Irrational Numbers

by Robert Spiller

  Yoki looked back to where Bonnie sat. “I won’t be much longer. Anyway, over the next three years, although Sophia did a lot of important math and science, her heart just wasn’t in it. Even as she got more and more famous, her health got worse. Finally, on a trip to Paris, she exhausted herself carrying her luggage. She passed out at the railroad station and within a couple of days she died. Like I said, she was only forty-one years old. My dad’s older than that now.”

  Again, Yoki looked back to Bonnie. “That’s all I have to say about Sophia Kovalevskaya.” The girl pointed with her chin toward her partner. “Georgia’s going do some of Sophia’s math.”

  Bonnie stood. “Hold off for a moment, Georgia.” Stretching as she went, Bonnie walked to the front of the classroom. She dipped into the Jolly Rancher bag, came out with a blue raspberry jolly, and handed it to the girl. “Nice job, Yoki.”

  “Thank you, Missus Pinkwater.”

  Her classmates, including her partner, Georgia, applauded.

  Bonnie waited until the applause died before she spoke. “I’ll let Georgia get up here in a minute, but before she does, I’d like to say a bit more about Sophia Kovalevskaya. Actually, I have quite a bit more to say, so I’m going to save most of my talk for the next class. What I’d like to leave you with now is more in the way of a teaser. Many people, Yoki included, say that Kovalevskaya died of exhaustion. I like to offer an alternative explanation for her death at such an early age.”

  Bonnie paused, letting the drama of her words fill the silence. “I’d like to suggest that Sophia Kovalevskaya, mathematician, scientist, novelist, and revolutionary, died not of exhaustion, but of something a lot more common and infinitely more tragic.”

  CHAPTER 20

  THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT A SCHOOL BUS, A RUMBLE and hum that differs from every other form of mass conveyance. Bonnie hated them as a rule, but this time the ride was smoother, the seats softer, the normally stifling air, cooler. Outside was another story altogether. Beyond the sliding glass windows, a blizzard was scouring the landscape. Ice clung to the windows. Visibility couldn’t have been more than ten feet.

  “You okay, Missus P?”

  Bonnie shifted her line of sight from the storm to whoever had inquired into her well-being. “Leo?”

  “In the flesh.” The freckle-faced boy—he appeared to be about fifteen or sixteen—reddened. “So to speak.”

  “You’re dead, my boy.”

  “That’s the rumor.” He flashed her the patented Quinn smile, all two hundred watts of it. Dimples punctuated both cheeks. “I have to tell you, death doesn’t make long bus rides any better.”

  She wanted to reach out, pull the gangly miscreant into a tight embrace, tell him she was sorry she hadn’t called. The look on Leo’s face made it all unnecessary.

  He shrugged. “Ain’t no biggie.”

  Bonnie took a quick scan of the interior of the bus. Behind her sat the Kettle twins, Mike and Sean, tall, spindly, with shocks of hair so shiny black, the stuff looked plastic. The twins were playing some game where the object was to punch the other person’s arm as often and hard as possible. Any other time, Bonnie would have felt obliged to put a halt to the proceedings with an admonition to settle down or suffer dire consequences. Now, she just let the pandemonium wash over her. Truth be told, she couldn’t really make out what the boys were saying, even though they sat no more than three feet away. The same held true for Randy Welsh and Lisa Yerber in the seat across the aisle. Both were obviously holding forth on some matter of great import.

  Bonnie turned back to Leo. “Where are we?”

  Leo gave her an admonishing frown. “Don’t you recognize the group? We’re your Knowledge Bowl team from my sophomore year—on our way back from Durango. We took third in state out of the double A schools.”

  Of course.

  She did know these children—although a part of her also knew they were children no longer. Lisa and Randy had gone on to get married, and divorced. God knows what happened to the Kettle twins once they escaped from East Plains.

  “I remember that—this—trip. I was worried we would never get over Wolf Creek Pass.”

  “But we did.”

  She regarded Leo, feeling the old warmth and kinship return. “You kept me sane by talking to me until we reached the other side of the pass.”

  “Do you remember what we talked about?”

  Bonnie didn’t hesitate. “Oscar Wilde. Your language arts class had just gone to see The Importance of Being Earnest.” She nodded to him, and winked—their signal to start their favorite interchange between Jack and Algernon, two of the characters in Wilde’s play.

  Leo didn’t disappoint her. He sat up rigid, his chin tucked, his eyes fixed on hers. “Oh, that’s nonsense, Algy. You never talk anything but nonsense.”

  “Nobody ever does.” Bonnie licked her lips, hoping she’d achieved the right tone of aristocratic carelessness. “It looks like you followed in Mister Bunbury’s footsteps, doing the sensible thing and dying at your doctor’s advice.”

  “What choice did I have?” A wistful look came over Leo’s countenance, and he laid the back of his hand against his forehead as if he might swoon. “Alas, my moment to fret upon the stage of life has passed. No point in regrets. Well, maybe one.”

  “Tell me.”

  Leo waved away the request. “Another time, maybe.”

  His face brightened. “Do you remember when we talked about Oscar himself?”

  Bonnie nodded slowly as the memory of the conversation played frame by frame across her mental ViewMaster. “I remember you loved the man, his work, the stand he took when he went to prison.”

  “And you told me it was hard to be a homosexual in Victorian England.” Leo patted her hand. “I think you had already begun to suspect, even before I was ready to admit it to myself.”

  Bonnie had to swallow before she could speak. “Not really. It was what you said next, that made me wonder. Missus P, it’s hard at any time.”

  “Hard at any time,” Leo whispered as if hearing his own words for the first time. He raised his eyes to meet hers. “We’re over Wolf Creek Pass, coming down the other side.”

  She looked out the window. Sure enough, the snow had nearly stopped—just a scattering of flakes, swirling each in their individual dance.

  Bonnie took Leo’s hand in hers. It felt warm the way she hoped it would. “You have to go, don’t you?”

  He looked down at their hands, refusing to meet her eyes. “Wasn’t it Thomas Wolfe who said you can’t go across the pass again?”

  She chuckled. “I think there was something about home in there. Besides, here we are crossing the pass for the second time.”

  “Maybe with mountain passes you get two times before you’re done.”

  “Maybe. Before you go, I have to ask you something.” She let go his hand and lifted his chin until they were eye to eye. “Why was my name in your pocket?”

  The boy sighed and no longer looked like a child of fifteen. Here was a man staring back at life from the other side. “I wanted to talk to you, get your advice about something”—Leo hesitated, evidently searching for just the right word—“significant.”

  “Well, I’m right here. What was it?”

  Leo shook his head. “It’s not important now. What is important is that you stop the killing before it’s too late. Before it reaches Timothy.”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t know any Timothy.”

  “You will.”

  “Bon?”

  A gentle hand shook Bonnie, rousing her. She blinked awake, and stared up at the smiling face of Lloyd Whittaker. The final frames of her bus ride with Leo Quinn began to fade.

  Timothy? “What time is it?”

  Lloyd directed her gaze to the clock, which she would have noticed had she not been so out of it. “Just past eleven.”

  Over an hour, ye gods. Truth be told, she didn’t remember falling asleep. Last she recalled, her thirteen charges had filed from
her classroom, leaving her sitting alone at her desk.

  “I dreamed I was with Leo Quinn.” She rubbed her eyes and delineated the Wolf Creek bus ride, ending with Leo’s reference to the mysterious Timothy.

  “Do we know any student connected with Leo Quinn named Timothy?” With a grunt, Lloyd hoisted himself onto the top of a student desk.

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Fat chance. If you can’t remember, what hope does a mere mortal like yours truly have?” With a sound like sandpaper, he scratched at his chin. “It was just a dream after all. I didn’t think you put much stock in such things.”

  “Normally, I don’t, but this felt different, like something Ben would splatter on me.” She hoped the reference to her dead husband didn’t make her sound too loopy.

  “You still carry that hawk stone?” Lloyd asked.

  She nodded, reached across the desk, and dragged her fanny pack to her. The smallish stone she retrieved from the pack’s innards was no more than four inches long, pointed at each end. To say it resembled a hawk’s head might be stretching the truth, but that’s exactly what the darn thing looked like to Bonnie. A red-tailed hawk to be precise—the totem of Ben Pinkwater, her dead husband.

  Only two people on the planet, Armen Callahan and Lloyd, knew the story of how she came to own the stone and how it more than likely saved her life. She didn’t trust anyone else with that bit of metaphysical nonsense.

  Lloyd took the rock from her hand. “Looks more like a banana.”

  She was about to gift her friend with a frown when the door opened. Superintendent Xavier Divine poked his egg-shaped cranium into the room.

  Bonnie snatched the stone from Lloyd and tucked it in the fanny pack. She spent a moment indulging the irrational hope that the rotund visage of The Divine Pain in the Ass would fade along with her dream of Leo Quinn.

  No such luck. The man has a perverse staying power.

  Divine maneuvered his ample rear end into the room and smiled his I’ve-got-you-cornered-now smile. “Ah, just the two I want to see. If I didn’t know better, I’d say, except for that ridiculous debacle two nights ago, the pair of you has been avoiding me.”

  The Divine Pain in the Ass appeared to jealously regard Lloyd’s position on the student desk, obviously thought better of it, and remained standing. He inhaled a barrel of air. “I won’t waste time asking questions I already know the answers to.”

  He fixed his gaze on Bonnie. “Word on the back roads of East Plains is that you’ve insinuated yourself into still another murder investigation. And now you’ve included one of my principals in your nefarious activities.”

  Lloyd leaned forward, evidently trying to interject a comment.

  Divine silenced him with an upraised hand. “Your time to speak will come. For now, you’ve lost that privilege. I bought and paid for it with the indignities you’ve both heaped upon me.” He peered from Bonnie to Lloyd, daring them to dispute him.

  The man has a point. Which is surprising for a head so profoundly ovoid.

  “Good,” Divine said. “Now, here is how we will proceed. First, let me dispense with some minor business. Principal Whittaker …”

  Lloyd, still tilted forward, brought his reluctant gaze up to meet Divine’s.

  The superintendent, for his part, gave Lloyd his full and enthusiastic attention. “In the future, you will refrain from unwelcome familiarities. These include assaults upon my person in the form of embraces, goodol’-boy salutations, and anything involving beer.”

  Once again, Lloyd seemed on the verge of a reply and once again, Divine silenced him. “In addition, you will henceforth cease, whether in my presence or not, making mention of Miss Devereaux’s bosom. On this matter I am most adamant.”

  “You have my word, superintendent.”

  “I knew I could count on you. And now, Missus Pinkwater.”

  Even though Bonnie had been preparing herself for when Divine would draw a bead on her, she still felt herself flushing. A wave of annoyance washed over her.

  Damn it. How do I get myself into stupid situations like this? “You want me to stop my connection to the Quinn investigation?”

  Divine shook his egg-shaped dome. “Au contraire. I want you to continue.”

  What the hell?

  A hint of a mischievous smile played across Divine’s moon face at Bonnie’s obvious consternation. “Indeed. I wouldn’t dream of hindering you in your self-destructive proclivities. Truth is, neither Leo Quinn, Dwight Furby, nor Jason Dobbs are students at EPHS. And aside from the fact you are teaching a voluntary gifted and talented class, you are on vacation. Your time is your own.”

  Bonnie eyed the man suspiciously. “Forgive me for my cynical nature, but what’s the catch, superintendent?”

  Divine adopted the look of the innocent babe. “Why must there be a catch?” He cocked his enormous head. “However, I have taken the liberty of informing the community at large as to your involvement. In the past few days, a number of East Plains’ citizens have contacted me with a myriad of questions concerning the case.”

  Uh-oh.

  Divine seemed gratified at the understanding he found in Bonnie’s expression. “You see my dilemma. I tried to gain audience with you to ascertain the answers these good people sought. Without definitive direction from you, I was merely guessing. So, I hinted that they should go to the source for their inquiries.”

  Lloyd stood, his face hard, his eyes flinty. “You gave them her phone number?”

  Divine feigned shock. “That would have been unethical as well as an invitation to a lawsuit. I merely mentioned your name to a few select members of our community as someone in the know.”

  You son of a bitch. “And since my phone number is listed, they could look it up.”

  “I suppose that’s a possibility.” Divine licked his lips. “Well, I should be going.”

  He waddled to the door, opened it, then halted without looking back. “There is one more reason I’d like you to continue. Alf Quinn is an especially good friend of Angelica’s.”

  Lloyd held the school’s front door as Bonnie, who was checking her cell phone, passed through.

  She snapped shut the phone and chuckled. “Twelve messages—eight on my home phone, four on the cell. I’ve got to admit. Divine played that hand well. He’s completely divorced himself from the murders while dropping me squarely in the middle, and in the public eye as far as East Plains is concerned. As long as this investigation goes on, the Nosy Parkers of our little community will feel they’ve got the right to call me and find out what I know. Hell, they’ve been directed to do so by the superintendent of schools.”

  “You could always stop answering your phone.”

  “Good solution, Whittaker.” A sheriff’s cruiser, parked down the road on East Plains Highway caught Bonnie’s eye. “Check it out. Isn’t that at the bus barn?”

  Lloyd nodded and picked up his pace. “Come on.” He set off at a jog and Bonnie followed.

  Outside the sprawling powder blue cinderblock structure, not one but two sheriff cruisers, lights blazing, sat at an obtuse angle to one another. Practically bisecting the angle, squatted a silver and black motor scooter, a pizza box bungeed to its rear fender.

  What the hell? Wilma Trotter’s scooter?

  Hanging back, Bonnie located Wilma, who evidently rode over from her house bearing Italian cuisine. She was weeping, her head on Byron Hickman’s shoulder.

  Bonnie eased forward.

  The rolling metal door of the barn was raised. At first, all Bonnie could spy was Witherspoon’s maroon Trans Am, but as she drew close she saw a pair of boots. In increments, she bore witness to the sprawled form of the Spoonmaster himself. His straw cowboy hat was tilted on his head, partially obscuring his face. The front of his shirt was soaked in blood. Deputy Wyatt was kneeling by the body.

  My God, when will it end?

  A wave of guilt passed through Bonnie. She had never particularly liked Moses Witherspoon—
in fact, if asked, she would have placed the young man squarely in the dislike column. Yet here he was, all his tomorrows, every shred of his potential, stolen by some maniac. Maybe if she had taken the time, she would have found something worthwhile in the boy.

  Now, she would never have the opportunity.

  Byron lifted his gaze. For a long moment, the deputy regarded her over the top of Wilma’s head, then, with a crook of his finger, indicated she and Lloyd come over.

  “Missus Pinkwater’s here,” Byron whispered.

  Wilma Trotter turned a tear-streaked face toward Bonnie. Her eye patch was askew, partially revealing the shriveled socket beneath. “He’s gone, Pinkwater. The bastard took him.”

  Bonnie had been prepared for the worst. With Wilma on the scene, it seemed a foregone conclusion that the corpse of Gabe Trotter would be found somewhere in the interior of the bus barn. Now several other possibilities presented themselves—even the off chance that Gabe had murdered his friend and fled.

  Bonnie didn’t think so. “Who took Gabe, Wilma?”

  “I recognized him on his motorbike, no helmet. There wasn’t another vehicle for miles. I thought the other rider looked like Gabe, but he was wearing a helmet. Dammit, I should have …” Wilma’s hands went into her hair. Wild-eyed, she yanked first one then another tendril from her scalp.

  Bonnie stepped forward and took Wilma’s hands into hers. “Who took Gabe, Wilma?”

  Wilma Trotter squinted at Bonnie—the understood question—Why couldn’t Bonnie understand? “That cowboy. The one married to Rodeo Girl.”

  She jerked her fists free from Bonnie’s grasp. “Why isn’t anyone listening to me? Caleb, Caleb Webb, Goddammit!”

  CHAPTER 21

  “GET THIS CRATE MOVING, PINKWATER.” WILMA Trotter leaned forward from Alice’s backseat. She checked her watch. “God damn. Almost a half hour. That maniac’s had my boy for half an hour.”

  Bonnie had willed herself not to dwell on that aspect of their quest. Why had Caleb taken Gabe when he had summarily executed both Furby and Witherspoon? “Lloyd’s driving as fast as he can, Wilma. We’ll be there in less than five minutes.”