Raven and the Cowboy: A Loveswept Historical Romance (39 page)

Trace cocked his head as if Valentine’s voice annoyed him. “The number was MPZ one oh four eight one nine.”

Rickie nodded absently. “The number was MPZ one oh four eight one nine.”

Oliphant scribbled furiously. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Sweet Jesus.”

Valentine merely stared at Trace, his brow furrowed, his mouth set cynically.

“Thank you, Trace,” Laura said. “That was very good.” She turned to Rickie. “Rickie. What happened today to the man with the cane?”

Rickie stopped staring at the ceiling and began to stroke his own cheek, one finger at a time, never using his thumb. He answered her questions as Trace had, almost verbatim.

“Tell me the license number,” she said at last.

“MPZ one oh four eight one nine,” said Rickie.

“MPZ one oh four eight one nine,” Trace echoed.

“Go radio headquarters,” Valentine ordered Oliphant. “Tell them to put an APB on the number.”

Oliphant got up swiftly from the desk and gave the twins a wary look. “Like, that’s
spooky
, man.”

“Like, that’s
spooky
, man,” Rickie repeated as Oliphant left the room. His childish voice mimicked the officer’s inflection.

“Like, that’s
spooky
, man,” Trace said.

“What is this?” Valentine demanded. “This is weird. I never saw nothing like this. Can I believe these kids?”

“Can I believe these kids?” asked Trace.

“Absolutely,” Laura said with confidence.

“Absolutely,” repeated Rickie in the same tone.

“Why are they saying everything we say?” Valentine asked, his nostrils flaring.

“Why are they saying everything we say?” Trace said.

“Why are they saying everything we say?” Rickie said.

“Why are they saying everything we say?” Trace said again.

“Don’t echo, Trace,” Laura said, shaking her head. “Don’t echo, Rickie.”

“We can do a puzzle,” Trace said, looking at his watch. Rickie, too, looked at his watch. He pressed his lips together and nodded.

“Yes,” she agreed. “You can do a puzzle. Sit at the table.”

They marched to the table, pulled out the two chairs, and sat. Rickie pushed the child’s puzzle away.

Laura went to a shelf and took down a jigsaw puzzle. “It’s a new one,” she told them, taking the cellophane from the box. “It doesn’t make a picture.”

They waited stolidly. She was proud of finding the puzzle. It was labeled “Highly Difficult” and contained a thousand pieces. On both sides, it was black.

Carefully she poured the pieces of the puzzle to the middle of the table. The boys began to spread them out, sorting. Rickie immediately found four pieces that fit and locked them together.

Laura moved to her desk and set down the puzzle box so that Valentine could see it.

Trace, who was obviously more tired than Rickie, began to mutter loudly. “Blue rhubarb,” he said emphatically. “Blue rhubarb, blue rhubarb.”

“Cows can fly,” Rickie said, apropos of nothing. “In outer space. Cows fly in outer space.”

Valentine looked up from the puzzle box and at the twins. He regarded them with something bordering on horror.

“Why do they talk like that?” he demanded. “What’s this ‘blue rhubarb’? What’s he mean, ‘Cows fly’? What’s with the repeating?”

Laura pressed her lips together and searched for words.

“Blue rhubarb, blue rhubarb, blue rhubarb,” chanted Trace.

“Cows can fly,” Rickie said, sounding bored. “MPZ one oh four eight one nine. MPZ one oh four eight one nine.”

Valentine swore, his expression more horrified than before. It was as if he was staring at two serpents, not two little boys.

He swung his head so that he faced Laura. “These kids aren’t right in the head, are they?” he challenged, contempt in his voice.

“These children are special,” she said. “And I have to get them their juice. I promised them.”

She went to the small refrigerator on the counter and took out two containers of apple juice. She opened the snap tops and carried the juice to the table.

Mechanically Rickie muttered, “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Trace said, quickly fitting the puzzle pieces together. “Blue rhubarb, blue rhubarb, blue rhubarb.”

Valentine stared at them again as if repelled. “These kids are retards—
retards
.”

Laura turned to face him, putting her hand on her hip. She knew his contempt could not hurt the boys. It would not even register on them. “The correct word is autistic, Mr. Valentine. But I’d prefer you use the word ‘special,’ as the staff does.”

He swore and turned his gaze back to her, his eyes glittering angrily. “That’s what the ‘special’ in this school means? It’s a school for morons and nut bars?”

Laura gave him a withering look. “This school serves children with special needs. What kind of school did you
think
it was?”

“I don’t know,” Valentine almost snarled. “Some of ’em was crippled or something. I thought it was a cripple school. Only these two look so normal, I didn’t know—how’m I supposed to know—?”

Laura crossed her arms and looked away angrily. She didn’t tell him they didn’t use the word “crippled,” either. Some of the children had cerebral palsy in addition to mental retardation. And Fergus, who had been brain-injured in a car accident, was in a wheelchair.

“For a minute,” Valentine said angrily, “I thought I got dream witnesses here. Kids who know cars. Very observant kids. With good memories. I thought maybe this is a school for the special smart. Now you tell me they’re loons.”

Laura swung back to face him. “Don’t call them names,” she ordered. “They
do
know cars. They
are
observant. They
do
have good memories.”

“Yeah?” Valentine challenged, his mouth twisting. “How do I know they aren’t just repeating what they’re told? They’re like two parrots, goddamnit.”

“No,” she argued. “They’re children with a condition. Sometimes they repeat what they hear. It’s called echolalia.”

“Yeah?” Valentine said again. “So how do I know it ain’t you they’re echoing, or whatever the hell you said? I mean, who’s gonna believe a kid who says ‘blue rhubarb’ all the time, or that cows fly? Christ, lady, you realize you just had me send in a report based on the testimony of two—two retards?”

Laura clenched her fists atop the desk and leaned toward Valentine. “I said, don’t use language like that. What they said is right. I’d swear to it. They’re never wrong about numbers. They may be handicapped in some ways, but they’re gifted in others. In observation. In—in dexterity. In spacial perceptions. But especially in numbers. About numbers they’re never wrong—never.”

“Oh, shit,” Valentine said bitterly. “Why’d I get outta bed this morning?”

“Believe me,” she said earnestly. “It’s true. They’re never wrong about numbers.”

Valentine looked away from her. He put one hand to his temple. “Shit,” he said again. “Shit and blue rhubarb.”

“I can’t tell you how many steps that man took,” Laura pleaded. “But they can. It’s what they
do
. I didn’t notice the sort of car. I didn’t count the shots. I didn’t see a license number. But they could, and they did.”

Valentine swore again. “What’s this supposed to be? They’re like that guy in that movie? That Tom Cruise thing? These kids are like that—that
Rainman
guy?”

“Yes,” Laura said, eagerly springing on his words, even if they weren’t quite accurate. “Like
Rainman
. Exactly. Some people call them ‘idiot savants,’ wise idiots. They’re below average in some skills, but in others they have a sort of genius—”

“Wise, schmize, a idiot’s a idiot,” Valentine said blackly. “Besides, a movie’s a—a work of
fiction
. That rainman guy wasn’t
real
.”

“He was based on real people, people like these boys,” Laura argued. “Look at that puzzle. Could you do it? I couldn’t.”

He glanced with distaste at the twins bent over the puzzle. They were working swiftly, and had assembled almost a fifth of it already.

“I wouldn’t
want
to,” he muttered. “I got enough puzzles in my life.”

“That’s not the issue,” Laura said. “Could you do it? That fast?”

He shrugged. He swore again. He still had his overcoat on, and sweat was starting to bead his face.

“When was your birthday?” Laura asked.

He scowled. “What? Now we’re gonna play astrology?”

“I’ll show you what they can do. When’s your birthday?”

“April twenty-seventh, 1941,” he muttered. “Curse the day.”

Laura rose upright again and turned to the work table. “Rickie—tell me what day of the week was April twenty-seventh, 1941.”

Rickie did not look up from the puzzle. “Sunday,” he said without hesitation.

She turned back to Valentine. “Well?” she said.

He looked both displeased and startled. “He got lucky.”

“Try him on anything,” she challenged.

“My sister got married in 1963,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “September seventh.”

“Rickie,” she said, “what day of the week was September seventh, 1963?”

“Saturday,” Rickie replied without looking up.

She picked up her appointment book. She looked back to the first part of the year. She pointed to an entry in January. It said, “Rickie excused. Dentist—filling. 1:30.”

“Rickie,” she said carefully, “the dentist gave you a filling. Tell me the time and place.”

Rickie took a drink of juice and wiped his mouth. He picked up a puzzle piece. “January eighth. Friday—one-thirty. The office has an aquarium. Thirteen fish. Six striped ones. Four black ones. Three gold ones.”

She flipped through the book. She saw the entry reminding her of Herschel’s birthday party in July. She pointed it out to Valentine. “Rickie, when was Herschel’s birthday party?”

Rickie yawned. “July fourteenth. Wednesday—three-thirty.”

She reached to her desk, picked up her calculator. “Rickie, tell me the number of candles on Herschel’s cake.”

“Twenty-nine.”

Laura held the calculator so that Valentine could see it. She punched in the numbers. “Rickie, what’s twenty-nine times twenty-nine?”

As soon as she said it, she hit the
equals
button.

“Eight hundred forty-one,” Rickie said, almost as quickly as the number came up in the calculator’s window.

“What’s eight hundred forty-one times eight hundred forty-one?” she asked, punching in the numbers.

The number 707,281 displayed almost simultaneously as Rickie said it.

She kept throwing challenges out to Rickie. He met them effortlessly, until Valentine seemed impressed in spite of himself.

She started to push in another set of numbers, but Valentine gestured for her to stop. “No more,” he said, shaking his head. He gave Rickie another cold look. “He’s a goddamn freak.”

Laura was infuriated. But Oliphant opened the door and reentered. Because now she and Valentine had an audience, she tried to temper her reply, but she still spoke with passion.

“He’s not a freak,” she said. “
They’re
not freaks. They’re human beings, just like you and me.”

“Human beings,” Valentine muttered, as if he held the entire species in contempt.

Laura clenched her fist. “Listen,” she said from between her teeth. “They can help you find out who killed that lovely old man. He was always such a gentleman. He never really talked to us, but he was always so nice—”

Oliphant cleared his throat. He walked to the desk. He gave Laura an ironic sideways glance, but he spoke to Valentine. “They got a make on the victim.”

“Yeah?” Valentine said. “Well?”

“Well, hang on to your ass. It’s ‘Saint Frankie’ Zordani.”

The name meant nothing to Laura, and she was surprised by Valentine’s strong reaction. “The hell you say,” he said, as if in a mixture of shock and awe. It was the first time she had seen the man show an emotion other than suspicion or disapproval.

Valentine turned his attention back to Laura with a smile that was close to a sneer. “Well, well,” he said with false pleasantness. “This wasn’t your average ‘Let’s drive by and kill somebody’ shooting. This wasn’t random. This has got
interesting
.”

“Interesting?” Laura said, doubt in her voice. What she had seen was terrible, shocking; how could he find it interesting?

Valentine’s superior smirk stayed in place. He nodded. “Your ‘lovely old man’? ‘Such a gentleman’? Who was ‘so nice’?”

“Yes?” she asked with a frisson of foreboding.

“A drug lord,” Valentine said with satisfaction. “This wasn’t any random violence you witnessed. This was planned. It was a hit. A major drug war hit.”

Her scalp prickled, and a cold lump formed in her throat. She couldn’t speak.
Planned? A hit?
she thought sickly.
A drug lord and a drug war?

“The D.A.’s office wants a statement. Then they want those kids in protective custody. Maybe the woman, too,” Oliphant said. “Immediately.”

Valentine nodded. He rose and picked up his hat from the desk. He looked Laura up and down.

“Get your coat,” he ordered. “And the kids’. They’re material witnesses in this—if what they say can hold up in court. Let’s go.”

“Protective custody?” Laura said, stunned. “Material witnesses? Court? You mean these children might be in danger?”

“Worry about number one, lady,” Valentine said. “You might be in trouble yourself. You got yourself in the middle of something big. Oh, you’ve done it up right, no mistake.”

A tide of horror swept her. It had never occurred to her that she had to do anything more than have the boys tell the police about the license number. Now Valentine was talking about courts and witnesses and drug wars and protection—it was incomprehensible. “But—” she protested. “But—”

Valentine gave a snort of cynical laughter. “The D.A. ain’t gonna believe
this
. We got witnesses—but they’re eight-year-old idiots.”

Don’t use that language
, Laura wanted to say, but the words stuck in her throat. She could only stare at Valentine’s unsympathetic face.

“Blue rhubarb, blue rhubarb, blue rhubarb,” said Trace.

“Cows fly in outer space,” said Rickie.