“Recessive genes,” Jo said, “or mutated genes. Tandy’s got the birth history research.”
Tandy hit a key on the remote that controlled the big screens. “If pyro is a new trait, then the mutation started somewhere. So let’s start with the parents. Justin was adopted but from inside the family. An older sister, Miriam Tolliver, got pregnant out of wedlock, which was a social crime in the day. The infant Justin was adopted by her parents, and a father’s name was never put forth. This makes Justin and Abrams biological uncle and nephew raised as brothers.”
Jo said, “Miriam moved away and hasn’t been seen or heard from in more than three decades. I’ve started a search for her whereabouts. Until now, no Tolliver children or adults have publicly displayed pyro capabilities, but it was Justin’s house that burned, so maybe Justin’s kids are pyros or Devin got there somehow and started that fire too. Okay. That sounds stupid for an adult, let alone an eleven-year-old. Never mind. But maybe the appearance of a pyro ability is what started all this.”
“If so, then we’re postulating recessive pyro genes?” I asked, thinking about T. Laine’s listing of the types of paranormal creatures.
“Jones and I are hypothesizing that firestarting is a natural ability that the young Tollivers have to be trained to control,” Tandy said, “and that this isn’t the first time it’s appeared. Just after Justin was adopted, he and Abrams were staying with Abrams’ paternal grandparents, who would be Justin’s maternal great-grandparents, if I have the family tree right. There was a massive fire in their remote home in the mountains near Whittier, North Carolina. Justin and Abrams survived. None of the adults did.”
He looked around the room to make sure he had our attention, his Lichtenberg lines glowing bright in my improved vision.
We all leaned in slightly. He had hooked us. “Arson investigators speculated that the fire started in the master suite, but it burned so hot and fast they were never able to pinpoint the exact location or cause, though arson was ruled out. This was almost thirty years ago, and even then the Tollivers had their hands in every political pie, so it’s possible anything suspicious but unconfirmed was ruled accidental or unresolved, as a favor to the family.”
Follow the money, Spook School taught. “Who got the estate?” I asked.
“Seven million dollars. Equally split between Justin’s missing biological mother and Abrams’ father. A week later, the elder Tollivers’ car went off a cliff in the Appalachian Mountains in the middle of a snowstorm. It crashed into a gorge and exploded, killing both of Abrams’ parents.”
I said, “So the money went to the kids. That would be motive but it’s not likely that the children killed their families, especially not by a car wreck in the mountains.”
Tandy turned up a palm as if to say maybe, maybe not, and shook his head. His reddish curls quivered with the motion. “Abrams’ parents deceased. Justin’s mother disappeared, leaving the family fortune in the hands of the boys. If we follow the money, this feels suspicious.”
“Speculation which we can’t prove,” JoJo said.
“Who was the guardian?” I asked.
Tandy said, “The estate lawyer, who hired nannies and sent the boys to military and boarding schools.”
“And where’s he?” I asked.
Tandy said, “Deceased. Natural causes at age eighty-nine.”
I rubbed my arms. I had been burned. And now that we knew what to look for, pyrokinesis was everywhere, fitting T. Laine’s human mutation theory. I said, “So we think that the Tolliver family has a dominant pyro gene? Justin’s pillow smelled human, right? His wife, Sonya, who wears too much perfume, didn’t smell human?” I worked it through my mind. “Sonya and Clarisse Tolliver both wear—wore—too much perfume; the men wear none. It’s unlikely that the Tollivers are both scentless nonhumans and married smelly nonhumans of a different species.”
“Not so unlikely,” Jo said, “if the trait began prior to the dead great-grandparents. But then we’ve got problems tracking it down. Forensic arson investigations were pretty much nonexistent prior to 1950 and records were never computerized or even independently preserved to microfiche. And we don’t have time to search through every single local newspaper on microfiche about fires going back for decades, for every small town in a hundred square miles.”
I nodded agreement. I had done microfiche research. It was tedious and boring and very time-consuming when going through old papers for one county. The idea of searching through newspapers for two states and a hundred years was daunting.
Soul said, “The assassin had an ‘other-than-human’ scent. We’re pretty sure Devin did too, though beneath the smell of the car fire it was impossible to tell. The fact that he threw fire is proof enough. We’ll know more when the cats are back in human form and can tell us what they smelled. For now, speculation is running us in circles.” She shook her head and twisted her hair. “This feels incomplete. We need more.”
I looked up to see Occam standing in the hallway staring at me, his eyes glowing golden, his cat too close to the surface. He looked disheveled and predatory and tightly wound, like a cat tensed to strike. I gave him a slight smile to show I was okay. His shoulders dropped, relaxing slightly, and he nodded, his hair swinging almost to his shoulders, longer after his shift. He was dressed in sweat pants and a tight T-shirt, his feet bare.
Rick stepped around him, into the doorway, and leaned against the frame, black hair and beard shaggy and scruffy, but he looked vital and more healthy than hours past. Except for the silvering hair, each shift seemed to heal him more. “Devin is not human,” he said. “He smelled . . . I don’t know. Watery? Like algae in a pond?”
Occam pushed him aside and entered the room, pouring them both a cup of coffee. “More like a rock that’s still wet from river water. Oddly mineral, fishy, wet, and very different from lizard or snake, otter or weasel family. I don’t know what he is, but he doesn’t smell exactly like his father or his mother.”
“So are we now thinking that we’re either in the middle of an intra-or interspecies conflict or a cross species mating?” I asked.
“The scents are confusing,” Rick agreed.
“Speculation,” Soul said, looking oddly introspective and still worried.