Stoneskin's Revenge (13 page)

“I wasn't gonna
hurt
it!” the boy protested. “I think it kinda knew that. It sure let me get close, though.”

“Maybe.”

“
Real
close,” the boy emphasized.

“Uh, yeah,” Calvin muttered noncommittally. “But, uh, look, you said something about wantin' to bandage that deer, and…well, I can't help but notice you've got some clothes with you…and I imagine
you've
noticed that I don't have a whole lot on, so…well, do you think I could maybe give 'em a try?”

“Yeah, sure.” More grunt than answer.

“Thanks,” Calvin sighed, rising. Most of his previous soreness was gone—except a twinge in his jaw. That was curious, too; he'd have to think about that when he had time. Still moving a little stiffly, he wandered over to the pile of clothing, which indeed proved to be his jeans. He made a point of checking the waist size, though, in case the kid was even sharper than Calvin feared.

“These yours? They look a little big.” (Was that a lie? He hoped not.)

The boy shook his head. “Found 'em.”

“
Found
'em? You just found a pile of clothes in the woods?”

“I just found a naked
guy
in the woods too. That's a little
more
unusual, I'd say.”

“Touché!” Calvin laughed, as he began tugging on the britches, hoping by his light tone to draw the conversation away from the obvious question.

“Look like they
fit
you, too,” the boy noted wryly.

“Lucky for me.”

“Cops was hanging' around,” the boy added.

“They see you? You might get in trouble.”

“I'm careful and quick,” the boy replied. Then, so suddenly it caught Calvin by surprise, “They after you?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“For killing my father.”

The boy tensed, and Calvin was afraid he was going to bolt, but he stood his ground.

“You do it?”

“No.”

The boy relaxed a tad, though Calvin thought he still looked wary. In fact, he had the appearance of someone who was used to being wary.

“Those
your
clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Why'd you take 'em off?”

“To throw the cops off my trail.”

“Yeah, but—” And then the boy grimaced. “Never mind. I won't ask nothin' else. If the cops find me I don't want to have to lie to 'em.”

“Any reason they
should
be lookin' for you?”

“Might be.”

“I was straight with you, man; you owe me a secret or two. At the very least, you owe me your name.”

“You ain't told me yours!”

Calvin took a deep breath, and debated the wisdom of replying, then: “It's Calvin. Calvin Fargo McIntosh.”

“Fargo? That's a funny middle name.”

“It's a version of my Cherokee name.”

“Which is…?”

“I'd rather not say.”

“You'd tell me that you're wanted for murder, but not your
name
?”

Calvin grimaced in turn. “It's a matter of principle. Names have Power, and if you give somebody your true name, you're givin' him power over you. You have to really trust somebody a lot to do that. You get me now?”

“Yeah,” the boy replied. “It's like magic, I guess.”

“Right,” Calvin affirmed. “More or less.”

Silence, while the boy pondered this.

Calvin broke it. “Two questions, then, and I promise I won't ask any more. You act like a boy with secrets, and I've got a few of my own, so I won't ask anything personal.”

“Go ahead—but I'm not sayin' I'll answer.”

“Okay. Well, first, I'd
really
like a name, just a first name, so I won't have to call you
boy,
or
hey you,
or whatever all the time.”

“Brock.”

“Brock?”

“It's an old name for badgers, and badgers like to dig and hide and fight.”

“That your real name?”

“No.”

“Is that what you like to do, then? Dig holes and hide and fight?”

“When I have to.”

“Okay, fine,” Calvin said. “One more, now: what're you doin' sneakin' 'round in the woods? You don't look local and you don't sound local, either.”

“Neither do you!”

“I'm not, but answer my question.”

“I'm…I'm a runaway, I guess. Me and my sister ran off from Jacksonville. My stepdad beat me and…and did things to her, and we just couldn't stand it. We're goin' to Savannah and try to get on a ship. Robyn's got a friend over in England.”

“Think they'll take you?”

“Her friend will!”

“On the ship, stooge!”

“We'll stow away.”

“Yeah,” Calvin chuckled after a moment's consideration, “I'll bet you would.”

“You gotta place to crash?” the boy asked suddenly.

“If the cops haven't found it.”

“They're workin' the other side of the highway, I think. I watched 'em for a while. 'Course, if it's over there, you're in trouble.”

“It's not. I—”

Calvin's stomach growled loudly.

Brock started, then giggled and checked his watch. “Christ, it's almost five—and I've gotta get goin'—Robyn'll kill me.” He paused, then, “You can have dinner with us if you want to. That way you can meet my sister. She'd probably like you.”

“Would I like her, though?” Calvin teased, flexing his muscles experimentally as the boy rose.

“Probably. Most guys do.”

With that, Brock turned and started down the ghost of a trail. And Calvin found, to his surprise, that he was following.

He shouldn't do that; he had enough problems of his own without getting tangled up in the affairs of a couple of runaways. But there were so
many
of them all of a sudden that he had no real notion of where to begin, and the cops were after him, and his…his father was dead—which seemed so remote from him he almost thought he had dreamed it. A part of him suggested he was blanking, running on automatic until he could get time to think it through. Also, if this kid and his sister helped him and the cops found out about it, it could get
them
in trouble, not to mention landing them right back where they came from—where they obviously had no desire to be.

He sympathized, he'd run away a time or two himself, and while he didn't approve of it in principle and knew far too much about its dangers, he also suspected that the kids probably had good reasons for what they did, it what Brock had hinted at was true. At the very least he ought to meet the sister, get a feel for their situation. There came the Vision Quest again: you had to do the right thing as your heart perceived it. And right now his heart told him to go with Brock-the-Badger No-name.

*

It took a fair while to get Brock's camp—long enough for Calvin to figure out that he'd evidently run far south during his madness—but a good ways before they reached it, Calvin had a strong suspicion of where it was, for the simple reason that he'd tromped that territory himself the day before while searching for the place Don Scott had told him about. Shoot, he'd even rested there. Hopefully he'd left no trace of his passing—that was one of the things he was trying to achieve as a matter of principle, but it was real hard to disguise everything.

He'd guessed correctly, too, for when he followed Brock past a stand of oaks and through a thick fringe of palmettos, he found himself gazing at the short grass, ferns, and mosses of an almost circular depression a little lower than the surrounding land—a sinkhole, he was nearly certain; possibly dangerous, if not for the recent rains that had surely raised the water table under it. Though the promised sister was not present, there were plenty of signs of habitation: a small fire in the center of the ring; two backpacks in mighty disarray; a pair of expensive sleeping bags; assorted bits of clothing and food wrappers; the rest of his clothes, including, thank God, his sneakers—and a couple of sooty-shiny masses among the coals that Calvin suspected were potatoes baking. Smaller lumps might have been onions or apples.

“Cheap and filling,” Brock volunteered, noting the way Calvin was sniffing for odors. “Some of it free, some of it borrowed from home 'fore we left, and—”

“Some stolen,” Calvin finished.

“No meat, though.”

Calvin raised an eyebrow and hoped he didn't look too disappointed.

Brock caught the expression and puffed his cheeks in consternation. “Oh, we're not vegetarians or any shit like that, I mean I
love
meat. It's just…well…”

“You don't have money to buy it, the skill to catch it, or any way too keep it if you did. Yeah, I know, I've been there.”

“I caught a fish, though,” Brock informed him, squatting to turn the potatoes with a stick. “But that was yesterday.”

“I could probably hunt something up if you like—if I had my bow. It's back at my camp.”

“Don't bother, this'll do for n—”

“Brock, you little asshole! What the hell do you think you're doing?” The woman's voice was low, but with a sharp, nervous edge to it. Calvin whirled in place. He had not heard anyone approaching, which alarmed him, because picking up on that sort of thing was usually second nature to him.

Brock's sister, who was now pushing through the undergrowth at the northern rim of the pit, could have stepped out of a Joan Jett video—except that he doubted Joan Jett ever let herself be photographed in mud halfway up to her thighs, even if it was slathered over black leather. Calvin caught his breath in appreciation.

“It's cool, sis,” Brock called. “He's okay—like, one of us, I guess. I invited him to dinner.”

“Isn't enough for the two of us, much less an extra,” the girl growled, slumping down grumpily and starting to tug at one of her boots—obviously expensive black items, as far as Calvin could tell under the muck. But not so uptown they didn't look able to deal with a long day's hike. Maybe the kind of thing a biker queen would wear. “Damn!” the girl continued, as she found herself thwarted. “Friggin' things are waterlogged—probably ruined.”

“Need some h—” Calvin began, but Brock had already scooted around to tug on his sister's ankle while she yanked the other way.

“
No,
I don't need any help! Unless you can zap us outta this goddamned swamp!” the girl shot back acidly.

“Sorry,” Calvin mumbled, beginning to wish he hadn't accepted Brock's invitation.

Except then he'd have missed meeting this fox, and that would have been a shame. Not that he would
do
anything to risk his relationship with Sandy, he hastened to add. And certainly not while on a Vision Quest, 'cause anything unethical he did while on that would just come back to haunt him. But he could still look, couldn't he? And he sure liked what he saw.

No more than seventeen at the outside, Brock's sister was slim and dark, most unlike her brother, though they shared the same pointed features and Calvin doubted her hair had been that black when she was born. It was cut fairly short and bound to her head with a black and white bandanna, but he supposed that when properly arranged it had a sort of fountain effect. Her face was full of dark eyes and full lips and strong cheekbones, all showing to good effect without the conceit of makeup. As for clothes, besides the boots and the leather pants, there was a wide leather belt complete with studs, some kind of pack arrangement on it (sort of Banana Republic-meets-Essdee Evergreen), and a sleeveless black tank top that covered breasts that were small by the standards of the world at large, but plenty enough for Calvin's tastes. She wasn't wearing any earrings, but Calvin could see multiple holes in both lobes. That was good, 'cause it meant she had sense enough to avoid frivolities that would jingle in the woods or get snagged on branches. Unlike her brother's rather too intricate garb.

“Shit!”
Brock spat softly, as a particularly sharp tug freed the remaining boot, sending him sprawling and earning him an Olympic-level glare from his sibling.

“Dammit, Brock, I told you not to cuss!”

Calvin couldn't help chuckling, which prompted a guffaw from Brock, who narrowly dodged the boot his sister chucked at him.

“Uh, I'm Calvin,” Calvin managed awkwardly, trying to regain some sense of decorum.