Free The Devil's Alphabet by Daryl Gregory Page B

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