Stoneskin's Revenge (4 page)

Trouble was, he only had fifty bucks to fiddle with, which he needed to stretch as far as possible. No checks, no credit cards (never
had
had them, though), and—at the moment—not even a wallet to store the single wrinkled bill in.

The clerk cleared his throat, and Calvin started, realizing he'd been staring blankly at the shelves of cigarettes behind the man's peeling pate.

“Mister?”

Calvin blinked again, refocused on the clerk, then on the array of items ranged across the counter: a plastic quart bottle of reconstituted orange juice, a Snickers bar because he needed an energy jolt, a small jar of Folger's Coffee (too expensive, but it'd beat the headache he'd get when his morning caffeine fix wore off), a couple of sticks of beef jerky, a vacuum-sealed can of generic peanuts (as much for the can as the contents), a box of matches, a small notebook, a Bic pen, a bar of Ivory soap, and the lone surviving
Savannah Morning News
from the rack by the door. This last was an indulgence, but he'd been out of touch with the rest of the world for the better part of three days and figured it was about time he found out what had been going on while he'd been off doing things so preposterous only about ten people in the world would possibly believe them.
Besides,
Calvin could always use the paper to sleep under, to start fires with, or for any of several other purposes. Besides, one of the minor head-lines—something about a woman being found dead in Jackson County—intrigued him. He'd just been in Jackson County, so it had resonated, and…

A third, more pointed, prompting from the cashier, and Calvin finally responded. “Uh, yeah, reckon that'll do 'er.”

The clerk rang up the purchase and took Calvin's money with a relish that did not last until the returning of the change: two twenties and miscellaneous coins. Calvin dropped the pennies one by one into the cut-off paper cup designated for that purpose by the register. The sign above it read, GOT AN EXTRA? LEAVE ONE. NEED ONE? TAKE ONE.

“Not from around here, are you?”

Already turning to leave, Calvin scowled, wondering what had brought on this abrupt change of demeanor from someone who seconds before had seemed anxious to see his heels. Maybe it was simple relief: the guy had his money now and could afford to relax. Or perhaps he was merely lonely.

Except Calvin didn't think so.

“'Fraid not,” Calvin replied at last, trying to be friendly in spite of a sudden urge to vent some heavy sarcasm, which surprised him. Usually he got on well with strangers; often as not brought up his heritage before they did, just to make them easy. The man was waiting for more too; expectant behind his thick lenses. “I'm from Atlanta, mostly,” Calvin volunteered finally. “Grew up there, but my folks're from western Carolina.”

“You Cherokee?”

Calvin nodded. “Good guess.”

The man shrugged. “Common sense. Ain't no official Creeks no more, or Yuchi—which is what we had 'round here—and you don't look Seminole, if you don't mind me sayin'.”

“No problem,” Calvin assured him, wondering how Seminole, in fact, looked. He'd never seen one.

“Just passin' through?”

Yep, that was the standard next question; Calvin knew that from experience too. Usually folks were simply curious—Southerners were like that: they didn't much care what you did long as they knew you were doing it. It was sneakiness they couldn't abide—and this far south, there wasn't much bigotry toward Indians. Trouble was, folks tended to confuse Calvin's brand of unobtrusiveness
with
sneakiness.

“Uh, yeah,” Calvin acknowledged finally. “Rode down to Cumberland with some friends to do a little…research. Never been here before and decided it was pretty neat country, so I figured I'd hang around a spell and get a feel for the territory, maybe do some thinkin'.”

“Good place for
that
,”
the man chuckled. “Lord knows ain't nothin'
else
happens 'round here—'cept hurricanes, and ain't quite season for 'em yet. Had a big blow last night, though—guess you know that—if you 'uz down at Cumberland.”

“Yeah,” Calvin replied, glancing out the expanses of plate glass that fronted the store to where the parking lot was awash with drifts of Spanish moss and broken twigs, all aglitter in the sun. “I missed the worst of it,” Calvin continued, “but some friends of mine were caught right in the middle.”

“They come through okay?”

“Well as can be expected.” And with that Calvin turned away, suddenly having no desire to continue the conversation, since he knew for a fact that the storm had not been remotely natural.

In the ensuing silence, he abruptly became aware of the ceiling fan.

Something about it made him think of flying. Perhaps it was the low-pitched wop-wop-wop that reminded him of vast wings flapping. Perhaps it was the breezes fanning his cheeks that made him imagine the winds of the high air wafting him along. It was a dream, he thought lazily, one all men shared, no matter what their ethnos: to go where one would, not limited to the land; to rise up or glide down at will; to proceed straight to one's goal; to ride on the back of the wind and see things others could not…

“You okay?”

The query startled him from his reverie. He blinked, spun around, puzzled as the colors in the room seemed to shift. “Yeah,” he managed, blinking once more. “I'm fine.” He hesitated at the door with his hand on the crossbar.

“There a pay phone around here?”

The clerk started, took nearly as long to reply as Calvin had earlier taken to respond to him. “'Round the corner. Cost you fitty cent.”

“Thanks,” Calvin called, and stepped outside.

He halted at the edge of the concrete curb to wipe his face and shift the items in the plastic bag to his backpack. He
wished
he'd thought to buy a pair of cheap shades, for the world had gone hard and hot with the glare bouncing off pavement, off metal and plastic, off the white sands of the parking lot behind. He almost went back in, then changed his mind. No sense revving up the conversation again.

He was just turning the corner in quest of the promised phone when the crunch of bicycle tires reached him, almost simultaneously with a whoop of victorious exultation.

Trying not to look as if he'd been startled (which he had, a little) Calvin turned slowly around—and saw two lads, maybe thirteen or fourteen, who had evidently been racing on their ten-speeds. Both were around five-foot four or five; both wore cutoffs, sneakers, and T-shirts; and the blonder one was starting to fill out some. The slighter, dark-haired kid noticed him first, and Calvin saw the boy's gray-green eyes slide dubiously over his unlikely figure—and linger on the bow. There was a minute's mumbled pause, during which the dark kid engaged in some form of heated consultation with his companion, and then began peddling straight toward Calvin, who by this time was once more moving on.

“Hey, mister!” the boy called. “Wait up a minute! Mind if I take a look at that bow?”

Calvin grimaced, but stood his ground, then shrugged reluctant affirmation. After all, had he been in their BKs he'd have acted exactly the same.

“All right!”
the kid cried, braking to a squeaky halt. “I used to hunt some, before my last dad d—”

“I'm Michael Chadwick,” the other boy inserted, coasting up no-hands. “Ole Don Larry here don't have a lot in the way of manners.”

“Calvin—Calvin McIntosh.”

“Like in the next county over?” Michael wondered.

“I'm Don Scott,” the shorter boy volunteered in turn, shoving a tanned hand in front of the one his friend was now extending. “And I do so have manners, I just get real
into
stuff sometimes, and it kinda gets the best of me.”

“I know somebody like that,” Calvin laughed, shaking hands in turn. “Gets him into a lot of trouble. Me too, sometimes.”

But now that introductions were over, Don could not take his eyes off the bow.

With a surreptitious wink at Michael, Calvin unslung the weapon from his back and handed it to the smaller boy.

“Oh, wow,” Don whispered reverently as he ran his fingers along the smooth, unlacquered surface.

“
Double
wow,” Michael echoed, having finally caught his friend's enthusiasm. “Hey, look at all these different kinds of wood, and stuff. Springy at the tips, I bet—and real stiff-like here at the grip where these lightnin' bolt-things are.”

“Looks handmade,” Don noted. “Where'd you get it, anyway?”

“A friend made it,” Calvin told him truthfully, not adding that the friend lived in another World. “And another friend lent it to me. It's the only one of its kind anywhere around, now,” he added with a touch of wistfulness.

“What's it made out of?” Don asked. “Never seen
anything
like these green bits.”

“Don't know most of 'em,” Calvin replied. “Don't think we've got trees like that 'round here.”

Don bent the bow appraisingly. “Poundage?”

“No idea, but I'd guess maybe sixty.”

“Not
bad
,”
Don whispered. “More'n I could draw easy.”

“More'n you could draw
period
!”
Michael inserted, with a punch to his buddy's ribs, which Don countered without much effort.

“Could too!”

“It's all in how you use your body,” Calvin explained. “I've had to practice a lot. But I've also had a good teacher.”

“So what're you doin' here?” Michael ventured. “I mean you're obviously not from around here, and I hate to be nosy and all, but…well, it's not exactly huntin' season, or anything.”

“Michael! “
Don hissed.

“No problem.” Calvin grinned. “I'm just goin' campin' for a few days and that”—he inclined his head toward the bow—“is mostly for protection.”

“We're goin' campin', too,” Michael volunteered. “Tomorrow. That's what we're here for. This is the only place around that sells our kind of hotdogs.”

“Local brand,” Don appended. “They don't let just anybody stock 'em.” He paused, then: “Hey, you wanta come
with
us? Bet you could teach us some stuff.”

Calvin scratched his nose thoughtfully. He
would
like some company, as a matter of fact—but not right now; maybe in a day or so when he got a few things straight. Eventually he shook his head. “Sorry, guys, but I kinda need to do this solo. But I'd welcome suggestions on a good spot to set up for a while. Need somewhere there's game enough to hunt without bein' caught, if you know what I mean. Fresh water, no trouble with trespassin' or anything.”

“Know just the place,” Don Scott replied immediately. And with that he proceeded to describe a spot a few miles east on the bank of something called Iodine Creek. It was on the fringe of a swamp, but not swampy itself. “It's public land,” the boy added, “but nobody goes there much—too hard to get to. There's supposed to be some stills in the swamp, too, and that keeps some folks away.”

“And there's '
gators
,”
Michael appended.

“No there's not! Not many, anyway; that's just what we tell the tourists so they'll stay away!”

“And speakin' of which,” Michael sighed, “I guess we'd best be movin'. But hey, Calvin, we're gonna be right up the creek a couple of miles from that place I told you about. Why don't you come join us 'round seven or so? Tomorrow, that is.”

“Maybe I will,” Calvin replied, retrieving his bow. “Maybe I will.”

“Carry on,” Don called, turning away.

“Nice to 'uv met you,” Michael added, and scooted ahead of his friend to be first inside.

And Calvin was once more alone.

Roughly thirty seconds later, he had found the phone. But Sandy was evidently not home, and he had no desire whatever to talk to her machine, though he told the operator to hold a minute longer in case she was outside, as she often was that time of day.

He was still trying to decide whether or not to hang up when the crunch of tires made him glance over his shoulder.

The cop car was back—the same bronze Caprice he'd seen down at the restaurant—and this time it was idling really slow, and the driver was, without a doubt, staring straight at him—and frowning. He stood there for a moment, frozen in anticipation, though his conscience was completely clear. “Damn!” he whispered into the receiver, quite forgetting who was on the other end. “Just can't abide a stranger, I reckon. God, I hate this.”

“Sir?”

Calvin ignored both the operator's suggestion of termination and the expectant, post-tone silence on Sandy's line. Something had caught his eye—something much more ominous than slow-cruising Chevys. The Magic Market stood next to an abandoned trailer park, largely overgrown with palmettos and sand, but as he'd been hassling with the operator, he'd been absently scanning the sky. He'd seen a familiar shape there: tapering, swept-back wings, fan-shaped tail, narrow body; seen it swoop and caper until he could confirm its form: a peregrine falcon, scarce in Georgia even along the coast and certainly at this time of year. Still, not
too
remarkable—unless you'd been watching as one dived from a clear sky and swept up an instant later with what looked suspiciously like a very small rattlesnake twisting in its beak.