Stoneskin's Revenge (30 page)

“Suspicion of murder
ain't
murder. They found Larry Mather's 'coon hound's tracks too, and it there, but that don't mean
she
done it.”

“You
believe
that Injun's story?”

“Wasn't there when you interrogated him, since Wilson didn't bother to contact me. But I've seen the tape,
what there is of it,
and he don't
sound
like no criminal to me.”

“Don't sound like much of nothin' 'cept a crazy man,” Moncrief snorted. “‘I can't tell you' ain't no answer—and that's what he said 'bout half the time.”

“He also said he found the body and was on his way to report it when he heard you were lookin' for him. Wouldn't that kinda put the wind up you, especially if you knew you were already wanted?”

“So you
are
on his side, then!”

“I'm on the side of the law, Abner—and don't forget it. But there's somethin' weird 'bout this case that don't make sense.”

“Like what?”

“Like them missin' livers.”

“Nothin' to that; boy's a goddamned Satanist—you seen that tattoo on his ass. We got
that
on tape real good.”

“That's not one of their symbols, though; I took that seminar up in Atlanta and they showed us a bunch and it's not one.”

“What
is
it, then?”

“Hell if
I
know. But I don't think that boy cut out them livers. 'Cordin' to Bill, they was kinda scooped out from inside through a little bitty hole 'bout as big as your finger. I don't think there's any way that boy coulda done that.”

“Maybe he had an accomplice.”

“Maybe.”

“Shit!”

“We'll know more when they get them tests back. Find out what was in them dirt traces they found in the wounds.”

“Shit.”

“You buckin' for suspension, Moncrief? I may not be your boss, but the Ordinary listens to me much as he does to Wilson and likes me better. There's
plenty
of folks can be deputies. Some of 'em even got brains.”

“Yes, sir.” The voice was tinged with hostility—the same hostility the owner had vented against Calvin in person last night. Not a sterling example of
Homo sapiens,
that was for sure.

The steps started again. “Good, then you go see that boy gets cleaned up and put in a proper cell. Get the doc to sew him up if you have to.”

Calvin was feigning sleep when the steps paused outside the barred doorway. “You there,” a voice barked.

Calvin grunted and wondered suddenly if dissimulation counted as lying.

“You there!”

Calvin flinched at that and pretended to come full awake, though he tried to look groggy and didn't have to fake moving stiffly. He blinked at the man leering at him from outside the bars—and wished he didn't recognize him. As he had assumed, it was one of his tormentors from the night before—the one who'd been with the sheriff when they'd apprehended him. Tall and thin and youngish, he sported a mustache that looked too dark for his fair hair. High-school sneak gone pro, or Calvin couldn't call 'em.

“Police chief says I'm t' get you cleaned up an' move you,” the man spat resentfully.

Calvin did not reply but rose obediently, keeping his arms where the deputy could see them. Another gust of breeze assailed his chest (the T-shirt was in even more tatters than he recalled) and he shivered and hoped the gesture would not be misinterpreted.

For his part, the deputy glared at him, rattled keys and locks, and finally got the cell door open. Calvin coughed nervously—and unintentionally—and abruptly found himself staring straight at the muzzle of a Smith and Wesson .38. “Sorry,” Calvin murmured quickly, but the apology was met with a deepening of the glare into a full-fledged snarl of contempt as the man motioned him out. He kept the revolver trained on Calvin while he shut the door one-handed.

A short walk down the corridor, and Calvin was ushered into a locker room that appeared to have been cobbled together inside the shell of a much larger restroom. There, with the man looking on with rather more interest than Calvin felt was strictly procedural, he tended to nature's functions, undressed, and stepped into the shower, noting gratefully that his war paint had not survived two transformations. As the cold water beat him to full alertness, Calvin tried not to think about hostile eyes flitting over his bare body, tried instead to arrive at an accurate assessment of his situation.

He
had
to escape—that much was a given. Spearfinger was loose in the woods; he had friends there; and there wasn't a soul around to protect them. Now that he was starting to think clearly again, a part of him took grim comfort from wondering what would happen when bodies kept turning up minus their livers while he was safely stashed away in the hoosegow. Would his captors see sense then, and let him go? Or would another such occurrence merely convince them he was an accomplice to some vast and degenerate mutilation cult? Or might they simply brush the whole grisly affair under the rug, proclaim him guilty, and details be damned? The sheriff and his cronies evidently thought he was their man; the police chief wasn't so certain; and he didn't have a clue which way the coroner was leaning.

More to the point, though, he was worried about Brock and Robyn—and poor Don. The first two might make it okay, if they were smart and boogied on out, but he really had his doubts about Don. Surely the two runaways would take care of him, see him safely to the authorities. If he was lucky, Don'd even help Calvin out of his scrape—if they believed him. Calvin's only hope was that he'd somehow be able to get somebody to check out the boy's campsite again and see if any of Allison's prints had survived the morning's rain. If there
were
some and there was some way they could be dated. If…

Lord, this was a complicated mess! And a whole lot of its resolution depended on getting people who were used to looking at the world in a certain way to consider it otherwise. But how
did
you prove supernatural intervention? If Calvin'd had his scale, he could have demonstrated quickly enough, but he hadn't seen it since they'd taken it last night, officially, at least, as evidence.

Another thing that might be useful too, was if they could get a geologist in to investigate those stone formations that were so patently unnatural in south Georgia.
Or
maybe get a forensic specialist to examine the wounds on the bodies (he had some hope there).
Or
find someone to analyze that weird doll they'd surely discovered by now. Yeah, now that he thought about it, there were a
lot
of details that could be looked into, but the fact was that people were turning up dead, Calvin was obligingly in the neighborhood and sufficiently unorthodox, and the law was just jumpy enough for the facts to get lost in convenient suppositions.

He wondered what he should do about a lawyer. Maybe Sandy'd have one. He supposed that'd be his one phone call.

But another thought struck him. What about
Dave?
Calvin'd hoped to solve this whole thing without involving his friend, but now…what?

“That's enough, boy,” the deputy barked. “Get dried off and let's get movin'. Sheriff's gonna want to talk to you later.”

Calvin shut off the water and reached for the scratchy, threadbare towel the deputy tossed him. He felt much better now, though his body was a mass of scrapes and bruises and he suddenly found himself vainly wishing he could shapeshift a couple more times and dispose of them the same way his lip was healing.

Once dry, Calvin dressed quickly in the clothes they'd provided for him: cheap jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers. At least it wasn't prison blues—yet.

That done, he was escorted back into the corridor, where the deputy held him at gunpoint while he delivered Calvin's clothes to a hard-faced woman who promptly ducked into a door marked STORAGE/EVIDENCE, whence she soon returned empty-handed.

“Put it with that arrowhead-hickey and that bow and quiver and knife—that all right?”

“Fine,” the deputy grunted, and prodded Calvin onward.

Another steel door—this one with some kind of fancy electronic locks attached at both top and bottom—let onto a staircase kinking upward in short flights with frequent landings. But just as he set toe to the first tread, voices sounded somewhere above, quickly rising in anger.

“I don't care
what
procedure is!” a woman was protesting violently. “I wanta see the son-of-a-bitch that killed my baby!”

“Now, Liza-Bet,” a familiar male voice replied softly, “you know you're not s'posed to do that.”

“Bullshit!”

“Liza-Bet…”

“You let me in to see him!”

Some inarticulate mumbling followed, and somebody said it wouldn't do no harm, especially since they were just bringing him up now anyway, and then a door slammed and there were footsteps which quickly grew louder. Calvin and his escort had reached the first-floor landing by then, and through an archway, Calvin glimpsed a hallway and a series of doors open to what were probably offices lit with daylight—the nearest of which was abruptly filled by the guy who'd first discovered the body (Rob, he thought, now in policeman's blues)—and Liza-Bet Scott, whom Calvin had last seen bemoaning the death of her daughter.

Both parties halted awkwardly and abruptly, and for perhaps ten seconds the woman stared at Calvin.

She would have been quite striking, he thought absently, if she hadn't obviously been up all night—he could tell that by the way her eyes were red, and the circles of smeared makeup around them which she'd evidently tried unsuccessfully to remedy. She was shaking and held a cigarette in her hand.

“Where's Don?” she spat abruptly. “Just tell me that one thing: what have you done with Don?”

Robert eased behind her, clasped his arms on her shoulders, and drew her back. “Now, Liza-Bet,” he murmured, “you know you're not supposed to talk to 'im. We're probably violatin' procedure right now! Might wind up with a mistrial, or somethin'.”

Calvin said nothing but he regarded the woman calmly, meeting her eyes straight on without flinching. “I haven't done anything to him,” he stated quietly. “I've—

“He needs a lawyer,” her escort interrupted quickly, urging her away. “They've got one on the way, but he's gotta come from Jesup, and it's gonna take a while.”

“I want to call
my
lawyer,” Calvin insisted.

Robert raised a warning eyebrow. “All in good time.”

“I'm entitled to a call…”

“I know,” the policeman replied softly, “but—”

“You're a goddamned murderer,” Liza-Bet snarled and whirled around, then stamped back down the hall toward a second, closed door.

Robert regarded Calvin apologetically. “Something strange is goin' on, Mr. McIntosh, and I wish to hell you'd help 'em, 'stead of bein' so damned obscure.”

“Part of it they wouldn't believe,” Calvin told him simply, sensing that this man was not overtly hostile, though he had more reason than most to be. “And the rest I'd need other folks to corroborate.”

“We could get 'em,” Robert offered.

“It'd be too much of a risk for them,” Calvin replied. “They've got problems of their own.”

And then his tormentor poked him none-too-gently in the back, and they were off again, up more stairs to a simple barred door (unlocked, Calvin noticed to his surprise, though there was another electronic bolt) which opened upon a short corridor lined with cells five to a side.

Another set of bars slammed in Calvin's face, and he was once more alone. At least this cell—the second on the eastern side—was better than his earlier one: fresh cream walls (though they were pockmarked with paper wads and gum), newish furniture, decent bedding, better light. And there was a sink, a toilet, and a built-in desk, as well as the cot he flopped down on. A few minutes later there was breakfast, served by the same hard-looking woman who had stashed his clothes. Calvin eyed the coffee and doughnuts a little dubiously, wondering if his stomach was up to them, but finally decided to risk it and found the coffee to be surprisingly good—probably from the same Dunkin' Donuts he had spotted on his ride into town.

He asked Old Hardface if he could make a call, but was rewarded with a terse “
I
can't give you permission, I'm just the dispatcher.”

So Calvin had no choice but to sit and wait and wonder—and increasingly, as the minutes dawdled by, to worry about his friends.

Were they still alive, or was he already fretting in vain? Don still hadn't turned up here, but he didn't know what that portended, whether escape, holdup, or death.