Stoneskin's Revenge (29 page)

“You mean you
really
think that he killed Don's sister and then stole her shape and killed his best friend?”

“He
might
have. Lots of folks act nice and then turn out to be assholes.”

“
Tell
me about it,” Brock replied, cocking an eyebrow meaningfully. “But if that's the case, why would he do all that stuff to hurt people, and still help us? Why would he threaten to kill Don and then look after him like a brother when he runs into him in the woods a little later? Why
didn't
he kill him then, 'cause he sure could have if he wanted to and nobody woulda known any different! And don't give me any of that b.s. about bringin' in others, either; you
know
you don't believe that!”

“She said something about fear seasonin' my liver,” Don began, but his voice trailed off as he caught sight of Robyn's face.

Robyn ignored him and regarded her brother seriously. “Damn, you're good,” she chuckled. “You oughta be a lawyer when you grow up. Anyway, I'll grant you that Calvin's a nice guy—at least on the surface—and I'll also accept that he helped us out. But we still didn't ask him to do any of those things, he just
did—
and
he's got us in a heap of trouble because of it.”

“No, he's
protected
us from trouble as best he could,” Brock countered desperately. “He
understands
what we're into and all, he wants us to stay out of it. Problem is, he's not sure it'll stay away from us, so he has to look after us.”

“How's he gonna do that from jail?” And then Robyn noticed her brother's sudden grin, and appeared to realize she'd suddenly argued against her own case. “Brock, we
can't
go there, they'll ask questions, they'll want names and addresses, IDs. They may have already heard the missing-persons reports on us, 'cause you know damned sure Dad'll file 'em even if Mom won't. Somebody's bound to recognize us.”

“So you're willin' to leave a friend in deep shit and go on off to England to save your ass?”

“Don't
talk
like that! Besides, it's like I said. Calvin knows what we're up against. He won't expect us to hang around.”

“Yeah, but could you forgive yourself?
I won't
!”

“I won't either,” Don echoed quietly. “I don't know, but…I reckon maybe Brock's right. Yeah, there's some stuff that points to Calvin possibly being involved in some murders. But he doesn't
feel
like a murderer. I mean I met him yesterday—before you guys did, I reckon—and he didn't act nervous or anything. Sure, he was kinda in a hurry-like, and sorta preoccupied and all, but…well…ain't
nobody
that good an actor!”

Robyn frowned. “
You
don't get a vote. Come sunrise we're gonna go watch your house, and soon as anybody official shows up, off you march. They're gonna be searchin' for you in a few hours, anyway.”

“Uh-uh,” Don shot back hotly. “No
way
I'm goin' back there! Not with that monster maybe hangin' 'round! Only people I trust right now are folks that've had somebody with 'em every minute since this thing started!”

“That's
nobody
,”
Robyn pointed out with a touch of sarcasm.

“Yeah, but I could
tell
something was wrong with my sister by the way she was lookin' at me. I don't see that in either of you, and I don't think y'all could hide it.”

“What about Calvin's eyes?” Brock inserted. “Wouldn't that hold for him too? Wouldn't
they
be proof he's okay?”

“Wasn't thinkin' 'bout it then,” Don admitted. “Was dark, anyway.”

“Okay,” Robyn sighed. “But what are you gonna do about your friend's folks? They've gotta find out sometime.”

“Probably already have,” Brock noted, “considerin' that the cops have found his body.”

“He's only got a dad, anyway,” Don informed them. “And if they did call him, I'm
sure
he's gone by now.”

“Okay, okay,” Robyn announced resignedly. “Maybe we
ought
to at least check out what's goin' on in town and make sure there's nothing we can do.”

“Good job,” Brock cried, slapping his sister on the back. “I knew you'd see sense.”

“I
see
disaster,” she snapped back. “But maybe it's like you said, maybe I couldn't forgive myself.”

“Okay, so let's boogie.”

“Not so fast,” she replied. “I still think we need to move camp. That way if Calvin does spill the goods on us, the cops won't find us as quick.”

Brock frowned, but finally nodded. “And
then
we go to town.”

“All of us?” Don wondered. “They're gonna be lookin' for me too—and Mom's gonna be worried. I'd kinda like to touch base…”

Brock's frown deepened. “Good point. And since they know your friend's dead now, they're
bound
to want to ask you questions.”

“
Hard
questions,” Robyn appended. “And if all this magic stuff's true, you're gonna have to be
real
careful how you answer 'em, or you'll wind up in the funny farm.”

“Yeah,” Brock continued, with a glare. “So maybe you'd better lie low until we get back.”

“I'm
goin
'
with you,” Don said flatly.

“Yeah, maybe he's right,” Robyn conceded, eyeing Don narrowly. “You in good enough shape to truck through the woods for a while?”

“I'm tough,” Don replied.

And then the ground began to thrum ever so subtly. And that brought an end to discussion.

Chapter XXI: Put to the Question

(Whidden, Georgia—just before dawn)

…a bare light bulb, plain white walls, and three faces leering out of the shadows, angry and piggish.

“You do it?”

“No.”

“You have anything to do with it?”

“Indirectly, but not by design.”

“What's that s'posed to mean?

“I can't tell you.”

“Why not?”

“It's a…religious thing, like confession…I took a vow.”

“Is that like the Fifth?”

“Stronger.”

An exasperated sigh. “You know who done it?”

“Maybe.”

“Who?”

“I can't tell you.”

“
How
d'you know, then? You witness it?”

“No.”

“How, then?”

“By the signs.”

“You mean them livers?”

“Yes.”

“An' you won't tell?”

“
Can't
tell.”

“How come?”

“You wouldn't believe me.”

A long pause. “Boys, I'm goin' for a cup of coffee. Might check on the fuse box while I'm at it. Wouldn't want that video camera to go off at the wrong time, would we? Might be gone 'bout twenty minutes. You boys look like you could use a little exercise.”

PART IV

Earth and Water

Chapter XXII: Comin' To

(Whidden, Georgia—Thursday, June 19—morning)

It was something wet trickling into Calvin's eyes that awoke him, and he thought for a moment it was more blood, because that was certainly what had been running into them when the sheriff's thugs had finally left him alone the night before—or this morning, or whenever it had been. Morning, probably, because he thought he remembered the sky being pale when Deputies Adams and Moncrief (as Whiner's nametag proclaimed his real name to be) had dragged him out of the County Mounty car and across the parking lot and into an unlighted and azalea-shrouded side door of Whidden's Gothic courthouse, whence they'd pushed and shoved him down about a million hard-edged stairs and then down a long, humid corridor full of pipes and boilers and mechanical hums, through a steel door marked STAFF ONLY, and thence along a dank, brick-walled tunnel and through another STAFF ONLY door to a surprisingly homey interrogation room where they booked him and printed him and were assertively polite for about five minutes (taping all the time)—or exactly until Calvin had begun to relax just a smidgen.
Whereupon
the sheriff had vanished, and it had been back to the brick tunnel again, this time into a cramped and dirty room that opened off it where…
things
had happened, and then, finally (when the sheriff returned from his “coffee break”), to this cramped detention cell that was—Calvin had decided before he passed out—truly under the jail.

And there wasn't a sharp corner or projecting object along either route that he hadn't somehow “stumbled” into, or “fallen” upon—with maybe just a little bit of encouragement. Just like they'd “helped” him stay awake with assorted attention-getters in the form of fists—and once with a cup of remarkably hot coffee “accidentally” spilled into his crotch.

It was still wet too, but clammy cold now, and as Calvin slowly dragged himself to greater wakefulness on the narrow cot, some part of his consciousness informed him that if blood were running into his eyes it would be warm, whereas this liquid obviously was not.

He blinked then, or tried to, for his left lid was crusted shut, and the right only slightly better from having been lately soaked in whatever it was. The blink let in a stab of light, though, that made his head hurt—or hurt worse; it was already pounding, and come to that, everything else was too. A grunt, a groan, a yawn (not a good idea—his jaw wasn't just optimum either, never mind what he'd earlier done to his lip, which was yet another, though fortunately much dimmer ache), and Calvin swung himself upright enough to manage a stiff-shouldered slump.

A gust of damp, chill air from somewhere above and behind made him shiver, but it also helped him focus enough to see that it came from a missing pane in the barred window hard up under the ceiling—the same one that was letting in occasional spits of rain, which (coupled with an impressive leak directly over his head) were evidently what had awakened him.

Knuckles to his eyes then (when had he scraped them like that?), about a ton of dried ick dragged out of the left one, and he was finally able to take stock of his surroundings.

In spite of the barred window and the grillwork that replaced the door, he doubted that the stone-walled eight-by-eight-foot room had either started out as a cell or been intended for long-term occupancy. But then, he imagined a little county like Willacoochee didn't have a lot of need for spacious criminal quarters, and when you had a real
desperado
like he supposedly was that you wanted to keep in solitary (especially if he'd gotten a little too roughed up—Calvin doubted all the local cops were as brutal as his interrogators had been), you just stuck them where you could.

Like here, which he suspected was some kind of converted storage cubby—safe enough with the stout bars, the concrete walls, and the high (easily twelve-foot) ceiling.

Furniture? Only the cot bolted to the wall and a chamber pot in the corner.

Calvin eyed it warily, wondering whether it was wiser to toss his cookies into it (as his pirouetting stomach was beginning to suggest) or to use it for its more traditional function first.

He was still debating when the sound of a door opening drew his attention to the narrow bit of corridor he could see beyond the bars. Two men were talking, one angrily, one definitely on the defensive, their voices accompanied first by the slap of feet against bare concrete, then by a sudden pause.

“You better watch it, Moncrief,” the angry voice snapped. “I don't care
what
he's wanted for, all
you
guys've got him for's attempted breakin'-and-enterin' and criminal trespass—and that ain't enough to justify beatin' the hell outta nobody. Wilson's
way
outta line on that. He may
think
he runs the county, but this jail's mine as well as his.”

Calvin perked up immediately. This was the first time anyone in authority had shown the slightest sign of being reasonable. He wondered who it was—local police, maybe? But before he could speculate further, a chillingly familiar voice whined, “Shit, chief, ain't you ever heard of circumstantial evidence? Boy's wanted on s'picion of murder up at Stone Mountain, and they found his tracks everywhere 'round that little gal, and—”