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“I’ll try,” Danny says.
40
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.
41
The clerk at the Celebration Centre is browsing a weird-ass catalogue called What On Earth. He’s currently considering a tee-shirt that says FOR BEARS, PEOPLE IN SLEEPING BAGS ARE SOFT TACOS. He’s interrupted by a guest striding up to the desk… and not just any guest, that KBI inspector. He looks mad, too—really mad. Face all red right up to both sides of his shaggy widow’s peak, which has been disarranged in a way that’s almost comic… not that the clerk feels much like laughing. The inspector’s eyes are wide and bulgy, sort of bloodshot. The clerk shoves the retail porn catalogue under the desk’s overhang in a hurry and asks how he can help.
“The chairs are gone.”
“What chairs, sir?”
“The folding chairs. I had four folding chairs from the conference room, or business center, or whatever you call it. I had them set up just where I wanted them, and they’re gone!”
“Housekeeping must have—”
“I had the Do Not Disturb sign on my door!” Jalbert shouts. A woman on her way to the gift shop gives him a startled look.
“Those signs’re pretty old,” the clerk says, wondering if the inspector is armed. “Sometimes they fall off and the chambermaids don’t see—”
“The sign didn’t fall off!” Jalbert doesn’t actually know if it did or not; he is too upset. He was looking forward to those chairs.
“I’ll have someone get—”
“Don’t bother, I’ll do it myself.” Jalbert makes an effort to lower his voice, aware that he’s gone a little over the top, but still, to come into his little suite and find those chairs gone! It was a shock.
He goes down to the business center and takes five chairs. Only two in one hand and three in the other feels wrong. Unbalanced. He debates taking a sixth, or putting one back. It’s a hard choice, because he keeps thinking of Coughlin, how insolent he looked when he said If you want to keep me in Kansas, arrest me. Then the crowning, infuriating touch: You can’t. Infuriating because true.
Only for now, he thinks.
Jalbert decides on four chairs, and counts steps back to the elevator by fours, under his breath: “One two three four, two two three four, three two three four.” He knows the counting thing is peculiar, but it’s also harmless. A way to soothe counterproductive thoughts and clear the mind. He’s up to nine two three four when he reaches the desk, a total of thirty-six. To the clerk he says, “I was out of line. I apologize.”
