Justin Tolliver felt human. I could tell from Occam’s body language that he still smelled human too, maybe more human, now that his salamander wife was no longer in the picture, sharing her scent with him. We offered condolences, asked the proper grief-talk questions, and said the appropriate small-talk things. Then Occam asked if we could talk to Devin.
“I’d rather not,” Justin said. “The children are all in bed. Devin’s a little boy and he’s been through some horrible things.” He looked at us more closely. “May I ask why PsyLED wants to talk to him?”
Occam lied smoothly, his Texas accent stronger than usual, as if he deliberately brought it out to put people at ease, the way I sometimes did with my church-speak. “Our boss at PsyLED feels there might be a paranormal angle to the method of his parents’ deaths and we want to see if he remembers anything new about his aunt’s death. Witnesses, especially children, tend to recall things later, after traumatic events.”
Justin’s eyes went bigger. “I thought that was a gas tank explosion or something mechanical. You mean it was a magic? Why didn’t someone tell me?”
I said, “The car is still in forensics, Mr. Tolliver. Our greatest concern is to catch the killer and to protect little Devin.”
“Wait,” Justin said. “You think Devin is in danger too? At the recommendation of Peter Simon of ALT Security, I’m sending the crew home at midnight. He didn’t think we would need them again.”
“We’re not sure about anything,” I said. “We’re just covering all the bases.” I realized that I had just lied, without lying but with obfuscation and prevarication, speaking a truth but in such a way as to hide the real truth behind the words. In other words, I had lied. Lied well. I frowned.
Thomas Jefferson’s quote about the truth came to mind, as it often did when I was working. He had said, He who permits himself to tell a lie once, finds it much easier to do it a second and third time, till at length it becomes habitual; he tells lies without attending to it, and truths without the world’s believing him. This falsehood of the tongue leads to that of the heart, and in time depraves all its good dispositions. Last time I thought about that quote it had been in regard to Rick LaFleur. Now it applied to me. Lying was a slippery slope and I was sliding down that slope into hell mighty fast.
“It’s against my better judgment, but I’ll get Devin. Please have a seat.” Justin indicated the matching sofas in the living room to the left, and then stopped, the cessation of movement jerky. Without turning to us, he said, “I shouldn’t be here, letting guests into my brother’s house. He should be here. Sonya and Clarisse should be here. This is . . . a nightmare.” His shoulders hunched and he left the room quickly, his leather shoe soles slapping across wood floors and up a set of stairs.
Occam said, “My nose says he was speaking the truth every time he spoke.”
My frown got darker. “Speaking the truth is sometimes still a lie.”
Occam looked puzzled and then slightly insulted.
“I was talking about me, not you,” I said.
“Even worse, Nell, sugar.” But he entered the living room through a wide, cased opening and sat on one of the sofas to wait. I took the seat across from him.
“You got Pea?” I asked.
A green and black nose poked out of Occam’s jacket pocket. Pea chittered and vanished into the pocket.
“More like the grindylow’s got me,” Occam said, disgusted. “So. Tell me what kind of food you like best.”
I frowned at him.
“It’s called small talk, Nell, sugar. The kind people use when they’re trying to get to know each other.”
“Oh.” My frown got deeper. “Fresh?”
Occam dimpled. “As opposed to spoiled?”
My frown softened at his tone. Leaving the church when I was twelve hadn’t given me much time to learn how to converse in the getting-to-know-you or teasing conversations that most people courted with. Marriage and relationship discussions had been more like business negotiations. And this seemed like a dreadful time to engage in such peculiar chatter. “Why you asking me this now?”
“Because any other time might seem too threatening. I’m trying to put you at ease, Nell, sugar.”
“Oh.” My frown came back. “Part of me likes it when I don’t have to cook. Part of me only wants to eat food I’ve cooked so I can be sure of the freshness and the ingredients. I like trying new things. Like the Chinese food today. Like pizza. That was amazing the first time I tasted it. Like Krispy Kreme donuts. I could get fat on those alone and I’d never be able to replicate the donuts. I tried a time or two and had no luck at all. But I think I could make a better pizza if I put the time into it. I’ve been working on a recipe for crust.” Occam was smiling at me, as if I had said something fascinating, when all I’d done was tell him how food had changed my life. I scowled at him. “What do you like to eat?”
His dimple went deeper and his blond hair swung forward as he dropped his elbows to his thighs and leaned toward me. “When I’m a cat I like raw venison. When I’m a human I love pancakes. I know this woman, lives in the hills, likes to garden? She makes the best pancakes I ever tasted.”
I had made him pancakes. I was that woman. My breathing sped up and Occam focused on my throat, where my color had to be high and my pulse had to be pounding. “What kind of farm animal do you like best?” I asked.
Occam laughed as if the question surprised and delighted him. “When I’m cat I like to hunt wild boar. Pig if not boar. The big old males are mean and good hunting. When I’m human I like to eat chicken. Your favorite farm animal?”
“I like fresh eggs and fried chicken, so, chickens. Second choice would be either milk goats or meat goats, for the milk or the meat, and also to sell the meat and the hides.”
We shared a good ten minutes of casual and sometimes unexpected food and critter conversation before we heard feet on the stairs again, this time slower and heavier. We stood and faced the entry as Justin carried Devin into the room. The boy was towheaded and sleepy-eyed, wearing blue pajamas with Marvel heroes printed all over them. His feet were tucked into white socks. He looked pale and fully human, though small for his age.
Occam’s nose wrinkled slightly as he took in the boy’s scent. And I remembered Devin hitting me with a ball of fire. Occam’s left thumb went up slightly as he stood, telling me that Devin did indeed smell like the fireball-throwing salamander we knew him to be. I didn’t smell anything one way or the other, except that the child no longer reeked of smoke and flame and death.
I smiled at the little boy. “Hi, Devin. My name is Nell. We met a couple days ago.”
“You talk funny.”
“Yes, I do. I was raised in the hills. It’s a hillbilly accent. Kinda hard to let go of.” I let my smile grow wider and held out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you again.”