Free The Knights of the Cornerstone by James P. Blaylock Page B

you to think about before you start yapping. They can tap right into the junction box across the river and get an earful. I’ve been telling Lymon that for years.”
    “They
can? Who are
they?”
    “Ask Lymon. I’ve got to get a move on. Did Postum see your face?”
    “My face? Yeah, we had a long chat. He said he knew my dad back in—”
    “Then watch out for him. Everything he says is a lie. If you see him a second time, it’s not by chance. Firsttime wasn’t either. Do you understand what I’m saying? Not … by … chance.”
    “Sure. I guess so. Are you telling me he’s dangerous?”
    “Everybody’s dangerous if there’s something they want bad enough. I’m telling you that when he finds out that you foxed him with the fake article, he won’t be happy. They’re going to wonder who you are exactly, and why we called you in.”
    “Called me in?”
Here it was again.
    “Many are called,” Hosmer said heavily, “but few are chosen. And the ones who are, pretty much choose themselves. Remember that. Whatever you might think to the contrary, you set out walking like a duck yesterday, and now you’re starting to quack like one. To their minds you’re either a by-God duck or else you’re a decoy. Right now even
you
don’t know which one you are, but before this is through you’re going to have to quit mincing around like a parlor monkey and make up your mind one way or the other or else someone will make it up for you. Chances are they won’t waste a bullet on a decoy. And you can take the heat as long as you’re not stupid. Either that or stay out of the kitchen. Mind your p’s and q’s. Don’t ruffle your feathers. You’re family, like I said, and Lymon tells me you’re a good man. So was your father. He was one of the best. They got to him finally, but they had to work hard to do it.”
    “Got to him… ?
Dad died of liver cancer in the hospital. I was there. What do you mean, a
bullet… ?”
    “I didn’t say they shot him.”
    “No, I mean will they shoot
me
? You said they won’t waste a bullet on a decoy.”
    “Figure of speech. Or at least we hope so. Did you see the autopsy report?”
    “On Dad? He was seventy-eight years old. They don’tdo an autopsy on a seventy-eight-year-old man with liver cancer. It stands to reason what he died of.”
    “Nothing in this world stands to reason, son. Human beings aren’t reasonable creatures. If they were, this whole shebang would be a Utopian carnival with a champagne reception. You start believing in the champagne and a man like Postum will sweep you straight under the rug, lay it back down over your corpse, and dance you flat as a pancake. They won’t find you to
do
the autopsy on, not out there in the desert they won’t.”
    Calvin almost laughed out loud with relief. This nonsense about his father’s death put the rest of Hosmer’s talk into perspective—ridiculous perspective.
    “Like I was saying,” Hosmer went on, “your father was a good man to have at your back, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. What I’m telling you is not to underestimate Postum. That could be fatal.”
    “Thanks for the tip,” Calvin said. “A stitch in time saves nine.”
    “You’re right about that. And I mean
fatal
, too, just in case you missed that part. Keep that in mind whenever you start thinking you’ve got time sewed up tight.”
    “I’ll keep it in mind. Do you want me to give Uncle Lymon a message?”
    “Yeah. Tell him I’m going under.”
    “Under?”
    “
Under.
Doggo. Incommunicado. Tell him I don’t like the weather. Iowa’s too hot.
I’m going under
. You got that?
Under
. He’ll catch your drift. He’ll know where. Tell him the temperature’s rising out in New Cyprus, too. That’s the word on this end. And warn that interested party, but make sure you’ve got a secure line. Tell her they’re turning up the heat.”
    “I will,” Calvin said, assuming that he meant Shirley Fowler.
    “And about