Stoneskin's Revenge (10 page)

Calvin suppressed another chill as he refolded the paper and stashed it inside the rapidly collapsing asi. Still, he supposed, sensationalism, no matter how un-sensational, had never yet failed to unload a few piles of pulp. Maybe when he got to town he'd pick up another and see if there was a follow-up.

*

It took Calvin perhaps thirty minutes to make his way through the woods to the road that led into Whidden, but he miscalculated his trajectory slightly, so that when he slipped out of the brush and slogged across an unexpectedly marshy bit of right-of-way and onto the shoulder of the only major highway around, he didn't recognize the place at all. The so-far-unseen metropolis had to be fairly close, though; he could just make out a pair of steeples and what looked like a clock tower looming above the treetops to the right, no more than a mile or so away.

Fortunately the terrain looked a little dryer across the highway, so he crossed it at a lope and headed north beside one of the ubiquitous pine plantations, with the sun mercifully hidden behind a puff of clouds that might be vanguard of an afternoon thunderstorm.

He was not thinking very hard about anything at all—or thinking so hard about so many things at once that it amounted to the same thing—when he became aware of the crunch of tires behind him. That was strange, too, because he was facing traffic. Whoever it was would have had to whip across four lanes to come upon him from the rear.

Trying not to appear alarmed, though he was—with some reason, given his looks and circumstances—Calvin risked a glance over his shoulder and saw more or less what he expected: one of the bronze Chevy Caprices that belonged to the local constabulary—probably a County Mounty this far out. Whether there even
was
a city police force, he hadn't a clue.

A whirr/whistle/buzz of siren, and the car ground to a halt, whereupon a public address speaker broadcast a rattly “This is the Willacoochee County Sheriff's Department. Please remain where you are and turn around slowly.”

Calvin obediently stopped in place and eased around to face whatever music might be playing, having no desire to do anything to upset these people, who might, after all, have perfectly good and reasonable intentions. Nor was he surprised when both the Chevy's front doors popped open and a pair of mirror-shaded officers climbed out, each of whom outmassed Calvin by at least forty pounds of—in the driver's case particularly—solid muscle. Indeed, though both gray-haired and balding, the guy looked
remarkably
fit—much more so than his much younger sidekick, who sported a bit of a paunch and a vestigial auxiliary chin. Unfortunately the driver also had a hard, thin mouth Calvin did not much like—as if he were used to getting his own way most of the time and didn't hesitate to let it be known when he didn't.

His partner, by contrast, seemed far less certain of himself, a quality he evidently tried to mask with a snappy precision of movement that was almost prissy. Calvin had to bite his lip to suppress a smirk when he saw the guy's inky sideburns, which had to weigh at least a pound apiece. Even Willacoochee County, it appeared, harbored the occasional Elvis wanna-be. Maybe this redneck rube moonlighted at the local honky-tonk or something. Calvin wished suddenly he still had his harmonica; music might help charm this possibly savage beast. Perhaps because he was nervous and wanted something to do with his hands, he reached unconsciously for the pocket where he usually kept his Hohner, then realized to his horror that he still had the hunting knife clipped to his belt—which he probably shouldn't be carrying. No doubt the officers had noticed it by now, but he froze anyway, lest his intentions be misconstrued.

The driver's brow furrowed ever so slightly, as if he had caught Calvin's gesture and was filing it away under “additional charges.”

“Mind if we have a few
words
with you, mister?” he drawled as he came to within about a yard of Calvin. Calvin had to raise his head to look him in the face. Mirrored RayBans shielded the man's eyes, though, and beyond the unpromising mouth Calvin couldn't get any feel for him at all. No hostility—but no friendliness either. Basically business. The nametag on his light tan shirt read W. LEXINGTON. His badge indicated that he was the local sheriff.

“Sure,” Calvin replied as casually as he could.

“What we was
wonderin'
,”
Sheriff Lexington informed him, “was what you 'uz
doin'
long here. Hitch-hikin's 'gainst the
law
in these parts, 'case you didn't know.”

“I wasn't hitchin'; I was just hikin' into town,” Calvin replied carefully, trying not to appear either nervous or confrontational—and keeping his hand well away from the knife hilt.

“You're not from around here, are you?” the other officer barked with more aggression than Calvin thought necessary. He paused, his forehead likewise wrinkled, and then: “Hey, didn't we see you down at the Magic Market yesterday?”

“Probably.” Calvin hoped very hard he wasn't coming across as a smartass, but was beginning to suspect that any response would be subject to that interpretation.

“You didn't look too glad to
see
us, son,” the sheriff noted pointedly. “Any
reason
for that?”

Oh Lord,
Calvin thought,
here it comes.
He'd have to level with them because he didn't dare lie when on a Vision Quest, but he doubted they'd like the answer.

“Well,” he began, “uh…well, when you…look like…”

He broke off, not liking the direction he was heading in. “Well, I guess you've noticed that I'm an Indian, or mostly one.” he blurted finally. “And I've been around enough to know that not everybody warms to us, especially in small towns.” (And
that,
he realized as soon as he had said it, had been a mistake. Last thing he needed was to sound patronizing.)

There was no obvious response from the officers, though Calvin wished desperately that he could see their eyes. Or that they couldn't see his, guiltless though they were.

“What's your name, son?” This from the sheriff.

“Calvin McIntosh, sir.”

“You got any ID?”

Calvin shook his head. “Lost it.”

“Lost
it? How'd you
lose
it?”

“Mind tellin' us
where
?”
the other—ADAMS, his name-tag read—added.

“I'm not sure,” Calvin replied truthfully. “Last time I remember havin' it was in the Stone Mountain a couple of days ago.”

The officers exchanged startled glances, and Calvin could tell from their subtle tensing that his words had struck some chord with them.

“When's your birthday? “ Adams snapped. “And what's your Social Security number?”

Calvin told him, whereupon Adams spun smartly and trotted back to the car. He picked up the mike inside and began speaking into it, but Calvin couldn't catch what he said.

“Nice knife,” the sheriff noted casually.

“Thanks.”

“Handmade?”

“Yeah. Guy up at Commerce makes 'em.”

“Commerce?”
The man's brow wrinkled again. “Ain't that in Jackson County?”

“I'm…I'm not sure. Could be, I guess.”

“Just wonderin'.”

And then an uncomfortable silence, while the deputy continued his business on the radio.

“Look,” Calvin sighed finally, with more exasperation than he intended, “what is it, exactly, that you want from me?”

“Don't get smart!” the sheriff warned, but before he could continue, his partner was back, easing around to the forest side, as though to block Calvin's movements in that direction. He clutched a piece of paper, which he passed to his superior, who frowned at it for a moment, then looked back at Calvin.

“The name Maurice McIntosh mean anything to you?”

“He's my father,” Calvin replied automatically, and his whole body stiffened as a host of unpleasant possibilities came flooding over him, chiefmost being that Dear Old Dad had called the law on him for busting down the fence around his beagle lot, never mind that there'd been extenuating circumstances—and that Calvin had not been driving. He
had
left some gear back in the clearing there, though; and—his heart skipped a beat—probably his wallet was among it.

Sheriff Lexington advanced another step. “'Bout this Stone Mountain business you 'uz talkin' 'bout—you don't happen to know
which
day you 'uz there, do you?”

Calvin frowned thoughtfully, puffing his cheeks and wishing fervently he could lie. “Let's see…I got here yesterday—that's when you guys saw me—so it must have been…yeah, it was Monday mornin'.”

“
Monday
mornin'? You
sure
about that?”

“Positive,” Calvin affirmed, not flinching.

“And how'd you get here?”

“Some friends brought me. I can give you their names if you like.”

“No need—yet.”

“When did you see 'im last?” Adams inserted, earning a warning glare from his superior.

“Christmas—briefly. Sometime in the fall. I don't remember before that. I don't live there anymore.”

“He throw you out?”

Calvin shook his head. “I left. I was in high school. Dropped out to go and try to get my head straight.”

“And did you?”

“I don't know. See, Dad was half Cherokee, but he didn't want anything to do with that, but
Mom's
dad was Cherokee too—one of their last great medicine men, in fact—and he more or less took me under his wing when Mom died. I'm a lot more my grandfather's son than my father's. I—”

The sheriff silenced him with a scowl. “An' you ain't seen your daddy since Christmas?”

“'Fraid not. Like I said, I was by his house Monday, but he wasn't home. That may be where I lost my billfold.”

“And you're
certain
it was Monday?”

“Absolutely.”

“Can anybody prove this? Any witnesses?”

“Like I said: some friends up north. Maybe the clerk at the Golden Pantry in Winder.”

“What about
since
then?” Adams broke in. “What about
yesterday
?”

“I was here, mostly—campin' out in the woods.”

“Anybody see you?”

“You mean besides you guys? Well, there was the waitress at a restaurant. Cashier at the Magic Market. Couple of kids there.”

“Any idea what time?”

Calvin shrugged. “Early afternoon? Two-thirty, maybe?”

“What about last night?”

“I was
here
.”

“But nobody saw you?”

“Right.”

“And this mornin'?”

“In the woods.”

“And nobody saw you then, either?”

Calvin shook his head, wondering what they were getting at, and becoming more uneasy by the second.

And then the clincher: “You mentioned somethin' 'bout bein' in Winder, and that knife comin' from Commerce. You spend a lotta time in Jackson County, Mr. McIntosh?”

“Not really.”

“Been there lately?”

“I spent Sunday night there.”

“Where?”

“Friend's place, south of Jefferson.”

“This place got a name?”

“Yes.”

“Watch it!”

“Lebanon Road.”

“Anybody see you
then
?”

“Like I said, just some friends.”

The sheriff's scowl deepened. Once again he consulted the piece of paper Adams had handed him. “Well, then, Mr. Calvin McIntosh, I'm afraid we're gonna have to arrest you.”

“
Arrest
me? But why? I haven't
done
anything!”

“It's suspicion of murder, son. They found a woman dead up near Jefferson Monday mornin', and some sign you'd been nearby.
And
—he
held the pause for effect—“they found your
daddy
dead this mornin', but he'd already been dead at least twelve hours. There 'uz evidence you'd been there too. I tell you
what,
son: I sure do hope you've got a good…”

“Dead!” Calvin whispered dully, not listening to the rest of the accusation, for the implications of the word had struck him like a physical blow.