The Devil's Alphabet (8 page)

“Paxton, if you keep saying stupid things I will reach across the desk and slap you.”

“I just don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about research, Paxton. Scientific research. Getting the medical community to pay a little attention to the problems of this clade before another generation of men have to suffer. Every two weeks I send another shipment to Stanford University in California. There’s a man there with a team of eight graduate students working on figuring out what the vintage is, what it does, and how we can turn it off.”

“Why in the world would you keep that secret?”

“You’re not from here anymore, Paxton. And you’re not a charlie or you wouldn’t ask that question. Do you think Clete or Travis or any of the young charlies want to give up the vintage? Do you think they want this to be cut off forever? Before you open your mouth, the answer is no, they would not.”

She patted the stack of papers. “Now. I know this looks like a lot of papers, but they’re already filled out except for the dates and signatures, and I can walk you through them so you understand everything that you’re signing. After you do that, we can start taking care of your father. Today.”

“I don’t know,” Pax said.

She looked at him. “Talk to me, hon.”

“It’s just …” The top page in the stack was some kind of confidentiality form, with his own name typed at the bottom. He was almost embarrassed at how relieved he felt. Each of the forms—fifty, sixty of them, it didn’t matter—was like a rung on a ladder that would let him climb out of this pit. What else could he do, quit his job and move down here? Siphon the old man every day himself? He couldn’t do that. He wasn’t strong enough for that kind of work.

“I need to talk to my father,” he said. It didn’t sound convincing, even to himself. He’d already decided he would sign. All he needed was some time to explain to himself how this wasn’t a betrayal.

“I know you feel that way. But remember, Paxton, your daddy’s not in his right mind just now. The reverend’s been my friend for thirty years, but charlie men can’t function like they used to, not when the vintage is running in them. Whether you like it or not, you’re his guardian now.”

“I understand that,” he said. “I do.” He closed the folder
and pulled it onto his lap. “Let me just take this home, look it over, and I’ll sign it tonight.”

“Tonight,” Rhonda said. She got up from her chair and came around the desk, opened her arms. “Don’t look so worried, honey. You’re doing the right thing. Now give Aunt Rhonda a hug.”

His father was still sleeping when Rhonda and Everett dropped him off at the house. Pax stood beside the couch for a long time, watching Harlan’s huge chest rise and fall, jowls shuddering with each snore.

Just below his father’s collarbone a patch of skin glistened in the lamplight. A small white blister, too small for the earlier siphoning, had split.

It would be a simple thing, Pax thought. Just dip a fingertip in the wet from the blister. He wouldn’t even have to wake the old man.

Paxton turned out the lamp. He made his way through the dark to the guest bedroom, put Rhonda’s folder under the bed, and lay down. His father snored like a misfiring engine. In the dark, with the door open between them, it sounded as if Harlan were lying beside him.

D
EKE STOOD OUTSIDE
the bathroom door, not listening. After several minutes, he said, “Honey?”

Donna didn’t answer.

“Want me to hold the cup?” He made the same joke every time.

He had to be in Masonville in forty minutes, and he didn’t want to be the last one into the courthouse. The last one to walk past all those cops.

Finally the sound of the toilet flushing and water running in the sink. Another minute passed.

“Donna …”

She opened the door. “Standing there don’t speed things up,” she said, and handed him an orange plastic cup with a white lid. It was uncomfortably warm.

“Uh, don’t we have a bag or something?”

She shook her head, pretending exasperation, and led him into the kitchen. She found a plastic bag, tucked the cup into it, and cinched the bag tight. “There you go. Nobody’ll suspect you’re smuggling pee.”

“On the street they call it Troll Gold.”

That got her to laugh. “Too bad you can’t sell it,” she said.
Then, “They’re probably not going to ask about the money, but if they do—”

“They’re not going to ask about the money. That’s all done through administration. We’re only a few weeks late. The bank’s supposed to call me soon.”

They’d already run through the second mortgage on the house. He’d applied for a loan through Alpha Furniture, his business, but the bank hadn’t gotten back to them yet on whether it had been approved.

“Okay, then. You’ve got your envelope?”

He patted his front breast pocket. “Right here next to my heart.”

“If you leave those somewhere—”

“Have I ever lost them?”

“You do, don’t bother to come back,” she said.

“I’ll guard them with my life.” She followed him to the front door. The hall clock showed that it was a little past 8:20—he’d have to haul ass. “Hey, I may stop by and see Paxton afterward if I get done early at the shop.”

“Okay…”

He heard the skepticism in her voice and turned. “What?”

“Are you sure you two were best friends?” Donna said. “You and Jo, that makes sense. But Paxton … I just don’t see it.”

“He’s different than he was,” Deke said.

“He’s skittish is what he is. All the time you’re talking to him he’s got one foot out the door.”

“That’s not like him. Back then …” He shrugged. Before the Changes, Paxton had been sure of himself. Cocky. He had the money, the toys, the big house—what Deke used to think was a big house, anyway. And Deke had been happy just to be his
friend. “I don’t know. He’s a little lost, maybe. It can’t be easy to come back here.”

“Maybe he’s in the closet.”

“What? No.”

“Why not? Have you asked him?”

“No.” Then: “I don’t know. I don’t know if Paxton would know himself.” He shook his head. “Listen, I better get going or I’m going to miss the meeting.”

“Hey,” she said. She turned him around, then bent her head and kissed him hard on the lips. Her expression had gone serious. “Are you going to be okay hearing all those details?”

“I doubt they’re going to tell us anything new,” he said.

“Still,” she said. “Call me at work when it’s over.” Four days after Jo Lynn’s death and they were still being careful with each other.

Once he left Switchcreek he had to watch his speed. He’d been stopped dozens of times over the years. Sometimes the cops said they were checking if his car was street-legal (he had the handicap permits for the modifications, the special plates, the note from his insurance—every damn thing), and sometimes they said he was speeding. Sometimes they didn’t give him any reason at all. The first time he complained about getting profiled—this was when they’d just started dating—Donna had laughed and laughed.

He got onto 411 and joined the line of cars heading into Masonville. The area had outgrown the two-lane highway years ago, but nobody had come up with the money to expand the road. He listened to the intermittent squawks of the police
scanner and tried not to think of the time. He ignored the other drivers. It helped that they were all below eye level.

When he finally reached the center of town he parked in a metered lot behind a row of police cars. He loped toward the entrance to the Mason County courthouse. A woman and a boy about five years old walked toward him, the kid jabbering away, and when the woman looked up and saw Deke she put an arm around the boy, who gaped up at him. Deke didn’t mind kids. Their stares were honest.

Going into the courthouse he had to crouch to make it through the revolving door, baby-stepping to keep his knees from banging the glass. The lobby was mostly empty. He walked through the unattended metal detector—no beeps—and approached the woman sitting behind the counter. Behind her a cop came out of a rear office, glanced up from a paper in his hand, and stopped cold. His right hand moved to the top of his holster.

Deke raised his hands. “Hey,” he said, keeping his voice friendly. “I’m just here for an appointment with the DA.”

The cop stared at him like he was a goddamn T. rex. He didn’t move his hand from his gun.

“It’s okay, Kyle,” the woman said to the cop. Then to Deke she said, “I’ll take you back.”

Jesus Christ, Deke thought.

She buzzed him into a back hallway, then led him down to a conference room. Aunt Rhonda and the Reverend Hooke were already sitting at the table. The DA and the sheriff hadn’t arrived yet.

“Morning,” he said to the women. He felt underdressed. He wore a work shirt and jeans that had been stitched together at Donna’s shop—it took three pairs of XXL jeans to make a pair
that would fit an argo. Rhonda was dressed in a pale green business suit, with shoes and eye shadow to match. (Thanks to Standard American Obesity, chubs didn’t have to make their own clothes.) The reverend wore a white peasant blouse hanging over a long dark skirt, and a colorful vest like the kind she wore on Sundays, this one appliquéd with rose petals. Her smooth head was uncovered—no scarf for her.

None of the chairs would hold him, so he squatted with his back against the wall.

“You haven’t missed anything yet,” Rhonda said. She sounded annoyed.

He wondered if making them wait was some kind of political statement. Rhonda had forced the meeting, but maybe the DA wanted to show he couldn’t be pushed around.

Three years ago, right around the tenth anniversary of the Changes, a beta girl named Sherilyn Manus was beaten up and raped outside a bar in Sevierville. Despite Sherilyn giving descriptions and first names of the men who’d assaulted her, the police didn’t arrest anyone for weeks. Rhonda started calling newspapers and TV stations, telling every reporter she could find about the prejudice the people of Switchcreek faced. The district attorney, Roy Downer, spent almost as much time holding press conferences. The police eventually arrested two men, and only then did Rhonda take her foot off Downer’s throat.

The DA came in a few minutes later with the sheriff right behind. Downer carried a stack of files under one arm and a laptop under the other. He set them on the table, and then both men went around the table shaking hands, making somber noises. The DA paid most of his attention to Rhonda. He looked like a bobble-head doll, a little man with an enormous,
wobbly noggin. Then again, a lot of the normals had started to look like that to Deke.

Downer sat across from Rhonda and the reverend and turned on the laptop. “We’re going to release a statement to the press very soon,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, hopefully. Normally we’d never share details about an open case like this—you don’t want to hinder the investigation, or expose the office to criticism until we’ve checked all the facts. You have to get your ducks in a row…”

“We appreciate the immense risk you’re taking, Roy,” Rhonda said dryly.

“Well, I think we all agree that in cases like these, the county has to reach out to the local community. Though you all understand this has to remain confidential until we make a more public announcement.”

“Yes, of course,” the reverend said. Blanks were hard to read, but Deke had spent enough time around the clade to know the pastor was on edge. The woman sat straight in her chair, barely moving, like a squirrel catching the scent of a hound dog. “What have you found out?”

“Not a thing,” the sheriff said. He was a white-haired, broad-faced man with a complexion like a permanent sunburn. Deke had worked with him a couple times before when Deke had stepped in to keep the peace between Switchcreek folks and the county police. He was quiet and competent.

“Uh, what the sheriff means,” Downer put in, “is that we’ve found nothing that changes what we already thought. The coroner’s report said that she died of strangulation, not a broken neck, which is typical in suicides. People don’t usually manage to break their necks.”

“Jesus,” Deke said under his breath. Rhonda shook her head, but the reverend seemed to be holding herself in check.

“As for the house,” Downer said, “there were no signs of a struggle, or forced entry. The materials she used were all on hand—the rope was already hanging from the tree for the tire swing, the patio chair was nearby. The two girls didn’t hear anything. They didn’t even know their mom was outside until that morning, when they called Nine-one-one. That was at 6:10 a.m.”

“How long was she up there, then?” Rhonda asked.

Downer looked to the sheriff, and the cop said, “She died at least several hours before the call. The blood had time to pool in her feet before we found her. Besides that …” He shrugged. “It ain’t like on TV. That’s about all we know.”

“And nobody saw her just hanging out there in the open?” Rhonda said.

“The tree isn’t visible from the road,” Deke said. He didn’t add that even if someone from Switchcreek had managed to see something, he doubted they’d have called the police—any one of the clades would have called Deke or Rhonda or the reverend, one of their own.

“Which of the girls made the call?” the Reverend asked.

Downer stared blankly at her. “I don’t see how that matters, but … well, let me see.” He opened a manila folder, started flipping through papers.

“Rainy,” the sheriff said. “Though she doesn’t say so on the tape. Later she told us that she was the one who called. Sandra agreed.”

“What
did
she say on the tape?” the reverend asked.

Downer opened a folder and started flipping through the pages. “I have the transcript somewhere …”

“You can just summarize, Roy,” Rhonda said.

“The girl gave her address,” the sheriff said. “Then she said that her mother had killed herself. Very calm, very composed.”

“Our girls can sound calm to outsiders, even when they’re upset,” the reverend said.

Rhonda said, “She said that? ‘Killed herself’?”

The cop shrugged. “Near as I recall. We also talked to Dr. Fraelich, the doctor who was treating her. She confirmed that Jo Lynn had been prescribed antidepressants since her operation two years ago.”