DEDICATION:
My wonderful wife, Barbara, who makes all things
possible. To my daughters, Laura, Nikki, and
Jenny, for their support and encouragement.
Published 2008 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2008 by Robert Spiller
Cover Illustration by Arturo Delgado
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 9781933836881
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
My critique group: Bill Mason, Barb Nickless, Maria
Faulconer, MB Partlow, and Beth Groundwater.
The community of writers at Pikes Peak Writers.
The town of Ellicott, Colorado, which may
not be East Plains but comes darn close.
My editor, Kerry Estevez, who has always been
patient with me even when I’ve been crazed.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
PROLOGUE
“SLOW DOWN, SPOON.”
Moses Witherspoon took a loose-gravel turn stupidly fast. The Trans Am slid sideways sending up a cloud of dust. “What’s the matter, angel boy? Wings on too tight?”
Gabe Trotter wanted to slap the idiot. “Cut out the angel-boy bullshit. I hate that, always did.”
Red-eyed and looking halfway to shit-faced his own self, Dwight Furby giggled. “Gabriel, Gabriel, come blow your horn.”
Gabe couldn’t believe he’d let Dwight talk him into cruising East Plains’ back roads in Mo Witherspoon’s Trans Am. Both assholes had been drinking before Gabe crawled in and had since put away even more brew. Spoon’s straw cowboy hat sat cockeyed on his shaggy blond head.
In the three years since graduation, Gabe had successfully avoided being subjected to the angel-boy nickname. Hell, he’d mostly made it a point to avoid Mo Witherspoon altogether. He couldn’t believe he once thought Spoon cool, when now it was obvious the asshole had his head so far up his colon he could deliver a singing telegram to his pancreas.
Yet, here I am just like in high school, sidekicking along with Dwight-can’t-find-my-butt-with-both-hands-Furby. Chalk one up to a bad memory, boredom, and having no wheels on a Saturday night.
A not-so-still nagging voice reminded Gabe if he’d gotten a job like his mom and Missus Pinkwater kept telling him, he’d have wheels and long ago would have moved out of East Plains and away from Spoon and Dwight. He shrugged off the admonition.
No, Goddammit, this entire shit-fest is Dwight’s fault. If I survive this round of high speed idiocy, I swear to God I’m going to kill the imbecile.
“Unlax, bro,” Dwight said in his nasally whine. His own shoulder-length dark hair stuck out from beneath an oily Pennzoil baseball cap. “Just having fun with ya. You remember fun?”
Gabe forced a smile. “Yeah, I remember.”
He had to admit, there had been fun. Hanging around with a football star and bull rider like Spoon had its high points—the parties, the chicks, the drinking, even the fights. You couldn’t hang around Mo Witherspoon and not get into fights. The combination of loudmouth and bigot rubbed a lot of people way past static discharge. But Spoon always came out on top, and by association so did Gabe and Dwight.
What the hell. Might as well make the best of it. “Give me a beer and slow it down to warp one, you gigantic scrotum.”
Spoon guffawed and slapped the wheel. “Now that’s the Gabe Trotter I remember. Sure thing, buddy. Warp one it is. Hey, lookie there.” Spoon pointed with his chin.
Illuminated by the Trans Am’s headlights, a tall figure carried a gas can.
“Is that who I think it is?” Dwight asked.
“Damn straight.” Spoon decelerated as they approached. “Prom Queen himself.”
Long before they came to a stop, the figure stopped. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he waited as the car pulled alongside.
Spoon rolled down his window. “Leo, Leo, Bo Beo, climbed any Brokeback Mountains lately?”
Leo Quinn set down his gas can and sighed. “It seems they let anybody drive these back roads. How you doing, Spoon?”
“Don’t you mean, how’s it hangin’? That’s more your style, Hoss.”
Leo wearily shook his head.
Gabe could see a dozen comebacks swim across Leo’s freckled face. In the space of a few seconds, he seemed to reject them all. He just gave Spoon a look that declared, You ain’t worth the breath it takes to put you in your place, dickhead.
“As fun as this is, I’m going to go.” He picked up the can.
“Hold on there, Girly Man. We’ll give you a lift.”
“I don’t think so.” He started to walk.
Spoon turned to Dwight. “You believe this shit? This fairy thinks he’s too good for my Trans Am.”
Dwight nodded like a bobble-head doll. “It sounded like that to me.”
Gabe let a mixture of excitement and dread wash over him—something of the old days. Something that said, Who the hell knows where this might lead?
Spoon rolled up alongside Leo. “I think I’m offended, Girly Man. I make an offer in good faith, and you throw it back in my face.”
Leo kept on walking. “If that’s how you want to interpret it, be my guest. I got problems of my own.”
Spoon stopped the Trans Am and popped open his door. “You’re right about that, Hoss. And I’m about to add to ‘em.”
CHAPTER 1
SUNDAY MORNING BONNIE PINKWATER AWOKE UNABLE TO breathe.
“Get off me, Euclid,” she mumbled, spitting out cat fur. “I swear, you little fuzz ball, one of these days I’m going to learn a recipe for pussycat potpie. If you don’t kill me first.”
The cat blinked at Bonnie with a look that asked, “You talking to me?”
Bonnie tossed the black Burmese onto the floor. “Why don’t you park your rear end on Armen’s face every once in a while?”
“I heard that.” Armen Callahan rolled toward her. “An alarming and disgusting suggestion to say the least.”
Bonnie gave him a kiss on his nose. “Good morning, you.”
“Good morning, yourself, pretty lady. What say you and I make a day of it, starting with French toast?”
“Sweet talker. I think I’ll have you bronzed.”
“Like a pair of baby shoes?”
Bonnie kissed him again—this time on his white goatee. “You’re just as cute as a baby shoe, my Sweet Baboo.”
Armen rolled his eyes and smiled, despite an obvious attempt to hold the grin in check. “Noooo! Not the dreaded cutsie nicknames. Not at this crucial juncture of our relationship.”
She nestled into his arms, back to his front, a pair of spoons in silk pajamas. “I’m sorry, but it’s hard to resist a superhero, Señor Mighty Mouse.” She felt his breath blow warm into her hair and shivered.
Don’t go getting schoolgirl, Pinkwater. You’re fifty-three years old, for God’s sake. Take it one breakfast at a time.
“Here I come to save the day,” he whispered in her ear.
Oh, what the hell. She rolled to face him. “I intend to plant a big wet one on you, sir.”
“Madam, do your worst.”
The kiss felt so good she held it despite a cold nose prodding her derriere. “I’ve got cold snout stabbing my rear,” she said when she could stand no more.
“I recognize this. We’re spies exchanging passwords, right? Okay. Okay. I got the countersign. I’ve got a cold stout filling my ear.”
Bonnie chuckled. “Callahan, you’re weird. Good combination, weird and cute.”
She turned and perceived accusing golden retriever eyes staring up at her. Hypatia had her chin resting on the pad of the water bed. “Hypatia, my love. Are you suggesting we have been abed long enough?”
Bonnie sat up and stretched. She stroked the soft fur of Hypatia’s brow. “I’ll bet you’re hungry, sweetie.” Bonnie reached behind her and dug a playful knuckle into Armen Callahan’s ribs.
She jumped as he reached for her. “You gonna lay around all morning, cowboy? In these here parts we take a promise of French toast mighty serious.” She stuck out her tongue.
“A completely unprovoked attack, followed by a shamelessly perverse gesture. Pinkwater, you don’t know who you’re messing with. Behavior of this ilk demands immediate retribution.” Armen threw off his covers and was on his feet in one fluid motion. He caught Bonnie by the back of her silk pajamas before she could reach the bedroom door.
She fell back into his arms. “You’re quicker than you look, Callahan. Now that you have me, what are you going to do with me?”
Before Armen could answer, the phone in the kitchen rang.
“Let the machine pick up,” Bonnie whispered.
Despite her intention, Bonnie stood frozen in Armen’s embrace waiting for the caller to identify himself.
“Missus Pinkwater, it’s Byron Hickman. Please get back with me. It’s about Leo Quinn.”
Bonnie offered a kiss by way of apology. “I need to take this.”
She slipped out of Armen’s grasp and picked up the receiver. “Byron?”
“Missus P, am I ever glad I caught up with you.”
Bonnie felt more than a little awkward. Byron was a former student, now deputy for El Paso County. When they last parted company, more than a year and a half ago, she’d been a witness against Byron’s nephew, Greg. Her testimony promised to send the boy to prison. As it turned out, a plea agreement was reached, and she’d been spared that ordeal. Still, Byron knew she would have testified against Greg if it had come down to it.
Damn straight. The little bastard tried to kill me.
“You mentioned Leo Quinn.”
“Correct. I wonder if we could get together some time today.”
Annoyance replaced the awkwardness. However curious she was about the new kind of trouble Leo Quinn had gotten himself into, it was Sunday for crying out loud. “Is this important? I’ve got plans, youngster.”
“Yes, ma’am, it’s important. Leo Quinn has been murdered.”
Bonnie stared out the passenger window of Alice, The-Little-Subaru-That-Could.
“Leo Quinn is dead.” She heard herself whisper the words, but felt like they were coming from someone else.
“I’m sorry, Bon,” Armen placed his hand in the no-man’s-land on the seat between them.
Absently, she laid her hand on his. Goddammit all to hell, I let that extraordinary young man slip out of my life without a phone call in over three years.
Bonnie tried to tell herself she had a lot going on in those three years—the death of her husband, almost being killed on four separate occasions, to say nothing of breaking her foot, and getting a concussion, falling in love—but all of her excuses rang hollow. She could have called. Damn it, she should have called.
Now, she would never hear Leo’s sweet baritone again.
Bonnie scooted across the front seat until her leg touched Armen’s. She needed the contact, needed to remind herself she could make contact.
Armen wrapped an arm around her and squeezed. “If there’s anything I can do, remember I’m not just a pretty face, I’m a superhero.”
She smiled thinly. “I don’t think you can fix this one, Mister Mouse.”
“This Leo Quinn, he was one of the special people? The ones who crawl inside you and you never forget?”
She swallowed, blinking back tears. “You could say that. Do you know anything about Leo?”
Armen shook his head. “He was before my time. Good math student?”
Bonnie regarded this man she’d known a mere three months. She was grateful he was here, but still she hesitated to share.
Let it go, Pinkwater. You know you need to talk.
She decided to leave Armen’s question unanswered. How good the boy was in math could wait. “Four years ago, when I was student council sponsor, Leo, myself, and a few others went to a weekend multischool symposium. STUCO kids from all over the state met at the University of Colorado in Boulder. East Plains was one of the smallest schools represented.”
“That probably happens in just about every setting,” Armen offered.
“Just about, but even more so at this thing. Most of the kids I brought with me were intimidated, taken aback by the size of the event or how big the other schools were, you name it. Not Leo. He had a way about him, a style.”
Leo’s toothy grin swam across Bonnie’s synapses, and she found herself having to swallow before continuing. “Here was this big handsome junior. Girls falling all over themselves to get next to him. Guys saving him a place at lunch tables. Even the sponsors took to him.”
“He sounds too good to be true.”
“In a way he was. Anyway, at the end of the weekend, we all gathered in this immense auditorium. Over a thousand people packed stadium seats while a former professional football player down on the floor went motivational about school spirit. He was good. Shouting. Waving his big muscular arms. Flashing his pearly whites. Threw autographed footballs into the stands. Adults and kids ate his shtick right up. Every time this palooka stopped to take a breath, applause thundered. When he was done, he asked if anybody had a question. Leo stood.”
“Why am I tempted to say uh-oh?”
“Because you are a student of humanity and a bit like Leo yourself.”
“Okay, you got my attention. What did Leo ask Mister NFL?”
“In a voice that betrayed absolutely no sarcasm, Leo asked, What is the average rainfall of the Congo Basin?”
Armen’s half smile betrayed a hint of admiration. “I’ll bet that didn’t go over so well.”
“You’d win that bet. With that simple question, Leo traded away all the goodwill he’d won for the entire weekend. You could hear people whispering, asshole and bastard. I thought he might not get out of there without a fight.”
“You’ve got to admit, it was a wiseass thing to do.”
Bonnie sighed, wishing she hadn’t dredged up this particular memory. “I do admit it. In fact, on the way home I asked him what in hell
he was trying to prove. He just looked at me and said, I needed to know how Oscar Wilde felt.”
“What?”
“Oscar Wilde, author of The Portrait of Dorian Grey and The Importance of Being—”
“Woman, you try my patience. I know darn well who Oscar Wilde was. What I want to know is what did Leo mean?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
Armen glanced at her before returning his eyes to the road. “He wouldn’t say?”
“Nope. And it took me the better part a year to figure it out. By then it was too late.”
“Have a sit-down.”
Byron nodded to two soft-seated metal chairs. He folded his own frame into a rolling chair behind his gray metal desk. Once ensconced, he opened the top drawer and pulled out a yellow legal pad. His gray-blue eyes regarded Bonnie affectionately for a long moment before he spoke. “Thanks for coming.”
“I’m not really sure why I’m here, youngster,” Bonnie said. “I haven’t spoken with Leo Quinn in over three years. Not since he graduated.”
“Class of two thousand one, right?”
Bonnie nodded, feeling slightly peeved with Byron. He’d deftly sidestepped her implied question. “That’s right. Leo was salutatorian.”
“Bright boy, second in his class.”
“Very bright. Straight As all the way from seventh grade.”
Byron whistled. “Not too shabby. Tell me more.”
Bonnie locked eyes with her former student. “Cut the crap, Byron. I was one of a couple dozen high school teachers who taught Leo Quinn. Have you called any of them in?”
“Not yet.”
“Sooooo, why am I being singled out?”
Byron reddened and turned his attention to Armen. “Any chance at all of her just answering my questions without making me feel like I’m back in ninth grade?”
Armen cocked his head as if he were judging Bonnie’s emotional barometer. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Stop stalling, youngster,” Bonnie said. “Why am I here?”
Byron reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled out a ziplock bag. It contained a swatch of lined paper. Byron pushed the baggie across the desk. “You recognize this?”
Irrational Numbers Page 1
