“Are you retarded?” It came out “wetauted.”
“No.” I kept my smile in place by force of will. People who thought accent was an indicator of intelligence or lack thereof, and people who used the R word, were not real high on my list of favorites. People who taught children to think and ask such things were even lower on that list. And then I wondered if the slur had been used on him, since he was eleven and had a slight speech impediment. I kept my hand out, waiting, and Devin put his hand into mine. I didn’t read him—I knew better. I had no intention of getting burned again. Instantly I felt/tasted/remembered the blue blood from the salamander I had fed to the river. I shook the kid’s hand and let go as quickly as I could, resisting wiping it on my pants.
Occam said, “Devin, I’m sorry about your parents.”
The little nonhuman child looked up at Occam and tears filled his eyes. His nose wrinkled up and his mouth pulled down, his breathing ragged as he fought tears, making me want to cry with him. “Me too. I’m so . . . sad.”
“I know what you mean, little man.”
Devin reached out and gripped Occam’s hand tight. “Are your mama and daddy dead too?”
“Yep. They are. And I know they’re gone, every single day. Let’s sit over here,” Occam said, “and talk. Just for a minute or two. I know you need to get back to bed.”
It was clear the child had latched on to Occam. We all sat on the couches, me across from the men in the same seat I had taken before. I let my partner do the talking and thought about the feel of the salamander’s little hand. He was small, not much bigger than the tadpole forms in the river, but his hand had felt . . . different from their touch. Older. Not ancient exactly. But not young. I wondered how quickly they achieved physical growth, and at what age they could take on a human form. And then I wondered what correlations I could draw between them and any Earth creature. Probably not many. Maybe none. But for sure the kid didn’t feel like his tailed, swimming, and murderous . . . siblings? Cousins?
I let my attention wander from the conversation and drift around the warm-gray-toned room. It was fancy. Traditional style. Neutral color palette. Dark hardwood floors. Lots of crown molding. Beams in the high ceilings in the style architects called coffered. On the air I smelled cleaning supplies, a hint of fresh paint. Art objects on shelves and on tables illuminated by strategic lighting. Asian rugs set the limited color scheme of blue and deep red, carried out by pillows and a lamp and the backing on framed prints. Two small ornamental chairs at a small Oriental-style table matched the rug’s colors. A vase on a shelf in the dark red, another very large vase in blue on the floor, full of red and blue flowers. Heavy drapes puddled on the floor. They looked like they’d be hard to keep clean; dust catchers for sure, not that the senator or his wife had ever personally cleaned this house. They had a staff for that or a cleaning crew.
I’d had a continuing education computer class in Spook School on reading people by the style of their decorating. This room indicated only taste and money. A decorator had set-styled the room and there was nothing in it of the inhabitants. This was a public place, not living quarters. There was probably a great room or family room elsewhere, a room the Tollivers actually lived in.
“Mr. Tolliver, it’s Devin’s bedtime.”
I almost flinched. I hadn’t seen or heard anyone enter. The nanny stood in the cased opening, which I realized had pocket doors that could be closed to separate the room from the rest of the house. The nanny was wearing a deep-grape-purple velour jogging suit and orthopedic shoes. Her skin was less blue today, more gray in shade, an ashy color that I could almost place within normal human parameters. But she wasn’t human. Now that I knew what I was looking for, the air was laced with a trace of the strange metallic and sour scent I recognized as salamander. A bit like a stack of old quarters and a pair of old leather loafers.
“I’m sorry, Connie,” Justin said. “Here. Take Devin to bed.” He transferred the boy’s hand to the nanny, and the little gray woman trotted off, Devin half dragged back up the stairs.
I wondered why Devin was human-colored and the nanny wasn’t. I wondered what I had missed while I was woolgathering.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Tolliver,” Occam said. “You been mighty kind to let us take up so much of your time and Devin’s.”
“The funerals have been all held off,” Justin blurted out, “until they find or recover Clarisse. The services for Abrams and Clarisse will be held concurrently.” Justin shook his head and ran shaking fingers through his hair, which stayed sticking up in a disheveled mass. His fingernails looked a little blue.
Was Justin human or salamander? Had we messed that up too? Or were the male salamanders better able to fake human? Or maybe he was ill.
“My wife’s services . . . will be handled after the others. A more private ceremony.” He closed his eyes to cover his emotions, which were raw and fractured. He cleared his throat. “What should I do about the security team? Do you think I need to keep them on?”
Occam said, prevaricating, “Security is always important.”
A security team on the grounds was a waste of time when the danger might be inside already. And when the danger could throw flames hot enough to sear a man to the bone. I kept all that to myself.
“I hope you will keep me informed about your progress on the investigations,” Justin Tolliver said, in an obvious dismissal. He walked to the door. We followed. “If I can help in any way, please call.” He extended a card to Occam. He didn’t offer one to me, in unconscious sexism. Or maybe he had forgotten me, sitting so silent on the other sofa.
And then we were outside in the cool night air and, though it wasn’t freezing, I was glad I had worn my coat. Together we made our way to Occam’s fancy car, got in, and drove away.
“I wasn’t listening all the time,” I said. “What did I miss?”
“Not much. The little salamander doesn’t remember anything. And he’s a little snot. Needs a good tanning.”
“You talking about him asking me if I was retarded?” I asked, amusement in my tone. “And you talking about spanking the recently orphaned son of a deceased senator? Corporal punishment? Child abuse?”
“My daddy beat me with a belt, buckle to the skin,” he growled. “I don’t remember much about my life before the cage, but I remember that. And I learned my manners.”
Occam had said he didn’t remember much about his younger human life. Maybe he simply hadn’t been ready to share.
“No,” I said as he pulled out of the neighborhood. “You learned to be afraid of your daddy.”
“Didn’t say I was or wasn’t scared. Said I learned my manners.”
“Mm-hm.”
“You disapprove.”
“Your daddy leave bruises?”
“Every dang time.”
“You think you mighta learned manners without the bruises?”