by Tom Deitz
“And you’re involved in it?”
“Yeah.”
“And you won’t tell us what it is?”
“It’d take more believin’ than you’ve got in you,” Calvin sighed, “and more time to convince you than I can spare. For now, I just need you guys to keep an eye on Don here until I get back. Feed him if you can find something; help him clean up a little. He may start goin’ into shock, and if he does, just keep him warm, and—”
“I’ve had first aid,” Robyn noted with a touch of sarcasm.
“Good. Let’s hope you don’t have to use it. But as I was sayin’: there’s something goin’ on that—” He paused, then: “Oh hell, I wish I could just lay it all out straight, but I can’t. Suffice to say that Don’s sister’s also been killed, and under peculiar circumstances, and that I found the body, but that somebody else found it before I could report it, so that the cops think I may have done it.”
“You mean like they think you killed your dad?”
“Uh…yeah, actually.”
Brock’s comment elicited a startled scowl from Don, and Calvin wished he had leveled with him about that earlier. Last thing he needed was to destroy Don’s shaky confidence now.
“Shit!” Brock exclaimed, before Robyn cuffed him.
“The point I was tryin’ to make,” Calvin went on, “is that there’re cops in the woods less than a mile northwest of here: sheriff’s men, mostly, and they don’t much like me. They’re pretty much staying’ put, though, and they’ve gotta get a body back to town, but they may be snoopin’ around some too, so you’d be smartest to just lie low. I’ve…I’ve done something to make this place harder to find, but it may not work. So just be as quiet as you can, and remember: no lights, no fire, and no more talkin’ than you can help.”
“Right,” Brock agreed.
“Robyn? I need a promise. I’m sorry, but I really do.”
“I don’t promise what I don’t know.”
“You’ll have to this time. Tell you what, I swear I’ll tell you everything as soon as it’s over.”
“What if it’s never over?”
“Then we’re all in deep shit. Now, promise. And let’s see those hands. I don’t want any crossed fingers.”
Robyn sighed sourly, but displayed both palms. “I swear.”
Calvin put an arm around Don’s shoulders and gave him a quick, reassuring squeeze. “You gonna be okay, kid?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Positive? If there’s somewhere else you wanta go, I’ll take you there as soon as I can, but like I told you, time’s real critical right now.”
“Sure,” Don sniffed miserably. “But it’s gonna be real hard waitin’.”
`I know,” Calvin told him, squeezing him again. “But twelve hours from now the whole thing may be over.”
“No,” Don shot back bitterly. “Mike’ll still be dead. So will my sister.”
Calvin could find nothing to say to that.
“Need some help?” Brock asked suddenly.
“Yeah,” Calvin replied. “But I think this is kinda over your head. I…I know I ought to level with you guys,” he added to the group as a whole. “But I really don’t want to say any more now, ’cause I simply don’t have time to explain. Except…well, there’s more to me than meets the eye…I guess. A little.”
“Figured as much.” Robyn nodded. “I sure can pick ’em.”
“I picked ’im,” Brock pointed out.
Already nearly at the edge of the sinkhole, Calvin turned, and stared at Robyn. “’Fore I go I need a favor.”
Robyn raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“I really could use some lipstick—if you’ve got any.” The eyebrow went higher, but she was already reaching for her purse. “What color?”
“Many as you’ve got, and the wilder the better.” Robyn thrust a handful of plastic and metal tubes in his direction. “I’m not even gonna ask.”
“Just as well.” Calving grinned as he accepted them and stuffed them in his pack. “Thanks a bunch…see you when I can.”
*
A short while later, Calvin returned to his own camp for the first time in what seemed like days, but was in fact slightly less than half of one. Everything was still where he’d left it: the backpack with its meager store of clothing and supplies, the ruins of the asi—and most importantly now, Dave’s Galunlati-made bow. He slipped his hand up into the hollow tree truck where he had left it, felt the reassuring smoothness as he drew it out and examined it in the moonlight. Even in the dimness, it was still a thing of beauty, and he could still make out the many kinds of wood that composed it. Funny, though, how rarely he’d actually used either it or the near twin that had been lost in Faerie, that actually belonged to him. Still, he could think of no better use for it than defeating Spearfinger, though he doubted even Uki had foreseen that when the shaman had bestowed it upon Dave in reward for helping slay the uktena.
A glance at the sky showed the night moving well toward morning, which meant he didn’t dare waste much more time before setting out toward Don’s house.
But before he could do that, there were still a couple of things Calvin had to accomplish.
Chapter XV: Plotting
(shortly after 2 A.M.)
Robyn was more than a little pissed at Calvin when she saw him scramble up the low embankment that ringed the camp and disappear among the palmettos at the top.
What did he mean sneaking off in the middle of the night like that? Going Christ-knew-where, and then coming back with this…stranger in tow like he had some God-given right to tell the whole world where she and Brock were and what they were doing? And then cutting out mysteriously all over again? He’d seemed like such a nice guy, too; though she had to admit that she’d been dubious when Brock had first dragged him into camp. She was still dubious about a lot, most of it having to do with the fact that she knew—and Calvin had admitted—that he had a lot of secrets. Trouble was, secrets were that for a reason, and often enough that reason was dangerous.
That was the last thing she needed now, when she and Brock were only a few days from making the final break. No, she amended, the last thing she needed was someone to take care of in the middle of the night.
Why, then, did it bother her to be pissed at Calvin? Why did he have to be such a nice guy: so friendly, so relaxed, so open—as far as that went. Nice looking, too; and she loved the way he wore his body so unselfconsciously, how he moved soft and quick and sure, almost like Malcolm McDowell had done in Cat People, only it worked even better on Calvin because he did it completely unaware. He also liked Brock, and Brock liked him, and that was good. She’d even toyed with the idea of asking him to accompany them on their run to England; had, in fact, almost worked up nerve enough to spring the question when he’d innocently let drop that he had a girlfriend. That was just her luck too: the good ones were always taken; and Calvin was too tied up in his own ethics to allow her even a nibble when no one was looking. There was only one thing that troubled her…
“What’cha starin’ at, sis?” Brock’s voice broke in on her reverie, and Robyn realized she’d been gazing at the gap in the shrubbery Calvin had departed through for a good minute after the bushes had closed behind him. She could feel herself blushing (which she hated, but at least it wouldn’t show in the half-light) and let her eyes drift first to the moon, which was still visible through the leaves above them, and then down toward their latest visitor, who was squatting on the ground staring at the topsoil.
“Nothin’,” Robyn informed her brother, with more irritation than was deserved. “How’s he doin?”
“You tell me,” Brock shot back, then scooted around so that Robyn could take a look at their charge. “You’re sweet on ole Calvin, ain’t you?” he added, as she rearranged herself so that a maximum amount of light fell on Don.
“He’s a nice guy and nice lookin’,” Robyn replied tersely, then laid a hand against Don’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever or anythi
ng,” she observed. “How do you feel?”
“Like I been shot at and missed and shit at and hit,” Don told her. She chuckled in spite of the tired old line. Apparently the kid was trying to make the best of a bad situation with humor. Or maybe not, for right after that, he seemed to withdraw into himself again, as he’d been doing off and on ever since he’d first arrived. That was bad. She considered chasing down the flashlight to better check him out, but decided it’d do as much harm as good, as well as possibly attracting undesired attention.
“Of course he don’t have a fever,” Brock drawled sarcastically from where he was rummaging in Robyn’s back-pack—Calvin having gone off with his. “He’s had the crap scared out of him, not been bit by germs! ’Sides,” he continued, “shock makes you cold, not hot, and that’s what Cal told us to look out for.”
“Do you mind?” Robyn snapped at him. “If you wanta do some good, how ’bout handin’ me what you’ve got in your hand?”
Brock bared his teeth, but passed his sister the Hershey bar he’d excavated. “I was gonna give it to ’im anyway.”
Robyn snatched the chocolate and delivered it to Don, who slowly began to unwrap it. “Mind tellin’ us what’s goin’ on?” she asked, scooting around behind him and starting to work the worst of the detritus out of his hair. Don did not resist.
“Yeah, spill it,” Brock urged. “Where’d you run into Calvin, anyway?”
“He told me not to tell.”
“He would have,” Robyn snorted. “I wish to God he didn’t have so goddamned many secrets.”
“I know one,” Brock volunteered smugly.
“What?” Don asked without much interest.
“He’s a were-deer!”
“A what?” Robyn could not help herself.
“No shit?” Don echoed.
Robyn wondered if that was incredulity in his voice (which it certainly should have been), or acknowledgment of pre-existent information. “Come on, Brock, get real,” she finally managed.
“No, it’s true,” Brock insisted. “I ain’t had a chance to tell you, since he’s been around all the time, and I didn’t wanna talk about it while he was here, and then we was all asleep—but there was something kinda weird about the way I found him.” And with that he recounted the tale of the hurt deer he’d happened on. Mostly this was for Don’s benefit, since Robyn had been there when he’d come running in all perplexed and excited, first about the clothes he’d found abandoned while on a supply run, then about the wounded stag he was going to bandage. Eventually he got to the part where he’d gone back and found a stark-naked Calvin instead, and how Calvin kept evading Brock’s questions about the deer and why he was minus his duds.
“And you didn’t suspect a thing?” Robyn asked suspiciously when he had finished. “You were gone a long time before you came in with those clothes…”
Brock stared at the ground. “Yeah, well…maybe I was kinda not tellin’ everything.”
“Maybe it’s time you did!”
Brock sighed wearily. “Well, it’s like I said—only more so. I went up and stole those apples you wanted from that fruit stand south of town—that was right after lunch, Don. But then on my way back I saw this police car pull over and start talkin’ to this guy. Well, I kinda hid and watched, ’cause I was afraid they might think the guy had something to do with us, except that I also thought I might be able to find out if they knew about us—and the next thing I knew the guy was runnin’, with the cops shootin’ at him. And right after that he zapped across the highway almost on top of me, only he didn’t see me. And ’fore I knew what was happenin’, he was takin’ his clothes off, only I couldn’t see much ’cause there was bushes in the way—but the next thing I know this deer runs out, and there ain’t no sign of the guy. So I kinda zipped over there and picked up his clothes. Figured—I dunno—figured the cops’d find ’em otherwise, and that way I was givin’ the guy a fair shake.”
“And you were curious as hell,” Robyn concluded. “I know you.”
“Yeah,” Brock admitted. “But you’d have done the same thing, if you saw what I did.”
“I’d have run like blazes.”
“Right after ’im,” Brock added with a giggle. “It was weird, sis—too weird to resist. Only I suddenly found myself with these clothes and nothin’ to do with ’em, but I couldn’t find the guy again and I was afraid the cops’d see me, so I couldn’t hang around and check for tracks. So anyway, I brought ’em back here, and figured I’d look for the guy again later.”
“And lied to me,” Robyn noted.
“I’m not finished,” Brock snapped. “I still haven’t got to the proof!”
Robyn could feel Don start at that, and nearly reprimanded her brother’s rudeness, then decided she didn’t really feel up to a row—especially since Brock evidently knew things she didn’t. To keep herself from fidgeting, though, she shifted her machinations from Don’s hair (it was essentially clear of debris now) to his shoulders and began to massage the wiry muscles there. It helped her relax and probably would do the kid some good too. He tensed briefly—until he figured out what she was about—then settled into a sort of resigned slouch.
“What kinda proof?” Don challenged.
“Saw him do it.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes,” Brock affirmed, gazing smugly at his sister. “You was asleep, but I felt ole Calvin move, and saw him get up and sneak off. I started to follow, but decided he’d just gone to take a leak or something, so I didn’t. But he was gone a long time, and when he came back, he was actin’ real sneaky, and got my backpack and took off again. I followed him that time ’cause I knew he was up to something. And sure enough, he did this ritual-kinda thing, and then got naked and grabbed that whatchamacallit he wears around his neck…and turned into a deer!”
“Give me a break!” Robyn snorted, and squeezed Don’s shoulders so hard that he yipped. “Sorry,” she added offhandedly, and started working her way down the boy’s spine.
“No, it’s true, sis,” Brock insisted. “I know it sounds absolutely crazy, but it’s the honest-to-God truth. I wish there was some way to prove it to you, but ’less you actually see him do it, there’s not.”
“Brock, get real.”
“I swear on my life, Robyn. If I’m lyin’, it’s ’cause something’s playin’ games with my head, or somebody’s slipped me a mushroom, or somethin’.” He stared at her hopefully, totally guileless.
Robyn stopped her massage and returned Brock’s stare. It was preposterous, of course, but there was something about the tone of her brother’s voice—that shakiness it acquired when he was really passionate about something, maybe—that made her want to believe him, or at the very least give him the benefit of the doubt until she could get independent corroboration.
Finally she broke eye contact, shrugged, and nodded. “Okay,” she said, “if he can do that, how does he do it?”
Brock shrugged in turn. “I’m not sure, unless—”
“It’s the scale,” Don supplied quietly. “That’s what that thing around his neck is. He told me it was magic—or that it let him do magic. Said it came from a monster from another world called an uktena.”
“Oh, Christ,” Robyn began, but Brock interrupted.
“When’d he tell you that?” he asked eagerly, then, “Oh—guess there’s only one time he could have.”
“Yeah,” Don replied, looking down, “and I shouldn’t even have mentioned it, ’cause it was supposed to be a secret.”
“You didn’t promise, though, did you?”
“I don’t remember…I was kinda out of it at the time.”
“The only thing anybody promised,” Brock reminded them, “was to stay here until he gets back. And that was only Robyn, technically.”
Robyn looked at Don expectantly. “Well, now that you’ve started,” she sighed, “you might as well spill the whole thing.”
“But Calvin didn’t want me to—” Don began, then, “Oh cra
p, why not? I reckon he was afraid you wouldn’t believe me, but Brock’s seen something just as weird, so I don’t guess there’s any harm…”
And with that he repeated the tale he had earlier recounted to Calvin, as well as most of what Calvin had confided to him.
It was even more difficult for Robyn to accept than Brock’s preposterous story had been—she was too much a child of the cynical eighties to be otherwise. But there was something about the absolute sincerity with which the boy spoke, the tears in his eyes, the catches in his breath, that made his account ring true. Something had freaked him, that was obvious. And here, now, with the frogs singing, and the Spanish moss floating on the breeze, and the smell of swamp water in the air, it was somehow easier to believe that the world might hold more than she expected.
And then there was the thrumming in the earth. She’d noticed it off and on the past day or so, but always assumed it had something to do with passing pulp-trains, or being near the swamp, or in a sinkhole, or something. But Don’s explanation made as much sense as anything else did—more, really, if you allowed for such a radical worldview. But if the thrumming was magic, and Calvin really was a shapechanger, and people really had been murdered…
“Oh my God!” Robyn cried suddenly, digging her nails into Don’s shoulders so sharply he gasped. “Oh my God! I just had a really gross idea!”
“What?” This from Brock.
“I…well, you said Calvin could shapeshift, right? Or at least change into a deer. Now, I’m not exactly saying I believe that—wouldn’t at all if I didn’t know you like I do, and even then it’s a reach. But what happens if—just for the sake of argument, say—he could turn into other things too? Suppose…” She gulped. “Suppose he could turn into another person! Suppose he’s just pretending to be a good guy, and all.”
“No way!” Brock protested instantly, but his eyes were troubled. “Calvin was here when Don’s friend bought it!”
“No he wasn’t,” Robyn whispered. “He was gone at least an hour. You weren’t the only one who couldn’t sleep.”
Don looked as if someone had knocked the air right out of him. “And that’d be plenty of time for him to have killed Mike, and then run into me in the woods on his way back here,” he finished slowly. “’Specially if he could change into a deer…Jesus! Maybe it really could be him.”