Lost Cipher (11 page)

CHAPTER 22

The old man had already set Alex in a chair and propped up his bad leg in another. He had removed the crude splint and was wrapping a cloth bandage around the boy's ankle. Alex was trying hard not to make noise, but the look on his ghost-white face told Lucas how much pain he was in. While Lucas and George stood and watched, the old man made up an ice pack and wrapped it against Alex's ankle with another bandage.

When he was finished, he said, “Let's see that bite, boy.”

Alex had been holding the snake-bit hand against his body, and he extended it for the old man to examine. The swelling didn't seem any worse, but it obviously pained Alex to move it.

The old man looked closely at Alex's thumb for a minute. “Looks like he just got you with one.” He put two fingers to Alex's throat, which made the boy flinch. “Just checkin' your pulse. Don't get all jumpy on me.” The old man waited a few seconds, counting the beats in Alex's neck. “Not racin' at all,” he said. “Probably mostly a dry bite. Lucky.”

“Lucky?” said Lucas. “Maybe it was one of your snakes that bit him in the first place.” He figured the snake man would snap at him or maybe worse, but instead he just shook his head and laughed.

“Your busted-up friend here was mutterin' somethin' about that all the way down the mountain. Sounds like I'm gonna have to have a talk with them people over at the camp. They ain't exactly paintin' me in the best light.”

“They said you put snakes out there to keep treasure hunters away.”

The old man didn't respond at first, just went to the sink and refilled the ice tray he'd emptied for Alex's ice pack. He set the tray back in the freezer, and when he spoke, his voice was carrying a threatening edge.

“Look, boy,” he said. “It's true I don't take kindly to trespassers, especially money-grubbin' ones. But that don't mean I like messin' with snakes.” He shook his head. “Aaron told you that bullcrap, didn't he? I sure bet he did.”

Lucas was surprised the hermit knew any of the counselors by name. Something told him Aaron would rather stay anonymous to the creepy old man. He kept his mouth shut while the old man retrieved a glass from a cabinet and filled it with water. When he was finished, he turned back to Lucas.

“Boy, I don't suppose you know what the name of this place is, do you? It's called Moccasin Hollow. Been called that for more'n two hundred years. ‘Highland moccasin' was what them old timers used to call a copperhead. This place was so thick with 'em, they named it after the snakes—Moccasin Hollow. Now, I may look two hundred years old to you, but it sure weren't me that put all them copperheads in this hollow.”

When he spoke to Alex, his voice was only a little gentler. “I'll get you something for that pain, but your bite ain't a bad one.”

Alex held up his arm gingerly. It was still swollen past the wrist, and his hand was a deep red with a bluish bruise around the bite. “What do you call a bad one?” he asked weakly.

Without speaking, the old man set his boot up on a kitchen chair and slid his pant leg up to expose his calf. Above his tattered wool sock, the muscle was half gone and what remained was twisted and glossy, like the wax from a melted candle.

“Jeez!” George muttered.

He touched his own calf. “That's what a
full
load of venom can do. 'Course that was a timber rattler, and it didn't help I had to walk six miles into town for the right kind of doctorin'.”

The old man set the glass of water in front of Alex and went out of the kitchen. They heard him climb the stairs, and when he returned, he had a brown prescription bottle half-full of white pills. “This is some strong stuff, and I ought not give it to you.” He broke one of the pills in half with his thumb and handed it to Alex. “But I can guess how that hand's feelin'.”

If Alex was afraid to take medicine from the man, he didn't show it. He swallowed it down and finished off the water in a hurry.

“That medicine will probably put you out for a while, so I'm gonna set you where you can sleep.” He scooped Alex up off his chair, cradling him like a baby. Before he left the kitchen, he turned back to Lucas and George.

“You two gonna just sit there?”

They followed the old man toward the front of the house, to a bedroom off one side of the main room. He told George to click on a lamp by the door. The bedroom looked like it hadn't been used in years. Even if it had, it was too girlish to be the old man's.

White lace curtains framed a big bay window that let in the warm glow of the setting sun. A high-backed, red-velvet chair with flowers carved along the arms and legs rested in one corner. Across the room sat a small dresser and mirror with a little flowered stool set in front of it, the kind of place where a lady would put on her makeup. The bed was stark white, with lacy fringes along the bottom of the bedcover and a dark, carved headboard.

Next to the bed was a nightstand with a small lamp, its shade fringed with tiny golden tassels. On the nightstand was a single dusty book with a green cover and old-fashioned, gold lettering—
The Life and Letters of John Muir.
Lucas recognized the name from the quote above the camp office.

Without pulling back the covers, the old man laid Alex down on the bed. If he minded the bed getting dirty, he didn't show it. He pulled the tall red chair and the little stool to the side of the bed and motioned Lucas and George to sit down. “You all can set here with him a while. I suppose I'll have to get to feedin' you too.” He walked back in the direction of the kitchen, grumbling.

To Lucas, the clean, white bedcover surrounding Alex made his battered friend seem even more frail, like someone lying sick in a hospital bed. “Does it hurt bad? The snakebite, I mean,” he asked.

“Not as much now, but maybe I'm just getting used to it,” said Alex feebly. “It still burns pretty good though. But my ankle only hurts when I move it.” He perked up a little. “Hey, what's with this place? Practically a mansion, and it's just him livin' here?”

“He probably murdered everyone in it,” whispered George. “I bet they're buried in the basement. Or maybe in that graveyard out back.”

“I doubt it, George,” Lucas whispered back. “He's mean all right, but he's taking care of Alex, isn't he? Why would he do that if he was just going to make us disappear?”

“Who knows?” replied George, glancing back at the door in case the old man was there listening. “But the sooner we get out of here, the better. You know he doesn't have a phone? We're just as lost as we were last night. Only now, nobody even knows where to look for us.”

“Well,” said Lucas, “if them rescuers are any smarter than a box of rocks, they'll figure out whose hollow we went down into. I wouldn't start worryin' unless they don't show up here by morning.”

Alex opened and closed his eyes slowly, looking drowsy already. “Whew, I think that medicine he gave me is already kicking in.”

“Maybe he's going to knock us all out with the same medicine,” said George.

“Good Lord, George,” replied Lucas. “Maybe we all slept in a cave last night, and Alex here is beat. Jeez.” He glanced out the cracked door toward the kitchen and lowered his voice to a whisper again. “Look, Alex, you sleep. We'll talk to him and try to find out what he's thinking. If you're still awake, we'll let you know somehow.”

Alex nodded. Lucas turned off the light but left the door ajar. He and George headed back to the kitchen and the strange old man waiting there.

CHAPTER 23

The old man was at the table. A bowl filled with some kind of dark stew sat in front of him, and a pot on the back of the stove was steaming. The smell that filled the kitchen set Lucas's stomach rumbling.

“Go ahead,” said the old man. He pointed with his spoon to a couple of spare bowls already set out on the counter. “Toilet's around the corner if you want to clean yourself up first.”

George pushed past Lucas to the bathroom and was already back in the kitchen filling his bowl with stew before Lucas even had a chance to wash up.

When Lucas closed the bathroom door behind him, he recalled the words of the storekeeper again, about how the old man only had an outhouse.
One rumor about him that ain't true at least
, Lucas thought. He was glad to know he wouldn't have to trudge past the graveyard and up the hill to the little shack in the rocks if he needed to go in the middle of the night.

Back in the kitchen, Lucas ladled his bowl full of stew. He recognized the smell—venison stew. He doubted George had ever had any, but the younger boy was standing near the kitchen sink, hunched over his bowl and shoveling stew into his mouth like he hadn't eaten in a week. As worried as the younger boy was about the old man drugging them, he didn't seem concerned enough to refuse his food. Lucas moved his own bowl to another spot on the counter and began to eat.

“I ain't gonna bite,” the old man said gruffly. He kicked the two chairs across from him so they slid out from under table. “There's cups up in that cabinet there.”

Lucas found two clean glasses and passed one to George. He filled his at the sink. It was the first water he'd had in more than a day, and he drank down a whole glass then refilled it after George had done the same. The boys took their stew and water over to the table and sat down across from the old man without saying a word.

The stew was as good as it smelled, and Lucas had already eaten half a bowl before the old man spoke again.

“Your friend sleepin'?”

“He probably is by now,” Lucas replied. “Had a lot rougher day than us.”

“Yeah,” agreed George nervously. He pushed away from the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Uh, do you mind if I have seconds?”

The man only shrugged and motioned with his spoon again. George headed for the pot on the stove, and the old man looked up at Lucas.

“I'll be needin' all your names,” he said sternly.

Lucas and George glanced quickly at each other, and the old man saw the suspicion in their eyes.

“For when them camp people come lookin' for you, which they hopefully will by mornin',” he added grumpily. It was the first time the old man had even hinted at getting them back to Camp Kawani.

“Well,” explained Lucas, “our friend's name is Alex. Alex Cruz.”

“George Funderburk,” answered George as he sat back down with his second bowl of stew.

The old man looked at Lucas. “And you?” he asked.

“Lucas Whitlatch, sir.”

“Whiplash?”

George chuckled under his breath, and the old man shot him an icy glare. “You pokin' fun at my hearin', boy?”

George melted into his chair. “No, sir,” he stammered, “it's just that I, uh, thought the same thing when I met him. You know, that Lucas's name was Whiplash.”

“It's Whit
latch
, sir,” interrupted Lucas. “Kind of a funny name.”

He realized the old man had kept his own identity a secret, so he worked up the courage to ask.

“We don't know
your
name either. I mean, my grandma's gonna want to know who found me.”

“Yeah,” agreed George, “that, and we're in your house and everything.”

The old man cast a wary eye across the table, like he was deciding whether or not to trust the two strangers with even his name.

“Gideon Creech,” he finally said, still staring. “Ol' Giddy is what they call me in town. 'Cept that ‘giddy' means crazy to them.” A grin broke across his face. “‘Nuttier than a squirrel turd, that Ol' Giddy' is what they'll tell you.”

George chuckled again and Creech shot him a look.

“Well, thank you for helping us, Mr. Creech,” offered Lucas. “And for the food and all.”

Creech shrugged. “I can't have kids wanderin' off and gettin' killed on my land. A man can get into all sorts of trouble if a dead body or two turns up on his property.”

The way he said it made Lucas think he was speaking from experience. He'd taken in a three lost kids, but that still didn't mean he'd have any sympathy for grown-up treasure hunters. Creech's talk of bodies made him think of the graves out back, including the one marked
Morris
. The name felt familiar.

“I thought maybe your name was Morris,” Lucas said. “I saw it on one of the gravestones out there.”

Creech furrowed his brow and quickly dropped his eyes back to his bowl. He took another spoonful of stew.

The old man's odd silence jarred the rest of the memory from Lucas's head. Morris was the old innkeeper from the treasure story. Lucas knew it was a sore subject with the old man, but his curiosity got the best of him.

“The counselors at the camp told us a story about a treasure around here, about some secret codes that an innkeeper kept for some explorer who disappeared out west. The innkeeper's name was Morris too.”

The man's chair scraped back and he got up, acting like he hadn't heard Lucas. He took his bowl to the stove and ladled it half-full again before he spoke.

“That grave out there's the innkeeper's daughter, Annie. My grandmother with three greats. She spent the first eighteen years of her life in that inn. Wasn't too far from here,” Creech said, “but it's long gone now. 'Course that treasure story is just that,” he added. “A
story
. I hope them camp folks told you that part too.”

“That's what they said,” Lucas answered.

“Well, that don't seem to stop a lot of folks from wanderin' into my hollow to look for it.” He set his bowl down in front of him and caught Lucas's eye again. “Lookin' for somethin' that wouldn't even belong to them in the first place, even if it did exist.”

Lucas felt the old man's words cutting through him, and he was happy when Creech changed the subject.

“You say your name's Whitlatch?”

“Yes, sir.”
Why are you asking?

“Where you from, Lucas Whitlatch?”

“West Virginia.”

Creech didn't reply, but he was paying attention, so Lucas went on.

“My town is called Indian Hole. Not really a town. More like just a road that dead-ends up against a mountain. But it's where all my kin is from, I guess.”

Creech wiped the corner of his mouth with a knobby thumb. He pushed his bowl away and reached into his pocket, drawing out a pipe. From the same pocket, he retrieved a pouch of tobacco.

“How'd you come to be in that camp?” he asked.

“What do you mean, sir?” If Creech knew what the camp was about, he already knew why Lucas was there.

“I
mean
, did you lose your pa or your ma?”

“My pa, Mr. Creech.”

“He a soldier?” Creech asked, packing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

“Yes, sir,” replied Lucas, a little surprised. “How did you know?”

“Didn't,” Creech said. “Just a lucky guess. Or more like unlucky for your pa, I reckon.”

“I reckon too.” Lucas figured it was the closest thing to sympathy he'd get from the crusty old hermit.

Creech struck a match and lit his pipe, sucking the flame down onto the tobacco. Once it was lit, a stream of blue smoke curled through the bristly white hair surrounding his lips. The smoke enveloped him, and he seemed to drift off in a daze, like he was thinking on something from another time.

George caught Lucas's eye and arched his eyebrows, a look that said,
Now what?

Lucas pushed his chair back. “Thanks for the stew, Mr. Creech.” He took his bowl and spoon to the sink and rinsed them. George took his cue and did the same.

Creech stayed at the table, his pipe smoke drifting up into an old brass light hanging above him. Even when he spoke, he still had a faraway look in his eyes.

“I'm goin' to check on your friend's snakebite one more time. There's another room across from him. I expect we'll have company by first light.”

Lucas figured it was Gideon Creech's way of saying good night.