Stoneskin's Revenge by Tom Deitz Page B

gray-haired and balding, the guy looked remarkably fit—much more so than his much younger sidekick, who sported a bit of a paunch and a vestigial auxiliary chin. Unfortunately the driver also had a hard, thin mouth Calvin did not much like—as if he were used to getting his own way most of the time and didn’t hesitate to let it be known when he didn’t.
    His partner, by contrast, seemed far less certain of himself, a quality he evidently tried to mask with a snappy precision of movement that was almost prissy. Calvin had to bite his lip to suppress a smirk when he saw the guy’s inky sideburns, which had to weigh at least a pound apiece. Even Willacoochee County, it appeared, harbored the occasional Elvis wanna-be. Maybe this redneck rube moonlighted at the local honky-tonk or something. Calvin wished suddenly he still had his harmonica; music might help charm this possibly savage beast. Perhaps because he was nervous and wanted something to do with his hands, he reached unconsciously for the pocket where he usually kept his Hohner, then realized to his horror that he still had the hunting knife clipped to his belt—which he probably shouldn’t be carrying. No doubt the officers had noticed it by now, but he froze anyway, lest his intentions be misconstrued.
    The driver’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, as if he had caught Calvin’s gesture and was filing it away under “additional charges.”
    “Mind if we have a few words with you, mister?” he drawled as he came to within about a yard of Calvin. Calvin had to raise his head to look him in the face. Mirrored RayBans shielded the man’s eyes, though, and beyond the unpromising mouth Calvin couldn’t get any feel for him at all. No hostility—but no friendliness either. Basically business. The nametag on his light tan shirt read W. LEXINGTON. His badge indicated that he was the local sheriff.
    “Sure,” Calvin replied as casually as he could.
    “What we was wonderin’ ,” Sheriff Lexington informed him, “was what you ’uz doin’ long here. Hitch-hikin’s ’gainst the law in these parts, ’case you didn’t know.”
    “I wasn’t hitchin’; I was just hikin’ into town,” Calvin replied carefully, trying not to appear either nervous or confrontational—and keeping his hand well away from the knife hilt.
    “You’re not from around here, are you?” the other officer barked with more aggression than Calvin thought necessary. He paused, his forehead likewise wrinkled, and then: “Hey, didn’t we see you down at the Magic Market yesterday?”
    “Probably.” Calvin hoped very hard he wasn’t coming across as a smartass, but was beginning to suspect that any response would be subject to that interpretation.
    “You didn’t look too glad to see us, son,” the sheriff noted pointedly. “Any reason for that?”
    Oh Lord, Calvin thought, here it comes. He’d have to level with them because he didn’t dare lie when on a Vision Quest, but he doubted they’d like the answer.
    “Well,” he began, “uh…well, when you…look like…”
    He broke off, not liking the direction he was heading in. “Well, I guess you’ve noticed that I’m an Indian, or mostly one.” he blurted finally. “And I’ve been around enough to know that not everybody warms to us, especially in small towns.” (And that, he realized as soon as he had said it, had been a mistake. Last thing he needed was to sound patronizing.)
    There was no obvious response from the officers, though Calvin wished desperately that he could see their eyes. Or that they couldn’t see his, guiltless though they were.
    “What’s your name, son?” This from the sheriff.
    “Calvin McIntosh, sir.”
    “You got any ID?”
    Calvin shook his head. “Lost it.”
    “Lost it? How’d you lose it?”
    “Mind tellin’ us where ?” the other—ADAMS, his name-tag read—added.
    “I’m not sure,” Calvin replied truthfully. “Last time I remember havin’ it was in the Stone Mountain a