Stoneskin's Revenge (36 page)

“But…
she's
out here. She'll get me! I can feel her comin' through the ground.”

“Yeah,” Calvin acknowledged solemnly. “That's a risk, and I won't lie to you about that. But…I guess there's
another
thing I should have told you and haven't…”

He hesitated then, uncertain as to how to proceed, for it was a thing he had only just realized himself. He hadn't been entirely honest, either with himself or with Don; and that could be disastrous when on a Vision Quest. In fact, now he thought about it, it was pretty obvious that he'd had a secret agenda all along. But having accepted that, he knew there was no ethical way he could withhold the truth any longer.

“Calvin?” Don was looking at him quizzically and maybe a little afraid.

Calvin took a deep breath. “Don, I…I've not been completely straight with you, but now I think I've gotta be. There's a part of me that wants you to go home, to be safe, but there's…there's
also
a part of me that wants you out here to be bait.”

He expected the boy to flinch at that—call him liar and coward and betrayer—but Don did not. He simply nodded slowly. “I thought that might be the case.”

Calvin shrugged helplessly. “It was the only thing I could think of…”

“Yeah.”

“And I thought you could handle it. It'd certainly make things a lot easier for me.”

“Right.”

“There's one other thing…”

“What?”

“She's
hunting
you, Don. She told you that she was gonna do that sometime—that's why I didn't want you ever to be alone—but also why I didn't want you to go to the authorities, 'cause I thought if you stayed in the woods you'd draw her out where I could get at her. But then
I
met her and she told me
when
…”

Don swallowed and only managed to stammer, “N-n-now?”

Calvin nodded. “Since last night. Fortunately for us all, you've been with other people most of that time, or in town.”

“But that's why you want me to stay out here?”

“Yeah,” Calvin sighed, “it is. But there're a couple of things you can do,” he added before Don could protest. “One is to stop up your ears so you can't hear her song, and the other's to keep moving, 'cause I don't think she can move real fast right now, especially above ground. And…” He paused, staring at the nearby woods. “There may be a third, too; but it might be kinda risky.”

“What's that?”

“Well, she travels through the earth, we've both seen that, and she can shapeshift. But if you're not
on
the earth, maybe it'd be harder for her to get at you. Maybe if you climbed a tree or stayed close to a tree, that'd buy you some time.”

“I'm a good climber.”

“Good job! But I've really gotta be goin'. I'll be back soon, I promise. I wouldn't leave you alone now if I didn't have to. But I think you'll be okay.”

“Right,” the boy managed, trying to look brave.

“Okay, then,” Calvin concluded, “now get back into the woods. The earth's her ally, but I'm not sure the trees really are, and trees have roots that can slow her down. Maybe they'll even help you.”

But Don was still hesitating. Finally Calvin reached down, dug through the matted grass until he found soil. He stuck two fingers in it and scrawled a hasty falcon on the boy's forehead. “Maybe that'll help,” he said. “That's all I can do for now.”

“Right.”

“No problem,” Calvin told him. “Now let's see you boogie. I want you under those trees before I leave.”

“Right,” the boy repeated, then turned, squared his shoulders, and jogged off toward the nearest stand of live oaks.

Calvin stuffed the scale in his mouth so that he could bite it and bring forth the blood needed for the transformation, then wedged the key firmly between his toes and closed his eyes. But as he wished for wings and felt them once more returning, he wished even more desperately he could give that boy wings as well.

*

Five minutes later—it was amazing how short distances were when you could ride the wind—Calvin caught sight of the low, gray-shingled roof of Don's house. From the air it was apparent just how isolated the Scotts' place was: the narrow yard scarcely visible amid the pines which grew thicker to west and north, where they bordered Union Camp's plantations. But at least they were somewhat ordered; the south was mostly the unruly oak woods he'd become so familiar with the past few days, and the east held more and denser forests that gradually gave way to a shifting webwork of streams and branches, marsh and bog and swamp.

There was the railroad track too, and the narrow ribbon of road, but the nearest rooftop was more than a mile away. The unfortunate Michael's house, he thought.

Yeah, the place was certainly isolated, but that didn't mean it was deserted.

There were cops everywhere. He spotted at least five cars outside: three bronze Caprices and two blue-and-white Crown Vics: Sheriff's Department and Whidden Police, respectively. And the yard was full of uniformed men. Most were simply milling around, but a couple of policemen were prodding at the ridge of earth in the backyard where Spearfinger had emerged. As Calvin looked on, another pair sauntered out of the house talking about mud samples, just as two more ran in from the direction of Don's camp, shouting excitedly about footprints.

So much for using the key, Calvin thought, as he spiraled lower. He prayed no one would notice him, because though he was no longer human, he was not exactly unobtrusive in eagle form. It put him in a real quandary, too, because the house was overrun with cops, but he
had
to get inside to get the bow; and to either retrieve it or carry it out, he almost had to resume his own form.

But first, he supposed, he had to
find
the bow.

He waited until a maximum number of cops were occupied—fortunately most of them seemed intent on looking at the ground—and simply folded his wings and dropped the hundred or so feet to the ridge line, fanning his wings at the last minute to come to rest near the stub of chimney.

A shout from the ground heralded his arrival, but there was no helping it, though he saw a policeman pointing excitedly, and tugging on the arm of the coroner, who obligingly raised his video camera and started taping.

Calvin ignored them, but sidled around so that the chimney was between him and the men. Quickly he closed his eyes, bit down on the scale, and wished the
change—
amazed at how facile he had suddenly become at that, presumably because he had passed some threshold or other. It was 'possum again, to get him down the chimney and into the flue.

But it couldn't get him past the damper at the bottom. It was open a little, because he could feel air wafting through, but far too narrow to admit more than his pointy nose. He'd have to become something even smaller.

Sighing, Calvin chomped the scale again, and ordered the transformation—once again into a shape he had not worn before. He must have been doing something right, though, because almost as soon as the image formed in his mind he felt the alterations begin. His arms and legs shrank, he felt his tail and back stretch endlessly and become more fluid, felt his nose grow blunter, noted that sounds had become distant and blurred but that he could feel them through his whole long body. He shivered impulsively, alarmed at the alien instincts that were edging around his consciousness, and when he did that, something buzzed and rattled in the close space with him, and it took him a moment to realize it was his own tail. It had worked: Calvin had become a rattlesnake.

In that form he slid his head between the damper and the fireplace and peered out into the Scotts' living room.

It was empty—thank the gods—but Calvin wasted no time in uncoiling his rather considerable length into the space between the grate and the firescreen. He paused there, debating. He did not like this body at all, distrusted the insistent way disturbing desires were poking and prodding their way between his thoughts. 'Possum was far, far better. And so he caused it to be, and in that guise wiggled between screen and stone and was soon scampering quickly along the empty hall toward what he hoped was Don's bedroom.

Fortunately the door was cracked, and he was able to scoot inside, where he gazed up at the perfect archetypal room for a fourteen-year-old boy. There was a set of bunk beds—he thought—but over, under, and around them was a truly amazing clutter: clothes, camping gear, an empty gun rack full of cheap swords; various trophies and plaques, both academic and athletic; an antique desk piled with paperback fantasy novels and gaming manuals; several armies of painted miniatures; model cars (mostly Ferraris and Mustangs); a discount-store stereo; a small TV; maps of the heavens; posters for Def Leppard, Z.Z. Top,
Batman,
and
Top Gun;
and—covering nearly one whole wall—a near-life-size print of a black Lamborghini Countach.

But where was the bow?

He tried to recall, but the 'possum mind kept getting in the way—apparently it was worse when you tried to remember than when you tried to think ahead. But then he had it; it was in the closet.

Calvin now had no choice but to become human again.

He did, his head spinning a little as the floor fell away beneath him until he was once more at his full five-foot ten. The chill of air-conditioning brushed his bare skin from a vent on the floor, and he shivered, glimpsed his nakedness in the mirror hung behind the door, but he had no time to be concerned about modesty. A pair of silent steps (not easy, given the clutter on the floor) brought him to the closet, which had no option but to be open. Bracing himself with one hand, he peered inside, saw more clutter: clothes, ammo boxes, a baseball bat, Lazer-Tag equipment…

And leaning against one corner, a perfectly serviceable recurve bow—blessedly
not
one of those compound things. He dragged it out as quietly as he could and examined it. It looked to be in good shape, though there was a trace of mildew on the wood, and the string was a trifle frayed. A forty-pounder, it appeared—a bit light for him and probably marginal for the task, but perhaps it'd do. He strung it quickly and tested it, then reached back inside in search of arrows. He found three—broad-tipped hunting items—but was disappointed, for they were rusty and badly fletched.

Now, if he could only contrive a way to get out without attracting notice… Shoot, maybe he should just take the obvious route: walk bare-assed through the house, tip his imaginary hat to the cops in the kitchen, and saunter on out the door, trusting shock to carry him through until he could get to the woods, go deer or some such, and run like blazes—and hope the bow didn't snag on something while he was at it. Or was there some other, less risky alternative? 'Gator he had once considered—he'd eaten it a time or two. But though he'd certainly have shock on his side, and he knew 'gators could move pretty fast, he wasn't so sure about the bow. And that left bear and panther, but he hadn't eaten panther, so that was out. Bear, though—now
that
was an idea. They even had a little manual dexterity; possibly enough to manage the bow if he was careful.

But at the exact moment he bit the scale and began to enact the
change,
he heard the door behind him creak open and a startled male voice exclaim, “Sorry,” then add, when Calvin caught his eye and saw recognition flash, “Well, I'll be a son-of-a-bitch!”

It was Abner again, and he'd caught Calvin red-handed in Don Scott's bedroom. But this time Calvin had the initiative, and before he knew it, his reflexes had taken over and launched a solid right into the man's jaw. He toppled instantly, but Calvin caught him on his way down and eased him to the floor. A fast check showed the man was still breathing. Calvin shut the door again, and this time he locked it.

Suddenly he had an idea. Acting quickly, he tugged off the man's shirt, pants, and shoes. It took a minute and made more noise than he liked, but he managed, and a moment later was putting them on. Both shirt and pants were too long and a little too snug around the chest and thighs, and the shoes were far too big, but perhaps they'd do. A final pause to load and pocket the man's .38 and see if he was still okay—he was—and Calvin scooped up the bow and arrows and headed for the door.

He had barely touched the knob when an insistent knock sounded from the other side. “Hey, Abner, you okay?”

Calvin quickly spat the scale into his hand. “Yeah,” he muttered, trying to shift his voice into Abner's nervous squeak.

“What you doin' in there anyway?”

“Checkin' out some stuff.”

“Why you got the door locked?”

“
Is
it?”

“Sho' is.”

“Hang on a sec.”

Calvin made a show of fumbling with the knob but took care that it didn't unlock. He mumbled an assortment of curses under his breath—convincingly, he hoped.