Stoneskin's Revenge (27 page)

And then, abruptly, he was free. He had to struggle to escape the piles of empty fabric where most of his body had been, but then he really was loose. Already the pain of transformation had faded, already the agony in his lip was dulled.

Quick now, before the 'possum got other ideas: he fumbled around his throat until he found the scale again. Clamped his paws around it, and thought, very hard,
human.

That was accomplished very quickly indeed, in one long upward rush that made Calvin dizzy as his head shot into the air and he found himself crouching at the edge of a wide flat boulder. As quickly as he could, he slipped the scale necklace over his head and gathered up his clothes and weapons. Fortunately none were damaged, and the rock did not resist, though he did have to yank vigorously to free one of his sneakers.

Maybe a minute later he was dressed again, and only then did he dare check on his lip. It didn't hurt as badly as it had initially, that much was clear. But he had done it some pretty solid damage, and in spite of two
changes
it was still occasionally sending little stabs of bright agony shooting into his chin when he tried to move it. His stomach churned and flip-flopped as he raised a finger to his mouth experimentally—and met, thank God, the thin rough ridge that meant it was already scabbing over.

Satisfied that he was as well as he could be, given the circumstances, Calvin checked his bow once more, turned, and jogged off toward Don Scott's house.

Chapter XIX: Catching Up

It was strange, Calvin mused grimly as he trotted through the moonlit woods, how radically things could change in fifteen minutes.

This forest, for example. The first time he had emerged from it beside Don's house, it had seemed friendly, almost as if it were making a conscious effort to assist him. Perhaps it
had
been, too; maybe so few people paid it any real heed anymore that it had been grateful when Calvin's rituals had given it the obeisance to which it was anciently due.

But if the woods had aided him then, they overlaid stone and sand, and those were Spearfinger's allies. And since she now knew he was onto her, perhaps she had pulled rank on him, as it were, and the forest had withdrawn its support and replaced it with hostility.

For surely there could not be so many buried roots snaking along the earth at just the right height to trip him. And
surely
there could not be so many sharp twigs and broken branches to stab at him as cruelly as that awful finger had. Nor could the terrain itself otherwise have grown so uneven that his feet twisted and slipped at every turn. Already he'd stumbled twice on a series of washboard ruts he could have sworn had not been present earlier, and he had to maintain constant vigilance against the skull-sized stones that seemed to have erupted beside Spearfinger's mole-mound path like toadstools after a rain. These he gave a particularly wide berth, for
they
might do anything from snap at his passing toes to communicate word of his approach to the Stoneskin.

In spite of his growing sense of urgency, Calvin took a quick break, leaning against the trunk of a convenient sweet gum—maybe the only thing the worthless weeds were good for. A tendril of Spanish moss tickled his ear and he batted it away, and simply stood for a moment, chest heaving, the air disturbingly full of the heavy hiss of his breathing.

He was dog-tired, he realized, and with good reason: it was getting close to dawn now, and he'd been on the go almost constantly for the past several hours—didn't even want to
think
about the miles he'd covered in various skins and guises. Fortunately he was in good condition—excellent condition, in fact; and shapeshifting seemed to have some sort of rejuvenating effect—but even the best of athletes eventually began to wear down, and Calvin thought he was about to. Lord knew his legs were getting stiff, his feet sore, and his lungs hurt like hell. He bent over, bounced a couple of times to try to loosen his spine a bit, did a quick series of waist twists, then laid down the bow and gave his thighs and calves a thirty-second massage.

But he was still not ready to move on. Fatigue and trepidation had replaced energy and elation all in the space of a quarter hour.

Okay, guy,
he told himself firmly.
It's only another half mile or so to the house, and you know you can do that. And once there, just a little while sure enough to put an arrow through a witch's hand—presuming that's where the old biddy is. Then you can rest. An hour from now you could be curled up asleep beside Robyn.

All of which was probably bullshit, considering that he had no idea where Spearfinger actually was—and that the cops really
would
be after him when dawn rolled around. Probably there were APBs out on him already.

But that didn't exempt him from his responsibility.

Calvin took five more deep breaths to calm himself, inhaling through the nose and exhaling through the mouth, like you were supposed to do when you got nerved out. They helped, but it was still not enough when he started off again.

Nor was it enough to keep his pulse from racing when he once more emerged from the woods at the edge of Don Scott's backyard.

He paused there, surveying carefully. It looked the same as before. The mole-mound he had been following was certainly still present and looked, if anything, to be maybe a little rougher around the exit end, though that was the only difference.

Except…there were no lights on.

So what did that imply? Had Spearfinger got wise and turned them off? Had she—appalling thought—actually put on Allison's shape and gone to bed? Was a Cherokee ogress sleeping soundly between the K-Mart sheets of a south Georgia ranch house?

Calvin had a sudden chill and swept his gaze across the yard again. Or perhaps she was still out
here.
Maybe she was watching him now—from a bush, from a tree, from a clump of grass. Maybe she
was
a bush or a tree or a clump of grass.

Maybe he should try to beat her at her own game. Except that to kill her he needed to be able to use the bow.

Still panting slightly, Calvin began a second cautious circuit of the environs. This time, though, he swung left from where he had emerged from the forest and made his way to the logging road on that side, staying within the tree cover as much as possible, even though it meant exposing himself to the hostile woods.

No luck that way: every window was dark.

The other direction now, to much the same effect, and Calvin's eyes were actually starting to smart from trying to focus on tiny details obscured by the night.

A quick pause for another series of calming breaths, and he made his way across the backyard, flitting from shadow to shadow with as much stealth as he could muster, disturbingly aware of how his muscles seemed much more reluctant to respond than heretofore.

Eventually, though, only fifteen feet separated him from the house, and he made the dash from utility shed to back corner on one held breath, to flop panting against the wall beside the kitchen door. Moonlight shone on a window directly above his head, and, unlike the others, it was cracked open perhaps six inches at the bottom, though there was still a screen. He hesitated with his head inches below the opening and listened, alert for any sounds that might hint at Spearfinger's presence. Nothing out of the ordinary: only the hum of a refrigerator, the deeper growl of an air-conditioner, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the other room that seemed to synchronize itself with his heartbeat and remind him at once of “The Masque of the Red Death” and “The Tell-Tale Heart.”

Or maybe “Masque of the
Stone
Death” and “The Tell-Tale
Liver
,”
he decided wearily, and continued his survey.

His plan was different this time, however. Before, he'd hoped to catch Spearfinger inside and simply shoot her through a window. But since none of them were open, it now looked as if he was going to have to break in and stalk her from room to room—assuming she was even here. He didn't dare risk
not
checking, either, since if she
was
present he wouldn't get a better chance to do the deed.

Still, he was a little uneasy; it would be just his luck to take the time and trouble to pick a lock and walk in to find himself face-to-face with his adversary. Thus it was with considerable trepidation that he checked the windows once more—with about as much success as previously. He could see nothing clearly through them, and every one except the kitchen was closed and latched—and even that, when he managed to get the screen off, was jimmied, for he could push it no higher than it already was.

Which meant he was reduced to picking the door locks. Okay, front or back?

The front door was one of those thick, solid oak jobs behind a solid-looking screen and had been securely fastened when he'd tested it on his previous circuit. The backdoor screen was much flimsier, though, and in fact had a hole in it right beside the handle that seemed to indicate that someone had pushed through before and unlatched the screen from inside—probably someone in the household, to judge by the fact that the wire ends looked to be a bit rusty. Calvin thought it unlikely it would have gone un-repaired for long otherwise.

Propping the bow against the doorframe, Calvin took a deep breath and worked his hand through the slit and found the hook. As gently as he could with thumb and forefinger, he lifted it free and slid his hand out again, swearing softly when the broken wires gouged him as he went against their curvature. He wiped the blood on his jeans—as far away from the scale as he could, just in case.

Another deep breath, and he eased the screen open.

This
door was one of those cheap hollow affairs, once yellow, but with the paint peeling off some kind of veneer. There was only one lock, and fortunately no deadbolt—a little odd for a woman living alone. But then, this
was
the country, and he'd bet there was a stash of guns around somewhere—a kid like Don would almost certainly have at least a couple.

An idea struck him: the legends said Spearfinger had been slain with an arrow through the hand where her heart had been relocated. But the folks who had originated that story had not known of firearms, so was there any real reason a gun
wouldn't
do just as well? He was a pretty decent shot with a pistol, okay with a shotgun, and hell-on-wheels with a .22 rifle. Maybe if he made it inside he'd do a fast search for one and get after-the-fact clearance from Don.

If he didn't encounter Spearfinger first.

If he didn't rouse her trying to pick this goddamned lock.

If.

Fortunately Calvin was good at picking locks. Lord knew he'd had enough practice, since his dad had lost the key to the front door when Calvin was twelve and had never bothered to replace it. That had been the same kind of lock as this, too: one that responded very well to your basic paper clip—which was one of the very few pieces of equipment Calvin had with him.

A quick search of his pockets confirmed it, and Calvin dragged out a nice stiff one and unbent it. He had just started to insert it into the keyhole when he noticed something that gave him a sudden chill. There was a smear of clay next to the doorknob, and beneath it the dirty handprint of a small-to-middling child. Calvin could see them both quite clearly in the glow of the back-porch light, but what gave him pause was that the mark showed no sign of fingerprints—and that the index finger seemed unnaturally long, though perhaps not the foot or so he had so recently observed. Well, that answered one thing: it settled Calvin's curiosity about how accurate Spearfinger's copies were: close, but no cigar.

He got a solution to another mystery almost as quickly, too, for with the screen open, his eye was drawn to a dark object lying atop the doorjamb. He picked it up curiously and noted, to his surprise, that it was a key. Not just any key, though: one made of stone. But even as he touched it, it crumbled into sand and slipped away between his fingers.

He wished
he
were as facile with magic; maybe he'd have better solutions to his problems than trying to break into other people's houses.
Maybe.
Taking a deep breath, he returned to his work. The first tumbler fell almost immediately, the second followed quickly.

He had just poked and prodded his way to the third when he heard a twig snap behind him, but before he could even glance over his shoulder, a voice barked, “Boy, if I was you, I wouldn't move even a
muscle
!
I
got a gun on you, and this time I ain't gonna miss.”

Calvin's heart almost leapt from his body. It was the sheriff, and he'd caught Calvin red-handed—literally, since his fingers were still trickling blood from the wire gouges.

He couldn't run, either; two men were behind him and approaching at a steady trot, to judge by the increasingly loud clump of their footfalls. Calvin took token relief from their number because it sharply decreased the likelihood that either one was Spearfinger in disguise.

“Jus' ease them hands right on up that door above your head,” the sheriff continued, “and just you spread them legs as wide apart as you can.”

Calvin obeyed, though he had to fight back disappointment so tangible it almost made him nauseous. He'd been so close to resolving this mess—either by confronting his quarry or by finding a weapon that might be better than anything he had against her—and now it was all for naught. Now he was going to jail and Spearfinger would be free to ravage the land.