugs in his truck,” Calten tells him.

“Not under the seat, not anywhere.”

“That’s all right,” Jalbert says, although it’s not.

“He found them and got rid of them, that’s all.

Like a wolf smelling a trap.

As for you, Troop, you know nothing, right? You just stopped him because he was weaving.”

“That’s right,” Calten says.

“It might be smart to delete this call.”

“Roger that, Inspector.

Sorry it didn’t work out.”

“I appreciate the effort.”

Jalbert ends the call and puts his burner back under the seat.

He’ll hold onto it for awhile, maybe another ten days or so (five plus five, four plus six, etc.), then trash it and swap it out for another one.

Does Coughlin know he planted the drugs? Of course.

Can he do anything about it? No.

The police would say he planted the blow on himself.

But finding it… Jalbert didn’t expect that.

Coughlin really is like a wolf, one that can scent a trap no matter how well it’s concealed.

He’ll kill again if he isn’t stopped.

He must be stopped, not just for poor Miss Yvonne, but for other girls who might be unlucky enough to cross his path.

And if he goes to Colorado, Jalbert thinks, we could lose sight of him.

Animals know how to hide.

How to fade into the brush.

He has to be stopped here in Kansas.

“Arrest me,” Jalbert whispers, and brings a fist down on the steering wheel—bang.

“The arrogance.

The insolence.

But you know what, Mr.

Coughlin? We’re not done.

A long way from done.” He thinks of Coughlin’s face.

His constant open-faced denials. His gall.

Arrest me.

Jalbert needs to settle himself so he can think about his next move.

He needs to count.