Free The Devil's Alphabet by Daryl Gregory Page A

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 policescanner 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 pairthat 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