Page 48

In his boxy Kansas plain suite, Jalbert sets up the chairs and runs them.

He knows he’s been doing it a lot lately, maybe too much, but it helps.

It really does.

And maybe he was doing it a lot even before Coughlin, maybe it’s a problem—the chairs and the counting.

He’s aware that numbers rarely leave his mind these days—adding them, dividing them—and it may be an addiction.

Sometimes when he’s counting, a number will pop out of his mouth, like a Jack from its box.

It happened with Calten, and although he can’t remember for sure, it could have happened with the clerk downstairs.

Certainly the clerk thought he was being peculiar about the folding chairs.

He ought to do something about it before it gets out of hand—maybe hypnosis?—and he will as soon as Coughlin has been charged with the murder of Miss Yvonne, but in the meantime he needs to plan his next move.

Counting helps.

Running the chairs helps.

He goes from a folding chair to the bed, which is four steps.

From the bed to the closed seat of the toilet, which is eleven more.

That’s a total of fifteen, 1 to 5 added sequentially.

Next, to the chair by the desk in the sitting room.

That’s fourteen more.

Which makes…

For a moment he has no idea what it makes and a kind of panic sets in.

Poor Miss Yvonne is depending on him, her family is depending on him, and if he can’t remember a simple arithmetical total, how can he possibly…

Twenty-nine, he thinks, and relief floods him.

His upset is all Coughlin’s fault.

“Arrest me,” Jalbert murmurs, sitting bolt upright in one of the folding chairs.

“You can’t.

You can’t.”

Coughlin leaving the state? Jalbert can count all he wants, but he didn’t count on that.

How can he, Inspector Frank Jalbert, keep the pressure on if Coughlin simply folds his tent and leaves?

He counts.

He adds.

Occasionally he divides.

The idea of killing Coughlin comes to him, and not for the first time; he’s sure he could get away with it if he was careful and it would save the girls who might suffer poor Miss Yvonne’s fate.

But without hard evidence of Coughlin’s guilt—or a confession, even better—the son of a bitch would die an innocent man.

Unacceptable.

Jalbert goes from one room chair to the next, to the bed, to a folding chair, to the toilet seat, to another folding chair.

He lies down for awhile, hoping to sleep, at least to get some rest, but when he closes his eyes he sees Coughlin’s insolent face.

Arrest me.

You can’t, can you?

He springs up and begins running the chairs again.

Last time, he tells himself.

Then I’ll be able to sleep.

When I wake up I’ll know what comes next.

On the toilet seat, he covers his face with his hands and whispers, “I’m doing it for you, Miss Yvonne.

All for you.”

Which is a lie, and he knows it.

Miss Yvonne is beyond help.

Danny Coughlin is alive. And free.