Page 41 of Never Flinch

In the kitchen he finds an appointment book, and printed in capital letters on the square for the 20th is TRIG 7 PM. This presents a vexing dilemma. Would a random thief take something as valueless as an appointment book? No, somebody might notice it’s gone. A housekeeper, for instance, if the Rev has one. Would a thief takeone pageof an appointment book? Absolutely not. When Trig goes backthrough the months, he finds several other appointments carefully printed in the same caps. Probably other counseling sessions. Or trysts.

What to do?

His first impulse is to scribble out a bunch of random names and times—including his own—thinking this is what the Rev might do if people didn’t show up for their scheduled “sessions.” He picks up the pen beside the appointment book to start scratching, then puts it down again. There may be other appointment books for other years stored somewhere, possibly in the attic or basement or garage. If the cops find those and find no names scratched out, they’ll suspect something, won’t they? They’ll look at today’s date with special care, and if they can do some scientific juju to see through the scribble over his name… infrared, or something…

He barks a laugh. To have committed four murders and then find himself balked by an address book! Absurd!

You’re an idiot, the Daddy-voice says, and Trig can almost see him.

“Maybe, and maybe this is all your fault,” Trig says.

Hearing his voice settles him and an idea strikes. He picks up the pen and bends toward the square with his name in it.Be careful, he tells himself.Do this as if your life depends on it, because maybe it does. But don’t hesitate once you start. Don’t flinch. It has to look right.

5

By the time Trig leaves the house, it’s almost dark. He walks back toward the lights surrounding the baseball fields and the sounds of people cheering. No one sees him, which he takes as a sign that his daddy approves of both his mission and the small but crucial alteration he made to the Rev’s appointment book. Daddy is dead, but his approval still matters. It shouldn’t, but it does.

Trig gets into his car and drives away, pausing only to wipe the .38 and throw it into Crooked Creek. The Rev’s wallet and watch also go in. Back at Elm Grove, he fishes an empty tomato soup can out of the trash, puts the photograph in it, and sets it on fire. The trip to Tapperville has been a necessary detour, but now he can get back on track with his main mission.

He finds he’s actually looking forward to it. If it’s also how he looked forward to the next drink, so what?

6

Izzy has never had anything to do with ADA Doug Allen, but Tom has. “The guy’s a dork,” he opines as they walk down the hall to Allen’s office.

Allen is a tall, slope-shouldered man who is cultivating a goatee that doesn’t suit his thin, pale face. There’s no secretary or assistant; he shows them in himself. His desk is stringently neat, nothing on it but his desktop computer and a framed picture of his wife and two little girls. On the wall is his diploma and a photo of Allen with JD Vance, their arms around each other’s shoulders.

Tom Atta takes the lead, first showing Allen the letter from “Bill Wilson,” then outlining the case so far. When he recaps the part about Tolliver claiming he wrote a letter confessing (“Addressed toyou, Mr. Allen”), a flush rises in Allen’s pale cheeks, starting at the jawline and ascending to his temples. Izzy has never seen a man go red in this way and finds it fascinating. He reminds her of someone, but for the moment she can’t think who.

“He was lying. There was no letter, as I told that absurd Buckeye Brandon fellow when he asked for a comment.” Allen sits forward in his chair, hands so tightly clasped the knuckles are white. “You are just bringing this to me now? After three murders related to the Duffrey case?”

“At first we didn’t relate the names in the hands of the murder victims to the Duffrey jurors,” Tom says. “Those names were kept quiet, like the names of the jurors in the Trump and Ghislaine Maxwell trials.”

“But when youdid?” Allen shakes his head in disgust. “Jesus, what kind of detectives are you?”

And what kind of a prosecutor areyou?Izzy thinks.

Tom says, “We didn’t come to you immediately for two reasons, Mr. Allen. First and foremost, because this office is kind of a sieve. Information comes in and then flows right out.”

“I resent that!”

“Rodney and Emily Harris are a case in point,” Tom says. “Once your office had it, everyone had it, starting with your pal Buckeye Brandon.”

“That was not my case and he’s not mypal!”

“What about the porn magazines found in Alan Duffrey’s basement? Thatwasyour case, and pre-trial it was all over the newspapers and the internet.”

“I have no idea who leaked that information, and if I did know, that person would be looking for another job.”

Izzy suddenly realizes who Allen reminds her of: Alan Rickman, who played the principal bad guy inDie Hard. She can’t remember that character’s name, although she’s sure Holly could.

Tom forges ahead. “This isn’t a matter for the County Attorney’s office as of now, Mr. Allen. Until we make an arrest, it’s strictly a police matter. None of the other jurors have been informed, because we don’t think they are personally at risk.”

Izzy says, “This psycho isn’t killing jurors, he’s killing people in their names. His victims are—”

“Proxies. I understand that, Detective Jaynes. I’m not stupid.”

“According to Wilson’s letter,” Izzy says, “he plans to kill thirteen innocents plus—or including, the letter’s not clear, perhaps intentionally—one guilty. Judge Witterson could be the one he thinks is guilty, but more likely—”

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